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6
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN,
ii
■1?
BY
Edwai\p Jenkins, M.P.,
AUTirOU OF " QINX'S BABY," ETC.
Mahe a Chain : for the land is full of bloody crimes, an I the city is
full of vidlence. — Ezekiel.
CANADIAN COPYRIGHT EDITION.
f
DAWSON BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
1876.
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THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
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A MOST JUDICIOUS SCENE.
THE DEYIL'S CHAIN
By EDWARD JENKINS, M.P.
AUTHOR OP " GINX'S BABY," ETC.
MONTREAL
DAWSON BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
1876
I
^fah a Chain: for the land is full of hloo,h, a^imcs, m,d
tfie city is full of rw/^7KC;— E/.KKIKL.
Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year 1870, by
EDWARD JENKINS,
In the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.
Siiitatinn
TO
SIR WILFRID LAWSON, Bart., M.P.
-by
My dear Lawson,
I dedicate this book to yon, not as a token of
adhesion to all your opinions, but as a tribute of sym-
pathy with you in your gallant fight with a terrible evil,
and of admiration for your pluck.
At a time when this latter virtue has grown weak on
front benches, it is refreshing to find it vigorous below
the gangway. A man who cannot be driven from a
frank expression and profession of the truth he holuj
within him., either by the crackling laughter of a select
few or the outcry of the mob, is in these days a rare
work of God, the which, when one sees it, he feels
bound to bless Heaven for, cind to take hopeful courage
for humanity.
Perplexed between the extremes of a disease at once
so complicated and outrageous as that which you work
so hard to remedy, I do not attempt in this book to pre-
10
DEDICATION.
scribe the purge. My aim is here — as it was in "Ginx's
Baby" — rather to exhibit in rude, stern, truthful out-
lines the full features and proportions of the abuses
I would humbly help to remove. It is a great thing
done if we can get people to think about the reality,
bearings, and size of an evil ; and in spite of the expos-
ures, through the press, of the dismal fruits of the traf-
fic in drink, I find men going about, and dining com-
fortably, and voting steadily, in utter disregard of their
fell, disastrous, and diabolical effects. I cannot acquit
myself of having too long done the like. I have there-
fore tried to bring into one small picture a somewhat
comprehensive view of these evils, in the hope of rous-
ing some men of quiet digestion out of their apathy,
and so of aiding your noble work.
No one knows better than you that there is not an
incident in the ensuing pages which is not unhappily
not only possible, but probable. In no case have I rep-
resented here any individual, yet I do not do.ubt that
I shall be credited with intentional personalities. No
better evidence could be afforded of the extent and
variety of the evils against which you so righteously
protest. Believe me, my dear Lawson,
Yours very faithfully,
Edward Jenkins.
20, Southwell Gardens, South Kensington,
December \st, 1875.
CONTENTS.
i
LINK I.-INNOCENCE AND DUTY. p^^jj
I. Two Falls in One Day 13
LINK II. -CITIZENSHIP.
I. A Most Judicious Scene 21
II. A Brief Interjectional Shout 37
III. Of Honourable Family 28
LINK III.— POSITION AND PROPERTY.
I. A Doubtful Aspect 34
II. Mates Unmated 37
III. Official and Censor 41
LINK IV.— BUSINESS.
I. An Injured Innocent 47
n. A Business Conducted with Spirit .'..*.'!.*.*.'!.*!! 58
III. Hoist with his own Petard ' ] . ] ] 57
LINK v.— AMBITION.
I. A Treasure Hid in a Field— and Lost 63
II. An Enthusiastic Convert * ] 70
LINK VI.-^TRENGTH, LABOUR, AND SORROW.
L Bill Knowsley 77
II. The Last Lesson 05
III. G e t ou t ! -"..!!...!.!.!.!.!..!!.. 90
IV. A National Balance-Sheet * 91
V. WhoiflHe? ../........,....... 98
12 CONTENTS.
LINK VII.-RELIGION AND PIETY. ».««
I. A Backslider p-
II. Into the Maelstrom -.Qg
III. Can a Woman Forget ? * * . * * jqq
IV. The Unity of the Spirit. ...!.....!.....!.!! 1 "... ." . 114
V. Licensed License ^, ►
VL A Vision of Death ...!.!!!!!.. ns
LINK VIII. -POVERTY, CRIME, DESPAIR.
I. A Wandering Heir ,03
n. The Captain's Story .'.*.*....".* 136
IIL Searching
IV. ANewOrder .*!'..'.'!.*.".*!!!! 130
V. Shadows of Death 133
LINK IX.-HOPE, HONOUR, LIFE.
L O Fatal Syllogism ! j^j
II. An Unpleasant Visitor .!...'.*.*.* 147
in. News at Last 153
IV. A Clean Sweep 157
^^
K'-:^
'
ZII^K TEE FIE ST.
INNOCENCE AND DUTY.
I.— Two Falls in One Day.
One February afternoon, just as the yellow, dingy thing
in London called light was deepening into absolute dark-
ness, and the gas was beginning to flicker in streets and
shops, passengers in St. Martin's Lane, about half-way be-
tween St. Martin's Place and the crossways, were startled
by a shriek which came from a window in the third floor
of a house on the east side.
A shrill, harrowing shriek it was, that cut and pierced
the dismal air, and seemed to make it quiver as with hor-
ror — the shriek, too, of a woman. Those who, hearing it,
at once lifted their eyes to the window whence it came,
discerned for a moment, through the dusk, a struggling
r
J
14
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
shadow within the casement, struggling with some .unseen
hands, struggling only an instant, for the next moment it
sprang through the window, with a second shriek more
keen and terrible than the first, turned onco, struck with its
head almost noiselessly on a projecting sill of stone, turned
over again, and then dropped head-first with a dull thud on
the stone pavement. And there it lay, a ^undle of clothes
and clay.
Within three feet of the fallen heap, whatever it was,
a man who had been reeling up the street, with alternate
lung s towards the kerbstone and the houses, and had
brought up just then against a door-post, looked down
with bleary eyes upon the object so suddenly presented to
bis gaze.
" W — w — wy !" he said," d — d — damn you, w — w — whf re
do you come from, eh ? w — w — ho's a meaning o' shis ?
G — g — get out o' the way, will you !" <.
And reeling forward, he made an attempt to strike the
heap before him with his fpot, but, missing his blow, he
stumbled over it prone upon his face.
Accustomed though it was to London sights, a thrill of
horror ran through the small group that immediately form-
ed on the footway. Hands were stretohed out swiftly, and
drew the cursing vagabond, with his bleeding nose and fore-
head, from off the awful heap of humanity that lay there
dark and motionless, and he was thrown with maledictions
on some stone steps not far away.
Then two or three trembling men laid hold of a woman's
gown and petticoats, and drew them down decently over a
woman's feet, which a glance showed to be covered with
t
TWO PALLS IN ONE DAY.
15
i
gay shoes and stockings. And then they turned over what
they knew must be a body, for there were drops spat-
tered about the flags that told their own tale. Ah ! the
pavement was dinted and split, but what terrific venge-
ance it had taken on the tender object which had so
broken it !
The crowd had now grown large. Among the men and
boys, the women and girls, who thronged together and
stood there, with shocked faces and chilled hearts, sliud-
dering at the spectacle I dare not describe, was a young
woman in her teens, neatly and rather coquettishly dressed,
carrying a millin?r's box. A minute before, she had been
tripping rapidly along the street with a light step and
jaunty air, her face brightened with a smile as she hummed
to herself a familiar catch. Glued to the spot by a fatal
fascination, she had seen all we have been describing ; and
now, when the silent men lifted the dead creature, the sight
was too much for the young girl to bear. Her face grew
pallid, and she began to stagger. As she was about to fail,
a young man saw her, caught her round the waist with his
right arm — a right strong man — and said :
" Hold up, my dear ! Don't look at it any more. Here,
I'll lead you out of the crowd."
Ho succeeded in getting her to a doorstep, and, fanning
her with his hat, she soon began to revive.
"Thank you," she said, trying to smile at her benefactor,
" I shall be better presently. Thank you ever so much."
The face she turned up to the young man was a very
Bweet one. It was plump and full ; the round cheek was
evidently not often so colorless as it was then. The deli-
!
16
THB devil's chain.
cate aquiline nose, cherry lips, and bright blue eyes, the
fair, long hair she left disporting about her shoulders, and
the dainty little hat upon her head, altogether formed a
striking picture ; such a picture as in our dull city often
makes an honest man turn round and, with a kindly wish,
say to himself, ' How pretty she is !' It was a modest face
too. The long lashes immediately drooped over the eyes
under the young man's ardent gaze, and the color began to
gather in her cheeks as soon as she knew he was looking at
her intently and did not mean to go aw:iy.
" You are still seedy," he said " come, let me give you
an arm and help you along. I dare not leave you like this."
His voice was rather deep and full. His face, though
not a handsome one, was open and manly. His eyes were
large and brown. They seemed to speak frankness. She
thought so, though she hesitated. London streets were
familiar to her. She had trodden them unharmed, but she
knew something of their perils.
" I think I can manage," she said, trying to get up.
But her knees trembled, for the crowd was still there,
and the police were taking notes over the body of the dead
woman. It was clear the shock had unnerved the girl too
much for so rapid a recovery. He held out his arm, and
she took it.
" Now," he said, " which way are you going?"
" To Russell Square," she said. "And there ! I nearly
my parcel !" (stooping to pick it up). " I am taking
left
this lace to a lady at No. fifty-two."
"Ah ! then you work in a shop, eh?
((
Yes, Cutter and Chettam's. But I think I can get on
TWO FALLS IN ONE DAY.
17
alone now. Please let go of my arm, sir. Thank you very
much, I don't want to keep you."
" O, nonsense ! I mean to see you now as far as Russell
Square. I am going to Bedford Row. Suppose you were
to faint in the street and some wicked people were to get
hold of you, and you so pretty ?"
The world was too young to her for this obvious stroke
to set her on her guard, and at that moment her attention
was diverted by the noise of the crowd coming close be-
hind them. In the midst were the silent men bearing the
dark, dread object. It recalled her terror, and she nearly
swooned away.
" Look here," said the young man, "I see what you want.
You must have some brandy. Here is a public." And he
dragged her into the side-bar of a public-house, and put her
on the seat against the wainscot.
"Two brandy-and-waters hotP'' he said, "and be quick,
please. The young lady is unwell." .
The bar-maid, with her withering painted cheeks and
garish dress, looked over the bright handles of the beer
pumps and the tall bottles and the ranged pewters, at the
pretty face of the girl on the seat, with a meaning leer.
Then she winked to the young man. He understood her
directly, and his face crimsoned. The devilish idea this
woman — let us admit naturally in the circumstances and
with her experience — had suggested to the young man, had
really not before crossed his mind. He was no greenhorn
— no Christian — no moralist — no born gentleman — he was,
in fact, a lawyer's clerk, who ought, at that time, to have
been hurrying to his employer's offices in Bedford Row,
18
THE devil's chain.
with the bundle of letters and papers that made his side
pocket bulge so much. At the same time he was not a
roue.
"Mind your own business, miss," he said to the bar-
maid. "A woman has just fallen out of window close by,
and this young lady nearly fainted."
" Oh ! I see," said the other, handing over two glasses of
hot stuff. " One and fourpence, please A woman out
of window, Mrs. Stingo," she shouted through a small aper-
ture behind her to some one in a back room. "Another
inquest for us, I shouldn't wonder."
" Thank God I" cried a woman's voice.
Other people who had witnessed the catastrophe and
found it too much for their feelings, now began to pour
into the outer bar, and called off the attention of the bar-
miaid from the young couple. The young man drank his
toddy like one who took kindly to it. The girl sipped it
slowly. It soon began to revive her. Her blood grew
warm, her eyes brightened, her cheeks flushed. She looked
more boldly in her companion's face, and her tongue, un-
loosed, spoke more readily and cordially to him. On his
•part, he was not unaffected by the spirit. His glances
•at her face became more frequent and direct, and once or
twice, in speaking, he placed his hand on her shoulder in a
familiar way. Alas ! she seemed not to notice it. Seeing
•she had not half finished her glass, he ordered a second to
be prepared for himself. He was forgetting his papers and
his master. Her parcel was lying unregarded by her side.
At length, as they each looked at the bottoms of their emp-
ty tumblers, they spoke of going.
TWO FALLS IN ONE DAY.
10
«
Thauk you," she said with brightening eyes. "That
has made me feel ever so much better. Good-bye
She put out her hand and smiled.
5J
((
Good-bye ?" he said. "Are you going to desert me so
goon ? How ungrateful you are. Let me walk part of the
way with you."
Her face looked rather silly. When they got outside,
the street seemed to reel about her. The sounds struck
upon her ear with confusing loudness ; her eyes saw dimly
and strangely in the dull darkness. And her steps — her
steps were stumbling and uncertain ! She grasped his arm
tightly.
" Hallo !" he cried. " You've taken too much."
" Yes. I never took so much before. I feel ill. I can
scarcely stand." —
It was then that the Devil entered into the heart of Jo-
seph Cray, and whispered to him that this young girl was
now in his hands to do with her as he would. And the
mind of Joseph Cray, after those two glasses of hot grog,
was feeble to repel the insidious hints of the Evil One.
The girl clung to his arm, and spoke thickly in his ear :
" You — you're so good. I like you so much. It is so
kind of you to help me."
"Look here," he said, laughing. "Do you know you
can't stand ? You're not fit to walk about the street now.
I must take you somewhere where you can rest till you get
better. Here, I'll call a cab, and take you to my place."
" Oh ! you're so good — so good," the poor girl cried,
putting her arm around his neck, while the maudlin tears
ran down her face.
20
THE devil's chain.
Joseph Cray held her up a raoment, and hesitated. She
was nearly insensible. The struggle within him was short.
That which twenty minutes since he could have bravely
withstood, he had cast away the power to resist. He call-
ed a cab and lifted her in. She lay there now unconscious.
"To Pentonville," said Joseph Cray, as he shut the door,
and from that moment he was a lost man.
And, ray fair reader, virtuous and pure and gentle, from
that day your sister, Lucy Merton— herself fair and pure,
and sweet and gentle — from that day on for ever, was to
know virtue and honour no more.
A MOST JUDICIOUS SCENE.
21
LINK THE SECONR
CITIZENSHIP.
I. — A Most Judicious Scene.
There was some slight commotion, noticeable evea amid
the everlasting stir and bustle of London, in the vicinity of
the * Wetted Whistle,' a public-house in St. Martin's Lane,
duly licenBed by the Middlesex magistrates to retail wine,
spirits, and beer, to be drunk on the premises.
From the alleys in the rear of that well-known trysting-
place, limp, dirty-looking women and drowsy, lousy-looking
men, had sauntered to the pavement, and there, on the
strength of many meetings at the bar, were comparing
notes upon the event that had drawn them together. The
lumours they exchanged were vague, and their comments
of doubtful wisdom and indifferent wit. It was * generally
understood in well-informed vjircles' that an inquest upon
the body of the woman who had fallen out of the window
of No. would be opened at eleven o'clock that morn-
ing by the Coroner for Middlesex, and that it would be
held in the public room of the Wetted Whistle. The ap-
pearance upon the scene of an inspector of police and two
privates, who went into the public-house by its side door,
tended to confirm this news.
I
22
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
As these officials entered the house, they were received
with marked deference by Mrs. Stingo. She had donned
a silk dress, and a new cap of bright blue ribands, all in
honour of the day.
" Well, Mrs. Stingo !" said the inspector, cheerily, " here
we are again I Two hinquests in one 'ouse in a month is
luck you don't often meet with."
"No, to be sure," said Mrp. Stingo, smiling graciously;
" hand we're deeply obligated to you^ Mr. Hinspector, for
bringin' us the business. To be sure, that bother hacciden'
with the horange peel (has they sworCy though between you
and me an' the post, Mr. Hinspector, I believes the lemon
peel which he left behind in the tumbler wen 'e went
hout 'ad more to do with it !) 'appened a little nearer the
* Buckle and Feathers ' than hit were to us ; but, you see,
they ha'n't got sich a commojus room for 'olding a hin-
quest as our public room, let alone the respectibility of our
'ouse before theirn. But Big Gill, our barman, he meas-
ured the distance to the spot where the blood was last
night, and this 'ouse is three yards an' a little hover nearer
to us than them. So I hold we're by rights hentitled to it."
" So you are, Mrs. Stingo," said the inspector, wiping his
mouth significantly with the back of his hand — a movement
which, from habitual discipline, was closely copied by the
rank and file. " So you are, and your 'ouse, as you say, is
the most respectible 'ouse for sich a hinquiry to be 'eld in."
" What'U you have, gentlemen ?" replied the landlady.
" They're tryin' work, them hinquests, ain't they ?"
"Ah !" replied the functionary, affecting to heave a sigh
from his gigantic breast, " it'fi tryin' to the feelin's o' one's
A MO£>T JUDICIOUS SCENE.
28
'art, Mrs. Stingo. Sometimes I gets so nervous I can't
skeersely stand."
"Ah ! then, you'll be better to take a quartern o' gin,
won't you ? Mariar ! three quarterns o' gin for the gen-
tlemen ; and see, walk bin 'ere an' 'ave it; nobody won't
see you 'ere."
The officer and his men entered the parlour, where, safe
fro:;i observation, they could, with the aid of the stimulant,
string up their shattered nerves to the pitch of the strain
they were about to endure.
The bar outside was crowded with persons who had been
sununoned as jurors or witnesses, and who were preparing
themselves in a similar way for the ordeal of the inquiry.
Among these was a man in charge of a policeman. Ilis
face was grimy, and showed traces of blood. His head had
been bound up with a dirty handkerchief. Over it was
perched, in grotesque challenge of the laws of gravitation,
a broken hat, whereof the loi)sided rakishness was amusing
to see. The poor wretch's eyes looked red and bleary : you
could scarcely believe such orbits to be capable of sight.
His flabby cheeks were pale, his head shook, his hands trem-
bled, he quivered on his legs. Indeed, he seemed so rickety
and unbound, that a bystander had compassion on him.
" Hallo," he said, " you look seedy enough, my friend. Is
he a witness ?"
The policeman nodded. The man drew himself up, and
tried to assume a dignified air.
" He looks as if he was breaking up. What'll you take,
old fellow ? Come, cheer up !"
In an instant the man was enlivened.
I!
24
THE devil's chain.
"Gin, sir/' he replied, with a husky voice, "gin — Old
Tom, if you please, with a dash of bitters."
His manner and tongue told of better days.
" You're under the weather, I think," said his benefactor,
as he handed him the tonic.
The man drained it in a moment, shook his head, drew
a few breaths, as if he were recalling the aroma of the ie-
licious lubricant which had passed down his throat, and
looked somewhat re established.
" Ha !" he said, " if I could only have another, I should
be set up for the day."
Bystander No. 2 volunteered to supply another, and he
\^as set up for the day.
" Ee's the 'usband of the diseased," said the policeman,
in a confidential undertone, to Bystander No. 1.
" You dc:i't say so ! Good God ! What'll you take ?"
Presently a middle-sized and middle-aged gentleman en-
tered the house by the side door. He was portly and ru-
bicund, and, by his appearance, gave no indication of his
ghastly office. It was the Coroner — not the present, nor
the last, nor any one you, my reader, may have known.
Him Mrs. Stingo straightway encountered with her best
manners.
" Good morning, your washup !" she said, curtseying.
"Glad to see your washup again. Hevery heffort 'as been
made, your washup, to harrange things accordin' to your
wishes. It's not quite heleven yet, your washup. Will
you step into the parlour ?"
In the back parlour — not the bar-parlour where the in-
spector and his men were refreshing themselves — Mr. Stin-
1
A MOST JUDICIOUS SCENE.
2d
go was waiting for the Coroner. On the table were de-
canters, glasses, and biscuits.
" Glad to see your washup again !" said Mr. Stingo, a
well-distended host, of broad face and flabby cheeks.
" Hera I well," said the gentleman, " the business is not a
pleasant one. A serious inquiry, my dear sir. A serious
inquiry."
"Ah ! yes," said Mr. Stingo. " But then, you see, sir,
hif folks is to die by haccidentf it 'elps along our livin' has
well as yours, sir ; don't it, now?"
The Coroner did not answer. He was a gentleman, and
he had a sensation that his position was not a dignified one
at that moment.
" What'U you take, yer washup ?" said Stingo, " port or
sherry ?"
" Well, let me see," replied the Coroner. " I'm a little
out of sorts this morning. Dined with the Lord Mayor
last night. Have you any of that * extra' brandy I had
when I was here last ?"
" La ! yes, your washup," cried Mrs. Stingo, " we keeps
that for speshul friends." And she produced from a ma-
hogany case a square bottle, out of which the reviewer of
mortality poured a generous dose, which he gently qualified
with water. Mr. and Mrs. Stingo joined their visitor from
pure motives of courtesy.
The Coroner proceeded upstairs tc the Court-room. It
was a strange scene, and would have been amusing, sep-
arated from the tragical grounds of it. A long low room,
decorated with the insignia of a secret society ; at the end
a dais, in the middle of which was a huge chair of abnor-
2
26
THE devil's chain.
mally high and broad back, adorned with carious emblems,
and with a tendency to gothic point. This was flanked
by two other chairs of inferior size, but also gothically
and emblematically inclined. Over the large chair was a
painting of some mystery, formed by an eye, rays and other
circumstances, which I dare not more particularly describe,
lest it should seem to some of my good readers that I was
profanely quizzing these sacred emblems, whereas I merely
wish to indicate that they were there. A sort of altar
stood in the corner, evincing the tabernacular and movable
character of the services to which the hall was dedicated.
A bundle of gilt-headed staves in the other corner seemed
to import a harmless addiction to barbaric ceremonies.
The Coroner occupied the great chair of the master, or
whatever other eminent officer usually filled it with his au-
gust person and more august apron. The jury were ar-
ranged on one side. A table, generally devoted to convivi-
al purposes, as its dinted surface proved, was appropriated
by the Coroner's clerk and the reporters.
A ghastly service, certainly, to which to put such a place !
But there is no end to the variety of uses to which a pub-
lic-house may be perverted. From the ' Goose Club ' up-
wards, through every form of union, friendly and benefit so-
cieties, amalgamated or otherwise — to farmers' dinners, to
Masonic, Druidic, Odd fellows', and Foresters' lodge-meet-
incfs — to bar messes, charity balls, or the temporary worship
of Dissenters, not to mention political committees at elec-
tions and Saturday * fiee-and-easys,' the great room of many
a public-house shifts its scenes with all the comic and trag-
ic consequences of a stage. Trysting-places of thousands
A BRIEF INTERJKCTIONAL SHOUT,
27
of good and sober men, there should be written over their
doors, alongside of * licensed to be drunk on the premises,'
the stern warning of a peculiarly quiet and gentle judge,
* Men go into public-houses respectable and respected, and
come out felons.'
This, then, was the scene in which the Coroner opened
his court. His clerk had been refreshing himself at the
bar with a mixture of ale and gin. The Coroner's Court,
therefore, held in this public-house half full of intoxicating
liquor, consisted of the following persons : The Coroner,
who had taken brandy and water ; his clerk, who had taken
gin and ale ; the inspector of police and his men, who had
taken at least a quartern of gin a-piece ; a foreman and elev-
en jurymen, of whom the majority had taken * something '
once or twice at the bar ; and a number of witnesses, near-
ly all of whom had fortified themselves against errors of
memory by doses of spirit. Lastly, there was the general
public, prepared in the same way to bear the harrowing de-
tails of the evidence to be given. Thus it might be said
that one chain linked together all these incongruous bod-
ies ; or, to change the figure, one spirit possessed them all.
* *
«
II.— A Brief Interjectional Shout.
Will it ever strike the Legislature that there is some-
thing almost hideous in this practice of holding inquests in
public-houses? Just consider a moment the indecency of
the custom. Perhaps two-thirds of the deaths by violence
or of a suspicious nature, are caused by drinking the liq-
28
THE devil's chain.
uors sold at public-houses. And the publican body, which
has already made money out of the stuff by which the de-
ceased was killed, is invited to take a second haul out of
the ghastly proceedings consequent on its enterprise. The
present Coro iCr for Middlesex, who is not concerned in this
recital, would, like many of his predecessors and colleagues,
be glad, I doubt not, to see some provision made, more con-
. ducive to the dijjnity of his Court and the gravity of its
inquiries. To witness this anomaly from year to year, and
never to heed its impropriety, is eminently British ; but
there are not wanting proofs enough under heaven to
show that they may too often mean eminently stupid
and brutal.
*
III.— Of Honourable Family.
The proceedings having been formally opened, the jury
sworn, and a postponement of the * view * agreed upon un-
til the police had given their evidence, those public guard-
ians were examined.
Their evidence was that, owing to information they had
received, they had come to the spot immediately after the
*haccident.* They had found the deceased quite dead.
(Description of her state, and other details not pleasant to
publish, for which see the Morning Hegister ar.a other
newspapers.) Inquiry had been made at No. . It ap-
peared a woman had been living there for some time, of
the name of Helen Bellhouse ; was supposed by the tenants
of the house to be * respectable.' That the previous after-
OP HONOURABLE FAMILY.
29
noon she had been with two gentlemen in the front room,
her parlour, — how they got there to be explained after-
wards, — the bed-room being behind. She or they had or-
dered refreshments (evidence of respectability), a bottle of
sherry, a bottle of champagne, and a bottle of brandy (fur-
ther tokens of respectability). The gentlemen, who were
unknown to the keeper of the house, had left it unnoticed
duiing the confusion created by the accident. The room
showed signs of a scuffle near the window, but was other-
wise neat and comfortable. The gentlemen had not been
traced. But, meanwhile, a very important piece of evi-
dence had turned up. Among the deceased's effects were
books and letters proving her real name to be Plelena Plur-
lingham ; and also a number of letters from a person named
Hurlingham, who evidently was, or professed to be, her
husband. They were well written and expressed, and indi-
cated a person of superior education, though of degraded
character. By an extraordinary chance the police had been
obliged to remove to the station the man who, in a state of
drunkenness, had, in the outrageous way before detailed,
stumbled over the body of the deceased. In an old pocket-
book found upon him his name was written, and there
were three or four letters in a woman's handwriting. The
name in the pocket-book was Hurlingham. The letters were
addressed to * Mr. Hurlingham,' and were signed * Helena
Hurlingham.' They contained answers to claims for mon-
ey from the man to the writer. One of them was read. It
was only a week old.
Henry, — I send you the last £10 I have, and the very
30
THE devil's chain.
last you will ever get from me/ I borrowed it from a gen-
tleman last night. I have told them, at N^ibb^s* to take in
no more letters for me, as I shall never go there again.
You need not try to find me out, for lam determined you
shall never see me again alive. Tou want to know where
our poor child Celia is. You liound ! I can scarcely hold
my pen for rage and contempt of you. I knoio why you
wish to get hold of her. You would sell her for a nights
drinking, and make her, as you tried to make me, the min-
ister of your vice. Oh! I think if you were here, I could
stab you, and I warn you to keep out of my way. By
God^s help, my poor, poor girl shall be honest. Take my
advice, and leave her alone. I tell you I have a powerful
protector, and he likes me. Good-bye.
Helena Huklingham.
i
While the letter was being read, the miserable creature
we have described passed through several changes of man-
ner and feeling. He first looked with brazen assurance
round the room. When the child's name and the foul as-
persion on her father were arrived at, he began to cower
and tremble, and then subsided into silent maudlin weep-
ing. This was the man suggested by the police to be the
husband of the deceased woman, whose real name was un-
doubtedly Helena Hurlingham.
After this evidence, the man was put forward — certain-
ly a man to look at. I have looked on wrecks by the sea-
shore, whose very desolation made one shudder. Such a
! i
* A grocer in Notting Hill.
I 1
OF HONOURABLE FAMILY.
81
wreck was he. lie seemed to be fifty years old, or more ;
for his face, though flabby, was witliered, and his eyes were
Buiiken and his forehead wrinkled. He attempted to steady
liis trembling head and assume a bold stare, but the effort
miserably failed. His coat had been the coat of outwi -1
geiitlemanliness. It was well cut, and once fitted him we..,
but it now sat loosely on the palsied limbs. It had but
one button on the front; its frayed edges, and shining
seams, and badly mended rents, showed how the hard
usage of shouldering walls and rolling in the gutter had
tried its texture and its gloss. There was no waistcoat
beneath the garment, a want which had been partially con-
cealed with the aid of a pin in the two flaps of the coat.
The wretched piece of silk which did duty as a neckerchief
had long since lost its colour; and the glimpse of shirt-front
which its slovenly ease permitted, showed only a yellow,
dirty, and ragged apology for linen.
Nevertheless, as the man stood up, strengthened a bit
by his cordial, with his hand thrust into his breast, and his
eyes fixed as steadily as was convenient upon the Coroner,
you saw that he had at some time been used to the dignity
of a gentleman. There was a shocking air of fallen fine-
ness about him. ^
"Who are you?" said the Coroner, briskly.
The man started, and looked an instnnt indignantly at
his querist, as if the sharp address had touched within him
some long-lost chord of self-respect.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he replied with a certain dig-
nity ; " are you addressing me?"
The Coroner noticed the tone, and was reproved.
■
82
THE devil's chain.
I 1
1 !
" Yes, sir," he rejoined. "Will you oblige me with your
name ?"
" Certainly, sir," said the other, with a ludicrous air of
condescension. " My name, sir, is Lucius Shaf to-Grenville
Ilurlinghani."
"Any relation of Lord Shaf to-Grenville, may I ask?"
" Remotely, sir ; very remotely ; in fact, as you may ob-
serve, too remotely to profit by it."
He waved his left hand in the air. The little finger stuck
out as if it had a jewelled ring upon it, but that had long
ago become liquescent and gone down his throat.
" May I ask, sir, are you the husband of the deceased,
Helena Hurlingham ?"
" I am, or t^as," said Mr. Hurlingham, putting out his
dirty hand to emphasize the distinction; "I am, or waSy
the husband, sir, of a certain Helena Hurlingham; but, as
I have not had the pleasure — I — I mean the honour, of see-
ing the deceased, sir — I am unable at present to say wheth-
er she is my wife or not."
"Ah ! well, then, gentlemen of the jury, this would be a
convenient time to view the body, which has been removed
to the Marylebone dead-house."
It was not long before the Coroner, the jury, and several
witnesses were standing beside the body of the dead wom-
an, which had been laid out on boards and tressels
The man came forward with a jaunty step and air, his hat
on one side, and looked at it. He, with that countenance
so befouled and shameful, yet living ; she, with those bat-
tered features — still and dead I Face to face with the
bruised relics of his early love, with his wronged, neglect-
OF HONOURABLE FAMILY.
83
ed, blighted, and alaa ! sinning love ; and she, turning up
the ghastly wreck of her beauty towards the man between
whom and her there had been wrongs too sad and evil to
speak of! For a moment or two lie gasped for breath,
and caught for support at a bystander, who shrank away.
Then he took off his hat. Then he noticed a slight de-
rangement of her dress, and, with a gentle touch, put it
right. Then for an instant he glanced at the left hand,
where there still remained that token of so much faithless-
ness, crime, and sorrow — a wedding-ring. Then he looked
at the face again, and, assuming a bolder manner, he put
on his hat, and turning to the Coroner, said :
" Yes, by G — , s^>, that''8 the looman P
The jury turned away. They had seen enough.
2*
I
84
THE DEVILS CHAIN.
LINK THE THIRD.
POSITION AND PROPERTY.
I.— A Doubtful Aspect.
On their return to the Wetted Whistle, the Coroner's
Court was adjourned for refreshment, and the Coroner
took his hinch, while the bar was filled with men whose
feelings of sorrow or surprise at the fi'ightful incidents of
the case were allayed by anodynes concocted by the bar-
maid. Mr. Shafto-Grenville Hurlingham was several times
treated to a ' pick-me-up,' until his guardian, the policeman,
began to fear that it would end in a set-me-down, and wise-
ly checked the public generosity.
— I own to the simplicity and attractiveness of the proc-
ess of discharging any claim which we may imagine can be
made upon us by some peculiarly attentive railway-guard,
or cabman, or porter, or the man who brings home to our
house from the shop an article we have ordered, or who
does a chore or two, or in an unwonted fit of diligence
empties our dust-bin, or has delivered our coal, or has done
nothing — I own to the attractiveness of discharging such
a claim by offering the refreshment of a glass of wine or
of beer to the object of our benevolence. But did you
ever consider what the responsibility of that act is? Some
A DOUBTFUL ASPKCT.
35
people, who are ashamed to refuse a gratuity, give this be-
cause it is cheaper to do so, not caring one jot about the
consequences. Perhaps they have never thought of watch-
ing a dust-cart down a street, and observing how, as at
house after house the men took their toll of beer, they at
length grew heavy and unfit for work, if not quarrelsome.
The writer has himself seen a well-known philanthroj)ic
member of parliament in his house at eleven in the morn-
ing, hand a glass of wine to a man who, in discharge of his
employer's orders, had delivered a tradesman's parcel at
the door. You may test for your own satisfaction, if you
are not afraid, what this morning stimulant means — a tem-
porary flush, a feverish hour, reaction and thirst, a muddle
of the brain; and you will understand how it is that a
morning once commenced in this way too often ends in an
evening of debauch or of stupid incapacity. At ten o'clock
in the morning you will now see the myrmidon of an ad-
jacent ale-house going the round of the rising palaces
in South Kensington, and selling beer to the workmen en-
gaged in the buildings. Were I the employer of those
men, I would drub that rascal's back until it ached again,
for stealing away so early the wits of labour with his ille-
gal pcdlery. They see it, and they buy it. It is brought
to their w^ork, and held to their mouths. But where are
the police and the excise? These morning and compli-
mentary drinks are the day's confusion and the night's
damnation. Or their effect may be slower and surer.
They may only show their fatal influences when the pulpy
and deteriorated frame has to fight the blue devils who,
long a-coming, have seized their prey at last.. If you must
86
THE devil's .chain.
give a man a gratuity, give him an oboliis. Should he
spend it in drink, you are acquitted. Or offer him a
healthy meal. An lie refuse that, you may bid him good
morning with a clear conscience. But your glass of wine
or beer may be the fifth or the tenth of such deadly kind-
nesses, and you have helj)ed to endanger the character,
honesty, health — nay, perhaps the life of a man ; and God
knows that is a heavy burden to accept.
Mr. Ilurlingham's appearance, when the inquiry was re-
sumed, showed that influences had been at work within
him of an elevating character; but it was demonstrated
that he did not succumb to anything short of extraordina-
ry. When, some eighteen or twenty years since, this man
had come back from Oxford, and strode the park, a strong
and b( autiful youth with ' hyacinthine' locks, healthy com-
plexion, and a noble frame, well displayed in handsome,
fashionable clothes, all women looked at him with kindly
eyes. You would never have believed it possible for any
influence, however active or malignant, to transform him in
the interval into this poor, rickety, foul, trembling, and de-
graded sot. If you wish to know wiiat power had worked
this awful miracle, walk into the next* public,' and ask them
to set before you an unopened bottle of what they call Cog-
nac or Geneva^ and if you are that way disposed, sit and
muse upon the full power of the Genie which is shut up in
that crystal flask. If you pull out the co^-^",it may rise with
a horror that obscures the very light of neaven. That was
the power that had seized on poor Hurlinghara — * Oxford
MATES UNMATED.
87
Ilnrlinghani,' secoiul best cricketer, athletic, healthy, and
fairly virtuous — and changed him, body and soul, into this
human ghoul !
«
II.— Mates Unmatcd.
He laid his hat on tiie table, passed his hand carelessly
through his disordered hair, sat down in a half-ashamed,
half-defiant, attitude, on the seat assigned to liim, and then,
almost instantly changing his temper, brought iiis unband-
aged eye round towards the Coroner, and winked at him.
The functionary was anxious to get on, and disregarded
this compliment.
" Mr. Ilurlingham," he said, " it - v .1 be necessary for me
to examine you with regard to yo .. relations to the de-
ceased. I do not wish to pry needlessly into your history,
which obviously is sad enough, while your condition excites
our pity. Perhaps you will tell us who this woman — this
lady — was, and when she parted from you? You recog-
nized her just now?"
"Stop, sir. No more, I beg of you," said the witness,
putting his hands over his face, and shuddering. "If you
will let me alone, I will tell you as shortly as I can her his-
tory and mine; and if there is any young man here," he
added in a familiar formula, " let him take warning from
ray experience."
— Very bad people have a curious habit, in a flush of
maudlin sentiment, of unfolding the details of their wicked-
ness with a feverish candour, for the moral benefit of man-
kind. In reading the confessions which are sometimes ad-
38
THE devil's chain.
I
'^1
dressed to the public from the cell of the condemned, one
cannot but feel thjit, to point his moral, the criminal has
stretched his recollections beyond their real limits, and
painted his misdeeds in the strongest colours. Perhaps
there is some solace in penning exaggerations which tend,
at all events, to elevate him to eminence in the role of life
which he has played. —
Mr. Hurlingham's story was very simple.
He was Mr. Lucius Shafto-Gr'^nville Hurlingham, son of
the late Walter Hurlingham, Esq., of Greystone, in War-
wickshire, who, dying before his son came of age, left the
latter a fine country property of £4,000 a-year. Nineteen
years since, he had married Helena Conistoun, daughter
of Lord Newmarket, a woman of gieat beauty, cleverness,
and ambition. He was disposed to country life, she to the
pleasures of fashionable society. Li time this led to mis-
understandings, quarrels, estrangements. He used to leave
her in their city house and retire to the country, M'here his
time was spent between hunting and brooding over the dis-
appointment of their marriage. She, on the other hand,
keenly resented his indifference, and despised him for his
lack of ambition. Heaven had never meant them for one
another, and each was too pr?nd to make concessions which
have sometimes brought happy community out of ill-assort-
ed unions.
One daughter had come of the marriage, beautiful as her
mother, and beloved of both. After a while his wife's ex-
travagant expenditure began seriously to embarrass him.
He implored her to retire into the country. When she
saw there was no help for it, she went; but she resigned
A
■j
MATES UNMATED.
39
herself only when it was inevitable, and she had already-
tasted the corroding anxieties of failure and narrow means.
But her mortification at their retirement, and his at his em-
barrassments, found vent in frequent recriminations ; and
both sought in this crisis of their fate a deadly consoler.
He threw himself into the wildest society of the county.
She, on her part, went wherever excitement could be found.
One day, when she had gone to the races with a party of
gentlemen, Mr. Ilurlingham entered her boudoir. A key
was lying on the table beside a lace handkerchief, evidently
forgotten. It was the key of a small cupboard safe. Cu-
riosity led him to open it, and he learned in the same mo-
ment that she was as faithless and weak as he. There were
the brandy, and glass, and empty bottles, showing she had
contracted no temporary taste ; and there also were letters
which clearly proved her to have been guilty of worse sins.
One meeting took place, in which those two people own-
ed to each other their mutual wrongs and injuries — one
meeting in which, after fierce recrimination, old sympathy
revived for a few short minutes, and sorrow melted their
hearts ahnost to repentance. But from that meeting each
returned to the consoling stimulant, and hope fled that
home for ever. Two days afterwards Mrs. Ilurlingham
disappeared with an officer, having placed her child in some
retreat which baflled her husbai.d's inquiry.
In the four years that ensued without a meeting, the
remnant of his propcity had gone in gambling and drink,
and he passed through that state which is the precursor of
vagrancy — living on his friends. From bad to worse, from
gentleman to blackguard, from blackguard to cad, from
40
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
i! II
cad to sottish outcast, had that man steadily drunk his way
downwards, day by day, night hy night, possessed by a hot,
relentless demon of thirst, to satisfy which he would work
while he was able, or borrow, or beg, or steal — through the
snaky fires of delirUnn tremens, wrecking the noble frame
God had given him, and testing its marvellous tenacity, un-
til it was well-nigh incredible that the machinery of life
should hold together, and the trembling fibres obey any in-
struction of the lethargic soul.
How low he had fallen ! One day he met a well-dressed,
bright-cheeked, middle-aged woman in the street, still hand-
some, and stopped her. She had a gentleman with her.
"Helena!"
She slipped a half-sovereign into his hand, and turned
away from the seedy-looking vagrant. He had taken an
alms from his own wife.
He followed her to her *home,' and noted it. That
evening her ten shillings went down his throat. The next
morning he was at her door, forced his way into her rooms,
and, between threats and entreaties, knowing the vile pro-
fession she was following, he agreed M'ith her, in consider-
ation of a regular payment, to let her alone. For two years
he lived thus. One thing he never could ascertain. Where
was his child? His wife defied him with imprecations to
endeavor to find out. But his cunning had developed with
the loss of better intellect. He did find out, and was on
the point of re».laimiiig the girl, for God knows what fate,
when her mother's vigilance outwitted him. From that
time she had evaded him. He was told to write to a cer-
tain tradesman's in Notting Hill, and did so, receiving re-
OFFICIAL AND CENSOR.
41
plies, as we have seen ; but the letters were taken away se-
cretly, and he could never discover her whereabouts — never
until, lounging against that door-post in St. Martin's Lane,
he had looked down upon her dead body, and cursed it.
That was the gist of Mr. Hurlingham's evidence, con-
cluded at half-past six o'clock ; and when it was finished,
the inquiry was adjourned.
*
III.— Official and Censor.
The police requested an adjournment for a week, to
make inquiries for the two gentlemen who had been in the
room with the woman when she took her fatal leap. An
adjournment was accordingly agreed upon, and the jury
dispersed. I will relate barely, and without comment, a
few of the evening's sequences.
Our Coroner, deeply moved by the thrilling disclosures
of the day, stretched his arms upwards, and felt hungry as
he brought them down again, and looked at his watch, a
worthy companion of the rotund sphere against which it
was wont to beat.
" Past seven o'clock," he said ; "and I have not dined."
His inner man, in all its ducts, arteries, veins, and vessels,
protested in the name of science against this rare — this
anomalous — circumstance. His wife and daughter had ob-
tained for that evening, as he knew, the favour of an onler
for a free box from some poor manager at one of the the-
atres — a favour which official loungers and literary mei. ai-e
too apt to look upon as provisions of some beneficent d ity
m
I
ii I
i ^ ;
42
THE devil's chain.
— to be enjoyed free of expense. I know not what claim
the Coroner for Middlesex had upon the manager of the
theatre; unless, indeed, the latter felt that, if things were
to go on as they had been going with him, and he contin-
ued to fill half his house every night from a free-list of
people perfectly able to pay for their amusements, he
would, before long, himself need the Coroner's services —
and desired therefore to be well entreated of him and his
jury. However, our Coroner was well assured that at pre-
cisely six o'clock his genial partner and her congenial off-
spring had seated themselves at table, to the soup, soles,
and leg of mutton which had been prognosticated at break-
fast-time. In one point, at least, he could always rely upon
the affinities. His family never permitted a meal to be
spoiled by waiting — a principle of his own oft quoted, and
as oft enforced. Sticking to this rule man shall live juicily,
and not in vain.
At this moment — I mean the moment when the Coro-
ner's watch had readied the bottom of its fob, and had sub-
sided again, after being raised aloft, as a ship on the heav-
ing billows, by the great sigh whicli the tender recollection
of one more leg of mutton lost for ever had aroused — at
this moment, I say, the correspondent, reporter, and leader-
writer of the Morning Register^ addressed the hesitating
official.
" Where are you going to dine ?"
" That is just what I don't know, my dear Bugby. This
inf , T mean, this melancholy case has upset all my plans.
I was going home to leg of mutton at six, and then we were
all booked for the Sleeping Huntsman. It's always my
OFFICIAL AND CENSOR.
43
luck. People will either die at such inconvenient times,
or the inquest will go on at such unreasonable length, that
really one's life is hardly worth living."
" I pity you. Coroner. And you only get a thousand a
vearf*
"Ah ! society always underpays its best men ! There's
the Home Secretaiy gets five thousand a year; and if man
were measured by man, he and I would have to exchange
places, though I doubt if he is even fit for this one."
"Well, but— dinner. What do you say to Halford's?
The best nook in London. Only up the sti-eet. Formerly
chef to the Governor -General of India. Such curries as
England cannot equal."
"Enough, I know him well. A place to be cultivated
and had in reverence. I never mention it to any one. It
is too good a place for common men. How did you get to
know of it?"
" Come, I won't stand much of that before dinner. We
had better go."
"Yes, we'll go. Good night, Mr. Stingo — good night,
Mrs. Stingo; we shall meet, I trust, this day week. By the
way, my good friend, have you any more of that particular
brandy? ]My nerves have been dreadfully tried to-day."
" Certainly, sir. Will you come into the parlour, sir?
will your friend walk in too, sir? your servant, sir !"
" Oh ! he'll walk in — walk into Hades for such stuff as
you have there. A most special tipple, my dear Bugby." .
The two gentlemen had thus, as they would have ex-
pressed it, ' taken a tonic,' and they departed forthwith for
Mr. Halford's restaurant. The dinner was eaten with a
44
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
zest that did the tonic credit, each consuming a bottle of
the good claret there to bo had, and at half-past nine they
were full and comfortable.
" Bugby," said the Coroner, "we have dined well. There
is but one thing wanting. Claret, especially claret like this
— or rather, to be more exact, like that Leoville — judicious-
ly warmed by a loving and appreciative hand, is a good
wine, a gift of God — while you are drinking it. But you
well know it is of its nature to be deficient of alcohol, of
that spirit which excites to natural activity all the tissues,
and induces within the stomach that circulation and assim-
ilation — "
" Pray stop, my dear Coroner ! I have eaten my dinner,
and it is resting comfortably within me, layer upon layer,
every interstice filled up with noble wine. Why should
you, even in imagination, seek to disturb this peace within
me ? Let it repose."
" True, my son. It was to this I was coming — repose.
Repose is the secret of all art, (in the Renaissance partic-
ularly to be desiderated,) of architecture, of sculpture, of
painting, of decoration, and of dining. It is tliat I would
attain. It must in our case, be assured. There is a liquid
born of Erin which can assure it. Let us have some punch.
Waiter, ' Old Jamioson ' — punch for two."
By half-past ten, having turned up their third tumblers,
the Coroner and the journalist struggled to their feet, and
left the restaurant arm-in-arm. The holder of the ancient
and dignified oflice, recalling the circumstance that his wife
and daughter would not be at home at so early an hour,
saw no reason for forestalling them. He dropped in at a
1A-* —
bottle of
line they
OFFICIAL AND CENSOR.
45
assim-
mer,
jrs.
favourite club, where the evening air was corrected by an-
other whiskey punch. I regret to write that it was not
until two in the morning that his faithful spouse and eldest
daughter aided his undignified ascent to his bed-room, in a
condition rather worse than that of his witness of the day
before.
As for Mr. Bugby, he was a trained sybarite. AVhen he
had refreshed himself with a cup of tea. in a Fleet Street
haunt, and had again washed his inner man with some
brandy and seltzer, he sat down and wrote for the Morn-
ing liegister an article which put the Alliance in ecstasy.
" How appalling," cried the 3Iorning Register on paper,
" is the denouement of the dread catastrophe ! Beauty,
wealth, position, honour, virtue, all undermined by the can-
ker. Drink — toppling down a whole family in one fell
and disastrous swoop.* Out of respect for the noble race
whose name has been unfortunately dragged into this in-
quiry, and of the vast circle of friends and acquaintances,
of which the fair, the engaging, the talented IMiss Conis-
toun was so conspicuous an ornament, we forbear from too
minute an analysis of the strange facts brought out before
the worthy Coroner. Nothing could exceed the delicacy
with which he regulated this part of the case. But what
is it that stands out in terrifying prominence in this as-
tounding history? It is the solemn fact — liearkcn, oh sat-
ellites of Bacchus and Silenus ! — that the origin of this sad
declension, the root and cause of the lively sorrows which
hang as a cloudf over this illustrious family, the motive
* Ski
t Ski
4G
THE devil's chain.
Truly did the wis ',. ;?''"""" "' «"""S '^-'^ !
drink i3 ra,.in.. '" ^^' ^^ ""-' "* " ■»°«ke.- strong
And Bughy .vept real tears over his o«-n il .n
flatulent sentiment. ^ '^'^ ^"^
AN INJURED INNOCENT.
47
LINK THE FOURTH
BUSINESS.
I.— An Injured Innocent.
On the morning after the inquest, a pretty breakfast-
table was spread in a richly-furnished room in Belgravia.
The house which enclosed this room — a scene of exquisite
comfort— was from the scraper to the topmost chimney,
inside and out, a standing advertisement of wealth, and,
one may add, of wealth tastefully expended. The archi-
tect and decorator had conspired, by request, to produce
the most extravagant results ; Messrs. Johnstone and Jeanes
had received orders to make the costliest combinations of
upholstery materials that could be worked into a tolerably
large mansion, and had done their best to fulfil the task.
And when one adds, that Christie Hanson's rooms had
furnished the modern pictures, and Mr. Agnew the other
gems of art, there can be no question about the taste of
the owner and his indifference to expense.
We are, however, little concerned with the aspect or the
furniture of this gorgeous residence, and for further infor-
mation must refer the reader unfamiliar with Belgravian
mansions to the three-volume novels whose authoresses are
so intimate with that locality, or to the advertisement of
Mr. Gouldsmith, when, as occasionally happens, the dread
48
THE devil's chain.
il
ii
ff '
ghoul of bankruptcy enters the pale of that aristocratic re-
serve. Our concern is with the occupants of this break-
fast-room at about nine o'clock on the morning in question.
Three persons, evidently father, mother, and daughter,
were seated at the round table. A plate laid for a fourth
shewed that another member of the household was expect-
ed. The father, a gentleman of about fifty -five or sixty
years of age, with the long face, high cheek-bones, prominent
nose, and well-detei'mined features generally of a Western,
or North of Ireland Scotchman, was plodding through his
Times with a pertinacious doggedness indicative of a sense
of duty. And, indeed, that did oppress him ; for Parlia-
ment had lately met, and he was Mr. Bighornc, Member of
Parliament, and of the firm also of Bighorne, Swill, Pewter,
Ball & Juniper, the eminent distillers, who could scarcely
walk a street in London without seeing the name of their
firm blazing in letters of gold on certain houses.
No doubt it was a proud thing for King Lewis, of Ba-
varia, in his latter days, to circumambulate Municli, and to
read in almost every street the bronze or gilt inscriptions
which celebrated his own magnificence : but what must be
the satisfaction that swells the bosom of a private citizen,
who, in whatever city, or town, or village, of the United
Kingdom he may liappen to alight, beholds the evidences
of his popularity, if not of his greatness, brilliantly em-
blazoned on the most frequented of its places of worship?
Passing by the handsome, motherly woman, who, to use
the language of modern fiction,* presided over the tea-urn,'
the eye lights upon the third member of the party with a
sense of complete satisfaction. The oval, sweet, yet firm-
AN INJURED INNOCENT.
49
ly featuretl face, with that noble wealth of original hair
wreathed up in plaits and curls upon the symmetrical head
in Grecian fashion — the slightly aquiline nose, exquisite
mouth and chin, the skin mantled with a complexion pure-
ly and gloriously English — all this made Miss Emily IVig-
horne (bother her patronymic, and may she soon change it
for a better !) a subject of admiration which could well en-
dure the rivalry of the artists who had showered their
works upon the home of the wealthy distiller of Britisli
brandy and gin. This young lady was of the advanced age
of four-and-twenty and single, though every one knew she
was as good as £100,000 to her happy possessor on the
wedding day ; but Miss Emily had opinions, a mind, and
also a will of her own, and these were unfavorable to the
addresses of fashionable gallants. She believed in a mod-
ern chivalry, but at present it had approached her only in
the shape of Quixotic idiots or vulgar Sancho Panzas look-
ing for a kingdom.
Just now she was studying the Liberal^ a journal of un-
pronounced radical opinions.
"Papa!" she said suddenly, "do you see that?"
. "What?"
" An inquest, on whom do you think ? On a daughter
of Lord Newmarket ! She must be an elder sister of
your favourite aspirant — the Honourable Captain Conis-
toun."
" Good heavens ! Has she turned up again ?"
" Then you knew about her, papa ? And yet — " She
paused.
" Knew what about her, my dear ? It was not much to
3
50
TUE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
a I
know. She has been a great grief to her family ; I know
that."
" Well, the Captain bears it very well, and scarcely takes
it to heart as seriously as he might. Do you know the rea-
son of her misfortune ?"
" No, nor do I wa ) know. It is a painful and dis-
agreeable subject, my v^ear, especially for you to discuss."
" For me to discuss, indeed !" said Miss Emily, tossing
her head. " My dear father, why do you treat women like
children ? If you could, you would have kept my mind in
long-clothes while my body was growing to womanhood.
But listen ! The day before yesterday, Mrs. Bellhouse, a
disreputable person, who had been drinking with two men
in a room in St. Martin's Lane, threw herself out of a win-
dow, almost upon a drunken man who happened to be pass-
ing, and who turned o' to be her husband."
" Mercy on me !" f Mr. Bighorne, dropping his paper
at this bald epitome of the facts, while his good lady wrung
her hands in horror. They both remembered perfectly the
handsome young couple, who, eighteen years ago, were so
well known in the fashionable world. " Did you ever hear
of such a thing ? How horrible !"
" Isn't it ?" said Miss Emily, very quietly, but with the
faintest tone of sarcasm, " especially in a family of distinc-
tion ; and the whole story is out, all about their early life,
and her fall, and that sort of thing ; and do you know what
did it all ?"
" I haven't the least idea," said Mr. Bighorne shyly, and
not quite truthfully, for he *vas afraid of what was coming.
** Well, father, it was brandy !" replied Miss Emily, with
■ SUJJUH MJ i'l J<f *
AN INJURED INNOCENT.
61
dis-
5 »
rude emphasis, and looking at her father with a flushed face.
" Brandy, and then gin. What do you think of that, fa-
ther?"
Miss Emily was a very intense young radical indeed, and,
like all radicals, sometimes intensely disagreeable — quite be-
yond the power of her father's respectable Liberal-Conserv-
ative Government. He looked at her with severe eyes.
Mamma stepped in.
"Emily, have not I commanded and entreated you not to
make those offensive allusions? — and to your own father,
Emily, and in his own house, and in the presence of your
own mother, too !" There were indignant tears on Mrs.
Bighorne's cheeks.
" Oh ! papa, mamma !" said Emily, standing up and look-
ing at them, " I can't tell you — I daren't tell you how I feel
about it. These things cut me to the heart, and if I were
to say all I thought, you would never love me again.'*
" Hush, Emily," said her father, who loved her as the ap-
ple of his eye, an apple just then somewhat dimmed with a
dew of mortification ; " you are nttei'ly wrong, and perverse,
and over-sensitive. That Hiton Square parson has preached
you into a morbid state of mind, which I trust will soon be
healed by your own natural common-sense. I have repei t-
cdly explained to you that whatever evils may result from
the use of my manufactures is not due to any action on my
part, but to the voluntary abuse, by separate individuals, of
an article which, like anything oise, if used in moderation,
is harmless and good."
'^ I wish I could think it were harmless and good," re-
plied Miss Emily. " But even then, papa, you have never
52
THE devil's chain.
explained to mo why it is necessary for you to buy up or
build so many public-houses of your own. If it were not
for your money and activity, I don't believe there would
be enough of men with the means to take up house after
house, as between you distillers and brewers is being now
done. Surely it is your money which is directly encour-
aging the traffic, and it is your instrument that actually
holds it to the people's mouths."
"You are very complimentary, Miss/' replied the dis-
tiller, looking harassed ; " bat again, I assure you I have
nothing on earth to do with it. I provide a good article,
and, as a man of business, I am obliged to take the usual
methods of selling it. If I were to rely solely on wholesale
transactions, my rivals would soon run away with my busi-
ness. I simply follow the ordinary course, and have no
responsibility whatever for other people's weaknesses. Let
us drop the subject."
" Oh ! father," said Emily solemnly, as he drew her to
him to close the controversy with a kiss, " unhappily, the
subject won't drop for any of us; and here it comes," she
added in a quick low tone, " on two legs, and late for break-
fast."
And breaking away from her father, Emily stood up to
salute a tall young gentleman, perhaps two years younger
than herself, whose handsome features, strongly resembling
her own, were pale, and almost ghastly.
" Why, Henry," she cried, looking at him, " what is the
matter with you ? Are you ill ?"
" No," he replied, disengaging himself and kissing his
mother.
" It is nothing.
I have had a bad night."
.tvjt muKitr -
A BUSINESS CONDUCTED WITH SPIRIT.
53
or
I not
)ul(i
Fter
low
)ur-
Illy
I
" So you have, dear. I heard you pass ray room door at
three o'clock," replied his sister with affectionate cruelty.
Master Henry endeavoured to look occupied with bread
and butter.
"At last! Henry," said the senior. "A quarter to ten,
and you solemnly engaged to be in the counting-house
punctually at ten every morning. You are hopeless."
"I'm afraid I am, sir," answered the junior, affecting to
eat some breakfast, though it lay almost untasted before
him. " I'm afraid I am," he repeated with a sigh. " Moth-
er, some more tea, please ! I was out late last night at
Conistoun's."
" Oh ! well," said the father, glancing at Emily, and some-
what mollified, " boys will be boys, I fear." And with that
comfortable and philosophical reflection, he was lost be-
t tveen the sheets of the Times asrain.
* *
TI. — A Business Conducted with Spirit.
The firm of which Mr. Bighorne was the senior partner,
was one of the most enorgetic and successful in the spirit
trade. Beginning forty years before, as mixers, diluters,
and sweeteners of pure spirit, to create the noxious pleas-
ure called gin, they had gradually pushed their business in
every quarter and extended it to the distilling of spirit and
manufacture of brandy. They ])aid nearly a million ster-
ling a year to the excise, thus finding the country on an
average about one-eightieth of its revenue — a fact which,
on the face of it, entitled them to the position of being its
54
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
most valuable citizens. That would be the view of an
economist; but a thick-headed, though warm-hearted en-
thusiast, inquiring further into the benefits conferred on
society by this great firm, would have boldly said that they
were dearly bought. This splendid subscription to revenue
represented a manufacture of two millions of gallons per
annum of spirits above proof, which would produce I dare
not say how many hunc'reds of thousands of gallons of
nutty brandy and cream gin.
Were the enthusiast aforesaid, as he is sure to do, to fol-
low the thousands of hogsheads, or the millions of gor-
geously bedizened and sparkling bottles, turned out by this
firm, to their destinations by land and sea, and down to
the ultimate stomach of that notorious insatiable, * the con-
sumer,' he might — might ! nay would return with a dem-
onstration nothing could shake, that this million gained
to the revenue had cost the country in wasted wages, lost
means, bankruptcies, shipping disasters, railway accidents,
wrecked lives, murders, assaults, crimes unmentionable and
innumerable, and general demoralization, with their result-
ing expenses, as good as ten or twenty millions sterling.*
In truth, every year Messrs. Bighorne and Company, for
their own profit, turned out a product which did as much
damage in the world as many a plague or revolution. I
state this as a serious proposition based upon facts, and
unexaggerated.
■ That was a fact to which Mr. Bighorne's conscience was
alive, but the responsibility for which it denied. That was
* Tide W. Hoyle : " Waste of Wealth," etc., etc.
A BUSINESS CONDUCTED WITH SPIRIT.
65
an
eu-
on
they
3nue
per
are
of
a fact which the Chancellor of Her Majesty's Exchequer
knew, but which he pleaded that, in the peremptory claims
of a revenue-raising patriotism, he could not aif ord to recog-
nize. That was a fact patent to every thoughtful member
of the party in Parliament among whom sat Mr. Bighorne,
but it never lessened him in their esteem, or choked them
at his brilliant entertainments. That was a fact clear to
some hundreds of respectable, worthy, aristocratic, high-
minded representative gentlemen, who went into the lobby
to establish, confirm, and extend Mr. Bighorne's capacity of
contributing to the revenue out of his per-centages upon
drunkenness, death, and crime. But it was plain to them
all that not a shadow of blame attached to Mr. Bighorne
or to any one of themselves, for people's abuse of an arti-
cle too easily abused ; and they consequently referred the
startled reformer to the regenerating influences of Chris-
tianity and culture, and stood to Mr. Bighorne as an emi-
nently rich, humane, conservative, and most Christian friend,
with a vested interest which it would be both * plundering
and blnnderinsc' to disturb.
As for jMr. Bighorne, he claimed to be no more charge-
able with the consequences of his business than the baker
who sells the loaf that chokes a too greedy man.
But we must really inquire, IIow did this great firm build
up, and how does it continue to increase, its enormous bus-
iness?
The truth is, that the popularity of the * creamy gin ' and
* nutty brandy' depends in a very small degree on any in-
herent superiority of those spirits. It is true that there is
much in maturing, mixing, colouring, and sweetening the
56
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
Ml
original distillation ; but after all, you come back to the
same white dew, condensed and dripping, drop by drop,
in crystal spirit. But the two great agencies of Mr. Big-
horne's success — for he was the head of the firm in more
senses than one — were advertising and agency. The world
was nearly as full of the attractions of Bighorne's gin as of
HoUoway's pills : and there was not a district in the me-
tropolis or in any great town, where Mr. Bighorne's agent,
in the shape of a publican ensconced in a gorgeous gin-
shop, did not dispense the two seductive cordials. Let the
truth come out, and let these gentlemen bear the responsi-
bility of it. They are not mere wholesale producers who
sell their wares, and can fairly say they are not concerned
whether these go to heal at the hospital, or to destroy in
the public-house. The exigencies of a trade in which com-
petition is so keen oblige brewer and distiller, for their
lives, to create and push the business. The ordinary laws
of supply and demand are not regarded. The trade is
forced. For example, were it not for the capital of these
vast firms, whose agents are always on the look-out for a
chance to acquire a new vested interest in the demoralisa-
tion of society, who will believe that Regent Street, West-
minster, or Whitechapel Road, would be filled with the ex-
pensive cstablisliments wliich make them so brilliant and
80 damned at nii>ht? And what are our maojistratea about
that they permit their brother magistrates, in the horrible
rivalry of this destructive trade, to overwhelm neighbour-
hoods like these with poverty, crime, and sorrow ? The
i;4,000, £5,000, or £10,000 which starts a public-house, is
rarely found by the creature who stands behind the barj
HOIST WITH HIS OWN PETARD.
&1
it comes out of the same pockets as the £1,000 subscrip-
tions to restorations of cathedrals, new churches, and to
the conversion of the Dyak, the Carib, or the Iroquois,
from naked savagery, to the Enghsh Bible, the English coat
and hat, and EngUsh fire-water.
*
III. — ^Iloist with his own Petard.
When breakfast was over, Mr. Henry Bighorne, whose
uneasiness had throughout excited the sharp attention of
Emily, signalled to her to follow him, and led the way to
his own room at the top of the house. There she found
everything in confusion, as if he were about to pack up for
a journey, and she noticed that he had not used the bed.
" Henry," she said, " what's the matter? You are dread-
fully ill. Something has happened. I never saw you like
this."
" Something has happened," replied he gloomily, " and I
am going away." . '
"Going away! Where?"
"Oh! anywhere. I am not certain just now. But if
they ask you, you had better say I have g^ne down for a
week's huntinfj; with Conistoun."
"I'll do nothing of the sort. Tell me what all this
means."
"Emily," he said, putting his arm round lier waist and
resting his hot cheek against hers, so delightfully cool and
smooth, " don't ask me, love, for it is impossible to tell you.
But I've got into a scrape, and there's a bigger man con-
3*
58
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
ij
lit
cerned in it, and for his sake, I must be off, at all events for
a time. No one must know where I am; so I shan't tell
you, because you wouldn't tell a lie for anybody, and they
might put you on your oath, you know."
" Oh, what is it ?" cried Emily, clasping his two hands
and looking him in the face. " What have you been do-
ing? Oh, Henry, Henry!" and those lovely sisterly arms
went round his neck, and she drew this weak fool to her
noble bosom with all the strength of a motherly affection.
Master Henry's mind was not in what 's termed ' good
form,' and he felt just then that he was a pitiable fellow
and a most unfortunate one; so he began to cry, and Emily,
like the recording angel, cried too, and the tears of love and
of feeble hypocrisy flowed together.
— Tears ? Ah ! tears of a tender loving woman, in whose
heart the angel Virtue ever sits enthroned; tell me where
you can find such gems as these? Man, beast, brute, sav-
age, when you see these pearling her cheeks, stand still and
watch the only drops from the great river of Celestial Mer-
cy that ever take material form on earth, and stay your pas-
sion, or your wrath, or your cruelty, or your suspicion, be-
fore those precious tokens of heavenly purity and grace. If
they are the outcome of sorrow for thee, O erring man !
fall down and catch the holy water, if perchance it may
wash some black spot out of thy soul, and think what glo-
rious mercy they express. No ma?i can shed such tears
as these — welling forth as pure as ever from the fountain
you may have shaken, and broken and stirred up with your
foul or ferocious abuses, but which still sends forth a crys-
tal stream of forgiving love. O blest evidences of heaven-
HOIST WITH HIS OWN PETARD.
59
\y mercy ! to think that men should wantonly blind them-
selves to your loving and gracious influences — sweeter than
the sweet influences of the Pleiades ! The heart that will-
ingly drinks in your gentle showers should surely send up
some healthy growth of goodness and of immortality !
The relations between this sister and brother were of a
peculiar kind. It is hard to say it ; but it is true, and is, I
fear, not the only case of the sort — that although Mr. Hen-
ry Bighorne was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Bighorne, there
was little sympathy between him and his progenitors.
Emily had a good deal of the force and resolve of her fa-
ther, and of the common-sense of her mother; and the af-
finity of temper had fostered a deep affection between
them. But Henry was one of those irregulars who some-
times appear in families, and are said by physiologists to
recall some forgotten type of ancestry. Indeed, I have
been gravely assured by an eminent ontologist that he
knows — in Enojlish families who can trace their linea2:e for
long generations — of cases in which some unremembered
Chinese or Malayan of the line has inconveniently turned
up again in a living son or daughter. In Henry's case the
anterior ancestor must have been a mild, beautiful, well-in-
tentioned, bright, and capable person, but deficient in the
firmness which gives all qualities their coherence and force.
He was a young man of fine culture. His Greek and Latin
verses at Eton were said to have shown much more than
mechanical power. When he went to Oxford, he was con-
spicuous for his love of the 'humanities,' his precocious
judgment, his mastery of literature, not merely in the dead
but in living languages. Knowing what he is now, you
60
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
l\
may be amazed to hear that his life at the University was
singularly pure and quiet. Emily was his constant corre-
spondent, and such a correspondent was like an * anchor
within the veil.' One would hardly be prepared to credit
the fact that in three fatal years this harmless and even
promising boy had been changed into a debased and morbid
roue; but it is as true as Gospel, and you can, if you please,
have a sight of the genie that worked the transfoi-mation.
When Henry Bighorue came home from Oxford to his
cold, calculating, brisk, and ambitious father, his practical
mother, and fashionable society, he emerged from a sort of
Garden of Eden, in which he had been walking and talking
with divinities, and found himself in an unexpectedly rude
world. He shrank towards Emily, who loved and admired
him. But Mr. Bighorne, after watching the young gentle-
man for six months, and finding him to be a shy, rather in-
dolent student, began to think that the career he desired
for this his son and heir was in peril of coming to nought.
He meant that Henry should push on the fortunes of the
family ; and should he himself fail in reaching his deter-
mined goal, the House of Lords, this cultivated young man
was by talent and wealth to accomplish it. He therefore
resolved to break into Master Henry's gentle life, and * stir
it up a bit.' I can repeat the conversation.
Father, — Henry, I have something special to say to you.
You are positively doing nothing but reading and riding
about with Emily. Have you thought at all about what
you are going to do in hfe ?
Son. — No, sir. I am very contented with my present
occupation. I am writing a few criticisms and
4, _
HOIST WITH HIS OWN PETARD.
61
Father. — Criticisms ! Fiddlesticks ! Leave that to the
fools who write books, or who can't understand them. You
must do something practical in life.
Son. — Well, sir, what sliall I do ?
Father. — You know you are the only one who can suc-
ceed to my business.
Son. — Your business, sir. Good heavens I
Father {wrathfidly). — What the d do you mean,
sir? Has Emily been infecting you with her ridiculous
sentiments ? Are my own children to turn round on their
father as if he were a criminal ?
Son. — I — I beg your pardon, sir. I really meant no re-
flection. The idea came on rae so suddenly. I had never
thought of such a thing.
Father. — Precisely. Young men like you never do
think they have come into the world to do more than en-
joy the result of their father's labour and sacrifice. But I
don't believe in that sort of thing. The business must have
a head. You will have to be that head, and therefore you
must understand business.
O fatal syllogism ! It was the saddest thing in life to
witness the expansion, and, in the expansion, the ruin of
that young cultured mind. He was placed in a counting-
house in the vast establishment of the firm. He was drilled
in figures, and numbers, and calculations. He was ordered
to acquaint himself with r.ll the details of the distillery and
of the testing and tasting rooms. Emily, who fought a
hard battle with her father and mother about the arrange-
ment, watched its results with feverish anxiety. The rath-
er weak and weary youth used at first to come home at
62
THE devil's chain.
night to her for comfort. Then he began to form ac-
quaintanceships of which she knew little, and which kept
him often away from her. He grew more fond of society ;
and among the circle of her aristocratic suitors, not a few
were ready to favour young Bighorne, by inducting him
into the mysteries of town life. Tlie tax on a not very vig-
orous constitution was met by constant visits to the tast-
ing-room, where he had learned his lesson well. Each re-
pair caused a reaction, and each reaction required a repair.
In those words you have a whole history of a million or so
of men. Master Henry became bolder, louder, more viva-
cious, more social, and his father rejoiced to see him * wak-
ing up a bit.' He had, indeed, waked up with a vengeance.
Emily watched it all in agony. The late hours, the jaded
body, the pale face, the hot hand, the vulgar language, all
told her a tale of she knew not exactly what ; but she felt
it was something awful and evil. She wrestled strongly
with the devil for this loved soul, but it seemed to be in
vain. He himself was sometimes cruel and rude — then a
maudlin repentant. In two years Master Henry held his
own fairly with most gay men about town, and his father
had the satisfaction of paying for it. Nevertheless, the lat-
ter clung to the hope that the youth would soon sow his
wild oats and settle down. He hid from himself that the
sowing was in a field that exhaled a breath of doom.
" Emily," said Henry, kissing her, " don't ask any more.
Promise me you won't say anything to excite suspicion.
My very life may depend on it. Give me all the money
you have. The governor has had his way. He has cer-
tainly * taught me the business ' — d him for it !"
Mr. Bighorne's syllogism was more logical than happy.
A TlcEASUEE HID IN A FIELD — AND LOST.
68
LmK THE FIFTR
AMBITION.
I.— A Treasure Hid in a Field— and Lost.
The inquest on the body of Helena Ilurlingham was re-
sumed on the following Thursday. The police reported
that, although they had taxed their powers to the utmost,
they had obtained no clue to the identity of the two mys-
terious 'gentlemen.' All that they had been able to dis-
cover was this. The keepers of the house, who affirmed
themselves to be strictly * resjDectable,' had never seen ei-
ther of the gentlemen before. They admitted that they
were aware that gentlemen did visit their lodger, whose
rooms, by the way, were well furnished, and that she lived
a very gay life; also that several times an elderly person,
in a cloak and black felt hat, had been seen going up to
and descending from those rooms, but always at night, and
no one had caught a glimpse of his face. On the particu-
lar afternoon of the poor 'lady's' death, as the maid-serv-
ant testified, an unusual circumstance happened. Mrs.
Bellhouse had company in the afternoon. She called the
girl to the door, and ordered some refreshments. The girl
observed within a gentleman whose hair was turning grey,
but who kept his back to her, and could not further be dis-
tinguished in the gloom. How he got there, and when, no
64
THE devil's chain.
one knew. The quick eye of the maid had noticed an-
other thing. A hii'ge cloak and a black felt hat had been
thrown upon the sofa, opposite the door.
Some time after the girl had handed in the refreshments,
which, as we have seen, \vere on a liberal scale, the land-
lady heard the front door open, and steps upon the stairs.
Coming out of her room from behind the stairs, and glan-
cing up, she saw the back of a tall slender man, whose hair
appeared to be dark, and whose dress was not distinguish-
able in the deepening dimness of the afternoon ; but she
distinctly heard him knock at and enter the sitting-room
door of her upstairs lady lodger. This was about ten min-
utes before the awful event. Thus, there were no other
evidences of the identity of these persons than the glance
of a cou[)i'> of women at the backs of a couple of men, and
a clonk and a hat, which had vanished.
The keeper of tiie house testified that the * lady,' though
her profession or practice might have been questionable,
always behaved like a lady of rank, and when she had
money, loved to surround lierself with the conveniences
and knickknacks of grand houses. Her only fault in the
estimation of her hostess was that she sometimes took
an uninterrupted * spell' of drinking. She had just ended
Buch a spell a day or two btiore her death. They always
knew when it was '"•-ring on. She became moody and
silent, being ordi- acious; would not go out, ate
nothing, S' -^ st for stout, then for gin, then
steadily 1 '.aii-^ bottle.
"And .i you n .an to say you used to get it for her?"
cried the Corone in a voice of thunder.
SL
A TREA8UKK HID IN A FIELD — AND LOST.
68
"Well, sir; vvliat was we to do? You can't displease
your own lodgers, and them in the house for months and
months, and you nuiking your bread out of them, and them
never doing no harm to you nor your furniture."
" When she got started, then, how long would she keep
this up?"
" Well, sir, never longer than a week, sir ; or ten days at
most, off and on."
"And how much gin and brandy would she take in that
time?"
" Well, sir, she wasn't so bad as some people Fve known
on, sir.
»»
« But how much ?"
" Well, sir, a bottle or a bottle and a half a day, sir. She
took it quiet and steady, sir. She never got drunk-like or
noisy. She went to bed and took it steady and medicine-
like, sir."
The Coroner looked at the jury, and the jury looked at
the Coroner, as if they had never heard of such a case be-
fore.
Among the private effects which the deceased had left,
was a Davenport, containing many papers of no present
consequence. Everything was in order. She left very lit-
tle to tell tales about her friends. She had been a woman
of business. Her hand -writing, though shaky, was bold
and handsome. But among the other papers were some
important documents. A series of receipted bills for the
board and education of * Miss Eleanor Whyte,' with letters
from a lady, evidently the wife of a clergyman, who had
charge of the girl. The letters were dated from Arleston
a
\h
66
THE devil's chain
[ill I HI
Keotory, Cornwall, and always gave an account of the child's
religious, as well as secular education. Another document
was a letter addressed to Miss Eleanor Whyte, dated two
days before the poor woman's death, and unfinished. It
ran thus : —
London : 14, Tuftoii Street,
St.John^s Wood.*
My deakest Eleanor :
1 have not heard from you or Mrs. Young for near-
ly a fortnight, and am getting nervous about it. I have
been very uiticdl, and mostly in bed for more than a week,
and to-day I feel very sad and sorroicful and down-hearted.
"Whether I shall ever send you this letter, I donH know ;
but though I have struggled with myself a long, long while
against doing lohat Iain going to do, I feel myself driven
by some good or wicked sjnrit, I cannot tell lohieh, to do it.
I must tell you who you are, for I have been deceiving you
K.ind Mrs. Young, and you are not what I said you icere —
only the daughter of a tradesman's widow well off, and your
name is not Whyte. Your real name is Ilurlingham ;
you are the daughter of a country gentleman — at all events,
once a gentleman — of high family and, good property ;
and, my dear, dearest Eleanor, your mother is the daughter
of a peer of the realm.
[The indications about here were watery.]
J3ut I want to tell you how I was brought to this, and I
want to warn you, that you may avoid the tempter which
* This had been her previous lodging, and the landlady took in letters
there for her. The husband's letters were sent to Netting ITill.
A TREASURE HID IN A FIELD — AND LOST.
67
Jias made of your mother^ once heautiful^ accomplished^ and
virtuous as you, a — lohat she is noio f My love, you rrnistr
know I was very ambitious, and my poor husband {icho
loved me dearly enough then, poor felloio, whatever he has
become since) was not. I tried to carry him into the world
and into political life. I worked night and day for it. I
studied, I read, I talked with statesmen; I entertained and
went out; few would believe what I did and what I was and
was able to do— few certainly who now see the wreck I am.
Meantime you, had come into the world; but much as I
loved you, Iwas trying to push forward my ambitious aims.
It taxed my strength terribly. I consulted my i^hysician,
Sir Lullaby Turle. He recommended me to take occasion-
ally a little brandy. Darling Eleanor, listen to your moth-
er'' s declaration. I took his admce, and I swear before God
that, looking back over those years, I cannot tell you how it
grew itpon me,it came so gradually. J was not conscious
until I found I could not do without it. It was noticed by
quick designing men. Such a man once took advantage
of 'it, and in one brief hour Host my virtue and my hon-
esty and self-respect. How I fell, and struggled, and strug-
gled, and fell again, I cannot tell you. The devil had got
hold of me. I was fettered in his chains — and I am there
now. God help me / My precious, precious child, I dare
not tell you what I am, nor tohat your father is. You are
too young, too good to know. Oh! my God! When I
think of you and your pure, holy life, and my own sinful
depravity, I feel as if I loere in the torments of hell, like
that D' jCS in the Bible, and looJdng at you a7i angel in
Heaven, and asking God to let you cool my burning tongue
68
THE devil's chain.
with a dro]y of water. Yoit would do it^ woiddnH you ?
for the sake even of your sinful mother who has worked
and sacrificed to keep you safe from the 2iollutions of your
two icicked I'^at'^y^ts. JTow Iht^e tried to hedge you round
and keep you away from, temptation — andj those dear good
peop)le all through these ten years have brought you up and
treated you like their oicn child — and you are so goody and
so beautiful^ and so clever, and have been confirmed, and
learnt to love your S
r ■
11 ifill
jj 'IH
Here it was evident the writer liad broken down in a
passion of sorrow. The latest words were scarcely deci-
pherable, and the pen had dropped upon the paper — never
to resume its work. The name of the holy and forgiving
One, who had mercy even for the sinning Mary and tlie
poor adulteress in the Temple, seemed to have excited
thoughts that made this poor woman slirink and cower
and weep. Oh, had she truly written it, even then might
she not have seen and felt something of the grace that
lurks in the name of Saviour ! *
I will dryly state the remaining facts laid before tlie
jury by the police. An open letter, brought in perhaps by
the man who had last entered tne room, had been discov-
ered in a bloody fold of the woman's dress. It had been
hastily opened and thrust into the bosom. They had de-
ciphered it thus: —
Arlcston Rectory^ Cormoally February — , 187 — .
Dear Madam :
I write to you in a state of the most terrible sorrotr
and regret. Our and your darling Eleanor disappeared
A TREASURE HID IN A FIELD — AND LOST.
69
four days ago, and we have been unable to get the least
trace of her since. Further than this : some one like her
took the 7iight train at Station, twelve miles from
here, the same night, with a gentleman ! My husband is
distracted, atid is away going up and down the country in
search of her. The police are doing their best. We had
no suspicion of it. Pray come down. I can write no
more. God save our poor dear Eleanor.
YourSy
Edith Young.
The clergyman and his wife stated that more than ten
years before, a Mrs. Whyte, who afterwards appeared as a
ladylike person in decent but not handsome mourning, had
answered their advertisement for a child to educate and
bring up. She represented herself as the widow of a Lon-
don draper, so occupied with business that she could not
attend to her child, then eight years of age. Two things
she insisted on: that her child should have the strictest
religious training, and never be permitted to touch any
form of intoxicating drink. The rest of their evidence
was such as might be expected from the facts already
educed. The girl, a beautiful, clever, and estimable young
woman, had gone away, they knew not whither or with
whom. They were quite unaware that she had formed ac-
quaintance with any one they could suspect.
This story, with all its in-and-out details, drawn forth
with the vulgar and sickening particularity of such investi-
gations, filled the newspapers and inspired the moral les-
Bons of the journalistic staff, from the bishops, or other
1 1
1 'i
■!' I
I
70
THE devil's chain.
II
III'!
AthenaBum magnates who write for the leviathans of the
press, downwards.
The jury, with exemplary wisdom, after a long and ex-
pensive inquiry, brought in the following verdict : —
" That the deceased, Helena Ilurlingham, alias Bellhouse,
came to her death by falling out of a window at No. — St.
Martin's Lane; but whether by her own act or that of any
other person or persons, is unknown."
* *
II. — An Enthusiastic Convert.
Miss Emily, impelled by a morbid inclination she could
not explain, had followed the proceedings of the inquest
on Mrs. Ilurlingliam's body with unwonted excitement, and
with sorrowful sympathy. Not content with this, she
wished her father and mother to share her feelings. This
was annoying. The subject was disagreeable, and Emily's
views about it were uncomfortably odd.
The truth is, this young lady had latterly adopted very
uncongenial opinions. Having gone one Sunday, during
the past season, to a church in Hiton Square, when she had,
as she supposed, concluded the real part of the worship,
and had assumed an attitude of recipient resignation for
the homily of the surpliced priest, who was kneeling up
there in the pulpit, with his hands over his face, the eccle-
siastic took his revenge, not only out of her, but out of a
number of other equally placid ladies and gentlemen whom
the London season had drawn together. lie very quietly,
but in eloquent and incisive terms, told them that most of
-^4.
AN ENTHUSIASTIC CONVERT.
71
the
ex-
them were living the lives of drones and cowards : drones,
because they were doing nothing for God or man ; cowards,
because they were afraid to look the fact in the face, as be-
came true hearts. Then, with what they thought to be
needless cruelty, he went rather minutely into the details of
their present state. He painted the existing conditions of
the lives of many of his hearers with pre-Raphaelitish ac-
curacy, and hardly any allowance for perspective, until, iu
view of the clear delineation, men and women might be
seen shrinking back in their pews as if they were afraid to
face those fine pale features and burning eyes, and to hear
that terribly calm, sharp-edged voice.
Then he turned round suddenly, and grew warm, and
vivid, and sonorous. Oh! how rousing it was to hear him
tell the story of the martyrs of God, and of the noble works
our fathers did in the old time, and of their steadfastness,
cliivalry, and prowess! He became instinct with a grand
passion which flashed out from his heart to that of his hear-
ers, like lio-htiiins]: from cloud to cloud. And then he ask-
ed why those before him should not essay to continue the
line of the old knights and ladies of the Cross ; and he
F-howed how a preim chevalier of these days should arm
himself, of what spirit he should be possessed, what deeds
he might do, and what a guerdon he might win. And a
number of chivalric souls, inspired by the preacher's words,
then and there made oath to consecrate themselves to bold
knight and lady work for the Cross. And among them
was Emily Bighorne ; and being a girl of a strong, well-
balanced mind, this resolve of hers had been no vain one,
for she was following, night and day, with many others the
■ • ^ T
f
72
THE devil's chain.
Greatheart who had utterod that trumpet-call. They stood
by him, as it is needed all good souls should stand by oth-
er good souls in this evil world. Moreover, as it was of
her nature to be earnest, Miss Emily had become a propa-
gandist, and a voluntary sister of mercy. Hence, persons
who had settled down into an agreeable satisfaction with
themselves and their universal relations in time, space,
and eternity, found her to be an uncomfortably active re-
former.
Miss Emily had not fluttered about on angel's errands in
the slums of Westminster very long before she found her-
self brought in direct conflict with the fearful Power, which
meets and often thwarts the efforts of the little crusading
army of improvers, of every kind, that fight the Evil One
in that district. It appeared before her in its effects —
dread misery, fell diseases, and the wrecks of virtue. She
was feai'fully startled when, one day, before her eyes, that
Power took the substantial form of a bottle of creamy gin,
bearing a blazoned label, and the name of Bighorne. Then
her eyes became further opened, and she saw how often the
Bame name flaunted gaudily over the doors and windows
of the very dens she was trying to defraud of their vi<3-
tiins. After that she was obliged to have it out with Mr.
Bighorne, who was, however, above proof in more senses
than one.
Mr. Bighorne. — What have I to do with it? The stuff
I make is perfectly good — if they abuse it, the worse for
them !
Emily. — Oh, papa ! do you know what their abuse of it
means?
!!l!!!
AN ENTHUSIASTIC CONVERT.
73
Mr. Bighorne. — Yes ; I see that by the newspapers —
tlriiiikeii htisbands, broken heads, starving families —
Emily {yehementhj) . — Murders — parricid os — slaughter
of wives and children — brutality — vices too horrible to
mention. —
Mr. Bighorne. — Then, ray deai", don't mention them. It
makes me shudder to think you are acquainting yourself
with such tilings. Good Heavens ! Mrs. Bighorne, what
are you about? You are letting your daughter get into
strange associations !
Mrs. Bighorne. — I regret to say, Mr. Bighorne, it is use-
less for me to talk. She is too like you, Mr. Bighorne, —
fond of having her own way, and too old to be guided: and
her only director now is Mr. Holiwell, a good man enough,
and very earnest, I dare say, but exceedingly indiscreet in
the work he sets young ladies and gentlemen to do.
Emily. — Dear mamma, now, you're going over to the en-
emy ! You know that you really sympathise a good deal
with him. Did you not give me twenty pounds for his
night mission only last week? But now, papa, how many
public-houses in London are you interested in?
Mr. Bighorne. — I don't know.
Emily. — Well, I got Henry to tell me — it is one hundred
and twenty.
Mr. Bighorne.— Confound Henry !
Emily. — Papa, in two streets in Westminster there are
fifteen public-houses, and you own four of them.
Mr. Bighorne. — I don't, T tell you. I only lent the mon-
ey. Do you know the Dean and Chapter are said to own
a lot of public-houses? Have you heard that the Bishop
4
i
msmm
74
THE devil's chain.
mi
!i!i
" 1
of London, when he goes from St. James's Square to Ful-
ham, passes nearly one hundred public -houses owned by
the Churcli of England ? I'm as good as the Church at all
events.
Emily. — No, I don't think you are. The Church is in a
bad enough position, but you are worse. They came into
that property. Your money buys them or puts them there.
They would not have been there but for that.
Mr. Bighorne. — Yes, they would. Some other house
would have put them there. *
Emily. — Well, it is the same thing. You are all a lot
of rich capitalists, and between you your capital builds all
these public-houses.
Mr. Bigiiorke. — No more than are required by legiti-
mate trade — it is regulated by the law of supply and de-
mand.
Emily. — N"o, no; if it were left to that, there would not
be so many houses, — Mr. Iloliwell says so — every one says
so who knows anything about it. It is you wealthy distill-
ers and brewers, who can afford to wait a long time for
your returns, who are always creating new business ; and,
my dear papa, if you will only go with me and see, I will
show you, you are making it out of the death and ruin of
your fellow-creatures.
Mr. Bigiiorne (testily). — O dear ! O dear ! when you
women, or your friends the parsons, who are just as bad,
get on economical questions, you run so wide of the mark !
Look here, Emily dear, do be rational — if you can : A.
builds a chemist's shop, and sells laudanum. B. builds a
rival chemist's shop next door, and sells laudanum too. C.
AN ENTHUSIASTIC CONVERT.
76
builds a chemist's sliop opposite, and also sells laudanum.
1st, If tlie three chemists are not wanted in tliat neiirh-
bourhood, one or two will go to the wall. 2nd, The three
will sell no more laudanum than the one would have done.
3rd, If any one takes too much laudanum, it is not the
chemist's fault, provided he has used the proper precau-
tions.
Emily. — I may be a poor economist, papa, but even as a
woman I can see through your fallacies. 1st, The article
we are speaking of is not laudaimm, which very few i)eople
are fond of, and almost every one is afraid of; but beer,
gin, brandy, etc., which many people are fond of, and very
few are afraid of. 2nd, The chemists don't build up their
business by encouraging people to drink medicine and run
in debt for it, do they ? They rarely do more than supi)ly
an actual want. 3rd, Would a chemist who saw a man half
stupefied with laudanum sell him another dose to finish
him off, as you know, though you don't care to enquire,
those wretched agents of yours in Westminster will do,
simply to turn another penny ? And, 4thly, if a man is go-
ing home to his wife with his money in his pocket, would
he be as likely to get there safely, if he had twenty public-
houses to pass, as if he had twenty chemists' shops : or as
safely if he passed twenty as if he passed only two ? If
the Government had arranged the licenses so that the pub-
lic-houses might really be like the chemists' shops, simply
to supply a legitimate demand, your conscience might be
clearer ; but every time the least attempt is made to de-
crease the number, you and all your friends in the trnde,
and all your emissaries, move heaven and earth, in and out
I
l(
!'i
76
THE devil's chain.
of Parliament, to prevent it, and so you must accept the
responsibility ; and I feel — I feel — I can't tell you what I
feel
Thus it will appear that Miss Bighorne's radicalism was
vehement, and though femininely illogical, not without bases
in principles and in facts. Mrs. Bighorne tried to act the
part of a go-between, but in reality sided with the older
and more conservative party. Master Henry had been as-
sailed with evangelistic energy, and once or twice was on
the point of succumbing to Emily's religious zeal ; but that
more capable warrior in wickedness, Captain Conistoun,
hnd come to his rescue and carried him off from Puritan
perils. This effectually settled the Captain's chances with
Miss Emily.
is| !
111!
I n
I n
BILL KNOWSLEY.
77
LINK THE SIXTH.
STRENGTH, LABOUR, AND SORROW.
I.— Bill Knowsley.
For a dark, chill., and gusty night, the scene inside one
of Lord Dibblecum's grent iron works in Staffordshire is
cheery enough : furnaces glowing and roaring, men like
salamanders playing with the fire; ever and anon throw-
ing open great doors that radiate a fierce, hot glare, seizing
with long iron fingers the metal forms that had been blown
up to a white heat inside, dragging them forth incandescent
and sputtering flames of blue and ruby tire ; and then, in
the clear circle of light, titans swinging great hammers, and
sparks shimmering out in fountains and jets of brightness.
As other furnaces are opened, out rush cascades of molten
metal, wonderful to see — a weird, translucent glow about
it, the fire infolding itself, and the flames disporting in ter-
rible, silent tongues of amber.
At the end, nearest the great gate of the largest shed,
half a dozen big fellows are fashioning a piece of iron into
a girder for a mill. One, two, three— four, five, six — go
the huge hammers, swung aloft and dropped to a tenth of
an inch exactly in the place, and to the tenth of an ounce
exactly with the force desired by the skilful wielders.
One, two, three — four,f,ve, six — rise and fall the heavy
18
THE devil's cuain.
! li
\n
I
hammers ; for it is Saturday night, and this is a last bout
of work by one of the late shifts. Therefore, merrily and
with a will ring the hammers, in their cadence of labour,
noble and heartstirring music to the man who knows what
labour is. That big fellow who takes the lead with a swing
and stroke so mighty, yet so deft, while his giant chest
heaves glistening in the mellow light, is Bill Knowslcy,
one of the vastest men thereabouts; and at this moment
another man, standing out in the chill shadow, is watching
the work and observing Bill Knowsley with curious eyes.
" That's the man," he had said to himself, when he first
stopped and glanced in ; and then, shivering the while, he
gazed admiringly at the movements of the herculean frame
and listened to the ring of the rapid strokes, until, beneath
them, the iron had taken shape, and, with its fire beaten
out of it, lay there dull, deadening, and subdued.
The liccbt strikinc: out from within najainst the wind and
the sooty night, showed this man to be young and slender,
though he was dressed in coarse workman's garb, and his
face seemed to be grimed with the rust and smear of the
iron labour; but if you had looked at him sharply, as the
glare lit up his features and his attitude, you would have
seen in a moment that neither belonged to a true son of
toil. That well-proportioned but slim figure, that easy
grace of posture, straight leg and flexible back had never
been left by fair labour such as he had been watching.
Those curly locks were too smooth and clean to be worn
by any real son of fire and furnace.
Bill Knowsley having finished with an oath, and slung
his hammer away into the inner gloom, had caught up his
BILL KNOWSLET.
79
You doan't
coat and was rushing out to face the inclement night, when
he was stopped by the stranger. ^
"I say."
« Well, what do ee say ?"
" Is your name Knowsley ?"
"Ay, I be Bill Knowsley, but who be you ?
talk like one of these paarts."
" No. Give me your hand — GocVs hail !"
Knowsley returned the pressure, and his manner changed.
" GocVs Jiaiir he replied, " and d the traitor P''
"All right " answered the other. "Moses Pdl sent me
to you. I want a quiet lodging for a day or two."
"Sh-sh-sh!" said Knowsley, slipping his arm into that
of the stranger and drawing liim as if he w^re a sparrow
out of the lights and away from the track of his depart-
ing comrades. "You mun be hard pushed to come here.
What is it — murder T'*
" No," replied the other, shuddering. " It's nothing. I
am not what I seem. I want for special reasons to keep
out of the way a few days."
"Nowt? Thee bean't a true man, I say. Pell don't
send folk to I for nowt less than manslaughter. Naw,
naw. You be a Lunnun flash cove, you be, but you woan't
get the flash side of Bill Knowsley. Tell us all about un
avuore you see th' inside o' ' Knowsley's shelter.' " And
the speaker stopped and grasped his companion's two arms
in his great hands. He could feel that they were not the
arms of toil.
"Look here," said the other, "take me home with you.
It's all right, you know. Pell has giren me the word, and
80
THE devil's chain.
if you'll loose your infernal grip, here's five pounds to be-
i>
'!'!
I'
1'
|i|^P
gin
"Foive pun !" exclaimed Bill Knowsley, feeling the pre-
cious dibcs with his horny fingers, and trying to make out
whether the surfaces were yellow or white — " Foive pun !
Come along, gent, for gent you be. Foive pun ! It's
nowt but murder, young maaster, tho' a must a been a nin-
ny to be murdered by you !"
He led the way to his house, the other remaining silent.
The home of the iron-worker was a half-ruin')d stone cot-
tage of two rooms. A rude shed behind was used as a pig
pen. By day the sole redeeming feature of this residence
was its separation by about a quarter of a mile from the
rest of the huddled shelters of brick and stone which con-
stituted the villa£re of West Bovnton. The house stood on
a wavy expanse of rusty slack and cinders, diversified here
and tlierc with foul-looking pools of water when the weath-
er was not dry. Low, grim, and dirty were its walls in-
side and out ; its broken pavement looked as if generations
bad trodden it to a permanent sooty blackness ; the shatter-
'-d windows flaunted their substitutes of mouldy rags. In-
side, the general foulness, the mixture of pots and pans, and
d'rty children and broken furniture, — the odd evidences of
civilization in soiled prints and ragged English garments,
and of barbarism in the manner and talk of the inmates,
would have made tlie piace a damaging study for the 'in-
telligent foreigner.' From big Bill Knowsley, turning out
his three and four sovereigns a week at the work tliat was
keeping Englniid in the van of civilization and progress,
and was ejuichiug Lord Dibblecum beyond the drcanis of
■^! 4
"^.:
BILL KNOWSLEY.
81
avarice, down to the baby in the corner, swaddled in a bun-
dle of fusty rags, and the pig whose defiant grunt and scent
seemed to establish his equality with the other living things
in the household — this homestead of an English artisan was
a phenomenon to make a man rub his eyes and ask where
he was. There was but one explanation of it all, and that
will presently appear. Although Bill Knowsley had rela-
tions with very curious characters, he did not belong to ^e
criminal class. His immense strength tempted him to an
occasional bout in the ring, and this had brought him in
contact with some characters who occasionally called upon
him, as i.i honour bound, to discharge his devoir to their
secret association, by aiding to hide fugitives from justice.
Unless there had been clear evidence and a stron; force,
few people would have ventured to intrude into Bill Knows-
ley's house. This, its solitary position, and the extreme
rarity of the calls upon his hospitality, made it a tolerably
safe shelter for a day or two, if a man were hard pressed.
Kicking open the door to let his wife know emphatically
that her master had arrived, Knowsley entered and called
npon the stranger to follow. The woman turned from the
bit of fire where she was trying to warm I know not what
mess for the children who were snivelling about. Splendid
as Bill's wages were, there was rarely much more to show
for them at the end of the week than half a supper for the
poor woman and her little ones. On seeing him, her fa>;e
brightened for an instant with a pleased surprise : not an
originally comely face, but brown, and hac^gard, and, alas !
bearing marks of Bill Knowsley's cowardly and drunken
prowess.
A*
82
THE DEVIL S" CHAIN.
'li
.13
" Whoam so soon, Bill ?"
"Ay, lass, d thee; whoy not, I say? I'se fetched
a gemman to the shelter. Shet up, young uns ;" and five
squalling children discreetly stuffed their hands into their
hungry mouths and stopped their wailing.
"A geraman?" said the woman, sharply conning the in-
truder from head to foot. " What have ee done?"
" Keep thy tongue still, ooman ! Sit thee down, lad — sit
thee down," and he put his own great three-legged stool
near the fire.
" Oh ! I shall do very well," said the stranger, looking
nevertheless very uncomfortable through his disguise.
"All I want is something to eat and a place to shake
down in."
"Sumniut to eat, ooman, do ee hear? Summut of the
best for the gemman and me. Us'll have it tidy, sir, sure
enow. A candle, Lizzie."
" Candle ? I've no candles. Bill."
"Well," said he with an oath, "buy 'em. Come along,
lass, and get us a feast. Gemman has given T five pun.
ril take half a hour, I will, at th' Iron Horse, while you be
cooking of un."
" Bill," said the woman, her face falling ; " you stay here,
I tell you, and I'll fetch ee the things, and doan't ee go nigh
to th' Iron Horse to-night."
" You be blowed, and leave I aloan will ee ! I've a bout
o' one bottle wi' Nick Staveley — 'ull be oaver in a giffey,
sure. You k^ep still 'ere, lad ; I'll be back soon as th' owd
ooman's ready."
While the unlucky stranger remained shivering in the
BILL KNOWSLEY.
83
dull liglit of the embers among the squalling children,
Knowsley having given his wife a couple of sovereigns,
strode off jingling the other three in his pocket along with
three companion pieces and some silver which had that aft-
ernoon been paid to him for his week's wages.
Mrs. Knowsley did not stay long away. Her stop was
brisker and her heart a little lighter than usual^ though
there were reasons, known only to women, to impede and
burden both. It was so unheard-of a thing for her hus-
band to come home early or sober of a Saturday night.
This brightened the evening; and again, her children, who
usually had to spend a liungry twenty-four hours before
Sunday's breaktast, would go to bed satisfied.
Mrs. Knowsley had brought a magnificent beafsteak, po-
tatoes, bread — not forgetting the gin and some bottled ale
besides; and after a preliminary conflict with the general
confusion, and an issue of pacifying chunks from the loaf
to the black-eyed and black-faced little ones, she soon filled
the room with the fragrance of good meat and smoke of
sputtering fry. A semicircle of appeased young humani-
ty sat in the glow and quietly enjoyed the hopeful scene.
Candles lit up the brown table-cloth she had dragged from
under the bed in the next room. Plates, well battered,
chipped, and burnt, graced the front of the fire. The
Mean-
_ 5 with
satisfaction.
Thus a half-hour passed, and Mrs. Knowsley's prepara-
tions were complete. Her cheeks glowed with warm ex-
ercise, and she chatted cheerfully with her guest. Another
stranger began to feel some incomings of comfort,
time he seized a bottle of ale and drained a glass
> li;
84
THE devil's chain.
:
half'hour went by, and she looked out and listened for her
husband. She dared not ask the stranger to begin before
Knowsley arrived, and still less dared to go for him. He
was an autocrat of the purest stamj). He maintained his
supremacy by but one princi[)le — force. History shows
that that may succeed witli women and some nations.
At length it was half-past eight. The juicy steak was
drying up. The potatoes were cleaving to the pan. The
stranger could stand out no longer. Were Bill Knowsley
ever so angry, it was beyond all reason that a hungj'y man
should sit still opposite a spoiling steak for which he had
already paid.
" Mother," he said, " I'll begin. I am paying for this
supper. Go and fetch your husband, and I'll give the
youngsters something."
She i^eered out again. A dreary night! As she open-
ed the aoor the wind came sweeping in cold and harsh,
whirling up a cloud of smoke from the fire and putting out
the candles. On her face the freezing drizzle struck like a
shower of pins. Road, nor post, nor village light was visi-
ble — only a scene of wild, drifting blackness. In a lull of
the rushing wind, she thought she heard the faint notes
of a chorus. She had often listened to them of a clear
night.
What, was she thinking of while she stood there, bare-
faced and bareheaded, hor hand holding tlie shaking door
against her back, her ear straining to catch a sound, and
her eyes trying to pierce the inky night that stretched its
pall between heaven and her? Was it possible, as sho had
heard men say, that above this woeful whirl there always
lii
THE LAST LESSON.
85
vested a serene sky, a clear light of sun or moon, an infinite
and undisturbed rest !
When Lizzie Knowslcy turned inside again, the stranger
might have observed by the candles which he had re-Ht,
a strange expression in her face. She put on a rough
straw hat and an old shawl, and, glancing round upon her
children, set her lips firmly and went out in the teeth of the
storm and gloom.
* *
II.— The Last Lesson.
The bar-room of the Iron Horse was a long, low cham-
ber, the ceiling and floor dipi)ing up and down like a great
loose raft in a light swell; the wr.Ils ludicrously harmonizing
with the general notion of upheaviness. Al^ you entered
the room from the door, whicii pierced one of the longer
sides at the corner, the bar stood opposite, forming a quad-
rant in the other corner. A rude place enough, though
once garishly decorated, having in front of it a low stout
iron railing to keep its bottles, glasses, and inmates out of
reach — with a small room in the rear for the latter to re-
treat to in cases of dire extremity. For altiiough Sam
Rattler, the bar-keeper, had been a prize-fighter, and could
on occasion May' a drunken intruder into his domain with
a science which left (the intruder) nothing to be desired,
Sam was out of practice ; while the brawny frequenters of
the place were in the daily habit of swinging hundred-
weights of iron in the teeth of tons of the same metal; and
when hi ,f-a-dozen such men determined to clear the room,
86
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
I !
I.
'11
Sara, among others, lield it to be the better part of valour
to submit to tliein.
On this particuhir Saturday evening, at nearly nine o'clock,
Sam, his shirt-sleeves tucked up, was leaning on his muscu-
lar arms, and with a short cutty in his mouth, watching with
rather an anxious eye the play of feeling among his custom-
ers. Fifty or more of their big forms loomed up through
the smoke that rolled upward to the low ceiling, and wreath-
ed in murky haze the weak lights of the petroleum lamps
against the wall. lie had handed out, in less than three
hours, forty-one quarts of beer and sixty odd half-pints of
gin.
The room was arranged by low wooden partitions into
bays, where eight or ten men could sit together and rest
their pewters and glasses on the narrow tables between.
Each bay had its company, though the lowness of the par-
titions enabled the men to interchange freely foul stories,
oaths, threats, challenges, sometimes clouts, and other con-
vivial recognitions. Most of them were smoking short
black pipes ; some, with every semblance of reason gone
from their faces, were sitting up and drinking steadily, their
friends supplying them. Some had fallen asleep with their
pipes in their mouths, or with heads drooping on table, or
partition, or bench. These were the subject of rude prac-
tical jokes. I will relate one.
One man, seeing his friend's face hanging over the par-
tition, with his dark matted beard turned sideways, lit a
match, and winking to his comrf.des to note the splendid
joke, set fire to the hair. It flamed up, scorching the skin
of the unconscious wretch, who woke in the morning mark-
>•.
,K^««fce!K;!^3ii»~.a.,,^'
THE LAST LESSON.
87
ed for life. For the time his friends enjoyed the fun im-
mensely; but some mornings afterwards the joker was
found lying in the street with his head smashed in with a
hammer ; and later on Mr. Calcraft, then in office, hanged a
man, half of whose face looked red and skinless. This lit-
tle drunken joke cost the country two strong men, and
over £600.
If this joke be incredible to you, read the account of an-
other, perpetrated by four such men on an old Irishman,
whom, in pure alcoholic fun, they dragged out of bed, and
gouging his eyes out filled them with quicklime.
It must be unpleasant to brewers, distillers, publicans,
deans and chapters with public-house property, and lords
and gentlemen who have voted against Sunday closing and
in favour of longer hours for the sale of this playful inspi-
ration, to read of such cases ; wherefore I forbear filling up
this book, as I could easily do, with more of them. But I
charge distinctly that every man icho (from a Home Secre-
tary down to the lowest publican) e7icourages the increase
of this traffic and delays or hinders its decrease, assumes
directly a share of the responsibility for such incidents as
these.
At the far end of the room, near the fire, a party held on
bravely with uproarious revelry. It was at this party that
Sam the barman was blinking tlirough the smoke. They
were the choice boys of his custom, and when they got
thoroughly under way, as they had now done, he knew
them capable of any mischief. Over this select crew pre-
sided Mr. Bill Knowsley, four of whose sovereigns lay
warm in Mr. Sam Rattler's till. Bill had becrun the even-
» -:
88
THE devil's chain.
in
•1!:1
i)
ing by saying he was only going to divide a pint of gin
with three friends and must then go away to meet a chum,
but be had evidently changed his mind.
While Sam Rattler was thus gazing he heard the door
open, and saw a woman enter, dripping with the evening
storm, her wet shawl drawn close about her shoulders. She
paused a moment and looked down the room.
" Doan't ee do it," said Sam in a low voice, as he saw
her recognise Bill Knowsley and pass onward. Either she
did not hear him or did not heed him, for she slipped si-
lently down the room. Even then you could see by her
walk that she was heavy with a double burden of life.
Bill Knowsley, sitting at the corner of the bay, glass in
haiul and far from drowsy, though terribly drunk, sudden-
ly found his arm touched, and heard these words in his
ear.
*' Bill, Bill, remember th' gemman, and th' sooper all so
nice ; coom along, chap."
When Bill turned and looked at his wife, she wished she
had stayed at home. There was a dead silence among the
men.
" Ded'n I tell ee," he roared out, " never moure t' coora
an' trouble I en this plaace?"
" Yes, Bill," said the poor woman, " but. Bill, remember
th' sooper, lad, and th' man waiten at th' house."
Bill Knowsley finished his glass, and set it down, and
rose up with wrath in his eye and the devil in his heart.
Without a word he smote with hiis left straight out, as if
it had been at the hardened *mng' of a bruiser, into the
middle of the woman's face. Shrieking, she went down on
li:!
THE LAST LESSON.
89
her back, face no longer featured, face bloody and feature-
less.
" Take that— and that !"
The maniac's clogs were heavy. Once into her side,
and — O my God ! are you men who are looking on, are
you men or beasts? — once again into her tender side 1
With that fell blow two lives went out.
Man I Man ! Stay thy useless fury now. The work is
done. No need to break or bruise the poor limp body any
more. The spirit is already before the Judge of the quick
and the dead.
Not a man in the room moved while Bill Knowsley ex<-
ercised his admitted rights of home government. One or
two laughed foolishly. One man said, " Sarve 'en right."
The rest were cowed or indifferent. Bill Knowsley,
glancing round savagely, as if to see whether anyone had
any protest to make, sat down and called for more gin.
Then Sam Rattler came down the room, and after gaz-
ing a moment at the still heap that lay there weltering, he
pointed to Knowsley's clogs and said quietly but hoarsely :
" Theere's blood, Bill Knowsley. Thee'd best to mizzle."
Bill Knowsley looking down on his boots, seemed to
gather an idea. He got up, and casting his eyes an instant
on his deadly work, slunk along the room and went out
into outer darkness.
* *
ilil
i;l'l
00
THE devil's chain.
III.— Get out!
The stranger in Bill Knowsley's house was drawing to-
ward the close of a hearty meal, when the door sudden-
ly came in with a crash, and his host staggered into the
kitchen.
" Hallo !'' cried the guest, hardly looking up, or he would
not have said it. "So you're here at last! Here's your
supper spoiling. What have you been doing ?"
" What a' I been a doen?" replied Knowsley, with u ^oar
that made the stranger look quickly up at his furious face
and bloodshot eyes. " What th' devil is to thee what I've
been a doen ? Look'ee ! get thee gone quick."
As he screamed this out in a terrible voice, he seemed to
be struggling against an impulse to rush upon his guest
and thi'ottle him. His face and hands worked viciously.
"All right, old follow," replied the other, affecting to be
indifferent. " You'll be better by-and-by. Come, sit down
and take something."
" WuH'ee go, T say ? For God's sake get thee gone, lad !'*
And Bill Knowsley rushed to the fireplace and seized the
poker, a long bar of iron.
The stranger jumped to his feet and stood near the door.
"Why, Knowsley," he said, "you won't turn me out like
a dog?"
"Out, I tell'ee!" shouted Bill, raising his poker; and the
stranger, without an instant's hesitation, sprang through the
door. Just in time, for his host rushed at him with the
fury of a tiger. Then the murderer shut the door and
turned to the children cowerinsr round the room.
A NATIONAL BALANCE-SUEET.
91
IV.— A National Balancc-Sheet.
"Would it irot bo well if some Chancellor of the Excheq-
uer would present to Parliament a balance-sheet of the gains
and losses of the community in the national business of
strong drink ? I have seen estimates — by Mr. Iloyle espe-
cially, and other worthy advocates of Prohibition — which
are, I fear, more true in reality than authoritatively ac-
cepted. That we lose the £31,000,000 a year derived from
customs and excise on ale and liquors, and much more, in
good lives, poverty, prosecutions, jails, burned houses and
wrecked ships, and railway accidents, no one who has looked
into the subject will deny. And knowing this, few can rea-
sonably be surprised if men are driven to the very verge of
benevolent madness in their crusade against this cause of
80 much loss to the strength and well-being of the State.
It justifies the extremest enthusiasm. The statement of
the profit and loss of that single evening's work in a soli-
tary inn in the United Kingdom is given on the following
page : and when I add that such a night's work is not un-
common, this balance-sheet is not without its significance.
• It will be seen that there is an element in this balance-
sheet which cannot be calculated in money; to wit, ten
human lives. English law has never yet gone so far as to
recognize fully the superior value of life over property, and,
therefore, I do not press that unduly on the practical minds
of my countrymen. But possibly our economists may see
cause to insist that £1,540 6s. is too monstrous a loss to
be borne, simply that Messrs. Bighorne and Company may
turn a profit of £^'0 to £25 I
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WHO IS HE?
93
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v.— Who Is He? V
The stranger, so rouglily driven from Bill Knowsley'«
shelter, hurried out of hearing into the wild gloom as fast
as he could. Avoiding the viUage, he stumbled across the
waste of slack, until he struck upon a high road leading
northwards. A road drear and lonely enough by day, but
on that night suggestive only of despair. Over the broad
plain swept the icy north-east wind, carrying upon its
strong wings a scurrying mass of sleet and rain. Not a
ray relieved the gloom from window of wayside cottage
or lantern of waggoner late upon the road. It seemed to
the lonely man, struggling painfully against the masterful
storm, as if the world were left to tempest and to him.
Hard on his right shoulder beat the blast, wetting him
through to the skin, and forcing the deathly chillness al-
most home to his heart. Well for him then, he thought to
himself, that he had secured a good supper and a warming
glass. He could scarcely see a footstep before him. So
he went on, wrestling with the fierce, gusty wind, plashing
through unexpected pools, and now and then stumbling
into the ditch on either hand; but never daring to stop or
rest, for he knew that life depended on persistent motion.
Thus, hour after hour, slowly winning his way, he kept up
the unequal contest — man against the elements — a contest
man so often wins, ay ! and as often loses.
What may have been his thoughts as he braced his mind
and body to despairing effort, who can tell? J>[en wrest-
ling with storm and sea through long, weary hours of ship-
wreck, or with hunger through days and nights of expos-
94
THE devil's chain.
I lit '
jg
iji'i
la-s
i
ure, or with paiu through ^he protracted anguish of a de-
serted battle-field — with quickened memory of the past,
with vivid sense of nigH eternity, with feebly flickering
hope, might tell us of the thoughts that crowd upon the
fevered brain in such an hour as this. 'Tis a reality of
purgatory one would never desire fully to know or to de-
scribe.
He had gone on hour after hour, not discerning on exthcr
hand trace of human dwelling, until at last hope failed him,
and with it strength, and he made up his mind to lie down
and die. But the fury of the night began to be appeased,
and he noted indications that he was in the neighbourhood
of houses. At intervals he was sheltered from the wind
by some obstacles on the right. Staggering to that side,
he laid his hand upon a paled fence, and, feeling his way
along it, reached a small wicket, which he opened, regard-
less of master or dog. By the path he arrived at a wall,
and round the wall came upon an outhouse-door. Opening
this he stumbled in the darkness to a corner, and falling
there upon some straw, instantly lost his senses in a heavy
sleep.
The wind went down, the grey morning supplanted the
murky night, and busy life was again asserting its place in
nature, when the wanderer opened his eyes. A man who
had just shaken him, powerfully but not rudely, was stand-
ing looking at him with a gentle, anxious gaze. lie was
tall and broad-chested, clad in a dark though rusty suit of
Oxford mixture, which, with a white necktie, indicated his
clerical profession ; in slippers, and with no hat upon his
head, which bore a fine crop of dark hair. He had been
WHO IS HE?
95
a de-
past,
wering
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to de-
exthcr
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at side,
his way
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Opening
falling
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ited the
place in
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tis stand-
lie was
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cated his
upon his
had been
called out from his bachelor breakfast by the woman who
was peering in at the door.
The eyes which the awakened stn»nger turned up to the
light were dazed and wild.
" Who are you ?" said the gentleman.
No answer. The wanderer seemed to be searchinjx his
mind for something lost.
"My poor fellow, you are fearfully wet and cold ! How
came you here ?" ., -
Still no answer.
" If you don't tell me, you know, I must send for the po-
lice. Pray tell me."
At the word * police ' the young man sprang to his feet,
but fell down immediately, and cried out piteously :
"Where? Where? For God's sake hide me ! Don't
let the police see me I"
The curate laid his hand on the wet forehead.
" He is ill," he said. "And he is not what he seems,
Mary. He does not talk 1 ke a working man; and look at
his hands, they are thin and delicate. There is some mys-
tery here. Go next door and ask Joseph Watson to come
in and lend me a hand, and then get the bed ready in the
best bedroom. Stay, though, my own bed will be warmer,
and there is a fire in my room. We will put him in there."
In a short time the stranger lay in a warm bed. A doc-
tor was examining him.
" Brain fever. Wood ; brought on, I should say, by anxie-
ty and exposure, but I suspect, from his appearance, with a
touch of D T. What a fine face he has, and how he has
spoiled it! That white flabby flesh tells of an unhealthy
^^1 !
D6
THE devil's chain.
life. His temperature is tremeudous. It will be a long
struggle, if, indeed, he ever gets through with it. I will
send down the hospital van for hira. You can't keep hira
here."
"Yes, he shall stay here," replied the other, who was a
curate of St. Enoch's, in the wretched town of Burslem.
" Well, I know it is no use to talk to you when you have
made up your mind," replied the doctor ; " but I warn you
that this may be an affair of a couple of months, if it does
not end fatally very soon. And the expense will be fright-
ful for you."
" No matter," said the other, cheerfully ; "the Lord has
sent him here, and 1 cannot turn him out."
" Hem ! Very well, my dear fellow. Just like you. Then
we will make this agreement. I will give the medical at-
tendance, and you shall give the home and nu;dng — the
* cup of cold water,' eh ? I tell you what : if it were not
for another cup, we English Christians would not be called
upon half so often to administer the cup of cold water to
prisoner and outcast. Well, now, that's a bargain ! Give
him nourishment, as much as he will take, but no stimu-
lants, you know ; he has had too much of them already, I
suspect. Good-bye. I shall see him again towards even-
ing."
A BACKSLID E&
07
LINK THE SEVENTH,
RELIGION AND PIETY.
I. — A Backslider.
Down in the pretty town of Cherry-Luton, in Soinerset-
shire, a small tradesman and corn-factor, with a wife and
quiverful of children, had held his head tolerably high for
respectability, though he had had hard struggling to keep
it above water. To earn a daily meal all round was no
small matter with fifteen mouths to fill. When, in addi-
tior , public opinion demanded the use of clothing and a
proper pride insisted on education, and dissent was hungry
for subscriptions, it was a toil to cheat the constable which
Mr. William Merton often felt tempted to throw up in de-
spair. He had been diligent in business and fervent in
spirit ; but if no efforts will extend the one, the other i»
apt occasionally to flag. He rose up early and went to
bed late; regularly attended the market; prosecuted his
commissions with zeal ; and was, moreover, in accordance
with country usages in business, liberal in treating his cus-
tomers. The conditions of business at Cherry-Luton, as m
too many othar and larger towns, to the disgrace, be it
said, of local authorities, were such that it was difficult t<y
avoid either giving or taking * something' when businesi
was transacted. The open market-place, with its pave-
98
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
■
■l
1
1
,;
;:
ment of cobblestones, was well enough so long as you
were canvassing the quality of your merchandise, what-
ever it might be ; but to flinch your bargain and exchange
your memoranda or take your money, there was no more
propitious shelter than the 'Blue Boar' or the 'King's
Arms.' Thus those places became the mart and exchange
of Cherry-Luton, and men paid for their accommodation
by drinking their liquors. You would scarcely credit the
expenditure demanded of a man like Mr. Merton in this
line. To a novice it certainly looks a perilous thing to
begin business in the morning with drink, and carry it on
hour after hour with interchanges of exciting stimulants.
Yet thousands of traders and travellers do it — for a time.
Aijain and asjain falls out some man stricken to the death
by this relentless custom.
When Mr. Merton began life in earnest he was by nature
a man of full body but temperate habit. .His wife was a
pattern of virtue and good-sense, and he loved her well.
He was one of those men who seem to take to rcliorjon in
a way, as ducks take to water. Being a natural element
for a frank, good-hearted, quiet, yet active fellow, it was
therefore no wonder that he became a shining light in the
Methodist Zion of Cherry-Luton. No leader prayed with
greater unction, or gave the Minister nicer suppers, or bet-
ter beer, or more acceptable toddy after the fatigues of
three sermons and of meeting many classes. His wife
thought that he went too far in this line, and indeed some-
times the ministers too; though she was an unsuspicious
woman, and never loved even to think evil of dignities,
fitill less to speak it.
A BACKSLIDER.
99
Nevertheless, as the years went on, and Mr. Merton's
struggles increased, and he plied his task more earnestly
on Wednesdays and Saturdays, his wife became conscious
of a change in him, which began by startling her, and then
settled down like a heav^ cloud over her heart. Now and
then it appeared to her he was a little over-excited on a
market-day. The indication was slight though, and affec-
tion soon invented excuses to repress anxiety. By-and-
by, however, sharpened eyes noticed that far more was
taken at home than formerly. Her gentle hint was met
with a good-natured laugh at her suspicion that there was
*any danger of his taking too much,' and a demonstra-
tion that he required more stimulant in order to meet the
increasing strain upon him. Meantime he was sincerely
* labouring in the vineyard,' according to the Reverend
Gideon Ouseley Pratt, who, though himself the teetotaller
of the circuit, for a long time never suspected anything
wrong about his friend Mr. Merton.
It was a fearful hour in Mrs. Merton's experience, home
and religious, when one day the Reverend Gideon sought
a confidential interview with her, and broke it to her that
he was sorely exercised about his dear brother Mr. Mer-
ton. His conduct latterly at one or two prayer-meetings
had not savoured of godliness. In truth Mr. Merton had,
* on two occasions,' when called upon to lead the worship
in prayer, been fast asleep beyond any ordinary awaken-
ing processes adopted by neighbouring brethren to stir
him up ; and when finally aroused at the close of the
meeting he had shown a vacancy of mind and superabun-
dance of spirits, which gravely troubled the good minister.
100
THE DEVIL'S CUAIN.
On being challenged, Mr. Merton, for the first time prob-
ably in his manhood, prevaricated. I know not how truly;
but it is certainly affirmed by eminent medical authorities,
and with reasonable proof, that a constant habit of heavy
drinking will not only deteriorate the mind, but in doing
that, hopelessly degrade the moral principle. So Mrs.
Merton, watching her husband. The 'means of grace' he
once seemed to cherish, not alone with reverence but en-
joyment, were gradually deserted. First on the week
nights, then on the Sunday. At times it was perfectly
clear that he had begun to pass the limits of sobriety.
Still affection pleaded, and hoped, and worked, with blood
distilling the while in great drops from the loving heart,
in the agony of anticipated sorrow.
Two hopes the poor woman clung to. One a bold,
brave boy, her eldest born, who was away at sea, and
kept sending home cheery prophecies of a successful career.
The other her daughter Lucy, apprenticed to Messrs. Cut-
ter and Chettam, the 'eminent' house of London milliners,
who had ever so many hundred girls in their employment,
and to whom a hard-earned pile of money had gone in
consideration of their promise to initiate her into the mys-
teries of their art. Some day — so Mrs. Merton dreamed —
Lucy was to return to Cherry-Luton a paragon of French
taste, and to set up a shcp which would be the head-quar-
ters of neighbouring female fashion. These two were the
reserve anchors, if at any time the best bower of the family
ship should give way.
One morning, towards the end of February, the Merton
family, too large to be here described one by one, were
' ll
A BACKSLIDBB.
101
seated at breakfast, showing in the dress of all, and in
that strangely true mirror of sorrow, the mother's face,
how poverty was beginning to pinch them.
Mrs. Merton was looking out of the window.
" Run, Johnny," she cried to one of the boys. " There's
the postman. Something from Lucy at last, I hope !"
Johnny brought a letter to his father: there was none
for mother. Mr. Merton's face fell as he read it. He had
asked some accommodation of a friend whom he had once
assisted. It was refused ; and the friend with most amia-
ble frankness told him that if the reports about him were
correct, he ought to ' save his pocket at the expense of his
mouth,' a vulgar and personal though shrewd advice. No
man would like to shew such a letter to his wife. Merton
crumpled it up and thrust it into his trousers-pocket.
"Is it anything about Lucy ?" said the anxious mother.
" No," he said gruffly. *' It's from Toxdale. He won't
help me."
" But, father, what do you think can be the matter with
Lucy?"
" I can't tell," he replied peevishly. He was angry that
his wife for the moment overlooked hh mortification.
"Father, there must be something wrong," cried Mrs.
Merton anxiously. "She always wrote at least once a
week, and now a fortnight has passed without a word."
" Stay," said Mr. Merton, who had turned his head to
the window, " here's the postman coming back again with
another letter."
It was brought in ; a letter addressed in a clerkly hand
with the London postmark, and for Mrs. Merton.
N
102
THE D1CVIL*S CHAIN.
r: s
IM
I
ii I
II li
" Let me open it, Elizabeth," said the man with a sud-
den touch of tenderness, as he glanced from the letter in
his hand to her face.
" No," she replied. " If it is anything bad, let me find
it out myself." And with forced calmness she broke it
open and read :
282, Great Bazaar Street^
London^ February — <A, 187—.
Mdm,
Yrs of 24th, making enquiries abt yr dghter, Miss Xucy
Merton, reed, and contents noted.
We regret to state that abt a fortnight since MissMerton
was entrusted with a commission on behlf of this firniy to
a particular customer. She did not return until the mid-
dle of next day, and, a^s we had reason to believe, had been
drinking. She was unwell at her lodgings for some days,
and as she gave no satisfactory acct of herself, except that
she had bn taken ill at the sight of a terrible accident wh
happened on the day referred to, the young ladies of our es-
tabt, who are aU of the highest respectability, declined her
company. We were abt, in consequence, to advise you of
same, but she disappeared from her lodgings, and we con-
cluded had left for home. Otherwise shd have advised you
earlier.
Trusting that nothing serious may have occurred^
We are, Madam,
Yours obedy,
Mrs. Merton, Cutter & Chettam.
Mrs. Merton threw the letter over to her husband, and
INTO THE MiVELSTBOM.
103
ran out of the room. She could bear no witness to the
storm of her sorrow. As for hiin, his eyes were sensitive
too, and the sharpness of the stroke roused his mind and
heart to a sadness keen enough.
^p ^F ^P ^r ^P ^F ^F
By the evening he was ready for London. Mrs. Mor-
ton pleaded hard to be allowed to accompany hira, but
he would not hear of it. He had succeeded in borrowing:
from a sympathetic friend twenty pounds for the journey.
His manner was a little changed. But when he took Mrs.
Merton into his arms to say good-bye, she knew he had
been seeking consolation at the wrong fountain.
" For God's sake, John," she whispered, " keep steady.
It is life and death for us all. Good-bye, dear."
"All right, Lizzie," he said, the dew in his eyes ; "I shall
restrain myself for your sake and hers. God b)^ss you,
my dear wife."
She went in, and to her room and on her knees, and tried
to get faith to believe that out of this darkness there
would come light.
He jumped into the omnibus which was at the door,
and ten minutes after was taking a glass of hot grog at
the bar in the railway station. The nights were cold.
II.— Into the Maelstrom.
On London, from every quarter of England, converge
the waifs of misery, sin, shame, and crime. Into the great
vortex, one by one, float and whirl the driftwood and
r- -* j
w
104
THE devil's chain.
wreck of English humanity. Decayed gentleman or gen-
tlewoman, broken bankrupt, runaway clerk, dissolute cler-
gyman, dishonoured lady, ruined maid, deserter, thief, mal-
efactor, tramp, blackleg, adventurer — all sink out ofsi^ht
into the depths cf that voracious sea.
And herein, one autumn evening, plunged two people,
ikfier some months of a wandering which had been evil
and sorrowful as the wanderings of Cain. Hither they
caiiie, eager to forget the past, and, if possible, to deaden
the consciousness of the present; third-class, Parliamenta-
ry into Paddington Station at night; their joint effects —
I might say surviving effects — contained in a solitary bag
of soiled carpet and dingy leather. The man, as he step-
ped out of the train, and furtively scanned the faces about,
to see if anyone recognised him, looked haggp.rd and de-
jected. The young girl who followed him was attired in
a '^u-ess well-fitting and tasteful, and a fashionable hat, but
nevertheless her appearance gave an impression of jaded
gentility. For her dress had in one or two places been
torn and never mended ; her collar and cuffs were dirty
and ruffled ; the feather of her hat was limp and broken ;
the blue ribbons had lost half their hue. When she lifted
her dress to step out of the carriage, she disclosed a well-
made boot on a pretty foot ; but the leather was worn
and slit, and the slovenly laces left gaping yawns of stock-
ing, while the embroidered skirt w.is browned with over-
much wear. Nevertheless any one would have paused a
fiioment to look at the pale face which was half concealed
by the torn veil. A chin like that of Venus, cheeks love-
ly in their soft contour, sweet childish lips which mantled
ill III'
INTO THE Maelstrom.
106
with their coralline bloom the pearly beauties of a perfect
mouth ; eyes sc softly blue-and-gray and yet so quick and
bright, and that straight Saxon nose with a wavy grace
of outline and carved delicacy of nostril, which neither
word nor painting could depict — such was the girl who
stepped after the man, he carrying the carpet bag, while
she bore a shawl and umbrella. At the refreshrieni bar
he stopped and looked in.
"Ah !" he said, " I 've had nothing since we left Reading.
Here, dear, hold this a moment."
He went in and took a glass of brardy. Already the
girl had noticed how he trembled. He had been drinking
all day in spite of her remonstrances, and she dreaded what
might come of it. Looking at him now in the bright gas-
light, his long shabby black surtout, felt hat, and dark
trousers, were suggestively clerical : though the black and
white check 'kerchief on his neck, with its greasy ends, did
not answer to the other aspects. He was of middle age,
tall, and, except for his shabbiness and a dreadful sense
of despondency in his face, was a man of almost noble
pvesence.
Their destination was the Bow Road, in the East end.
He knew nothing about the place where he meant to put
up, except that some friendly vagabond he had lately met,
had spoken well of it. It was a long way out — a broad,
low, three-storied house of mottled brick, with a narrow
doorv/ay, approached by broken steps, well worn. In
front of it there were a few feet of frowsy grass, intended
to be kept sacred from intrusion by an iron railing shat-
tered and rusty, from which the tramps had wrenched
5*
r
106
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
many a pound to sell. A greenish brass plate on the
door exhibited the name of Mrs. Perkins. Tiae bell-handle
had evidently parted with the bell on severely irreconcil-
able terms, and was hanging dejectedly out on the right.
Notices of * apartments ' decorated several of the front
windows, peering through their opaque foulness.
Here the couple brought up, and after a little chaffering
with the landlady, who gave way, however, as soon as she
had caught sight of the young girl's face, they agreed to
take a room in the attic at eight shillings a week. The
man put down his bag, and went out to buy a few neces-
saries ; the girl, casting off her hat, threw herself on the
miserable bed, and sobbed violently. Six months of sin-
ful vagrancy had not yet hardened her.
" My God," she said, " my God ! have mercy upon
me !"
But the more she wrung her hands and wept, the more
terrible and hopeless seemed her despair.
"I cannot go back, — I cannot go on !"8he cried passion-
ately. " O merciful God ! why don't you strike me dead ?
Why have you deserted me? Is there no hope — no re-
pentance ?"
Mrs. Perkins slipped into the room.
" Why, why — what's the matter, dear ?" she said, hold-
ing her candle to look at the beautiful disordered face,
flushed with weeping. " You are a beauty !"
"Will you go away, please?" said the girl immediately,
Bitting up with dignity and wiping her eyes. " Who ask-
ed you to come here?" The woman was quick. She saw
this was no common country girl.
INTO THE MAELSTROM.
107
" Oh ! I beg your pardon, miss ! only I heard you going
on so terrible, miss. Can't I get you something please ?"
" No, thank you. No one can do me any good."
The landlady saw an opening.
" Yes, dear, they can. Such a sweet, beautiful creat-
ure as you needn't lie here crying and sobbing enough to
break her heart. Cheer up, my dear. You're in London
now, and don't know what luck's in store for you. I'll
bring you something directly that'll do you good."
The everlasting comforter — the solace the girl was al-
ready learning fast, fast, to fly to as the only one left to
her ! Here, in superciliously pious England, we have built
a wall of brass between innocence and undiscovered guilt
on one side, and discovered sin upon the other. And
moreover, by our most Ch.istian and moral practice, the
errors once detected shall have a tenfold greater heinous-
ness and a hundredfold greater penalty if they be of a
woman than if they be of a man. O most just, most
equitable, most politic, most consistent, and most Christ-
like nation, which is less forgiving even than the Judge of
heaven and earth !
The man at length returned with candles, food, and a
bottle of rum. He looked at his companion askance and
troubled.
"Nelly, dear," he said, "you've been crying again."
" I shall never have done."
"What is the use?" said the man sadly, and breathing
painfully, as if struggling with some strong feeling within.
"What is the good of it now? Ah! I wish I could be-
lieve the old heathen : .
'v
108 THE devil's chain.
No8 ubi dceidimns
Quo plus iSncas, quo dives Tullus et Ancus,
Pulvis et umbra sumus !"
As he said these words a slight flash of old University
memory seemed to animate him. Then he relapsed into
ti gloomy despondency.
— "But no — throw it to the devil and have done with
»>
it.
" It is done, and done for ever," she said ; " nothing can
undo ''. O dear! O dear ! I shall kill myself!"
And the full passion of her sorrow burst forth again.
The man at first was cowed by the strength of it ; but he
opened his bottle and drank, and was revived. Then he
mixed some rum with water and offered it to her.
She forced it down her throat. Again I say, to a hope-
less outcast from love or sympathy, what other * respite
and nepenthe 'is there for the sensitive conscience? The
man had skilfully ingratiated this idea into her mind.
His own soul was wrung with the deadly anguish of re-
nfiorse ; and her conscience-stricken agony was a pain he
desired, for his own sake as well as for hers, to deaden.
So for that night she managed to drive away the * Blue
Devils.' But they were coming back in real earnest for
her companion. He finished the bottle that night. The
next morning he lay weak and trembling in bed, and sent
for another. And after that the real Blue Devils, who
had been dogging him a long time, fastened on their prey.
There is no use in prolonging the story of the miserable
strife. A doctor came and ordered him to the hospital,
and the poor girl saw him carried away, alternately pray-
CAN A WOMAN FOEGET ?
109
ijig and blaspheming — repeating the cliurch service and
then pouring out curses and indecency. It was thus he
died.
■■v.--.--.-,-,;: y^ ■:■■ ■ :-v..#:. :. ■.- - _...:-. ^
III.— Can a Woman forget?
A GREAT Apostle startles us by saying that he — the
teacher, the soldier strong find valiant even to martyr-
dom — kept his body in subjection, lest that he who had
preached to others should himself become a castaway.
Few had so tested in their own persons at once the
strength and the weakness of human nature. Therefore
we may reasonably believe it possible that the Rev. Quin-
tus Craven, M. A., really went into the Church of England
a sincere enthusiast ; married his wife, as he averred, not
merely for her person, but for her goodness ; waged for
many a year an honest conflict with Satan for the souls
and bodies of sundry poor Cornishmen ; and was justly re-
spected and beloved of the bishop, and other clerical breth-
ren of his diocese.
The eldest son of a wealthy gentleman, whose ambition
he disappointed by choosing the Church, he had proved
his sincerity, and lost much, so far as this world was con-
cerned. Is it not terrible to think that after all the sac-
rifice was unavailins: ? .
A good-looking, muscular, genial, large, and naturally
buoyant fellow, always refined and punctilious in his con-
duct, as a man of the world or as a Christian ; had you
asked a church-warden, or even the village doctor twenty
no
THE devil's chain.
i \i
years before, whether Mr. Craven would have two attacks
of delirium tremeiis, sink to the lowest depths of immoral-
ity, and die raving in a hospital, you would probably have
been put down as fit for some such fate yourself. Yet it
is certain that all this happened — happened to a man en-
circled by the purest home influences, and by his work
brought into daily contact with the ideas and principles
of Christianity.
Twice he had fallen, and twice repented. The woman,
whose noble affections he had wronged, forgave him, strug-
gled steadily for his redemption, helped to conceal his sin,
and then watched him with the weariless wariness of a
heart-broken love.
Tragedies like these are all around us !
How flesh and blood can endure the strf^/iii put upon
them by souls so gloriousl}'- uplifted above the standard
of humanity, I caimot even fancy. Bruised and beaten,
wronged and trampled under foot, utterly betrayed by
perjured caitiff— there is yet a love of woman which can
endure. There is yet a love of woman which, looking
down from its pure height of goodness on the foul wreck-
age below, will fly to gather up and cherish in its bosom
the last shreds of perverted affection.
When the death of the Rev. Quintus Craven, M. A., in
the East end hospital, was announced at St. Jacob's vicar-
age, the noble mother gathered her children together, and
told them that their father was dead. Then she began to
recall him to them as he once was, manly, gentle, and good.
She told them of his early virtues, and besought them with
tears to remember him thus. Shutting within her heart
CAN A WOMAN FORGET?
Ill
the carkirig agony of her despair, she went away quietly
by herself to London to claim the dead and bury him de-
cently, where no one but she should find him.
Next to her heart was a letter, written in a trembling
liand, in one of the fits of remorse which had succeeded
to his last outrage upon her affection. I have read the
letter. It ran thus : —
" My deak, dear Wipe,
"/ write to you out of the deepest depths of sorrow
and remorse. Why I do it^ I cannot tell. My state is 17 1-
descrihable. I suffer the very pahis of hell. .... J know
I am in the bonds of iniquity, yet I cannot shake wyself
free. I cannot even bring myself to say ^I would be bet-
ter again if I could.'* All that has passed from me. My
brain is confused, and my coiiscience hardened beyond re-
covery. Every day I have to endure an awful penalty in
seeing the grief of the poor, lovely, innocent creature to
tohom I have brought ruin and disgrace My mind
recalls things vaguely. I look upon the past as an exile
looks upon tlie distant panorama of the shore he knows he
shall never see again. All those sweet years with you, those
zealous works for God and the Church, the delights of in-
tellectual or holy converse, the love I bore our children — Ah
me! I cannot icrite about it! My soid lorithes with ago-
ny in the utter hopelessness of relief Two lines from ''The
Haven"* are ever in my brain, ringing in relentless tones:
Is there, is there balm iu Gllead? Tell me, tell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, 'Never more.'
I*
112
THE devil's chain.
** There is no hope. I am riveted in a fatal chain. I
cannot even with blood get free
" Catherine^ you wiU hardly believe me, but I love you
still. My heart has really never been false to you^ what-
ever has happened.* You come before me now spotless and
holy — my first and only love. I have wronged you be-
yond forgiveness y but, Catherine^ you have never ceased,
to be the one day star of my existence
''''How the Devil laid hold of me, it is Impossible for me
to describe. I never was a wild drinker at Trinity^ as I
have known several men to be in their youth who are now
eixemplary clergymen. When I married you I was a tem-
perate man^ as things icent, always being able to take my
fair share at table icith the other clergy^ but never conscious-
ly exceeding. At home^ you are aware^ we principally
drank beer^ and wine only on Sundays^ and sometimes
after a specially hard day'^s work I had my tumbler of
spirits. I can recollect no particular time when I began to
feel the thirst. It grew upon me as every habit grows upon
unwatchfid souls. The struggle in me when I began to feel
its power was fierce and long. I have spent half a night
upon my knees weakly crying to be delivered^ and yet hard-
ly wishing it. I broke off, you remember, for six months;
and you, little suspecting, remonstrated with me, thinking
* This sort of thing often occurs in such documents as the above, and
affords a curious psychological phenomenon. How is it these demoral-
ised people pen or speak such egregious lies in moments of apparently
sincere confession ? Do they come simply of the maudlin hypocrisy of
an absolutely depraved heart? or has the toxic liquid really destroyed
the capacity of the brain to distinguish between one feeling and another ?
CAN A WOMAN FORGET?
113
it injured my health, and that a little did me good. You
did not know that I had long since passed the mark of a
^little.'' I took it all the time, and wherever I could get it /
in visiting my parishioners, and in driving about the coun-
try, at inns. And so it went on / first loith beer and wines,
then with spirits, until, I confess to you before God, Cathe- '
fine, I could not, to save my life, pass a place where I knew
it was to be had or purchased, without stopping to get it.
So unappeasable grew the craving that, I own to you, I
have had my glass of toddy of an evening with you, and
after that have taken to bed with me a bottle of brandy,
and consumed it before morning unknown to you. I was
strong. I was never drunk in the ordinary sense, but al-
ways under the fatal influence
" For a long time I discharged my duties conscientiously,
and hoped for the best. Then I found I had to resort to
equivocation and to tricks to conceal from you and others
the growing habit. Prayers soo?i became forms to my sear-
ed conscience, and principles gave wcf>/ to the desires of the
flesh. My mind seemed powerless to resist/ and as I drew
away from the anchor of hope I felt myself driven, as by a
tempest Icoidd not withstand, into dark seas of passion and
sin. God help me ! I can not tell you all. Twice, you
retnemher, my awful thirst and guilty desires took me away
from you a short time into excesses that only the Devil can
know or conceive. Yet, Catherine, you hid it all — you for-
gave it. I dreio again the breath of life, and there seemed
hope of recovery for me, when the Devil threw in my loay
that poor girl. You know how she took to us all — how inno-
cent she was — how she wished to ^e a good church-woman,
114
TUB DEVIL'S CHAIN.
and take her share in parish work I She said her mother
wished it. Catherine^ I seemed to he impelled by a resistless
power to that sin. How successfully^ alas I and with what
terrible results to us and to her /"....
' ;»i
I 'i ;
II «l
This was what Catherine Craven carried near her heart
when she went to claim her husband's dishonoured body.
IV.— The Unity of the Spirit.
The funeral coach was standing at the door of the hos-
pital. The coffin had been borne out by the shaky porters
of mortality. The widow alone, and in the deepest black,
followed them. As the sad party went out through the
large hall, a woman and two men, who were also about to
go out, were checked to let it pass. The woman was pale
and sorrowful, and looked at the long, black- veiled figure
of the mourner with respectful sympathy. She, having
her own ajriefs, had been told the storv of the desolate
widow.
The man by her side was in charge of the third person
of the party. His eyes looked upon the scene with mean-
ingless gaze ; his face had no expression. He drivelled
•out a word or two, and laughed foolishly. The woman
turned to him with a sigh. It was Mrs. Merton. Singular
fatality ! Her husband, found wandering about the streets
demented, had been taken to this hospital some months
before, and was now, for the first time, pronounced fit to
!be removed to an asylum.
LICENSED LICENSE.
116
Parish priest and Methodist class-leader ! we have at
length discovered a common ground of concord for you
both 1
v.— Licensed License.
Why God made Mrs. Perkins, or the like of her, is no
email problem in divinity. There are human devils going
about this world which astound humanity. If they come
across Innocence, they must mar it. If they meet with
Error turning to repentance, they must take it round the
neck and drag it deeper into the mire. If Wickedness
comes into contact with them, they must do their worst
to make it ten times more evil than before. Mrs. Perkins
was of this sort.
But for Mrs. Perkins, Catherine Craven would have
found out Eleanor Whyte, and would, by her large-heart-
ed and holy sympathy, have won the child back to a hap-
py life. The lodging-house keeper, having once set eyes
on her prey, was not to be easily circumvented. When
the news came that the Rev. Quintus Craven was dead,
she hid it from the unhappy girl. She saw Mrs. Craven,
who had been directed to the place, and told her the child
had run away. Meantime the woman had given Eleanor
hopes that her friend was getting better. She dressed
herself up and went out with her. She feigned sympa-
thy, talked piously, took her on Sunday to church, and on
Monday to a music-hall in the West end.
The unsuspecting girl there saw a dight that outwits
and surpasses in successful conception and execution all
f
116
THE devil's CHAIN".
the other deviltry of the metropolis put together. You
may go and see that sight any night of the week except
Sunday ; once seen, never forgotten. It is duly licensed
by Act of Parliament.
Tlie powers that grant the license are magistrates of
Middlesex, who are fathers of families, attendants (at least)
of churches, some of them servants of the Crown, some of
them members of the aristoci*acy {i.e., of the aristoi, the
best and noblest — that ought to be — of the State), all of
them gentlemen and men of honour by public profession.
Some of these gentlemen have been known to frequent
this place. Others upon the bench, in the face of the
whole metropolis looking on and knowing the facts, and in
discharge of their solemn duty as justices, under a truer,
higher, more sacred obligation even than if they had been
put into a witness box and duly sworn on the Testament
of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, have declared that
they had visited this place and there never saw anything
wrong. Therefore, I cannot be wrong to describe it —
only dimly, good lady ! and with a veil around it.
And so they have licensed it — to snare, seduce, ruin, and
damn the bodies and souls of young men and women for
six nights a week — Sundays being oddly excepted.
The clergy, backed by all decent people, have sought in
vain to clean out this foul nest of vice. It is too popular ;
it is under too lofty patronage; it is managed with dev-
ilish cunning; and the profits are so enormous that any
sum can be alForded which is necessary to establish its
irreproachable respectability.
Outside wait long trains^ of hackney coaches, carriages,
LICENSED LICENSE.
117
broughams with servants in livery, some of them boys un-
schooled except in horsemanship and vice ; inside, the se-
ductive strains of music, the whirling dance, the brilliancy
of gold and shining mirror and blazing gas, and the sen-
sual enchantments of mercenary beauty tricked out in bor-
rowed plumes, or in the glittering spoil of wild nobility
and oi parvenu wealth, are supplemented by the winning
presentment of exciting drink.
Persnasit nox^ amor, vinum, adolescentia ! Most virtu-
ously displayed vice ! Men and women who never saw
each othei' before are dancing promiscuously. See those
bright-eyed, pink-fleshed women, clad in rich furs and vel-
vet robes, and sparkling with costly jewels, pamding, arm-
in-arm — a long Circean chain ; while a mixed mob of men
and women, peers, clerks, members of Parliam&nt, lawyei-s,
authors, doctors, tradesmen, touts, travellers, blacklegfi,
and clergymen, ay, and certain respectable persons, with
their wives, so sworn and declared before the justices,
stand by and scan, and canvass this bazaar of human ilesh.
Each painted face and voluptuous fonn caskets dead vir-
tue, and challenges the competition of vice.
To this legitimate, because law-licensed, place, the be-
nevolent Perkins took her pretty viciim. The girl was
dazzled with the lights, enchanted with the spectacle, for-
got her sorrow in the brilliant scene, revived her spirit
with Circean draughts ; and there, fair, pure women of
England, we leave her — to the care of your fathers, broth-
ers, and «ODS.
'f
118
THB devil's CHAIK.
VI.— A Vision of Death.
Could we get behind the veil that separates the Seen
from the Unseen, we might find that to the Hidden Pow-
ers these terrible pageants and dramas of life, whereof we
are spectators, are things of awful consequence. I have
fancied that in a vision I could see the evil that over-
shadows the land embodied and personated I A Demon
Spirit, colossal — a monster truly to make the whole world
tremble !
Come and look, O man of pleasure, high-born or base,
refined or gross, — come, tarnished women, and you sweet
younglings, tempted by siren looks and voices, or drawn
by fatal longings, toward brimming sparkle of foam-topped
elixir, — or you, tried and troubled ones, who bear the sor-
rows ani carry the labours of humanity, who are wont to
seek in cordial draughts brief solace of grief and strength
for daily toil — or, you dreamers and men of thought draw-
ing no Heliconian draughts from these fatal springs, —
come here, I say, and watch him at his deadly work I
Truly a mighty, dread, portentous Demon !
Aloft upon his huge distended trunk behold the feat-
ures, not of a smooth and laughing Bacchus, as poet and
artist love to figure him, but of a brute foul and fierce,
presenting withal the features of a man. See the bloated,
red, and pimpled face, the purpled cheeks, the huge swelled
lips which, opening, show the cankered teeth and feverish
foulness of his unhealthy mouth : matted in rough locks
over the slanting forehead, red flaming hair, crowned, in
nookery, with wreaths that have withered at the touch
▲ VISION OP DEATH.
119
of his burning brow. See the bloodshot eyes, small and
cunning, rolling with cruel ecstasy as he urges fast and
furiously his fearful task. Cross-kneed he sits, malignant
as Siva! his prodigious trunk swathed in a motley robe,
the patchwork spoil of many victims.
His apparel is red with the blood of murder and crime,
of rage and cruelty, of madness and sin. O look here,
Christian and civilized Britons ! look upon these garments,
red and gory, and tell me what the frightful motley means?
Tunic and cloak of every fashion, velvet and ermine of king
or emperor, livery of menial, rags of beggar, hasuble of
priest, Genevan gown, satin and silk of noble dame, thin
torn skirt of shivering milliner, gaudy petticoat of dancing
columbine, peasant's corduroy and foppish coat of city
clerk, the navvy's shirt and soldier's uniform — ay ! and if
ye look well, ye may discern a judge's gown, and not far
otf a gore-stained patch, the very dress wherein the crim-
inal he condemned to death had done his sinful deed.
Mark ye this great garment well, for it is in itself a veri-
table calendar of Death ! Where hath he not gathered ?
What hath he not won of life, of health, of power or feeble-
ness, of fame or shame ? What is there of all the varie-
ties of life unrepresented here? It is the register of his
labours, and each mark presents the fate of a human soul !
Behold him — his gaunt arms sweeping into the abyss of
his la]3 multitudes of trembling creatures, the materials of
his work, for he is fashioning a chain. Draw nigh and ex-
amine it — long, living, endless it interweaves and enthrals
society with a warp of death woven from out itself. His
quick fingers — for the work is urgent and goes on night
120
THE devil's chain.
and day — string together the writhing forms, and as coil
upon coil rolls out, you may see again how vast is the
scope of his labours ! Ay ! no rank is free, no family
circle, no happy range of friendship ! From his high seat
the Demon scans the field, and, as his fingers swiftly ply,
follows with greedy eyes the labours of his attendant
imps. For below him, you may see them gathering in
that strange spoil. In spired and pillared city, in smoky
manufacturing town, in valleys resounding with the hum
and clang of labour — labour, blessed of God, cursed of this
potent fiend! — 'neath peaceful eaves of pastoral homes,
amid pretty woodbined hamlets, see those busy workers
garnering in the Demon's prey. Oh ! how much falls to
their snares, of the best of the life and hope and promise
of a goodly land ! What ministers ! Widespread as so-
ciety, active as angels of grace, pernicious as Hell I
And as they scour the world in reckless energy, for his
rewards are right generous and rich, he, the Drink Demon,
sweeps into his lap their shrinking spoil, and twists the
living victims one by one into a great chain of life and
death. And all the while he roars and calls for chorus
thus : —
SONG.
Demon. — Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! Away ye go !
Chorus. — Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! Away we go !
Demon. — Scour the homes and haunts of men,
Thronged city and dotted plain,
Over the mountain, down the glen,
Scour the land and scour the main,
And gather links for the Devil's Chain.
A VISION OP death;
CflOBU8.— Drink, drink !
Drain, drain !
Another link
For the Devil's Chain !
Dbmon. — For the Devil a wondrous chain shall wear,
Of twisted bodies strong and fair,
Arm to leg and leg to arm,
Linked together quick and warm.
Of bad and good, of high and low :
A chain for his Majesty down below :
Long, unending.
Ever descending
Out of the light
Into the night! .
Chorus.— Drink, drink ! . -
Drain, drain !
Another link
For the Devil's Chain !
121
Demon.— Ho for the boroughs ! ho for the fields !
Under the hedges, across the wealds.
To the shepherd wandering over the down,
To the toiling crowds of the factory town :
Here in the grimy thronging street.
There in the student's lone retreat;
Gather the master, gather the man,
Gather them all as fast as you can.
To be linked together quick and warm,
Arm *o leg and leg to arm ;
Chorus.- Drink, drink ! •
Drain, drain!
Another link
For the Devil's Chain.
Demon. — King and courtier, priest and nun,
Daughter, father, mother, son,
6
122
THE devil's chain.
Doctor, patient, judge and crier,
Farmer, yokel, lord and squire,—
Weave them all in the Devil's Chain,
For ever and ever tight in the strain I
Chorus.— Drink, drink !
Drain, drain !
Another link
For the Devil's Chain.
Dbmon.— .uabour and sorrow, trust and truth.
Vigour and weakness, age and youth.
Beauty and ugliness, wealth and worth,
All the best and worst of earth.
Poison it, ruin it, kill it with drink,
And bring it to me for another link.
Chorus.— Drink, drink !
Drain, drain !
• Another link
For the Devil's Chain !
Demon.— Jolly eve, ghastly morrow.
Sorrows drowned to bring new sorrow,
Bars thronged— prisons crammed,
Racy chorus— shriek of damned.
Chorus.— O drink, drink !
Drain, drain !
Another link
lor the Devil's Chaia.
i Sli-
I II':
4
A WANDEBING HEIB.
123
i| LINK THE EIGHTH,
POVERTY, CRIME, DESPAIR.
I.— A Wandering Heir.
There was mourning in the house of Bighorne. Ten
days had passed since the departure of the son and heir,
and not a word had been ^eard of him. He had with him
very little baggage. A note was left for his father. This
was merely to inform him that tbe writer had engaged to
go down to Norfolk with Captain Conistoun for a week's
hunting, the latter having promised lo find the horses.
Mr. Bighorne accepted the explanation, and troubled
himself no further. Emily was the only one who felt un-
easy, and she kept her anxiety to herself. She could not
help hazarding guesses in her own mind at the reasons of
Henry's odd conduct, but she did not impart her fancies
to either of her parents. At the end of a week, however,
driving down Piccadilly, her quick eye detected Captain
Conistoun, who executed a rather obvious retiring move-
ment down St. James's Passage with too great celerity to
, be caught by the servant. She became thoroughly alarm-
ed. Mr. Bighorne, on hearing that the Captain was in
town without Henry, also grew anxious. He looked the
Captain up, and at the end of a couple of hours' search,
bein^ a determined man, found him at an obscure and
n
124
THE devil's chain.
^M
dubious club. Then he learned, after a good deal of fen-
cing, that Henry had asked his friend to keep out of the
way for a week, as he had private business in the coun-
try, and desired to use Couistoun's name to explain his
absence.
The poor Captain was obliged to get into a cab and ac-
company the father home, where he got it severely all
round for lending himself to this deception, Miss Emily
putting it to him in a cruelly sharp way.
" He is so greatly indebted to you. Captain Conistoun,
and knows you so intimately, that perhaps it is no wonder
he should have asked you to help him like this! You
know I felt so satisfied when I knew he was with you, be-
cause, of course, one was certain there could be nothing
worse than usual," etc.
The Captain afterwards said he would rather have been
in the Balaclava charge than go through that ordeal. He
was now as alarmed as the family themselves, and for
the first time won Emily's approval by the activity and
shrewdness which he put forth for the occasion. Mr. Big-
horne could do nothing. He was almost paralyzed with
apprehension.
Emily forthwith took charge of the arrangements. She
determined to keep the matter perfectly quiet, but to en-
gage a couple of detectives. An advertisement, the draw-
ing up of which occupied the Captain two hours, in a cun-
ning endeavour to reach the proper person without giving
anyone else a clue, was so grotesque that Emily laughed
at it in spite of the gravity of the subject : —
" To CoENu GRANDE. — Retum to your native Geneva,
»
A WANDERING HBIB.
125
#
d la crhne. Most auxious to see you again. Your sister
Emily."
It was a supreme effort of the Captain's military genius,
and he felt sure its ingenuity would baffle the strongest
intellect among Henry Bighorne's numerous frient al-
though he had given them at least three clues. Emily,
however, discarded it, and simply wrote —
" Henry. — Return to your sister."
Her heart told her that if anything would bring him
back, that would.
The detectives, who were put upon the scent during the
next few days, began to get up Master Henry's history for
a month or two before his disappearance. This was an
annoyance to Captain Conistoun, since the threads of that
history were continually crossing and re-crossing his re-
cent paths, and sometimes in very awkward conjunctions.
As everyone, however, who really knew anything impor-
tant, was interested in keeping it quiet, the tenth day had
come and the police confessed that they had not even an
idea how this young gentleman got out of London.
Conistoun meanwhile had gone to Norfolk. It was the
blind looking after the blind, and quite a forlorn hope, but
Emily had a faint suspicion that Henry had mentioned his
real destination.
The Captain shall tell his own story.
* «
126
THE devil's chain.
i !i
II.— The Captain's Story.
"Aw! my deah Miss Bighawne, heah I am again 1 as
they say in the pantomime — I — I beg your pardon ! Yaas
— I weraembah — you've abjewawed the theatre — and I
must say, Miss Bighawne, you are quite wight — the ballet^
you know. Eh ? — deuced objectionable. Eh ? What
does * deuced ' mean f I — I beg pardon. Bad habit ? I
know it is. So sawry ?
" Well, Miss Bighawne, in accawdance with yeaw in-
structions I poasted down to Nawfolk, — always liked
Kawfolk, most chawraing county, — and dwopped in casu-
ally, you know — you wemembah the * ameteua casual ?' —
on the Bwown-Wobinson's, yeaw fwiends — deuced pretty
girl Miss Anastasia Bwown-Wobinson, ain't she ? — Ah !
yaas, yaas, yeaw the only woman I know who does justice
to her fwiends — ah — vewy generous, eh ! Nevaw let on
you know about pooah Henry — they asked faw him — so
you see I found out quietly he had not been theaw, though
shouldn't have been surpwised at his visiting that chawm-
ing Miss Anastasia, you know. Eh ! Well, no — she ain't
my style exactly, but stwiking you know.
"Aftah visiting the Pwettidales, Mercers, and Bat-
combes, you know gave it up in respectable quartas — and
went in for the *cads.' Eh? What does that mean?
My deaw Miss Bighawne, you aw so ingenuous, so to
speak. * Cads' mean the Iowa awdors — hoi polloi, you
know — know Greek? Ah! enough to understand that?
Ha, ha ! vewy good ! Exactly.
"Communicated immediately with police. Awfully
THE captain's STORY.
127
stupid cweetiaws countwy bobbies, you know. Led me
a deuce of a chase aftah a fellow — turned out to be solic-
itor's clerk, John Cway, wunning off from his master —
fwaud, embezzlement — five pounds, you know. Poah
devil — beg pardon! But that ain't swearing though.
Eh?
" Searched the whole country — didn't see a whisk of
his tail. Eh? I hope you understand, though didn't
mean to say Bighawne was a fox. Went evewy wheah
— into awfully queah places, you know! Saw vewy
stwange things — can't tell you all. Public -house at
Buwy, Saturday night, ' f wee - and - easy.' Evewybody
dwunk — women — two bull tewwias fighting — ownas fell
out and got a-fighting too — fought like dogs themselves
— bit and scwatched each other, wolled about woom —
people all lookin' on — women clappin' their hands and
sweawin' tewibly — police sent in — deuce's own wow.
Beg pardon ! you look pale ; best stop. Eh ? iVb — well,
went to common lodgin'-house, you know — Nawich. Seen
them at Westminster? The dickens you have? Aw, well,
saw woman drunk in bed, wolled over, you know, on her
baby — police took her off — child quite dead — suffocated
by its own mother, you know. Awfully shocking, eh?
Heard afterwards woman woke up and went mad about it.
Made me quite unwell, you know. Eh ? Oh ! Nothing
— do anything for you. Mean to take the pledge if this
sawt o' thing goes on much longer."
itt i
128
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
iti
i
U ;■
I'i ,•'8
R -i
III.— Searching.
The anxiety of the Bighornes had increased as the
months went by, and no hint of Henry's fate had come to
them. The elders thoroughly collapsed, and Mrs. Big-
horne was sadly n'M'sing her husband at their country
place in Hampshire. Emily, whose sorrow was deepest,
alone preserved her balance. She remained in London,
energetically originating and pursuing plans of discovery.
She drove back into her heart the fear that her brother
had taken away his own life, and worked on hopefully,
now with the police, now with the family solicitors, and
now with friends like Captain Conistoun or Mr. Holiwell.
Slie had a dread suspicion of the cause of Henry's flight,
but kept it strictly within her own thoughts.
Captain Conistoun was indefatigable. All that Henry
had told him was simply that * there was a woman in the
matter,' news which the Captain philosophically stated
was a *matta of cawse.' But he had become a very
changed man. In his frequent interviews with Miss Big-
horne, his admiration for her lucid intellect and cool de-
cision of character was proportionate to the consciousness
of his own lack of those qualities. He dropped out of sev-
eral of the worst cliques in London, and became an exem-
plary attendant at St. Thomas's, where he could eee Emily
worshipping, and himself worship her.
He told a fellow-guardsman in the confidence of an
evening punch : —
"Ton my soul, Brady — you know — I'm afwaid she'll
SEARCHING.
129
make a weligions man of me. I nevaw saw goodness so
beautiful."
The idea of the police that Henry Bighorne had never
left London constantly pressed on Emily's mind. From
West to East end, by her urgent directions, detectives and
friends had souj^ht him in the obscurest haunts without
success. Her connection with the mission in Westminster
enabled her to assure herself that he was not there. But
she was haunted with the fear that in other places other
.eyes might overlook him. She felt certain that no disguise
could hide him from her. So this young lady resolved that
it was her duty to seek him through London for herself
Strong and adventurous men set out from England, to
court danger in all parts of the globe. In the ranks of
the rude Herzegovinese, fighting for deliverance from the
vulture rapacity and inhuman tyranny of the Moslem in
Europe ; among fierce Albanians, bloody Basil i-Bazouks,
the semi -barbarous hordes of Russia pushing eastward
in fatal and resistless conquest ; in perilous pilgrimage to
Mecca; in the heart of Central Africa, among slave-deal-
ers and jealous savages; in China, or Perak, or the Anda-
man Islands, or the Northern Provinces of India, with the
Dyaks of Borneo, or among the cannibals of Polynesia —
justly resentful of the undesired benevolence of a forcible
hiring to labour in the sugar-fields of Queensland for civ-
ilization and Christianity ; in South American republics,
with volcanoes bursting up alternately from the earth and
from society ; or, in the mines of California, British Co-
lumbia, or South Africa; and they return alive to tell
the tale of all they have dared and done.
130
THE Devil's chain.
Yet, if clanger be all that is sought, and a demonstration
of a resourceful bravery be aimed at, might not a Baker,
or a Burton, or a Speke, or a Livingstone, or a Butler, or a
Stanley, setting out alone to explore the regions of London
savagery, encounter risks as great as any to be withstood
in perilous journey by land and sea? And let all quiet,
respectable, and comfortable people be mindful, that to the
innate or cultivated rascality, the degraded ferocity of
classes of the population to whose existence they deliber-
ately shut their eyes, there is ever added the licensed dan-
ger of a supply always ready to hand of that which can
add tenfold intensity to cruelty and tenfold wantonness to
crime. I, for my part, cannot look upon the continuous
flare of public-houses in Whitechapel, or Westminster, or
Marylebone, without shuddering to think that in the event
of a popular outbreak, the Legislature and the magistrates
between them have laid to the people's hands, in criminal
profusion, the inspiring elements of the most horrible dis-
asters. Against this dire possibility we have set up a sys-
tem of police, and about this I crave leave to say a word
or two.
IV.— A New Order.
I HOLD that the office of the Policeman is^ or ought
to be, an honourable office. It is an office that should
properly be esteemed by society ab e that of a soldier.
A friend of mine has told me of a little girl who calls
the man we irreverently term * bobby ' — the Peaceman.
( ii
A NEW ORDER.
131
Herein is a happy and even noble allegory, bright with
sensible suggestion. Why should not an able IToiue Sec-
retary sit down for a day, or mayhap a week, and work it
out into practical shape ?
The Policeman, or Peaceman, should have much the
same qualifications as certain officers in the Church : he
should be the husband of one wife, vigilant, sober, modest,
not ready to quarrel and oflTer wrong as one in wine, not
double-tongued, not given to much wine, not greedy of
filthy lucre — let him be taught to feel the true honoura-
bleness of his office, and even to magnify it.
I say he is greater than a soldier, is your true Police-
man. The powers with whom i^o contends are not only
of this world. If he be a sterling man, and a good Peace-
man, he will apprehend that he also is one of the mission-
aries of society. For him there is not alone catching and
making ready for hanging, or other method of security,
but work akin to that of the clergyman, the doctor, the
brother or sister of charity.
In the police force now embodied, there are some who
feel after this ideal, dimly though honestly. But they are
few. The other day in Whitechapel I came across a fine-
looking man keeping a public-house, where common sailors
and low women congregated, who had been a detective
officer. This is not the stuff whereof a Peaceman should
be made. Is it not something worth while to be the man
who stands up between society and anarchy — waving the
censer of authority — as Aaron and his fellows stood and
waved their censers between Israel and destruction ? To
do their work in a manly, brave, yet gentle way — as the
132
THE DEVIL'S CHAIN.
chevalier of justice should — is now accomplished by the
higher officers of our home forces, but by the Peaceman
proper, only rarely. Our system creates machines of in-
exorable law, or, too frequently, hypocritical teraporisers
with crime.
Mr. A. J. Duffield, who will no doubt be thought a luna-
tic, has sugg'^sted that the policeman should be elevated.
He has proposed that briefless barristers, * stickit minis-
ters,* and young gentlemen generally, with more bone and
sinew than they can properly utilise in the genteel pro-
fessions, should here find a work not unworthy of their
power. I& not this a good suggestion ? Have we yet re-
alised what might be done in the way of improving this
ficreat domestic service ?
Why should we not have a noble order of the Peace-
men ? At present we show our estimate of the police-
man's office by taking up shillings to reward his bravery,
or granting him £2 out of the poor-box for a broken head
and ruined constitution. The proper recognition of the
policeman's services should come from the State, and the
head of the State and fountain of honour is Royalty. In-
stitute, therefore, for th- police force an Order of Merit.
Recognize its true status. Raise its character. Attract
to it honesty, ability, and even ambition. Make way^ I
say, for the Most Noble Order of the Peacemen !
One word more. The safety of society is committed to
the care of this order. Should it not also be an order of
sobriety? Every Peaceman should be a total abstainer,
whatever license we may give to other services. Make
our new Order models of virtue, bravery, and self restraint.
SHADOWS OP DEATH.
133
v.— Shadows of Death.
Ladies and gentlemen who shop and lounge in the
splendid streets that display the wealth and luxury of the
Metropolis, rarely think that they are walking and driv-
ing on the shores of a desolation, often as extreme and
melancholy as that of any disaster- ridden sea — or, to
change the figure, they are skirting wildernesses of hu-
man destiny, which, like the mangrove-swamps of West-
ern Africa, hide lurking-places of the foulest malaria and
most perilous savagery. And there, amongst those dim
recesses of life, men ply a trade which exaggerates disease,
and adds vigour to the powers of evil. Dainty ladies, con-
ceive what it was for Miss Emily Bighorne, under the
chivalrous impulse of her nature, to seek her brother in
and out among those shadows of death !
Through city slums, in alleys of Soho or Bloomsbury,
in the squalid streets of Whitechapel or Southwark, to see
this fair and noble girl pick her way, was a spectacle not
without significance. It brought into contrast the terrific
distance, moral and material, between the limited wealthy
class and the hordes of labour, misery, and crime.
The Drury Lane Music-hall with its several bars, its pit
filled with small tradesmen and their wives, and fast clerks
and porters with their * girls;' its galleries crowded with
motley crews of doubtful men and women, its upper gal-
lery crammed with boys — the gamins of London, viewing
on the stage the pleasures of vice — the apotheosis of crime
— was only a few degrees down below the more elegant
and glittering saloons of a higher society. There young
134
THE devil's chain.
ii i:
,. i
rascaldom learned how to drink and swear with the worst.
There Emily saw children, not as high as the bar, taking
hot gin-and-water as if it were milk, and staggering off to
heaven-knows-what attempts to emulate the wickedness
of their elders.
Searching a court out of Gray's Inn Lane one night
when the *01d Arm-Chair' public-house had emptied its
last frequenters into the street, she had tliere seen her con-
ductor, a policeman, penetrate a crowd of drunken wretch-
es, stretching their necks to see a man who, in drunken
fury, had caught the hair of his wife, also drunk, and
twisting it round his hand, was hauling at the shrieking
victim with his knee upon her chest.
It was when the public-houses were about turning out
in Whitechapel that Emily took her way thither with the
inspector and his sergeant to canvass the reeking lodging-
houses in search of the wanderer. An early visit to the
places in Flower-and-Dean-Street and thereabouts, where
sometimes as many as three hundred beds are occupied
of a night at threepence or fourpence apiece, opens up to
the thoughtful mind a vista of sorrows so long, so various,
and so horrible, that one might well shrink from encount-
ering the intense awfulness of the spectacle at an hour
when half a hundred neighbouring gin-shops are disgor-
ging their throngs of drunken customers. It is there that
you may learn that however bad human nature may be,
there is sorr:ething you can administer to it and make it
worse, and that there is nothing so devilish but what
drink will add to its deviltry.
Stransfe and dismal outcome of civilization I To enter
SHADOWS OP DEATH.
135
the thronged kitchen of these caravansaries of crime and
beggary, and look round eagerly for the beloved face, was
to Emily Bighorne to learn a harrowing lesson in human-
ity. A mixed crowd — thieves, tramps, beggars. Here,
perhaps, a Scotchman on crutches, arguing even on that
weak basis, with an inspirited Irishman ; there a group of
youngish pale fellows, whose hands showed they did no
honest toil, but preyed with light fingers on the watches
of mankind ; their glances furtive, their faces sometimes
marked with scars or bruises of night affrays, or tied up
in bloody kerchiefs. Here, again, a weary traveller, with
a great shock of rough hair, in a suit of shabby velveteen,
who had dropped off asleep with his hat and bundle by
his side. And again a gentleman's gentleman, evidently
under the weather, with a black suit, very seedy, and his
tall hat brushed into a bright polish, sitting apart in dis-
^ consolate incongruity with the rough elements around
liim. Slovenly mothers with dirty children — girls M'ith
coarse repulsive features; some with black eyes, the tell-
tales of the dangerous life they led ; and here and there
the scrofulous infant, whose appearance made the observ-
er shudder to think what a hopeless thing was life for it
from cradle to ffrave. You could not have collected two
pounds among the hundred, and yet there was hardly one
that had not left a toll that night at the public-house.
Profits of theft, proceeds of pawn or sale of the last pass-
able garment, day's begging, or casual wage, all gone
down into the till of the publican to leave these people as
they were — nay worse, and with less of hope !
Thus he, the Puhlican, emissary of the brewer and dis-
136
THE DEVIL 8 CHAIN.
1 '
tiller, works at both ends; to bring down the high, to con-
firm and deepen the degradation of the low.
Here is his shop, divided into compartments for bar, re-
tail and refreshment. Two or three rows of ivory-handled
pumps, their brass bright and shining ; dinted pewters and
polished glasses ranged along the metal shelves. Some-
times a row of great pipes of spirits, tapped to pour their
liery water into the cans which supply the model barrels
of glass on the shelf behind the bar; and hundreds of bot-
tles of every shape and every hue of bright contents ar-
ranged in dazzling ranks wherever a standing place can
be found. Flaring gas, bright mirror, foaming pewter,
smoking glass, quick barmaids, drawing, drawing, drawing
from the endless store, and dropping, dropping, dropping
with a merry chink, the hopes and healths of many a cus-
tomer into their tills. There is little difference truly be-
tween the splendid bars of the West end and their kindred
institutions in Whitechapel or Southwark. They are all
equally designed to allure and stimulate the feverish thirst.
The pale and weary girls who, at the humbler places, serve
out to ragged poverty and crime or robust labour their
lush and stingo, are no worse than the frnmped-up beauties
who, as they exchange free jokes or affected compliments
■with lounging clerks, or dandy blacklegs, or fast young
parvenus, keep them alive with flips and tonics.
One night Emily, disguised in a coarse woollen dress
and a staid bonnet with a thick veil, entered, in the course
of her trying round, one of the houses in Ratcliffe High-
way which had a license for liquor, music, and dancing.
The bar below was filled with sailors of every nationality,
SHADOWS OP DEATH.
137
engaged in drinking, in polyglot blasphemy, and coarse
courtship. Lascar, Swede, Russian, Dane, Dutchman, Ital-
ian, mingled with the sons of the three kingdoms. Here
possibly Henry might have found his way to endeavour
to get a berth in some obscure vessel. Through the cram-
med bar a lane was forthwith made, at the call of the stout
landlady, as soon as the inspector's face was seen ; while
the publican — a powerful man, who had been a detective
in his day — turned with ludicrous solemnity to remon-
strate with a tipsy woman for using improper language —
a remonstrance she treated with derisive levity.
Up a few steps and through a door, they passed into a
room resounding with odd orchestral music, a lofty room
with a ventilating skylight. The walls were decorated
with paper in gaudy panels, in the middle of which were
depicted highly-coloured Terpsichoreau beauties, display-
ing their charms with Grecian naivete but un-Grecian
grace. By the door was the semicircular bar, where three
women were kept busy in drawing and mixing the liquors.
Over the bar the orchestra urged its doleful jollity of
sound. On one side of the room were narrow tables and
seats, just then crowded with men — chiefly sailors — and
women all of one class. The rest of the large space was
devoted to dancing: a strange amusement of half-drunken
coarseness and folly. Women sailed to and fro to the bar
to fetch liquor to their companions, or to buy it for them-
selves; and then they could be seen going the rounds with
their own hot toddy, exchanging a sip of it indiscriminate-
ly with any one who would give them a pull at pewter or
glass. It was plain enough in flushing face and glancing
138
THE devil's chain.
eye how this horrible mixture was working. Emily tuni-
ed quickly away to scan the faces of the men, but Henry
was not there.
Just as she was leaving, her eye caught sight of a girl,
quite young, whose face looked fresher and prettier than
any of the rest, and whose dress was neater in fit and ap-
pearance. She had just raised to her lips a glass of punch,
which she drained, and then rushed into the dance with
feverish animation.
" Do you know who that poor girl is ?" said Emily to
her conductor.
" O yes, miss ! It's the saddest case I know of. She
hasn't been long at the East end, and she won't stay here
long with that face and figure. She is a girl called Lucy
Merton. A young lawyer's clerk, named Cray, brought
her down here. He had run away from his employers,
solicitors in Bedford Row, with some papers and a few
pounds of money. That girl was with him. They had to
knock about in low places to keep out of sight. When
we caught him they were well-nigh starving, and after we
took him away there was not much left to her to do but
what she's doing. We don't know where she comes from,
but I should say she was out of a West-end shop. I've
tried hard to get her to tell me, but it ain't no use. She's
going through a sort of stage now — just running on as
you see, trying to drown all and forget like. We see such
cases sometimes, though not often. If they wouldn't take
to drinking they might come round again. Your friend
ain't here, miss ? Then we'd best go."
Emily's heart was bleeding.
SHADOWS OF DEATH.
139
" Stay," she said. " She is not dancing now. Will you
ask her to come here ?"
The girl came forward at the policeman's summons ;
how different from the britjlit, lisrht-hearted maiden that
tripped along St. Martin's Lane a few months since ! The
cheeks were still comely, but flushed with the heat of
wine. There was sadness in the blue eyes which were
growing so hard and saucy, and in the dark rings beneath
them were the written evidences of ill-health of body and
soul. Emily raised her veil. At the sight of the beauti-
ful pale features and the sweet eyes regarding her so sad-
ly, the poor girl shrank back. But Emily took her hand.
" Let me go !" cried Lucy Merton thickly, for 'twas late
and the drink was telling on her.
" No," replied Emily firmly. " Come with me."
The superior spirit conquered, and Lucy Merton suffer-
ed herself to be led through the crowd at the bar till they
got out into the street ; then she tried to break away, but
the policeman held her.
" Let me go !" she said, crying with terror and vexation,
" I've done nothing to you."
"True," said Emily. "But, my poor sister, can I do
nothing for you ?"
" Sister !" she said with a shower of tears. " Don't mock
me, miss ! I don't know what you do here. You are a
lady. Go away and let me alone. You are cruel; you
are bringing back all my sorrow !"
" Yes, I repeat it, * Sister !' Do you not know of One
who called a sinner 'daughter?' I, who know my own
sinfulness, cannot shrink from owning an erring sister.
140
THE devil's chain.
My dear girl, can I not save you from your sorrow, or, at
least, allay it ? There is always Lope."
" No, no ! You need not tell me that. I never sought
to be as I am. It came to me. I was innocent. I know
not why it came. I curse God every day I live for it;
and now I'll live it out."
When a fine nature wakes to the fact that it has been
outwitted by some devilish subterfuge, and has lost for
ever the virtue whereon it prided itself, it rarely stops to
consider circumstances and estimate exact responsibilities.
The reaction from trust and hope is often madly extreme.
And the fact which in our social existence comes most
cruelly home to a woman wronged, as was Lucy Merton,
is that there is written by English opinion over the door
of society the notice to such as she — Nulla retrorsiim.
Miss Bighorne again took the girl's hand, but she broke
away, and hastily drying her eyes, ran back into the
room. Spite of the inspector's remonstrance Emily push-
ed through in pursuit, but arrived only in time to see the
object of her care toss off a glass of wine and resume the
dance.
"Ah !" said the inspector sententiously, as they went
away, " if it wasn't for the drink, that girl might be saved.
Now she's taken to drowning out her sorrow that way, it
ain't a bit of use, miss — you take my word for it"
FATAL SYLLOGISM 1
141
LINK THE NINTH,
HOPE, HONOUR, LIFE.
I.— O Fatal Syllogism !
Slow and weary passed the weeks at the humble
hospice of the Burslem curate. Critical danger and trem-
bling suspense ; the unconscious wanderer watched with
all the earnestness of a humanity which was possessed
with the noblest spirit of brotherhood. A strange, long
struggle of a feeble vitality and diseased brain with the
power that may put out the lamps of life and thought.
Often the good doctor sat by and feared that the spirit
would slip away like a shadow, and escape his saving
hand. And the poor curate, overworked by day in a
ceaseless warfare with the diligent sorrows of men, sat
through the hours of night waiting on this unknown
stranger, and listening for any word that might give him
a thread to trace his identity. Now and then came hints
of evil life that made the good man quail; now a coupling
of the name of * father' with saddening epithets of scorn
and anger, or of * mother ' with gentle endearments. Oft-
en the sick man called for * Emily' with fond exclama-
tions and wprds of regret. Yet he never dropped a sur-
name.
, i
i
142
THE devil's chain.
But one night, just after twelve o'clock, the sick man's
incolierent mutterings suddenly stopped. The curate, sit-
ting drowsily at the table, with a shaded candle, nodding
over the paper intended for Sunday morning's sermon,
while the fire slumbered in the grate, heard a clear voice :
"Emily!"
lie started up, and bringing forward the light, saw that
a great change had come over the young man. The chis-
elled face lay upwards, no longer distorted with pain or
the fury of delirium, but tranquil. It was like a marble
face, and the marble was weeping.
" Did you call ?" said Mr. Wood.
" Where's Emily ? Where am I ?"
" In good hands, my friend ; in good hands, thank God.
Emily is not here at present."
" Not here V" said the sick man, turning his eyes towards
the speaker, and searching the gentle, open face. " Does
she know I'm ill? I have been awake for an hour, and I
feel very weak and ill. How long have I been here ?"
" For some time," said the curate.
" And is she not within call ?"
"No."
" Then I shall never see her again ?" said the youth.
He turned away languidly and painfully, to hide his tears.
" By God's grace you will, my friend. You are getting
better now."
" No," replied the sick man. " I woke up, and felt at
once it was to die. How came I here ?"
" I found you in my outhouse. You had sought shelter
there one stormy night."
O FATAL syllogism!
143
" Oh I I remember," replied the patient, with a shudder,
—"BillKnowsley."
*' Bill Kuowsley, young man !" cried the curate, startled
out of his wariness for the moment. " Why, only this
very day have I read of that man's execution, for the mur-
der of his wife and children ! I trust you had nought to
do with it?"
" Nothing, thank God," replied the other. " I have sins
enough to answer for without that. I was hiding at his
house for special reasons, and I fear the money I gave him
bad something to do with his crime. But you say he is
executed. How long is that ago — how long have I been
here ?"
" Many weeks. Do not overtax yourself now. I am a
clergyman. Not knowing what may happen, though I
hope the best, I ask you, before God, to tell me who you
are, and how you came here."
"Then you have not found out who I am, and Emily
knows nothing?" said the other in a sad whisper. And
he re- took to weeping. The clergyman waited. Then
he began to repeat softly one or two of the Collects, and
the words seemed to steal like soothing music into the
sick man's heart. -
"Thank you," he said; "I am very grateful. Those
words revive sweet memories — but it is too late now.
The few minutes I have to live, I must spend in thanking
you for your goodness, and in making a statement of the
circumstances that have brought me here. Have you a
pen and ink?"
The curate gave him a few spoonfuls of nourishment,
144
TUE devil's chain.
but he read in the youth's face that his premonition was
too correct, and hastened to the writing materials.
"Take down that my name is Henry Willesden Big-
horne, son of Mr. Richard Bighorne, member of Parliament
— the great distil' Twenty-two years of age, of Balliol
College, Oxford— .in which University my own father
removed me to the distillery, and to the life which is end-
ing in this.... but I do not blame him. .. .please take
that down. Tell him, that dying, I said I nourished no an-
gry or unfilial thought, and took all the fault upon myself.
He never was so weak as I have been. My sister, Emily
— you cannot tell what a dear lovely girl she is ! — what a
blessing it will be to you to get her thanks for your kind-
ness ! — tell her, too, that hers was the only name I could
think about when T was dying
"I have no tir or confessions: I feel myself growing
weaker every m.. d. Write rapidly. Say that on the
— of February last, I went to No. — St. Martin's Lane,
London, to call upon a person there, named Helena Bell-
house. — Do not be shocked. Sad as her life was, she was
a born lady, and a wonderfully clever and engaging wom-
an, quite of an unusual character, and though under a
dreadful cloud, strangely ambitious to preserve some self-
respect and be the best she could be. God knows how
little that was, for she was a hard drinker at times. It
does not matter how I became acquainted with her. She
was twice my age, but I took a kindly interest in her, and
especially because she had told me of a beautiful child she
had in the country who was born in lawful wedlock, and
whom she was protecting from a bad husband. She nev-
O FATAL SYLLOGISM I
145
er mentioned liis name. I helped her as much as I could
to carry out her plans, and latterly used to fetch the let-
ters that came for her from the child or her guardians.
She never told me, however, who she really was. I should
say I had a most intimate friend. Captain Conistoun, son
of Lord Newmarket, to whom, poor fellow, I owe a terri-
ble debt for initialing me into the mysteries of life. I
also knew a gentleman of high position and loose morali-
ty, well known in London society. lie is a Secretary of
State. He was a strange man, and had taken a fancy to
this woman because she was so clever and ladylike.
" Well, sir, on that day of February, I went in the aft-
ernoon, just about dusk, to call on Mrs. Bellhouse, as she
called herself. I had been to Netting Hill to get a letter
she expected from her daughter. When I entered her
room, Mr. Delamarre was there — a cloak and hat in which
he used to disguise himself lay on the sofa. Wine and
spirits were on the table — they had both been drinking.
She was excited. He seemed troubled and vexed.
"'Bighorne,' he said immediately,*! have made an as-
tounding discovery. Let me present to you Mrs. Hurling-
ham, the sister of your friend and mine, Captain Conis-
toun.'
" I staggered and sat down. * Good heavens !' I said,
* Helen, is this true T
" * Yes !' she replied, * it is true.'
" I cannot describe to you, sir, the horror with which
we three people looked at c^ch other — it seemed as if
some evil spirit had dropped down and with a wave of
his wand set us all aghast with mutual repulsion. To
7
'Ill
146
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
lessen probably the painful restraint of this exposure, the
poor lady tore open the letter I had brought, and ran her
eyes over it. Before she had finished she thrust it into
her bosom and uttered a fearful shriek. Then she ran to
the window. We rushed forward to stop her, but only
seized a light shawl she had on, whieh slipped off her
shoulders. The next instant she had thrown herself out,
with a shriek more awful than before Write this
down carefully, sir. I make my solemn declaration on my
dying bed that neither I nor Delamarre contributed in
any way whatever to that woman's death."
" But, Mr. Bighorne, excuse me. If tliat is so, why, may
I ask, did you desire to secrete yourself?"
"To save my friend, Mr. Delamarre. He is one of the
props of the Ministry — they are already weak. If this
had come out he must have been disgraced, and then
forced to resign. You may tell my friends of it, but keep
it a solemn secret Neither of us had been recog-
nised ; but my terror of discovery grew so strong, I had
to run away. Through some strange acquaintances I had
formed in the course of my wild life, I succeeded in get-
ting out of London undetected, and disguising myself, was
passed from shelter to shelter, until I came across Bill
Kncwsley. ..."
* ♦ * « $t * *
The curate ran to the bed. The youth was in a syn-
cope. The good man saw some swift restorative was
needed, and poured out from the hitherto untouched flask
a little brandy, with which he touched the patient's lips.
AX UXrLEASANT VISITOR.
147
The sick man feebly opened his eyes, in which for an in-
stant a strange light played.
"Ah !" he whispered, " brandy ! Would to God I had
never known the taste !"
' " • - ♦'■„
II. — An Unpleasant Visitor.
Mr. Delamarre was one of Miss Bio-horne's admirers.
He was assuredly a most distinguished suitor: Secretary
of State for the Marine, forty-seven years of age, of an
agreeable and winning presence, connected with exalted
families, a man of unquestionable talent, standing high
with his party, and universally popular in society. Emily
migiit have been forgiven by some people, had she over-
looked his glaring faults and accepted his hand. But
while society acknowledged and admired Mr. Delamarre,
it took the privilege of talking freely about him, and the
gossip was not edifying. In truth the Secretary was not
overparticular about his private life, and not even careful
to keep it private. When a man drives his Stanhope to
Richmond or Greenwich, and airs himself there before the
public with whatever company he may have, he challenges
society to take note in what manner he is living. But
Mr. Delamarre's fame as a man of the town was, as is usu-
al, confined to certain cliques, reputable and disreputable.
Only vague rumours reached the ears of lady friends, and
these were most discreetly chastened. For while it is gen-
erally true that evil report is apt to grow as it progresses,
an exception is sometim,es made in the case of the nobility
ii
148
THE devil's chain.
ill
and upper classes. A peer's son or the heir of a milHon-
naire will have his follies reported in euphemisms and his
vices painted with a gentle hand.
Miss Emily had never taken to Mr. Delamarre, and her
instinctive dislike to him had been confirmed by Henry
Bighorne, who once curtly said to his sister ' 'Ware Dela-
marre !' This was not an unnecessary warning, since the
elder Bighorne's faith in the recuperative powers of hu-
man nature, both moral and physical, when it was of the
aristocratic order, was so great, that he would willingly
have run the risk of the Secretary's reformation.
On the very morning of Henry Bighorne's death, Mr.
Delamarre was leisurely dressing at his house in Dover
Street, at the early hour of ten, when his servant entered
and announced that an inspector of police from Scotland
Yard desired to see him.
" Wishes to see me, Laycock ? He must have made a
luistake. I'm not the Home Secretary."
"I told him, sir, there was some mistake, and that you
were dressing. But he has your name down, and he in-
sists on seeing you at once."
" Well, then, show him up here."
The Inspector entered — a broad, serious-faced fellow,
and sjave a salute.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but information we've re-
ceived, sir, interests you particularly. I thought I had
best come up and see you about it alone, sir."
" Very good of you. Inspector," said Delamarre, button-
ing his braces. "But is it really so important that you
must break into my dressing-room to tell it?"
I i:
AN UNPLEASANT VISITOR.
149
"That's as you think, sir, when you've heard it," replied
the policeman shortly — like a man who knows his position
and how to keep it. "
" Well, let us hear this wonderful information you have
got hold of, my friend."
" Yes, sir, certainly. Did you happen, sir, to know a
Mrs. Bellhouse, who lived at — St. Martin's Lane ?"
" Ho !" said Mr. Delamarre, with a little laugh. " You
came to tell me something, and now you're cross-examin-
ing me !"
" Well, Mr. Delamarre, if you know anything about her
it will come out; and if you don't, well and good," and
drawing a pocket-book from his pocket, he opened it and
took out an envelope, addressed in a female hand to Mr.
Delamarre.
"Do you know that writing, sir?"
"I tell you I am not going to answer any questions put
to me by an inspector of police. If you have any state-
ment to make, make it — and then begone : my breakfast
is waiting."
The Inspector took no notice, but went on with his
work.
" Mr. Delamarre !" he said, standing in front of the Min-
ister, "this envelope — " Delamarre snatched it out of his
hand, and was about to throw it into the fire — "and the
letter inside it, sir, wliich I have in my pocket. You
needn't destroy that," he added quietly — "you can't de-
stroy my evidence !"
Mr. Delamarre laughed and said, " Oh ! I was getting
tired of the subject. And as the envelope is my proper-
!^P
IP
II
ti
.ttl
I
150
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
ty, picked up somewhere no doubt, I thonglit I would cut
the matter short by burning it. But there it is, if you
want to keep it. You are only wasting time, however."
"Tliat envelope, Mr. Delamarre," said the policeman,
steadily, " was found in the sofa in the room Mrs. Bell-
house occupied the day she threw herself out of window.
You remember, sir, at the inquest — "
"I know nothing about the inquest," interrupted Mr.
Delamarre. " It was a scandal which did not concern me."
"Perhaps so, sir. But at the inquest it was stated that
two ojents were in the room with Mrs. Bellhouse that aft-
ernoon, and at the time when she fell out of the window.
Also that one of those gentlemen wore a cloak and black
felt hat, Mr. Delamarre — something like this cloak and hat,
sir, I suspect," said the policeman, gravely, as he pointed
to a chair in the dressing-room where two such articles
appeared to have been thrown the evening before.
Delamarre looked uneasy.
" Look here, Inspector," he said, " you fellows are so
accustomed to putting things together in accordance with
your theories, that you make extraordinary blunders. You
state that you found that letter in a eofa that stood in
Mrs. Bellhouse's room. Well, if you have the letter too,
you know that it was from Mrs. Bellhouse herself. I ad-
mit I was acquainted with her, and she occasionally cor-
responded with me. But you can easily suppose that I
had handed it back to Mrs. Bellhouse, and she had put the
letter there herself."
"No, sir; I think not. The envelope has the * London
West ' post-mark, and was delivered at half-past four on
AN UNPLEASANT VISITOR.
151
February 1st, and on the other side from tlie direction
there's a memorandum in pencil, sir: — ^ Saw Elllston.
Claymore to he recalled. Coke to be Y. AcV You re-
member, sir, Admiral Claymore was recalled in February,
and your cousin, Captain Coke, was made Vice-admiral?
The letter was drop})ed out of your pocket, sir, in Mrs.
Bellliouse's room."
" Look here. Inspector !" replied Delamarre, uneasily.
"You're a man of the world. You know I'm a man of
the world. There is no use opening up a gentleman's
private life, and making a great scandal for notliing. I
can assure you I had notliing to do with Mrs. Bellliouse's
death. Throw the papers into the fire."
" Can't do it, sir. They've been in the hands of the
Chief Commissioner."
" The deuce they have !"
"Yes; and he says he must do his duty. "Where's the
other man^ sir? It may be a case of murder, iVlr. Dela-
marre !"
Delamarre shuddered, and turned and looked into the
glass over the mantel-piece. With perfect command of
countenance, he could not but see that a light pallor
tinsrod his face. We know he was innoceiit of that terri-
ble crime, but it was a startling thing to hear the word
uttered in connection with his name. After so many
years of successful politics, so many years of loose pleas-
ure, so long a period in which outer respectability had
been concurrent with a disreputable private life — it did
shock this man out of his self possession suddenly to find
himself face to face with an outraged society in the per-
152
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
son of this stolid poUceraan uttering the word murder!
He reflected over his position a long time before he turn-
ed a<j:ain. He saw how awkward the situation was. He
could tliink of no escape from that which he dreaded most,
— a scandalous exposure, — and his thoughts ran rapidly
over the probable effects upon himself and on the Minis-
try, to whose existence he knew he was essential. It was
impossible to see light through the bewildering chaos.
Worse than all, in view of that ugly word, * murder,' Hen-
ry Bighorne had put himself out c"the way, no one knew
whei-e. On the other hand, a sentiment of honour forbade
that he should mention Bighorne's name, since the latter
had done so much for him. At length he turned calmly
to the Inspector.
" Well, what do you want to do ?"
" Well, Mr. Delamarre, the First Commissioner ordered
me to bring two gentlemen in plain clothes, and leave them
in the house for the present, till you can see your friends.
Of course you won't leave this room ; and they will re-
main downstairs in the hall. You are quite free to see
anyone."
" Hem !" said Mr. Delamarre, with a choking sensation
in his throat which he wished to conceal. " It's very
obliging of the Chief Commissioner ! And seeing I ap-
pointed him when I was Home Secretary, it's grateful.
But, my dear inspector, don't leave a couple of men like
sheriff's messengers in my hall. Put them in the library."
He rang the bell.
Laycock appeared, looking very white and disturbed.
"Shew those two — ah — gentlemen, into the library, Lay-
NEWS AT LAST.
153
code, and get them some breakfast. This gentleman, per-
haps, will join them. We have an awkward aflair on at
the Admiralty, which requires their assistance."
The Inspector lingered a moment behind the serv-
ant.
" It ain't regular, Mr. Delamarre," he said, in an under-
tone. " But you give me your word of honour as a gen-
tleman you won't leave this house ?"
" You need not fear," replied the Minister. " You can
rely on my honour." '
* *
*
III. — News at Last.
Late in the evening of the day in which things were
runninsr so hard asrainst Mr. Delamarre, a strano-er ranjr
the bell at Grosvenor Place, and requested to see Miss Big-
horne. The tall footman, who regarded his young lady
witli a sort of fraternal sympathy, ventured upon a deli-
cate remonstrance w^ith tlie ' person ' who proposed an in-
terview at so unreasonable an hour.
" Be good enough," said the stranger with dignity, " to
state that the Rev. Charles Wood, curate of Burslem, has
called with some news of Mr. Henry Bighorne."
In a few moments Emily was with him face to face in
the library. The good clergyman was a bachelor, but the
thinning hair, and lines about the fine eyes, and square,
deep forehead, showed that he was forty, at least. His
face was not a handsome one, though striking for its in-
telligent ^^^zesse, and the play of gentle benevolence which
7*
ill
fe
iiii
1.-
THE DEVILS CHAIN.
touclic'd and softened every feature. There was a slight
confusion in his manner vviien James, the footman, opened
the door, and she came liastily towards him. He ghmced
at the fair anxious lace, grown pale with sorrow and anx-
iety, and felt abashed with terror at the task he had to
perform.
" You say you have news of my brother, sir ?" cried
Emilv.
"Yes," he replied. "Will you be good enough to shut
the door?" he added, turning to the lingering footman, and
then proceeded : "Allow me to introduce myself. Miss Big-
horne — the Reverend Charles Wood, curate of St. Enoch's,
Burslem, in Staffordshire."
"Have you seen my brother, sir? Is he well?"
" My dear young lady," said the curate, nervously, " may
I ask you to sit down? for — for I have a long story to
tell. And pray be calm. Miss Bighorne."
" Don't conceal anything, I beg of you !" said Emily,
taking the stranger's hand, in her excitement, and looking
earnestly in his face. He looked so manly, and withal so
gentle, that he seemed like an old friend. " You have bad
new^s, I am sure?"
He looked in her face a moment and considered. Can
she bear it? Then he simply said:
"Alas! ves. The worst."
A lovely girl in a storm of sorrow — and a strange
curate walking up and down the room, silently dropping
tears about in ar agony of sympathy. He did not know
what had happened to him, but he felt for her as if she
had been his own. A long time be walked about, and his
NEWS AT LAST.
155
lips moved in prayer. By-and-by he went and spoke to
her.
"Miss Bigliorne, I watched by his side through his ill-
ness, — I closed his eyes when all was over. He has
charged me with messages. Shall 1 go away to-niglit and
come again in tlie morninor?" .
"You closed his eyes? You nursed him?" said Emily.
"How good of you ! Pray, pray, do not go away. I am
better now. Please tell me all to-ni<>ht."
Slowly and sadly he went through the mournful de-
tails, often interrupted by her sorrow, though she strug-
gled against it bravely. She was ashamed to break down
so completely before a stranger; but his tact and kindness
encouraged her, and by the time he had concluded, she
was comparatively calm.
As they parted, she took both his hands and looked
straight into liis honest eyes.
"I — we — papa and mamma and I — owe you a debt,
Mr. Woods, we can never, never repay. You have been
a Christian and a Samaritan. God will reward you. To-
morrow my parents will be here. You will, of course,
come and stay with us?"
There was a strange light in the curate's eyes, and a
strange flutter in his heart, as he went out into the cheer-
less loneliness of London on that dark November evening.
The morning after Emily Bighorne's interview witli Mr.
Wood, disquieting rumours circulated among the higher
officials of Downing Street. A Secretary of State was
missing; a disaster considered in that quarter to be of the
first magnitude, though in outer society regarded as more
^9
I'
156
THE devil's chain.
|l
!i
1
easily remediable than the sinking of an iron-clad. Mr.
Delamarre's word of honour — hitherto unimpeached at
Tattersall's, on the turf, in the ring, or even in the House
of Commons, where Ministerial exigencies sometimes run
things very close — had at length been broken to a police-
man. With the aid of the higenious Laycock, the two de-
tectives had been stretched on their backs in the library —
no doubt narcotised, after preliminary potations — and Mr.
Delamarre and his servant had disappeared.
It was six or seven hours after they had left Mayfair
before the escape was discovered, and they were by that
time a long way from London. The evening papers al-
luded to mysterious rumours about a gentleman of dis- *'
tinction, and the next morning's press came out with the
whole story. The sofa in Mrs. Bellhouse's parlour had
been sold, and in overhauling it, the letter addressed to
Mr. Delaraarre was found between the cushion and the
back.
The excitement was naturally intense. It grew to
white heat on the succeeding day when Henry Bighorne's
decease was announced, and the newspapers published the
few words of his dying declaration, which acquitted Mr.
Delamarre and himself of any direct responsibility for Mrs.
Hurlincjham's death. Then there was a reaction in Mr.
Delamarre's favour. It was a keen sense of honour which
had taken him away. He could come back to society at
all events, if not to the Ministry. „ .
The romance was so piquant. The higher classes dis-
cussed it. The Mower orders' crowded to Dover Street,
Grosvenor Place, and St. Martin's Lane — the three scenes
A CLEAN SWEEP.
157
of the tragedy — and besieged the bars of all the public-
houses in those neiglibourlioods. Whether the excitement
be a war, or a funeral, or a murder, or a wedding, or a
comedy, or a cantata, there is one person wlio may sit
serene amidst it all — because each alike brinu-s ff'ist to
his mill, and money to his till — that is the Publican !
In the meantime, however, Mr. Delaraarre had placed
himself beyond the possibility of return.
%
*
IV.— A Clean Sweep.
A snip, the *Four Bells,' 950 tons, out of Plymouth
Sound, bound for New Zealand, was running down tlie
Channel before a south-east breeze, freshening to a gale.
A noble clip])cr, she had left Ply ii. uth before daylight,
on a murky November morning, with a full cargo and 480
emigrants for Christchurch. The grey afternoon had
ended in a dark and dirty evening. The sea increased ;
the wind, which now and then swept up in angry gusts,
brought with it a cold and drizzly rain. The gallant
ship, under reefed mainsail, foresail, and topsails, danced
before the wind in the joy of strength and beauty — her
taper mast and white sails bending gently to the breeze,
and her graceful hull skipping over the white -topped
waves like some living leviathan sporting in the water.
The emigrants had gone below, most of them overcome
by the weather, and only two or three in shining water-
proofs remained on deck, clinging to the bulwarks on the
lee side. Two of these were talking to the look-out
li
I
II
I 1
158.
THE devil's chain.
on the fore-tleck, wlio, clad in oilskin from head to foot,
stood peering through the darkening scurry of the ele-
ments, aa the bow of the noble vessel went up and down,
to the roll and hollowing of the waves, which ever and
anon flung their crests over the buhviiiks with a mighty
Bphish, followed by the hissing swirl of water to and fro
as it rolled into the waterways and out at the scuppers.
*' I am the second mate," he had said, in answer to one
of the emigrants.
"^\re vou the only look-out?"
"Yes."
"Is it not a very bad night ?"
"Dirty enough, sir."
*' .V^y, there's no one on deck but yon and the man at
the wheel."
"Oh yes," ronlied the mate. "There's the first-mate in
his cabin ; and the captain too, for that matter."
"Are you short-handed?" -
" Well, we are and we aren't," said the ofBcer, laughing.
"We have a full crew aboard, but they're not in working
trim yet. They don't muster well the first day, anyhow ;
but I never sailed with such a lot of drunken dogs as
these."
"Do you mean to Pay they are all drunk?"
"Drunk as fi-^ ^'ers."
I am ^ ' what degree of intoxication is im-
plied \ i of measurement, — though I pre-
sum meai. lai they had waxed very drunk, — but it
certaii.iy was a long way beyond capacity to stand and
act.
\
A CLEAN SWEEP.
159
C3
"And do you mean to say," said the elder of the em-
igrants, wlio spoke in a cultivated, autlioritative tone,
which the mate noticed particularly, "that the captain
has gone to sea with only four able seamen on board, and
that you four are all there are to handle the shij) through
such a niojht as this?"
"There aren't /bt^r /" replied the other, sentontiously.
"Captain's not quite straight yet."
" Good heavens !" cried the emigrant. " Here's a pret-
ty look-out, Laycock !"
The two consulted together for a moment.
"We shall remain on deck all night, sir," said the man
to the mate. " You can command us for any aid we can
render. I have taken my turn at the ropes on a yacht
now and then. IIow do you dare to leave port under such
conditions?" he continued warmly. "I shall inquire into
this matter personally " He checked himself.
"Well, sir," replied th.e mate, dodging a spriidde of
brine that came hissing over the weather bow, "I don't
know who you may be, but how are we to help it? We
were ready to sail at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, but
our fellows were all ashore, spending the last of the credit
they had on their advance-7iotes. There was no one aboard
but Jim Rousby there at the wheel, and we mates. The
captain was terribly put out — he ain't naturally sweet-
tempered, anyhow, and he likes his glass of grog when
he's going to sea, though he doesn't take any on the voy-
age. Six-bells struck, — an hour before midnight, — and he
would stand it no longer. *Merton,' he said, ' you take
Jim Rousby and go ashore and get a couple of policemen,
Ifi
it ■
I
M
^!
I ;
¥
■
!
160
THE DEVIL S CHAIN.
and bring those fellows off or lock 'em up, one or the oth-
er.' I can assure you, sir, it's no fun going ashore to look
up such a crew as this in Plymouth hells. Low, dirty
places they are, where the crimps get hold of poor Jack,
and prey on him as if he was a pig or a sheep. And I'll
tell you what does it — it's those advance-notes. The own-
ers think they bind the sailors by them, and they do ; but
I don't like such security. It plays the devil with the ship-
ping. We had to go and drag those fellows out one by
one ; some dead drunk, some mad drunk, and we got the
whole lot off by early morning ; and my belief is they
haven't done yet. They have some stowed away in the
fo'ksle, or my name's not Merton."
On went the noble ship, the gale increasing every min-
ute. Wivh great difficulty at four-bells, aided by one or
two stewards from the stern cabin, the chief mate, who
had charge of her while the captain was slee])ing off his
aimoyance and his grog, managed to take in the main and
fore sails, and she went plunging forwards under a jib and
reefed fore -top -sail. Tlie sea began to sweep the deck
from end to end, but the two emigrants still clung to the
rigging by the bulwarl<s on the lee side.
Wilder and wilder grew the night. Angry scream of
furious wind through strand and rigging ; fierce plash and
boom of billows breaking over the bow ; roar of the great
waves fiir and near wrestlino; with the crale ; rattle of roll-
ing blocks ; squirm and creak of stay, and girder, and beam,
and planking ; and on the decks below, among the crowd-
ed emigrants, noises, and groaning, and women's shrieks,
and the cries of children. Still gallantly onward went
A CLEAN SWEEP.
161
he otli-
to look
V, dirty
»r Jack,
\nd I'll
he own-
lo ; but
he ship-
one by
ojot the
is they
y in the
3i'y min-
f one or
ite, who
y off his
lain and
I jib and
,he deck
q; to the
cam of
lash and
lie great
e of roll-
id beam,
e crowd-
shrieks,
ird went
the ship, straining to her work, shaking off the storm, and
swiftly winning her way. And well and warily did mates
and steersman handle her till eight -bells struck for the
noon of night. Then the storm seemed to be moderating,
and Delamarre, for it was he, turned to his companion and
said: •
" I think we may go down now. I am fearfully cold
and wet. Everything seems safe."
Yes; everything is safe, as far as foresight of generous
owners could make it. A good ship, picked captain, suf-
ficient crew ; with these they could face old ocean and
laugh at the boisterous elements. But there is one ele-
ment no care can outwit, no forecast guard against, able
at all times to cheat caution and probability, to defy skill
and regulation — and ^hat element was aboard the ship
that night.
The two men had reached the forward companion, lead-
ing to the emigrants' quarter, for they were travelling in
disguise. Laycock opened the door; a puff of smoke, a
flash of lurid light athwart the lower deck, and a shriek
of * Fire !' came at the instant from the forecastle of the
ship — flash of flame caused by the spirit from a broken
bottle which a drunken wretch had fired with the match
he struck to see what had come of it.
" Fire ! I^ire / Fire !" sharp shrieks and shouts of men
and women ; wail of frightened children rushing to and
fro, and deadly struggling for life in the midst of blind-
ing smoke ; curse and scream of drunken sailors rolling in
c./enging flames; loud alarm of hurrying stewards rous-
ing the passengers in the stern cabin, and these, unmind-
102
TUB devil's chain.
^-
ful of the bitter blast, rushing wildly upon deck, and
.clinging together upon the poop near the wheel. Here
.come strong men with 5 mad rush for the boats, thrust-
ing aside and trampling down weak women and children.
The captain, wakened out of his sleep, stares in half-drunk-
en incapacity at the dreadful scene, or shouts incongru-
.ous orders. Ignorant hands have swamped two boats, and
paid the penalty. William Merton, like the brave young
, fellow he was, fought desperately to save a third boat- '
load, and had nearly succeeded, when a charge of frantic
.labourers overpowered him, and he went down among
.those he was trying to save — last hope of that poor
widow at Cherry-Luton, last of three hopes, three several
times blighted by the same fell destroyer! '
And now at length two hundred souls are crowded
shivering on tlie stern poop, where Jim Rousby still
stands, with his mouth shut and his eye keenly watching,
keeping the tossing furnace before the wind, the bright
flames licking out from the fore-hatchways, and fighting
their way slowly but surely against the storm along the
.deck — while the lurid light gleams on cringing forms and
pallid faces, and praying lips, and eyes fixed in horror, and
a scene of helpless despair. Facing the flames, in front
of all, stands Delamarre, without his cloak, which he has
.thrown over a half-naked girl, his hatless head erect, his
teeth clenched — recallino: to himself the loner dirtinofuish-
ed and degraded past, and bravely awaiting this obscure
doom.
The flames, raging now with fierce heat, leaped up
•around the main-mast and toward the raizzen, and onward ^
U
A CLEAN SWEEP.
163
to the poop deck. The dismal crowd watched in fearful
suspense, for they knew that deep down in the hold lay-
hogsheads of the same fiery spirit that had set this hellish
blaze a-going. At length there was a short preliminary
burst, then another, then a fierce explosion, and the wail
and outcry of perishing mortality went up to Heaven
through the storm, as the victims of the Drink Demon
were swallowed up in the yawning mouth of the relent-
less ocean.
THE END.
ii
I
(
fi;
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
■ ^•> ■
LORD BANTAM. A Satire
LITTLE HODGE
Ceuts.
75
30
THE COLONIAL QUESTION. Being Essays on Im-
perial Confederation, reprinted from "The
Contemporary Review," "Eraser's Magazine,"
&e. ----..... 30
" THE TIMES" and MR. POTTER on CANADIAN
RAILWAYS A Criticism of Critics -
25
DAWSON BROTHERS. PUBLISHERS.