LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
RIVERSIDE
W^M
.v\
'he looked down upon the man whose words he was repeating with contempt
and astonishment.'
TO CALL HER MINE
ETC
BY
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR (If'
'all sorts and conditions of mkn,' 'children ok gibf.on," etc.
NINE ILI.USTRATIOSS BY A. lORESTlEK
lionljoii
CIIATTO 6;: WINJjUS, PICCADILLY
1889
Tie
CONTENTS.
TO CALL II ER MINE.
CHAPTER
I. ON AN ISLAND .
A JONAH COME ABOAUD
THE FIKST DJiEAM
CHALLACOMBE-BY-THE-MOOK
KOR BETTEIS, FOR WORSE
THE CHOIR-PRACTICE
VII. WHO IS HE ? .
VIII. A QUIET SUNDAY MORNING
AT SIDCOTE
GKIMSPOLND
DAVIDS NEXT VISIT
THE SECOND DREAM
THE CANVAS BAG
DRINK ABOUT
WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS
DAVID MAKES A PROPOSAL.
A GLEAM OK LIGHT
THE ROYAL GKOGKAPHICAL SOCIETY
XIX. THE LAST APPEAL
XX. THE THIRD DREAM .
IL
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
PAGE
1
12
22
34
40
46
52
61
70
79
91
100
104
108
114
120
124
129
134
139
K.\TJI.\i:iXK IIKCINA
I. 'THE CUP — ■ ....
II. 'and the lip ' .
in. HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE .
IV. A FAITHFUL TUU.STEE
V. KATIE .....
VI. dittmek bock ....
VII. THE LOST PLACE
VIII. THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME .
IX. Tom's dead hand
X. THE LAST SHILLING
XI. A NIGHT OUT ....
XII. IN THE FOG ....
147
\m
1(54
170
184
187
192
1!)7
206
21.5
'221
229
IV
CONTENTS,
CIIAPTKn
XIII. IN THE MOUNING
XIV. THE NUBIAN DESERT
XV. JOYFUL TIDINGS
XVI. Ton's RETUKN
XVII. THE SE.MICH
XVIII. IN THE WORKROOM.
XIX. THE SHATTERING OK THE CASTLE
XX. LIFE AND LOVE
PAGE
235
242
250
257
265
271
280
288
SELF OR BEAREIt
I. ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL
II. HIS lordship's TOWN-HOUSE
III. A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY
IV. WHO HAS DONE THIS ?
V. A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING
VI. THE TEMPTATION .
VIL ' DOWN WITH LANDLORDS !'
VIII. THE GRAVE OF HONOUR
IX. THE BROKEN RING
X. THE ADVERTISEMENT
XI. STILL ONE CHANCE LEFT
XII. UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT
Xin. A LAST APPEAL .
CHAPTER THE LAST.
297
311
325
341
353
362
368
374
388
393
400
409
418
425
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
' I had the leather thonsf in my fingers '
' He looked down upon the man who.se words he was re-
peating with contempt and astonishment '
' The ship having no doctor aboard, he began to administer
whi.sky and rum in .alternate spoonfuls ' .
• Old Dan was now white-liaired, and advanced in years '
' The girl who .sat working at the open window was Mary
Ntthercote' ........
' It was an an old-fashioned wainscoted room ; and there
was a really splendid old cabinet, black with age,
wonderful with carvings ' . • .
' Then he kissed her gravely on the forehead, as if to seal
her once more for his own '.....
'We walked through the darkening lanes, our faces to
the west, so that Mary's glowed in the golden light
like an angel-face in a painted window ' .
'Well, come through the gate, then, Mary ' .
Vignette.
Frontispiece.
To face p
20
22
24
26
40
46
125
TO CALL HER MINE.
CHAPTER I.
ON AN ISLAND.
'I WILL now,' said the German, 'read your statement over, and
you can sign it if yon like. Remember, however, what your
signature may mean. As for what I shall do with it afterwards,
that depends on many things.'
' Do what you like with it,' replied the Englishman, slowly and
huskily. ' Send it to the police in London, if you like. I don't
care what becomes of it, or of myself cither. For I am tired of
it ; I give in. There ! I give in. No one knows what it is like
until you actually come to fight with it.'
He did not explain what 'it' was; but the other seemed to
understand what he meant, and nodded his head gravely, though
coldly. ' It,' spoken of in this way, is generally some foe to man.
If toftthache, or f-aracho, or any ordinary physical evil had been
meant, that CJerman, or any other (lerman. Frenchman, Russian,
or Englishman, would have nodded his head with a sympathetic
murmur. Since there was no murmur, therefore there was no
sympathy.
The two men were, as you will pre.sently admit, a most curious
couple to look upon, set among most remarkable surroundings, if
only there had been any spectators or audience to watch and admire
them. The .eccne — none of your conventional carpenter's scenes,
but a grand set scene — was, if jjossible, more interesting than the
couple in the foreground. For in front there stretched the sea-
shore, the little waves lapping softly and crLeping slowly ovi'r the
level white coral sand ; beyond the smooth water lay the coral reef
2 TO CALL HER MINE.
with its breakers ; at the back of the sandy shore was a gentle rise
of land, covered with groves of cocoa-palms and bananas ; among
them were clearings planted with fields of sweet potatoes and taro ;
two or three huts were visible beneath the trees. Again, beyond
the level belt rose a great gr«cn mountain, five or six thousand feet
high, steej), and covered to the summit with forest. Here and
there a perpendicular cliff broke the smoothness of the slope, and
over the cliir leaped tiny cascades— threads of light sparkling in
the evening sunshine. The time was about six — that is, an hour
before sunset ; the air was warm and soft ; the sloping sunshine
lay on grove and clearing, seashore and mountain side, forest and
green field, making everything glow with a splendid richness and
prodigality of colour; softening outlines and bringing out new
and unsuspected curves on the hillside. The mid-day sun makes
these thick forests black with shade ; the evening sun lights them
up, and makes them glorious and warm with colour.
As one saw the place this evening, one might see it every evening,
for in New Ireland there is neither summer nor winter, but always,
all the year round, the promise of spring, the heat of summer, and
the fruition of autumn ; with no winter at all, except the winter
of death, when the branches cease to put forth leaves and stretch
out white arms, spectral and threatening, among their living com-
panions in the forest. Sometimes one may see whole acres of dead
forest standing like skeletons by day and like ghosts by night, till
the white ants shall have gnawed their way through the trunks to
prepare their fall, and till the young shoots at their feet shall have
sprung up round them to hide the ghastly whiteness of death.
The reason of this commingling of spring and summer, autumn
and winter, is that the latitude of New Ireland, as everybody knows,
is about 4 degrees south, which is very near the isothermal line.
People who desire to feel the warmth of this latitude— a warmth
Avhich goes right through and through a man, like light through a
pane of glass — need not go so far as New Ireland, but may stop on
their way at Singapore, where there are not only no cannibals, but
the hotels — there are no hotels in New Ireland — are ' replete,' as
the advertisements say, ' with every comfort.'
Considering that New Ireland has been visited by so very few,
and that the place is as j'et entirely unexplored, the fact that here
were two Europeans ujjon it at the same time, and yet not arrived
there with the same objects, was in itself remarkable ; the more so
because its people have a curious and cultivated taste in cookery,
and prefer roasted Brother Man to the roast of any other animal,
ON AX ISLAND. 3
insomuch that missionaries have hitherto avoided these shores,
feeling that to be killed and eaten before converting anybody would
be a sinful Avaste of good joints. After the conversion of many,
indeed, the thing might take the form and present the attractions
of serviceable martyrdom.
Where the situation and the scene were both so remarkable, it
seems almost superfluous to point out that the appearance of both
men was also remarkable ; although, among such surroundings, any
man might well strive to live and present an appearance up to the
scene. One of them — the German — was a man of colossal propor-
tions, certainly six feet six in height, and broad in proportion, with
strong shoulders and well-shaped legs — both legs aud shoulders being
bare, and therefore in evidence. He was still quite a young man —
well under thirty. His hair was light brown, short and curly ; an
immense brown beard covered his face and fell over his chest.
His eyes were blue and prominent, and he wore spectacles. His
dress was modelled generally, but with modifications, on the dress
of the inhabitants of these islands. His only robe was a great
piece of Fiji tapu cloth, white, decorated with black lozenges and
a brown edging ; it was rolled once round his waist, descending to
his knees, aud was then thrown over his left shoulder, leaving the
right arm bare. The sun had painted this limb a rich warm bi'own.
He wore a cap something like that invented, and patented for the
use of solitaries, by Robinson Crusoe ; it was conical in shape, and
made of feathers brightly coloured. He had sandals of thin bark
tied to his feet jjy leather thongs, and he wore a kind of leather
scarf, from which depended a revolver case, a field-glass in a case,
a case of instruments, and a large water-proof bag. These con-
stituted his whole possessions, except a thick cotton uniljrclla, with
a double cover, green below and white above. This he constantly
carried open. He was smoking a large pipe of the shape well
known in (Jermany. Lastly, one ob.served in him a thing so
incongruous tliat it was really the most remarkable of all. You
know the llolnnson Crusoe of the stage ; you know the holy man
or the hermit of the lloyal Academy. Both the Robinson Ciu.soo
of the stage and the St. Anthony of the desert in the picture, are
just as clean as if tlicy liad just come out of the bath, or at least
had been finite recently Ijlesscd with a heavy shower, and they arc,
besides, as well groomed as if they had just completed a careful
morning toilette. Now, Robinson on his island aud the hermit in
his desert may have l)een picturcsf[ue, l>ut I am rpiitc certain tliat
they were always unkempt, unclean, and uncared for. This young
1—2
4 TO CALL HER MINE.
man — say (his young gentleman — was most carefully groomed,
although he was on a cannibal island. His hands were clean, and
his nails did not look as if they had been torn off by the teeth — I
have often thought of poor Robinson's sufferings in this respect ;
his face was clean ; his hair neatly cut, though it was cut by his
own hands, and had been brushed that day ; his great beard was
carefully combed ; and his toga of native cloth was clean. Now, a
neat and clean beachcomber is a thing never heard of. Always
they are in rags ; and, when they do descend so low as to wear the
native dress, they have generally assumed and made their own the
manners and customs of a native.
This interesting person was, as I have said, a German. Now,
what is pedantry in an Englishman is thoroughness in a German.
No Englishman could have worn this dress without feeling as if
the whole world's tinger of scorn was turned upon him : but to the
German the dress was ])art of the ])rogramme. He had learned
the language, and what he could of the manners, before landing on
the shore. A dress as nearly as possible approximating to the
Polynesian garb was a natural accompaniment to the language.
The spectacles, the umbrella, and the cap of feathers were necessary
concessions to European civilization.
The other man, one could see immediately, was an Englishman.
It was also clear to anyone who had eyes and understanding that
he was an Englishman of country birth and breeding. To begin
with, his clothes were not those of a sailor. The rough flannel
shirt which had lost all its buttons and one of its sleeves ; the
coarse canvas trousers ; the old boots broken down at heel, and
showing in the toes an inclination — nay, a resolution — for divorce
between sole and upper ; the broad shapeless felt hat — all spoke of
the soil. His gait and carriage sang aloud of ploughed fields ; his
broad and ruddy cheeks, his reddish brown hair and beard, spoke
of the south or west of England. No doubt he was once— how
did such a one contrive to get to the shores of New Ireland ? — a
farmer or labourer. He was a well-built man, who looked short
Vjeside this tall German. But he was above the average height.
His age might be about six or eight and twenty. His hair hung in
masses over his shoulders, and his beard was thicker than his com-
panion's, though not so long ; and so far from being clean and
trim, he presented a very unwashed, uncombed, and neglected
appearance indeed. His face, which had been once a square, full
face, was drawn and haggard ; his eyes, which were meant to be
frank, were troubled ; and his carriage, which should have been
ON AN ISLAND. 5
upright and brave, was heavy aud dejected. He seemed, as he
stood before the other man, at once ashamed and remorseful,
'Listen : I will read it carefully and slowly,' said the German.
' Sit down while I read it. If there is a single word that is not
true, you can alter that word before you sign.'
The man sat down obediently — there was a curious slowness
about his movements as well as his speech — while the German
read the document, which was written very closely on two pages
of a note-book. Space was valuable, because this note-book con-
tained all the paper there was on the island of New Ireland, and
had, therefore, to be husbanded. He read in a good English
accent, not making more confusion of his f's and v"s than was
sufticient to assert his pride of nationality. And as he read, he
looked down upon the man whose words he was repeating with
contempt and astonishment. For the man had done so dreadful
and terrible a thing ; he had committed a crime which was horrible,
and required the white heat of rage and fury ; and yet the man
looked so pitiful a creature !
' Listen,' he said again, ' and correct me when I am wrong.'
This was the paper which he read on the shore of the Pacific
Ocean, and on the island of New Ireland, one evening in the year
1884:-
'I, David Leighan, farmer, of the i)arish of Challacombe, Devon-
shire, being now on an island in the Pacific Ocean, where I expect
to be shortly killed and eaten by the cannibals, declare that the
following is the whole truth concerning the death of my uncle,
Daniel Leighan, of the same parish, farmer.
' He jockeyed me out of my property ; he kept on lending me
money in large sums and small sums and making me sign papers in
return, and never let me know how much I owed him ; he made
me mortgage my land to him ; lie encouraged me to drink, and to
neglect my farm. At last, when I was head over ears in debt, he
suddenly brought down the law upon me, forcclo.sed, and took my
land. That was the reason of our quarrel. I stayed about the
piiiec, sometimes at Challacombe, sometimes at Moreton, and some-
times at IJovey, till my money was nearly all gone. Then J must
either starve, or I must become a labourer where I had been a
master, or I must go away and find work somewhere else. I had
but thirty pounds left in the world, and 1 made up ray mind to go
away. It was a day in October of the year IHW), which I remember
because it was the cold, wet season of 187'.' wliieh finished my ruin,
as it did many others, who that year came to tlie end of their
6 TO CALL HER MINE.
capital or their credit. I went to sec my uncle, and begged him to
lend me thirty pounds more, to start mc in Canada, where I'd
heard say that fifty pounds will start a man who is willing to make
his own clearance and to work. I was that sick of myself that I
was willing to work like a negro slave if I could work on my own
land. But work in England on another man's land I could not.
Said my uncle — I shall not forget his words — " Nephew David,"
he said, grinning, " you've been a fool and lost your money. I've
been a wise man and kept mine. Do you think I am going to give
you more money to fool away ?" I wonder I did not kill him then
and there, because it was through him and his lendings that I came
so low. He Fat in his room at Gi'atnor, his iiccount-books before
birn, and he looked up and laughed at me while ha said it, jingling
the money that was in his pocket. Yet I asked him for nothing
but the loan of thirty pounds, which I might pay back, or, perhaps,
I mightn't. Thirty pounds ! And I was his nephew, and by his
arts and practices he'd jockeyed me out of a farm of three hundred
acres, most of it good land, with the brook running through it and
a mill upon it. What was thirty pounds compared with what he'd
got out of me ?
' I remember very well what I said to him — never mind what it
was — but I warrant he laughed no longer, though he kept up bis
bull^dng to the end, and told me to go to the Devil my own way,
and the farther from my native parish the better. So I left him,
and walked away through Watercourt to John Exon's inn, where
I sat all that day drinking brandy-and-water. I told nobody what
had happened, but they guessed very well that I'd had a quarrel
with my uncle, and all the world knew by that time how he'd got
my land into his own possession.
' About six o'clock in the evening Harry Rabjahns, the black-
smith, came to the inn, and Grandfather Derges with him, and they
had a mug of cider a-piece. And then, being more than a bit in
liquor, but not so far gone as not to know what I was saying, I
began to talk to them about my own affairs. I told them nothing
about the quarrel with my uncle, but I said what was quite true,
that I had no stomach to stay and take labourer's wages in the
parish where I should see all day long the land that had been mine
and my father's before me, and his father's, further back than the
church register goes. Why, the Sidcotes and the Leighaus came
to Challacombe together — the Sidcotes to Sidcote Farm and the
Leighans to Berry Down — as everybody knows, when it was
nothing but hillside and forest, with never a house, or a field, or a
ON AN ISLAND. 7
church, or anything upon it. Therefore I said I should go away ;
and it was my purpose to go away that very evening. I should walk
to Bovey Tracey, I said ; I should take the train to Newton Abbot
and so to Bristol, where I should find a ship bound for foreign
parts. That was what I said ; and, perhaps, it was lucky I said so
much. But I don't know, because the verdict of the jury I never
heard.
' " "Well, Mr. David,"' says Harry the blacksmith, " you've been an
unlucky one, sir, and we wish you better luck where you be going
— wherever that may be." And so said Grandfather Dergcs. And
Mrs. Exon must pour out a last glass of brandy-and- water, which I
took, though I'd had more than enough already. Then we shook
hands and I came away.
' 'Twas then about eight, and there was a half moon, the night
being fine and breezy, and flying clouds in the sky. As I crossed
the green, the thought came into my head that I was a fool to go to
Bristol when Plymouth and Falmouth were nearer and would suit
ray purpose better. I could walk to Plymouth easy, and so save
the railway money. Therefore, I resolved to change my plan, and,
instead of turning to the left by Farmer Cummings', I turned to
the right at Ivy Cottage and walked across the churchyard, and
took the road which goes over Ileytrce Down to "Widdicombe, and
then leads to Ashburton and Totnes.
' It was only a chance, mark you, that I took that road ; only a
chance. I did not know, and I did not suspect, that my uncle
had ridden over to Ashburton after I left him. All a chance it
was. I never thought to meet him ; and he might have been living
till now if it hadn't been for that chance.'
The man who was listening groaned aloud at this point.
' The first two miles of the road is a narrow lane between high
hedges. What with the brandy I had taken, and the memory of
the morning quarrel, I was in as bad a temper as a man need to be ;
which was the reason why the Devil took possession of me.
'Presently I passed tlirough Ilcytreo (Jatc, and .so out where the
road runs over the open down, and here I began to tliink— tlie
Devil getting in at my head — what I would do if I had my uncle
before me ; and the l^lood came into iriy eyes, and I clutched tlio
cmlgel hard. Who do you tliink put that tliouglit into my head?
The Devil. Why did he put that thought into my head ? Because
the very man was riding along the road on his way home frf)m
AHliliurton, and because I was going to meet him in about ten
minutes.'
8 TO CALL HER MINE.
' Why,' asked the German, looking up from the paper, 'why is
it that criminals and ignorant people cling so fondly to their
Devil ?'
As nobody replied, he went on reading.
'I heard the footsteps of his pony, a long way off. I was in the
middle of the open road when I heard him open Hewedstone Gate
with his hunting-crop and clatter through. I saw him coming along
in the moonlight. While he was still a good way off, before I could
see his face, I knew who it was by the shape of his shoulders and
the way he bent over the pony as he rode. Then I saw his face,
and I stood still by the side of the road and waited for him.
" Murder him ! Murder him !" whispered a voice in my ear.
Whose voice was that ? The Devil's voice.
' My stick was a thick heavy cudgel with a knob. I grasped it
by the end and waited.
' He did not see me. He was looking straight before him, think-
ing, I suppose, how he had done well to get his nephew out of the
•vvay — the nephew he had robbed and ruined. So, as he came up
to me, I lifted my arm and struck him on the head once, crying.
" Give me back my laud, villain !" But I do not know whether he
heard me or saw me ; for he fell to the ground without a word or
a groan.
' He fell, I say, from his pony clean on to the ground, his feet
slipping from the stirrups. And there he lay, on the broad of his
back— dead.
' He was quite dead. His face was white and his heart had
ceased to beat. I stood beside him for an hour, waiting to see if
he would recover. I hoped he would ; because it is a dreadful
thing to think that you have murdered a man, even when you are
still hot with rage. If he would only recover a little and sit up, I
thought, I should be a happy man.
' But he did not. He lay quite still and cold.
' Then I began to think that if I were caught I should be hanged.
Would they suspect me ? Fortunately, no one had seen me take
that road. I was certain of that, so far, and they thought I had
gone to Bovey. I must go away as quickly as I could, and leave no
trace or sign that would make them suspect me.
' Then I thought that if I were to rob him people would be less
inclined to think of me ; because, though 1 might murder the man
who had ruined me, they would never believe that I would rob
him.
'I felt in his pockets. There was his watch — no, I would not
ON AN ISLAND. 9
touch his watch. There was some loose silver, which I left.
There was a bag coatainiug money. I know not how much, but it
was a light bag. This I took. Also he had under his arm a good-
sized tin box in a blue bag, such as lawyers carry. The box I knew
would contain his papers, and his papers were his money. So I
thought I would do as much mischief to his property as I could,
and I took that box. Then I went away, leaving him there cold
and dead, with his white cheeks and gray hair, and his eyes wide
open. I felt sick when I looked at those eyes, because they
reproached me. I reeled and staggered as I left him, carrying the
box with me in its blue bag, and the little bag of money.
' I was not going to walk along the road. That would have been
a foors act. I turned straight off and struck for the open moor,
intending to cross Hamil Down, and so, by way of Post Bridge,
make for Tavistock and Plymouth. And 1 remembered a place
where the box could be hidden away, a safe place, where no one
would ever think of looking for it, so that everybody should go on
believiug that the old man had been robbed as well as murdered.
This place was right over the Down, and on the other side, but it
was all on my way to Post Bridge.
'I climbed the hill then and walked across the top of Ilamil
Down. On the way, I passed the Grey Wether Stone, and I thought
I would hide the bag of money in a hole I knew of at the foot of
it. Nobody would look for it there. Xot twenty people in a year
ever go near the Grey "Wether. There I put it, and then I walked
down the hill on the other side and got to Grimspound, where 1
mcaut to hide the other bag with the box in it.
' Tell them, if you ever get away from this awful place, that the
box lies on the side nearest Ilamil, where three stones piled one
above the other make a sort of little cave, where you might think
to draw a badger, but which would never make anyone Buspcct a
hiding [)lace. The .'itoues are in the corner, and are the first you
come to on your way down. There I put tlie Ijox, and then 1
walked away pa.st N'ltifer to Post Bridge, and then along the high
road to Two Bridges and Tavistock. But I did not stop in Tavi-
stock. P(Tha[)H there would be an alarm. So I went on walking
all the way without stopping— except to sit down a l)it — to
Plymouth. There I got a newspaper ; but I could read nothing of
the murder. Then I took the train to Falmouth, and waited there
for three days, aud bought a new.'^paper every day — one would
surely think that a murder in a quiet country place would be
reported ; but I could find not a single word about my murder.
ro TO CALL HER MINE.
' Then I was able to take passage on board a Gorman ship bound
for New York. I got to New York, and I stayed there till my
money was all gone, which did not take long. There I made the
acquaintance of some men, who told me to go with them, for they
were going West. They were all, I found, men who had done
something, and the police were anxious to take them. I never told
them what I had done, but they knew it was something, and when
they found out that I knew nothing about robbery and burglary?
and couldn't cheat at gambling and the like, they set it down that
it must be murder. But they cared nothing, and I went along
with them,'
' Your confession, my friend,' said the German, stopping at this
point, ' of what followed — the horse-stealing adventure, your own
escape, and the untimely end of your companions ; your honesty in
California, and its interruption ; j-our career as a bonnet or con-
federate ; and your experience of a Californian prison — are all
interesting, but I cannot waste paper upon them. I return, there-
fore, to the material part of the confession. And with this I
conclude.'
' I desire to state that from the first night that I arrived in New
York till now I have every night been visited by the ghost of the
man I killed. My uncle stands beside the bed — whether it is in a
bed in a crowded room, or on the ground in the open, or in a cabin
at sea, or on the deck — whether I am drunk or sober, he always
comes every night. His face is white, and the wound in his fore-
head is bleeding. " Come back to England," he says, "and confess
the crime."
' I must go back and give myself up to justice. I will make no
more struggles against my fate. But because I am uncertain
whether I shall live to get back, and because I know not how to
escape from this island, I wish to have my confession written and
signed, so that, if I die, the truth may be told.'
Thus ended the paper.
' So,' said the big German, ' you acknowledge this to be your full
and true confession ?'
' I do.'
' Sign it, then.' He produced from his bag a pencil and gave it
to the man, who signed, in a trembling hand, ' David Leighan.'
Under the signature the German wrote, ' Witnessed by me. Baron
Sergius Von Holsten.'
This done, he replaced the note-book in his wallet.
' The reason why T wanted you to sign the paper to-night,' he
ON AX ISLAND. ii
said, ' is that there seems as if there might be a chance of your
getting away from the island.'
' How ?'
' Look out to sea.'
They were ahnost at the extreme south point of the island — the
maps call it Cape St. George, but what the islanders call it has not
yet been ascertained. In the west the shores of New Britain could
be seen, because the sun was just sinking behind them ; to the south
and the east there was open sea.
' I can see nothing.'
' Look through my glass, then.'
'I can see a ship — a two-masted sailing-ship.'
' She is in quest of blackbirds. She will probably send a l)oat
ashore. Fortunately for you, the people are all gone off to fight.
You will, therefore, if she does send a boat here, have a chance of
getting away. If she sails north, and sends a boat ashore fifty
miles or so further up the coast, that boat's crew will be speared,
and yoo will probably see portions of their arms and legs for some
little time to come in the huts. Well, my friend ' — for the man
shuddered and trembled — ' better their arms and legs than your
own. Yet, see the strange decrees of fate. The men in the boat
are very likely no worse than their neighbours. That is to say, they
will have done nothing worse than the smaller sins freely forgiven
by every tolerant person. They have drunk, fought, sworn, lied,
and 80 forth. But they have not committed murder. Yet they
will be speared ; while you, thanks to my protection, have hitherto
escaped, and may possibly get clear ofi^ the island. Yet consider
what a sinner — what a sinner and a criminal — you have Ijccu.
Now, my friend, the sun is about to set. In ten minutes it will be
dark, and we have neither candles nor matches. Go to your bed
and await the further commands of the ileir Ghost, your respect-
able uncle. On the eve of your departure, if you are to go to-
morrow, he will probably be more peremptory and more terrifying
than usual. T)o not groan more loudly than you can help, because
groans disturb ncnghbours. Such is the abominable selfishness of
the repentant, that their remorse is as great a nuisance to their
companions as their crime was an annoyance to their victims. Go
to bed, David, and await the Ilcrr f I host.'
12 TO CALL HER ML\E.
CHAPTER II.
A JONAH COME ABOARD.
' Then you think,' said the Mate, looking about him with doubt,
' that we shall do no business here ?'
He was a young fellow of two-and-twenty or so, a frank and
honest-looking sailor, though his business was that of a cunning
kidnapper. Perhaps he had not been long enough at it for the pro-
fession to get itself stamped upon his forehead. He was armed
with a revolver, ready to hand, and a cutlass hanging at his side.
Behind him were four sailors, also armed, in readiness for an
attack, for Polynesians are treacherous ; and in the boat, pulled as
near the shore as the shallow water allowed, were two more men,
oars out and in their hands, guns at their side, ready to shove off in
a moment. But there were no islanders in sight, only these two
Europeans : one a tall man of nearly seven feet, dressed in fantastic
imitation of the natives ; and the other, apparently, an ordinary
beachcomber, quite out of luck, ragged, dejected, and haggard. A
little way off the land lay the schooner. Her business was to enlist,
kidnap, procure, or secure, by any means in the power of the cap-
tain and the crew, as many natives as the ship would hold, and to
bring them to North Queensland, where they would be hired out to
the planters, exactly as the redemptioners were hired out, in the
last century, in Maryland and Virginia, to work out their term of
service, and, also exactly like the redemptioners, to find that term
indefinitely prolonged by reason of debt for tobacco, clothes, rum,
and all kinds of things. They would be privileged to cultivate
sugar, coffee, and other tropical productions, and to witness, a long
way off, the choicest blessings of civilization ; they would also be
allowed to cheer their souls with the hope of some day returning to
their native islands where these blessings have not yet penetrated,
and where they would have to live out the remainder of their days
in savagery of that deplorable kind which enjoys perpetual sunshine
and warmth, with i)lenty to eat, nothing to wear, and nothing to
do. Warmth, food, and rest— for these as a bribe what would not
our people resign of their blessings V The clothes they wear ?
Well, it would be a good exchange, indeed, from their insufficient
and ragged clothes in a cold climate, to none at all iu a place where
A JONAH COME ABOARD. 13
none are wanted. To exchange the food they eat for the food of
the South Sea Islander ? Well— apart from roasted Brother — it
would certainly seem, at first, a change for the better. To exchange
work— hard, horrible, unceasing work — for rest? Who would
not ? — oh ! who would not ? Free institutions and Socialist clubs
for a country with no institutions at all ? Why, why is there not
an extensive emigration of the Indolent, the Unlucky, and theOut-
of-Work for these Fortunate Islands V
' It is an unlucky voyage,' said the Mate, gazing earnestly at the
two men before him, whose appearance and the contrast between
them puzzled him. ' Two months out and five weeks becalmed ;
no business done, and the skipper drunk all day long. Say,
strangers, how did you come here ?'
' For my part,' said the German, ' I am a naturalist. I make the
coleoptera my special study. I have, I believe, enriched science
with so many rare and previously unknown specimens, if I succeed
in getting them to Europe, that my name will be certainly remem-
bered in scientific history as one of those who have advanced
knowledge. Can any man ask more ?'
• Colly ! — colly what ?' asked the Mate. ' But never mind your
Colly-what's-her-name. How the devil did you get such a rig,
man ?'
' I am a linguist,' the Baron Sergius Von Holsten went on to
explain, ' as well as a naturalist. I therefore learned the language
before landing here, having found a native or two of New Ireland
in the mission of tlic Duke of York Island. It is a great thing to
know how to talk witli these black children. I am also a surgeon
and a physician, so that I can heal their wounds and their diseases
when they get any. You see, further, that I am bigger than most
men. T am also thorough. I adopted their dress — at least, some
of it,' lie looked complacently at his toga of tapu cloth ; 'and,
therefore, being able to talk to them, to impress them with my
stature, and to cure them, I landed among them without fear.
Wlien they came round me with their spears, T Hbouted to tbcin
that I was a great nuigirian, come io their liclp straight down fro'n
the sun. And as I know a little prestidigitation and conjuring,
and am a bit of a ventriloquist, I am from time to time able to
work a few of the sim[iler miracles. So that they readily believe
me.'
' How long are yon going to stay here ?'
' I know not ; New Irrland is j-ich in new flpccies : but I shall
have to stop as soon as my means of collection and description come
14 TO CALL HER MINE.
to an end. When that day comes I shall be glad to sec a ship. But
it will not be yet !'
' They may kill you.'
' It is possible,' the Baron shrugged his tall shoulders ; ' they are
like little children. It may occur to one of them some day to find
out what I should do, and how I should look, if he were to drive
his spear into my back. We all run our little dangers, and must
not allow them to stoj) our work.'
The Mate looked doubtful.
' I am also an ethnologist, and I assure you. Lieutenant, that the
study of these people is of profound interest.'
' Have you no arms ?'
* I have a revolver ; but what is one revolver against the spears
of a whole people ? I have really no other weapon but my power
of persuasion, and my reputation for magic and sorcery. These
will not fail me, unless, as I said before, one of them may be
anxious to see how a god behaves and how he looks with a spear
stuck through him.'
' And how do you live ?'
' The people bring me food every day. If they did not, I should
afflict them with horrible misfortunes, as they very well know. I
should tell them that in three days such a one would be dead, and
then it would be that man's duty to go away and die, in fulfilment
of prophecj'. I suppose his friends would never speak to him again
if he refused to fulfil the words of the Prophet, so great is their
faith. They bring me the unripe cocoanut for its milk ; there are
fish of every kind in the sea, which they net and spear for me ;
there are kangaroo and cassowary on the hills, which they snare
and trap for me ; there are birds, which they shoot for me ; there
are mangoes, bread-fruit, bananas, yams, sweet potatoes, and taro.
I assure you we feed very well. Don't we, David ?' He laid his
hand on the other man's shoulder. ' We have also tobacco. There
is, however— which you regret, David, don't you ? — no rum on the
island.'
' Is your — your — chum also worshipped ?' asked the Mate, re-
garding David with an obvious decrease of interest.
' No ; David is recognised as of inferior clay. This poor fellow
was wrecked upon the island ; he came ashore on a plank, the rest
of the ship's crew aud passengers have given indigestion to the
sharks?. He is not happy here, and he would like you to take him
off the island.'
A JONAH COME ABOARD. 15
'Yes,' said David eagerly, but still iu his slow way, 'anywhere,
so that I can only get on my way to England.'
* He was just getting oS his plank, and the people were preparing
to receive him joyfully, warmly, and hospitably, after their fashion ;
that is to say, into their pots — they have a beautiful method of
cooking, in a kind of sunken pot, which would greatly interest you
if you were a captive and expecting your turn — when I fortunately
arrived, and succeeded, by promising an eclipse if I was disobeyed,
in saving him. The eclipse came in good time ; but I had forgiven
the people for their momentary mutiny, and I averted its power
for evil. So long as David sticks close to me now he is safe. If
he leaves me his end is certain. But he is no use to me, and for
certain reasons I should very much prefer that he was gone. Will
you take him ?'
' The ship doesn't carry passengers,' said the Mate ; ' besides '
' He is harmless, and you can trust him not to make mischief.
I will pay for him if you like.'
' What does he want to go home for ?' asked the Mate doubt-
fully. Indeed, the appearance of the man did not warrant the
belief that he would be welcomed by his friends.
' He has to pay a pilgrimage : he has to deliver a message before
a magistrate, and to be subsequently elevated to a post of great
distinction,' said the Baron.
' Humph !' said the Mate. ' lie looks as if he'd done something.
Better keep in these latitudes, stranger ; where no one asks and no
one cares. But about his fare — who's to pay for his passage and
his grub, if we take him ?'
' You will return some time to Queensland, Take or send this
note.' He took his note-book, tore olf half a leaf, and wrote a few
words upon it. ' Send this note to Messrs. Ilengstenburg and
Company, Sydney. Tell them where you got it, and they will
give you £20 for it, and will thank you into the bargain for letting
them know that, so far, the Baron Scrgius Von llolsteu is safe.
If there is any money left after paying for your ])asHenger, give it
to this poor devil. He is not such a bad duvil, tlif)iigii ho looks so
miserable, unless ho begins to confide in you. When he does that,
lock him up in a cabin. Perhaps lie has done something, as you
say : what do we know V As for doing things,' he said, regarding
his humble companion with the utmost severity, 'a man who is
tempted to commit a crime ought always to remember that he will
some day, in all probability, be wrecked on a desert island, an
island of cannibals, in the company of one, and only one, other
i6 TO CALL HER MINE.
European, and that man greatly his RU])crior ; and he ought truly
to resolve that under no temptations will he do anything which
may make him a nuisance and a bore to that companion through
the vehemence of his repentance.' David Leighan groaned. ' Man,'
added the Baron sententiously, 'docs not live for himself alone ;
and he who rashly commits a crime may hereafter seriously inter-
fere with the comfort of his brother man.' David hung his head.
' I forgive you, David. I have protected ycu from the natives'
spears and their ])ots and carving-knives for six months, though it
has cost me many foolish threats and vain curses. I have fed you
and sheltered you. I have been rewarded by penitential groans
and by outward tokens of fervent contrition. These have saddened
my days, and have disturbed my slumbers. Groan, henceforth,
into other ears. I forgive you, however, only on one condition,
that you return no more. If you do, you shall be speared and
potted without remorse. As for the document in my note-
book '
' I shall get to England before you,' said David ; * and when I
get there, I shall go at once to Challacombe or Moreton and make
a statement just like the one you have in your note-book. By the
time you come to England, I shall be '
' Exactly,' said the Baron, smiling sweetly. ' You will have been
a public character. Well, to each man comes, somehow, his chance
of greatness. I hope you may enjoy your reputation, David, though
it may be shortlived.'
The Mate, meantime, was considering the note put into his
hands. It was very short, and was a simple draught upon a
merchant's house in Sydney — the shortest draught, 1 suppose, ever
written, and on the smallest piece of paper.
' Messrs. Hengstenburg and Co., Sydney. Pay bearer £20. New
Ireland. 1884. Baron Sergius Von Holsten.'
' I will take him,' said the Mate. ' The Ca])tain is always drunk,
so it is no use waiting to ask him. Most likely he will never know.
I expect to be out another three or four months. He can come
aboard with me. But, stranger,' he said persuasively, ' can no
business be done ? Are they open to reason ?' He looked round
at the forest and the deserted huts. ' Can we trade for a few
natives, you and me, between us ? Lord ! if I could only see my
way to persuade 'cm to worship me, I'd — blessed if I -.vouldn't ! — I
would ship the whole island. There would be a fortune in it.'
' They are open to no reason at all. In fact, if they were at this
moment — nothing is more probable — to come down upon us unex-
A jfOXAH COME ABOARD. 17
pectedly, it would be a painful necessity for me — if I valued my
reputation as a Prophet — to order them to attack and spear both
you and your crew ; otherwise, I should be considered a false
Prophet, and should pay the penalty in being myself speared and
put into these curious large sunken pots in which one lies so snug
and warm. They are a bloodthirsty, ferocious race. In their
cookery they are curious, as I have already informed you. They
are wonderfully handy with their lances, and they move in large
bodies. Those pop-guns of yours would knock over two or three,
but would be of no avail to save your own lives. Therefore, I
would advice that you get into your boat and aboard your ship with
as little delay as possible.'
The Mate took his advice, and departed with his passenger.
' And now,' said the Baron Sergius, ' I am alone at last, and can
enjoy myself without any of that fellow's groans. I never knew
before how extremely disagreeable one single simple murder may
make a man.'
******
That evening the rescued man, David Leighan, sat on the deck
with his friend the Mate. They had a bottle of rum between
them and a jtannikin apiece. The island of Xew Ireland was now
a black patch low down on the horizon ; the night was clear, and
the sky full of stars ; there was a steady breeze, and the schooner
was making her way easily and gently across the smooth water.
David was off the island at last, and once more free to return to
England, yet he did not look happier ; on the contrary, the gloom
upon his face was blacker than ever.
'The Skipper,' said the Mate, 'is drunk again. He's been <lnnik
since we .'tailed out of port. Don't you never ship with a Skijipcr
that is drunk all day long. Once in a way — say of a Saturday
night, when a man may expect it — there's no harm done ; and not
much when the fit takes him now and tlicn in an uncertain way,
though it may put the men altout more tiian a bit. Wiicrcas, you
see, the Captain has got the owners' private instructions — tlioso
which they don't write down. lie knows how far he may go with
the natives, and where he's to draw the line. So tiiat if he's always
drunk, what is the l\Iate to do? lOilher ho may take the slii[)
homo again and report his own Captain, in whicli case lie makes
enemies for life, anil may never get a berth again, or he may fill his
ship with goods in tlio easiest way they can Ije got, which, I needn't
tell you, mate, is a rough way. And when ho gets back to port,
what is to prevent some of his men from rounding on that Mate ?
i8 TO CALL HER MINE.
Then all the blame falls on hiiu, and he is prosecuted, because it
will be shown in evidence that the Captain was druuk all the time.
Either way, therefore, the Mate gets the worst of it. Sometimes
I think it would be best for him to join the Captain. Then the
command would devolve upon the boVn, and how he'd get A/s
goods everybody knows.'
The officer was loquacious, and talked on about his trade and its
difficulties, not at first observing that his companion took no
interest in it.
' Seems as if you're sorry you've left the island,' he said presently,
remarking a certain absence of sympathy.
' I wish I had stayed there,' said David, with a groan. ' There
at least I was safe, except for the — the thing at night ; whereas, if
I get back to England, supposing I ever do ' here he stopped.
' If you've done something, man, what the devil do you want to
go back to England for V
' Because I must. There's ropes pulling me back, and yet there's
something that always stops me. I was going home from Brisbane,
but the ship was wrecked. That is how I got on New Ireland.
Before that, I was travelling down to Melbourne to get a passage
from there, but the train was smashed, and I had three months in
hospital and spent all my money. I dare say something will happen
to this ship. She'll run on a rock or capsize, or something.'
The Mate made no reply for a little. He was superstitious, like
all sailors. Just then the drunken Captain began to sing at the
top of his voice. It was a sound of ili-omen. The Mate shuddered,
and took another sip of the rum.
' Man,' he said, ' I don't like it. If the crew bad heard them
words, they'd have had you overboard in a minute. Don't tell me
they wouldn't, because they would, and think nothing of it. This
is a voyage where we want all the luck we can get ; not to have
our honest endeavours thwarted by such an unlucky devil as your-
self. Well, I won't tell them. But keep a quiet tongue in your
head. And now go below and turn in.'
Later on, the Mate was able to turn in for an hour. His
passenger was sitting up in bed, remonstrating with some invisible
person.
' I am going home,' he said, ' as fast as I can go. Leave me in
peace. I am going home, and I will confess everything.'
The Mate asked him what he was doing, but received no answer,
for the man had fallen back upon the pillow and was fast asleep.
lie had been talking in bis sleep.
A yONAH COME ABOARD. 19
' I'll put him ashore,' said the Mate, ' at the first land we make
where he wou't be eaten by cannibals. I believe he's committed a
murder.'
The next day, and the next, and for many days the vessel sailed
among the islands of the Southern Seas. But David grew daily
more miserable and more despondent ; his face looked more haggard,
and his eyes became more hollow. He was dismal when sober, and
despairing when drunk. The Mate left him now altogether alone,
and none of the ship's company, who regarded him with doubtful,
if not unfriendly eyes, spoke to him. So that he was able to revel
in the luxury of repentance, and to taste beforehand, in imagina-
tion, the pleasures of the atonement which awaited him.
It proved a most unlucky voyage. They lost two men in an en-
counter with the natives ; they had no success in trading ; the
Captain continued to drink, and the Mate wished devoutly that the
cruise was finished and the ship back in port, if only to have done
with a voyage which he foresaw would continue as it had begun.
The end came unexpectedly.
One night the watch on deck were startled by a bright light in
the Captain's cabin. The light shot into a flame, and the flame
leajiod and ran along the sides of the cabin and caught the deck
and licked the timbers of the ship. The old schooner was as dry
a.s tinder, and caught fire like a piece of paper. In five minutes it
became apparent that they must take to their boats. This they
did, having just time to put in a little water and some provisions.
A.s to the drunken man who had done the mischief, he came out of
the burning caliin and danced and sang until the flames dragged
bim down.
In the fierce glare of the burning sliip, the Mate looked at David
reproachfully, implying that this misfortune was entirely due to
his presence.
* Even now,' he whispered, ' I will not tell the men you have
ruined the voyage, bnrned the sliij), killed the Captain, and niaybo
killed us as well. What have you done that we should be puni.shed
like this for taking you on board ? Is it — Ib it murder ?'
David nodded his head gloomily.
''I'heii,' said the Mate, 'whatever liappens to us, you'll get safe
ashore. You won't be drowned and you won't be starved.'
Three weeks later there were only two survivors in that boat.
The other men had all drunk sea-water, and so gone mad one after
the other, and leaped overboard in their delirium. Oidy David
2—2
20 rO CALL HER MINE.
Leighan was left with the Mate, and they were lying one in the
bows and one in the stern, as far apart as the boat would allow, and
they wore black in the face, gaunt, and hoUow-e^ed.
When they were picked up, the signs of life were so faint in
them that the Skipper, a humane person, took counsel with his
Mate, whether it would not save the poor men trouble to drop
thom into the water at once. Bat in the end, as there was just the
least and faintest pulse possible, he hoisted them aboard and laid
them on the deck, with their heads propped up. Then, the ship
having no doctor aboard, he began to administer whisky and rum
in alternate spoonfuls, so that the dying men got so drunk that
they could no longer die with any dignity. They therefore re-
covered, and sat up, gazing about them with rolling heads and
vacuous eyes. Then they fell back, and went sound asleep for six
hours. At the end of this time the misery of the long fasting
began again with pangs intolerable. But the Captain rose to the
occasion. Pea-soup, also exhibited in spoonfuls, proved a specific.
Next day they had boiled pork ; and the day after, sea-pie. Now,
the man who can eat sea-pie can eat anything. The two survivors
of the unlucky schooner were once more well and hearty.
For the rest of the voyage the rescued Mate kept aloof from the
rescued passenger. He would not speak to him ; he avoided that
part of the ship where he happened to be. As for the latter, he
found a place abaft, near the helm, where he could sit upon a coil
of rope, his head upon his knees. And there he remained, gloomy
and silent.
There was trouble, too. First the ship sprang a leak, and the
]»umps had to be worked. Next, there was a bad storm, and the
mizen-mast went by the board. Thirdly, a fire broke out, and was
subdued with difficulty. However, the ship at last sighted land, and
arrived, battered and shattered, at the port of Sydney.
When they landed, and not till then, the rescued Mate spoke his
mind.
First he went to the house of Hengstenburg and Co., where he
l)resented the Baron's draught, gave news of his safety, and touched
the money. He then led his passenger to a drinking-saloon, and
entered into a serious conversation with him.
' As for this money,' he said, ' you weren't a passenger more than
a few days, and I can't rightly charge you much. Take fifteen,
and I'll take five. With fifteen pounds you can got home, which I
take to b# your desire, and give yourself up, which I take to be
your duty.' It will be understood that the unfortunate David
'TUB 8IIIP IIAVINO NO IKKTOB AIIOAItr), UK IIWIAN TO ADMINIHTEIl WillMKV ANU'llUM
IS Al.Tr.KNATK HrOO.NrVLH.'
A JONAH COME ABOARD. 21
in the extremity of his starvation and remorse had been talk-
ing.
* A Providence it is,' said the Mate, ' that where so many honest
fellows were took, I was spared ; else j'ou would never have had
this money, and you wouldn't therefore have been able to give
yourself up, and you would never have been hung. A clear Provi-
dence it is ; and you must regard it as such, and remember it when
they take you out, comfortably, with the chaplain and the rope.'
David took the money, rolled it up in a rag, and placed it in his
pocket ; but said nothing.
' I don't want,' continued the ]\Iate, ' to hurt your feelings ; but,
if you can, go home on a raft by yourself ; for, being a Jonah '
' What is a Jonah ?'
• Being a Jonah, in a whale's belly, it would be kind and con-
siderate and might save many valuable lives. As for me, I don't
mind owning up, that if I was to find myself aboard with you
again, after all I've gone through, and you carrying about wherever
you go an infernal, invisible ghost and talking and confessing to
him every night — I say, if I was to find myself aboard M'ith j'ou
again, I'd get into the dingy and row ashore by myself — I would, if
it was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.'
David groaned.
Then the Mate moralized upon the situation. Strange to say, he
took something of the line previously taken by Baron Sergius,
'One fine ship wrecked, and all her crew, for aught I know, cast
away ; another tight schooner burnt and the Captain and all tho
crew killed, except you and me ; and a third shi[) half burned and
brought water-logged into port — and all along of you ! Jilow me !
if you'd knifed a Bishop there couldn't have been more fuss made !
I won't reproach you, my lad, because you've got your ghost to do
that every night, and because you've got to face the racket of tho
chaplain and the rope and the long drop ; but, considuriiig the
mischief you've done, I wish to put it to you, that what you've
done was a bea.stly selfish thing to do.'
22 TO CALL HER MINE.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST DREAM.
At half-past four exactly, Mr. Leighan, of Gratnor, commonly
called Daniel Leighan, or Old Dan, or Mr. Daniel, according to the
social position of those who spoke of him, awoke with a start from
his afternoon nap. Mr. Leighan always took his dinner at one ;
after his dinner, he took a tumbler of brandy-and-water hot, with
two lumps of sugar and a slice of lemon — as his grandfather had
done before him, only that the ancestral drink was rum, and the
brew was called " punch." With the glass of brandy-and-water he
took a pipe of tobacco. This brought him. regularly and exactly, to
half -past two. He then knocked out the ashes, laid down his pipe,
pulled his silk handkerchief over his head — which kept off the
draught in winter and flies in summer — and went to sleep till half-
past four, when he woke up and had his tea. This was hia way of
spending the afternoon. He had never varied that way, even when
he was a young man and active ; and now he would never attempt
to vary it, for he was old and paralyzed ; and he passed his days
wholly sitting in a high-backed arm-chair, with pillows and cushions
at the back and sides, and a stool for his feet. From eight in the
morning until nine in the evening he lived in that chair and in that
room. There was always a wood fire burning in the grate, even
on such a hot summer day as this ; for Challacorabe is a thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and the clouds roll up the valleys
of the Teign and the Bovcy from the sea, or they roll down from
the Tors and the Downs, and envelop it ; so that half the year one
lives in cloud. This makes it a damp and trying air, so that the
domestic hearth at Challacombe is like the Altar of Vesta, being
never quenched even in July and August.
Old Dan— we all belong, I am sure, to the upper circles, and can,
therefore, permit ourselves this familiarity — was now white-haired,
and advanced in years ; but not so old as he looked by a good many
years. His locks were long, but, though certainly impressive, they
did not, as in another and a famous historical case, cause him,
therefore, to look benevolent. Perhaps this was because he wore
a black skull-cap : a thing which, like a biretta, generally causes its
wearer to appear bereft of all charity, meekness, tenderness, and
OLD n*S- WAH NOW WIlTTE-HAinET), AND AIlVANCKD IN VKARS.
THE FIRST DREAM. 23
brotherly love. A black sknll-cap is even said to have a really
malignant influence as regards these virtues. Perhaps, however,
no artifice or invention of science could make that face look
benevolent. In youth, before its features were sharpened and
stifiPened, it must have been a singularly handsome and striking
face. It was now a masterful and self-willed face. The nose was
long and hooked, the forehead high and narrow, the chin sharp,
and the mouth square ; any one of these points may indicate self-
will, but, taken all together, they bawl it aloud. If his eyes were
open, as they will be in a moment, you would say that they must
have been beautiful in youth, when their bright blue was set off
by the brown hair ; now, after seventy years of greed and avarice,
they were hard and keen, but as bright as ever — even brighter than
in youth, because they were set off by thick white eyebrows like a
pent-house. Before his afliiction fell upon him he was taller than
the generality of men. Even now, when he sat upright in his chair,
he produced the same impression of great height which he had
formerly been used to e.xercise when he stood half a foot or so
above any man with whom he was conversing. Great stature,
properly used, is a wonderful help to personal influence. Too often,
however, it i.^, considered as a means of self-advancement, a gift
clean thrown away. It was not, in short, a common face which
one looked at in that chair, nor a common figure. Any candid
person — that is to say, any man who had never had business
relations with ]Mr. Leighan, and might, llicrcforo, be reasonably
free from the vindictiveness and rage which blinded the eyes of his
tenants, dtbtors. and dependents — would allow this to be the face
of a man originally intended by Nature to make a mark in the great
world, if ho should pet the chance. lie never did get that chance,
and his abilities had been expended in the interesting and absorbing,
though petty, business of over-reaching neighbours not so clever as
himself, extorting the uttermost farthing, and adding bit by bit to
his property. He was now the rich man of a parish in which there
was no Sfjuirc ; he was the village miser ; ho was the terror of
those who owed him money ; he was the driver of the hardest
bargains ; he was the strong and masterful man ; he was the
scour[,c of the weak and thriftless ; he was the tyrant of the
village. lie knew all this, and, so far from being humiliated, he
enjoyed the position ; lie exulted in the consciousness of his own
unpoptdarity ; he alone in the jiarish had risen among his fellows
tn the proud distinction of being univc rsaiiy detested. Men like
I'avid Leighan love the power which sufh a position means ; they
24 TO CALL HER MINE.
even think of themselves complacently as wolves lying in ambush
to rush upon the unwary, and to rend and devour the feeble.
The girl who sat working at the open window was his niece,
Mary Nethercote. That is to say, the work lay in her lap ; but her
hands were idle, and her eyes were far away from the sewing. She
lived wnth Daniel, and took care of him. He railed at all the
world except her ; he quarrelled with all the world except his
niece ; and those persons who averred that he was kind to her
because he had the keeping of her money and took all the interest
for himself, and had her services as housekeeper for nothing, were
perhaps only imperfectly acquainted with the old man's motives
and his feelings. Yet the statement was true. He did have the
keeping of her money — a good lump of money ; and he did give
himself the interest in return for her board and lodging ; and he
did have her services as housekeeper for nothing.
I declare that when one considers such a girl as Mary Nethercote,
and thinks how helpful she is, how unselfish, how ready at all times
to spend and be sjjent in the service of others ; how full she is of
the old-fashioned learning which the homestead gives to the
happiness of material comfort ; how little she thinks about her-
self -, bow simple she is in her tastes, and yet how sweet and dainty
and lovely to look upon, one is carried away with gratitude and
admiration. What, one asks at such a moment, is the wisdom of
Girton and Newnham compared with the wisdom of the farmer's
daughter ? "What ! in fact, can the Girton girl make ? Doth
she solace the world and profit her kind by her triple inte-
grals ? Doth she advance mankind by her cherished political
economy ? Mary, for her part, keeps the fowls and ducks ;
Mary considers the fattening of the geese and the welfare of the
turkeys ; Mary looks after the dairy ; Mary superintends the
baking of the wholesome and sweet home-made bread under the
red pots ; the confecting of jjuddings, pies, tarts, and cakes ; the
boiling and skimming and potting of the most beautiful jams and
jellies ; Mary conducts the garden, both that of flowers and that of
vegetables — there is, in fact, only one garden, and the flowers
flourish in the borders beside the onions and the peas ; Mary directs
the brewing of the cider ; IMary keeps the keys, and "gives out"
the linen ; Mary inspects the washing and the ironing : in short, Mary
"openeth her mouth with wisdom, and looketh well to the ways of
her household." She is up at five in summer and at six in winter ;
all the morning she is at work with her maids ; in the afternoon
she takes her needle and sews ; in the evening she plays and sings
'TUE OIHL WHO 3A1 WUHKIM> Al IH fc orEN WINDOW WAM MAllV NKTIIEIUJOI K.
THE FIRST DREAM. 25
a little, to keep her uncle in good temper, and sometimes reads a
novel for an hour before she goes to bed. This is her life. Some-
times there may be a tea-drinking. Sometimes she will mount her
pony and ride over to Xewton Abbot, to Moretou Hampstead, or to
Ashburton, where the shop-people all know her, and are pleased to
see her. But mostly, from week to week, she stays at home. As
for a summer holiday, that is a thing which has never entered into
her mind. The girl-graduate, perhaps, scorns the work of the
household. I, for my part, do not scorn the work of the farmer,
•whose work exactly corresponds to that of Mary. It seems to me a
better and a happier life, in and out of house and barn, and linney,
and dairy, in the open air, warmed by the sun, beaten by every
wind that blows, breathing the sweet smells of newly-turned earth,
of hedge and ditch, and the wild-flowers, than any that can be found
in the study and at the desk.
The maids of Devon are, we know, fair to outward view as
other maidens are, and perhaps fairer than most ; though in so
delicate a matter as beauty, comparisons are horrid. Some there
are with black hair and black eyes. These must be descended from
the ancient Cornish stock, and are cousins of those who still speak the
Celtic tongue across the Channel. But there is talk of the Spanish
prisoners who had no desire to go home again, but settled in Devon
and Cornwall, and became Protestants in a land Avhore there was no
In([ui.sition. Others there are who have brown hair and lilue eyes.
Mary came of this stock. Her eyes, like her uncle's, were blue, but
they were of a deei)er blue ; and they were soft, while his were
hard. Her hair was a rich, warm brown, and there was a lot of it.
When all is said, can tiiere be a better colour for hair and eyes ?
As for her face, I do not claim, as the Americans say, for IMary
that she was a stately and statueKfjuc beauty ; nor had she the least
touch of style and fasiiion— how should she have? But for
sweetness, and the simple beauty of regular features, rosy lips,
bright eyes, and liealthy cheek, lit up with the sunshine of love and
truth, and coloured with the bUfoni of youth, then; are few damsels,
indeed, who can conii)are with Mary Xuliiercote, of (iratrior Farm.
As for her figure, it was tall and well-proportioned, full of healtli
and yet not buxom. Need one say more V Such was Mary in the
summer of the year IHSU ; nay, such slie is now, as you may see in
Cliallacomljc (Jliurch, where she still .sits in tier old place with the
choir, beside (ieorge Sidcotc. Many things — of which I am the
historian- have happened since the summer of last year; but
JIary's place in church is not changed, nor has the bloom of lir-r
26 TO CAT.L TIER MINE.
beauty left her cheek : — many things, as you shall learn, with many
surprises and great changes ; yet mcthinks her face is ha])pier and
more full of sunshine now than it was twelve months ago.
The room in which she sat was low and long : it was an old-
fashioned wainscoted room, rather dark, because it was lit by one
window only, and because a great branch of white roses was hang-
ing over the window, broken from its fastenings by the wind, or by
the weight of its flowers. It had a south aspect, which in winter
made it warm ; its chief article of furniture, because it was always
in one place and took up so much room, was Mr. Leighan's arm-
chair, which stood so that his back was turned to the light. This
prevented him from looking out of the window, but it enabled him
to read and write and pore over his papers. The best scenery in the
eyes of Mr. Leighan was the sight of a mortgage or a deed of con-
veyance. As for the sunshine outside — the flowers, and the view
of hill and vale and wood — he cared naught for these things.
There were, besides, two or three ordinary chairs— Mary had never
enjoyed the luxury of an easy-chair or a sofa— there was a small
work-table for her ' things,' and there was a really splendid old
cabinet, black with age, wonderful with carvings, for which
Wardour Street would sigh in vain ; in fact, the reputation of that
cabinet had gone abroad, and overtures had been made again and
again for its purchase. And the contents ! Your heart would sink
with the sickness of longing only to look upon them. There were
old brass candlesticks, old silver candlesticks, brass and silver
snuffers and snuffer-trays ; silver cups of every size, from the
little christening-cup to the great silver whistle-cup holding a quart
and a half ; there were punch-bowls and ladles ; and there was old
china — yea, china which would move a collector to sighs and sobs of
envy. These things represented many generations of Leighans,
who had been settled in Challacombe since that parish began to
exist. It is now five hundred years since their ancestors moved up
from the lowlands to the hillsides and combes on the fringe of the
Moor. It was about the time when the Yorkists and Lancastrians
were chopping and hacking at one another, though no report of the
Vmttles came up here for many a month after the event, that the
church was built. Civil wars, indeed, never caused any broils at
Challacombe : the Reformation found the people obedient ; Queen
Mary burned none of them, for they were easily reconverted ; and
Queen Bess found them docile to the royal supremacy. The only
enthusiasm they were ever known to show was a hundred years after
Queen Bess's time, when King Monmouth rode across the West
'it WAH an OLb-fAHHIUNKb WAINMC<JTED 1(00 M ; AND TIIKHK. WAH A KKALI.V MCLENUIb OLD
CABINKT, BLACK WITH AOK, WONPKIlKirl. WITH lAIlVINOH.'
THE FIRST DREAM. 27
Country to try his fate at Sedgemoor. One of the younger
Leighans, a hot blood, who heard of his landing when at Ashburton
on market-day, so far forgot the family traditions as to gallop over
to Torquay and shout for the new King, and rode in his train, and
did his share of the fighting. More lucky than his companions, he
found his way home, and went on farming — 'twas John Leighan of
Foxworthy — as if nothing had happened, and nobody afterwards
troubled him. In this great cabinet were kept the treasures of all
those generations — about fifteen in number — who now lie — fathers,
mothers, sons, and daughters — in the green churchyard of Challa-
combe. Daniel Leighan, the owner of the cabinet, thought himself
a warm man ; but his warmth, in his own mind, consisted of his
fields and his investments : he little knew or suspected how valuable
were those treasures in his cabinet.
There were pictures on the walls — coloured engravings and
mezzotints of the last century. I take it that Art, in the form of
pictures, did not reach the Devonshire farm earlier than the year
1750, or thereabouts. On the mantelshelf were certain china
vases which caused anguish to the critical soul : they dated from
1820, I think. Above the vases were old-fashioned samplers in
frames, things which made one babble of IMadame Tiarbauld, Mrs.
Trimmer, and Joanna Baillie. I don't know why — because I never
saw any of Mrs. Barbauld's samplers, or those of the other ladies.
A piano stood at the wall laden with songs and music — not, I
fear, of the highest classical kind, for Mary's school at Newton
Abbot, where she Lad spent two long years, knew little of classical
mnsic. Will Nethercote — I who write this story am that Will —
sent her the songs from London, and George Sidcote bought her
the music at Xewton or at Teignmouth. There was also a shelf of
books ; but these were even less successful, from the classical point
of view, than the music. For they consisted of novels, also given
l)y this London p(;rsoii, and of pretty books Ijonght for hor in tlicir
boyish days by George Sidcote, and if we just liiiit that tlie loading
booksoller of IJovey is a])parently— to judge by the works laid out
upon his shelves — under the influence of two young men who wear
l)road hats and flopjjiiig skirts, and talk loud as tlioy walk in flio
streets, and profess a longing to restore (Jhurch discipline, you will
understand how satisfying to the imagination these books were.
Mary rcjiroachcd herself for liking the works of Mrs. Oliphant,
Thomas Hardy, and Wilkio fJollins — those quite niundaiK? jicrsons
— better tlian these gaudy voluiiuis.
She was dressed for the afternoon iti a |)ink chintz, with a pink-
28 TO CALL HER MINE.
and-white flowered apron, of the kind which covers the whole front
of the dress ; round her neck she had a white lace ruffle. All the
morning she had been at work about the house and the poultry-
yard, yet now she looked as if she had not done a stroke of hard
work all day, so cool, so quiet, and so dainty was she to look upon.
Her hands — not, to be sure, so white and so small as those of a
countess — were brown, but not coarse ; and her face, though she
was out in all weathers, was not burnt or freckled. Yet in her
eyes there was a world of trouble. She was troubled for others, .
not for herself ; she was suffering, as some women suffer all their
lives, from the dangers which hung over and threatened her lover.
You will find out, presently, that these were very real and terrible
dangers, and that his life, and therefore hers, was menaced with
shipwreck, imminent and unavoidable.
Daniel Leighan awoke at half-past four. Generally, the waking
from an afternoon nap is a gentle and a gradual process : first a
roll of the head, then a half opening of the eyes, next a movement
of the feet and hands, before full life and consciousness return.
This afternoon Daniel Leighan, who had been sleeping quite peace-
fully and restfully, awoke suddenly with a cry, and sat upright in
his chaii", clutching the arms, his eyes rolling in horror and amaze-
ment.
' Mary !' be cried ; and then the horror passed out of his face,
and his eyes expressed wonder and bewilderment only.
The girl, who was sitting at the window, work in hand, was at
his side in a moment.
'Mary !' hegasped and panted, and his words came painfully, ' I
saw him — I saw him — the man who robbed me. I saw him plain —
and I have forgotten — I have forgotten I It was — oh ! I knew just
now — I have forgotten, Mary !'
' Patience, uncle ; patience.' Mary patted and smoothed the
pillows into their places. ' Another time you will remember ; you
are sure to remember, if the dream only comes again. Lie down
again and think.'
He obeyed, and she covered his head again with his silk handker-
chief, which sometimes soothes into slumber if the silk is soft
enough. He had started from his sleep, as if stung into wakeful-
ness by the recollection of something horrible and painful ; and
his dream had vanished from his memory, leaving not a trace
behind. With such trouble did King Nebuchadnezzar awake, to
find his dream uninttlligih)le ; but the terror left — and the fore-
boding. Mary saw the terror ; but she knew nothing of the
THE FIRST DREAM. 29
foreboding. Yet her uncle's mind was filled with anxious fears
springing out of this vision. She saw the rolling eyes, the clutch-
ing of the chair-arms, and the look of bewilderment ; but she only
thought her uncle was startled, like a child, in his sleep, and crying
out, like a child, for help when there was no danger. He lay still
for a few moments while she stood beside him and watched. Then
he tore off the handkerchief and sat up again.
' It is quite gone,' he said in despair : ' I have lost the clue. Yet
I saw him — oh ! I saw him, clear and distinct — the man who robbed
me. And while I was going to cry out his name — just as I had his
name upon my lips — I awoke and forgot him.'
' If it comes again,' said Mary, incredulous in spite of her words,
'you will be sure to remember. Perhaps it will come again.
Patience, uncle.'
' Patience ! when I had the clue ? Patience ! when I could follow
up the robber and tear my papers out of his hands. Patience ! —
don't be a fool, Mary !'
' Well, uncle, if it has gone, and you can't bring it back again,
try to forget that it ever came : that is the wisest thing to do.
You shall have your tea, and then you will feel bettei-.'
'Mary'— he turned to her piteously — 'it is cruelly hard. Can't
you remember ? Think. Perhaps I talked in my sleep — some men
do. Have you never heard me say anything — call someone by
name ? If I had only the least little clue, I should remember.'
' Why, uncle, how should I remember ?'
' It came back to me — all so clear— so clear and plain. And I
have forgotten. Oh ! Mary, my money — my money !'
' Yes, uncle. But it is six years ago, nearly, and you have done
very well since. And it is not as if you had lost all your money.
AVhy, you have prospered while all the rest have been doing so
badly. You must think of that.'
' Lost all my money Y he rei)eatcd testily ; ' of course I've not
lost all. As if a man could bear to lose a single jienny of the
money that he has spent his life in saving. Do you know what I
have lost, girl ?' She knew very well, because he told her every
day. ' There were bonds and coupons in the bag to the sum of
near upon a hundred and fifty ]»ound8 a year — nearly three thousand
jiounds they meant. As for the share certificates, they didn't
matter; but coupons — coupons, Mary; do you hear? — payaljlo
only to the bearer — a hundred and fifty pounds a year — a hundred
and fifty pounds a year ! — near three thousand pounds ! ' His
voice rosa to a shriek, and suddenly dropped again to a nman.
30 TO CALL HER MINE.
* Throe tbousaud pouuds ! Payable to the bearer, and I haven't
got them to present ! If I were a young man of thirty I might
recover the loss ; but I am old now, and I can never hope to make
it up — never hope to make it up again !'
It was six years since that loss had occurred ; but this wail over
the lost money was raised nearly every day, and almost in the same
words, so that the girl felt little sympathy now with the bereave-
ment of her uncle.
' It was six o'clock when I left Ashburton.' The girl had also
heard this story so often that her interest in the details had become
numbed. ' Six o'clock when I started to ride home. I had seventy
pounds in gold upon me : fifty pounds in one bag and twenty in
another ; my tin box in a blue bag was round my neck, and it was
filled with securities and bonds and share certificates. " Better
leave 'em here, Mr. Leighan," said Feunell, the bank manager. I
wish I had ! I wish I had, Mary ! But I was headstrong, and
would have everything in my own strong-box under my own eye.
So I refused, and rode off with them. At half- past seven — it was
dark then — I rode into Widdicombe. There I pulled up. I well
remember that I stopped there and had a glass of brandy-and-
water. It was braudy-and-water hot ; and they tried to make it
weak, but I wouldn't be cheated. And then I rode on. I remember
riding on. And then — then ' At this point he paused, because
here his brain began to wander, and his memory played him
tricks.
' At Widdicombe, uncle, you must have paid somebody twenty
pounds and left your bag of papers ; and now you can't remember
who it was.'
' No, child ; no. I paid away no money at all in Widdicombe,
except fourpence for the brandy-and-water. Why should I ? There
was nothing owing to anybody. Why should I leave a box full of
securities and bonds in the hands of anyone when I refused to leave
them in the bank ? Was I ever a foolhardy person, that I should
trust anybody with property of that kind ?'
' No,' said Mary. ' It is difficult to understand why you should
do so.'
' The landlady — she's a respectable widow woman, and it's only
right that she should be near with her brandy — she bears me out.
She remembers my paying the fourpence and riding away. After
that I remember nothing. Why have I forgotten the ride through
the lanes under Moneybag V Why don't I remember passing through
liewedstone Gate to the open down ? Yet I remember nothing
THE FIRST DREAM. 31
more. Miud you, I wont huve it said in my hearing that I ever
gave anybody anything or that I left my bag lying about like a
fool. Yet, when George Sidcote picked me up, the bag was gone,
and twenty pounds had gone, too — twenty pounds !'
' Well, but, uncle, consider : you had seventy pounds in gold in
your purse, and only twenty were taken. If it had been a thief he
would surely have taken the whole, and your loose silver as well
as your watch and chain. Why, all those were left.'
' I don't know. Perhaps he thought the bag of papers would
satisfy him. How do I know ? What made me fall ofE the pony?
I never fell off the pony before. If I was Balaam I would make
that old pony tell me who found me lying in the road and robbed
me. Fell off the pony I — how in the world did I come to fall off
the pony ? I wasn't drunk, girl ; nobody ever saw Daniel Leighan
drunk. I wish I was Balaam — I wish I was — just for five minutes
— to have a few words with the pony.'
* You must have given the twenty pounds to somebody in
A.shburton or Widdicombe, with the bag of papers. Everybody
says so.'
' I didn't, then ! I felt the bag round my neck when I roJe out
of Widdicombe — the bag round my neck, and the money in my
pocket. Do you think I should not remember if I had paid away
twenty pounds — twenty pounds ! — do you think I shouldn't have
taken a receipt, and the bill and the receipt both in my i)ocket ?
Twenty pounds — twenty pounds ; — one would think the sovereigns
grew in the hedge like the roses.'
' Well, uncle, but think : every day you trouble your poor head
about it, and nothing comes of it ; why not try to forget the loss?
Think what a prosperous man you have been all your life. Think
what your properly is now, tliougli you began with oidy one farm :
money in the bank, and money invested and all ; everybody talking
about your good fortune. You should bo thinking of what you.
have, not what you have lost,'
' CJo on ; go on. Easy for a girl like you to talk. There's that
difference with a woman that she only enjoys the spending ; while
a man ' he heaved a deep sigh, and did not complete the sentence.
' Oh ! Mary,' he reached out his long bony fingers and made as if
he were raking in the gold, 'to think — only to think! — of tlio
pleasure I have had in making the money ! It was little by little,
not all at once. No, no ; I saw ray way, and I wailed. I laid my
jilans, and I had i)atience. Be sure that not a field have I got but
1 worked ami planned for it The world is full of fools : weak
32 TO CALL HER MINE.
men who have no business with pro])erty ; men without grip ; men
who just hold on till somebody comes ;ind gives 'em a shove off.
Your cousin David was such a fool, Mary.'
Mary said nothing. Her cousin David was doubtless a great
fool, but people said unkind things about her uncle's conduct
towards him,
•If I had not secured his property someone else would. It is
still in the family, which ought to be a great comfort to him,
wherever he has gone. George Sidcote is another — well, he isn't
exactly a fool, like David ; but he doesn't get on — he doesn't get
on. I fear very much '
' Uncle, spare him !'
' Because he wants to marry you, child ! Is that a reason for
interfering with the course of business ? When the pear is ripe it
will drop ! — if not into my mouth into some other man's. Business
before love, ]\rary.'
' If I could give him my fortune he would be out of his diffi-
culties.'
' Your fortune, Mary ? Where is it ? What fortune ? You
have none unless j'ou marry with my consent. Your fortune ?
Why, it depends upon me whether you ever get it. I don't say that
I shall never consent. Show me the right man — not a spendthrift,
Mary.'
' George is no spendthrift.'
' Nor a sporting and betting man.'
' George is not a sporting and betting man.'
' Xor a man in debt.'
' If George is in debt it is not his fault.'
'A substantial man, and one who knows the worth of money ;
bring that man along, and we will see. If not — well, Mary, I am
getting on for seventy, and I can't last for ever, and perhaps —
perhaps, I say — I shall leave you my money when I die. You can
wait till then. Six thousand pounds is a tremendous great lump to
part with, when a man is not obliged to part with it. And I am
not obliged to give my consent. No, no ; and after I've lost three
thousand — three thousand ! Besides, you're comfortable here :
what do you want to marry for ? what's the good of marrying ?
Better stay at home and save money. I give you your board and
your 1 xlging, Mary, while you are here, for nothing ; and your
clothing, too— yes ; your clothing.' He spoke as if many young
people had to go without.
Mary interrupted with a little laugh.
THE FIRST DREAM. zz
'Yes, uncle, I know.' She laughed, thinking how much her
uncle had given her for dress in the last year or two. Now, since
a girl may make up her own things, but cannot very well make the
chintz, cambric, and stuff itself, gossiping people often wondered
how Mary managed to dress so well and prettily. Perhaps the
fowls helped her, or the pigs.
' Well, uncle, but if I do marry without your consent, you will
have to give the money to my cousin David.'
' Yes, yes ; of course. What's the good of telling me that ? But
David is dead, no doubt, by this time ; and then the money must
remain with me, of course' — the will did not say so. 'But you
won't do that, Mary ; you'll never be so wicked as to do that.
Besides, if you did, David's accounts with me have never been
made up— that is, properly made up — and I don't doubt that when
we come to look into them it will be found that he owes me a great
deal still — a great deal of money still. I was very soft — foolishly
soft — with David.'
Mary made no reply. Her uncle had been, indeed, soft with
David ; 80 soft that he had sold him up, and turned him out, and
now possessed his land.
Mr. Leigban sighed heavily, no doubt over his foolish softness,
and became silent. It was not often that he talked so much with
his niece.
Six years before this, about half-past nine one evening in the
autumn of the year 1880, George Sidcote, walking home, found
Mr. Leighan lying in the middle of the road on Ilcytree Down.
His i)ony was grazing quietly beside him, close to the road, and he
was lying on hi.s back senseless, with an ugly wound in his head,
the scar of which would never leave him. lie had fallen, appar
cntly, from his pony, and, as farmers do not generally get such
ugly falls when they ride home at night, the gtuieral conclusion was
that ho must have been drunk to fall so heavily, and to fall upon
his head. No suspicion of violence or robbery was entertained :
first, bccauHO no one ever heard of violence at Challacomlto : and,
secondly, because ho had not, ap]iarontly, been robbed. So, at least,
it seemed to those who carried him home, for his pockets were full
of money, and his watch and chain had not been taken.
For three days and tliree nights Daniel Tjciglian lay speechless
and senseless, and but for a faint jiulse he sccmeil ilead. When lie
recovered consciousness, the first questions he asked were concern-
ing a certain tin box containing papers, which he declared was
hanging in a bag from his neck. Now, of that tin box no one knew
34 TO CALL HER MINE.
anj'thing. Presently, when he counted his money, he swore that
he was twenty pounds short.
I am sorry to say that no one believed him. That is to say, there
was no doubt that he had taken that box from the bank, because
the manager knew of it. But in his drunken fit — people were quite
sure that he must have been drunk — he must have dropped the
thing somewhere, or put it somewhere : it would be found some
day. Time passed on, but that box was not found. And the loss,
the inconvenience, and the trouble resulting from its loss were
frightful. To begin with, there were coupons of municipal bonds
and such securities, things only paid to bearer, and never replaced
if lost, representing investments to the amount of nearly three
thousand pounds. The whole of this money, with its yearly
interest, gone, unless the box should be found — clean gone. Is it
wonderful that Daniel Leighan went mad, and tore his hair only to
think of this terrible blow ? Other papers there were, share cer-
tificates and so forth, which could be replaced by payment of a fee,
but the coupons could not be replaced. Their payment could be
stopped, but without presentation there was no payment possible.
Perhaps it was the agony of mind caused by this loss, perhaps
the blow upon his head, which caused the paralysis of his legs.
This affliction fell upon him a month or so after the accident.
Then they put him in his chair beside his table, and propped him
up with pillows, and he went abroad no more. But his brain
was as clear as before, his will as strong, and his purpose as
determined.
' Take your tea, uncle,' said Mary, ' and try to think no more
of your horrid dream,'
CHAPTER IV,
CIIALLACOMBE-BY-TIIE-MOOR.
The village of Challacombe is known by sight to those excursion-
ists from Teignmouth, Dawlish, or Torquay, who take the train to
Bovey Tracey, and then go up by the char-a-bancs — locally called
' cherrybanks '—to Hey Tor and back ; because, on the way, they
pass through a little bit of Challacombe, It is also known to the
people who take lodgings at Chagford for August, in the belief
that they are going to be upon Dartmoor. Once during their stay
CHALLACOMBE-BY-THE-MOOR. 35
it is considered necessary to drive over to Challacombe. They do
this, and when they have arrived, they get out, stand upon the
Green, and gaze around. Then they either climb up the Tor which
rises just beyond the Green, or they go to John Exon's inn for a
cup of tea, or they get into the trap again and are driven away,
under the impression that they have seen Challacombe. The
village Green, however, is not the parish of Challacombe. Again,
there are two or three farmhouses scattered about in the great
parish, where lodgings can be procured ; and those who take them
for ihfi season — if they are good walkers, and do not mind roads
which cannot show one single level foot, or hot lanes which are
deep and narrow, and run between high hedges of rose, blackberry,
honeysuckle, and holly, which keep out the air — after six or seven
weeks of exploration and research, allow themselves rashly to boast
that they know Challacombe. But no ; after a second visit, or a
third, they are fain to confess that, of all the places they have ever
visited, Challacombe is the hardest to know, and takes the longest
lime to learn.
This being so, no one will expect me to describe the place.
Besides, it is so far from the ordinary track, so remote from
fa.sbion, so little adapted for visitors, that it would be cruel to
tempt strangers there. Let them be contented with a glimpse of
the Green from the chcrrybank or the Chagford pony-carriage,
just as the fashionable world which talks so much of art is con-
tented with one single glimpse of the walls of the Royal Academy
on the afternoon of the private view.
There is no village at Challacombe. There is a village Green,
and there is a church ; on one side of the Green is a long, low,
picturesque old house with a porch, called Ivy Cottage, which was
formerly the Rectory ; on another side are John Exon's inn and
Susan Wreford's village nhop, which contains the post-otlicc ; on
the third side are the walls of the Rectory garden, the village
schools, and the farm buildingK of Hedge Barton ; lanes and
another Hniall house make up the fourth side of the irregular quad-
rangle formed by the Green. One f)r two primiuval bouldLirs still
stand upon the Green too deeply bedded to be removed, and Farmer
Cummings'H pigs, gccse, and turkeys claim the riglit of running
over it. Close to tlio Green there was formerly a rudo-stone ciicie,
one of the many on and around Dartmoor ; but there was a
Rector Must one sling stones at the Church ? Yet this is
lamentably true. Once there was a Rector ; pity that 'tis true.
This good man — I say good, because 1 kuow nothing except this
3—2
36 TO CALL HER MINE.
one sin to charge against him — and one may commit one sin in a
lifetime and yet be a good man — this Rector, therefore, suffered
himself to be annoyed because antiquaries came and examined this
circle, sketched it, planned it ; walked around it and across it,
measuT-ed it, laid their heads together over it, shook their fingers
about it, and wagged their chins at each other over it — would have
photographed it, but Dame Science did not yet permit that art to
be practised — picnicked amid its stones, and brought with them
their young friends — male and female they brought them, two by
two — to look at these mysterious stones, and hear them talk. The
young friends — those who were not antiquaries — only said, ' How
deeply interesting !' and made the day, if it was fine, and the place,
which is a very beautiful place, an occasion and a spot for the most
delightful flirting. I think it was the flirting rather than the
archfBology which vexed his reverence, who had now grown old,
poor dear, and could flirt with nobody any more, except his wife,
and she was old too ; not so old as her husband, but yet she
wanted no more flirting. However, the Rector became so seriously
annoyed that, one day in the winter, when there were no anti-
quaries about, he sent to Bovey for two men and some blasting-
powder, and in a couple of days he had this rude-stone monument
blown into little pieces and carted away. Melancholy ghosts of
Druids, it is said, come to scream upon the spot all midsummer
night, in guise of owls ; and for many years the enraged and baffled
antiquaries came regularly once in the month of June, which is
sacred to stone circles and to Druids, and on the site of the
perished circle they performed a solemn service of commination
upon that Rector. They cursed him with the curses of Ernulphus ;
they cursed him out of the Psalms ; they cursed him out of the
Book of the Greater Excommunication ; they cursed him after the
manner of the Ancient Briton, the Mediscval Briton, and the
Modern Briton. Whether any of the curses took, as vaccination
takes, I know not ; certain it is that the Rector is now no more, so
that perhaps the commination killed him ; perhaps, however, it
only gave him toothache.
The village of Challacombe-by-the-Moor, even with the advant-
ages held out to it of a church, a Green, a shop, and a public-house,
refused to grow, or even to be born. This is odd. One reads of
American cities with their church, their school, their hotel, and
their weekly pajjcr ; but never of an American church, school,
hotel, and weekly paper without a city. It is gratifying to be
ahead of these pushing Americans even in so small a matter.
CHALLACOMBE-BY-THE-MOOR. 37
Challacombe is a parish of farms and farm -bouses, with a hamlet or
two— such as Watercourt and Frellands. It stretches on the east
from Watersmeet, where the Bovey and the Becky fall into each
other's arms, to the outlying farm of Barracot-on-the-Moor ; it
goes beyond Hamil Down on the west ; and it begins on the north
at Foxworthy, in the valley of the Bovey, and extends to the slopes
of mighty Hey Tor on the south. Within these limits there is
scenery of every kind except one : the fine champaign country
which our forefathers loved so much is altogether wanting. Every
field is on a slope, every lane runs up a hill, and every stream —
there are four at least — goes plunging and tearing downwards over
its bed of boulders and of gravel.
When Mary had given her uncle his tea, and cleared away the
' things ' — you will not think the worse of her when I tell you that
she washed the cups and saucers — they were lovely cups and
saucers, and almost priceless, if Mary had but known — put them
back upon the cabinet, and carried out the tray with her own hands
— she left him to his papers and his pipe, took her hat and went
into the porch, where she stood for a moment dangling her hat by
its strings, (shading her eyes with her hand, and taking a deep
breath as if to change the atmosphere of age, disease, and avarice
in the parlour for the sweet fresh air of the mountains outside.
The i)orch, which was covered with jessamine, now beginning to
put forth its waxen blossoms, led into the garden, which in front
of the house in only a narrow patch with a tall Norfolk pine. But
at the side of the house it is a goodly garden, planted with every
kind of herb for the service and solace of man ; stocked also with
fruit-trees, and having an orchard where the cider-apples hang rosy
red and golden yellow, yet sour enough to set the children's teeth
on edge even unto the fourth and fifth generation. Beyond the
low garden hedge stretched a great pasture-field, known as Great
Camus — Little Camus being his neiglibour. It lay quite across the
ridge, here broad, on which the house was Ijuilt, and sloped over
into the valley below, where the Becky ran down its narrow gorge,
ha.stening to kec|) its ai»f)ointiiieiit with tlu; Bovty beyond Uiddy
Rock. It is a (piiot little Htreaui in suninur, and generally tlie
water is so clear that you might as well fish in your balh as hope
to entice the trout ; in the spring, however, you would have heard
it babble up here as it ran from boulder to boulder, under alder
and willow and filbert tree, beneath the trailing arms of the
bramble. You would have heard it roar as it leaped down the
rocks of Becky Fall. Beyond the valley Mary gazed upon a huge
3S TO CALL HER MINE.
lump of a hill, Blackdown, solid, round, and steep. In its side they
have cut the new road ; its line lies a clear and well-marked scar
upon the green slope, until it is hidden among the deep woods of
Becky. Above these woods there rose and floated in the still air a
thin wreath of smoke, just to show that among the trees were
houses and human companionship. For my own part, I love not
those wild and savage scenes where no hut or wreath of smoke
speaks of brother man. Robinson Crusoe was of the same opiniou.
Above the woods and beyond the hill, three miles and more away,
rose the two great pyramids of Hey Tor, standing out against the
clear blue sky, which had not yet assumed the haze of evening.
Everywhere hills ; to the right of Hey Tor, but lower down, the
tumbled rocks of Hound Tor, looking like the ruined walls and
shattered fragments of some great mediteval castle ; lower still,
Hayne Down, with its rocks thrown carelessly like coals from a
shovel down its steep face. They were the playthings of some
iufant giant in the days gone by ; he built houses out of them, and
then kicked them over, just as a child builds his houses of wooden
bricks and knocks them down. One of his toy structures still
remains ; a pile of stones one above the other, making a pillar
thirty feet high, which men call Bowerman's Nose. There had been
rain in the morning ; the clouds had passed away, though they were
still clinging to the trees and rolling along the sides of the valley
below, as often happens at Challacombe after rain ; the air was so
clear that you could see the rocks of Hey Tor as plainly as if you
stood beside them, and every change of curve in light and shadow
on Blackdown across the valley.
The birds in July are mostly silent, yet at Challacombe their
song never wholly ceases all the year round. From the trees
behind the house there was heard the song of the thrush ; a robin
whistled from the garden-croft ; from a neighbouring hedge Mary
heard the shrill screech of the wren ; somewhere was a jay chatter-
ing in his harsh voice ; somewhere was a dove cooing ; the swifts
screamed high in the air, thinking of their nests on top of the
cLurch-tower ; and the chiffchaff sang the merry notes which
delight him all the summer long.
Mary saw this scene and heard these sounds every day of her life,
yet she never tired of it ; though she would have been unable to
put into words the desire for the mountains which grows with the
growth of those who live among them. Then, with a little flush
upon her cheek and a brightening of her eye, she went out of the
garden and to the back of the house, where she knew George
CHALLACOMBE BY-THE-MOOR. 39
Sidcote waited to take her to the choir-practice, for 'twas Saturday
evening.
Most houses, even in the country, put their best side to the
front. Gratnor kept its best side at the back. There is no view,
to be sure ; but there is a babbling little stream, about two feet
broad, which runs merrily among miniature canons and gullies ; a
leet is taken from this stream by a little wooden canal to the great
water-wheel which stands more than half hidden in its dark and
mysterious recess ; the canal is leaky, and the water trickles for
ever melodiously upon the stones below. The place looks like a
clearance in the forest ; but an old clearance, not one of those
where the stumps stand dotted about the field. Beyond the stream
the ground rises steeply. This is the slope of Oddy Tor, by some
called Nympenhole and by others Viper Tor. It is clothed with
thick woods, dark and impenetrable, which hide the moss-grown
boulders on the top. A gate opens to a lane which leads to the
Green through the hamlet of Watcrcourt, past the little chapel,
where the people who go to church in the morning gather in the
evening, to hoar what they consider a purer gospel — though less
respectable. It is ' served " from Chagford, where I think that the
illustrious Mr. Perrott could tell you something about it. There
is something pathetic in the way that country people go contentedly
to church, and listen to a gentleman and a scholar in the morning,
and in the evening gather round one of their own folk, Avho speaks
to them in the language they can understand, and out of the ideas
which are in their own heads. The lane also passes the smithy,
where Harry Hal)jahnH and his two 'prentices all day long blow the
bellows and beat tlie anvil.
It was to the back of Gratnor that George Sidcote came to meet
his sweetheart. He might have gone to the front had he chosen
— the house was not closed to him — Daniel would have received
him with such cordiality as he bestowed upon any. 15ut it is not
pleasant to call upon a man wlio refuses his consent to your
marriage, and to whom you owe more money than you can pay.
(Jcorgo, therefore, usually sat upon a tree — there were always tlio
trunks of trees lying about — or, if it rained, took refuge in the
linney, where he waited for Mary before they went together to the
church to practise next day's hymns and chants.
40 TO CALL llER MINE.
CHAPTER V.
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.
The reason why farmers, gardeners, and cultivators of the soil
generally are so fond of sitting down upon anything that offers,
leaning against door-posts, hanging over gates, and in every way
relieving the legs of their natural duties, is, I suppose, because they
get up so early. If a man is crossing a meadow after rain, or a
ploughed field after a thaw, at six in the morning, he finds comfort
on a waggon-shaft at seven in the evening. It is not because he
stands so much, but because he is standing so early. Shop-girls do
not want to be always sitting when the shop is closed : they would
rather be dancing ; and policemen off duty are said to take their
rest standing, for aught I know, on one leg, like the secretary bird.
George Sidcote, on this July evening, had been up since five, and
he waited for his sweetheart, a briar-root between his lips, sitting
on the shaft of a waggon under the linney, where it was shady and
cool. When Mary came through the garden-gate he rose slowly,
partly because he was a Devonshire man and partly because if a
man is over six feet in stature he naturally takes longer to get
upon his feet than one of the short-legged brotherhood, who are
jointed with indiarubber. Then he laid his pipe down upon the
waggon, took both her hands in his, bent over her and kissed her
gravely on the forehead, as if to seal her once more for his own.
There was little of the sweet love-language between these two :
they belonged to each other ; they were so well assured of the fact
that there was no need to renew their vows any more than between
a couple who have been married a dozen years.
' George !' said Mary softly.
' Mary !' George whispered.
Some maidens would like more of the passion and rapture which
finds vent in passionate and rapturous words — such as those em-
ployed by all poets, and by novelists in that line of business. Very
few young per.-ons, even of the most dazzling beauty, get this
passion and rapture, simply because their lovers, however capable
in other respects, are incapable of finding those words. Men,
therefore, fall back upon the commonplaces of passion — mere ' dear
ducky ' language — though their hearts be red-hot, and though, in
'then he KIH8U> her MKAVELV CiN THK KOUKIIKAI), \» IF TU HKAI. IIKK UNI K MUltE
Kon 1118 OWN."
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 41
the language of the last century, they burn, and melt, and die.
You may observe in the law reports, though many actions for
breach of promise are tried, and many love-letters are read, the
lover seldom, indeed, rises above the 'dear ducky' level, except
when he drops into verse, which is never original. George Sidcote,
certainly, could not rise to these flights of articulated speech, nor
would Mary have understood him had he made the attempt. She
was satisfied to know that he was her lover. To have a lover, or a
sweetheart at all, my dear young ladies, ought to make you ex-
tremely proud, though never arrogant ; and, really, to have such a
comely lover as George Sidcote, yeoman, of Sidcote Farm, Challa-
combe, is, perhaps, the greatest gift that the fairies have in their
power to bestow. As for his stature, it was over six feet ; and as
for his form, it was like Tom Bowling's — of the manliest beauty ;
but Tom had the advantage, denied to George, of setting off that
beauty with a greased pigtail as thick as a club. His face was
steadfast, his cheek ruddy, his eyes clear and honest ; but, like
Mary's before her uncle had his dream, his eyes were troubled.
They sat down together on the waggon-shaft, side by side, and
George took up his pipe.
'I .saw him this morning.' he said slowly— 'Mary knew very well
who was meant by 'him' — 'and I told him what I told you the
other day, ray dear.'
« What did he say ?'
' He .said that he knew it lieforehand. He had calculated it all
out on paper, and he was certain, he said, that this season would
be the last, "Very well," he .said, "the law provides a remedy
when the interest or the principal cannot be repaid. Of course,"
he added, " 1 am not going to lose my money." That is what ho
said first, Mary.'
' Oh ! and what did he say next?'
' I told him tiiat if he would give his consent, your fortune
would nearly [)ay oil' the mortgage.'
' What did he say then ?'
' Well, Mary, then we had a little row — not much. He said that
it was clear I only wanted your money, and he sliould never give
his conHent. 1 said that it was clear he meant to make any excuse
to refuse his consent, in order to keep your money in his own hands.'
' I am sorry, George,' said Mary. ' He toM mo nothing of this.'
' It wa.s not likely that he would tell you. lie heard what 1 had
to HJiy in his dry way, and then asked rac if there was anything
more that I wi.shed to say. Well, l^Iary, 1 was roused a liif l»y this,
42 TO CALL HER MINE.
ami I reminded him that, if you did not receive your aunt's fortune,
David would be entitled to the money. Well, he was not the least
put out. He only laughed — his laugh is the sort that makes other
people cry — and said that you were a good girl, but silly, like most
girls, and if you chose to throw away your fortune he was sorry
for you, but he could not prevent it. Well, Mary, I came away.
So that is done with ; and this is the last year there will be one of
the old stock in the old place.'
'Courage, George,' she said, 'we will do something ; we will go
somewhere — somehow we will live and prosper yet.'
' " Somewhere !" ' he echoed, ' and " somehow !" Well, I have a
pair of hands and a pair of broad shoulders — yes. But you, Mary,
and my mother ?'
'Courage,' she said again; 'have faith, George. Even if we
have to go away, we shall be together. I was reading yesterday a
story about settlers in Canada. It had pictures. There was the
wooden house, and the clearing with the forest all round ; I thought
it might be ours. I read how they worked, this pair of settlers,
and how they gradually got on, clearing more land, and increasing
their stock till they became rich in everything except money. I
thought of ourselves, George ; we shall not want money if we can
live on a farm of our own somewhere, and if we can work for our-
selves. You are so strong and brave, you do not mind hard work ;
and — and — let us have faith, George. God is good. If we must
go from here, we will go with cheerful hearts, and leave my poor
uncle to his lands and wealth.'
Thus, when Adam and Eve went forth together from their para-
dise into the cold world, it was the woman who admonished and
exhorted the man.
In these latter days it hath pleased Providence in wisdom to
afflict the British farmer with bad seasons and low prices, and the
prospect of worse to follow ; wherefore, he will perhaps soon be-
come a creature of the past, and the broad acres of Great Britain
and Ireland will be turned into pheasant preserves and forest-land
for the red-deer, let at fabulous prices to millionaires from the
United States. As for the rustics, all except one in fifty will
migrate to the towns, where they will seek for work and will find
none, and then there will be riots and risings, with murders and
robbery. What will happen after that I do not know, except that
there will certainly be no rscruits left for the British army ; so
that, unless — as seems possible — other nations may be similar and
similarly affected, our nation will presently go under, and be no
FOR BETTER. FUR WORSE. 43
more heard of, except in history ; and someone will write ' Britannia
fuit' on a gigantic slab, with ' Suicided in defence of Free Trade '
also done into Latin, and stick up the legend on the cliff at Dover
for all the world to read.
George Sidcote's history may be guessed from his words. An
inheritance of a small estate, a single farm, his own land, and the
land that had been his forefathers' ; the estate encumbered with a
mortgage, which had become in these bad times harder to pay off
than rent, because rent may be adjusted, but the five per cent, is
Uke the law of the Medes and Persians. And the time had come
when the struggle could no longer be maintained ; the land would
be taken from him. It is not wonderful if the young man looked
sorrowful, and his countenance was heavy.
' What does it mean ?' George asked, in ever-increasing wonder.
' Formerly, there was nothing in the world so valuable as the land.
If a man had money, he bought land ; if a man wanted an invest-
ment, he put it out on mortgage. Is the land gone worthless ?
My father, Mary, was offered, if he would sell his land, three times
the money that old Dan lent him on mortgage, and now it would
not sell, at most, for more. What does it mean ?'
Alas ! This is a question which is asked daily, not only by
farmeri", like George, but by Deans and Canons, Rectors and
Vicars, colleges and schools, landlords and investors, widows and
orphans, those who keep shops in country towns, the thousands
who live by working for the farmers, the engineers and whcel-
wrij^hts, the corn-factors and middlemen ; nay, even by those who
live by providing the pleasures of the rich. What does it mean ?
And are the fn.'ldH of these islands to become as worthless as the
slag that lies outside tlie smelting furnaces? Shade of Gobdcn,
deign to listen ! What does it mean ?
* Oh, George!' said Mary, 'does it help us at all to ask that
question ?' Indeed, George was as importunate with this dilliculty
as her uncle was with his lost money. ' Let us face the trouble,
whatever it is. Ynu will let me go with you — I will not be a drag
upon you— if it is only to take care of mother for you.'
Ho threw his arm round her neck and kissed her again — au
unusual demonstration from him.
' You would put courage into a cur, Mary,' he said. ' There ! I
havi' done what T could, and T li.ivc told your unclf my mind. Let
ua talk of something else. Oh ! I forgot to say that Will has
come down. Wc shall find him waiting for ua at the church.'
' Will V I am glad !'
44 TO CALL II ER MINE.
'He got away a week before he expected.'
' He will cheer you up, George.'
'Yes ; he talks as if nothing mattered much, and everything
was a game. The Londoners have that way, I suppose. It is not
our way.'
They left the linney and the little brook, and walked away
through the narrow lanes, holding each other by the hand like two
children, as they had always done since they were children together,
and George, who was throe years older, led little Mary by the
hand to keep her from falling.
This Will— 1 do not mean the Will and Testament of Mary's
Aunt — that George spoke of with irreverence was none other than
myself, the person who narrates this true history of country life
for your amusement and instruction. I am sure, at least, that it is
fuller of instruction than most of the leading articles that I am
allowed to write. I am Will Nethercote, in fact ; and though of
the same surname as Mary, and a Devonshire man by birth and
descent, am no relation to Mary. I once endeavoured, it is true, to
remedy this accident, and proposed to establish a very close re-
lationship indeed with that dear girl, but I was too late. My
father was the Rector — you may see his monument in the church-
yard — and when I left Oxford I found I had no vocation for the
life of the country clergyman. Heavens ! what a calm and holy
life some men make of it, and how some do fret and worry because
of its calmness and inactivity ! Therefore, I became a journalist.
It is a profession which suits me well, and I suppose if I live
another forty years, and arrive at seventy, 1 shall have written nine
thousand more leading articles, and my countrymen will then be
saturated with wisdom. And when I retire no one will ever know
the name of the man who led them upwards to those higher levels
of knowledge and philosophy. I did not wait for these young people
in the churchyard. I walked down the lane to meet them.
I declare that my heart leaped up only to see that sweet, fond
girl walking with her lover, only to see the glow upon her cheeks
and the soft light in her eyes. What says the foolish old song,
' I'd crowns resign to call her mine ' ? Crowns, quotha ! If I had
Earl's coronet. Bishop's mitre. Royal crown, or even a tiara, I
would resign it with the greatest alacrity for such a prize. Happy
lover ! though to win his bride he must take her penniless, while
he has to give up his own broad lands ! Well, she was not for me.
Mary greeted me with her usual kindness, bearing no resentment
on account of that proposition of mine above referred to.
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 45
' And how is George behaving, Mary ? And has the Dragon
relented ?'
' George alwaj's behaves well,' she said. ' But as for the
Dragon ' She shook her head.
' See now, ilary,' I said, ' I mean to put the case before a lawyer.
I will do it directly I go back. In the will — I went to Somerset
House on purpose to see it — your aunt leaves you £G,OUO, to be
])aid to you on the day that you marry with your uncle's consent.
If you marry without your uncle's consent, it is to go to David.
"NVell, David has gone away, no one knows where, and perhaps he
is dead, or will never come back. Suppose you were to marry now
without your uncle's consent, who is to have the money ?'
'My uncle says it will be his own.'
* We shall see to that. It is a case for a lawyer's advice. And I
will get that advice directly I go back.'
I did not consult a lawyer on the point for a very good reason, as
you shall hoar. I suppose that as civilization advances, such wills
with conditions so absurd will cease to be made ; or, if they are
made, will be put into the hands of novelists for their purposes in
treating of a world that has gone by. Girls who have money left
to thera will have it handed over when they come of age, with
perfect liberty to marry as they please. Certain it is, consider-
ing the great interest which we all take in each other's affairs,
there will not be wanting plenty of friends to give advice and in-
formation as to the character, reputation, and income of aspirants.
I have sometimes thought that nobody ought, under any circum-
stances, to make any will at all, or after his death to do by his own
provision and ordering any good or evil whatever. But I find this
doctrine at present in advance of the woild, and therefore it com-
mands no favour.
' I am not back in Challacombe yet, Mary,' I went on, because I
knew the trouhlo that was before them ami in their minds, and so
I began to make talk. 'This is only a dream. I ani in Fleet
Street. I am in the lobby of the House. I am writing a political
leader at midnight, and just dreaming of Challacombe. It takes a
week to get the streets and the jjapers out of my head — a whole
week ! what a curtailment and docking of a holiday. A whole
week sliced out of a month ! and then eleven months more of
slavery ! Man's life is not a vapour, Mary. I winh it was.
Vapours don't grind at the mill every day.'
I turned and walked towards the clnirch with them, in tlin narrow
lanes between the high hedges. The beauty of early summer was
46 TO CALL HER MINE.
gone, but there are still flowers in plenty to make them beautiful in
July and August. The honeysuckle was out ; the blue scabious and
the foxgloves are not yet gone ; there are the pink centaury, the
herb-robert, the red-robin, the campion, the meadow-sweet, the
sheei)'s-bite, the ox-eyed daisies, the blackberry blossom, and the
rowan berries — green, or greenish-yellow, as yet — old friends all,
and friends of Mary's.
We talked of indifferent subjects, of what had happened since I
last came down. One of the rustics was dead, another had nearly
lost the use of his legs in the cold weather and now hobbled on
crutches — in these high lands rheumatism seizes on all the old and
on many of the middle-aged, so that Moreton Hampstead, the
metropolis of the Moor, seems on market-day like the native
city of M. le Diable Boiteux ; one or two village girls had been
married ; such a farm was still wanting a tenant, and so on. Pleasant
to talk a little of the place where one was born, and of the people
whom one has known from infancy ; pleasant to be back once more
among the hills and streams. But that subject of which we were
all thinking — George's impending ruin — lay like a lump of lead on
our hearts. And so we walked through the darkening lanes, our
faces to the west, so that Mary's glowed in the golden light like an
angel-face in a painted window, and presently came to the church.
CHAPTER VI.
THE CHOIR-PRACTICE.
In the church the choir were already assembled, and were waiting
for them. They are so old-fashioned at Challacombe that they
actually suffer the maidens to sing in the choir with the boys and
the men. 'Tis a Christian custom, though forbidden by some
modern Ecclesiastics ; and why women still consent to go to churches
where their sex is continually insulted by exclusion from the choir,
as if they were really the unclean creatures of the Monkish mind,
I know not. Some day, when they understand the thing, and why
they are excluded, and what a deadly insult it is to Mother Eve and
her daughters, there will be a revolt the like of which no Church has
ever yet seen, and a schism compared with which all previous
schisms will have been mere trifles. The choir of Challacombe
consisted, therefore, of half a dozen boys, and as many village
maidens, with Harry Kalijahus, the blacksmith, for bass, and George
Sidcote for tenor. There was a harmonium at the west end, and
Wr. WALKRD TIIROL'UII TUB PARKRNINri I.ANRil, 0I7R FACKH T<l TIIK WKHT, RO THAT MARV'fl
ULOWRD IS niE (HILVKS I.KillT I. IKK, AN ANtlF.I. FAIT. IN A TAINTKU WINDOW."
THE CHOIR-PRACriCE. 47
the choir sat in front of it. Formerly there were violins, a 'cello,
and a clarionet ; but these have fallen into disfavour of late years,
and I know not where one may now go to hear the quaint old village
church music, which had its points, of which a solemn and awe-
inspiring droning and a mysterious rumbling were perhaps the chief.
As soon as we arrived, the practice began. They sang, right
through, first the chants and then the hymns both for Morning and
Evening, so that the practice took an hour and more. The voices
and the singing were as familiar to me as the rustling of the trees
outside and the cackling of the geese upon the green.
I sat in the porch and listened, watching the fading light in the
windows and the shadows falling along the aisles, while the voices
of the choir, uplifted, rang out clear and true, and echoed around
the walls of the empty church, and beat about among the rafters
of the roof. It is an old church and a venerable, though they
have now taken away the ancient, crumbling, and worm-eaten pews,
which were, I dare say, ugly, and yet gave character to the church.
With the old pewa disappeared certain memories and associations.
You could no longer picture, because you could no longer gaze upon
them, how, in the old days. Grandfather Dcrgos went round, cane
in hand, to chastise the boys in the middle of tlie sermon ; he did
not take them out into the churchyard and there administer his
whacking, but he whacked them in the very pews. Grandfather
Derges has now retired from his function as sexton, though he still
breathes these upper airs, and hobbles along the lanes upon his
sticks. Great- uncle Sam Derges, however, still carries round the
plate on Sunday. The old pews are gone, and with them, also, the
memories of the yeomen who sat in them, each family in its own
place, from generation to generation. As the yeomen, too, are gone,
and only tenant-farmers left, perhaps it is as well that the pews
have gone. Something, however, is left of the old church. They
have not taken down the ancient rood-screen, with its painted
Apostles in faded colours, on which, in the old days, I was wont to
gaze with wonder and curiosity, what time my father mildly read
his discourse, wliioh everyliody heard with attention mid nobody
heeded. ILid the Hector possessi'd tlic lungs of iV'ter llu' Ilmniit,
and the persuasion of Bernard of Clairvaux, 'Iwould bave been all
the same, for the sermon to the rustic means nothing but a quarter
of an hour of good behaviour in the presence of his betters.
Presently it grew so dark that they lighted two or three candles
on the harmonium, where they showed, amid the shadows of the
aislis, like far-olT glimmering stars. Among the voices 1 could
48 TO CALL HER MINE.
clearly distinguish George's clear high tenor and Mary's soprano.
They rose above the rest and seemed to sing each for each alone,
and to fit the music by themselves, as if they wanted nothing but
each other, and could together make sweet music all their lives.
Outside, the clouds had come up again and were now rolled over
all the sky, so that the evening was strangely dark for the time of
year, and there was a rumbling of summer thuuder among the hills
and in the combes, which echoed from side to side and ran down
the valley slopes.
Then my thoughts left the choir and the singing and wandered
off to the subject which made them both so sad.
The situation was gloomy. How could I help save to stand by
and encourage to patience ? George had already told me all. It
was, indeed, what I fully expected to hear.
' I can no longer keep up the struggle,' he said ; ' the land cannot
pay the interest on the mortgage, even if I live as poorly as a
labourer and work as hard. I have seen Daniel Leighan, and I
have told him that this year must be the last. When the harvest
is in, he must foreclose if he pleases. It is hard, Will ; is it not ?'
' Is there no hope, George ?'
'None. Either the interest must be paid, or the principal.
Else — else' — he paused and sighed — 'else there will be no more
Sidcotes left in Challacombe.'
' But if he would consent '
' He will never consent. He would have to part with Mary's
money if he did consent. He means to keep it in his own hands.
We are tight in the old man's grip. He will foreclose ; then he
will have Sidcote, as he got Berry Down and Foxworthy, and he
will keep Mary's fortune.'
' What will you do, George ?'
' I shall emigrate to some place, if there is any place left, where
a man can till the land and live upon it. Will, is there some
dreadful curse upon this country for our sins, that the land can no
longer be cultivated because it will not even keep the pair of hands
which dig it and plough it ?'
' I know nothing about our sins, old man : that department never
furnishes the theme for a leader. But there are certain economic
forces at work — which is the scientific way in which we put a thing
when we don't see our way about — economic forces, George, by
which the agricultural interests of the country are being ruined,
and its best blood is destroyed by being driven from the fields into
the towns. Our sins may have been the cause ; but I don't think
THE CHOIR-PRACTICE. 49
80, George, or else you would have been spared. Now, economic
forces — confound them ! — act on saint and sinner alike.'
' I work like the farm-labourer that I am. There is no way in
which I do not try to save and spare ; but it is in vain. The land
will no longer bear the interest,'
' What does Mary say ?'
' She will go with me. Whatever happens, she will be happier
with rae than here — alone.'
' Right, dear lad. Where should she be but with you ?'
* We will marry without his consent. Then he will be unmolested
in her fortune and my farm. I dare say there will be a hundred or
two left after the smash. Poor girl !— and I thought we should
have been so happy in the old place. Poor Mary !'
Here was enough for a man to think about in the porch ! What
could I do ? How could I help ? Was there any hope of bending
the will of a stubborn, avaricious old man by pleading and entreaty ?
Could T pay off the mortgage ? Why, I had no more money than
any young journalist just beginning to make an income may be
expected to have. At the most, I might find a few hundreds to
lend. But Challacoiube without Mary ! Sidcotc without George !
— then there would be no more beauty in the woods ; no more sun-
shine on the slopes ; no more gladness on the breezy Tors ! And
the Past came back to me — the Past which always seems so tender
and 80 full of joy : I saw again the two boys and the girl i)laying
together, rumbling over the downs, climbing together the granite
rocks, reading together — always together. How would Challacombe
continue to exist unless two out of those three remained together ?
Tlie black clouds haiigiuglow made the evening so dark that out-
side the porch one could see nothing. But the lightning began to
play about and lit up the gravestones with sudden gleams. Pre-
sently, looking out into the Ijlackncss, I discovered, in one of these
flashes, a man in the churchyard walking about among the graves.
This was a strange thing to sec. A man walking among the graves
after dark. I waited for the next flash of lightning. Wlien it
came, I saw the man fjnite clearly : ho was bending over a head-
stone, and peering into it, as if trying to read the name of the
person buried there. There is sometliing uncanny about a man in
a qiiiot vill.Tge churchyard choosing ;i night darkcne<l willi thunder-
clouds for tlie perusal of tombstones. One thinks of a certain
one who lived among the tombs : and he was a demoniac.
Then the man left the grass, probably because he could no
4
50 TO CALL llEI^ MIS'E.
loiii;.T ivinl any oi the iinmcs, ami began to walk along the gravel
walk towards the pin-cli ; perhaps because he saw the lights and
boanl the singing. Yon know how, soraetimea, when the air is full
of electricity, one shivers and trembles and hears things as in a
dream ? Well, I seemed to recognise this man's footstep, though I
ci)nld not tell to whom it belonged ; and I shivered as if with
prescience of coming trouble.
Whoever the man was, he stood at the entrance of the porch, and
looked about him in a hesitating, doubtful way. The choir were
just beginning the last of their hymns —
' Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom ;
Lead Thou me on.'
' That's the voice of George Sidcote,' said the stranger aloud, and
addres-sing himself, not me. ' He always sang the tenor : I remem-
ber his voice well ; and that's the voice of Mary Ncthercote : I
remember her voice, too. That's Harry Rabjahns, the blacksmith,
singing bass : a very good bass he always sang. Ay ; they are all
there — they are all there.'
' Who are you ?' I asked. 'Who are you to know all the people?'
A sudden flash of lightning showed me a ragged man with a great
beard, whom I knew not by sight.
' I know you, too. I didn't see you at first. You are Will
Nethercote.' His voice was hoarse and husky. ' You are the son
of the Rector. I remember you very well.'
' I am ; but the Rector is dead ; and who are you ?'
' Before I go on,' he said ; ' before I go on,' he repeated these
words as if thoy had some peculiar significance to him, ' I thought
I would come here first and see his grave— /</s grave — the place
where they laid him— and I thought I would read what they wrote
over him — how he died, you know — just out of curiosity, and for
something to remember.'
' Laid whom ?' The man, then, was, like that other, doubtless a
demoniac.
' I should like to think that I had seen — actually seen — his grave,'
he went on. ' But the night has turned dark, and I can't read the
names, and haven't got a match upon me. Will you tell me where
they've laid him ?'
' Laid whom, man ? Who are you looking for ?'
' I am looking for the headstone of Daniel Leighan.'
' Daniel Leighan ?'
' Old Dan, they used to call him. Who died six years ago, or
thereabouts.'
THE CHOIR-PRACTICE. 51
' You meau Mr. Leighan, of Gratiior ':'
' The same, the same I I suppose Mary Nethercote got Gratnor
when he died. They always said that he would leave her all he had,
Gratnor Farm and Foxworthy and Berry Down. Oh, she'd be rich
with all those lands.'
' "Who told you that Daniel Leighan was dead ?'
' I saw it,' he replied, hesitating, ' I saw it in the papers. There
was some talk about it at the time, I believe. A — a — a Coroner's
inquest, I was told ; but I never heard the verdict. Perhaps you
remember the verdict. Will Nethercote, and would kindly tell
me ? I am — yes — I am curious to hear what the verdict of the
jurj' was '
' You are strangely misinformed. Daniel Leighan is not dead.'
' There is only one old Dan Leighan, and he is dead,' returned
the strange man.
' I tell you that old Dan Leighan is still living. He is paralysed
in his legs, if you call that dead ; but if you have business with
him you will find that he is very much alive— as much alive as you.'
' Not dead ?' The man reeled and caught at the pillars of the
porch. ' Not dead ? Do you know what you are saying ?'
' No more dead than you.'
' Oh !' he groaned, ' this is a trick you are playing. What do you
play tricks for ? lie is dead and buried long since.'
' 1 think you must be mad, whoever you are. I tell you that
Daniel Leighan is alive, and now in his chair at home, where you
may find him tonight if you please to look for him.'
' Not dead ! not dead I' By the frequent flashes of the lightning
I had now made out that he was a very rough-looking man, in very
ragged and tattered dress, looking like a labouring man but for his
beard, which was much larger and fuller than an English labourer
ever wears. ' Not dead ! — can it be ! Then I've had all the
trouble for nothing — all the trouble for nothing. Not dead !' lie
kept on saying this over and over again, as if the wonder of
the thing was altogc-ther too much for him.
' What do you moan ?' I asked, ' by your rubbish about an inquest
and a verdict ? What inquest should there be V And what do you
mean by saying that you saw it in the papers ?'
' Not dead ? T1k.ii Iiovv should liis <,'li()st walk if he is not dead ?
Are you sure that Daniel Leighan — Old D.ui — is alive this day— tho
same Old Dan V
•I 8upi)0He it is tho same Old Dan. There has never been any
other Old Dan that I know of.'
4—2
5? TO CALL HER MINE.
* It can't be the same. It must be the Devil.'
' That is possible, and now you mention it, I think he may be,
and very likely is, the Devil. But I wouldn't say so openly, if I
were you.'
' Not dead !'
lie turned and walked slowly away. I heard him stepping over
the stile, and then the sound of his footsteps ceased, as if he was
walking over the village green, which, in fact, was the case.
The voices of the choir ceased ; the candles were extinguished ;
and the singers came out. We two men walked home with Mary.
There was no air in the lanes ; the night was hot and sultry, and
the lightning flashed incessantly. I told them on the way my little
adventure with the strange man peering about among the tombs.
'It was like a bit of some old German story,' I said. ' I don't
know why a German story ; but when there is lightning with dark-
ness, gravestones and a mysterious figure, one thinks of Germany
somehow. I thought he was the spectre of some dead-and-gone
villager come back in his old clothes — gone ragged, you know, in his
wanderings about the other world — to take a walk round the
churchyard among his friends ; a strange thing to be prowling
among the tombs to read the name of a man still living !'
' Who could he be '?' asked Mary.
' I thought I knew his footstep, but I did not know his voice. I
cannot tell who it was. He knew your voice, Mary ; and yours,
George ; and Harry, the blacksmith's Good heavens !' — for here
my memory of the man came back suddenly, with one of the
lightning flashes — ' Good heavens ! how did I come not to recognise
him at once ? Mary, it was ! how could I have forgotten ?
Why, the thing may change your whole future ! '
' Will, what do you mean ?'
' Your whole future, Mary ! Your uncle refuses his consent
because he thinks that David is dead ; well, then, David in alive/
For the man who prowled among the tombs and wanted to see
your ancle's headstone was no other than David Leighan himself —
come home again in rags !'
CHAPTER VII.
WHO IS HE ?
Tin; inn u])on Challacombe Green is a small place and a humble,
though visitors who drive over from Chagford may get tea served
in a neat and clean parlour, and those who find no solace in tea may
WHO IS HE? 53
refresh themselves with beer or cider. But let them not look for
food, for there is no butcher or any shop of purveyor or provider
within four miles. Yet, if a man should desire a bed, he may find
one here, clean and sweet, if he ^vrite for it beforehand ; and meat
as well to stay the inner man, provided the landlord has been
warned in time to catch the butcher. The inn is licensed to Joseph
Exon. It has no bar or tap-room ; but Mrs. Eson receives her
friends in a large, low room, which is at once the keeping-room,
kitchen, and drawing-room of the Exon family. It is also the
smoking divan of the parish of Challacombe. The room is paved
with stone, and furnished with a long wooden table and benches, a
high-backed wooden settle to pull before the fire in cold weather,
and a broad, hospitable fireplace. The kettle is always on the hob ;
overhead, the black rafters are adorned with sides of bacon and
strings of onions ; the cider and the beer are fetched from a narrow
closet or cellar at the end of the room. There are seldom many
men in the place, except on Saturday nights ; and, as a rule, every-
body is gone, the inn shut up, and the family are asleep in their
beds, by half-past nine. It is, moreover, essentially a village inn,
designed for the rustics of that village which has never existed :
the farmers would not, for instance, be seen sitting in its room in
the evening, or at any other time : it is the club, the resort, and the
place of recreation for the labourers.
The room was about half full at nine o'clock this Saturday even-
ing. Three or four men, strangers, who had come up from Newton
Abbot on a road-making job, were drinking beer. The rest,
labourers on the Challacombe farms, sat every man behind a
tankard of cider — that .sour brew which nips the throat, and, some-
how, though it is 80 sour and so weak, refreshes the hot haymakers
or the weary traveller better than any other drink ever invented.
The fire was burning, although it was midsummer. The company
sat about the room for the most part in silence ; not because there
was nothing to say, but because those who meet every night know
very well that what they have to say everybody else has to say ;
speech, therefore, is needless. Had these rustics been Americans
or Colonials, they would have played whist, poker, monty, or
euchre, also in silence ; being Devonshire men, they sat and
smoked their pipes, as tlioir fathers and grandfathers had done, in
a friendly silence wli'ch was in itself restful ; and they felt the
convivial influences of repo.sc and fellowship.
The latch was lifted, and an unknown person— a stranger — stood
in tlie door, looking about the room. Strangers, in guise of
54 TO CAFJ. HER MINE.
tourists, are often seen on Cballacombc Green in the daytime ;
tbc}' come over iu traps of every description : but these strangers
are dressed in tweeds or broadcloth. Such a stranger as he who
stood in the doorway and looked around is rare indeed. Tramps
and vagabonds never come to Challacombe ; men really in search of
work seldom, for they in<iuire first at Moreton or at Bovey, where
it is well known that there is no work to be had in the parish
except farm-work, and of hands there are more than enongh in
these bad times, so that the population of every parish is slowly
decreasing.
Such a stranger, too ! Devonshire rustics are not close followers
of fashion to gird at a man because he goes in raiment roughhewn.
But there is a point where the honest garb of labour begins to
become the contemptible rags and tatters of destitution. And
there is a point at which the duds of the beggar seem ready to drop
to pieces, should Providence suffer a shower to fall upon them.
Both these points had been reached — and passed — by the rags upon
this man. He was clothed, in fact, in the same things, ragged and
weather-stained, which he had worn all the way from Australia.
Fancy undertaking a long voyage with no luggage at all — absolutely
none, not even a hand-bag or a hat-box, or even a pocket-handker-
chief full of things ! A voyage all the way from Sydney with-
out a change ! His flannel shirt was torn down the front and
exposed his chest ; a dirty red-cotton handkerchief was tied
around his neck ; a leather strap, buckled round his waist, seemed
absolutely necessary to prevent that shirt from fluttering off in the
breeze. His trousers were of the coarsest and commonest canvas,
such as are worn in this country only for the roughest work, and
put off when that is done : his hat was the same shapeless old felt
which he had worn in the South Sea Islands, but now enriched with
a hole, recently excavated, in the crown, which gave it an inexpres-
sibly forlorn appearance. No one who had the least self-respect,
or the command of a poor single shilling, would have worn such
a hat ; not the poorest tramp on the road, not the raggedest wretch
on the Queen's highway would so much as stoop to pick up such a
thing. Not the lowest rag-and-bone-man, or the meanest dealer in
marine stores, would have offered a farthing for that hat.
His only respectable garment was an old sailor's jacket, worn and
shabby, but yet respectable. It had been bestowed upon him by
one of the hands when he came aboard, with nothing but his flannel
pbirt,
David Leighan had money in his pocket — all that was left of his
WHO IS HE ? 55
share of the Baron's cheque. Yet he had worn these things so
long, that he had left off even thinking about them ; they were
ragged and shabby, but what was he who wore them ? Besides, if
you come all the way from Australia in obedience to an unfortunate
ghost, who gives you no rest until you have consented to come, and
all for the sole purpose of making confession and atonement, and
giving yourself up to justice as a murderer ; and if you expect to
meet with the care and attention which are always lavished upon
the personal comfort of a criminal in the interval between the day
of humiliation and the day of elevation, why waste money on mere
outward finery and fashionable display ? Add to the tattered and
torn garments of this remarkable man — the like of whom had never
before been seen in Challacombe — an immense beard, long, not
silky, as some beards are, but coarse and stiff, if not stubbly, and of
a red hue, rather than brown, which covered two feet or so of his
chest, and was nearly as broad as his shoulders, and a mass of
matted hair which had neither been cut nor combed for a longer
time than one likes to think of. Such as this, the new-comer stood
at the open door and looked about the room as one who remembers
it. But his face was seared, and his eyes seemed as if they saw
nothing. Mrs. Exon, at sight of him, spoke up.
'Now, my man,' she said, 'what do you want? We don't
encourage tramps here. You must go as far as Bovey to get a bed
to-night.'
'I am not a tramp,' he replied hoarsely. 'I have got money.
See.' He pulled out a handful of silver. ' Let me come in, and
give me a glass of brandy.'
He shut the door and sat down at the lowest end of the table,
taking off his hat, and shaking his long hair off his forehead.
Six years ago, all the men in the room would have risen out of
respect to the owner of Berry Down. Now, not a soul icmembered
him.
Mrs. Exon gave him a tumbler with some brandy in it, and set a
jug of colfl water beside him. She looked at him curiously, being
touched, j)crhapH, with some note of familiarity or recollection at
the sight of his face, and the sound of his voice. He drank off the
brandy neat and set down the tumbler. What was the matter with
the man ? His eyes were full of troulilo, arnl with a kind of
trouble which the good woman had never seen before. Not pain
of body, or grief, but yet trouble. He dropped his head upon his
chest, and began to murmur aloud as if no one was in the place but
himself.
56 TO CALL HER MINE.
' Not dead ! ho is not dead ! How can that be ? how can that
be?* Then he lifted his head a<,'aia and gave back the glass to
]\rrs. Exon. ' Tiring nie more brandy,' he said.
The landlady obeyed, and gave him a second tot of brandy in the
tumbler, and again indicated the jug of cold water. The man had
now begun to tremble in every limb ; legs and arms and hands
were shaking and trembling. His head shook, his shoulders shook,
his lips moved. The guests in the room stared and wondered.
Then he fixed his eyes upon the landlady's, and gazed upon her as
if she could read in them what ailed him. Bewilderment and
amazement, which beat ujton his soul, as the old poet said, as a
madman beats upon a drum — this was the trouble which caused his
eyes to have that terrifying glare, and his limbs to shake and
tremble. Not joy, or even relief, such as might have been expected ;
these might come later, when the man who, for six long years, had
been pursued by the fury of a murder-stained conscience, should
realise that he was, after all, no murderer, save in intent. David
Lcighan's mind was naturallj' very slow to move. He could not at
first understand how the whole long torture of conscience, the
frightful dreams, the profound and hopeless misery of his exile
could go for nothing ; why, it had taken him years of suffering, and
the constant terror of a nightly phantom to persuade himself that
the onlj' way to escape the torture of his days and nights was to
return to England and confess his crime. This once done, he felt
certain that the nightly horror, and the daily fearful looking for
judgment, would disappear ; and he would go to the gallows with
cheerfulness, as a sharp but certain remedy for pangs intolerable.
There are instances recorded — I know not with what truth — of
murderers who have actually foi'gotten their crime, and gone about
the world with hearts as light as before they did it. David was
not one of these superior murderers. He had never for one
moment forgotten the white face of his victim, and the staring
eyes in which there was no light or life. He saw Death — Death
with suddenness and violence — all day long, and dreamed of Death
all the night. And now he could not understand that his dreams
and his visions, his guilty fears, and his contemplated confessions,
were all vain imagination-s, and might have been neglected. There-
fore he sat trembling.
Mrs. Exon watched him, thinking he must have a fit of ague.
He drank ofT the second glass of brandy neat, and set down the
glass. Then his head dropped again, and he resumed his muttered
broken words, still trembling violently.
WHO IS HE? 57
' Not dead ! — he is not dead ! How can that be ? — how can that
be ?' He lifted his head again, ' Give me more brandy ! Give me
a great tumbler full of brandy !'
' The poor man is ill,' said Mrs. Exon. ' Well, if brandy will
stop the shivering — it's a fever, likely, or an ague that he's got —
here, ray man, drink this.' She gave him half a tumbler full,
which he poured down.
The third dose had the effect of composing him a little. His legs
ceased trembling, though still his hands shook.
' Yes,' he said ; ' I am ill. I was took sudden just now. I am
better now.'
He sat up and took a long breath.
' Where may j'ou have come from ?' asked one of the men.
'I've come from Southampton, where I was put ashore. I've
come all the way from Australia.'
' And where might you be going to next ?'
'I'll tell you that, my friend, as soon as I know.' Ragged and
rough as he looked, he spoke, somehow, as if he belonged to some-
thing better than would have been judged by his appearance. ' If
you had asked me this morning, I should have told you that I was
going to Bovey. Now I don't know.'
Mrs. Exou still looked at him with the curiosity which comes of
a half-uneasy recollection.
'Old Dan Leighan, now,' he went on ; ' can anyone give me news
of him ? I mean Old Dan, him as had Gratnor first and Foxworthy
afterwards, and then got Berry Down, being a crafty old fox. Is
be alive still ? Somebody told me he was dead.'
' Surely,' replied Mrs. Exon ; ' he is alive and hearty, except for
his legs, poor man.'
' Oh, he's ahve ? — alive and hearty ? I thought, perhaps — some-
body told me— that he died — I forget how— six years ago, come
October, it was. That's what they told me : six years ago, come
October !'
• He had an accident, just about that time, six years ago. Perhaps
that is what you are tliiiiking of.'
' IIow the devil,' he asked, without taking any notice of this
reply, ' can a live man have a ghost? IIow can a live man send
his own ghost to travel all round the world? Won't li«' want his
own ghost for himself sometimes?'
' lie's got u toiicli of fi-ver,' said tin.' landlady, ' ami it lias gone
to his head. Yon li.ui Ix'tter go home, my man, and lii' down, if
you have got a bed anywhere.'
58 TO CALL HER MINE.
'I want to know this,' he repeated earnestly, 'did anybody
ever hear of a livin<i man sending' liis ghost out on errands, to keep
people awake and threaten things ? It can't be — it isn't in Nature.'
Nobody could explain this fact, which was new to all. Mrs.
Exon shook her head as if the questioner, being lightheaded, must
be treated tenderly, and one of the men remembered a village
ghost-story, which he began. Unfortunately for the Society of
Psychical Research, that story was interrupted at its very com
mencement by this remarkable stranger.
' How did he do it, then ?' he asked impatiently, banging the
table with his fist. 'Tell me that? How did he do it?' Then
he pulled himself together and became natural again.
' About his legs, now. What's the matter with Dan Leighan's
legs ?'
'Why, after his accident they began to fail him, and now he's
paralysed, and never leaves his room, unless he's wheeled out of a
fine morning. But hearty in appetite, and as for his head, it is as
clear as ever, so they tell me. For my part, Joseph and me never
had no doings with Mr. Leighan, and we don't want none.'
' What was his accident ?'
' He fell from his pony coming home at night. Some say he
was in drink ; but then he was always a sober man, and I don't
believe he was in drink, though perhaps he may have had a fit ;
because how else could he fall at all, and how should he fall so
hard, right upon his head ? Mr. George Sidcote it was that found
him lying in the road. He was insensible for three days. When
he came to, he couldn't remember nor tell anybody how the accident
happened ; but he said he'd been robbed, though his pocket was
full of money, and his watch and chain hadn't been taken. Papers
they were, he said, that he was robbed of. But there's many thinks
he must have put those ])apers somewhere, and forgotten because
of the knock on his head.'
* Oh !' The stranger rubbed his hands. ' Pm better now,' he
.said ; ' I am much better. Out in Australia I caught a fever, and
it gives me a shock now and again. Much better now. So — old
Dan Leighan fell from his pony — he had an accident, and fell —
from his pony— on his head — and was senseless for three days, and
was robbed of papers ? Now who could have robbed him of papers?
Were; they valuable jtapers?'
' Well, that I cannot say. You've had your brandy, and it's an
expensive drink for the likes of you, my man. You'd best pay for
it and go. It's a good five mile to Bovey.'
WHO IS HE ? 59
' Ay, I'll pay for it and go. He lost papers, and he was insensible
for three days, and he can't remember — ho ! ho ! He can't remem-
ber — ho ! ho ! ho I'
Did you ever see a man in an hysterical fit ? It is pretty bad to
look at a woman laughing and crying with uncontrolled and un-
controllable passion, but it is far worse to see a man. This strong,
ragged man, seized with an hysterical fit, rolled about upon the
bench laughing and crj'ing. Then he stood up to laugh, rolling
his shoulders, and crying at the same time; but his laugh was not
mirthful, and his crying was a scream, and he staggered as he
laughed. Then he steadied himself with one hand on the table ;
he caught at another man's shoulder with the other hand ; and all
the time, while the villagers looked on open-mouthed, he laughed and
cried, and laughed again, without reason apparent, without restraint,
without mirth, without grief, while the tears coursed down his
cheeks. Some of the men held him by force ; but they could not
stop the strong sobbing or the hiccuping laugh, or the shaking of
his limbs. At last, the fit spent, he lay back on the settle, propped
against the corner, exhausted, but outwardly calm and composed
again.
* Are you better now ?' asked the landlady.
' I've been ill,' he said, ' and something shook me. Seems as if
I've had a kind of a fit, and talked foolish, likely. What did I
say ? what did I talk about ?'
'You were asking after Mr. Leighan. Who are you ? What do
you want to know about Mr. Leighan ? You asked after his health
and his accident. And then you had a fit of hysterics. I never
saw a man — nor a woman neither — in such hysterics. You'd best
go home and get to bed. Whore are you going to sleep? Where
are you going to?'
' Whore's your husband, Mrs. Exon ? Where's Joseph ?' he asked
unexpectedly.
Mrs. Exon started and gasped.
' Jose|)h'fi gone to Bovey with ilu' v.ui. Ifo ought to have been
home an hour ago. lint who are you ':"
' William Shears,' ho turned to one of the men, ' you don't sot in
tf) renionibcr me?'
' Why, no,' William replied, with a jump, because it is terrifying
to be recognised by a stranger who has fits mihI talks .ibnul live
men's ghosts. 'No; I can't rightly say J do.'
'fJrandfathor Dorges,' he applied to the oldest inli;ibitant, «li(i
is generally found to have just outlived his memory, though if
6o TO CALL HER MINE.
you had asked him a week or two ago he could have told the
most wonderful things. 'Grandfather Derges, don't you remem-
ber me ?'
' No ; I don't. Seems as if I be old enough to remember every-
body. But my memory isn't what it was. No; I dou't remember
you. Yet, I should say, uow, as you might beloug to these parts,
because you seem to know my name.'
That did, indeed, seem a logical conclusion. Grandfather Derges,
therefore, had not outlived his reasoning faculties. "Why, of course,
the stranger might ])elong to these parts. How else could he know
Joseph Exon and William Shears and Grandfather Derges?
' I remember you, grandfather, when you used to cane the boys
in church.'
' Ay, ay,' said the old man ; ' so I did, so I did. Did I ever
cane you, master ? You must have a wonderful memory, now, to
remember that.'
' Don't you remember me, William Clampit ?' he asked a third
man.
' No ; I don't,' replied William shortly, as if he did not wish to
tax his memory about a man so ragged.
Then they all gazed upon him with the earnestness of Mr. Pick-
wick's turnkeys taking their prisoner's portrait. Here was a man
who knew them all, and none of them knew him. He had come
from Lord knows where — he said Australia ; he had talked the
most wonderful stuff about dead people and live people ; he had
drunk neat brandy enough to make him drunk ; and he had had a
fit — such a fit as nobody had ever seen before. Now he was quiet
and in his right senses, and he knew everybody in the room, except
the strangers from Newton Abbot.
' I've been away a good many years,' he said, ' and I've come
back pretty well as poor as when I left, and a sight more ragged.
I difln't think that a beard and rags would alter me so that nobody
fihoiild know me. Why, Mrs. Exon, does a man leave the parish
every week for Australia that I should be so soon forgotten ?'
He did not speak in the least like one of themselves. His
manner of speech was not refined, it is true ; but there are nuances,
so to speak, which differentiate the talk of the masters from the
talk of the rustics. He spoke like one of the masters. So in
France, the om-rier recognises the hoKi-r/poiH by his speech, disguise
him as you may.
' I have come back without anything, except a little money in
my pocket. Now, Mrs. Exon, give mo some bread and cheese for
WHO IS HE? 6 1
supper ; I've had no dinner. Being ill, you see, and shaken moro
than a bit, I didn't want my dinner. Then 111 have a pipe, and
you shall tell me the news and all that has happened. Perhaps, by
that time, you will find out who I am.'
"When he had eaten his bread and cheese, he called for more
brandy, this time with water, and began to smoke, showing no
trace at all of his late fit. He talked about the parish, and showed
that he knew everybody in it ; he asked who had married, and who
were dead ; he inquired into the position and prospects of all the
farms ; he showed the most intimate acquaintance with everybody,
and the greatest interest in the affairs of all the families. Yet no
one could remember who he was.
About half-past nine the door was ojjcned again. This time to
admit Harry Rabjahus, the blacksmith, who had been finishing the
choir practice with a little conversation, and was now thirsty.
He stepped in — a big strong man, with broad shoulders and a
brown beard. His eyes fell upon the stranger.
'Good Lord!' he cried; 'it's Mr. David Leighan come back
again, and him in rags !'
' So it is — it's Mr. David,' cried IMrs. Exon, clapping her hands.
'To think that none of us knew him at first sight ! And that you
should come to my house, of all the houses in the parish, first, and
me not to know you ! — oh, Mr. David ! — me not to know you ! and
you in this condition ! But you'll soon change all that ; and ill
make up the bed for you — and your uncle and Miss Mary will be
downright glad to see you. Mr. David ! To think of my not
knowing Mr, David !'
CHAPTER VIII.
A QUIET SUNDAY MORNINC
I sui'POSH there is no place in the world more quiet than Challa-
combe on Sunday morning. All the men, all the boys, and all the
girls, with some of the wives, arc at church ; and none but those
who have babies are left at homo. The very creatures in the
meadows seem to know that it is Sunday, and lie rcstfully in their
pastures. The quietest [)laco in the whole parish I take to bo
fJratiu)r, bi-cause it lies off any of the hmcs which load to Moroloii,
Widdicoiiihc, or Bovey Tracuy. The farm occupies the llidgc, a
name which applies to both suumiil itiui slopes of along, projecting
spur which runs eastward, narrow and steep, between the valley of
the Becky and the valley of the Bovey. Standing on Haync Down,
ri2 TO CALL HER MINE.
over )ii.'aiiist the Ki>lge, one can see how i ho ground breaks down,
with hill lifter hill, each lower thau the other, until the Ridge itself
abruptly falls into the lower Combe at Riddy Rock, where the
waters meet. First, there is Ease Down ; then, Maiiaton Tor ;
next, Latcholl ; and, lastly, Nympenhole or Oddy Tor, with Grat-
nor Farm beyond these Tors, its fields and meadows showing
aiuon^' the trees like a clearance in some great primeval forest.
No |)ath — save the narrow and winding Water Lane, which leads
cither to the clam across the Bovey, and so to Lustleigh Cleeve, or
else to Horsham Steps, and so to Foxworthy and North Bovey —
passes near (Iratnor. It is quiet enough every day in the week;
but theu there are the sounds of labour, the ringing of the black-
smith's anvil, the wheels of a cart in the lantf, the woodman's axe
in the coppice, the voice of the ploughman in the field — all the year
round some voice or sound of work ; but on Sunday there is no-
thing except the quiet clucking of the hens and the self-satisfied
quomp of the ducks, and the song of the birds from the woods of
Latchell and Nympenhole.
I suppose that there was somebody left in the house — otherwise
how should the Sunday roast and pudding be ready to time ? — but
when Mary had laid out the Bible and Prayer-book for her uncle
to read the service of the day, with the weekly paper for him to
take after the service, and had adjusted his cushions and left him,
there was no sign or sound about the place of human creature. As
for locking up houses, or shutting doors, for fear of thieves, Challa-
combe was like the realm of England under good King Alfred,
when, as we know, gold crowns, and torquils, and bracelets, and
the most precious carved horns, used to be hung out to ornament
the hedges by ostentatious Thanes, and the casual tramp only
sighed when he saw them and, at the worst, sinfully envied their
possessor, and wished that he had been born seven hundred years
later, when he might have consigned them safely to the nearest
' fence.'
Mr. Leighan read the morning service — litany, lessons, chants,
psalms, and commandments, and the prayer for the Church mili-
tmt here upon earth — quite through without omitting one single
petition. He did this every Sunday as punctiliously as the captain
of a liombay liner. The claims and calls of religious duty satisfied
be lay back in his chair and gently closed his eyes, surrendering his
whole mind to the bhssful prospect of speedily foreclosing on Sid-
cole. The end of the year, he knew full well, and had made it all
out clear on paper, would make an end of George, and put himself
A QUIET SUNDAY MORNING. 63
ia as owner of that farm as well as all the others. Truly, in the
matter of land, he was as insatiable as King Picrochole. So
pleasing was the imaginary possession of these acres, that he forgot
the weekly newspaper, and continued to picture himself as the
owner of Sidcote — alas ! that he could no longer ride about the
fieldfi — until he dropped into a gentle slumber.
It was exactly twelve o'clock when he was suddenly startled by
a man's step. lie knew the stcj), somehow, but could not at the
moment remember to whom it belonged. The man, whoever he
was, knew his way about the place, because he came from the back,
and walked straight, treading heavily, to the room where Mr.
Leighan was sitting, and opened the door. It was David coming
to call upon his uncle on his return. There was some improvement
in his appearance. Joseph Exon had lent him certain garments in
place of those he had worn the day before ; the canvas trousers,
for instance, had gone, and the terrible felt hat with the hole in
the crown. His dress was now of a nondescript and incongruous
kind, the sailor's jacket ill-assorting with the rustic corduroy
trousers and waistcoat. He had no collar, and the red handker-
chief was gone ; his head and hair had been trimmed a bit, and he
was washed. Yet, in spite of his improved dress, he preserved the
air of one who belongs to the lower depths. It is quite terrible to
observe with what alacrity most men sink. It is as if a lower
level was natural for most of us. I saw the other day in a work-
house a man who had been — is still, I suppose — a clergyman of the
Church of England. They employed him in attending to the
engine fires ; he stoked with zeal, no douljt with far greater zeal
than he had ever shown in his pastoral duties, and he wore the
workhouse uniform as if he liked it and was at home in it. David,
who had been a per.son of consideration and a gentleman as gentle-
men are reckoned at Challacombe, was now at his ease in the garb
and appearance of a day-labourer. Had it not been for that
spectre which haunted him every iiiglit, he would have been con-
tented to end his days in Australia as a labourer paid by the job.
Ho threw open the door and stood confronting the man whom
he had last seen dead, as he thought, killed by iiis own iiaiid. He
tried to face him brazenly, but broke down and stood before Iiiiii
with hanging head and guilty eyes.
'So,' said Dauiul Loighan, 'it is Davitl, come back again. Wo
thought you were dead. They told me this morning that you were
back again.'
' You hoped I was dead : say it out,' said David, with rojiy voice.
64 TO CALL HER MINE.
' Di-;i<l or alive, it makes no dillcrciicc to me. Stay: you were
in my ilelit when you went away. Have you come to settle that
long outstanding account ?'
David stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
' You have got something to say to me first,' he said, still in a
ropy and husky voice. ' Have it out now, and get it over. Some-
thing you've kept dark, eh ?'
' What do you mean ?'
'Outside, they knew nothing about it. That was well done.
No occasion to make a family scandal — and me gone away and all
—was there ? Come, let us have it out, old man. "Who robbed
me of my land ?'
His words were defiant, but his eyes were uneasy and susjjicious.
' Say, rather, who fooled away his inheritance with drink and
neglect ?'
' Robbed me, I say !'
' If I had not bought your land, someone else would. If you've
come home in this disposition, David, you had better go away
again as soon as you please. Don't waste uiy time with foolish talk.'
' " David's gone," you said. " When he comes back, we'll have it
out. We won't have a family scandal.'' Well, I am back. I
thought you were dead.'
' I am not dead, as you see.'
' Well, go on. Say what you've got to say. I'll sit and listen.
Come ; I owe you so much. Pay it out, then.'
' David,' said his uncle quietly, ' drink has evidently driven you
off your head. Family scandal ? What was there to hide ?
Good Heavens ! do you suppose that the whole of your life, with
its profligacy and drunkenness, was not known to all the country-
side ? Why, your history is one long scandal. Things to hide ?
Why the whole parish were so ashamed of you that they rejoiced
when you went away.'
David heard this speech with a kind of stupefaction.
'Nephew David,' his uncle went on, 'you maybe sure that it
was not my interest, considering that your land became mine, to
hide anything to your discredit. It is a censorious world, but the
worst of them can't blame my conduct towards you.'
It is, indeed, a censorious world, but it is remarkable how every
man persuades himself that the fishiest of his doings cannot be
handled severely even by the most censorious of his fellows. In
this matter of David, now, they said very cruel things, indeed,
about Daniel's conduct ; and it was not true that the parish re-
A QUIET SUNDAY MORNING. 65
joiced when David went away. Nor were they ashamed of him.
Not at all ; they knew him for a good-natured, easy-going young
fellow, who gave freely when he had anything to give, drank
freely, spent freely, and was only parsimonious in the matter of
work ; certainly, he stinted himself in that particular, which made
his uncle's crafty plaus the easier to carry through.
' The law protected you, David, and you had the full benefit of
law. When you borrowed the money of me, little by little, and
when you gave me a mortgage on your land, the law stepped in to
prevent any undue advantage. It protected you. What I did was
by permission of the law. Your case was decided in a London
Court. I could not sell you up, and I was ordered to give you a
term of six months, in which to pay principal or interest ; failing
that, I was permitted to foreclose without your having power of
redemption. That is the law. You did not pay either interest or
principal, and the laud became mine. If you have any quarrel, it
ia with the law of this land, not with me.' Mr. Leighan made this
statement in dry, judicial tones, which would have done credit to
a Judge in Chancery. ' And that,' he concluded, ' is all I have to
say to you, David. What are you staring like a stuck pig for ?'
' Oh, Lord !' cried David, ' is it possible ? What does he mean ?
Come, old man, don't bottle up. You can't do anything to me
now, and I might do a great deal for you ; I might, if you didn't
bottle up and bear malice. Come — you and me know — let's have
it out.'
' What do we two know ? All I know ia that you have been
away for pix years, that you como back in rags, that you had a
fit of some kind last night up at Joseph Exon's, and that you
drank brandy-and-water until you were well-nigh drunk. Have
yoa got any account to give of yourself ?'
'Don't bottle up,' David said feebly. ' There is nobody here but
you and me. I 11 own up. And then I can help you as nobody
else can — if you don't bottle up. If you do— but why should you ?
What's the good ':• There's nobody here but you and mo. What
the devil is the good of pretending that there's nothing? Did you
ever forgive an} body in your life? Do you think I believe you
are going to forgive me — yoti, of all men in tlie world ?'
' Lord knows what this man moans ! David,' he said impatiently,
'leave off tlii-< nonsense ;ibout hiding and pretending and inferring.
One would think you had boon mnrdering somebody !'
David Bat down, staring with the blankest astonishment. IIo
had by this time Bucccedcd in impressing upon his brain the fixed
5
66 TO CALL HER MINE.
conviction that his uncle kept his murderous assault a secret out of
regard for the family name ; and he came prepared to be submissive,
to^'express contrition, and to offer, in return for the secret being still
kept, to give back to his uncle the long-lost box full of papers.
And'now, this conviction destroyed, he knew not what to think or
what to say.
The one thing which would have appeared to him the most
impossible had happened— that is, in fact, the thing which always
does happen. Nothing is really certain except the impossible. As
for what is only unexpected— which the French proverb says is;cer-
tain— that naturally happens everyday, and we only notice it when
it is something disagreeable. For instance : There is a boy in a
quiet country town ; quite an unknown and obscure boy ; born to
be at best a small solicitor or a general practitioner in his native
place. Behold ! after a few years, this humble boy has become a
popular novelist, a leader at the Bar, a great medical specialist, the
best actor in the world, the best poet, the best dramatist of his
time ; or, it may be, the most accomplished villain, impostor, cheat,
and ruffian. These are impossible things, and they are always
hap])ening. Happily, the impossible generally comes by degrees,
which is merciful, because else we should all lose our reason in con-
templation of the coming impossibilities. Ghosts are among the
things impossible, which is at once the strongest argument for their
existence, and the reason why their sudden appearance always pro-
duces staggers. No ghost in the world, or out of it, could have
caused David Leighan such astonishment as the conduct of his uncle.
' It can't be !' he said, ' it can't be ! Uncle, you are playing some
deep game with me ; though what game, seeing how useful I can be
to you if I like, I can't understand. You are like a cat with a
mouse. You are old, but you are foxy ; you've got a game of your
own to play, and you think you'll play that game low down. Come,'
he made one more effort to ascertain if the impossible really had
happened ; 'come! It's like a game of bluff, aint it? But let's
drop it, and play with the cards on the table. See now — here's my
band — I heard last night that you were alive and hearty, though I
bad every reason to think you were dead. I was quite sure you
were dead — I kneio you were dead. You know why I knew. Every
night I was assured by yourself that you were dead. Come now !
Well — when I heard that you were alive and hearty, I said to
myself, " To-morrow I'll go and have it out with him when all the
people are at church and there's nobody to listen" ; because they
told me you could not remember — you know what.*
A QUIET SUNDAY MORNING. 67
* Couldn't remember ? I'd have you to know, sir, that my
memory is as good as ever it was. Couldn't remember ?'
' Oh !' said David, ' then you do remember everything ?'
' Of course I do.'
' Then, uncle, have it out.'
' What the devil do you mean ?'
'Let us talk open. I've never forgotten it. I have said to
myself over and over again, " I'm sorry I done it." I wished I
hadn't done it, especially at night when your ghost came — who
ever heard of a live man's ghost '?'
' The man's stark staring mad !' cried Daniel.
' Come, now. Either say, '' David. I forgive you, because there
was not much harm done after all. I forgive you if you'll help me
in the way that only you can help me," or else say, " David, I'll
bear malice all the days of my life." Then we shall know where
we are.'
' I don't understand one word you say. Stay !' A thought sud-
denly struck him. ' Stay ! The last time I set eyes on you, it
was on the morning that you left Challacombe, and on the same
day that I met with my accident. The last time I set eyes on
you was in this room. You cursed and swore at me. You went
on your knees, and prayed the Lord in a most disrespectful manner
to revenge you, as you put it. Do you wish me to forgive those
idle words ? Man alive ! you might as well ask me to forgive last
night's thunder. Reproach yourself as much as you please — I'm
glad you've got such a tender conscience — but don't think I am
going out of my way to bear malice because you got into a temper
six years ago.'
'Then \ou (In remember, uncle?' he said, with a sigh of infinite
Batinfaction. The impossible had really happened. * VVull, I
thought yon would remember, and bear malice. It was the last
you saw of rac, you see — and the last I saw of you.'
'YoH, it was the last I saw of you.'
David laughed, not the hysterical laugh of last night, but a low
laugh of Hweet satisfaction and secret enjoyment.
' Weil, uncle, since you don't bear malice— L.)rd, I thought you'd
bo flying in ray face ! — there's no harm done, is there ? And now
we can be friends again, I suppose. And if it comes to foxinese,
perhaps it will be my turn to jilay fox.'
' Play away, David ; play away.'
'I've come home, you see.' David planted his feet more iirmly,
and leaned forward, one hand on each kueo — ' I've come home.'
5—2
68 TO CALL HER MINE.
' In rags.'
' In poverty and rags. I've got nothing but two or three pounds.
When they arc gone, perhaps before, I shall want more money. The
•world is everywhere full of rogues— quite full of rogues, besides
land-thieves, like yourself, and there isn't enough work to go
round. Mostly they live like you — by plundering and robbing.'
♦ Find work then. In this country, if you don't work you won't
get any money. Do you think you are the more likely to get money
out of me by calling names ?'
* Well, you see, uncle, I think I shall find a way to get some
money out of you.'
'Not one penny — not one penny, David, will you get!' There
was a world of determiuation in Mr. Leighan when it came to
refusing money.
' It's natural that you should say so, to begin with.' His manner
had now quite changed. He began by being confused, hesitating,
and fihamefiiced ; he was now assured, and even braggart. 'I
expected as much. You would rather see your nephew starve than
give him a penny. You've robbed him of his land ; you've driven
him out of his house ; and when he comes back in rags, you tell
him he may go and starve.'
• Words don't hurt, David,' his uncle replied quietly. ' I am too
old to be moved by any words. Now, if you have nothing more to
Bay, go.'
David sat doggedly. He had always been dogged and obstinate.
His uncle looked at him curiously, as if studying his character.
'David,' he said presently, ' you were a bad boy at school, where
they ought to have flogged it out of you. You were a bad son to
your fatlicr, who ought to have cut you off with a shilling. You were
a bad farmer when you got your farm : you were a drunkard, a
betting-man, and a sporting-man. If I hadn't taken your land, a
stranger would have had it. Now it's kept in the family. Years
ago I thought to give you a lesson, and, if you reformed, to give it
back to you in my will. I now perceive that you are one of those
who never reform. I have left it — elsewhere.'
'Go on,' said David ; 'I like to hear you talk.'
'The old house at Berry— your old house— is turned into two
cottages. One of those cottages is empty. If you mean to stay in
the parish, you can live in it, if you like, rent free, for a time — that
is, until you get into work again, or I find a tenant. If you choose
to earn money, you can ; there are always jobs to be done by a
handy man. If you will not work, you must starve. Now that is
A QUIET SUNDAY MORNING. 69
all I will do for you. When you are tired of Challacombe, you can
go away again. That is my last word, nephew.' He turned away,
and began to busy himself again among his papers.
'After the accident, and the loss of those papers, you were sense-
less for three days. And after that you got paralysis. Why, what
was all this, but a judgment on you for your conduct to your own
flesh and blood ?'
' Rubbish !'
David said no more. Those best acquainted with him would
have understood from the expression of his face that his mind was
laboriously grapplin'4 with a subject not yet clear to him. He
was, in fact, just beginning to be aware of a very foxy game which
he might play with his uncle, though as yet he only dimly saw the
rules of that game. It was a new game, too, quite one of his own
invention, and one which would at the same time greatly please
and stimulate his uncle, whom he meant to be his adversary. He said
nothing more, but he sat doggedly, and tried to work out the rules
of that game.
Presently Mary came home from church, and, with her, George
Sidcote and myself. We found David sitting with his uncle, but
the old man was reading the paper, and David was sitting silent,
thinking slowly.
' Mary,' said David, ' you don't remember me, I suppose ?'
' You are my cousin David. Of course I remember you, David ;
though you are altered a good deal.' She gave him her hand.
' All the people are talking about your return.'
Then George and I shook hands with him cheerfully and
brotherly.
' Why, David,' said George, ' we must rig you out a little better
than this. Come home with Will and me,'
David turned sullenly to his uncle.
' I've got one thing more to say. All of you may hear what that
is. He offers mo a labourer's cottage to live in, and a labourer's
work to do, and a labourer's wage for pay, on my own lands — my
own that he stole, this old man here, sitting struck by a judgment,
in his chair. The next time I come here — you may ail take notice
and bear witness — the question shall not bo how little I may be
offered, but how much I shall take.'
So far had he got in this uuderstauding of the game that was to
be played.
' How much/ he repeated with a chuckle, ' how mucli I shall
take.'
70 TO CALL HER MINE.
' Dear mo !' said his undo. ' This is very interesting ! And how
are you, Will ? whou did you come down? and how is your writing
business ? Take David away, George ; I am afraid you'll find him
very tedious — very tedious indeed.'
CHAPTER IX.
AT SIDCOTE.
Wn took David away with us ; but the old man was right : he was
insufferably tedious. To begin with, his mind seemed absorbed ;
he answered our questions shortly, and showed no curiosity or
interest in us, and pretended no pleasure at seeing us again; he was
lumpish and moody. In fact, though at the time one could not
know, he was laboriously arranging in his mind the revenge which
he was about to take upon his uncle ; and he was not one of those
men who can think of more than one thing at a time.
'Mother,' said George, 'I've brought David Leighan to dinner.
He came home last night.'
The old lady gave him her hand, without the least appearance
of surpri.sc that David had returned in so tattered a condition. To
be sure, Joseph Exon's kindly offices had made a difference, yet he
looked rough and ragged still ; his wanderings had clearly ended
in failure.
'Yon are welcome, David,' she said. 'You will tell us after
dinner some of your adventures. I hope you are come to settle
again among your own people.'
' My own people,' he said, ' have been so kind, that I am likely to
settle among them.'
'I will take David upstairs, mother/ said George, 'for a few
moments ; then we shall be ready.'
Everything at Sidcote looked as if it had always been exactly the
same and had never changed. In winter, with the snow lying on
the Tors and the lanes knee-deep in mud, Sidcote looked as if it
was always winter. In the summer, with the old, old garden ablaze
with flowers and the green apples turning red or yellow on the old
branches, it seemed as if it must be always summer. In the
parlour, where Mrs. Sidcote sat, the Bible before her, it seemed as
if the dear old lady must have been always old and silver-haired —
certainly she must always have been gentle and gracious. A
farmer's daughter, a farmer's wife, and a farmer's mother— can such
be a gentlewoman ? It is borne in upon me, my brothers, more
and more, and the longer I live, that gentleness doth not consist in
AT SIDCOTE. 71
gentle blood. Some noble lords there are of whom one has beard
— but the thing may be false — that they are mere ruffiansj
devourers, and tramplers upon virtue and fair honour ; some noble
ladies, it is whispered — but, indeed, I know them not — are mere
seekers of pleasure, selfish, frivolous, and heartless. Whereas,
certainly in all ranks of life there are those who 'naturally follow
the things which make for unselfishness, sweetness, sacrifice, and
well-doing. Mrs. Sidcote was one of these. A little pleasant-
voiced and pleasant-looking dame — now sixty years old or there-
abouts, who will, I make no manner of doubt, live to be ninety-
five at least.
The window of her room looks upon the garden, which is, as I
have said, ancient, and full of old trees and old-fashioned flowers,
set and planted in antique fashion. The house is old, too — built of
stone, with lo^v rooms — two-storied, and thatched. Between the
house and the road is the farm j'ard, so that one cannot get to the
garden - gate without taking observation of George's pigs and
poultry.
When they came downstairs, David presented a little more of his
old appearance. There remained a certain slouching manner v.hich
suggested the tramp, and the sidelong look, half of suspicion, half
of design, which is also common to the tramp ; but as yet we knew
nothing of his past life and adventures. George had fitted him
with a clean shirt and collar — it is only at such times that one
recof/nises the great civilizing influence of the white collar — a
necktie, socks— actually, he had not worn socks, he casually told
George, for five years — a pair of boots, somewhat too large for him,
because George's size of boots was proportionate to his length of
limb ; and a pocket-handkerchief. The pocket-handkerchief is
even a greater civilizing influence than the collar. It is not in sight,
and yet if one has a pocket-handkerchief one must necessarily— one
cannot choose otherwise — live up to it. But a change of clothes
does not immediately jtroduce a change of manners ; it takes time
for the collar and the handkerchief to work : David looked moody
and resentful.
When he was dressed he sat down to dinner.
Then it was that we made a very painful discovery. Our friend,
we found, had entirely forgotten the siini)leHt rules of manners— the
very simpleMt. It was clear that ho must have gone down very low
indeed in the social scale in order to get at those habits which he
now exhibited. Were they acquired in the Pacific, or in Australia,
or in America, where, as we afterwards learned, David had sj^ent
73 TO CALL HER MINE.
his years of exile ? I think in none of these places, because, though
there are plenty of unsuccessful Englishmen everywhere, it i.s not
reparto 1 that they make haste to throw off the manners of decent
folk. He lost his manners because he had lost his self-respect ;
which is a very difTerent thing from losing your money. Let us
refrain from details, and observe only in general terms that he
helped himself to food with fingers a-* well as with fork. After all,
fingers came before forks, which is the reason why forks have four
prongs. It shall siiflFice to mention that, the principal dish being a
pair of roast fowls, he munched the bones and threw them on the
floor ; that he helped himself, with a wolfish haste, as if there was
not enough to go round, and every man must grab what he could ;
and, like a savage or a wild beast, he looked about him jealously
while he was eating, as if someone might snatch his food from him.
During the operation of taking his food he said nothing, nor did he
reply if he was addressed ; and he ate enough for six men ; and he
drank as if he would never get tired of George's cider, which is an
excellent beverage, but deceptive if you are so ill-advised as to
think it has no strength.
The old lady began to question him ; but David either did not
hear, being wholly engrossed with his feeding, or else was too sulky
and bearifch to reply. Therefore she ceased to try ; and we all sat
looking on with pallid cheeks and ruined appetites, i retending not
to notice that our guest had become a savage. Can one ever forget
the way in which that delicate currant-and-raspberry pie — in
London, they call it ' tart' — was, with its accompaniment of cream,
dainty, rural, and poetical, mercilessly wolfed by this greedy Orson ?
As soon as possible, Mrs. Sidcote, who usually sat and talked a
while after dinner, withdrew, and left us to battle with our guest.
After dinner, Gec)rge produced a bottle of port.
' There is not much left,' he said with a sigh. ' My father's
cellar is nearly finished ; but it will last my time. We will drink
the last bottle together, Will, on my last day in Sidcote.'
At all events, we drank very little of that bottle, for David
clutched the decanter, poured out a tumbler full, drank it off, and
then another tumbler. Now, two tumblers full of port, after a
quart or so of cider, is a good allowance for any man. When David
had taken his second tumbler, he made as if he would say some-
thing. Perhaps he had it in his mind to say something gracious,
for his lips moved, but no voice was heard. Then he got up and
reeled to the =')fa, on which he threw himself like a log, and was
asleep in a moment. He was like an animal filled with food, who
AT SIDCOTE. 73
must sleep it off. It was remarkable that he lay in the attitude
most affected by the sleeping tramp — namely, on his face. You
will generally find the tramp who rests by the wayside, sleeping
with his face on his arms. Perhaps because this position affords
more rest in a short time than any other ; perhaps because it saves
the shoulders from the hardness of the ground. David, therefore,
lay in this attitude, and breathed heavily.
' We have not had much of the bottle, have we, old man ?' said
George. ' Never mind ; let us go into the garden and have a pipe
in the shade.'
We took chairs with us, and sat in the old-fashioned garden of
Sidcote, under a gnarled and ancient apple-tree.
' Our David,' I said, ' was always inclined to be loutish. He has
been developing and cultivating that gift for six years — with a
pleasing result.'
' There is something on his mind,' said George. ' Perhaps he will
tell us what it is ; perhaps not. David was never particularly open
about himself. Strange that he should begin by looking for his
uncle's grave ! Why did he think that he was dead ?'
' He believed what he hoped, no doubt.'
' In the evening, Harry Rabjahns tells me, he had a kind of fit —
an hysterical fit of laughing and crying — in the inn.'
' That was, perhaps, because he had learned that his uncle was
still alive.'
This was indeed the case, though not in the sense I intended.
' And this morning, the first day of his return, he begins with a
row with his uncle. Well, there is going to be mischief at
Gratnor.'
' Why, what mischief can there be ?'
* I don't know. David went away cursing his uncle. After six
years he comes back cursing him again. When a man broods over
a wrong for six years, mi>:chief does generally follow. First of all,
the old man will do nothing for him. Do you understand that?
There was a solid obstinacy in his eyes while he listened to David.
Nothing is to bo got out of him. What will David do ?'
' He will go away again, I huppose ; unless he takes farm work.'
* David is as obstiuatu as his uiif;le. And ho is not allogothor a
fool, although he did take to drink and ruined himself. And there
will be mischief.'
'George, old man, I return to my old thought. If you aud
Mary marry without old Dan's consent, her fortune goes to David.
Does David know ?'
74 TO CALL HER MINE.
' I should think not.'
' To which of the two would the old man prefer to hand over that
money ?'
' To Mary, certainly.
' So I think. Then don't you see that some good may come out
of the business, after all ?'
' It may come, but too late to save Sidcnte. He means to have
Sidcote : my days here .ire numbered. Well, it is a pity, after five
hundred years.' He looked around at the inheritance about to pass
away from him — only a farm of three hundred acres, but his
father's and his great-great-grandfather's — and he was silent for a
moment. ' As for work, what would I grudge if I could keep the
old place ! But I know that over at Gratnor there sits, watching
and waiting his chance, the man who means to have my land, and
will have it before the end of the year.'
' Patience, George. Anything may happen.'
' He is a crafty and a dangerous man, Will. We can say here
what we cannot say in Mary's presence. He is more crafty and
more dangerous now that he is paralysed, and cannot get about among
his fields, than he was in the old days. He cannot get at me by the
same arts as he employed for David. He cannot persuade me to
drink, and to sign agreements and borrow money when I am
drunk. But the bad times have done for me what drink did for
David.'
So we talked away the afternoon, in a rather gloomy spirit.
Life is no more free from sharks in the country than in the town ;
there are in Arcadia, as well as in London, vultures, beasts, and
birds of prey, who sit and watch their chance to rend the helpltss.
'And 8o,' he said, summing up, ' I shall have to part with the old
family place, and begin the world again ; go out as David went
out, and return, perhaps, as he returned.'
' No, George ; some things are possible, but not probable. That
you should come back as David has come back is not possible.'
At that moment the man of whom we spoke came slowly out of
the house, rubbing his eyes.
' When you are among the blacks,' he said, 'you never get enough
to eat. And as for their diink, especially the stuff they call orora,
it is enough to make a dog sick.'
' Then you have been among the blacks, David ?' It was the first
hint he had given of his adventures.
He lighted his pipe and began to smoke it lazily, leaning against
the porch. Then he talked, with intervals of puffing at the pipe.
AT SIDCOTE. 75
' Six years ago,' he said, ' six years it was come October the
twentieth, that I left Challacombe with fifty pounds for all the
money I bad in the world. Yes — fifty pounds, instead of Berry
Down that I'd begun with. Who'd got the land?' He pointed in
the direction of Gratnorwith a gesture which was meant for hatred
and unforgiveness. ' Ha ! after I went away it seems that he had
an ugly accident. No one knows the cause of that accident.' He
grinned as if he was pleased to think of it. ' Quite a judgment —
quite. A clear judgment, I call it. Where did I go first, now V I
took passage at Falmouth for Xew York, and there I stayed ; it's
a fine town for them as have got money, full of bars and drinking-
saloons, and — and — all sorts of pretty things. So I stayed there
till all the money was gone — what's the good of fifty pounds?
Better enjoy it, and have done with it. I made it last a good bit
— two months and more. Then I looked about for work. Well ;
it's a terrible hard place when you've got no money, and as for
work, the Irish get all there is. By that I'd made a few friends,
and we thought we'd go westwards. There was a dozen or more
of U8, and we moved on together, sometimes getting odd jobs,
sometimes legging it, and sometimes taking the cars. When there
was no work, and I don't know that any of them were anxious —
not to say unxioxs — to get work, we tramped around among the
farms, and sometimes among the houses where the women are left
all alone, and the men go off to town. It isn't easy for a woman
to say " No " when a dozen men come to the door and there iisn't
another man within a mile. Sometimes we would go to a saloon
and play monty. Sometimes we would do a trade. My pals
were a clever lot, and I often wonder why they took me with
them. A clever lot, they were. But the baud got broken up by
degrees. One got shot for kissing a farmer's wife; and another
got hanged for stealing a horse; and another got his two legs
amputated after a row over the cards. The odd thing was' — here
David looked inexpressible things — ' that all the men had done
something, except me. That was curious, now. You wouldn't
expect in this country, if you met a gang of tramps, that they'd
all done something, would you? All but me. They were anxious
to know what Id done. I told them what I ought to have done,
and they agreed with me. Some of them were for my going home
at once and doing it. Well, it might have been a year, and it
might have been more, before those of us who were left found
ourselves at San Francisco, where we parted company, 1 couldn't
settle down very well— I don't know why. If a man begins
76 TO CALL HER MINE.
wandering he keeps on wandering, I suppose. How can a man
settle down who's got no land of his own to settle on? So I — I
moved on, after a bit. It was a pitj' to part when one had made
friends, but there— it couldn't be helped.'
He stopped at this point, to collect himself, I suppose. Or
perhaps to consider what portions of bis autobiography would be
best rci)ressed. We looked at each other in amazement. By his
own statoment— it was not a confession : there was no sense of
shame about the man — by his own unblushing statement he had,
only a fbw weeks after leaving England, where he had once been a
substantial yeoman, the companion and equal of respected, honour-
able men, willingly consorted with a gang of roughs, who had all
* done something,' and gone with them tramping along the roads of
the States! How can a man fall so quickly?
'Well,' David resumed, 'I was bound to move on somewhere.
Presently, I heard of a ship that was going to the Pacific, and I
went aboard as carpenter, and we sailed about. It wasn't a lucky
ship, and she was wrecked one night in a storm, and all hands lost
— except me. At least, I suppose so, because I never saw nor
heard of any of them afterwards. I was thrown ashore on an
island called, as I learned afterwards, New Ireland, and the people
were going to spear me and cat me, when a German saved my life.
Baron Sergius something, his name was. He could talk their
language, and they worshipped him. I stayed there — perhaps a
year — there's no way of telling how the time goes. Then a ship
came, and took me off. The Baron was left behind, and I dare
say he's eaten by this time. This ship was unlucky, too ; the
Captain set fire to her one night, and we had to take to the
boats, where they were all starved to death, except the mate and
me '
'Good Lord!' cried George, 'here are adventures enough for a
volume ; and he reels them off as if they were quite common occur-
rences !'
' They picked us up, and brought us to Sydney ; we had bad
weather on the way, and were like to have foundered '
' Do you always bring disaster to every vessel that you go aboard
of ?' I asked.
' But we got in safe and — and — well, that's all; I came home.'
' And what are you going to do, now you are come home, David?'
' I will tell you, George, in a day or two. The old man says he
will do nothing for me — we'll see to that presently. He's turned
the old farm-house at Berry into two cottages, and the buildings
AT SIDCOTE. 77
are falling to pieces. Says I can take up my quarters in one of the
cottages, if I like: that is liberal, isn't it? And I am to earn my
living how I can: that's generous, isn't it?'
' Try conciliation, David.'
' No, Will ; I think I know a better plan than conciliation.'
This was all that David told us. We saw, indeed, very little of
him after this day. He took what we gave him without a word of
thank.s, and he did not pretend the least interest in either of us or
our doings or our welfare. Yet he had known both of us all his life,
and he was but five or six years older. A strange return ! Know-
ing now all that I know, I am certain that he was dazed and con-
founded, first at finding his uncle alive, and next at the reception
he met with. He was thinking of these things and of that new
plan of his, yet imperfect, by which he could wreak revenge upon
his uncle. This made him appear duller and more stupid than was
his nature.
We sat waiting for more experiences, but none came. How, for
instance, one would h ive been pleased to inquire, came an honest
Devonshire man to consort with a gang of fellows who had all
'done something,' and were roving and tramping about the country
ready to do something else ? Before David lost his land, he used
to drink, but not with rogues and tramps. Yet now he confessed
without any shame to having been their companions — a tramp and
vagabond himself, and the associate of rogues. By what process
does a man descend so low in the short space of two or three
weeks as to join such a company ? I looked curiously at his face ;
it was weather-beaten and bronzed, but there was no further
revelation in the lowering and moody look.
' I dare say,' he went on, ' that you were surprised when I came
to look for his grave ?'
' It is not usual,' I said, ' to ask for the graves of living men.'
'I was so certain that he was deail,' he explained, ' that I never
thought to ask. Quite certain I was; why' — licre he stopped
abruptly — ' I was so certain, that I was going to ask what it was he
dicil of. Yes ; I wanted to know how he was killed.'
' You said someone told you that he was dead. Who was that ?'
'I will tell you now, not that you will believe me ; but it is true.
Ho told me himself that he was dead.'
' I do not say, David, that this is iini)ossiblc, because men may
do anything. Permit mo to remark, however, that you were in
America, and your undo was in England. That must have made it
difficult for your uncle to talk with you.'
78 TO CALL HER MINE.
' That is 80,' he replied. ' What I mean is, that every night— it
began after I'd boon in New York and got through my money —
every night, after I went to sleep, his cursed ghost used to come and
sit on my bed. " David," he said, " I'm dead." A lot more he
said that yon don't want to hear. "David, come home quick," he
said. " David, I'll never leave you in peace until you do come
home," he said. Every night, mind you. Not once now and again,
but every night. That's the reason why I came home. The ghost
has left off coming now.'
' This is truly wonderful.'
'What did he do it for?' asked David angrily. 'He'd got my
land. Well, as for — as for — what happened, my score wasn't paid
off bv that '
' What did happen ?'
' Never mind. He'd got my land still ; and I was a tramp.
What did he want to get by it ?'
'You don't mean, David, that your uncle deliberately haunted
you every night ? No one ever heard of a living man's ghost
haunting another living man. A dead man's ghost may haunt a
living man, perhaps, though I am not prepared to back that state-
ment with any e.^periences of my own. Perhaps, too, a living
man's ghost may haunt a dead man ; that would be only fair.
Turn and turn about, you see. But for a live uncle to haunt a live
nephew— no, David, no.'
' He is crafty enough for anything. I don't care who done it,'
said David ; ' it was done. Every night it was done. And that's
why I came home again. And since he's fetched me home on a
fool's errand, he's got to keep me.'
' But it wasn't his fault that the ghost came. Man alive ! he
wanted his own ghost for himself. Consider, he couldn't get on
without it !'
' He brought me home, and he's got to keep me,' said David
doggedly. Then he put on his hat and slowly slouched away.
' He is going to drink at the inn,' said George. ' I am glad he
had the grace not to. get drunk here. Well, there is something un-
canny about the man. Why should he have this horrible haunting
dream every night ?'
' Remorse for a crime which he wished he had committed, per-
haps. An odd combination, but possible. If he had murdered his
uncle he might have been haunted in this way. Wishes he had
murdered him, you see. Imagination supplies the rest,'
' My opinion, Will, is that in the band of pals tramping across
GRIMSPOUND. 79
the North American Continent the exception spoken of by David
did not exist. They had all, everyone, without exception, " done
something." And now, lad, we'll walk over to Gratnor, and have
tea with Mary.'
CHAPTER X.
GRIMSPOCXD.
On the next day, Monday, a very singular and inexplicable thing
happened — nay, two singular things — the full meaning of which I
did not comprehend until accident — old-fashioned people would
call it Providence — put the solution into my hands.
There is one place near Challacombe which those love most who
know it best. Especially is it desirable when the air is still, and
the sun burns in the valley, and in the narrow lanes around the
slopes and outer fringe of the great moor. For my own part, it is
like a holy place of pilgrimage, whither one goes time after time,
and never tires of it, for refreshment of the soul and the eye. I
left Sidcote at eight, before the morning freshness was quite gone
from the air, though the sun at the end of July had then already
been up for four hours, and followed the road which leads through
Heytree Gate past Heytree Farm on the left, and the coppice on
the right, where there was a solitary chiffchaff singing all by him-
self on the top of a tree. The road leads to Widdicombe-on-the
Moor — the last place in these islands where the Devil appeared
visibly, having much wrath, before he sent the lightning upon the
church and killed many of the congregation. After Heytree, the
road runs for the best part of a mile over the open down where Mr
Leighan met his accident, until one comes to Hewedstone Gate,
where there is another farmhouse, and where he who would stand
upon the place of which I speak must turn to the right and follow
the stream, which soon grows narrower until it becomes a trickling
rill falling down a steep hillside, and the rill becomes a thread of
water, and the hill grows steeper, and the thread disappears and
becomes a green line leading to still greener quags, higher ami higher
up the hills. It is an immense great hog's back of a hill, tlnee
miles long from end to end ; the ridge at the top is not steep and
narrow, but half a mile broad at least, covered with heath and
heather and whortleberry bushes. There is no path across Ilamil
Down, but this flat plain is the most glorious place in the world —
even better than the long ridge of Malvern — to walk along on a
warm summer day. The turf, before you reach the top, is dry and
8o TO CALL HER MINE.
spongy to the tread ; it is covered with the little yellow flowers of
the tormentilla ; here and there is gorse with its splendid yellow,
and among the gorse you may find the pretty pink blossoms of the
dodder, if you look for it. If you climb higher the wind begins to
whistle in your ears, which is the first sign of being upon a moun-
tain side. You may sit on Primrose Hill all the year round, and
the wind will never convert your ear into an Eolian harp ; but climb
the side of Helvellyn or walk over the Sty Head Pass, and before
you have gone very far, the old familiar ringing whistle begins,
though the air below seemed still and the breeze had dropped.
When you have reached the top, turn to the right and walk to
King's Tor, the northern point of Hamil Down, and then sit down.
There was a barrow here once, and at some unknown time it was
opened, and now lies exposed and desecrated. Within is the round
grave, cased with stones brought up the hill from below and ranged
in a cnplike shape, in which they laid the body of the great, illus-
trious, and never-to-be-forgotten king. I will show you presently
the place where he died, from which they brought him in long pro-
cession — the men and women alike long-haired, fair-skinned, and
raddy-cheeked — all mourning and lamenting. I know not the tunes
of the hymns they sang, but I fear there was sacrifice at the grave-
side, and that the soul of that king was accompanied by many
indignant souls of those who were slain to bear him company. It
•was a long time ago, however, and the thing itself wants confirma-
tion ; wherefore, let us shed no tears. They have laid open the
grave and taken away the torquils, bracelets, and crown of the
king. Then, if there were any bones of him, they left them un-
covered, so that the rains fell upon them and the frosts tore them
apart, and now there is but a little dust, which you cannot dis-
tinguish from the earth that lies around the grave. It is a high
place, however, and beside it are boulders, where one can sit and
look around. On the north-east is Ease Down, with its long slopes
and the granite pile upon its higliest point ; and below Ease Down,
Maiialon Tor ; above the church, and below Manaton, a spur runs
out between the valleys, and there are Latchell Tor, Nympenhole,
and the Ridge. Below Nympenhole stands Gratnor, where Mary
is at this moment. I know it well, and I can fancy that I see her
making a fruit-pie for dinner and a cake for tea. I am sure that
she has a white apron on— one of the long things up to the throat
— her sleeves are rolled up, and she stands before the board with
the rolling-pin and the pastry, taking great pains with the cake,
because we are going to Gratnor to have tea with her, and after tea
GRIMSPOUND. 8 1
we shall walk along the Ridge and talk. Poor !Mary ! must she
give up Challacombe and Sidcote, and go far afield with George in
search of kinder fortune ?
Beyond Manaton Tor you look down upon the rocky sides of
Lustleigh Cleeve ; turning your head to the east and south-east
there rises before you a glorious pile of hills, one beyond the other.
I say not that they are mountains, but I want no fairer hills.
There is Hayne Down, with its boulders thrown down the front as
if they were pebbles shaken from a young gianb maiden's apron —
this is, I believe, the scientific and geological explanation of their
origin ; there is Hound Tor, with its granite castle ; behind it Hey
Tor, with its two great black pyramids ; on the right of Hey Tor
there are Rippin Tor and Honeybag. Six miles away, hidden
among the hills and woods, is Widdicombe Church, the cathedral
of the moor. Turn to the west, and eight miles away you can see
Kes Tor, where still stand the foundations of the houses built by
those who placed the boulders in a circle, and filled them in with
turf, and then, with branches and a larch-pole and more turf, made
the place weather-tight and snug. With no chimney, and a cheer-
ful fire of crackling sticks and plenty of smoke, they made them-
selves truly comfortable on winter nights, though somewhat red
and inflamed about the eyes in the morning. South of Kes Tor
there stretches the open moor, bounded by more tors in every
direction. We are among the everlasting hills. A thousand years
in their sight is but as yesterday. As these tors stand now, the
grass climbing slowly over the rocks, so they stood a thousand
years ago — the grass a few inches lower down, the rocks the same,
the slopes the same. Overhead a hawk poised, just as one sees
now ; the rabbits ran about the heather, just as they do now ; and,
as now, the shifting shadows coursed across the slopes, and the
curves of the hillsides changed continually as the sun like a giant
rejoiced to run his course. We come and go, and arc no more
seen ; but tht; hills remain. I suppose that after millions of years
they too will disappear, with the light of the sun, and the sweet
air, and the Kreon li(;rbs, and flowers, and all tin; ciiaturt's ; and
then tbcro will be darkness and death for all creation. lUii the
Hand which started the myriads of worlds and set them steadfast
in their orbits can re-create them and make a newer and a better
world, of which this is but a shadow.
There wan not a mitii ujion H imii Down except myself. There
never in, except sometimes about this season wiien the whortle-
borries are ripe, or when a 8hc|ibord comes in search of his Dart-
6
82 TO CALL HER MINE.
moor tlocks, or a wayfarer crosses from Challacombe over the hill,
instead of coming round the road ; or when one comes this way
who knows the moor, and is not afraid of being belated, and ven-
tures to make a short cut from Tost Bridge — built of three flat
slabs of stone by the nameless King who was buried on this tor —
by way of Vitifer to Challacombe or Moreton Hampstead,
I had the whole of the great flat ridge to myself as I left King's
Tor and walked briskly southwards, avoiding the green quagmires
which lie here and there, a pitfall to the many. Half-way along
this upland plain there stands an upright stone. It is not a cross ;
nor is it, so far as one can judge, a tombstone. It is simply an
upright stone of gray granite, six feet high. Beside it lies a small
flat stone ; it is called the Gray Wether. Who put it up, and why
it is put up, not the oldest inhabitant can tell. Indeed, the oldest
inhabitant, who was the last survivor in Grimspound, died there
about two thousand years ago, and there has been no oldest
inhabitant since then.
I stood beside the Gray Wether Stone, making these and other
admirable reflections. I am not quite certain whether I really did
make them ; but when one is a writer of leading articles, it is
easy to fall into a literary way of thinking, and to shape one's
thoughts into an effective line. However, I was shaken out of my
meditations by a very singular accident. I had stood on the same
spot dozens of times before this : any day the same accident might
have happened. Yet it did not. The accident waited, as accidents
always do, until it might produce a coincidence. No one can
explain coincidences ; yet they happen continually — to every one
of us who is on the watch, one or two every day.
What happened was this. Between the upright stone and the
flat stone, tbe edges of the latter being irregular, there is, at a
certain place, an aperture or recess.
I carried with me a stick, on which I was leaning. Now, by this
kind of chance which Ave call accident, in changing my position I
stuck the point of the stick into the aperture — a thing of which
one would have been hardly conscious but for an unmistakable
clicking which followed, as of coins. Is there anything in
the woild which more excites and stimulates the blood than the
discovery of hidden treasure ? In ancient countries there are
men who go about for ever haunted with the idea of finding
hidden treasure — in Italy, in Syria, in Greece, in Asia Minor —
wherever ancient civilizations have jiassed away, leaving drachmas,
or shekels, in buried pots, waiting for the lucky finder. One
GRIAfSPOUND. 83
shudders to think of the eagerness with ■which I fell upon this
imaginary hoard. No doubt, I hastened to conjecture, it was an
ancient treasure which I was about to discover: a pile of Roman
coins with the head of some almost forgotten Emperor upon them ;
a heap of early Saxon coins — angels, marks, doubloons, rose nobles
at the very least. The opening, I found, was too small for a man's
hand— perhaps a small six-auJ-a-quarter might have got in. If
Mary were here — but Mary's hand is six-and-a-half, as becomes the
hand of the capable housewife. If man's hngers were longer, like
those of the monkey with the prehensile tail, one of our ancestors
might have found and tished out the coins in no time, and spent
th»iiu reckle.ssly in Kentish cobs, or the home-grown crab. Perhaps
the Hat stone might be moved ':* No ; the hands which propped up
the Gray Wether were mighty hands ; perhaps the same which threw
that apronful of boulders over the face of Hayne Down. The flat
stone was immovable. Perhaps with the stick 1 could at least feel
the coins ? Yes, I made them rattle. The position now became that
of Tantalus. Who ever heard before of a buried treasure only
twelve inches deep which could be felt but not dragged out ? Why,
it was not only a buried treasure, but perhaps a vast treasure ; a
collection of priceless coins, antique, unique, throwing light upon
dark places in history ; giving personality and life to what had
been before but a name or a string of names, the portraits and
effigies of long-forgotten emperors and kings. I would have that
treasure somehow. Many plans suggested themselves : sticky stuJGE
on the end of a twig to which the coins might adhere, lazy tongs,
common tongs, pincers — 1 would go back to Sidcote and lug up a
sackful of iustiumeuts ; I would go to Moreton Hampstead and
borrow another sackful of surgical instruments ; 1 would even get
a couple of stonemasons and saw that stone through. I would have
that treasure.
One would not be without a conscience, but it sometimes sadly
interferes with the pilgrim when patbs of pleasantness open out
before him ; and here the voice of conscience said in her cold and
unHympathetic way : ' There is no rood of English ground but has
its Seigneur. The Lord of the Manor in which stands llaiuil
Down i» the Prince of Wales. After all your trouble you will have
to take the treasure to II. 11. II.' 'I'll be hanged if I do,' was the
reply of the natural man. ' You 11 be conveyed to the Peninsula of
Purbeck marble if you don't,' said conscience again.
It is no use arguing with a conscience which is at once persistent
and scnailive. I, therefore, grumpily stuck the stick once more into
6—2
84 TO CALL HER MINE.
the recess and poked about again. The coins rattled merrily. Never
in my whole life had I so ardently desired to touch, to handle, to
examine, to possess an unknown and unseen treasure.
Now, wlieii I took out the stick again, a bit of yellow leather
showed fur a moment just hooked up by the ferrule as far as the
light penetrated. The sight of the leather inspired me with faint
hope. Again I poked about, but for some time in vain, until I hit
upon a most ingenious and crafty contrivance. Like all really great
things it was also perfectly simple. In fact, I reversed the stick and
fished with the handle, to such good purpose that in a very few
moments I had the leather thong in my fingers and hauled it out.
The thong tied up the mouth of a small brown canvas bag, very
much like that which is used by moderns in sending and fetching
money from a bank. Did the Druids — did the ancient inhabitants
of Grimspound — use canvas bags for their banks ? Or perhaps the
Romans, from whom we have borrowed so many things, invented
the canvas bag for the convenience of bank clerks. It had an
ancient and a musty smell, not unexpected in a bag, perhaps, as old
as King Cymbeline or Queen Boduque. And the coins were within.
Now for the treasure. Yet it must go to H.R.H., even if it should
prove to be — what ? As the sailor said when he found the bottle,
' Rum, I hope ; sherry, I think ;' so I : ' Roman, I hope ; mediaeval,
I think : modern, by George !' Yes, the coins were modern ; they
were not Roman, or Saxon, or Norman, or early English ; they
were not even rose nobles, marks, moidores, or doubloons : they
were simply sovereigns, twenty in number, and two of them quite
new, bearing the date of 1879. The date of the bag, therefore,
could not be later than that year. It might have been dropped in
the day before yesterday. Perhaps, however, there were more.
No ; the firm point of the stick struck against the hard stone all
round the narrow recess, but there were no more coins. The bag
was a modern bank-bag, and the treasure was a collection of twenty
coins all the same — namely, that Victorian gold-piece which is now
80 scarce and so highly prized in country districts, known as the
sovereign. It was possible, indeed, that the Druids, who are sup-
posed to have known so much, may have had a prophetic Mint, and
turned out these coins in anticipation of later times ; but no : the
theory seemed untenable.
Twenty sovereigns in a bag— a bank-bag— a modern brown
canvas bag. Who could have climbed up Hamil Down in order to
hide twenty pounds in a little hole like this ? Was it some philo-
sopher careless of filthy lucre ? No ; in this country such a thinker
GRIMSPOUND. 85
exists no longer. Even the Socialists would divide equally among
themselves— one man 'laying low' to rob his neighbour of his
share— and not throw away this creature of good red gold. Had it
been placed there by someone as a voluntary offering and gift to
the unknown God of Fortune in order to avert his wrath, by some
man over-prosperous, as the rich king of old threw his ring into
the sea ? That might have been before the year 1879 : since that
time there has been nobody prosperous. Could it have been hidden
there by a thief ? But if thieves steal a bag of money, it is the
bag, and not the money, that they hide away. The money they
take to a ken or a den, where their fraternity meet to enjoy the
fruits of industry, ^'o thief, certainly, concealed the bag in this
place. It must, therefore, have been put there and hidden away by
Bomebody for some secret purpose of his own. But what purpose ?
Who could possibly have brought a bag of twenty pounds to this
wild spot, 80 distant from any place of human resort, and yet
exposed to such an accident of discovery ? Perhaps it was a
magpie ; in which case it only remained to find the maid. Only
six years ago ; perhaps less. Twenty pounds is a large sum to put
away. Assuredly there was no one at all in the neighbourhood of
Hamil Down by whom twenty pounds could be ' put away ' without
' feeling it,' as is poetically and beautifully said. Twenty pounds !
I kept counting the money, turning it over from hand to hand,
looking again at the dates on the coins, and trying to think how
this money came here, and why it could have been left here.
Finally, I put the gold into the bag, tied it up again, and put it
in my own jiocket. Then I walked on, my beautiful literary
meditatioiiH quite interriiptt;d. and turned from a peaceful stream
into a muddy and angry wliirlpool. One does not like to be faced
with a conundrum which cannot be solved, and yet will not be quiet,
but keeps presenting itself. In the fable of the king who was
cha.Hed by the gadfly, it is cunningly figured how a man Avont mad
by trying to solve an enigma of which he could not find the
answer, but which would never cease to trouble him.
Thinking of this curious 'cache,' I went on walking mccliani-
cally, till I found mjself at the other side of the broad ui)hind
duwn. The sun by this time, which was eleven o'clock, was blazing
hot, and 1 thought with yearning of rest ami a pipe in the shade.
The nearest shade accessible! was across the sliiiliow valley at my
fuet, and under the rocks of llooknor opposite. Not (juite half-
way across, I saw the long gray lino which I knew to be part of the
enclosure of GrimspouDd, on the lower slope of Hamil Down.
86 TO CALL HER MINE.
Beyond Grimspound the ground began to rise with a gentle ascent
to Ilooknor, where I proposed to rest. The way down which I
phinged is encumbered with quagmires, and is steep and rocky ; a
hillside where adders hiss — I never, for my own part, heard this
creature hiss, or clap its hands, or do anything except get out of
the way as quickly as it could — and where rabbits also spring up at
your feet and scud away as if they had heard of rabbit-pie. Pre-
sently, however, I found myself within the ancient and honourable
city of Grimspound, which has been in ruins for sixty generations
of human beings. Sixty generations! It seems a great many.
We who are the heirs of all the ages, possess, as may be reckoned,
so many ancestors of that period that they may be set down by the
figure one, followed by eighteen naughts, which is about a hundred
million times the whole population of the globe at that time. The
difference is caused by the marriage of cousins.
Dartmoor has many of these ancient enclosures and sacred circles
with avenues of stones, menhirs, dolmens, pierced stones, and other
holy apparatus of a long-forgotten cult. Grimspound, which is the
largest of them, is a great oblong, surrounded by what was once a
strong wall, formed by rolling the boulders down the hill and piling
them one above the other. The wall is now thrown over. Outside
the wall was once a broad ditch or fosse, which is now nearly filled
up. Within the wall are a dozen small circles formed of stones
laid side by side. They are the foundations of houses, like those of
Kes Tor.' The largest circle was doubtless the Royal Palace, or
perhaps the sacred building of the priest, where he sat in solitary
grandeur when he was not conducting some beautiful and awe-
inspiring human sacrifice. The small circles were the habitations
of the nobility and gentry of Grimspound. The common sort had
to make their huts without any circles, because the stones were all
used up. The Grimspoundcrs had no enemies, because on this
island everybody spoke the same language and they were all
cousins. But man's chief happiness is war and fighting ; there-
fore, they pretended to be at feud with all the other tribes, and so
wont foraging and driving the cattle, and attacked and were
attacked, and had their great generals and their valiant captains —
to every tribe its Achilles and Diomede, and Nestor and Ulysses —
just as their successors. All this fully accounts for Grimspound,
and makes that place deeply interestin?. At the same time, if any
gentleman has a little pocket theory of his own about the origin
and history of the ydace, we shall be pleased to hear him. The late
ingenious Mr. James Fergusson, for instance, wrote a whole book
GRIMSPOUND. 87
to prove that Grimspound and its brother stone cities were all
bnilt the day before yesterday. This may be true ; but, as above
stated, the absence of the oldest inhabitant prevented him from
province his case.
When I had walked across the length and breadth of Grimspound,
and visited the spring just outside the wall — no doubt the scene of
many a sanguinary fight, the be^ieorers trying to keep the besieged
from rretting at the water— and when I had drunk of the water,
•which looks so brown as it trickles through the little pools among
the peat, I walked slowly up the hill of Hooknor and found my
shady place beside the rocks, and sat down and filled my pipe, still
aeitated with the abominable mystery and enisrma of the canvas
bag : yet thinking I cnuld devote my mind uninterruptedly to its
consideration and to the tobacco. But it was a day of mysteries.
Before I tell you what followed, ])lease to bear in mind that,
though one talks of valleys and the tops of hills, the Tor of Hook-
nor is a very low elevation, and is certain!}' not the fourth part of
a mile from Grimspound ; next, that the enclosure lies on the up-
land s-lope of the opposite hill, though low down. Therefore, to
one upon Hooknor it is spread out like a map — the map of an
island, in which the outer wall represents the seacoast, and the
stone circles, lakes or mountains, according to the fancy of the
observer. Thirdly, that the air was so clear and bright, so free
from vapour or haze, that every blade of grass and every twig of
heather on the opposite hill seemed visible from where I sat ; and,
lastly, that T am gifted with very long sight, insomuch that when
I take a book of small print I am fain, in order to get the full
flavour of it, to set it up at one end of the room and to read it
from the other. If you understand all this, you will perfectly
understand what followed.
At the same time I was perfectly in the view of anyone in
Grimspound, had there been anyone there.
There was no one within sight or hearing ; there was neither
sight nor sf>nnd of buriKin life, looking from Hooknor at the
great massive bill of Ilamil Down ; neither up nor down tlic valley,
from this place, could be seen a village, a clearing, a farm, or any
trace of man. Then I fell to thir)king again about that bag. llow
on earth did it get into such a f|U(er j)laco ? Such a lliin<_' no more
got into such a f)lacc by accident than the wondrous order of the
CosmoH ifl arrived at by accident ; it could not have been dropped
out of afiybody's pocket by accident — the figuration and situation
of the rccesB forbade that. It could not, again, have been deposited
88 TO CALL HER MINE.
very recently, considering the mouldiness of the bag. I thought of
putting it back and watching. But in order to watch one must
hido, and there is no place in Hamil Down for even a dwarf to
hide. Besides, if it had been left there five or six years before,
the hiding-place might now be forgotten. And, again, one would
have to watch continuously, and the top of Hamil would be bleak
in winter and cold at night ; and there would be difficulties about
grub.
While I was thinking, a figure, which I began dimly to perceive
through the nebulous veil of thought, was working his way slowly
down the hillside opposite by nearly the same way as I had myself
picked among the boulders. He came plodding along with the
heavy step and rolling shoulders of one who walks much over
ploughed fields and heavy land— George Sidcote had acquired that
walk since his narrowed circumstances made him a hind as well as
a master. This man looked neither to right nor left. Therefore,
he was not only a countryman, but one who knew the moor, and
was indifferent, as rustics seem — but they are not in reality — to its
beauty and its wildness. As he came lower, I observed that he
walked with hanging head, as if oppressed with thought ; and pre-
sently, though his face remained hidden, I recognised him. By his
mop of red hair, by his great beard, by his rolling shoulders, this
could be no other than David Leighan. What on earth was David
wanting on Hamil Down, and whither was he going ? It was our
returned prodigal, and the suspicion occurred to me immediately
that not only was the ])rodigal impenitent, but that he was ' up ' to
something. It might have been a suspicion as unjust and unkind
as it was baseless, but it certainly crossed my mind. Where was
he going, and why ?
It thus became ajjparent that he was making for Grimspound.
For if he had been going to Challacombe he would have kept
higher up ; and if he had been going to Vitifer or to Post Bridge,
ho would have kept on for a quarter of a mile before striking the
path ; but he made straight down the hill, just as I had done. Was
David also among the archaeologists ? Was he going to verify on
the spot a theory on their purpose and construction — first conceived,
perhrips, among the blacks ?
Whatever he was in search of, he had a purpose in his mind. His
face, which I could now make out plainly under the shade of his
flit hat, was set with a purpose. Your naturally slow man, when
he ha'^ a definite purpose in his mind, shows it more intelligibly
than the swift-minded man who jumps from one idea to another.
GRIMSPOUND. 89
He was going to Grimspound — perhaps the purpose marked in his
face was only a determination to sit down and take a pipe among
the ruins. In that case he might take it kindly if I were to shout
an invitation to join me. But no. When he should see me it
would be time enough to shout.
In the corner of Grimspound, nearest to Hamil Down, there are
lying, piled one above the other, three or four stones a good deal
bigger than those which form the greater part of the wall. They lie
in such a way — I presently ascertained the fact by investigation —
that there is formed a little cave, dry, quite protected from rain,
dark, and long, its back formed by the lower part of a round
boulder, while one side, sloping floor, and sloping roof are formed
by these flat boulders. David, I observed (though I knew nothing
then about this little cave — I dare say there are many others like
it in the inclosure), made straight for the spot without doubt or
hesitation. He had, therefore, come all the way from Manaton to
look for something in Grimspound. This was interesting, and I
watched with some curiosity, though I ought, no doubt, to have
sung out. It must be something he had brought home with him
— something valuable. He was not, perhaps, so poor as he seemed
to be. When one comes to think of it, a man must have some
possessions ; it is almost impossible to travel about for si.x years
and to amass nothing : one must have luggage of some kind when
one crosses the ocean all the way from Australia to England.
He stopped at this convenient hiding-place. Then he looked
around him quickly, as if to assure himself that no one was present
to observe him — I wonder he did not see me. Then he stooped down,
reached within some cavity hidden to me, and drew out something.
It was in a big blue bag. I could plainly see that the blue bag,
like my canvas bag, was weather-stained. He laid the bag upon a
stone, and proceeiled to draw out its contents, consisting of a single
box. It was a bo.x about two feet long and eighteen inches wide,
and two or three inches deep. It was a tin box. What had David
got in his box ? I might have walked down the hill and asked
him that r|uostion, but one was naturally somewhat ashamed to
confess to looking on at what was intended for a profound secret.
Let him take his box and carry it back to his cottnge. I made up
my mind on the spot, and nothing that f<illowe<l in the least degree
cauned me to waver in that conviction — indeed, I heard very little
of what had hap[)i;ned for some time afterwards -that the box
had been brought home by David ; and [ was quite certain that it
contained things which he had gathered during his travels. What
90 TO CALL HER MINE.
tilings ? Well, they have coral, pearls, shells, feathers, all kinds
of beautiful things in the islands of the Pacific, We shall soon
find out what they were.
Good. David was not, then, quite a pauper. Tt is always pleasant
to find that the returned exile has not done altogether so badly for
himself. Let him keep his secret, and reveal it in his own good
time.
David was so anxious to keep the secret that he actually took off
his jacket — the sailor's blue jacket— wrapped it round the bag, and
tied it up securely with string. Then, rithout looking about him
any more, he turned and walked back as slowly and deliberately as
he had come, carrying the treasure under his arm. As soon as his
figure had surmounted the brow of the hill and had disappeared, I
got up and sought the hiding-place in the wall of Grimspound, It
really was a place into which nobody would think of looking for
anything. The top stone sloped downwards over the mouth, so as
almost to hide it. In this cluster of four great stones no one would
have dreamed of finding or of looking for anything, David's
hiding-place was well chosen.
Then I followed, walking slowly, so that I might not catch him
up on his way home with his tin box full of queer things from the
Southern Seas.
The extraordinary coincidence, which I did not in the least sus-
pect, was that on the very same morning that David went to recover
the box I should light upon the bng. You will understand presently
what a remarkable coincidence that was.
In the evening I told George all that had happened, and pro-
duced the brown canvas bag. George did exactly what is usual
under such circumstances : without some conventional manner of
receiving things, even surprises of the most startling kind, life
would be too jumpy. lie took the bag, looked at it, opened it,
poured out the gold, counted it, held it in his hand and weighed it ;
lof'ked at it again, put it back into the bag, and laid the bag on the
table.
' It is weather-stained, old man,' he said, ' and smells of the mould.
I should think it had been there some time.' He took it up again
and turned it round. ' Look!' he said, ' here are initials ; they are
nearly faded, but they are certainly initials. I make out an A —
no. a B ; or is it a D ?— and an L. Certainly an L ; B. L. or D. L.,
which is it ?'
' Looks to me,' I said, turning the bag about in the light — ' looks
like B. A. ; but it may bo D. L.'
GRIMSPOUND. 91
' Will,' he cried, ' I believe you have really found something
important. Six years ago, when Daniel Leighan fell off his pony,
he always declared that he lost twenty pounds in gold. It was tied
up, he always says, in a canvas bag. This must be his bag and
these must be his initials. I am quite sure of it.'
' Very odd, if it is so. Why should a man steal a bag of money
only to put it — money and all — into a hole and then go away and
leave it ?'
' Well, I take it that the thief put the bag there meaning to
return for it, but forgot where he put it.'
' You can't forget the Grey Wether Stone, George. There is only
one Grey Wether Stone on Hamil Down, and who in the world
would go all up ITamil on purpose to hide a bag of money when
there are hiding-places in every stone wall about the fields ?'
' Take it to Daniel to-morrow and show it to him, Will. He
always declares that he was robbed of this money as well as of his
bonds and securities. Nobodv has ever believed him, because it
seems unreasonable that a robber should take twenty pounds and
leave fifty. But if it is proved that he is right about the money,
he may also be right about the bonds.'
Strange that neither of us thought of connecting David's box
which be fished out at Grimspound with his uncle's bonds. But
then I did not know that the bonds were in a box : one thinks of
bonds as a roll of paper.
'As for David's box,' said George, ' I agree with you. Will, that
it is best to say nothing about it. Let him keep his secret. If it
is valuable, .=0 much the better. We will keep the thing to our-
selves. But as for the canvas bag, you must certainly take it to
Gratnor to-morrow, and give Daniel the chance of claiming it.'
CHAPTER XI.
David's next visit.
Had I taken that canvas bag to Gratnor early in the morning
instead of the evening, many things might have turned out
differently ; among other things, David's extraordinary scheme of
revenge might never have been possible. If I had tohl Daniel
Leighan the strange thing I had witnessed from Ilooknor Tor,
he must certainly have connected the box taken from Grimspound
with the box of hiH own papers. As for me, however, I knew
nothing till much later about that box of papers.
g2 TO CALL HER MINE.
The scheme was almost worthy of David's American pals— the
gentlemen who had all 'done something.' The box, when David
had carried it home, proved to be quite full of papers. His own
knowledge of papers and their value was slight, but he know vfiry
well that signed papers had been his own destruction, and that the
possession of signed papers made his uncle rich. I do not suppose
that he could have known anything at all about shares, warrants,
bonds, coupons, and such things. But he did know, and under-
stood clearly, that the loss of a box full of papers would certainly
entail the greatest inconvenience, and might cause a grievous loss
of property. The loss of ordinary jjapers, such as share certificates
and the like, causes only temporary inconvenience, which may be
eet right by ])ayment of a small fee. But there are some kinds
of papers the loss of which simply means that of the whole invest-
ment represented. Among these, for instance, are coupons repre-
senting certain municipal bonds. They are made payable to bearer,
and if they are lost cannot be replaced. In this tin box David
found certain coupons of this kind. They represented an invest-,
ment of nearly three thousand pounds. This is a large sum of
money, even in the eyes of a rich man ; think what it means to a
man who has made his money by scraping and saving, by scheming
how to best his neighbour, and by being as eager to save sixpence
in a bargain as to force a sale for his own advantage ! Three
thousand pounds ! It was the half of the money which Daniel
Leighan held in trust for Mary until she should marry with his
consent. He had almost brought himself to think that it was part
of Mary's fortune which had been lost, and that he would be able
to deduct that sura from the amount which he must pay her when
he suffered her to get married. Three thousand pounds lost
altogether ! For now six years had passed away, and there was
not a single clue or trace of those coupons, so that those who did
not believe that Daniel had been robbed were inclined to think that
the papers, wherever he had left them, must have been destroyed
to spite their owner.
David called upon his uncle about eleven in the forenoon. He
was received with the cordiality generally extended to all needy
relations, and to those who think they have a right to expatiate
upon their misfortunes and to ask for a temporary loan.
Mr. Leighiin shuffled his papers as a sign that he was busy and
wished the call to be short, nodded his head with scant courtesy,
and asked his nephew what he came for.
' I've come, uncle,' David began very slowly, spreading himself
DA VID'S NEXT VISIT. 93
upon a chair like unto one who means to stay. In fact, he placed
his hat upon another chair, drew out his pocket-handkerchief and
laid it across his knees, and produced a small brown paper packet.
'I've come, uncle '
' Don't be longer than you can help, David. Get to the subject
at once, if you can. Say what you came to say, and then go away
and leave me wilh my own business. It's high time you were look-
ing after your own. Will George Sidcote give you a job ?'
' Damn your jobs !' said his nephew, flaming.
' I hear you borrowed a bed yesterday, and a chair and a table,
and that you have settled in the cottage — my cottage. Very good.
I don't mind if you have it rent free till you get into work, when
you'll have to pay your rent like your neighbours. If you begin any
more nonsense about robbing you of your land, out you go at once.'
David, at the risk of seeming monotonous, uttered another and a
similar prayer for the destruction of his uncle's cottage.
' If that is all you came to say, nephew, the sooner you go the
better. And the sooner you clear out of my cottage and leave the
parish — do you hear, sir ? — leave the parish — the better, or I'll
make the place too hot for you '
'I didn't come to swear at you, uncle,' said David, more meekly.
' If you wouldn't keep on — there, I've done ; now hold your tongue
and listen. I've got something very serious to say — very serious,
indeed ; and it's about your business, too !'
' Then make haste about it.'
' Six years ago, they tell me, you were robbed, that night when
you fell off your pony, after I'd gone away.'
' It was the evening of that very day,'
* Ah !' — David's eyes smiled, though his lips did not. ' We little
thought when I u.sed those words with which we parted, how quick
they'd come true. When you lay there on the broad of your back,
now, your face white and your eyes open, but never seeing so much
as the moon in the sky, did you think of your nephew whose farm
you'd robbed, and did you say " David, 'tis a Judgment " ?'
' No, I didn't, David.' Afterwards Daniel wished that he had
denied the truth of those details about the white face and the
eyes which saw nothing ; because, if a man is solemnly cursed by
his nephew in the morning, and gets such a visitation in the even-
ing, it docs look like a Providence, regarded from any point of view,
lie did not, however, ask or suspect how David arriveii at those
details. ' 1 didn't say that, David. You may be quite sure I didn't
say that.'
94 TO CALL HER MINE.
' You felt it all the more, then. Very well. While you lay there,
as they tell mo, Bomcone comes along and robs you. What did
you lose, uiiclo ? Was it your watch and chain and all your
money ?'
' No ; my watch and chain were not taken, and only a little of
the money.'
' Uncle, are you sure you wore robbed ? Do you think that
robbers ever leave money behind them ? Was the money taken in
notes, or was it in gold ?'
' It was all in gold ; fifty pounds in one bag, twenty pounds in
the other, and both bags in one pocket. The small bag was taken,
and the big bag left. But what does it matter to you ?'
' You shall see presently. I am going to surprise you, uncle.
What else did you lose besides the little bag ?'
' I lost a box of papers— but what does it matter to you ? Did
you come here to inquire about my robbery ? I suppose you are
glad to hear of it.'
' Never mind, uncle. You go on answering my questions ; I've
got my reasons. I am going to surprise you. Wait a bit.'
' Well, then ; but what can you know ? It was a tin box
secured by a lock and tied round with a leather strap ; I carried it
in a blue bag — a lawyer's bag — hanging round my neck for safety.*
' What was in that box, did you say ?'
' David !' the old man changed colour, and became perfectly
white, and clutched at the arms of his chair and pulled himself up-
right, moved out of himself by the mere thought. ' David ! have
you heard anything? have you found anything?'
' Wait a bit : all in good time. What was in that box, did you
say, again ?'
' Papers.'
' What kind of papers ? Were they papers, for instance, that
might make you lose money ?'
' Money ? David, there were papers in that box that could
never be replaced. Money ? I lost, with that box, papers to the
tune of three thousand pounds — three thousand pounds, David —
all in coupons !'
' It was a Judgment ! Why, my mortgages were not so very
much more. Three thousand pounds ! Come, even you would
feci that, wouldnt you ? Were there actually three thousand
pounds in that box ?'
' The man who stole that box might have presented those coupons
one by one, and got them paid as they fell due, without quesliona
DA VID'S NEXT VISIT. 95
asked — that is, he could until I stopped them. Oh ! I could stop
them, and I did ; but I could never get them paid until I presented
them through my own bankers. David, if you are revengeful, you
may laugh ; for it is a blow from which I have never recovered.
They say that the paralysis in my legs was caused by falling from
the pony, whereby I got, it seems, concussion of the brain. But I
know better, David. A man like me does not get paralyzed in the
legs by falling on his head. 'Twas the loss of all the money— the
loss of three thousand pounds — that caused the paralysis. And
now, I sit here all day long — I who used to ride about on my own
land all day long ! — and I try to think, all day and all night, if I
could have left that bo.K anywhere, or given to anyone that bag of
twenty sovereigns. David, tell me— I will reward you if you tell
me an) thing to my advantage — have you heard something ?'
David nodded his head slowly.
' Thi-ee thousand pounds,' he repeated. * It was three thousand
pounds.'
' I'm not a rich man, David, though you think I am. As for
taking your farm, if I hadn't taken it, somebody else would : for
you were a ruined man, David — you were a ruined man. And
now, even if I leave it to you in my will, for I must leave my
property to someone — it is a hard thing that a man can't take his
property with him when he dies !— it would be little use, because
Mary's money must come out of it. Oh ! it was a hard blow — a
cruel, hard blow !'
' Yes,' said David. ' As a Judgment, it was a — a — a — wunner.
I never heard of a nobler Judgment. Three thousand pounds I —
and a fall off your pony ! — and a paralysis ! — all for robbing me of
my land. Did you ever offer any reward ?'
' No. What was the good ?'
' Would you give any reward ?'
• I would give — I would give — yes : I would give ten pounds to
get that box back again.'
' Ten pounds for three thousand. That's a generous offer, isn't
it!'
'I'd give fifty pounds— I'd give a hundred — two hundred — four
hundred, David.' IIu multiplied his olfcr by two every time that
David shook his bead.
• You'd have to come down more handsome than four hundred
to get back three thousand pounds. Woll,' he rose as if to go,
' that's all I've got to say this morning. That will do for to-day.
Much more handsome you would have to come down.'
96 TO CALL HER MINE.
' David !' cried his uncle eagerly, ' what do you mean by being
more handsome. Tell me, D ivid— do you know anything ?'
' Why,' said David, • I may know, or I may not know. What
did I tell yon ? Didn't I say that I might have something to sell ?
Well— that's enough for this morning !' He moved towards the
door.
' David, David, come back ! What have you got to sell ?'
• That is my secret.' He stood with his hand on the door-handle.
' If you tell a secret, what is the good of it?'
' David, stop — stop ! Do you know where that box was taken ?
Oh ! David, put away your hard thoughts. Remember you were
ruined already. I didn't ruin you ; my heart bled to see your
father's son ruining himself.'
David made the same remark about his uncle's heart as he had
made concerning his reference to jobs and his allusion to the
cottage.
' Look here, uncle : perhaps the box exists, and perhaps it doesn't.
Perhaps I have learned where it is, and perhaps I haven't. Perhaps
I've got a paper out of the box in my pocket at this minute, and
perhaps — well, what would you give me for a paper out of the box,
taken out this very morning, none of the other papers having been
80 much as touched ? Not one of the books full of those coupons,
or whatever you call them, but a paper worth nothing. What
would you give for that, just to show that the others can be laid
hold of ?'
' Oh ! give it to me, David ;' the old man stretched out both
hands with yearning eyes ; 'let me look at it. Can it be that the
box is found after all, and safe ?'
' If it is found, depend upon it that it is safe, uncle. Take your
oath of that. The man Avho's got that box won't let it go in a
hurry, particularly when he knows what's inside of it. Three
thousand pounds ! and, perhaps, if he knew it, his own, for the
trouble of presenting them at the right place.'
' They've been stopped,' Daniel explained, for the second time.
' You don't know what that means, perhaps ; it means that anyone
who presents those papers for payment will find the money stopped,
and himself taken up for unlawful possession of the coupons —
unlawful possession, David — which is seven years, I believe !'
Perhaps he was not wise in giving this warning. For it stands
to reason that the coupons might have been presented, and so the
possessor been detected and the whole recovered.
'Very well,' said David, who had that valuable quality, often
DAVID'S XEXT ]'ISIT. 97
found with the slow mind, of imperturbability. 'But you can't
touch the money without the papers, can you ? Not j'ou. Very
well, then. Without talking of those coupons, as you call them,
for the present, what should you say supposing I was to show
you now — this minute — one of the other papers that were in the
box ?'
' Do 3'ou mean it, David ? do you mean it ?'
' I mean business, uncle. I mean selling, not giving.'
' I su])pose,' said Daniel, trying to preserve a calm exterior, but
trembling down to the tips of his fingers, ' I suppose, David, that
the man who has the box has communicated with you because he
thinks you are my enemy?'
* You may suppose so, uncle, if you like.'
' And that he is willing to make a deal. He would give up the
paj)ers, which are of no use to him, in return for hard cash — eh,
David ?'
' You may supj)ose that, too, if you like.'
' Papers stolen from me — jjapcrs the unlawful possession of Avhich
would ensure him a long imprisonment ?'
'Just as you like, uncle. Only— don't you see? — at the first
mention of the word " imprisonment" all these papers would be
dropped into the fire, and then — where are you ? No more chance
of recovering a penny !'
' Show me — prove to me— that you know something about the
box.'
' I am going to prove it to you.' David left the door and came
back to the table, standing over his uncle. ' What will you give
me, I ask you again, for only one pajicr out of the box, just to
prove that the other papers exist ?'
* What paper is it ?'
' You shall see ; one of the papers that ai'e worth nt)thing. I
have actually got it in this pocket, and you shall have it if you give
me ton pounds for it ; not a i)enny less — ten pounds. If you
rcfuHO, and I have to take it back, ten jiounds' worth of the
coupons — now that I know their value — shall be torn up and
burned. To-morrow I shall come back and make the .same pro-
posal, and the next day the same, and every day that you refuse
you shall have ten pounds' worth of those cuiipuus luiriied. Wluii
they are all gone you will be sorry.'
Daniel's lips moved, but no words followed. The audacity of
the proposal, which really was almost e«|ual to a certain famous
proposal in ' The Count of Monte Christo,' though neither of them
7
98 TO CALL HER MINE.
Lad read that book, took his breath away ; but if David really had
access to the box, he was undoubtedly the master of the situation.
air. Leighau was the more astonished, because hitherto he had sup-
l)osed his nephew to be a fool. Very few men are really fools,
though their faculties may lie dormant. David, before his bank-
ruptcy, was incapable of perceiving his own opportunity in any-
thing ; David, since his wanderings, especially with those rovers of
America, who had all ' done something,' had improved.
' How do I know ?' Mr. Leighan asked. ' How can I tell that
when you have got the tea jjounds I shall be any nearer my
coupons ?'
' This way, uncle. Oh, I have found the way to convince even
you. In a day or two I shall come with another paper out of the
bo.x — one of those which are of no use to anybody — and you shall
buy that of me on the same terms. If you don't, I shall begin to
burn the coupons. When we have got through all the worthless
papers, we shall get to the coupons, and then I shall begin to sell
them to you as fast as you like to buy them, uncle — that is to say,
if we can agree upon the price. And I promise you that, before
you have bought them back, you will be sorry that you ever fore-
closed on Berry Down. It will be the dearest bit of land you ever
got hold of. Uncle Daniel, I think that before I've done you will
acknowledge that we are more than quits. I've seen a bit of the
world since I saw you last, and I've learned a thing or two.'
Daniel groaned.
' Uncle, before you give me that ten pounds, tell me how the
devil you were able to send your own ghost after me every night ?'
' What do you mean ?'
* I say, how did you haunt me every night ? Why did you com-
mand me to come home ! What did you do it for ?'
' What did I do it for ':"
' After all, I'm come, and what is the consequence ? Mischief to
you, money to me ; that's what has come of it. Mischief to you,
money to me.' The jingle pleased David so much that he kept on
repeating it, 'Mischief to you, money to me.'
' Oh ! I dont know— I don't know what this man means,' the old
man cried in distress. ' What does he mean with his haunting and
Lis ghost and his orders ? Nephew, I am getting tired of this.
Show me the paper, if you have it with you, and I will tell you
what I will do. Put it into my hands.'
' Well, I don't mind doing that. If you tear it up, I shall want
the ten pounds just the same. It doesn't matter to me if you tear
DAVID'S NEXT VISIT.
99
up all the pipers. Now,' he unfolded the brown paper packet,
' what do you think of this ?' He took out a paper somewhat dis-
coloured by damp. ' What is this ? " The last Will and Testa-
ment of Daniel Leighan." '
He placed it in his uncle's hands.
' This is a precious document, truly,' said Daniel, ' a valuable
document. Why, man, I've made another will since.'
• I don't care how many wills you have made. I don't care
whether it is valuable to you or not. To me it is ten pounds.
Ten pounds, uncle. Tear it up or burn it, just as you like. But
ten pounds.'
' If I give it to you, how do I know that you will give me back
my coupons ?'
' Why, you had better not even think of my giving you back
your coupons. When did you ever give anything to anybody?
Do you think I shall return your generosity by giving you any-
thing ? No, I shall sell you those coupons one by one. You shall
see your thousands melt away every day, just as you are getting
them back into your hands. You took my land away at a single
blow. I shall take your money from you bit by bit, little by little,
like ])ulling out your teeth one by one !'
' You arc a devil, David. You were only a fool when you went
away. You have come back a devil.'
' Who made me, then ? You ! Come, don't let us talk any
more. There is your paper. Give me my ten pounds and I will
go. To-morrow or next day, just as I please, I shall come back.'
Daniel Leighan'a hands trembled, and he hesitated. But he did
not doubt his nephew's words. He knew that the box had been
somehow recovered, and that his pai)crs were in David's reach, if
not in his power.
He opened his desk, and took out of it one of those little round
boxes which are made for bottles of marking-ink. A sovereign
just fits into those boxes. He kept one in his desk filled with
Bovcreign.s. :Mary went over to Aloreton once a month to get the
money for him. He held this box tightly in his loft hand, and
began very slowly to count out ten pounds.
' Here, David,' lie .said, with a heavy sigh ; ' here is tlie money.
Heaven knows it is hard enough in these times to make ten pounds,
and harder to give them away. The Lord send you a better heart,
David.'
' Thank you, uncle ; the same to you, I'm sure. If \s u both had
better hearts, uncle, what fools we should look— ch !'
7-2
loo TO CALL UEK ML\E.
'If you had read this will, Uavid, you would have fouud your-
self put down for something good. AVell — so far I forgive you.
But don't tempt me too much, or you may find my real last will
and testament a very different thing. You are my nephew, David
— my only nephew — and I've got a good deal to leave — a good deal
to leave, David.'
'As for my inheritance, uncle, I am going to take it out of you
bit by bit — a little to-day and a little to-morrow. I shall enjoy it
better that way. I think that's all. Oh uo ! You may be think-
ing to charge me with unlawful possession of your i)roperty. If
you do, the whole of the papers will go into the fire. Remember
that ! And now, uncle, I think I've done a good morning's work,
and I'll go away and have some beer and a pipe. Take care not to
talk about this little matter to anyone, or it will be the worse for
you — mind, not to Mary or to George or anybody. If you breathe
a word, all the papers go into the fire.'
CHAPTER XII.
THE SECOND DKEAM.
When" Mary came in about one o'clock to clear the table and lay
the cloth for dinner, she found her uncle in a very surprising con-
dition. He was in tears — actually in tears. He had been weeping.
How long ago was it since Daniel Leighan had been seen to weep ?
The misfortunes of his neighbours passed over him, so to speak,
and left him dry-ej'ed ; as for himself, he had met with no mis-
fortunes in his life except the loss of his box of papers and the
paralysis of his lower limbs. This is a grievous thing to endure,
but a man — an old man — does not weep because one of the afflic-
tions of age falls upon him.
Yet Daniel's eyes were wet with tears, and his papers lay un-
touched upon the table, and he had turned his head unto his
pillows, as Ahab turned his unto the wall.
'Why, uncle,' cried Mary, 'whatever is the matter?'
' I wish I was dead, Mary ! I wish I was dead and buried, and
that it was all over.'
' Why, uncle V Are you ill ?'
'No; I would rather be ill. I could bear any pain, I think,
better than this '
'Then what is it? You are trembling. Will you take a glass
of wine?'
THE SECOXD DREAM. lOT
*No — I can't afford it. I can't afford any luxury now, Mary.
You will have to watch over every penny for the future.'
' What has happened, then ?'
' I am a miserable man. I have been miserable for six years,
thinking over my papers ; but I always hoped to find them. And
now '
' Now, uncle ?'
' Now they are found — that is all. They are found, and I had
never really lost them till they were found.'
' Where were they, after all ?'
' I cannot tell you, Mary. I only heard to-day — by post — by a
letter — not by word of mouth — that they are found. And they
are in the hands of a — of a villain; a villain, Mary, who will rob
me of I know not what, before I get them back. Don't ask me
any more, don't tell anyone what I have said ; I must have told
someone, or I should have died. Don't speak to me about it ; I
must think — I must think! Oh! never in all my life before did I
have to think so hard.'
He could eat no dinner : this morning's business had taken away
all desire for food. After dinner he refused his brandy-and-water,
on the ground that he could no longer afford brandy-and-water.
lie also made pathetic allusions to the workhouse.
' Come, uncle,' said Mary, ' you will make yourself ill if you fret.
You have said for six years that you had lost this money, and now
you find that you really have lost it — //' you have — and you cry
over it as if it was a new thing! Nonsense about the workhouse;
you are as rich as you were yesterday. Take your brandy-and-
water. Here— I will mix it for yon.'
He took it, with many groans and sighs.
' Mary,' he said, ' David has been here again. He says it is all a
judgment.'
'All what, uncle?'
' All the trouble that has fallen upon me — the fall from the i>oiiy,
the loss of the papers, the very paralysis: he says it is a judgment
for my taking his laud. Do you think that it is a judgment, INfaiy ?
Perhaps I was hard upon the boy ; but one couldn't stand by and
see a beautiful piece of properly going to rack and ruin without
stepping in to secure it. If I hadn't lent him the money on mort-
gage, another would ; if I hadn't sold liini u]), anotln^r would — and
it is all in the family; tliat's what David ought to think, and not
to come here swearing and threatening. In the family still ; and
who knows whether I shan't leave it to him? I must leave it to
I02 TO CALL HER MINE.
someone, I suppose. If it is a judgment, Maiy ' He paused
for a word of comfort.
' Well, uncle,' she said, ' we are taught that we bring our suffer-
ings upon ourselves ; and to be sure, if everybody was good, there
would be a great deal less suffering in the world. Nobody can
deny that.'
' But not such a lot of judgment, Mary. All this fuss because
David had to sell his farm, and I bought it ! I can't believe that.
Why don't other people get judgments, then?'
' Patience, uncle. Think — whatever happens now about that
money— that it was lost six years ago.'
'Ah! you keep on saying that. You don't understand what it is
to have the thing you had despaired of recovering dangled before
your eyes and then taken away again. What does a woman under-
stand about property ? David laughed. There's something come
over David. He is just as slow as ever in his speech and in his
ways. But he's grown clever. No one could have guessed that
David could go on as he went on here this morning.'
' What has David to do with it, uncle?'
'With the property? Nothing, Mary, nothing,' he replied
hastily. ' Don't think that he has anything to do with it.' He
groaned heavilj', remembering how much, how very much, David
had to do with it.
' Can I do anything? Can George do anything?'
' George would like to see me wronged. It is an envious world,
and when a man gets forward a bit '
' Uncle ! it is not true that George would like to see you
wronged.'
' Then there is one thing he could do. It seems a big thing,
but it is really a little thing. If George would do it, I would —
I would — I would — no : because I should only lose the money
another way.'
' You'mean you would give your consent, uncle?'
'No— no; I can't do that, I couldn't yesterday; much less
to-day, Mary.'
' Well, what is this thing that George could do for you?'
' A villain has got my property, Mary. George might go and
take it from him. If I bad the use of my limbs, I'd dog and watch
that villain. I would find out where he had put the property. I
would tear it out of his hands if I could get it no other way. Old
as I am, I would tear it from his clutches.'
'George can hardly do that for you, uncle. Es-pecially when you
THE SECOND DREAM. . 103
refuse your consent to our marriage, and are going to drive him
out of Sidcote, as you drove David out of Berry.'
Mr. Leighan shook his head impatiently.
' It's business, girl; it's business. How can I help it?'
' Well, then, uncle, if you are in real trouble, send for George
and tell him, and let him advise you,'
' George — advise — me f Mary, my dear, when I begin to want
advice of any man, send for the doctor and order my coffin. I
might use George's arms and legs ; but my own head is enough for
me, thank j-ou.'
He said no more, but took his pipe, and began to smoke it.
' There is another way,' he said. ' But I doubt whether you
have sufficient affection for your uncle to try that way.'
' Is it something that I could do? Of course I will do it, if I
can.'
'Will you? It's this, girl. Hush! don't tell anybodj-. It's
this : David has got a secret that I want to find out. How he got
hold of the secret I don't know, and so I can't tell you. Somebody
has told him this secret. Now,' his voice sank to a whisper, ' David
was always very fond of you, Mary ; and he is that sort of man that
a woman can do what she pleases with him. Pretend to let him
make love to you — pretend that you are in love with him. Wheedle
the secret out of him, and then tell me what it is.'
' And what would George say while I was playing this wicked
part? Uncle, if you have such thoughts as that, you may expect
another judgment.'
He groaned, and went on with his pipe. Then he took a second
glass of brandy-and-water, because he was a good deal shaken and
agitated. Then he finished his pipe in silence, laid it down, and
dropped asleep.
But hi.s slumber was uneasy, probably by reason of his agitation
in the morning ; his head rolled about, he moaned in his .sleep, and
his fingers fidgeted restlessly. At four o'clock he woke up with a
start and a scream, glaring about him with terror-stricken eyes,
just as he had done once before.
' Help 1' he cried, ' Help ! He will murder nic. Gh I villiiin, I
know you now ! I will remember— I will remember !' Here the
terror went suddenly out of his eyes, and he looked about liini ni
bewilderment.
' Mary ! I remembered once more. < >li ! I saw .so clear — so
clear ! — and now I have forgotten again. This is the second time
that I have seen in my dream the man who took my papers and my
104 '/(; CALL HER MIM-.
goUl— the second time ! Mary, if it comes again, I shall go mad.
Oh ! to be so near, and to have the villain in my grasp— and to let
him go again ! Mary, ]\Iary— the loss of the money, and the dream,
and vonr cousin David- all together— will drive me mad !'
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CANVAS BAG.
This was truly an ausincious evening for me to present myself
with my ncwly-rccovercd bag. However, ignorant of the morning
storm, I walked along, thinking how I would give the old man an
agreeable surprise.
His room, when I called, about eight o'clock, was gloomy and
dark, the windows closed, and the blinds half down, though outside
the sun was only just setting. Mr. Leighan was sitting still and
rigid, brooding, I suppose, over David's terrible threats. His sharp
face was paler, and his steel-blue eyes were keener and brighter
than usual. He was thinking how he should meet this danger, and
how he could persuade, or bribe, or terrify David into submission
and surrender of the papers. And there appeared no way.
' What do you want ?' he cried sharply. ' What do you come
here f or ? I am in no mood for idle prating !'
' I am come on your business, Mr. Leighan, if you call that idle
prating.'
' Jkly business ? I don't remember that I ever had any business
with you, Mr. Will Nethercote. I only have business with people
who have money.'
' True, and I have none for you to get hold of ; neither land nor
money, that is very true. Yet I am come on your business.'
'Tell it, then— and leave me. Young man,' he said pitifully, ' I
am old now, and I am in grievous trouble, and I cannot see my way
out of it. Don't mind if I am a little impatient.'
'I won't mind, 'Sh: Leighan. ]\Ieantime, I have come to please
you.'
"You can't. Nothing can please me now, unless you can make
me young and strong, and able to throttle a villain : that would
plea.se me.'
' I cannot do that. Yet I am sure that I shall please you.'
'Go on, then. Oo on.'
Then I began with the .solemnity with which one lead.s up to a
dramatic situation.
THE CAN]- AS BAG. 105
' Six years ago, Mr. Leigban, you said that you had been robbed
of a bag with twenty pounds in it.'
' A bundle of papers and a bag with twenty sovereigns. I did.
Good Heavens ! one man comes in the morning about the papers,
and another in the evening about the money. Go on — go on ; I can
bear it all.'
' There is nothing to bear, I assure you, Mr. Leighan,' I said, a
little nettled. ' Come, it is all very well to be impatient, but there
are bounds '
' Go on ; let me get it over.'
' Was that bag of j'ours a brown canvas bag with your initials —
D. L.— on it ?'
* I thought so,' he replied strangely. ' So you, too, are in the
plot, are you ? And you are come to tell me that I shall have the
bag back without the money, are you ? You in the plot ? What
have I ever done to you ?'
' I have not the least idea what you mean. Who is in a plot ?
What plot r
' George, I suppose, will appear next with another piece of the
conspiracy. You are all in a tale.'
' I think I had better finish what I have to say as quickly as
possible. You are in a strange mood to-night, Mr. Leighan, with
your plots and conspiracies — a very strange mood ! Is this your
bag ?'
I produced it, and gave it to him.
' Yes ; it is the bag I lost. I never lost but one bag, so that this
must be the one. As I said — the bag without the money. Well,
I don't care. I have had greater misfortunes — much greater. You
have come to tell me that the bag was put into your hands.'
' Not at all. I found the bag ; I found it on the top of Hamil
Down, hidden beside the Grey Wether Stone.'
' Very likely,' he tossed the bag aside. ' Why not there as well
as any other jtlacc, when the money was once out of it ?'
* IJut suppose the money was not taken out of it ?'
Ho laughed incredulously.
' In short, Mr. LeiL,dian, the money was not taken out of tlio bag.
It was hidden away at the foot of the (Jrey Wothcr Stone, where I
found it by the accident of poking my stick into the place where it
Isiy. I heard the clink of tlio money, and I pulled it out ; ;uicl here,
Mr. Lciglian, aro your twenty sovereigns.'
I took them from my pocket, and laid them on the taldo in a
little pile. His long, lean fingers closed over them, and ho trans-
io6 TO CALL HER MINE.
ferred them swiftly to bis pocket witbout taking bis eyes off my
face, as if be feared that I might pounce upon the money.
' And what, young man, do you ask for your honesty in bringing
me back my money ?'
* Nothing.'
' You might have kept it. I should have been none the wiser.
You are rich, I suppose, or you would have kept it. Many young
men would have kc]it it. Can I offer you a pound— yes, a pound !
^for your honesty V
* No, thank you, Mr. Leighan. I do not want a reward for
common honesty. Besides, you must thank George Sidcote, not
me. It was George who discovered that it was your money.'
' As you please, as you please. In London you are so rich, I
suppose, with your writing, that you can afford to throw away a
pound well earned. As you please.'
' Nobody ever believed that you were robbed, Mr. Leighan,' I
went on. ' But the finding of the money seems to show that you
really were robbed while 30U were insensible. Perhaps we shall
find the papers, too, some day.'
' Perhaps we shall,' he said. ' If they are in the hands of rogues
and villains, I shall be much the better for it.'
' At any rate, it shows that you did not give the money to
anybody.'
' Give the money ! Will, you are a fool. Did you ever know me
give money to anybody ?'
' Certainly I never did.'
' Well, then, enough said about my robbery. It is strange, too ;
both on the same day ' I knew not, then, what he meant.
' Both on the same day — and after six long years. What can this
mean ?'
I can readily understand, now, and Ijy the light of all that we
have learned, my extreme dulness in having such a clue, and not
being able to follow it up without hesitation. It was, of course,
not the act of a common thief to steal a bag of gold and hide it
awa}'. And I had seen with my own eyes a man search for and
find among the fallen stones of Grimspound a mysterious box,
which he carried away stealthily. Yet I failed to connect David's
box with Daniel's papers. To be sure, he had, so to speak, thrown
me off the scent by speaking of his uncle's accident as having hap-
pened after his own departure. And I thought of the papers as in
a bundle ; not as in a box ; and besides, I bad formed a strong
theory as to the contents of the box.
THE CAN]' AS BAG. 107
Yet, if there was one man in the place who owed Dan Leighan a
grudge, it was his nephew. That should have been remembered.
But again, that David should find his uncle lying senseless in the
road, and should rob him and go on his way without attempting to
give him the least help, was not to be thought of. It was incredible.
It is, I believe, a fact that novelists cannot invent any situation
so wild and incredible but that real life will furnish one to rival
and surpass it. In the same way there is nothing in baseness, in
cruelty, in selfishness, in revenge, that can be called impossible.
For this is exactly what David had done. The box which I saw
him take from the fallen wall of Grimspound contained his uncle's
bundle of papers ; and the trouble that was hanging over this poor
old man was the torture prepared for him, and already hanging
over his head, of being slowly pillaged, and forced day by day to
consent to new extortion,
* It seems as if the papers were stolen — now, doesn't it ?' said
Mr, Leighan. ' I suppose you all thought I was drunk, and put
them somewhere, and then fell oft' the pony? Yes ; I've known
all along that you thought that. Well, I was not drunk ; I was as
sober that night as I am to-night. I used to wonder who the
robber was. Now I don't care to inquire ; it is enough for me that
I have been robbed, and that I am going to be robbed again.'
' Why again, Mr. Leighan?'
'Never mind wbj'. Will,' he said eagerly, 'tell me — I never did
any harm to you : you've never had any land to mortgage— tell
me, do you know nothing of the papers? When you found this
bag, did you hear nothing about the papers?'
'I heard the wind singing in my cars, but it said nothing about
any papers.'
'Are you sure that you know nothing?' He peered into my
face, as if to read there some evidence of knowledge,
' I know nothing. IIow should I?'
' Well, it matters little ; I am not concerned with the robber, but
with the man who has them now. I must deal with him ; and,
there, you cannot help me, unless— no— no — I cannot ask it: yon
would not help me.'
'Anyhow, Mr. Leighan, you've got yonr twenty pounds back
again. That is something. Confess that you arc pleased.'
' Young man, if you torture a man all over with rhciiinatic pains,
do you think he i.s phased to find that, tiny liavc loft his little
finger, while they are still like red-hot irons all over the rest of
his body? Tliat is ray case.'
,oS TO CALL HER MINE.
' I am sorry to hear it. At the same time, twenty pounds, as I
said before, is something.'
' It's been lying idle for six years. Twenty pounds at compound
interest— I don't spend my interest, I promise you— would now be
six-acd-twenty pounds. I've lost six pounds.'
I laughed. A man who knows not the value of interest laughs
easily. I expect, therefore, to go on laughing all the days of my
life.
' As for the papers, there's a dead loss of one hundred and fifty
pounds a year. Think of that ! All these years I've waited and
hoped— yes, I've prayed— actually jmu/ed— though there is no form
of supplication which meets my case— that I might get my papers
back again. Three thousand pounds there are, among these papers,
besides the certificates and things that I could replace. Nearly all
Mary's fortune lost.'
' Xo,' I said. ' Don't flatter yourself that you lost any of Mary's
money. It was your own money. You are trustee for Mary's
fortune, remember ; and you will have to pay it over in full.'
He winced and groaned.
' Three thousand pounds ! With the interest it would now be
worth nearly four thousand pounds at five per cent. And now all
as good as lost !'
' Well, ^Ir. Leighan, I am sorry for you, very sorry, particularly
as you will have to find that fortune of Mary's very soon.'
' Shall I, Master Will Nethercote ? I shall give Mary her
fortune when I please ; not at all, unless I please. Mary has got
to be obedient and submissive to me, else she won't get anything.
When I give my consent to her marriage, and not till then — not till
then — I shall have to deliver up her fortune. Good-night to you,
Will Xethercote,'
CHAPTER XIV.
DRINK ABOUT.
DiRiNG these days David led the life of a solitary. He sometimes
went to the inn, but only to get his bottle of whisky filled ; he went
to the village shop on the green to buy what ho wanted, and he
kept wholly to himself. Excejit for that daily visit to Gratnor, he
talked with no one.
From time to time I met him leaning over field-gates, loitering
along the lanes, or sitting idly under the shade of one of our high
hedges. I supposed that his loafing and wandering life had made
DRIXK ABOUT. 109
work of any kind distasteful to him. But then he uever had
liked work. His face was not a ])leasant one to gaze upon, and for
a stranger would have been terrifying. It was now, as regards
expression, such a face as one might have met on Hounslow Heath
or Shepherd's Bush in the last century, with a fierce ' stand-and-
deliver ' look upon it — dogged, sullen, and discontented^ — the face of
a man outside social law. He was sullen and discontented because
he was always brooding over his wrongs ; and dogged because he
was pitilessly avenging ihem. At this time we knew from Mary that
he went nearly every day to Gratuor, but we had no suspicion
of what was said or done there. My own thoughts, indeed, were
wholly occupied with the fortunes of George Sidcote, and I gave
small heed to this sulky hermit. Yet, had one thought about it,
remembering how the man came home in rags, and now went clad
in the garb of a respectable farmer, and denied himself nothing,
one might have suspected something at least of the trouble which
was hanging over the poor old man.
' David,' I asked him, meeting him one day face to face so that
he could not slip out of the way, ' why do you never come over to
Sidcote ? Have we offended you in any way V
' No,' he replied slowly, as if he was thinking what he ought to
reply. 'No ; I don't know exactly that you have oll'euded me,'
' Then why not come sometimes V'
' Why not ?' he repeated.
' Come over this evening and tell us what you think about
doing.'
' No. I don't think I can go over this evening.'
' Well, then, to-morrow evening.'
' No. I don't think I can go over to-morrow evening.'
' Choose your own time, but come before I go back to London.'
' When are you going back to London ?'
' Next week.'
* George will be turned out of his place before the end of the
year. The old man told me so. Then he'll go too. ]\Iary says
Hhe'll go with George. Then I shall Ite left alone with l^ncle Dan.'
He laugiied (|uictly. ' I think 1 shall go and live at (Jratiior and
take care of him. We shall have happy times together, when you
are all gone and I am left alone with him.'
'Why, David, you wouldn't hiinn the poor oM man now, would
you ?'
' Not barm him ? not harm him ';' Did }ou ask him six years ago
if he was going to harm me ? Will he harm George Sidcote now ?'
1 lO
TO CALL HER MINE.
You cauuot force a man to be sociable, uor can you force him to
entertain tbongbts of charity, forgiveness, and long-suffering. I
made no more attempts to lead the man back to better ways and the
old habits.
The place where David lodged was a cottage made up by parti-
tioning off a portion of the old farmhouse of Berry ; the other
portion, intended for another cottage, was without a tenant. The
place stands among the dismantled farm-buildings, for Berry farm
is now worked with Gratnor. Around it was formerly the farm-
yard, but the ducks and poultry, the pigs and cows, the dogs, the
farm implements, aud all the litter, mess, and noise of a farm are
gone now, and only the gates remain to show what formerly went
on here. On the south side of the farmyard there is a rill of clear
spring water running into a basin, aud behind the rill rise the steep
sides of Hayne Down. It is a quiet and secluded spot, with not a
habitation of any kind within half a mile, and that only on one
side. There are trees all around the place, and in the night a man
living here alone would hear strange noises and, perhaps, bring him-
self to see strange sights. But David, who had got rid of one
ghost, had not, I believe, yet invented another. If one were
sentimental, David might be portrayed alone in the cottage, sad,
amid the pale ghosts of the ])a8t ; he might be depicted sitting
among the shadows of his childhood, before he took to drink and
evil courses, recalling the long-lost scenes of innocence, listening
once more to the voice of his dead mother. All this might be
easily set down, but it could not be true : David had had enough of
ghosts, and was not going out of his way to look for any new ones.
There is no doubt a luxury in conjuring up a ghost of anyone ; but
if you have had one with you against your will for six years, you
are not likely to want another when that one is laid.
One evening, towards the end of August, we had been walking
with Mary on the Ridge till sunset drove us home. Then we left
her at Oratnor, and walked back to Sidcote ; but as the night was
cool and fine, we took the longer way which lies over Hayne Down
and jiasses through Berry farmyard. Certainly we had no inten-
tion of prying into David's private habits, but they were forced
upon our notice, and a very curious insight was afforded us of how
he spent his evenings. It speaks volumes for a man when we find
that his idea of a cheerful evening is a song and a glass with a
festive company. I was once on board ship sitting in the smoking-
saloou, when bomeone asked what we should all like for that
evening. Some spoke untruthfully : some, affectedly ; some, bash-
DRIXK ABOUT. iii
fully ; some with au open-hearted candour which astonished. At
last one man, a quiet person in the corner, said, ' For my part,
gentlemen, give me an evening with a party of Norfolli drovers.'
Ever since that occasion I have ardently desired to spend an even-
ing in such company, but I have not succeeded. If David had
been there he would have replied that he should choose a company
where the drink was unlimited and the songs were convivial.
It was not much past eight, and twilight still. It had been a hot
day, and the evening was still warm, though not oppressive.
David, however, had put up the green shutter which by day hung
down outside the window ; and he had closed the door. But in a
cottage shutter there is always a lozenge-shaped hole at the top, and
through this we perceived that there was a light in the room.
' David is at home,' said George. ' Shall we call upon him ?'
Then — it was the most surprising thing I ever heard — there was
suddenly a burst of api)lause from the room. Hands and fists
banged the table, glasses rang, heels were drummed upon the floor,
and there was the bawling of loud voices, as it seemed.
' Good heavens !' said George ; ' David has got a party.'
We stopped, naturally, to listen.
Then a song began.
It was a drinking song, roared out at the top of his voice by
David himself. The song was one which I had never heard before,
probably of American or Australian origin. As nearly as I can
remember, the following were the words which we heard. But I
may be wrong, and there were, perhajjs, many more. The words
are so sweet and tender, and have about them so much of delicacy
and refinement, that I am sorry there are no more :
' Pu8h the can about, boyw,
Turn and turn at)out, boys,
Till tlie lii[uor 'h out, Ijoys,
Let tlie gla.'<.sc-H clink.
Kvery in;ui is bound, boys,
To Hing liiti Hong around, boys,
Till we all are drowned, boys,
In the drink.
Till we all are drowned, boys,
In the drink.
'David is obliging the company,' I said. ''Tis a pleasing ditty,
(ieorgo.'
lie sang, as I have said, as loudly as he possibly could l>uwl it, in
a voice naturally ropy ; and as his musical education had been
neglected, and his ear was defective, the tune was the most dismal
ii: TO CALL J ILK MIXE.
and doleful I had ever board. r>iit no doubt b« took it to be con-
vivial and soul-inspiring.
"NVbcn be bad finisbed there was another banging of tableH,
holloaing, and stamping on the floor.
• Who can the conipanj' be ?' asked George.
David began the song again, and repeated it half through. Then
he left off suddenly and there was a dead silence.
We listened, waiting to hear more. There was a dead silence ;
not a sound.
' What is the matter with them all ?'
' I believe they are all struck dumb,' said George.
The silence was complete.
' I have it,' said George. ' I believe he is giving a party to him-
self, in his own honour. He is alone, and is having a convivial
evening. It is very queer ; makes one feel uncanny, doesn't it ?'
This, indeed, was actually the case. Fancy holding a convivial
meeting — a friendly lead — a harmonic evening— a free-and-easy — a
sing-song— all by yourself in a cottage half a mile from any other
house, with the flowing bowl and glasses round, and three times
three, and, no doubt, a deoch an dhorris to end with !
' I think, George,' I said, ' that David must have gone very low
indeed. He could not have got much lower. There must be a
depth at some point, where a sinking man meets with the solid
rock.'
'Perhaps. The Lord keep us from beginning to sink. Will,
do you think it possible, when that old man has taken my land,
and I have gone wandering aljout the world, and have come home
in rags, that I should ever sink hke David — and drag Mary
with me V
' Nay, George ; it is impossible.'
Then the roystercr began again, his voice being distinctly that
of a man half drunk, from which we gathered that the interval of
silence had been well employed :
' Every man in bound, boys,
To .sing his song around, boys ;'
and then we went on our way. It seemed shameful even to listen.
And all the time, every day, this man who got drunk at night
alone was carrying on, slowly and ruthlessly, the most systematic
revenge, with the most exquisite tortures. Every day he went to
Gratnor and dangled before his victim some of his property, and
made him buy it back bit by bit, haggling over the bargain ;
letting his uncle have it one day cheap, so as to raise his spirits ;
DRINK ABOUT. 113
and the next, at nearly it,s full value, so as to crush him again ;
and even at times, after an hour's bargain over a single coupon, he
■would put it in the fire and destroy it.
When David went away the poor old man would fall to weeping
— this hard, dry old man, whom nothing ever moved before, would
shed tears of impotent and bitter rage. But he refused to tell Mary
what was troubling him.
'I can't tell you what it is,' he said. 'You don't know what the
consequences might be if I told you. Oh ! Mary, I am a miser-
able old man. I wish I was dead and buried and that it was all
over — I wish it was all over !'
There are many men who, when anything goes wrong with them ;
when Retribution — a very horrid spectre — comes with a cat-o'-
nine-tails to pay them out ; or when Consequence — another very
ruthless spirit — brings along disease, poverty, contempt, or other
disaster, never fail to wish that they were dead and buried. It is
a formula expressing considerable temporary vexation, but little
more. For if the well-known skeleton were to take them at their
word, and to invite them to take part with him in a certain festive
procession and dance, they would make the greatest haste to excuse
themselves, and to expiess their sincere regret at having given
Madame La !Mort the trouble of calling upon them. ' Another time,
perhaps, if madame should be passing that way ; but, indeed, there
is no hurry ; if madame will be so obliging as to Good-morn-
ing, madame. Again, a thousand pardons.' Mr. Leighan, perhaps,
was more sincere than most men. For he loved but one thing in
the world ; and this was being slowly taken from him, bit by bit.
'It is something,' said Mary, ' to do with David. I will go and
«peak to him about it.'
' Xo, Mary; no,' he cried eagerly, 'Mind your own business,
child. Don't attempt to interfere. Oh ! you don't know what
mi^lit happen if you interfered.'
' It iri David, then. Very well, uuclu ; 1 shall not ask hiiu what
it iH.'
' I can't tell anybody, Mary ; I must bear it in patience. If I
roHJHt I shall only lose the more. Mary, we've got to be very care-
ful in th<: housekeeping, now — very careful.'
' I am always careful, uncle.'
'There was a pudding again to-day. I can't afford any more
puddings for a long while— not till Christmas. And I'm sure
there's waste and riot in the kitchen.'
' NoMense, undo ! You not to afford a pudding ? Now, re-
8
114 TO CALL IIL:R MLME.
member, you are not to be starved, and there's no waste or riot.
Now I'll mix your brandy-and-water, and you can have your pipe,
and go to sleep.'
CHAPTER XV.
WITH THE HEST INTENTIONS,
I TERMINATED my holiday with a meddling and a muddling. Of
course, I was actuated by the best intentions. Every meddler and
muddler is. Otherwise, he might be forgiven.
I was going back to town ; it would be eleven months before I
should get another holiday : long before that time Sidcote would
be out of George's hands, and the pair would be married and gone.
Was it possible to make an appeal to the old man? Could one
touch him with the sense of gratitude ? Could one make him feel
that in his own interests he should not drive away the only living
creature who stood between himself and the hired service of
strangers. Could one make him see that it would be far better for
him to give the money to Mary than to David ?
I made mj' attempt — needless to say, since it was meddling and
muddling, with no success — on my last evening at Challacombe,
when the old man had taken his tea, and might reasonably be
expected to be milder than during the press of business in the
morning.
I had not seen him for three weeks. Remember, that for more
than three weeks David had been pursuing his scheme of revenge.
I was struck with the change that had come over him during this
short period. It was that subtle change which we mean when we
say that a man has ' aged.' In Mr. Leigban's case, his hand trembled,
he looked feebler, and there was a loss of vitality in his eyes.
' What do you want ?' he asked impatiently. * You are come
for Mary ? Well, she isn't here. You ought to know that she
always goes out after tea. You will find her somewhere about—
on the Ridge or down the lane, somewhere.' He turned his head,
and took up his pen again. I observed that he was poring over a
paper of figures.
' No, Mr. Leighan ; I came to see you.'
' What do you want with me ? Money ? No ; you are one of
the peo])le who don't want money. The last time you came you
brought me my bag, with the twenty pounds in it. "That was very
little good, considering ; but it was something. You haven't got
another bag of money, have you ?'
WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS. 115
' No ; I have come to see you about George and Mary.'
' Go on, then. Say what you want to say. When a man is tied
to his chair, he is at the mercy of everyone who comes to waste
his time.'
This was encouraging. However, I spoke to him as eloquently
as I could. I told him he ought to consider how Mary had been
his housekeeper and his nurse for six long years, during which he
had been helplessly confined to his chair. If he refused his con-
sent to her marriage, she would go away, not only from his house,
but from the parish ; he would be left in the hands of strangers,
who would waste and spoil his substance. I thought that would
move him.
' Young men,' he said, ' I never asked for or expected any other
service than what is paid for. Mary's services have been paid for.
If she goes I shall find another person, who will be paid for her
services.'
* Nay,' I replied, ' you cannot possibly rate Mary's services with
those of a paid housekeeper. You will very soon find the diifer-
ence. However, if that is your way of looking at the matter, I
can say no more.'
Then I spoke of George, and of his mortgage. If Mr. Leighan
gave his consent, no money would be lost, because Mary's fortune
would pay off nearly the whole of the mortgage. And, besides, he
would keep Mary near him, if not with him. A great deal more
I .said, which need not bo set down.
'Young man,' he said, when I concluded, 'you are a writing
person, and you speak as if you were writing for the newspaper
which employs you. Business you know nothing of. But, young
man, sontimont must not come in the way of business.'
I exclaimed that it was not sentiment, but common-sense,
gratitude, and good feeling.
' As for common-sense, that belongs to business ; as for gratitude,
Mary has Lad her board and her bed, and she's done her work to
earn her board and her bed — I don't see any call for gratitude
there ; as for good feeling, that's ray business. Now, young man,
George Sidcoto's land is mortgaged. As ho says he can no longer
pay the interest, I have sent up the case to London and have got
the usual order : he has six months in which to pay principal and
interest. At the end of that time, because he can't and he won't
pay, his land will be mine. As for what is done afterwards, I
promise nothing.'
'You will lose Mary, for one thing.'
8—2
ii6 TO CALL HER I^UNE.
'I have told yon that in that case I shall hire another person.'
' Very well. You will have to pay ]\Iary's fortune to her cousin
David ; because she will marry without your couseut.'
' Have the goodness, Mr. Will Nethercote, to leave me to ray own
affairs.'
' This affair is mine, as well as yours ! Do you prefer David to
Mary ? You must choose between them, you know : I have read
the will.'
' Oh ! you think you have got me between the two, do you ?'
' I do !'
' Then perhaps you are wrong. And now go away, and meddle
no more.'
Now I declare that in saying what T did say next I spoke without
the least knowledge. It was a random shot.
* You think,' I said, ' that David does not know of his aunt's
will. You hope that he will go away presently without finding
out.' He started and changed colour, and in his eyes I read the
truth. He thought that David would never find out. ' So, Mr.
Leighan,' I went on ; 'that is in your mind. He lives alone, and
speaks to no one ; his aunt died after he went away : it is very
possible that he does not know anything about it. Good heavens !
Mr. Leighan, were you actually thinking to hide the thing from
him and so to rob him ? Yes ; to rob Mary first and David after-
wards, of all this money ?'
' What business is it of yours ?' he asked.
' Very good ; / shall tell David I'
' Oh ! if I were thirty instead of seventy, I would ' he began,
his eyes flashing again with all their ancient fire.
' I shall go to David, Mr. Leighan. If, as I believe, he knows
nothing about it, you will see how he will receive the news. Yes ;
you shall be between the two : you shall choose between David and
Mary.'
Yes ; I had stumbled on the exact truth, as accidentally as I
had stumbled on the canvas bag. David did not know, nor had his
uncle chosen to inform him — though he was certain from his talk
that he did not know — of his aunt's will, deeply as it affected him.
And I am now quite certain that the old man thought that David
would not find out the truth before he went away again, and so he
would keep the money to himself.
'Don't tell him. Will,' said the old man, changing his tone.
' Don't interfere between David and me ; it is dangerous. You
don't know what mischief you may be doing. Don't tell him. As
WITH THE BEST INTENTIONS. 117
for George and Mary, I will arrange soniethiag. They shall go ou
at Sidcote as tenants on easy terms — ou very easy terms. But don't
tell David. He is a very dangerous man. Don't tell him.'
'I will not tell him anything if you will give Mary your con-
sent.'
' David will not stay here long, When he has got— oh dear !—
when he has got some more money ho will go away. Don't tell
him.'
' Yon have to give that money either to Mary or to David.
Choose !' I repeated,
' ^Yho are you, I should like to know,' he asked, with a feeble
show of anger, ' that you should come and interfere in family
matters ? What business is it of yours ? Go away to London.
Manage your own affairs— if you've got any. You are not my
nephew !'
' That is quite true. I am George's friend, however, and Mary's
friend. I am going to do my best for both. Oh ! Mr. Leighan,
all your life long j-ou have been scheming and plotting to get money
and land. You think that you have laid your lines so as to turn
George out of his land ; and the prize looks very nearly in your
grasp. But David has come back ; that alters the aspect of affairs.
You can no longer refuse your consent and hold that money in
pretended trust for a man you believed to be dead. You must
hand it over to him — the whole of it. I do not know whether he
cannot force you to pay him back the interest upon it since it has
been in your hands. You may be quite sure that he will extort
from you the uttermost farthing. Well, you have the choice.
Either give your consent to Mary, or prepare to treat with David.
Why, you have said yourself, business before sentiment. Hero is
business, indeed, before you. Trust yourself to the affection of
your niece and the friendship of George, the truest man in the
world ; or else give yourself over to the deadly hatred oC a man
who desires nothing HO much as to rovongo himself upon you. Why,
he has avowed it. Ho will do you — ho says it openly — all the
mischief he cjin.'
* He is doing that already. And yet — don't tell him. Will — let
us arrange Homcthiiig. George shall be my tenant. And when I
die, I shall leave all my pro()crty to Mary — Fox worthy, Gralnor,
Berry Down, and Sidcote. Think of that. She will be the richest
woman in Challacombc.'
'No,' I replied. ' (,'hoose between IMary and David.'
' 1 must have Sidcote,' ho said, with a kind ol" niuan. The poor
nS TO CALL 11 ER MINE.
uiun bad certainly aged very much iu a few weeks. He clutched
at the arms of his chair, his face twitched convulsively, and he
spoke feebly. 'I have lost so much lately— I have suffered so
horribly— you don't know how, young man, or you would pity me.
1 have been punished, perhaps, because I was too ])rosperous— you
don't know how, and you can't guess. If I lose Sidcote, too, I shall
die. You don't know, young gentleman — you don't know what it
is to suffer as I have suffered !'
He looked so dejected and so miserable that I pitied him, grasping
and avaricious as he had always been. The ransom of his coupons,
day by day, had entered into his soul, though this I knew not at the
time. And now I was going to take away the only consolation left
to him— the prospect of getting Sidcote and of keeping Mary's
fortune.
' I must have Sidcote,' he said.
' Then I shall go at once to David and tell him.'
'I must have Sidcote. Do your worst!' he cried, with some
ajtpearance of his old fire and energy. ' Do your worst. Tell
David what you please, and leave me to deal with David. I
will ' lie shook his head and pointed to the door. Very well,
I would go and tell David. As the event happened, I should, per-
haps, have done better to have kept silence. But one could not tell
beforehand what was going to happen.
In fact, I told David that very evening.
He was sitting at his table, a large open book before him, over
which he was poring intently. The window was open, for it was a
hot evening and not yet sunset. A ))ottle of spirits stood on the
table, with a tumbler and a jug of cold water, ready for drinking-
time, which I gathered would shortly begin.
He looked up when he heard my step outside, and shut the book
hurriedly.
* What do you want here V he asked roughly. ' Why do you
come prying after me V
' Don't be a fool, David,' I replied. ' If jou come outside, I will
tell you why I came.'
lie hesitated a moment and then came out. Really, I think he
looked more disreputable— that is to say, lower — than when he
arrived in rags. A man may, perhaps, be in rags, and yet not be
disreputable : he may wear them picturesquely, he may even wear
them with dignity. Not that David was either picturesque or digni-
fied on bis arrival. Yet he looked better somehow than now, when
he had been at home a month. Strong drink and plenty of it, the
WITH THE BEST IXTEXTIOXS. 119
satisfying of revenge and hatred, the want of work and exercise,
had already written their evil marks upon his countenance, which
was bloated and evil-looking.
' Upon my word, David,' I said, ' one would think we were old
enemies instead of old friends.'
' Speak up, then,' he replied, his eyes suspicious and watchful, as
if I was trying to get into his cottage and steal something. ' Speak
up ; let a man know your business. If you had no business you
would not come here, I take it.'
' It is business that may concern you very deeply,' I said. And
then I told him.
'Well,' he said, slowly, 'I suppose you mean honest, else why
should you tell me ? Perhaps you've got a score against the old
man, too.'
' Not I, David. I am not his debtor !'
' He never told me. He might have told me a dozen times.'
David sat en a boulder and began to turn the thing over, ' This
wants thinking of, this does. So the old woman had six thousand,
had she ? She began with one, and Mary's mother had one — a
thousand each ; and my father had Berry Down, and Uncle Daniel
he had (Jratnor. She lived with him, and he told her what to do
with her money ; so in forty years she made six thousand of it ; and
]Mary is to have it if she marries with her uncle's consent, and, if
she doesn't, I'm to have it.'
' That is exactly the state of the case.'
' If Mary marries George without the old man's consent,' he
repeated, 'he'll have to give me all that money— six thousand
pounds.'
' Mary will marry George with or without her uncle's consent ; I
can tell you that beforehand. She will marry him within a very
few weeks.'
' Xay,' he said ; ' rather than give me the money he'd let her
marry the l;lacksmith.'
'Well; I have told yon.'
' Why,' he said, 'rather than give mo the money he'd let her
marry tho Dovi!.'
At this point I caim.' away, for fear he might try uvcii to get
beyond that possibility ; and the mess I had almost made of tho
w1k)Io busincHs proves, as I said before, that there is no excuse
whatever for the best intentions.
120 TO CALL IU:R MINE.
CHAPTER XVI.
liAVin MAKKS A rROPOSAL.
' Quick, David, quick !" cried the old man eagerly. ' Let us get to
work. Ob ! you waste half the morning ; let us get on. At this
rate,' he sighed, ' we shall take months before I have got back the
property.'
' There will be no trade this morning, uncle,' David replied,
standing in the doorway, It was a week after I had told him the
truth. He had been turning it over in his mind in the interval.
' Why not ? David, if you were nearly seventy you would be
anxious to get on ; you would not shilly-shally over a single bit of
paper. Let us get on, David. Oh ! you've got all the power now,
and I am in your hands. I won't grumble, David. No, take your
own time, my boy ; take your own time.'
The poor old man was strangely altered in four or five weeks,
that he should thus humble himself before his nephew. But
David had all the power so long as he had any of those coupons
left.
' We go so slow, David ; and I am so old.'
David sat down with great deliberation, and as if he meant to
stay a long time. But he had not with him his book of coupons.
' Surely not too slow for you, uncle. Why, you are a patient
man, if ever there was one. How many years did you wait, laying
your lines to catch me and my land ? No one can go too slow for
jou if he only keeps moving in the right direction. How many
years have you laid low for George Sidcote ? No — no ; not too
slow for you.'
'I'm an old man now, David. Let me have done with the busi-
ness at once.'
* Not too slow for me,' David went on ; ' why, I can wait ten
years. It is such a treat, you see, for me to be selling you your
own property, and to watch you buying it, that I could go on for
ever. I really could.' I think tliat he spoke the truth here, for
the man was implacable and pitiless, and enjoyed every day more
and more the spectacle of his uncle lying at his feet begging for
mercy. If any gleam of pity softened his soul, the sight of the
fields which had once been his hardened it a^^ain.
'You little thought when I came home that I was going to give
you 80 much trouljle, did you, Uncle Daniel ? You thought you
DAl'ID MAKES A PROPOSAL. I2i
had the whip hand over me always, didn't you ? But you see : —
first the fall from your pony, then the loss of your papers, then
the stroke, then my coming home and finding those papers — all
part of the judgment I — and now there's more to follow.'
' "What more ? Oh ! David ; what more ?' the helpless old man
only groaned.
Think of it. Outside, the splendid sun of August lay over the
hills and combes, the woods and fields : the place was the most
rural spot in all England, the farthest removed from the haunts of
men and the vices of cities : in the next room was the most
innocent girl in the world : close by was the little hamlet of Water-
court, where the people might be rude, and, perhaps, unwashed,
but were yet full of the simple virtues which linger among country
folk. And here, in this room, in an atmosphere of age and weak-
ness, the fire burning in midsummer, the windows closed, were an
old man, paralyzed and near his end, yet plotting and planning for
the money he could never use, and a young man playing upon him
a scheme of revenge worthy of the good old days when a king
thought nothing of pulling out a Jew's teeth one by one until he
parted with his coin.
' To-day, uncle, I have come to talk about my aunt's will."
' Then he told you ? He said he would.'
' Will Xethercotc told me : you did not. You thought that as
soon as our little business was finished I should go away, and never
come back any more. You thought you would keep the money,
did you ? Not so, uncle ; not so !'
' lie told you, did he? I wish I could be even with Will for
that.'
' You can't, you know, because he has got no land ; and so you
can't lay any plots and plans for him.'
' I thought you would never find it out, David,' Mr. Leighan con-
fessed, with somcwliat suri)risiiig candour. ' I soon found tliat you
knew nothing about it, and that you never go about and t;dk ; and
I was pretty certain that you would never find out. Well, now
you know, what difference does it make? You are no neiirer the
money.'
' We shall see. My aunt niiglit just as well have left it to me as
to you. To be sure, I never tlionght she had half .so much. She
began with a thousand. She must have pinched and .saved.'
'She was a wise and a thrifty woman, and she understood, with
my help, how to place her money to the bust advantage. She
ought to have left it all to me, because I made it for her. She
122 TO CALL HER MINE.
always said she would. But there — you can never trust a woman
in a matter of real imiiortauce. And, besides, she was two years
younger than me, and thought to outlive me. Well — well !'
' She left it to Mary, on the condition of her marrying with your
consent ; and, if not, the money was to go to me. And if I was
dead — and you pretended to think I was dead— the will said
nothing. So you thought you could stick to the money. Uncle,
you're a foxy one ! You ought to be in the States, and thirty
years younger. There you would find yourself at home, with
plenty of opportunity. Well, I am wiser now than I was. And
see now, uncle, I don't mean to go away until this question is
settled. What are you going to do ?'
' Why should I tell you ?'
' Keep it to yourself, then. I will tell you what you thought
you were going to do. I've worked it all out. First, if you let
George and Mary get married before the law lets you take Sidcote,
you will lose Sidcote.' He began, in his slow way, to tick off his
points upon his fingers. ' That's the first thing. After you have got
Sidcote, you will be still loth to let the money go, and you will
keep Mary waiting on. You think that I shall soon go. Then
you will keep the money as long as you live. But suppose they
were to marry without your consent, all the money comes to me--
comes to me. Very well, then ; comes to me. That sticks, doesn't
it ? You can let them marry now — and you will lose Sidcote : you
can let them marry after you have got Sidcote — and you will have
to pay up : if you keep on refusing your consent, you can keep
the money as long as you like — unless they marry without. Then,
you've got to give it to me — to me, uncle. You've had a taste of
me already.'
He waited a little. His uncle said nothing, but watched him
from under his long, white eyebrows — not contemptuously, as on
the first interview after his return, but with the respect due to the
strength of the situation.
' Very well, then ; you would rather give that money to Mary
than to me. But you would like to get Sidcote ; you hate the
thought of giving it to me, you intended to keep it to yourself.
Yet there is no way out of it if you want Sidcote. Perhaps you
think you would give it to Mary, after you have got Sidcote. But
sujipose she marries before? then you would be obliged to give it
all to me. See here ' — he put the dilemma once more as if to make
it quite clear to himself as well as to his uncle — ' if you give your
consent now, you lose Sidcote ; if you give it after you have got
DAVID MAKES A PROPOSAL. 123
Sidcote, you will have to pay Mary all her fortune ; if they marry
without your consent, you will have to pay me all the money.
Perhaps Mary will go on all your life, waiting for consent ; perhaps
I shall go away ; perhaps she will marry without your consent.
Which would you like best ?'
'Go on, David ; perhaps you are going to propose something.'
' I have been thinking things over, uncle. You are getting old ;
you may die any day : then Mary would be free. It is true that
she might marry to-morrow, in which case I should be entitled to
everything. But I don't think she would be such a fool. If I
were Mary I should wait. You are seventy now, and you've lost
the use of your legs. You can't last very long. I should wait if I
was Mary. Yes ; it might be a year or two — it couldn't be longer.'
His uncle heard without any emotion this argument in favour of
his approaching demise — country people use plainness of speech
about such matters— but he felt himself very far from dying, as
masterful men always do up to the very end.
'Well, David, supposing that what you say is common-sense,
what ne.\t V If Mary marries at once she is a fool, and then I have
you to reckon with. There is a good bit outstanding on the old
account, and I don't suppose there would be much coming to you
when compound interest and all comes to be reckoned up.'
' As for your outstanding accounts, we shall see when the time
comes. And as for compound interest, it will be for you to pay
that on my aunt's six thousand pounds.'
' The interest went for the keep of Mary.'
' I haven't heard that there's a word about that in tlic will.
You've had her services as housekeeper for five years, and you've
pocketed the interest. Why, I take it that you made five per cent.
That's three hundred a year. There will be a l)eautiful day of
reckoning, uncle. The .sale of your coupons is nothing to it.'
' You were going to make a propo.sal, David ?'
' Not a proposal — not exactly an offer. What do you say to this,
uncle V Mary won't Ite such a fool as to marry yet. If she doesn't,
you've only got to keep on refusing your consent, and then she
muHt either mari^ without or not marry at all '
'David, it's a terrible misfortune tliat you are come back,' his
uncle interrupted.
' It is — to you. Well ; she must cither marry witliout your con-
Hent or not marry at all as long as you live. Yon will live a year
or two longer. Tlien you will die, and she will have i\\v whole of
if. That iij ho, isn't it ':"'
124 TO CALL HER MINE.
' Go on.'
' Buy me of?, old man.'
' Ahvaj's buy — always buy !'
' To be sure. You've got to buy your owu property back,
because I've come home. You've got to buy rae out on the chance
of the money coming to me. Please yourself. What do you say
to buying me out at a thousand ?'
' A'thousand pounds V
' Yes, Uncle Daniel : a thousand pounds. And a very moderate
figure, too. Consider : if they were to get married, you'll make
five thousand by the bargain, not to speak of interest. If they
don't, you'll have the satisfaction of giving your nephew a thousand
pounds back out of the property you've robbed him of.'
' A thon^aiul pounds !'
' That is the figure, uncle. Is it a deal ?'
'I'll think of it, David. A thousand pounds! I'll think it
over.'
Said I not that persons with the best intentions can never be
forgiven ? Here were matters worse than ever : the old man's
heart hardened the more ; his cupidity awakened ; and David with
a deeper treachery in his mind to take revenge upon his uncle.
And all my fault !
CHAPTER XVII.
A GLE.VM OF MGIIT.
One has had to say so many hard things of the unfortunate David,
and he appears in so singularly unattractive a light, that it is
pleasant, before one parts with him altogether, to record one
occasion on which he showed a gleam of a better self surviving the
degradation of six years. In fact, David had not reached that
lowest of all levels, that solid rock, that hai'd pan, which is, in fact,
the Earthly Hell. Doubt not that it exists, though perhaps we look
for it in vain among the rags and tatters of the direst poverty. It
is not there that we shall find it. In this dismal stratum the men
and women live wholly for themselves, and fight and grab, and
waste and devour, intent only on getting all that there is to be had,
each for himself, of roasted meats and strong drink, and the
pleasures which are symbolized by these. It is a land of purity —
of pure selfishness, that is — unmixed and unabashed. Perha])3
David sojourned a while in that country during the mysterious
period when he tramped, rambled, trampled, roamed, wandered,
'WELL, KUHL. IllUULl.ll 1111- (.All: 1111. N, MAIIY.
A GLEAM OF LIGHT. 125
and vagabondized somewhere across the great continent of North
America. He came out of it, I think, when he left California,
after a series of adventures which would have done credit to a free-
booter or a filibuster : but concerning which we had glimpses all
too short for the natural curiosity of man.
He came home with those si.K j-ears of wandering upon his back ;
every year adding its contribution to the great bundle of debase-
ment which he carried. Pilgrim Christian's burden, though it does
not apj)ear to have grown smaller between the time when he began
to groan under it until the time when he cast it ofP, is not recorded
to have grown bigger. David's, alas ! grew bigger every day.
Unhappily, too, he was as unconscious of his burden as if it had
been a hump. He came home debased ; he was below the level of
the honest labourers once his servants : and he was possessed by
the Evil Spirit of Hatred, which filled him always and all day long
with thoughts of revenge, pitiless and cruel. And yet he had not
fallen quite into the Earthly Hell. It was Mary who found this
out. I suppose it was only to be expected, if anybody should dis-
cover a weak spot in a man's Whole Armour of Selfishness, that it
should be such a girl.
She went to plead with him for her uncle. He was in the
deserted farmyard of Berr}-, with its tumble-down buildings. He
leaned against the gate, a pipe in his mouth, thinking always of the
fields he had lost, and the way in which they had been taken from
him. It is unwholesome for a man to sit in the place which had
been his, and to be brooding day after day upon how he lost it.
Boabdil had few days of joy left in him, I dare say, after he rode
away from Granada ; but his mild sorrow and the resignation of
his latter years would have been turned to madness had he con-
tinued to live wilhiu tlie walls of the city, and marked, day by day,
the insolence and triumph- of his conquerors.
While David looked before him, thinking of the past, and care-
fully forgetting all his own share in his ruin, as was his wont, and
fanning the fierce flames of resentment within him, as was also his
wont, ho became aware that his cousin Mary was coming up the
lano. Of course, his first thought was to got out of the way ; but as
he thought hlowly, and Mary walked tjuickly, there was no time to
carry that idea into effect.
' Don't run away, David,' Hhe said ; * I came to talk with yon.'
' Well,' knocking tlio ashes out of his jjipc, which was done ;
'como through tho gate then, Mary. Will you talk in the coltago,
or will you talk hero ?'
126 TO C.ir.r. IIFR MINE.
' Let us stay outside— here, in the shade, David. Do you guess
what I have come to say ?'
' I iuij,'ht guess,' he replied slowly ; * on the other hand, again, I
might not. Better say it, Mary.'
' It is this, cousin. When will you cease to worry your uncle ?'
' Did he tell you that I worry him ? Has he been complaining ?'
' Xo. Ho even denies that you have any share in the new trouble
that seems to have fallen upon him. But I know that it is caused
by you. After every one of your morning visits he is miserable.
Every day he grows more nervous and more irritable. He sheds
tears when he is alone — I have seen him, David. I am quite sure
that you are the cause of his trouble.'
* Well, Mary ; i)erhaps you are right. I may be the cause of it.
Perhaps I may l^e the cause of a good deal more trouble before I
have done.'
' Oh, David ! think — he is an old man ; he is afflicted with
paralysis ; you are hastening his end. What good will it do to you
if you worry him into his grave ? Will that restore the past ?
Will that make you what you used to be ?'
' Nay, that it will not do. But when I see him at my mercy,
crying for pity, I think of the day when I came to ask him to lend
me a poor fifty pounds, with which to try my luck in Canada, and
he laughed me in the face.'
' AVell, then, David, does it do you anv good to remember that
day ?'
' Yes ' he added a great oath, meaning that it did him an ex-
traordinary amount of good to remember that day.
' I cannot believe that. Let the past be dead, David, and live for
the future.'
' You don't know what you are saying, Mary. What should you
know about it ? You are only a girl ' — he spoke roughly and
rudely, but not unkindly — ' what do you know ? Let the past be
dead ? Why, all the world is crying because the past won't die.
I only wish the past would die.'
Here, it seems to me, David hit upon a profound truth : for very
nearly all the world — not quite — it would be, unhappily, far better
if the past would die.
' Resolve that it shall die, David ; and live for better things.'
' If the past should die,' he said slowly, leaning one arm over the
gate ; ' if the past should die, Mary, I should forget that I was
once a substantial man, who sat respected at the market ordinary,
rode my own horse, and farmed my own land. I should forget
A GLEAM OF LIGHT. 127
that I had to go away from my native place, and take ship with the
lowest emigrants. I should forget — Mary,' he whispered, ' I can
trust you— I have told no one else— I should forget that I had been
in prison — yes, in prison '
' David !' she shrank from him, but recovered and laid her hand
softly upon his.
' Yes ; in prison. And now I am no longer fit to sit and talk
with George and you. But I am fit to talk with my uncle, because,
bad as I am, he is worse.'
' But if he is, David — if he is — forgive him.'
'Never I' Again he swore a great oath, almost as great as that
of the Norman King. ' I will never forgive him, or forget him.
Such as I am, he made me. ]\rary, don't ask me to forgive him.
He had no mercy upon me, and I will have none upon him.'
* When it is all over, David, and your uncle is dead, will it please
you to think of your revenge ?'
' Yes, it will ; I shall always be pleased to think that I could pay
back something — I don't care how much — of what he made me
suffer. Look at me, Mary, and remember what I v;as. Do you
think I cannot remember, too V
* Oh, David ! But to keep alive such a spirit of revenge !'
' Wait, ^[ary ; he has got George in his grip now. Wait ; if
George goes away and wanders about like me, and takes to drink
and bad companions, and comes back to you in rags, with the past
that won't die— and a prison, maybe — would you ever forgive your
uncle for sending him away ?'
'God forbid that I should be so tempted!' said the girl, shuddering.
' You don't know what may happen ; therefore, don't come to
me about ray uncle. Why, cousin, if you only knew what is in his
mind about you this minute, you would say, " Stick to him, David ;
worry him like a terrier with a rat — squeeze the life out of him !"
That is what you would say, Mary !'
' No ! Whatever is in his mind, I could not say that ; I believe
that I could not even think it.'
' Why, you liavc been his housekeeper and his servant for five
long years, without any wages '
* No, I have kept my fowls,' said Mary.
' And you've looked after the old man as no other woman in the
world would have done ; you've borne with his bad temper and his
miHerly habits, and now his reward is to rob your lover of liis land
and to cheat you out of your fortune. Vet you want mo to spare
him!'
128 TO CALL II ER MINE.
Great ])assions are commonly sup])osed to belong, exclusively, to
great men. A Louis Quatorzo is so great and grand that he con-
signs a Fouquet to a life-long prison, and condemns the Man with
the Iron !Mask to be doomed to oblivion utter. A Louis Onze,
another great King, keeps an enemy long years in a cage in which
he cannot stand upright. There are many noble and spirit-stirring
stories of the implacable hatred and wrath of Kings and nobles,
and some of the Gods of Olympus. But that a rough and common
man, degraded by his own vices, fallen fi'om his own respectable
condition, should entertain such an implacable passion of revenge —
that seems, indeed, remarkable.
' I will worry him,' said David, ' as long as I can. I will never
spare him. I've got another But never mind. Oh ! when you
are gone, Mary, he shall have a life that he little dreams of now !'
' iSavid ! It is terrible ! Can nothing move you ?
' Nothing, Mary ; not even you. And, mind you, don't try to
put yourself between him and me, because he won't stand it. It
isn't me that won't stand it, because I don't greatly care who
knows ; but it's him. He likes me to come ; he watches for me
and waits for me, though he knows that when I am gone he will
turn and wriggle in his chair, and cry and curse. Yet he wants me
back. Say no more about it, Mary.'
It was indeed useless to try further persuasions. Mary was
silent. Her cousin, worked up by his wrath, stood before her with
purple cheeks and flaming eyes.
'I must go away soon,' she said. ' I cannot let George go out
into the world without anyone. And then I must leave him —
alone.'
' Yes ; but he will have ine,' said David grimly.
' Well, I have said what I came to say, David ; and I have done
no good. If you would only forget.'
* I cannot forget. Stay, Mary : one thing I must say. Re-
member afterwards that I said it in time. Then, perhaps, you'll
think that if it hadn't been for him, I might have been a different
man.'
' What is it, David ?'
* It's this.' His face softened the moment he ceased to think
upon his wrong. It was Ijut the wreck of a face which had once
been handsome and full of hope : but it was better and healthier
to look upon than the face black with revenge. ' Will tells me
that you are going to marry George without your uncle's consent?'
' Yes.'
THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 129
' You know that he must then give me the whole of my aunt's
money ?'
' Yes.'
' Very well, Mary. I am fooling him. Never mind how. But
you shall not be wronged. You bhall have all your fortune.
Marry George without any fear. Remember — you shall not be
wronged. I am as bad as you like — but I will not rob you, Mary,
I will not rob you !'
Said I not that David had not sunk to the lowest level of the
Earthly Hell ? For that one promise of his, that he would not
wrong the girl, I forgive him all the rest.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ROYAL GEOGRAPUICAL SOCIETY.
Perhaps the chief advantage of being a journalist is that you are
expected to write upon every conceivable subject, and must, conse-
quently', whether you are a person of curiosity and ardent in
research or not, be continually acquiring new knowledge, and
always storing up freshly-acquired facts. No one, therefore, is so
wise as an aged journalist — the older the wiser ; until there comes
a time when his memory begins to fail. After that, he can sit at
the dinner-table and talk as ignoi-antly as his neighbours.
As for me, I am every day hunting up something or other to
illustrate and explain the startling telegram which never fails to
arrive once a day. I liavf travelled — in a library — with this object
over the whole face of the habitable globe. I think I know every
island in the Pacific and every other ocean, its discovery, its early
and its later history. The whole course of human history is at my
fingors' ends, because I know exactly what volnmes, on wliat sholvus,
contain what I want. The whole circle of the sciences is known
to me — that is to say, I know where to look for a popular account
of each, and whore to find illustrations and anecdotes. The social
life of every country is familiar to me, from the Court to the
cottage, because I know whore llie Itooks about it can be found :
in fact, I am the Admiraijle Crichton of the day.
I woulfl not proclaim my own virtues so loudly wore it not that,
first, wf! do not get tlio credit ilno to us — the novelists, poets, and
dramatiHts ninning olf with all the glory ; and, seeondly, that it
wan entirely duo to my professional versatility that the lloign of
Terror which King David had established at (Jratnor was swept
'J
I30 TO CALL HER MINE.
aside, and King David himself dethroned ; and this, too, in a most
surprising and unexpected manner. One would not, at first sight,
he inclined to connect the fortunes of Mary Nethercote with the
llo3al Geograiibical Society. Yet — but you shall hear.
It was heard in the office of the pajjcr which has been fortunate
enough to secure my services that there was to be held a special
meeting, on an evening early in October, of the Royal Geographical
Society, in order to hear a paper read by a German traveller recently
arrived in Europe after a lengthened stay in the South Sea Islands.
Reader ! you have perused the first two chapters of this historj^,
and with your unerring sagacity you divine the rest. Neverthe-
less, I will tuU it in order ; though more briefly than if you had not
already partly anticipated the reading of that paper.
I was instructed to write a leading article upon this paper. The
inexperienced person would have procured a ticket, attended the
meeting, made notes, and rushed away at ten o'clock in order to
write his article before midnight. For myself, I employed means,
which it is not necessary to describe — though, perhaps, they were
immoral— in order to procure a private view of that jmper before
it was read in public. Consequently, with the help of a certain
work of which I knew, and the presence of the map to keep one
from going geographically or longitudinally wrong, I produced a
leading article which gratified my chief and pleased the public.
The paper read before the Society was on the people, the resources,
and the natural history of that interesting island called New Ireland,
of which I had never heard before. I took the precaution, after
writing it, of attending the meeting ; not that I wanted to hear
the paper and the discussion, because I hate papers and discussions ;
but because I wished to be certain that the meeting really came off,
and to be able to add any little detail as to the proceedings. A
dreadful thing once happened to an unhappy critic who described
a concert from the programme alone, without going to hear it. Most
unhappily he permitted himself to make certain strictures upon the
performers. I say most unhappily because—a thing he could never
have foreseen— that concert was at the last moment unavoidably
postponed, an accident which ltd to his connection with the paper
being severed. Therefore, I repaired to the theatre of the London
University and took a back seat high up in order to witness the
proceedings. I do not remember to have heard it observed by any-
one, but it is a remarkable fact, that, if you sit high up and look
down upon the heads of the attendant Fellows of the Geographical
Society beneath, you become presently aware that they have all
THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 131
gone bald at the top — not, I believe, so much from age, as from a
geographical sympathy' with the North Pole.
At the hour of eight, the chairman entered with his captive
traveller. The latter, certainly one of the tallest and finest men I
have ever beheld, took his place in front of his maps, and began,
after the usual introduction, to read his paper.
Of course I knew it all Ijeforehand, and could look like the
governess who takes the girls to a lecture on astronomy — as if that
and all other sciences were equally familiar to me : yet it was more
interesting spoken by this tall German — his name was Baron Sergius
Von Holsten — than read from the proofs. He spoke very good
English, and as he went on added many new details to those be
had originally set down. He had lived, it seemed, for many years
among the natives of New Ireland, although they are cannibals and
of great ferocity. In order to qualify for this dangerous enter-
prise he had first learned their language. Then he had himself
conveyed to the shores, won the confidence of the people by some
j^kill or secret knowledge, and stayed until he had acquired all the
information upon them and upon their island that could be obtained.
And he had the good luck to be taken ofE at last in safety by a
ship that touched upon these inhospitable shores.
After this paper was read, the usual irrepressible persons got up
and began to di.scuss. At this point I retired to add a few things
to my article and hand it in. I then repaired to the Savage Club,
which, at eleven o'clock, begins to be a cheerful place. Here I
found, in fact, an animated circle, and among them, my friend of
the R. G. S., the Baron Sergius Von Holsten, who had been brought
Ijy one of the members.
It is always interesting to meet with men who have been on
desert islandn, or lived among cannibals, or travelled in those
regions — now so few — where Messrs. Cook and Sons have no
agents and there are no hotels. It is enough for some people only
to gaze upon such a man. For our part, at the Savage, wc found
the Baron not only an interesting person and as well informed :is
n leader-writer, but also a singularly amusing companion, and
briinful of anecdotes and stories of all kinds, wliicli he seemed
delighted to produce for our benefit. He took his tol)acco very
kindly, and had a quite patlietic afTection -seeing how long ho
must have been deprived of it — for whisky and apollinaris. Porliaps,
however, ho wished toemphasiKc the rulrnlc rnn/ialc between (Jrcat
Britain and (Jermany Ijy blending the two most important drinka
produced in the two countries.
9—2
132 TO CALL IIHR MIXE.
Wu tulkotl till hite. At about three in the morning, when we
hud gone half-ronnd the world with him, and the waiter had brought
the Baron his twelfth tumbler — a man so big had surely the right
to fill up three times to any other man's once — he told us a very
singular and surprising story.
He had not been the only European on the island all the time,
be said. For six months or so he had a companion in the shape of
a poor devil — an Englishman —who had been washed ashore upon
a piece of timber, the only one, so far as he knew, who survived
the wreck of the ship. The natives were going to s])ear this
human jetsam, when he interfered, and saved him, and continued
to protect him until he was able to get him off the island in a
vessel which came a-blackbirding.
' This fellow,' said the Baron, ' was the most intolerable creature
in existence. Earlier in his existence he had committed a murder,
and during the whole of his stay on the island he was suffering
agonies of remorse ; all day long he wept and groaned, and was
afraid to leave me for fear of being speared — in fact, the young
men took a pleasure in pretending to point their spears at him,
observing the intensity of his terror. At night, he would not
sleep at a distance of more than a foot or so from me for fear.
And he was always visited every night by the ghost of the respect-
able uncle whom he had slain.'
' Did you see the ghost ?'
' No. Nor did I hear its voice. Yet it spent the best part of
the night in abusing the poor man, and he in answering it with
prayers and protestations. As for revenge, I suppose no other
murdered man ever took so much out of his murderer. Well, it
was tedious. At length my Englishman declared that he desired
nothing so much as to get away from the island, and give himself
up to justice. If he could only make his way to Australia and
then get a passage to England, he would give himself up and con-
fess the whole truth.'
' A lively companion !'
'Yes. But to look at him you would think him a dull, heavy
fellow, who seemed to have no spirit for such a desperate deed.
Well, I got him away at length, and was left happy at last and
alone. Before he went, however, I wrote down at his request a
statement of the murder — a confession, in fact — which he and
I witnessed. I warned him that I should make any use of it
that I thought fit. As yet I have done nothing with it ; and
as I dare say he is dead by this time, I do not .see why I should
THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 133
not tear it up. Here it is, however, written in my old note-
book.'
He took it out of his pocket— a thick leather note-book, stuffed
full of the notes which he had made during his residence in the
place — and began to read : ' I, David Leighan, farmer, of the
parish of ChalIacombe-by-the-]Moor '
'Hallo !' I cried, 'I know that man. There is only one David
Leighan, and only one Challacombe.'
' Has he kept his promise and come home ?'
' Yes ; he came home three months ago.'
' So. He is doubtless hanged by this time ?'
'Why should he be hanged ?'
' For the murder which he confessed in this document. He was
to give himself up to the police, and confess, and take the conse-
quences.'
' But he has not murdered anyone ; at least, he has not con-
fessed.'
' He murdered his uncle, one Daniel Leighan, of the same parish.
If be has not confessed, I must put these papers in the hands of
justice.'
' Why, his uncle is alive still ! What could he mean by con-
fessing ?'
'Then David must have been mad. In which case it seems a
pity that I took so much trouble to save him from the stewpans.
But here is his confession, and, if it is a work of fiction, all I can
say is that David is a master of that art.'
' May I read the confession ?'
He hanilod nie the note-ljook, and I read it through. You, gentle
reader, have already had that advantage.
******
When I had read the paper through I understood everything. I
understood why he came to the cliurchyard in order to see the
grave of his victim ; wiiy he was so carelesn about his rags ; why
he was seized with that queer hysterical fit ; why he was so moody
and sullen ; what it was that he took out of the liiding-placo at
(JriniH[)()nnd ; what he was doing with tin; old man. JOvc;rything
became clear ; and one thing clearer than any other — that his undo
must Ije saved from him.
' Hcrr Baron,' I said, ' I must take yon, if you jdcaHO, all the way
from London to (Jliallaconibu-by-tlie-Moor. You must stand
before David with this document in your hand, and prove that he
is a murderer in intent and a robber in fact.'
134 TO CALL HER MINE.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE LAST APPEAL.
When the harvest was over — it is later up among the hills than in the
lowlanils below — and the grain was ingathered, and the work of the
year completed, George began to make his arrangements. He had
received the form<al notice and a six-months' grace in which to find
the money. There was no longer any doubt possible that he must
leave Sidcote. He had now made it all out in his own mind.
There would be enough money from the harvest to pay the half
year's interest ; the land would be foreclosed. And the sale of his
stock, farm implements, furniture, and everything would leave him
with a few hundreds to begin the world again. He would go to
Tasmania ; it seemed, from the books he read, the kind of country
where a man might buy a small farm, and live upon the fruit of his
own labour.
' Let us,' said Mary, ' make one last appeal to my uncle. We
will go together, George. Perhaps he may relent even at the last.'
They made that appeal at an unfortunate time. To begin with,
it was in the morning, when David was still with his uncle ; and,
in the second place, it was a morning when David had been abusing
his position. The redemption value of the coupon, in fact, was at
a preposterous figure, and the poor old man, torn by the desire to
get back his property, and by rage at the terrible ransom imposed
upon it, was rajjidly arriving at the condition in which his nephew
loved to see him, when he lost his self-command, and in turns
grovelled, wept, protested, im])lored, cursed, and tried to bribe his
nephew. It is well to draw a veil over this picture of sordid and
ignoble revenge ; of old age dragged in the dust of self-abasement ;
of baffled avarice and of ruthless malice. There had been a battle
royal, and David, as usual, was the victor. No mere ])hysical
suffering would have caused Daniel Leighan more cruel torture
than this daily bargain over his own property ; no mediteval poet
could have invented a more crafty and complete revenge. And out-
side, Arcady, with its hanging woods glorious in the autumn sun,
its streams hurrying downward under the trailing branches, with
their red and yellow leaves of the bramble, and the scarlet berries
of the mountain-ash, and the calm silent mountains of Hey Tor
and Blackdowu across the combe ; the peaceful farmyard, with the
familiar sounds of contented creatures enjoying life ; the dog sleep-
THE LAST APPEAL. 135
ing before Ibe kennel and the cat sleeping in the sun-warmed porch,
and the water of the leet musically dropping, dropping for ever,
over the great wheel. In sweet Arcady man's evil passions should
be stilled, otherwise the joy and gladness of Arcady are banished,
and it ceases to be that sweet and happy land.
When they opened the door they found the old man trembling
and shaking with the passions of impotence and rage. His face,
livid and distorted, with haggard eyes, was turned upwards in an
agony of entreaty, to meet David's. There was no passion in that
face, nor any emotion except a calm and sober satisfaction, which
might even have been holy gratitude, for David's heavy face was
hard to read. He stood over his uncle's chair, dominating him,
with a bundle of papers in his hand, regardless alike of prayers or
imprecations.
' Wait a minute, George,' he said, 'We have just finished our
business, and a most pleasant half hour we have spent, to be sure.
Now, uncle — it is always pleasant, as everybody knows, to do busi-
ness with my uncle — steady, I say, or you will have a fit — now, is it
a deal, or shall I put this little packet into the fire? Quick ! take
it or leave it. That's my figure !'
' I'll take it— oh ! I'll take it !'
David laid the papers on the table instantly, and made a note in
a pocket-book.
' Pity,' he said, ' that you would not come to terms sooner.
You'd have spared yourself a great deal of trouble and time.
But there, you always would have your way, and you enjoy beating
a man down, don't you ?' His uncle did not look exactly as if he
had enjoyed this last attempt. 'Now I've done, George.'
Although he had fini.shed his business, David did not retire, but
took a seat — Mary's seat — in the window, prepared to listen, and
with the appearance of one interested in what was coming.
'What do you want, George?' Mr. Leighan asked, impatiently.
' Why do you come here while I am busy, Mary ? I'm not so strong
as I was, and David made me angry. Wait a moment. David said
something that angered me. Wait a moment. He doesn't moan to
anger me -no no— but he docs, sometimes.'
He covered his face with his hands. Presently the trembling left
him, and he recovered.
' Xow,' he said, with a show of liriskncss, 'I am better again.
What is it, fJeorgc ? If it is business, have you come to propose
anything ? You have got your legal notice, I believe ? Yes. Then
you know the conditions of the law wbirli T didn't make. It is
ijG TO CALL HER MINE.
the same for me as for you. I'ay me any other way, and keep your
land. If no other way, I shall have your land. Is that sense, or
is it not?'
' Hard common-sense,' said George.
* So it is,' said David. ' It's always hard common-sense when he
takes another man's land.'
' Well, uncle, I have got nothing to say on that score.'
' I am sorry for you, George,' the old man went on ; yet his face
e.xpressed a certain satisfaction. ' Nobody will blame you, I'm
sure ; or me either, for that matter ; and when your poor father
borrowed the money the land was worth throe times as much as it
is now, so that nobody will blame him. Take a glass of brandy-
nnd- water, George. I don't expect ever to get the value of my
money back. So we're all losers by the hard times.'
' He never offered me any brandy-and-water,' said David. But
no one took any notice of the remark, which showed jealousy.
*I shall want a tenant, George,' the old man went on, ' and we
will not quarrel about the rent. Easy terms you shall have — oh ! I
shall not be hard with yoiir father's son— and when you've got your
head well above water again, we will consider about you and Mary.
Don't think I shall be hard upon you.'
' Xo,' said George ; ' I am going to emigrate.'
' To foreign lands, George ? to foreign lands ? Has it come to
that ? Dear — dear !' Mr. Leighan belonged to the generation
which regarded emigration as the worst and last of evils.
' I am going to Tasmania.'
'Tut, tut ; this is very bad. To foreign lands ! David went to
foreign lands, and see how he came home. George, you had better
stay at Sidcote and be my tenant.'
' No,' said George shortly. ' Well ; the long and the short of it is,
that we are here to-day — Mary and I — to ask your consent to our
marriage.'
' No, George ; I shall not consent. What ! let Mary marry a
man who has lost his own land and is going to foreign lands ?
Certainly not ! not on any account !'
' When your sister left Mary all her fortune '
' It was mine by rights. I made it for her.'
' She put in the clause about your consent to protect her. You
know, as well as I, that she hcr.self would never object to me for
Mary's husband.'
'She begun with a thousand pounds. By my advice she made it
into six thousand pounds. Do you mean to tell me that I am to
have no voice in the disposal of all this money ?
THE LAST APPEAL. 137
' This kind of talk will not help anybody. Well, I have had my
answer, I suppose. Mary, dear, it is for you to choose between
your uncle and me.'
'I have chosen, George, you know well. Uncle, you will have
to give that money to David or to me. Here is David, and here
am I. To which of us will you give it ?'
' Suppose, Mary," David interposed, ' suppose there was a secret
arrangement — I don't say there is, but suppose there was — between
your uncle and me. Suppose that I was to sell my chance for so
much down, and he was to keep the rest.'
'Uncle ! you would not — you could not — do such a thing!' Mary
cried.
' Suppose, I say ' — David went on — ' that arrangement was to
exist. Then, you see, George and Mary ' — David put the thing in
his .slow and deliberate manner, so as to bring out the full meaning
of the transaction — 'you see that if you don't marry without his
consent, he will lose the money he's got to pay me ; but if he does
not pay me that money before you get married, he Avill have to pay
me the whole afterwards. Therefore, he naturally wants you to
marry without his consent. You are going to play his game for
him.'
At this unexpected blow, Daniel was covered with confusion.
When two people make such a treaty, secrecy is the very essence
of it ; and for one of the i)arties concerned to blurt out the truth
is, in a sense, a breach of contract. The old man actually turned
red — at seventy he had still the grace to blush at being found
out in a shameful job — and hung his head, but he could not
Hpeak.
' Oh ! you have speculated on our marryiug without your
consent ! You have actually bought David's chance, and now
you want us to marry, so that you may keep the whole to your-
self !'
'Not the whole,' said David. ' Wiiat will be leil after he has
bought me out.'
'Mary,' her uncle replied, evading the question, wliiili was not
right. 'Mary'— his voice was feeble and he lr«inblt<i ' why do
you want to get married yet? Stay with nie. Let George stay
at Sidcote and be my tenant. And I will consider — I will consider.
BcsideH, think, Mary: I am an old man now, ami you will have all
my money and all my land when T die'
'Have you bought up David so that you may keep the money as
long as you please, by always refusing your consent? Answer
that,' said George Imtly.
1 38 TO CALL II ER MIXE.
'I shall answer nothing,' Daniel replied angrily — 'nothing-
nothing ! You have come here and asked for my consent to your
marriage. Very well ; I refuse it. Now, you can go.'
' Mary,' said C-eorge, ' it is no longer possible to leave you in this
house. Your uncle has deliberately set himself to rob you. Come
with me, dear ; my mother will take care of you till we are married.'
^lary hesitated. ' Go, Mary, put on your hat, and come with me.
As for you, Daniel Leighan,' he waited till Mary had left the room,
' we leave you alone. Nothing worse can happen to you. "When
you have no longer Mary to provide, beforehand, all your wants —
when you are alone all the day and all the evening, you will
remember what you have thrown away. Oh ! you are seventy
years of age, and you are rich already, and you rob your sister's
daughter in order, for a year or two, to call yourself richer still !'
The old man crouched among his pillows and made no answer.
!Mary was leaving him. But if she stayed he must give his
consent, and then he would lose that land. So he made no
answer.
Ten minutes later, Mary returned, carrying a small bag in her
hand.
' I have come to say good-bye, uncle.' Her eyes were full of
tears. • I knew that I must choose between George and you. I
knew that you would refuse because George could save his land if
he had my monej', and I knew that your heart was set upon getting
his land. But I did not know — oh ! I could not guess — that you
had planned this wicked thing to get my fortune as well as
George's land. Everything that I have is yours ; but I suppose you
will let me have my clothes as wages for six years' work ? Come,
George.'
'You will go — and leave me — all alone, Mary?'
'7 am here still, uncle,' said David. ' I will come and stay here
— I will be with j'ou all day long, and every evening. Not alone ;
you still have me. We shall have a roaring time now that Mary is
gone. We will bargain all day long.'
The old man looked up, and saw his enemy before him with
exulting eyes, and the room empty, save for those two, and he
shrieked aloud with terror. David with him always !
'Mary!' he cried, while yet her soft footsteps, gone for ever,
echoed still about the quiet house. ' IMary !' But it was too late.
' Come back, !Mary I Don't leave me — don't leave me — and you
shall marry whom you please ! Mary ! Mary ! T give you my
consent I Mary, come back !'
THE THIRD DREA^[. 139
She was gone ; and there was no answer. Then he turned his
face into the pillows and moaned and wept. Even David had not
the heart to mock him in this first moment of his self-reproach and
dark foreboding of terror and trouble to come.
CHAPTER XX.
THE THIRD DREA>r.
The wedding bells rang out as merrily for Mary as if she was
giving her hand to an Earl instead of a ruined farmer : as joyfully
as if the whole of her life was planned for ease and laziness, instead
of hard work : as happily as if Fortune had poured into her lap all
that the earth can give or the heart can desire. The bells rang out
over the whole great parish, from Foxworthy to Hey Tor — from
Riddy Rock to Hamil Down. They were echoed along the black
precipice of Lustleigh Cleeve, and were lost in the woods of
Latchell. They could be heard among the gray stones of G rims-
pound, and on the open barrow of King Tor. They drowned the
roaring of Becky Fall, though the stream was full. They rolled
like mimic thunder from side to side of Becky Combe. They beat
into the ears of the lonely old man who sat in his parlour at Grat-
nor, his papers before him, trying to persuade himself that he was
happy at last, for he had what the Psalmist prayed for— who can
have more ? — his heart's desire. He had longed ardently for the
lands of Sidcote : he had longed in vain, until a fall in land made
that become possible which before was impossible. He had that
land now within his grasp : the place, in a few weeks or months,
would be his ; and not only that, but five-sixths of Mary's fortune
an well. He ought to have been a happy man.
Naturally, he was by this time deaf to the voice of Conscience,
which had now Ijeen silent for many years. But when Conscience
ceases to upbraid, she stabs, wounds, Hogs, and chastises with any
weapon which comes handy. And, to-day, she turned the ringing
of the wedding bells into a flail, with which she belaboured the soul
of Daniel Ijeighan,so that he could find no rest or peace wliilc they
lasted, or after. Ho had robl)cd the giil who had served liini f.iith-
fully and afToctionately — his sister's child— of her portion. He had
taken her husband's lands ; he was driving her away to a far
country, and ho would be left alone. He had the desire of his
heart, but he would be loft alone. This was almost as much as if
Alexander Selkirk had Imcu informed by pigeon-post tliat he was
I40 TO CALL HER MISE.
raised to the peerage imdcr the title of the Rijjfht Honourable the
Viscount Juan Fernandez, and that he was condemned to remain
for life upon this desert island, there to enjoy alone his title and
his coronet.
^Mary had left him for three weeks only : already he had found
the difference between hired service and the service of love. It is
a difference which shows itself in a thousand little things, but they
all mean one thing — that the former, at best, does what it is paid
to do : while the latter does all that it can think of to please, to
comfort, and to alleviate. Every day, and all day long, he had
turned to Mary for everything, and never found her wanting.
Now nothing was right : not even the position of his chair and
table, or the arrangement of his cushions, or the comfort of his
meals ; and nothing would ever be right again. Perhaps it would
have been better if he had given his consent, and suffered George
to redeem his land, and so kept Mary.
'Uncle' — it was David who came in slowly, and sat down with
deliberation — ' the wedding is over. I have just come from the
church. There was a rare show of people — most as many as on a
Sunday morning.'
' Are they married ?'
'Yes; they are married. I wouldn't make quits sure till I
saw it with my own eyes. Married without your consent, aren't
they?'
' Certainly. They have married without my consent.'
' Then, Uncle Daniel, since they are married without your con-
sent, I'll trouble you for six. thousand pounds — my aunt's legacy of
six thousand ])ounds — with compound interest for six years at five
per cent. It amounts to £7,657 13s. 9d. I have been to a lawyer
at Newton Abbot, and he calculated it for me. You lent me, two
days ago, a thousand pounds, which I take on account of the
legacy, because you knew then that the banns were up, and the
wedding fixed. The balance you will pay over at once. Otherwise
my lawyer will bring an action against you. Hullo ! uncle, what's
the matter ?'
' You took a thousand down, David, in full discharge. It was an
arrangement. I owe you nothing.'
' Uncle, you are a man of business, I believe. What arrangement
do you mean ?'
' You told George, in this room, that there was such an arrange-
ment. You set him against me with telling him that, David.'
' Where is the arrangement ? Wheie are your papers ':"
THE THIRD DREAM. 141
' David ! David I' He fell back in his chair. He had fainted.
David went to the sideboard and got the brandy. When his
uncle recovered he gave him a few drops.
'You are simpler than I thought, uncle,' he said. 'Did you
really believe that I was going to give up this fortune, and to you
— to i/ou, of all men in the world — when I knew all along that they
would marry without your consent ':"
' David, you are a devil !'
' I am what you made me. As for the Devil, he has more to do
with you than with me, I take it.'
' David I David !' he moaned, and wrung his hands, ' tell me you
are joking.'
' Not I ! See now, uncle ; T am going away. I shall sell you the
rest of your coupons, and I shall go away ; but before I go I will
have that money out of you, to the last farthing. It is not for
myself, though : it is for Mary. You thought to cheat her out of
her fortune, and to keep it to yourself ; well, you are wrong. You
shall pay far more to me than you would have paid to her, and she
shall have it all.'
• You are killing me — oh ! villain I villain !'
' The villain is the man who lays his plans to rob and plunder the
helpless.'
' Kill me at once !' said the old man ; ' kill me, and have done
with me !'
' Kill you ? Not I ; killing would be foolisli with such a chance
as I've got now for revenge ! As for villain — who robbed me of
my land V You ! When I went away, who refused me the small
sura I wanted to start me in Canada V You ! When I came home,
who offered me the wages of a labourer? You! Villain? — i/oit
dare to call any man a villain !' David bent over the old man's
chair with flaming eyes and purple cheeks, his hands held back lest he
should Ije tempted to kill him. There was the same fury in his look as
when, six years l^efore, he stood l^efore him with upraised cudgel on
the Moor, If the Baron had seen David at that moment he would
have ceased to ask how so slow a creature could have been spurred
into the blind rage of murder. ' You dare to call any man a
villain ? As you drove me away — your nci)hcw — so you have
driven your niece away. As you took my land from me, so you
have taken (Jeorge's land from him. Villain ! well, I am a villain.
I have lived with rogues and thieves and savages till I am no longer
fit company for a decent man like fJeorgc, or for an honest man like
Harry the blacksmith. But I will go away as soon as I have got
14: rO CALL II FR MI\E.
tho lust fartbing tliut can be got out of you : I shall go away — I
don't know where— and spend it, I don't know how. As for killing
you, man : I've had the heart to do it a dozen times since I came
home. Every day when I walk among my fields I could kill you.
But I've had enough of murder. Not twice ! — not twice !' His
eyes were wild and his face distorted with ungoverned rage. But
still he kept his hands back, as if he dared not suffer them to
approach his uncle. And when he had said all he had to say — for
this was not all, only the rest was incoherent with splutterings and
oaths — he rushed from the room, as if he could not bear even to be
in his uncle's company.
And then the old man was left alone again. The wedding-bells
were silent, and Conscience left him alone to his own reflections.
I do not think that he acknoAvledged even to himself that he was
rightly punished for a long life of avarice and greed. Whatever
happened, he might bemoan his sad fate, but he would not acknow-
ledge that it was the natural consequence of his iniquities. So, in
the good old days, when the retired Admiral sat in his room, his
foot wrapped in flannel, with a red-hot needle stuck into his great
toe and refusing to come out, his jolly old nose swollen as big as a
bottle, and beautifully painted with red blossoms, he never said to
himself ' Admiral, this red-hot needle, this gout, this swollen nose,
all these aches and pains and tortures and inconveniences, which
will shortly put an end to you, arc the result of the hogsheads,
barrels, puncheons, and tuns of rum, brandy, and port which you
have imbibed in the course of your earthly pilgrimage !' Not at all ;
he only cursed the gout, and lamented his own sad fate.
When the new housekeeper brought in the dinner he did not
dare, as be would have done in Mary's time, to lay upon her the
burden of his own misery and bitterness. She was a fine large
woman, who knew what was due to herself, and Mr. Leighan had
to treat her with respect. It is a truly dreadful thing not to have
a single soul upon whom you may discharge your ill temper, vent
your spleen, and make a sharer in your own miseries. Never again
would this poor old man, now ti-ied beyond his powers, be able to
command a sympathetic listener ; never again would anyone pretend
to care whether he was in a good temper or not.
' Now, sir,' said his housekeeper, ' sit up and eat your dinner.'
It is thus that they address the paupers. Mary, he remembered
daily, had been wont to carve for him, to ask him what he would
take, and where he liked it cut. Now he was told to sit up and eat
ki'i dinner. He noticed these little things more than usual, because
THE THIRD DREAM. 143
when a man has received a heavy blow, his mind, for some myster-
ious reason, begins to notice the smallest trifles. I suppose it is
because he loses all sense of proportion as regards other things.
Once I read how a murderer was arrested in some lodging where he
had taken refuge. On his way out of the house with the officer
who had him in charge, he stopped to call his attention to a curious
shell upon the mantleshelf. In the same way Mr. Leighan in his
trouble of mind noticed the serving of his dinner.
He obeyed, however, and ate his dinner, which was half cold.
Then he mixed himself a much stronger glass of braudy-and-water
than usual, because he was so full of trouble, and tilled his pipe.
And presently, partly because his mind was so troubled, partly from
habit, and parti}' by reason of the strong brandy-and-water, he fell
asleep as usual.
There was no wedding-breakfast at Sidcote, or any festivities at
all — not even a wedding-cake. George drove his bride and his
mother home after the service, and presenth' they had dinner
together, and George kissed his wife, and his mother cried, so that
there was little outward show of rejoicing. Yet they all three
rejoiced in their hearts, and felt stronger and more hopeful, just
because they could now stand together.
In the afternoon, Mary asked George to go out with her.
' I must go and see my uncle,' she said. ' I cannot bear to think
of him alone. Let us ask him to keep his money, but to let us
part friends.'
They walked hand-iu-hand across the stubble fields, and through
the lanes, where the blackberry leaves were putting on their autumn
tints of red and gold, and the berries of the hedge were uU ri}>c and
red — the purple honcysui;klc, the pink yewberry, the blackberry,
rowan, hip and haw— to Gratnor.
' Strange, George, that we shall go away, and never see the dear
old place again I' said Mary, with a sigh. ' Let us go as soon us wo
can, HO as to leave it bef<jre the trees arc stripped, and while the
sun still lies warm upon the hills.'
In the parlour, Mr. Jjeiglian was still sleeping, though it was past
his waking time. Mary touclicd (icorge by the liand, and they sat
down bcliiiid him in the window and waited.
They waited for a cjuarter of an hour.
Then they heard a step outside.
'It is David,' George whiHiicred. ' IJe will rouse iiis uncle. Is
ho come already to ask for his fortune, I wonder V
Just then Mr. Leighan awoke, perhaps disturbed by David's
144 TO CALL HER MINE.
heavy step ; and he awoke just as he had done twice before —
namely, suddenly and with a startled shriek of terror. Just as he
had done twice before, ho sat up in his chair, with horror and fright
in liis eyes, glaring wildly about the room.
]\Iary, accustomed to witness this nightmare, looked to see the
terror change into bewilderment.
But it did not.
For a while his mind was full of his dream ; while he yet re-
membered the place, the time, and the man, and before the vision
had time to fade and disappear, the very man himself of whom he
had dreamed stood before him at the open door. Then he no
longer forgot ; his dream became a memory : he was riding across
Heytree Down in the evening ; and he was met by his nephew with
a cudgel, and the nephew cried out, 'Who robbed me of my land?'
and struck him across the temples so that he fell.
' Murderer ! Robber !' he cried. ' Help ! help ! I am murdered
and robbed !'
And then, lo ! a miracle. For the paralytic, who had had no
power in his legs for six long years, sprang to his feet and stood
with outstretched arms, crying for help to seize the murderer. And
David stood before him with such a look of hatred and revenge as
he wore on that night, and in his trembling right hand the cudgel
ready to uplift and to strike.
It was over in a moment, for the old man fell helpless and
senseless upon the floor, though David did not strike. The skull-
caji was knocked off by the fall, and exposed the angry red scar of
the old wound. He lay upon his Imck, his arms extended in the
fashion of a cross, as he had fallen upon Heytree Down ; and as he
lay there, so he laj^ here — with parted lips, streaming hair, and eyes
wide open, which saw nothing, though they gazed reproachfully
upon his murderer. Then for a space no one spoke ; but David
bent over his uncle, breathing hard, and George and Mary looked
on wondering and awe-stricken.
' A second time, David !'
David started and turned. It was the voice of his German pro-
tector, Baron Sergius Von Holsten, and the tall figure of the Baron
stood in the door, accompanied by myself. But on this occasion I
counted for nothing.
* A second time, David !'
David gasped, but made no reply.
' You came home, David,' said the Baron, ' to give yourself in
THE THIRD DREAM. 145
charge for murdering and robbing your uncle. You struck him
over the head with your cudgel, so that he fell dead at your feet.
You robbed him of a box of papers and a bag of money. The
thought of the crime gave you no rest by day, and at night the
ghost of youi' uncle came to your bedside, and ordered you to go
home and give yourself up. You came home. Your uncle was
not dead. Have you confessed the crime?'
David made no reply.
'Have you restored the papers?'
Again he made no reply.
' This is your uncle : he looks as if you had killed him a second
time. Madam,' he addressed Mary, ' I am sorry to speak of such
things in the presence of a lady, but I have in my pocket the con-
fession of David Leighan.'
' He was not killed, after all,' said David. ' What matters the
confession?'
' But he was robbed. Where are the papers ?'
' Here they are — all that are left.' I observed that he had a big
book of some kind under his arm ; he laid this on the table.
'There are his papers. Xow, what's the odds of a confession or
two ?'
' Is this man's presence desired by his uncle ?' the Baron asked.
'No I' said Mary; 'he comes every morning and drives him
nearly mad. He has some power over him — I know not what. He
has made my uncle's life miserable for three months.'
' !My duty seems plain,' said the Baron. ' I shall go to the nearest
police-station and deposit this confession. They will, I suppose,
arrest you, David. You cannot, I fear, be hanged ; but you will
be shut up in prison for a very long time. The wise man, David,
flies from dangers against which he can no longer struggle. Tlie
door is open.' He stood aside. ' Fly, David ! let fear add wings.
The police will be upon you this night if you are still in this
village I Fly, David ! even if it is once more to face the ghost of
your murdered uncle ! Better a hundred ghosts than ten years c»f
penal servitude. Fly, David ! — fly !'
There remains little more to be told.
David has not since been heard of ; and the question whether
Mary's fortune was forfeited by her marriage has not been raised.
Nor can it be raised now. For Mr. Leighan remained senseless for
three days — the same period as that which followed the assault
upou him. And wiieu he came to his right mind, behold ! it was
Id
J 46 TO CALL HER MINE.
anotber mind. He thinks that the whole parish of Challacombe
belongs to bira :— all the farms and cottages, and even the church
and the rectory. He is perfectly happy in this belief, and is con-
stantly planning improvements and good works of all kinds. He
exists only to do good. He lives with George and Mary, and
enjoys not only good health, but also an excellent temper. He
always has a bag of money on the table, the handling and music of
which give him the most exquisite pleasure ; and in the drawing
up of imaginary mortgages, signing vast cheques, and watching his
imaginary property grow more and more, he passes a happy and a
contented old age. His affairs are managed by George, and Mary
is his heiress. So that for the present generation, at least, there
will be no more talk of going to Tasmania.
KATHARINE REGINA.
CHAPTER I.
' THE CUP — '
One of the most delightful things that can possibly happen to
an engaged couple, especially wlien they are just about to carry on
that engagemeut to its legitimate end, is the acquisition, by gift or
bj- inheritance, by chance or luck or windfall, of a house, a good
house, in a good situation, solidly furnished — every young woman
of judgment much prefers solidity to aesthetics. Unfortunately
these windfalls occur too seldom : the rich cousin does not always
die intestate, just when it would be most convenient : the long-
lost and benevolent uncle docs not always turn up at the right
moment : the miserly guardian docs not always, just when it would
be most useful, prove to be an old man of the largest heart and the
most unselfish generosity : and in these days of general dejtrcssion
nobody has anything to give away except farms which arc no
longer of any use. For these reasons most of us have to begin our
married course with the sulmrban villa of unstable equilibrium
and uncertain drains, and to furnisli it as best we may, bit l)y I)it,
or on the three years' system.
Imagine, then, if you can, the unbounded satisfaction with which
Katio received the intelligence that her lover's uncle — his Uncle
Joseph, whom she had never seen, for whose decease she had not
bhed a single tear, and who was angry witii Tom for not following
his own profession — had actually bequeathed to him, absolutely,
the whole of his estate, iiuliiding, with all kinds of real and
personal property, a beautiful great house completely furnished, in
Ru^sell Square, on the east side, where they have long gardens, and
10— -2
1 48 KATHARINE REGINA.
where the sun shines full upon the drawing-rooms in the afternoon.
Besides the house there were lands and freeholds, railway shares
gas and water shares, shares in trams, money in funds, money on
mortgage — why, there was enough, it was certain, to make u]) more
than a thousand pounds a year. What happiness ! More than a
thousand pounds a year of additional income to a couple who were
going to marry on about five hundred ! And a big house, solidly
furnished, in Russell Square !
People turn up their aristocratic noses at Russell Square, but
there are nowhere more comfortable houses, and there is nowhere a
more central situation. A truly wonderful piece of good fortune !
To be sure, Uncle Joseph had only two nephews, and therefore he
might have been expected to leave something to Tom. But then
Uncle Joseph had never expressed any intention of dying. And,
again, Tom had offended him because he would become a journalist,
and his uncle could not understand how any young man who re-
spected himself could follow a profession in which there was no
money to be made, and no prizes to be won, except the editorship
of a paper. Now the other nephew, for his part, in order to please
his uncle, had become a solicitor, and was now in practice. But then
the world had never learned that this other nephew, who was never
seen at his uncle's house, by long-continued courses, having a fine,
bold nature, free from the restraints of prejudice, had estranged
his uncle far more than Tom. And now Tom had all, and the
other — his name was James Hanaper Rolf e— had none.
Tom had all !
In thinking of this wonderful dispensation, Katie was fain to
sigh, so happy she was, and to say : ' Poor dear Uncle Joseph !
To think, Tom, that he has now gone to a world where a word of
gratitude will never reach him ! And yet, what a fine, clear insight
into character Uncle Joseph must have possessed to recognise the
splendid abilities and the genius of his nephew — you, Tom, Poor,
dear Un — cle Jo — seph !'
No one, certainly, ought to be judged merely by what men say
of them. People had been accustomed to say hard things of
Uncle Josei)h. They called him miser and curmudgeon — I wonder
how a man feels who knows that he is called a curmudgeon (cur-
mudgeon, derived from cur, an inferior sj)ecies of dog ; and mmlgeon,
from the Anglo-Saxon mudf/e, the meaning of which I have for-
gotten). Does that man grind his teeth ! Perhaps, dear reader,
in spite of your benevolent heart, they call you a curmudgeon.
Do you feel badly about it V People said, moreover, that Uncle
'THE CUP—' 149
Joseph was ill-tempered and bearish, because he had grown old and
outlived his clients, and had lost some of his money. That was
what they said. And yet here he was, in the very noblest manner,
forgiving Tom for going his own way, making a will entirely in
his favour, and retiring to a better world just when his absence
would produce the most beneficial result possible. Good, maligned
Uncle Joseph !
Really, when one comes to think, it was a kind of happiness
quite out of the common — a lot which would incline one to believe
in the favouritism of Fortune — but then Dame Fortune's gifts are
always, like the Most Xoble Order of the Garter, wholly uncon-
nected with any of your confounded merit. As for Tom himself,
he was twenty-seven, an age when one is still in the promising stage,
but he was certainly working steadily in the direction of his career :
he was engaged to the sweetest girl in the world — he acknowledged
that himself, so that it must be true ; and other girls hadn't even a
chance of disputing the assertion, because they did not know
Katie, who was not, as you shall learn, in Society ; he had a pro-
fession which he loved, and he cherished ambitions which made his
heart glow whenever he thought of them : and now he was actually
going to get a thousand pounds a year — with nothing to do for it —
and a beautiful great house to live in ! Pure favouritism, my
brothers. He didn't deserve it at all. Katie did, no doubt,
because she was so very sweet.
Think of the gratitude which one ought to feel for an uncle who
has been so thoughtful as to acquire all this money for one ! Who
has gone on slowly and peacefully, giving his whole life to this
single object, buying a substantial house, furnishing it solidly, so
that the things would last a dozen generations ; investing the money
a-t it came in wi'icly and safely, and finally, without the least hint
beforehand of any such intention, so as not to raise hopes or to
create impatience, at the very nick of time, the exact moment when
the act would be most graceful, most useful, and most deeply
appreciated, to retire from l)UHincss — Uncle Joseph's idea of life was
inscparalde from business— and as the American humourist feeHngly
K.'iy8, ' to send in his checks,' leaving everything to his nopiiew. [
dt.'<;lnre that the very thought of such a career, so unsellish, so dis-
interested, so wholly devoted to amassing wealth for another to
enjoy, fills me with Immility as well as admiration. For my own
part, I confess that I could never rise to such a level of pure un-
sflfi^hiicH-*. Miirli as T love my own n(:|ihcWH, there is not one
among them all for whose dear sake I should bo couteuted to live
I50 KATHARINE REGINA.
the life of Uncle Joseph, to grub and to grab, to snatch and to
save, to toil and to moil, to incur the reproaches of hardness and of
meanness in order that he might afterwards sit down and fold his
hands. No, I could not do it. Uncle Joseph will no doubt receive
in another world the reward due to a life so unselfish, and to labour
so altruistic.
' What have I done, Katie,' asked Tom, ' that my uncle should
leave me all his money ? He has another nephew. He never
seemed particularly fond of me. He never forgave me for refus-
ing to be articled to him. I only saw him two or three times a
year, and yet he gives it all to me and none to Jem at all.'
' Tom,' said Katie, ' your uncle knew which of his family would
make the best use of the fortune. You are going to be a great
writer, and now you can work at your leisure and give the world
your very best without being forced to dissipate your powers in
drudgery and distasteful work.'
And yet — and yet — there does seem a suspicion of favouritism
about such a wonderful stroke of luck.
Consider the position with m ore attention to detail.
Tom Addison was, as we have said, seven-and-tweuty, and at
present a journalist. As a journalist he had not yet risen to the
lofty level of the leader-writer. But he was already known by the
editor to have considerable descriptive power : he could ' do ' a
crowd, and could seize the humours of the mob and catch at passing
character : he conld talk about a boat-race or an athletic event as
one who has knowledge — in fact, his own athletic record was by no
means contemptible, and the silver cups which he possessed might
have been pawned for a great sum. He had written verses and
sketches and notes of travel for the magazines, and he had already
published a novel. It was a lively work, full of cleverness and
sparkle, and the papers all spoke well of it. But when the
publisher's statement of account came in there appeared a loss of
£8G l.os. lOd., which Tom had to pay out of his own pocket, and
this disastrous result prejudiced him for a time against the Art of
Fiction. It seemed to be a desirable and attractive department of
the literary profession into which none but millionaires should
venture.
Tom's equipment for a literary career was more complete than
most aspirants can show. He took a good degree in classical
honours at Cambridge, and he spent a year at Heidelberg. He
was called to the Bar, and he read some law and knew the practice
of the courts : he had the true litterateur's feeling for style : he
'THE CUP— 151
had considerable experience in everything that belongs to sport :
he was a genial kind of young man, who took his malt or his
lemoa-squash at the Savage Club in a sociable manner : his father
had been lieutenant-colonel in a line regiment, and therefore he
knew barrack life and language, and could understand officers and
could talk their talk, and knew the waj's of soldiers. A journalist
and novelist should know every profession and every trade inti-
mately. But there are few journalists or novelists who have at
once the barracks and the university, the jjublic school and the
courts of law. German student life and London clubland, to work
upon. With such a start and by the aid of his own cleverness and
energy, Tom was justified in aiming at the highest journalistic
prizes.
And while he contemplated many years of drudgery before these
should fall to him, behold ! a thousand pounds a year more and a
big house— in houses beauty ought always to include bigness :
there is no comfort \\ here you cannot stretch j-oiu' legs. A thousand
pounds a year ! Well, he could now do as he pleased. No more
going of}' to ' do ' the Epsom crowd on Derby Day ; no more
crowding on board the press-boat for the University race ; no more
hanging round the newspaper office for jobs ; he could make his
literary life for himself and bide his time. And above all, ho
could marry as soon as he pleased and without anxiety. What an
incomparable inheritance ! Xo anxiety : Katie's future assured,
whatever happened to himself. And to marry at once, when it
had seemed as if their engagement might possibly drag on for
years ! A long engagement is a hateful thing : give me one which
is brief and rapturous, so brief that, when it ends with the wed-
ding Vjolls, both are slill mindful of the first kiss, and still full oC
the first tender thoughts and the emotions of the first confession.
Tom was horribly in love. Katie was the dearest of girls, and she
had nobody in the wide world to look to but himself for protection
and care ; and now he could marry her at once ! No wonder if his
eyes filled witli unaccnslomed tears and his heart glowed when ho
thought of his inheritance and all it meant. Good, worthy, excel-
lent Uncle Joseph ! What had he done for a nephew who for his
part regarded him with perhaps less affection than was due to so
near a relation V Alas ! Do any of us young men love our uncles
as wo should ? Let this example be a lesson to us.
Already Tom liad heard the banns put up at the parish church
— for the first time of asking ; ' if any mau know just cause oi'
inr.pcdimrnt ' — cause or impediment indeed ! when no two young
152 KATHARINE REGINA.-
people ever loved each other more truly, and when they had a
thcuisand a year and a house in Russell Square ! Impediment ?
when Providence, working through Uncle Joseph, had actually
prepared the way — carpeted the staircase, so to speak — and arranged
that the course of true love should run smootlily, sweetly, swiftly
between the most lovely banks of honeysuckle, rose, and sweet-
brier ! Happy Tom I Happy Katie ! It remained only to fix the
day and to buy a few pretty dresses and to arrange for a simple
wedding, where there would be no breakfast, because the bride had
uo cousins to ask — this you will immediately understand — and to
arrange, in deference to each other, where they would go for the
honeymoon. Should it be Paris, with gaiety and theatres ? or
should it be the seaside, where they could wander hand-in-hand
over the sands and listen to the quiet waves lapping the shore and
watch the soft moonlight lying over the waters ? I think it would
have been Paris, because the season was what we humorously call
early spring, when French asparagus is exhibited in the shops, and
by the seaside the east wind furrows the moonlit waters and
causeth gooseflesh to those who wander along the sands.
Katie followed the romantic calling of daily governess. Owing
to certain defects in her education, which had been fragmentary
and subject to interruptions, she was quite the old-fashioned daily
governess, and not in the least like the young lady of Girton. In
fact, I am afraid she knew nothing that a Girton girl calls know-
ledge. She therefore gave lessons in those families which cannot
afford the High School — they call it mixed (you may mix almost
everything but girls) — and are far, far above the Board school in
gentility, but cannot afford the modern certificated governess.
She was the daughter of a Gentleman. Mr. Willoughby Capel
never allowed the world to forget that he was a Gentleman : there
was no mistake possible about the fact ; indeed, it was more than
an accident of birth, it was a profession. He dressed, spoke, and
played up to that sacred calling: he did nothing ; he despised all
men who work. I wish, indeed, that it were possilile to dwell upon
the life of this eminent Gentleman. It must suffice, however, to
state that he rose at eleven and took his cup of tea and his finger
of toast in his bedroom while he dressed : that he performed this
Function slowly and thoughtfully, attired in a magnificent dressing-
gown : that he sallied forth, when his toilette was complete, about
noon, and returned at midnight regularly. There was no conceal-
ment about his method of sj'ending the day : he simply went to the
club— he belonged to a third-rate proprietary institution where the
'THE CUP—' 153
members were gentlemen, like himself, in somewhat reduced cir-
cumstances ; he took his dinner there, and played billiards in the
afternoon and whist in the evening. He was not a hawk, though
he played for money : he had no friends, except the men at the
club; no one ever called upon him at his lodgings, which were in
Southampton Row : he was a curiously handsome man, well pre-
served, tall and dignified : but for the crow's-feet round his eyes
he might have passed for fort}-. And who he was, what he was,
why he was, nobody knew, not even his daughter. There was no
difficulty about money. The weekly bills were always paid, but
Katie very well understood that if she wanted any money for her-
self she must got it without asking her father, who wanted all
there was for himself. Consequently, while he took his simple
dinner of a slice of salmon and the joint, with a pint of St. Estephe,
at the club, and played his whist for shilling points, his daughter
went out every day teaching the respectable Emptage family, and
in the evening studied at the Birkbeck Institute, or worked at
home, trying to fill up .some of the cracks and gaps and holes in her
education. One regrets to note that after her engagement to Tom
there came a sad falling off in her thirst for knowledge. History
ceased to have attractions for her ; she was no longer haunted by
the Rule of Three ; and she troubled herself no longer as to the
boundaries of Thibet. "Tis ever thus. "When Love the ('onrpieror
shows his rosy cheeks and dimpled chin, the Muses suddenly lose
their good looks. It is most surprising to see the change which
then comes over the poor things. They become wan and haggard ;
they put on spectacles: their hair falls oil' ; they are fain to hide
their once lovely figures with boys' jackets or anything. Apollo
smiles: they rush away shrieking, and nol)ody misses them.
I declare that Katie's love-story was one of the sweetest, most
touching, and most tender of any that I have ever known. Reader !
you cannot know the beautiful histories that have to reninin un-
written: partly because the shortness of the reader's life must bo
considered by the autiior ; parti}-- it is even more important—
because the shortness of his own life must be taken into account.
This love-story is one of the unwritten kind. Imagine, if you can,
the lonely life of the girl left all day long by her father, and think
how the }oung man came to her with love in his eyes and strengtli
in his hand. The story contained every interesting element that
belongs to love, including the First impression, the second thought,
the dawn of Suspicion, the fJrowth of Knowledge, the Siege of the
Heart and its Succes-sful Storm — in a word, all the places laid down
154 KATHARINE REGINA.
upon the Carte du Tendre, together with ?ome not to be found in
that document, such as Joy and Wonder, Pride and Humility,
Self-importance, Dignity, and Personal Responsibility. How can
man or woman grow to completeness without the help of each
other ? And oh ! the divine mystery of the pure selfishness of the
pair who love ! Do you think that Adam and Eve ever worried
their beads, in the plenitude of their happiness, as to what might
be going on behind the hedge ? Never, I am sure, till they came
to live on that side and became personally interested in keeping
out of the way of the lion and the tiger, and were admonished by
the example of the bunny to avoid the rattlesnake and the alli-
gator.
' Sir,' said Mr. Willoughby Capel when Tom sought his consent,
' as ray daughter has no fortune I have no right to object, though
I should have preferred for my son-in-law, I confess, an indepen-
dent gentleman, such as myself ; or, at least, one who was making
a livelihood by a recognised profession, such as the Bar or the
Church. I am glad, however, to think that when I am gone my
child will be in good hands.'
He said ' when I am gone ' with conventional solemnity, having
no desire to go or any expectation of going.
The verb ' to go,' used in this sense, is not disagreeable because a
l>ersonal application is never made. Yet Mr. Willoughby Capel
had to go — only a fortnight later he had to go in the most unex-
pected manner. In fact, he was called upon to depart on the lonely
journey without any warning at all. It seemed that he had heart
disease, and he fell down dead in his room.
Katie thus became an orphan. She was also a distinguished and
exceptional orphan, because, so far as she knew, she had not' one
single relation in the whole world. Uncles and aunts and cousins
she must have had somewhere, but she knew nothing of them.
She had understood when quite a child that she was never to ask
her father about her family. Some there are who would cheer-
fully surrender all th( ir cousins : Katie, who never had any, did
not greatly deplore their loss ; but at this juncture even Tom could
not replace the lost cousins, because Tom, you see, knew no more
than her.'^elf about her father's property, and there was not a
scrap of paper to show what this was, where situated, or whence
derived.
It really was a strange thing : not a single scrap of paper with
so much as a note to show who were the deceased gentleman's
lawyers ; not a line to tell who were his people ; in fact, not a
'THE CUP—' 155
word about himself or his income or anything. We speak familiarly
of a man's desk, of his diaries, of his ' papers.' Everybody is sup-
posed to be possessed of these things. Well, the late Mr. Willoughby
Capel had nothing : in his chest of drawers were his clothes, and
these, so far as could be gathered, constituted the whole of his
property, except the sum of thirty pounds in gold, more than half
of which went to bury him. This man went out of the world
leaving nothing behind him but five or six suits of clothes. Could
these be held up as the record of a useful life ? Were these all he
had to show for good works ? Perhaps they might pass, because
good works, we have been told, are but rags.
'Katie,' said Tom for the twentieth time, 'this is wonderful.
Do you know nothing?'
'Nothing, Tom. Once he told me that my second name be-
longed to several of the women of my family. And that is all I
ever heard about my family-.'
'Katharine Regina. It isn't much to go upon, is it?'
Tom put an advertisement in the papers calling on the relations
of Willoughby Capel, deceased, to communicate with the advertiser.
Nobody responded. Then he thought that perhaps some business
letter might arrive which would give them the information they
wanted. But none came.
When a man like ]\Ir. Willoughby Capel, of good manners, evi-
dently born and bred among gentlemen and gentlewomen, separates
himself from his fellows and lives in obscurity and niaiutains
silence al)out his antecedents, there is one conclusion which it is
impos.sible to avoid. Tom, the most charitable of mankind, was
fain to draw that conclusion. He made no more inquiries. And
Katie, just to tide over the time until her marriage, went to live at
a certain Institution or Home for Ladies who have to niaintiiin
themselves. It was only a temporary refuge, and in her liglitness
of heart and the selfishness of her happiness, she laughed at it and
called it the House Beautiful, or the Earthly Paradise, or Lucky
Lodge, seeing at first only the outside of things, and as yet being
ignorant of the things that lay hidden beneatii that ridiculous out-
side.
And then the inheritance fell in. Oh, brave T''nclc .loseph !
And very sof)n the lessons would l)e given up and the House
Beautiful wouM be exchanged for the house in Russell Sipiaro.
Yes, the inheritance fell in. Oh, gocnl Uncle Joseph ! And for
a week there was iiap[)incs8 inexpressible. The Cup was at the
Lip — and thou — then ....
156 KATHARINE REG IN A,
CHAPTER II.
'and TIIK 1.11'.'
Ai.L things are transitory, but man — who has been much humoured
— has grown to expect a certain length of rope. Therefore, an in-
heritance which only lasts a week, and then, before one has had
time to draw a single cheque, vanishes away into the Ewigkeit, is
not even respectably transitory ; it is ridiculous — the poet, who
must have a certain time over which to spread himself, would
refuse so absurd a subject. An inheritance of a week, without
touching a single guinea's worth of it, is as foolish as the imaginary
winning of a great prize in a lottery. Pleasures of the imagination
for a week ; plans and schemes and vague rainbow-tinted phantoms
of future joys for seven days, and then — nothing— nothing at all.
The lovers sat hand-in-hand, just a week after coming into their
inheritance, upon the stairs of the great empty house in Russell
Square. No one else was in the house except the caretaker, one of
those old ladies who are not in the least afraid of loneliness and
ghosts ; and are only truly happy when they have got a fine roomy
basement with a scullery, a coal-cellar, and two large kitchens all
to themselves, and a great empty house over their heads. The
furniture may crack all over that house, and the stairs may creak
after dark : there may be clanking chains, groans, shrieks, sob-
bings, wails, and trampling feet at midnight : there maybe shadowy
sheeted iigures in the empty rooms at twilight : the caretaker is
not in the least concerned. These things, with the house and the
furniture, are the property of the landlord : she is there to look
after them, ghosts and all. At night she sleeps, and all day long
she makes tea. Nobody ever saw a caretaker yet who was not
making tea. The invisible caretaker, therefore, remained in the
basement below making tea, while Tom and Katie sat upon the
stairs. They might have sat on the drawing-room sofas or in the
library easy-chairs had they chosen, but they preferred the stairs,
perhaps on account of the novelty. It is only at an evening party,
as a rule, that young people get the chance of sitting on the stairs.
They were sitting on the stairs at the drawing-room landing,
hand-in-hand, and their faces were much more grave than befits
young lovers. Something — the word means more, the additional
explanatory adjective 'bad' is understood — something had hap-
pened to account for this gloom.
'AND THE up: 157
' Is it really and truly all gone ?" asked Katie presently.
'It is all gone, dear — vanished away — just as if it had never
existed ; in fact, it never did exist. But there can be no doubt
about it. Our grand fortune was just dangled before us for one
week and then it was snatched away. In cheny-bob, it is always
thonght mean for the bobster not to let the bobber have the
cherry.'
' Oh I Tom — it is wonderful !'
' It is indeed. I think of it with awe. Some wonderful things
are also disgusting, Katie. Nobody ever heard of a more wonder-
ful thing or a more disgusting. If it is any comfort to us, let us
say it over and over again. Truly wonderful ! Providential !
Quite a dispensation ! An overruling, an '
' Don't, Tom. It will not mend matters to talk bitterly and sar-
castically.'
' All right, Katie dear. Let us pretend that we like the new
arrangement better than the old.'
'Xo — no. But tell me more, Tom. How did you find it out ?'
' It was found out for me, you see, Katie. Ive got one first
cousin on my uncle's side. He is a solicitor, which ought to have
pleased the old man, but he is also fond of sport and billiards and
so forth. Jem Rolfe is his name. I knew he would be awfully
savage at being left out of the will, and I thought to make it up a
bit to him ; and I hadn't got any solicitor of my own, and so I
thought I would keep the thing in the family and I asked him to
take charge of my affairs for me and wind up things, as they say.
Jem isn't a bad sort of fellow, lie doesn't boar malice against me,
and he took over the job and went through the papers. First, be
began firing notes at mo every other hour, telling me what he had
discovered — good investments here and ])ad investments there. In
short, he found out what the estate means and w^here it is invested
and all about it — details which did not concern me in the least.
The notes are all part of the business I suppose, and will ai>pcar on
the bill of costs. However, the notes contained nothing tliat would
arouse any kind of suspicion, and I began to think wo were going
to be rich beyond the "dreams of avarice," as Dr. Johnson said.
And then there came a check — there always is a chuck.'
'Well, Torn?' for he stopped, though it was some comfort for
hira to feel that he was telling the story in a good descriptive style
which would have done credit to the paper. 'What was the
check ?'
' Von don't know .hm. His style is rather sporting. But of
15S KATHARINE REGINA.
course, being a lawyer, he knows what he is about. Two days ago
he sent a letter begging me to call upon him ; and then ho staggered
me by telling me that there was a charge on my uncle's estate of
certain trust-money amounting, with accumulations, to about
twenty thousand pounds. It was originally twelve thousand
pounds, out of which an annuity of three hundred pounds had
been paid, and the rest was to accumulate for the annuitant's heirs
in some way. My cousin remembered this annuitant when he was
articled to my uncle. So that our inheritance was twenty thousand
less than it seemed to be. That's a pretty big cantel to be cut olT,
But worse remained. For Jem went on to tell me that, consider-
ing the depreciation of certain stocks and the losses my uncle had
incurred in his investments, he did not think there would be much
left when that trust-money was set aside. First he said " not
much " — that was to let me down easy ; he then told me that there
would be nothing at all left — nothing at all — when this liability
was discharged.'
' Oh I who are the people who are going to get the twenty thou-
sand pounds ?"
' I don't know. That is Jem's business— not mine. I have
washed my hands of the whole thing, and he has undertaken to
carry it through and get his costs out of the estate. So that after
all, the nephew who is to benefit by my uncle's will is the one he
wished to keep out. As for the heirs, when twenty thousand
pounds are waiting for them, they will not be slow to turn up.'
Katie sighed. ' Is that all, Tom ?'
' That is all, my dear. It couldn't be much more, because the
part cannot be greater than the whole.'
Katie laughed this time — not a merry noisy laugh, but a low
cheerful laugh peculiar to woman, the consoler kept for occasions
when heavy moods and disappointment and bitter words in man
have to be exorcised.
' Tom, it is like the splendid dream of the man with the basket
full of eggs : our castle is shattered.'
' My dear ' — Tom looked into the clear eyes, so full of courage
and of faith, which met his gaze — ' My dear ' — here he kissed her
— ' it is for you that I lament it most. You were going to be so
happy, with nothing to do and nothing to worry you : the life of
comfort was to be yours — doesn't every woman desire the life of
Comfort above all things? Now we must go on with our work
again, no better off than our neighbours, just as poor and just as
struggling.'
'AND THE lip: 159
' Why should we grumble at that, Tom ?'
' And we must put off our marriage, Katie.'
' Yes, Tom ; but then we never hoped to be married so soon, did
we?'
' And you will have to continue your horrible lessons.'
' Oh ! Tom, don't trouble about that. So long as I have you I
am happy — and remember, we have had a whole week of pure
happiness, thinking we were lifted high above the common lot.
And now it is all over, and we are not a bit worse off than we were
before.'
' "When Christopher Sly, Katie, was taken back to the roadside,
he was never so happy again for thinking of the wonderful dream
he had. To be sure, Christopher was an uneducated kind of
person. Fortunately none of the fellows at the club know about
it ; 80 that while on the one hand, as they used to say, there have
been no congratulations and no envy, so, on the other, there will be
no condolences and no secret joy.'
' Then, Tom, forget the whole thing. Put it out of your mind.'
' I will, Katie, as soon as I can. But still, without any more
crying, tell me, Katie, did you ever hear of a more awful sell ?'
' Tom, I certainly never did. I am quite sure there never was
such a sell before. But at sells, you know, one is expected to
laugh, just to show that you enter into the spirit of the thing and
are not a bit offended.'
She sprang to her feet, shaking out the folds of her dress. It
was only a plain stuff dress, nothing at all compared with the
magnificent frock she might have worn had the intention of Uncle
John been carried out.
' Come, Tom, it is done with. But I have a fancy to go all over
the house, just to see what might have been ours, and then we will
bid farewell to the inheritance.'
She stood over him, a tall graceful girl, light-haired, bright-eyed,
her face full of the sunshine which lies on the cheeks of every
woman who is true of heart and thinks no evil and is young and is
loved.
' Come, Tom,' she repeated.
He sat hanging his head doh^fully.
' You are always right, Katie. But that isn't all,' he added, under
his breath, as he took her hand and went up the stairs with her.
It was not unlike the scene where Virginia takes leave of her
island home and her gardens ; but in this case it was Paul, as you
sliuU fee, who was about to embark for foreign shores.
i6o KATHARINE REGINA.
They went upstairs to the very top of the house where be the
servants" bedrooms. They opened every door, looked round each
room and shut the door again softl}'.
'With each floor,' said Tom,' 'we take leave of two hundred
pounds a year. There are five floors. Farewell, first two hun-
dred.'
Below were the guests' rooms, furnished with due regard ,to com-
fort as it was understood in the forties — that is to say, in the four-
post and feather-bed style, with vast chests of mahogany drawers.
' Farewell, second two hundred,' said Tom.
Below the visitoi-s' rooms were the nurseries, day and night-
nm-sery ; but these rooms looked forlorn and neglected, because it
was seventy years since they had echoed to the patter of children's
feet and the music of children's voices. As Tom looked into them
a sadness fell upon his soul, as if he were robbed — with the
inheritance — of his children. lie did not communicate this thought
to Katie ; but he said nothing, and descended to the lower floor in
silence.
On the first floor there was a large drawing-room in front, and
at the back a bedroom which had been Uncle Joseph's, furnished
in the same style as those above. The drawing-room had been
newly furnished by Uncle Joseph, when he married, about the year
1844, in what was then the best style. Nothing had since been
added, so that this room was a pleasing study of domestic furniture
in mediseval ages before {esthetics had been invented. There were
high-backed sofas and solid chairs and settees, and round tables
covered with expensively-bound books. There were engravings on
the walls which were clothed with a rich warm red paper, and the
carpet showed a jiattern of large red and green flowers unlike any
of the flowers with which Nature adorns the gay parterre. But
everything was faded— wall-jjajjer, carpet, the binding of the books,
the gilding of the settees. The drawing-room, in fact, had not
been used for thirty years.
There was a grand piano in it. Katie sat down and struck a few
chords. It was out of tune, but that seemed appropriate. Then
she looked at Tom, whose seriousness seemed to increase rather
than to vanish, and her eyes became soft and dim, and she bent her
head lest he should see the tears that filled them. Tom was stand-
ing at the window. He beckoned to her, and she joined him.
' It is a beautiful garden, dear. At this time of year ' — it was
the middle of March, and five o'clock in the afternoon, and one
could distinctly see green buds upon some of the more sanguine
'AND THE lip: i6i
bushes — ' at this time of the year there would have been delightful
walking in the garden, wouldn't there ? But the fortune is gone,
and . . . Katie, sing that German song I taught you. I think we
shall like to remember that you sang it in the house that was our
own for a week.'
Katie went back to the piano and sang, with full and steady
voice, a certain German song Tom had taught her, both words and
music beginning :
' Adc' I niein Schatz, ado ! wir miissen scheiden.'
' Yes,' said Tom, ' " Adt' ! wir miissen scheiden." '
She thought he meant that the fortune and he were bound to
part, and she laughed. Then she closed the piano, and they went
downstairs to the library, where the great solid mahogany shelves
stood laden with the standard works of fifty years ago. Men like
Uncle Joseph buy no modern ephemeral stuff.
' Tom,' said the girl, ' it was in this room that you were to sit
and write your books, while I was to read or to work quietly beside
you. It would have been happiness enough for me only to be with
yon.'
'Katie!'
' The dream has been a beautiful dream. It has brought us to-
gether 80 closely. I know now more of your aml)itions than ever I
knew before. "VVe have talked with more open hearts. Let u.s
thank God, Tom, for sending us this dream. Do not let us repine
because it all came to nothing. We have been rich, and we are
now poor. Yet we are richer than ever we were before. What is
it that was said long, long ago — but not of a miserable treasure —
' The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ' ? You will have
all that you desire, Tom. You shall write the most beautiful books
still, but not quite in the way we thouglit.'
' My dear, you are a saint and an angel.' (He took hir in his
arms. Why did the tears rise to his eyes ?) ' You sang that song
just now — Katie, you meant to bid adieu to the inheritance. I'.ul,
my dear, it was for me. I am your treasure — you aro mine — ami
wo must part.'
' Tom !'
'Wc must part awhile, dear. Only for a little while — for six
months or so.'
' Tom !'
' Thoy ofTercd mc, just before this will-o'-thc-wisp foitinm ranio
11
i62 KATHARINE RKGINA.
to us, the post of War Correspondent in Egypt. I have now
accepteil it.'
' Oh, Tom !'
'I coukl not afford to refuse. They want me to go very much.
You see, Katie, I know something about soldiering, and I can talk
French, Avhich is always a help everywhere, and they think I am
smart and active.'
' Oh ! Tom— to go out to the fighting !'
' A "War Correspondent,' he said mendaciously, ' has to be more
than commonly careful. Why, I shall be all the time thinking of
how to get safe home to my Katie.'
She shivered.
'They will give me a hundred pounds a month, and all my
expenses,' he said. ' AVe shall save enough out of it to buy all our
furniture, dear, and when I come home we will have the wedding
])ells rung.'
He tried to speak cheerfully, but there was a melancholy ring in
his voice.
' If I could only think that you would be cared for when I am
away, Katie, my poor, friendless girl.'
' As for me, I shall do very well, Tom. All day long I shall be
with my children ; and in the evening there is Ilarley House, and
some of the girls there are pleasant and friendly when they are not
too tired with their work, poor things, and when they have got any
work to do.'
' Dear, tell me that I have done right in taking this offer. It is
not only a well-paid offer and an honour to receive it, but if I do
the work well it will give me a far better and safer position on the
paper. They never forget a man who has been a good War
Correspondent.'
' Yes, Tom, I am sure that you have done wisely. Do not fret
about me. Oh, I shall get on very well indeed without you.
Write to me by every mail that you can — not a long letter which
would take you time — but a single word to keep my heart up.'
' My dear, my love !' He caught her with both hands and kissed
her. ' My dear, my love,' he repeated, ' I must leave you alone.
If you want anything, go to my cousin ; I am sure he will help
you. I have written the address here — don't lose it.'
' But when must you go, Tom ? Not yet for a week or two ?'
lie held her tightly in his arms.
' Now, my dear, to-day — to-day. I have only time to get things
together. I start by the eight o'clock train, and travel day and
'AND THE lip: 163
night. We must part here, dear, in the castle of our dream'— he
smiled sadly— 'and we must part at once. Courage, Katie, it is but
for a few months. And then— and then . . . Kiss me once more,
dear. Oh ! kiss me. Good-bye, dear, good-bye !'
The solicitor, Tom's cousin, saw him ofE at Charing Cross.
' Remember,' said Tom earnestly, ' if there should be anything
left over after paying that trust-money to the heirs, and if anything
should happen to me, you will give aU to Katie. I have given her
your address, and she will go to you if she wants anything. Write
to me about the heirs of the trust when you find them. I am
curious to know who they are. And — and— don't forget — in case,
you know — this letter is for Katie, and everything that belongs to
me is to be hers as well. I ought to have insured my life, and
made ray will, but there was no time. Will you charge yourself
with this, Jem ?'
' Oh, you'll be all right, old man,' said his cousin with the cheer-
fulness — nobody is so cheerful as the man who is not going —
projier to the occasion. ' I wish I had your chance. Good-bye. I
won't forget, and I won't lose the letter.'
' You promise, then,' said Tom. ' I trust my girl to you.'
• T promise faithfully, Tom. You may trust her to me.'
' It is a solemn promise, Jem ?'
* A sacred pledge.'
Their hands met with the grasp of two men who trust each
other.
Then the guard waved his hand, and the train rolled out of the
station. Jem Rolfe stood looking after it until it vanished across
the river. Then he went to the refreshment-room, and had a
whisky and potash. lie was one of those young men who in all
times of thought, perplexity, or forecast, assist the brain with a
whisky and potash, or its equivalent.
Kfiti«: remained in the empty library. The beautiful inheritance
had vani.shcd like a dream. And Tom had gone to Egypt. She
Bat in the quiet room until the day drew to its close. Then she got
np and went softly into the hall and out into the street. And tlio
carctikor, who was still making tea in the basement, and heard tiio
patter of her feet and the gentle closing of the door, thought she
was one of the ghosts, who generally, however, do not begin to walk
about an empty house until after sunset.
11-2
1 64 KATHARINE REGINA.
CHAPTER III.
IIARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE.
Two months later. At eight o'clock, on a cold spring evening, the
drawing-room of Harley House, Cleveland Square, is generally as
full as you may find it all the year round.
It is a salon of more than common interest. To begin with,
there are no men in it. iVIale visitors are not allowed to penetrate
into the drawing-room of Harley House. This removes it at
once from the common drawing-room of society. Next, the ladies
who use this drawing-room do not appear in evening dress : most
of them, in fact, have only one dress, which serves them for morn-
ing and evening, summer and winter, until it falls to pieces, and
how it is replaced no man knoweth. Again, in other drawing-
rooms there is idleness ; but here, for the most part, there is work
of some kind generally going on. And in other drawing-rooms
there is light and airy talk, all about nothing, with laughing, sing-
ing, and little jokes such as girls love ; but here the talk is subdued
in tone, sometimes discontented, sometimes angry, sometimes
exasperated. If any laugh, it must be one of the younger ladies
newly joined, and then the rest all look up with astonishment. As
for a joke, no one ever made one in Harley House. If it was
made, it would fall flat.
There are about half a dozen of these drawing-rooms to be
found in London. They belong to as many Institutions, all of
which are most useful and do any quantity of good, and are real
blessings to the people for whom they are founded : and yet — being
Institutions, they cannot help it — they are so clogged and hedged
about with rules and regulations that life in them is somewhat like
life in a prison or a workhouse. The rules, to be sure, are most
beneficent, and framed for the general welfare. No lady who
respects herself would, for instance, desire to use a candle in her
bedroom after the gas is turned out, or to lie in bed after half -past
eight in the morning, or to be out after half-past nine in the
evening — how can people remain out after half-past nine ? Nor would
anyone wish to sit in the drawing-room after half -past ten at night,
or to be out of bed after a quarter to eleven, or to receive visitors
of the opposite sex — the last, indeed, is a most impossible desire,
and one never yet felt in the feminine breast. Male visitors ?
Creatures in hats and coats ? Young men ? Is there any girl so
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 165
weak and so giddy and so thoughtless as to desire the companion-
ship of young men ? Therefore the regulations of Harley House
are accepted in a loving and graceful spirit : it is felt that not only
does the House provide for the residents lodgings and board on the
cheapest terms, but it guards them from the dangers which beset a
mixed society where men and women actually fall in love and
marry each other, and where girls who might be looking forward to
healthy, honest work all their lives, and to earning as much as a
pound a week, if they are lucky, are actually taken away and placed
in suburban villas, and made to do nothing at all but order the
dinner, dust the drawing-room, look after the baby, and blow up the
housemaid. Why, in Harley House the fortunate residents are
hard at work all day long, and have also the pleasure — it must be a
real pleasure to all of them — of making their own beds and keeping
their cubicles tidy. No babies to nurse, however, no great hulking
husband to be messing around, no dinners to order, and no one to
consider but themselves and their own personal happiness and
comfort. The drawing-room at Harley House, thus free from care,
ought to be the happiest, liveliest, mirthf ullest, brightest, merriest,
joyfullest place in the whole world.
Somehow, it is not.
Harley House is governed by a Committee of six matrons of
proved virtue and religion. It is a Home for Ladies who have to
work for their living ; in other words, for Ladies who have to live
cheaply. The founders recognise the fact that a pound a week,
taking one week with another, is rather more than most working
ladies can ever expect to make. They have, therefore, ascertained
the very lowest charges for lodging and meals on which the House
can be kept up, and they charge the residents accordingly. Thus it
has been proved by experiment that a young woman of tolerably
robust a])petite can be fed, not luxuriously, with jam, cake,
chocolate-cream, ices and cold chicken, but sufliciently, so as to keep
the machine in good working order, for flfteenpence-halfpenny a
day — it is really fiftecniJcnco, but the odd ]i,df|ienny is added for
luxury and the putting on of fat. The (jominittee of Harley
HouHo therefore give the young ladies breakfast for threepence, and
tea for the same ; dinner is sevenpence, and supper is twopence-
halfi)f!nny. Vor throe-and-si.xpencc a week a girl can liave a bed in
a cubicle all to herself. In other words, without counting dinner,
a meal which in hard times may be neglected, a young lady can live
in Harley IIouhc for eight shillings and twopence-halfpenny a
week ; so that if she is so lucky a.s to be making a wliole i»ound a
1 66 KATHARINE REGINA.
week, there remain eleven shillings and ninepence-halfpenny to
spend. If you deduct sevenpence a day for dinner and eightpence
for Sunday, there still remain seven shillings and sevenpence-half-
penny. The girl who cannot make seven shillings and sevenpeuce-
halfpenny a week suffice for washing, dress, gloves, boots,
amusements, religion, charity, travelling, omnibuses, literature,
music, and recreation generally, must be a wicked and a wasteful
girl.
The House is administered by a matron, who orders the dinners,
admonishes the servants (and sometimes, for wicked and wasteful
ways, the young ladies), reads prayers night and morning, turns out
the gas, and collects the money beforehand. If she is a kindly and
sympathetic woman, as sometimes happens, she can become to
the girls a second mother. If, as very often happens, she is a
person of austere manners, rigid virtue, and unflinching adherence
to the regulations, she can convert the home into a prison, the
drawing-room to an exercise yard, and the cubicles into cells.
Sometimes the home is visited by the Committee, who go round
and taste the soup, so to speak, confer as to the accounts, and con-
sider the cases of those ill-advised young people who have requested
permission to stay out for an hour later than is allowed by the rules.
Among the many useful and beautiful inventions which wait for
the Man— I am sure that the Woman will never bring any of them
along— is an Institution or Home for Working Ladies which they
will love. It is very much wanted, because in these latter days
there are so many ladies who have to work. And the number is
daily increasing, so that it will be wanted very much more. In
fact, we seem to be getting so poor that in all probability the next
"eueration will know of no other ladies than those who work.
In my mind's eye I see the Perfect Home clearly.
First, there are no rules or regulations at all in this house.
No rules at all. Excejjt one, which is not a rule so much as a
condition, as one has to breathe in order to live, a thing which no
one objects to until he gets asthma. This condition is, that bed
and board must be paid for beforehand. The absence of rules is
the only thing wanted to make such a Home perfect. The drawing-
room will be thrown open every evening to callers and visitors —
the fashionable time for calling will be half-past eight : of course
visitors of the opposite sex will be welcomed and entertained with
sweet speech, sweet smiles, and sweet looks : there will be music
and, if the young people like, dancing ; as everybody must go to
work next morning, the dances will be small and early ; every girl
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 167
■will thus have her chance of the wooing which to some is the neces-
sity of their souls : the young fellows engaged all day in the City
will find out where they can pass the evening in delightful society
with the sweetest girls possible, and will turn coldly from the
billiard-room and the music hall. As for the administration of the
house, it will be conducted by the residents themselves, who will
admit only ladies of their own style and manners ; so that if one
of them prove of ill-temper, evil tongue, and low breeding, she will
be ordered to depart at once and find her own level ; and if one
should bring 'Arry and 'Arriet to the house, she will be invited,
firmly and sternly, to descend to another home more suitable to
herself and her friends. For there will be a great number of these
homes, graduated upwards as beautifully as Standard Reading-
Books, from that in which 'Arry, free of manners, easy of speech,
mirthful and hearty and boisterous — bless him! — will find a
welcome and a congenial atmosphere, to that in which the most
aesthetic young lady will converse and exchange other people's ideas
with the most highly-cultured young man. And all without any
rules ; and, in all, elderly and middle-aged ladies whose presence
will steady and restrain the younger members.
The drawing-room at Ilarley House is of course a large room,
because it belongs to one of the large houses of Cleveland Square,
liloomsbury. The curtains, the wall-paper, and the carpet look as
though they had done service enough, and might now be dismissed.
But everybody in the House knows very well that there is no
money to buy new things, and that, like the stair-carpet, which is
in holes, they will probably have to last a long time yet. Now, in
the Home without rules, the ladies will unite to contrive new
curtains and carpets, and a better wall-paper, and will be always
trying to make the place pretty with the little odds and ends which
cost nothing but a little taste and ingenuity. So that there will
bo none of the shabbiness which does undoubtedly hang over
Harley House. But what matters shabbiness, since there are no
men admitted ?
The residents of Harley House are not all girls. Some of them,
who have been here for a long time, and occupy chairs near the fire
by i)rcKcriptivc right, arc iniiMIe-agcd, and ^i\'(•n elderly. Most of
them, however, are quite young : they arc a (loating and uncertain
class : they come because they are hard up, stay a few weeks or
months because they cannot help thouisclvcs, snifT at the rcgula-
tic)ns, speak contemptuously of the Comiuittuu, and then, if prospects
brighten, hasten to some place whore the presence of young men
i6S KATHARINE REGINA.
is not foibiddeu, aud where one can be out after half-past nine
Avithout seeking permission beforehand and explaining the reasons
for this wild burst.
To the former class undoubtedly belonged two ladies sitting side
by side, bolt upright, with a certain primness of attitude which
recalled, to those who could remember the early days of Her
Majesty's reign, memories of governesses in the forties. In fact,
they had been daily governesses in the forties when they were
young. Now they were gray-haired, and each wore a little prim
curl at the side, and to those who might remember the forties they
looked as if they ought to have had a black velvet band across the
forehead, with a steel buckle. They were dressed in black, they were
exactly alike, and they were quite clearly sisters. In their hands
was some work, but it advanced slowly. Their thin faces were
beautiful with the beauty given by patience, resignation, and
suffering — they had now found rest and a haven for the remainder
of their days. The regulations caused no discomfort to them,
because they asked for no male visitors, did not desire to be out
after half-past nine, and wanted nothing more than a place where
they could sit down and meditate on the long rest awaiting them
after their hard day's work. They were Miss Augusta and Miss
Beatrice Apsey. In the distant time when they owned a living
father, they lived in a Cathedral Close, and their father was a
Canon.
On the other side of the fireplace sat another lady, who was also
clearly one of the permanent residents. She was gaunt and hard
of features, with discontent and restlessness marked in her face.
She had a book in her lap, but she read very little. For her, too,
the past was nearly done, aud the only future before her was that
which has to be reached by crossing a certain river.
At the table, a bundle in her lap, sat a woman, still young, not
more than thirty, at work diligently, even fiercely, never lifting
her head from her work, but sewing as if for life. Persons ex-
perienced in such matters would have recognised that her work
was of a very difficult and beautiful kind, embroidery of the highest
art, which should be worth largo sums of money. She was dark
of complexion, and beautiful still, with a shapely head aud regular
classical features, and had she raised her eyes from her work, you
would have perceived that they were such as a painter loves to
gaze upon and to draw, deep and dark and limpid. But they were
full of sadness ; there was no light of laughter in them, aud on her
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 169
lips there was no light of smiles. It was the face of a woman no
longer happy. While she worked, her lips moved continually, as if
reproaching somebody — perhaps herself.
The table had a few magazines and papers upon it. There were
the 111 uat rated and the Queen, and certain harmless and goody
periodicals, such as Committees of Institutions consider adapted
to the intellect of lady residents. Nobody, however, though the
room was pretty full, was reading. Perhaps this was due to the
fact that it was Thursday evening, so that the weekly papers were
stale. Perhaps, however, it was because the people in the room
were all tired, and cared not to do anything.
They were nearly all girls between eighteen and four or five and
twenty. It was for them, and not for the elder ladies, that the
Institution really was founded and the regulations framed, so that
they ought to have shown in their faces and their demeanour the
liveliness of gratitude. No doubt they were grateful — 'and all
that ' — but they were heavy-eyed.
There were about fifteen or twenty of them : they were all young
ladies who work, not ladies of the ballet, or ladies of the bar, or
ladies who pose upon the stage in lovely costumes, or ladies who
stand behind counters ; nor were they Young Persons or Young
Girls : they were young ladies — that is, girls born and educated in
some kind of refinement, whose fathers and brothers follow the
pursuits allowed to gentlemen. The most fortunate among them
were the girls in the Civil Service, Post Office and Telegraph
Service. These get regular pay and are not afraid of losing their
work. For this reason very few of them find their way to llarley
House. The rest were typewriters, clerks in offices, cashiers in
shops, governesses of the cheaper kind, who have not (jualified at
one of the new colleges for women and have no certilirates and
cannot hope to become mistresses in the High Schools where
teachers are properly paid, but which are driving the poor
governesses of the past out of the field ; teachers of music who
have not been to the Royal Acailemy or the Royal College, teachers
of drawing and artists who have carried away prizes for dexterity
at South Kensington and think that they only want a picture to be
accepted by the Academy in order to become famous in a day and
to make their fortunes in a year. Meantime, those who do not
teach haunt tlie National (iallery in hopes of getting a commission
to copy a picture. Others were private secretaries and collectors of
materials for men and women who make speeches, write articles,
and advocate causes: others, again, were in the 'literary' line.
I70 KATHARINE REGINA.
This includes those who write stories for any who will buy them —
little books for religious publishers at five pounds the book, and
verses for children's magazines at a halfpenny a line ; who collect
and search and investigate for all kinds of students, writers,
genealogists, and everybody who wants anything found out ; who
copy manuscripts, and who, generally, stand outside the door of
publishers and editors, waiting. ' They also serve, who only stand
and wait.' Pity that they do not get paid as well. Who can
enumerate the thousand ways in which poor ladies try to earn their
bread ? The twenty girls in this room might be taken, however, to
represent in a way all these ways.
They had nearly all come home from work by this time. In
most assemblies of girls there will be heard a susurrus of universal
chatter, with occasional- bursts of merry laughter and a snatch of
song : the most remarkable thinfj about this room was the silence
of the girls. A few talked languidly in whispers, but most of them
sat each apart and alone in silence : two or three, laid full length
upon their backs on the sofas, seemed contented simply to be at
rest — these were the cashiers of shops who have to stand all day ;
others sat back in their chairs leaning their heads upon their clasped
hands, an attitude which betokens complete physical exhaustion.
Nobody was reading, nobody was laughing, nobody Avas singing.
The general depression was not due at all to the regulations of the
Home : it had nothing to do with the Committee : the girls were
not in the least longing to be out after nine-thirty, nor were they
pining for the society of young men. They were simply tired.
Desperately tired. There is no other word which adequately
describes the situation. Every evening those of the girls who have
got work come home desperately tired. Those who have none are
despondent. When the evenings are long and the weather is fine,
the girls shake off some of their languor and lassitude by walking
round the squares, which are quiet places, and for the most part
free from the Prowler. Moreover, it is refreshing to look through
the railings at the gardens. When the evenings close in early and
the nights are cold and rainy, there is nothing to do but to bring
their fatigue to the gas-heated atmosphere of the drawing-room and
sit there until it is bed-time. Perhaps if the place was a little
livelier and the male visitor was admitted, the drawing-room would
be a means of shaking off their fatigue and taking them out of
themselves.
Desperately tired. Most of the girls who work get longer hours
than the men, and shorter pay. If two creatures do exactly the
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 171
same amount of work they ought to have the same strength. But
Nature refuses to girls the strength which she has given to men :
custom prevents them from making the most of their strength by
the help of much beef and beer ; it even insists that women shall
not endeavour to make themselves strong by taking beef and beer
in reasonable quantities, and causes them to dress in irrational
ways ; does not suffer them to take exercise, confines them in hot
rooms with bad air, and very often makes them stand all day long.
Therefore, they are much more fatigued in the evening than the
young men, who will cheerfully go to music-halls, theatres, billiard-
rooms, volunteer drills, evening classes, gymnasia, and all kinds of
places, after a long day's work. There is another thing which has
not been sufficiently considered. It is a great and neglected law.
Nature, whenever she turns out a new baby of the feminine sex,
says to her as a last admonition : 'And, my dear, when you grow
up remember that you will hate, loathe, and detest any kind of
work except one. I design you to be a wife and a mother and a
helpmeet for one man. You may miss your vocation and you may
console yourself with other interests. But if you have to work for
pay and under orders you will be unha])py.'
They all hate having to work. The better educated they are, the
more they bate it.
The law cannot be broken for ever. In a better state of society
it will not only be recognised but even enforced. In other words,
women will not be forced to work. Only those women shall work
who choose, and their pay, if they work at trades, sball be the same
as that of the men.
Women would then be entirely dependent upon the men. Why
not ? There would probably be a tax for the maintenance of those
women who remained unmarried and preferred idleness. It would
be levied on the unmarried men, and there would be so few that
it would not be felt. Hut then no man would be allowed to marry
under the age of twentj'-eiglit.
It will be truly a revolutionary stop, and thouijh at first it makes
one giddy to think what would happen afterwards, the hapitiness of
the women would be assured. Of course the women would bo
encouraged, even taught as a sacred duty, to lay themselves out for
certain kinds of work. More idleness, they will bo trained to
understand, is sinful. If they are ambitious they will cultivate
learning, literature, science, history, philosophy, poetry, the arts of
fiction and painting and sculpture, the drama uml acting, singing
and music, fine work, embroiderj', and lawa-tcnuis.
ij2 KATHARINE REGINA.
Some, again, will study the soionce and mystery of cooking :
some will follow the work of the house and give themselves up to
the care of other people's babies, until their own time arrives :
some will become nurses and even physicians : they will be taught
that it is good not to waste their lives should they not marry and
have children : they will be honoured, flattered, caressed, and
praised. They will perhaps be assured that they are the equals,
nay, the t'Uperiors of men, whose intellect, they will be told, is a
poor thing compared with that of woman. But they will never be
hired to do hack-work, and they will not be allowed to enter the
labour market at all. No woman, in the future, shall ever receive
a wage, and shall never be submissive to any master except one of
her own choice, and then only as much as shall please her. But
with those who love, submission is natural and mutual obedience
is sweet. There shall be no wages ; no hire ; no competition ; no
standing in the market like kitchenmaids at a statute fair. Men,
so long as they are so foolish as not to combine, may compete with,
outbid, undersell, and ruin each other. They are so strong that it
hurts them less. But women should not follow their example, and
in the good time coming they shall not.
It was about a quarter to nine when the door opened and another
girl came in. She was a tall and beautiful girl — you have already
seen her — with light curly hair and gray eyes and a face full of
sweetness : made for love— if that means anything, because nearly
every girl's face shows the same benevolent intention of Nature.
Now, alas ! her face was full of trouble. The other girls' faces
showed the depression which comes of fatigue and monotonous
work, but there was trouble of another liiud on Katie's face. When
she appeared, one or two of them looked at her inquiringly and
read the answer to their question in her eyes.
She sat down beside another girl. Evidently they were friends,
these two.
' Is there news ?' she whispered.
Katie shook her head.
Lily, the other girl, pressed her hand in silent sympathy. She
was a dark-haired, swarthy, low-browed girl, with deep-set eyes,
black eyebrows which met, and Spanish features, though her name
was Lily and she ought to have been fair and dressed in white.
Lily would have looked well in a mantilla and in black velvet, and
a diamond coronet. She was born for black velvet, yet by one of
Nature's mistakes she had to wear black stuff.
'There never will be any news, Lily. Don't speak to me just
yet, dear.'
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 173
At this moment the two old ladies by the fire rose from their
chairs, and the elder, generally known as Miss Augusta, went to
the piano and began to play. She always played every evening,
because she thought that music is good for the soul and for the
temper, and for the tired limbs and the irritated brain. But the
music must be good, and therefore she played Mendelssohn's Songs
without Words, which go straight to the heart in a way hardly
achieved by any other music. She played in a quiet old-fashioned
way, with the emphasis which belonged to the time— it was a
sentimental time — when she was young.
The other old lady, her sister, IMiss Beatrice, began to walk
about the room and to talk to the residents. It was her opinion that
young persons can be greatly helped by sympathy and kindness,
and that, being an old person herself, she might perhaps administer
words of comfort and peace while her sister was moving their
hearts by the power of music. And, indeed, there were times when
the atmosphere was heavy with despondency.
First, she sat down beside the woman who was so fiercely
working.
'^lydear,' she said, 'you have been working at your business all
day. Your cheeks are flushed and your hand is burning. Cannot
you put away your work for a single evening ?'
'No — no. I must work. I must work. The others may rest
— but I must work. I must work.'
' Why must you work, my dear ? You are so much better off
than the rest of us. You have such a handsome salary. Why
must you work ?'
It was known that this person had a salary of three pounds a
week, actually three pounds ! As much as is given to a curate,
and yet there was no evening except Sunday when she did not
work fiercely, until the last moment before the gas was turned out.
'You are a Christian ?' the worker asked in reply.
' Surely,' said Miss Beatrice. ' Oh, my dear, that is a strange
question ! What other comfort is there for us poor women, and
what other hope ?'
* For those who are His, He is crucified. Those who arc not
Tlis — must bo crucified by thomsclvcs.'
It was a strange answer to be made in a reB])Cctablc Home where
the fiercer emotions, including despair, are supposed not to enter.
They are excluded — with the young men.
* My dear, my dear,' the poor lady treraliled at the mere strength
of the words, ' you terrify me. I do not understand what you
mean.'
174 KATHARINE REGINA.
' Then, Miss Beatrice,' said the embroicleress, ' it means that I
must work — day and night — and never stop.'
Miss Beatrice sighed, and went on her way. She stopped next
before the elderly and gaunt-looking person who sat on the other
side of the fire.
'Are you better this evening, Miss Stidolph ?' she asked.
' No. I am worse.'
' Was there the oi)ening you expected ?'
•' Xo, there was not. There never is, for age. It is a sin now to
grow old.'
' Oh, no ! But people do like their children to be taught by
young and light-hearted women. As we grow older we lose some
of our light-heartedness, do we not ? And some of our pleasant
looks, perhaps.'
'I never had any pleasant looks, or any lightness of heart,' said
]\Iiss S^tidolph with a little laugh. ' Life has always been a burden
to me. Don't waste time on me. Miss Beatrice. Perhaps some-
thing will turn up in the literary way. We heard at the Museum
yesterday that there was work got by some of the ladies there, and
people are all come back to town.'
' Yes ; and your translations are known to be so correct. Miss
Stidolph. Oh ! I am sure you will get some work now. And you
have got well through the dead season, haven't you ?'
When Miss Beatrice left her, the gaunt hard-featured lady lay
back in her chair with something like a smile upon her face. Con-
solation often takes the form of subtle and crafty flattery. Miss
Beatrice knew that if there was one subject which more than
another afforded gratification to Miss Stidolph, it was the excellence
of her translations. Other translators made blunders in grammar
and mistakes in idiom. Miss Stidolph was always correct.
Then Miss Beatrice went to a girl who lay upon the sofa,
stretched supine, careless of what went on around her, sick to death
of monotonous labour and a dull and dreary life. She bent over
her and patted her cheek, and whispered things soothing and soft
to her, and kissed her forehead, so that the girl sat up and
smoothed her hair, and moved away to the table, where she took
up a book and began to read. And all the time Miss Augusta,
with sympathetic emphasi.s, played her Mendelssohn.
AVhat with the music and the gentle words, the girls began to
throw off their tiredness and to brighten up, and some of them
even went so far as to talk chiffum, which is a sure and certain sign
of recovery.
HARLEY HOUSE, CLEVELAND SQUARE. 175
Lastly, this daughter of consolation came to Katie and the girl
who sat beside her holding her hand.
' Lily, my dear,' she said to the latter, ' have you heard of any-
thing ?'
Lily shook her head.
* I have heard of a great many things,' she said drearily, ' and I
have been tramping about after them. To-day it was a photo-
grapher's. He wanted a girl to sell his things, and he offered fifteen
shillings a week — which wasn't so bad. But the man ! . . . ' she
shuddered. ' There was degradation even in talking to such a man.
Then there was a man who wanted a girl to search newspapers for
something in the Museum : but that place was snapped up long
before I had time to apply for it. Work is like the Pool, you
know, that could only cure one person at a time.'
' Patience, dear.'
* I had no money for omnibuses, so I had to walk all the way.
Yes, ]\Iis8 Beatrice, I am already as patient as the most exacting
preacher can desire.' She hardly looked it with those eyes that
flashed fire at the remembrance of the photographer, and the fingers
that pulled the ribbon. ' Patient ? Yes. I am as patient as a
man in the hands of the Inquisition. I am on the rack, and I
smile, you see' — but she did not smile. ' Would you like to hear
another day's experience ? Yesterday I heard of two places right
away in the north of London. One was a place in a school. The
lady principal received me frigidly, and heard what I had to say,
and told me that if the references were satisfactory I should receive
twelve pounds a year for my mornings. Isn't it wonderful ?
Twelve pounds a year ! Four shillings and eightpence a week !
Allowing for holidays, five shillings a week !'
' Oh !' said Miss Beatrice. ' It is really terrible.'
' She said that I had left my afternoons and evenings, .so that I
could easily double my money. I asked her if she thought a
woman could live on ten shillings a week, and she replied that she
paid according to the markijt value. Well, then I tried the otlier
place. It was a drapers shop. The man, who is a bully, wants a
cashier. She is to work from nine in the morning till half-past
eight at night, and is to have seven shillings and six])enco a week.
So I i<:ft him witliout saying anything. Hi! is a deacon of his
cha]tel and the chief support of the pastor, I was told. Dives was
a draper who paid his cashier seven Rhillings and sixpence a week.'
'My dear, you arc greatly tried. But have patience still.
With those who have patience and never lose their hold on faith
176 KATHARINE REGINA.
and hope, everything comes right in the end. Look at us — my
sister and myself — we have been very poor. Oh ! we have suffered
great privations and many humiliations. When we were young, I
think that people were not so considerate and so kind towards
their dependents as they have since — some of them — become.'
' Not Dives, the draper of Stoke Newington,' said Lily.
' Often we had not enough to eat. But see what happened.
We adopted what we call the simple life : we lived upon fruit and
bread chiefly, and sometimes vegetables. So we were enabled to
weather the most terrible storms of adversity, and now that we are
grown old and glad to rest. Providence has sent us an annuity of
fifty pounds, on which we can live in comfort and with thankful
hearts. Patience, my dear.'
' It will be such a long time before I get old.' Lily sighed.
' And there are all those storms to get through first. And perhaps
the fifty pounds a year won't come along at all when it is most
wanted. Very well, Miss Beatrice, I will try to be patient, I will
indeed.'
Then Miss Beatrice turned to Katie and kissed her.
' My dear,' she said, 'where there is no news, there is always
hope.'
' The natives have brought in reports that they are killed,'
Katie replied with dry eyes, ' Nobody thinks there is any room
for hope. I went to the office of the paper to-day and saw one of
the assistant-editors. He is a kind man, and the tears came into
his eyes. But he says it would be cruel to entertain any hope.
Tom is dead ! Tom is dead !'
Then she sprang to her feet and rushed out of the room,
' Don't follow her, Miss Beatrice,' said Lily, ' She will throw
herself on the bed and cry. It will do her good, poor thing. It
would do most of us good if we could lie down every evening for
an hour or two and have a good cry.'
CHAPTER IV.
A FAITHFUL TRUSTEE.
If, gentle reader, you arc proposing to embark on a career of what
the harsh world too readily calls crime, and Judges reward with a
term of seclusion, would you rather carry it on secretly, or would
you take your wife into partnership ? It is a question which
cannot be lightly answered, because the answer must depend in
A FAITHFUL TRUSTEE. 177
great measure on the character and disposition of the lady. For
there are wives who, like eminent statesmen when they suddenly
and brazenly veer round and give the lie to all that they have hitherto
said and taught and professed, are ready to aver that the thing is
the only right thing to do, and to cover it up with a gilding of fair
words and pretence, so as to make it appear most beautiful,
virtuous, and unselfish. Other wives there are, again, who can
never be brought to see anything but the naked ugliness of the
thing standing out in front of the written law, and refuse any
assistance, and go melancholy and ashamed.
You will now hear, if you have the patience to follow up this
narrative, what happened to a man who adopted a certain course
of action without bis wife's knowledge and consent previously
obtained . I do not know, that is to say, what Harriet Rolf e would
have said, or what co operation she would have afforded her
husband. Perhaps the path which opened out before him, show-
ing such vistas of ease and delight, might have attracted and
tempted her as well — but I do not know. Meantime it is a curious
speculation to think of the difference it might have made had
Harriet herself been a consenting party to the line adopted.
It was not a deep-laid conspiracy, hatched after long meditation
and brooding. Not at all : it grew out of small beginnings, and
was developed, as such things often are, by the assistance of un-
foreseen circumstances.
James llolfe knew perfectly well that he would get nothing
from his uncle's will, and was not in the least surprised when he
learned its contents. The history of five years spent as an articled
clerk iu the office, and five more sjtent in acquiring experience at
the cost of his patrimony, caused his uncle to resolve that his
nephew should be left to make his own way in the world. This
shows what a high opiuion he had formed of this nephew. Further,
on several occasions he communicated this opinion to James.
Therefore, when Tom proposed that he should prove the will
and take over the management of the property, James considered
it the greatest piece of luck which had ever befallen him.
At first, he sat down, the papers before him, with all the zeal
which one expects of a man paid by the hour instead of by the job,
without limit as to time. He began by investigating the circum-
stances connected with the trust-money, something of which ho
already know.
Next, ho made, as he thought, the discovery that the whole
estate was not rnoro than sufficient to discharge the trust.
1 78 KATHARINE REG IN A.
He commuuicated this unpleasant discovery to Tom as a fact
about which there was no doubt. It had the immediate effect of
causing Tom's departure for Egypt. If it had not been for that
discovery the second chapter of this story — nay, the whole story —
would have been imi)ossible for a truthful historian.
Now, at school, the youthful James had never been able to add
up his sums and to reduce his pounds to pence with the correct-
ness desired by his masters. The immediate result was unpleasant :
the more enduring result was hatred and continued ignorance of
all mathematical science. Therefore, as an accountant, he blundered.
And it was not until Tom was gone that he found out what a big
blunder he had made. Never mind : when he returned there would
be time to set him right.
Six weeks after his departure there came the first alarming
telegram in the papers.
James Rolfe read it and changed colour. Then he reflected and
winked hard with both eyes. In moments of mental agitation he
always winked hard and tight with both eyes. Some men turn red
or pale or both ; others fidget with their hands ; others wriggle in
their chairs ; James Rolfe winked with both eyes.
The next day and the next and the day after there came more
telegrams of a similar character.
' Harriet,' said her husband solemnly, ' my cousin Tom must be
dead. Four days have passed, and he has not come back. The
last fugitives who have escaped have returned to camp, but he has
not come in. Captain McLaughlin of the 115tli and Mr. Addison,
correspondent of the DaUij Herald^ are still missing. There is no
doubt, I very much fear, that Tom is dead.'
' Then who'll have all the money, James ?'
' There may be a will,' he replied, fully aware that there was
none. 'It ought to be mine by rights. But there may be a
will.'
' What other relations has he ?'
' He has cousins by his mother's side, but the family all went to
New Zealand long ago. By his father's side I am the only first
cousin.'
' Then — oh ! Jem, won't you have it all ?'
' We must distinguish, Harriet,' he replied iu a legal tone, ' we
must distinguish. I certainly ought to have it all.'
' He was engaged, you told me.'
'Yes.' James was reminded by the question of certain last
words and a promise. And again he winked with both eyes. ' Yes,
A FAITHFUL TRUSTEE. 179
he was engaged. I shall look into his papers, Harriet, and find his
will, if he left one.'
His heart leaped up within him and his pulse quickened, because
he knew very well that there was no will.
The time was one of great tightness. The rent was overdue,
and the landlord was pressing. James Rolfe's private resources
had well-nigh come to an end. And his practice was meagre
indeed. It is not enough, as many have discovered, to call yourself
a solicitor, if your language, your manners, your appearance, and
your general reputation fail to command the respect and confidence
which bring along the client. James's appearance reminded the
observer of a swashbuckler in private modern dress. Now, rightly
or wrongly, people like their solicitors to exhibit a correct and
sober tenue. His tastes led him to racing and therefore to billiards,
the torf being somehow the first cousin of the billiard-table.
Both are green, to begin with. He was well set up ; a big, hand-
some fellow, with brown hair straight and short, a smooth cheek,
and a full moustache ; the kind of man who at forty will have
developed a figure and put on a double chin. His wife, whom he
elevated to that proud position from a stall in Soho Bazaar, was,
like himself, big-limbed, fuU of figure, and comely to look upon.
There was no woman anywhere, Jem proudly felt, who could
compare with her. In fact, when Harriet was well dressed and in
a good temper she was a very handsome creature indeed. She
would make a splendid stage queen with her masses of brown hair
rolled up under a gleaming gold coronet, a black or crimson velvet
dress showing her white arms and setting off her regular features
and her ample rosy cheeks, her broad white shoulders and her great
blue eyes. Rubens would have painted her with enthusiasm. She
must have come from the country, for in London such women arc
not grown. In other things, besides comeliness, she was a fitting
partner for James llolfe : like him, she ardently loved all the
pomps and vanities of the world — every one^ — and especially the
vanity of rich and beautiful raiment. Next, she loved the vanity
of the theatre, which she regarded as the proper place to show a
good dress. She also loved the vanity of champagne, the festal
(hi Ilk ; that of good eating ; and that of cheerful society, where
the men did what they pleased and the ladies were not stuijk-ujt
and stiiT.
' Harriet,' said her husband a few days later, 'Tom is really
dcail. There can be no longer any doubt about it.'
' la it really and truly certain ?'
12—2
I So KATHARINE REGINA.
' Everybody has given him up.'
' Oh, Jem — and all this money ! Is it really ours ? Oh !'
Jem did not immediately reply, but he shut both eyes hard.
Then he walked to the window, and looked out into the back-
garden of the villa. Then he returned to the fireplace and played
with the things on the mantel-shelf. Harriet waited, and watched
him anxiously.
' Harriet,' he said, ' I am his cousin and his solicitor. I have
therefore been to his lodgings this afternoon and paid the rent, and
carried away his books and papers and clothes and everything.'
' Well ?'
' So far as I have gone — I have examined all the papers, which
did not take long — I have found no will.'
'Then — oh, Jem,' — Harriet sprang to her feet — 'everything is
ours !'
' Don't be in a hurry. There may be a will. The property can
only be ours if there is no will, because Tom would certainly have
given it to that girl.'
Harriet sank back in her chair.
' I thought,' her husband continued, ' before he went away that
there would be no money after all.'
' No money ? Why V With all your uncle's fortune !'
' Because it seemed at one time as if there were liabilities that
would swallow up all. Why should he make a will when he had
nothing to leave ? There was not even an insurance : there is next
to nothing in the bank : there are his books, but what are they
worth '?'
' No will, you think, Jem ? Then '
' No will, T am nearly sure. But for the present we cannot be
absolutely certain.'
' But then, he may not be dead after all.'
' For my own part, I have been certain from the beginning that
he is dead. The party were surrounded and attacked. A few
escaped. When the place was visited again the other day there
were nothing but the skeletons left. I have no doubt at all that
he is killed.'
' Oh !' It was a long and rapturous interjection. * Are you sure,
Jem V Oh ! And no will ! Can no one take the property away
from us ?'
' There is no will, Harriet. It will be all mine.' He spoke with
an authority which commanded faith.
' How much is it, Jem '? Oh, tell me how much it is !'
A FAITHFUL TRUSTEE. i8i
' There's a house in Russell Square, beautifully furnished, where
my uncle lived.'
' Oh ! but there's more than a house ?'
' There is property of all kinds — freehold houses, lands, invest-
ments — which come to, we'll say, fifteen hundred a year, I dare say.
Harriet, we'll go at once and live in Russell Square.'
'We will, Jem.'
' We'll give up this measly little villa.'
'We will — oh ! we will ; and Jem — dear Jem — promise me you
won't play ducks and drakes with this money as you did with your
own.'
' Xo, my dear, I will not. I've done with betting, don't you fear.
It's all over, Harriet. And I say, old girl, we've had our little tiffs
about the money, and I own we have been hard up once or twice.'
' Once or twice only ? It seems to me that it's been nothing but
a stand-up fight ever since we got married. Hardly a day but I
wished myself back at my stall in Soho Bazaar. Once or twice 1
And you led me to believe that you were so well off.'
* Well, Harriet, I was in love, you know. But that's all over, and
what I wanted to say was that it's all to be forgotten now, just as
we shall sink the stall when we go into Society and take our proper
place.'
' Poor Tom Addison !' she sighed. ' I shall put on mourning for
six months — not crape, of course, because I hate it— but half-
mourning for six months. Half-mourning is always becoming.
Poor Tom Addison ! And I shall always be sorry that I never saw
him. I could have grieved for him so much more truly if I had
ever known him.'
' Oh ! never mind that,' said her husband brutally. ' Sit down
and enjoy a good cry over him, just as if you had known him.
You'd like him back again, wouldn't you? Nothing Ave should
either of us like better.'
'Don't, Jem. Of course it makes a wonderful difference to us_
But we may have our feelings, and there's a proper way of talking
aV)Out things.'
'Feci away,' Jem grinned, 'and talk as nuicli as ydii like, l)ut
don't 'talk him back again. Yes, you can talk, I know, as well as
the tinker wlio talked off the donkey's hind leg.'
' Then there is that poor dear girl wlio was engaged to hini.
What's becomo of her? I wish I'd known lier too. I could have
called upon her and condoled with her — in black silk.'
' She is a govcmoBs somcwlicrf, T believe. It's rough on her,
isn't it ? I hope she'll get another lover.'
1 82 KATHARINE REGINA.
' Lovei's are not to be had for the askings, Jem. There's not
enough to go round, as everybody knows, and very few girls get
more than one chance ; unless, of course, they are more than com-
monly attractive.' She smiled, feeling herself to be one of the
exceptions.
This conversation makes the residence of Mr. and Mrs. James
Rolfe in Russell Square intelligible. It also explains why Mr.
James Rolfe sat every day in his uncle's office in New Square,
Lincoln's Inn, his own name being put up instead of his uncle's,
and there carried on his business.
When James Rolfe was an articled clerk there came to the office
once a quarter, to receive on each occasion the sum of seventy-five
pounds, in five-pound notes, a gentleman named Captain Willoughby.
He was an elderly man of distinguished appearance and excellent
manners. The senior clerk received him, gave him his money and
took his receipt. The whole business did not take more than five
minutes. On the last quarter-day of March, commonly called
Lady-day, Captain Willoughby had not called for his money.
James was in no hurry to find out what had become of this man
and who were his heirs. Indeed, he was at first fully occupied in
mastering the details of a complicated estate, and it must be owned
that he was not good at mastering details. Presently, things becom-
ing a little clearer, he began to inquire further into this matter,
and he discovered several curious and interesting things ; namely,
first, that no message or intelligence had come to the office concern-
ing Captain Willoughby ; secondly, that no person had sent in any
claim as heir ; thirdly, that no one had inquired after the Trust ;
and fourthly, that Captain Willoughby's address was unknown. It
was strange that if the man was dead his heirs did not come forward.
The mystery of this Trust began to worry him. Where were
Captain Willoughby's heirs ? Was he really dead ? If so, why
had no news been sent to the office ?
' The trust-money,' he said, presenting the case to himself, ' was
given to my uncle. Here is Miss Willoughby's letter in the safe :
" Give my nephew three hundred a year, and let the rest accumulate
for his children if he marries." And here is the deed which my
uncle drew up to secure the carrying out of the Trust. The
nephew did marry : there's my uncle's note at the back of the
letter. He married an actress and she died. Had he any children?
I don't know. If he had, let them come and take their money.
They must know where their father came for his. If there are no
children, the money, reverts to Miss Willoughby's heirs. Well, let
A FAITHFUL TRUSTEE. 1S3
them come and claim it. There is nothing to prove the Trust but
this one letter and the deed. They may have a copy, but it isn't
likely, or I should have heard of it by this time. Besides, Miss
Willoughby died seven years ago ; her will has long since been
proved and her money paid over by my uncle, her executor, to her
heirs, and not a word said about the Trust in her will.'
You now begin to understand what it was that James Rolfe did.
First, he constituted himself sole heir. If anything, he said, should
be left after the Trust was paid, it could be divided among all the
cousins if they came to claim it. Until they should claim their
share he would continue to take and enjoy the whole.
Xext, he said nothing to his wife about the Trust : he did not
endeavour to find out if Captain Willoughby left any children, nor
did he acquaint the heirs of Miss Willoughby with the facts.
As for his promise as regards Katharine, he put that away in a
corner of his brain where it was not likely to disturb him. And he
told his wife nothing of that promise, any more than of the trust-
money.
Conscience sometimes makes dreadful ghosts to appear in the
dead of night .and whisper terrifying things in the ears of some
solicitors who do these things. In James Rolfe's case there were
no ghosts at all. Conscience acquiesced. He slept beside his hand-
some Harriet the sleep of the just and righteous. No one knew
about the Trust : there was, to be sure, the letter in the safe with
the deed, but the key of this safe was in his pocket. No one knew
about the Trust or about his promise as regards Katharine —
ridiculous, to think that he was going to give that girl his uncle's
estate ! No one knew except Tom Addison and himself ; and
Tom was dead.
If he had told Harriot the exact truth, she might perhaps have
insisted on the restitution of the triist-raoncy to Miss Willoughl)y's
heirs, and she might have proi)o.scd a compromise as regards
Katharine. On the other hand, she might have acquiesced in her
liusband's proceedings and oven given him assistance and a moral
support. Who knows ? But he did not toll her, and she continued
happy in her groat house, for the first time in Ihi- life free from
worry : nf)W hor hiiHbatid was rich th',!r(! would bo no niorr troul)l('.
( )f rour.se ho was lionost. Honest V Tlic doubt conlii not arise. A
gentleman is always honest — who over heard of a gentleman being
a rogue and a robber of orphans V
1 84 KATHARINE REGINA.
CHAPTER V.
K.VTin.
Tom was dead. The worst misfortune that could happen to any
girl had fallen upon Katie. She had lost her lover. In modern
warfare the War Correspondent runs more risks than the warrior.
The latter only takes his turn in the fighting : the former must be
always in the front : the com])atants are looked after and kept in
safety : they are like the pawns of a chess-board, moved from cover
to cover : the correspondent has to find his own cover. The eai'lier
War Correspondent had to keep in the rear with the camp followers
and the commissariat : he picked up what information he could
gather, an object of much suspicion and some contempt. He now
marches with the van, goes out with the forlorn hope, sits down in
the thick of the fight with his note-book, and takes ten men's share
of the bullets. Consequently he sometimes gets picked off.
The hope that the two missing Englishmen might return was
never strong, and grew daily more faint, until it finally vanished
quite. They were dead. There could be no longer any doubt.
From the great gray desert there came no more news or message
from the dead than comes across the broad silent ocean from the
shipwrecked sailor whose craft has gone down beneath his feet.
Even the men of the Savage Club, a truly hopeful and remarkably
cheerful body, among whom are many War Correspondents, men of
peril and daring, gave up pretending to hope any longer— Tom
Addison, one of the best of good fellows, was dead.
It is good, if you come to think of it, even at the first amaze-
ment and stupefaction of grief, to be obliged to go on working as
if nothing had happened at all. The old commonplace about the
clown who has to tumble and grin while his wife lies sick unto
death, may just as well be put away and done with ; first, because
clowns are not, as a rule, I believe, so sensitive a folk as to suffer
their emotions to hinder necessary work ; and secondly, because the
business of making other people laugh by horse-play is in itself
serious, not mirthful, and therefore compatible with the saddest
heart ; and thirdly, because, if the clown was of a more than
commonly feeling disposition, and if his business really required a
mirthful heart, it would be good for him to be taken out of him-
self and his grief for awhile. Katie had a much more difficult duty
than that of any clown : she had to go governessing. You must
KATIE. 185
not look glum before children : yon must not cry in their presence :
you must not suffer your face to relax into gloom for a moment :
yet your smile must not be fixed as of cast-iron : you must laugh
with them, play with them, chat with them, and pretend so well as
not to be found out or even suspected. All the time that you are
with children you must put any private sorrows of your own away
and out of sight.
The governess who knows nothing and is only amiable and kind
to the children, with a leaning in the direction of religion, is
rapidly dying out : the march of civilization tramples upon her.
The High Schools and the Cambridge colleges are making her
existence impossible. Therefore Katie was happy in having
obtained a post as governess in the simple aud unpretending family
of the Emptages,
They lived in Doughty Street, where they occupied the lower
part of the house — that part which commands the kitchen. There
were six children, all girls ; the youngest was six and the eldest
fifteen, and they were all Katie's pupils. The bread-winner was a
clerk in the City : he had, I do really believe, all the virtues of his
profession : not one or two, but all : they are too many to enu-
merate : suffice it to say, that he wrote like copper-plate and kept
books with accuracy ; was as punctual as the clock ; never wanted
any amusement ; did not smoke tobacco ; drank a half-pint of
beer with his dinner and another with his supper ; walked into the
City and out again— he had walked in and out for thirty years,
being now five-and-forty ; and his salary now reached the very
handsome figure of three hundred, at which point it would remain.
His father was a clerk before him : his brothers and uncles and
cousins and nephews were clerks : his wife was the daughter of a
clerk : he was steeped in clerkery. In apjjcarance he was neat,
clean, small and spare, with a modest whisker of black hair : ho
had ventured to become as bald in front as if he were a partner :
he believed that he had attained to a really lofty elevation on the
social ladder — certainly, there were fewer above than below him :
ami he considered his career a remarkable example of what may bo
effected by ability backed by industry and honesty.
His wife was small and neat like him, but she looked much more
worn, because to keep six children neat and respectalile is work of
an even more resj)onsible character tlian that of a clerk in a City
house. I snppose there was nowhere a harder- worked woman, and,
fortunately for her governess, there was nowhere a kiudcr-hcartcd
woman.
1 86 KATHARINE REGIXA.
Katie began her duties at nine, and she left the house at seven,
eight, or nine in the evening, for there was no limit as to hours.
She received, in payment for her services, her dinner — it really is a
shame that the same word has to do duty for all the various func-
tions of eating which take place between noon and night — ^and her
tea. In addition, she was "^aid quarterly the sum of twenty pounds
a year. This is rather more than a shilling a day — in fact, seven
shillings and eightpence farthing a week. It is a great deal of
money for a clerk on three hundred a year to pay a governess, but
then it released his wife and saved a nurse, and allowed the girls to
be fitted for those occupations which are open to genteel young
persons for whom the Board School could not be thought of — and
at any genteel Ladies' Seminary the education of all the six would
cost a good deal more than twenty pounds a year. Katie's pay,
to look at her side of the bargain after paying for her bed and
breakfast, left her a little over two shillings a week for dress,
gloves, boots, books, omnibuses, and amusements, and everything.
A noble margin ! Yet until the news came from Egypt she was
perfectly happy. What matter for a few weeks of pinching when
her lover would come home again and take her out of it ? She
gave herself up therefore cheerfully to the children, teaching them
all the morning, walking with them, amusing them, making and
mending and darning with them and for them, bearing a hand in
laying the cloth, and, in short, behaving as the mother's help rather
than the lady governess, in-so-much that she was become the sister
of the children and the daughter of the mother, who held out her
arms to her in her trouble — they were thin arms, worn to the bone
with work for her children — and kissed her and wept over and
with her whenever they could both spare five minutes from their
work. It is a good thing, I repeat, for the mourner to get up,
brush out the ashes from his hair, sew up the rent garments —
Katie's two shillings a week allowed of no rending — and go to
work again, though the clay-clods upon the dead man's grave are
still wet, and though his voice yet lingers in the brain, and though
he is still expected to lift the latch and take his accustomed seat.
Katie went on with her teaching. In losing her lover she lost
everything. His death — though this she understood not, merci-
fully—condemned her to a life-long struggle for daily bread. These
life sentences are always being passed, and generally upon the
innocent. The father makes an Ass of himself, or Fate cuts him
off prematurely. The sentence of the Court is that the girls
shall be sent into penal servitude for life as under-paid, half-fed,
DITTMER BOCK. 187
incompetent teachers, wretched artists, miserable literary hacks,
and so forth. Happily the decrees of the Court are not published.
If the girls were to understand what lies before them — the loveless,
hopeless, dependent, and starved life — one knows not whither they
would turn in the misery of the prosjject before them. The
twenties, when one is hopeful, pass into the thirties when one is
strong still, and the thirties into the forties when the strength of
youth has changed into endurance ; and presently age falls upon
them and it grows daily more difficult to find work, and in the
end they come to understand their own history and the hopeless-
ness of their case all along and the severity of the Law. Poor
ladies ! who can help them ? "Who can take them out of Harley
House ?
CHAPTER YI.
DITTMER BOCK.
There is not much society for families such as this of Doughty
Square: friends and relations of course there arc; but there is
little hospitality, and one cannot expect much visiting when the
ladies of the household are occupied all day long in keeping the
family neat and respectable to outward show. The theatre, with
an order to the Upper Circle, is the most desired form of female
recreation. Nevertheless, the Emptages had one regular and even
constant visitor. He came every evening and smoked a cigar — of
Hamburg manufacture — and conversed with ]\Ir. Eniptage and the
ladies. He came at first with the view of improving liis English
by conversation, but, it must be confessed, he now came chiefly for
the purpose of conversing with Katie.
He was a young German, named Dittmer Bock. He conducted
correspondence for the House which also employed ]\lr. Eraptage,
in many foreign languages : he wrote letters and took down in-
structions in shorthand : he drew forty pounds a year : he lived
upon that salary ; and he presented the appearance of one who
lived u[)on four times that salary. The young (Jermans who come
to London in the day of small things practise the small economies:
they share bedrooms : they know whore to go for meals of a satisfy-
ing kind, large in bulk to satisfy the Teutonic hungor, but choa]i.
Eighteen-penco a day is considered, by some of the younger ad-
venturers, as an ample .illowance for food : for everything not
alisolutely necessary, a (Jcrman who means to rise niiist wait.
Dittmer was a sturdy, woll-sct up young follow, actually without
i8S KATHARINE REGINA.
spectacles. He had the blue eyes ami the fair hair of his country :
his manners were gentle: he firmly believed in the enormous
superiority of Germans over the rest of mankind. He loved
dancing, though he got none ; he could sing, playing his own
accompaniments, the folk-songs of which the good German never
tires : he sang them with great feeling : and in the evening when
the largest lamp was lit— the gas-lamp— and the children, with
Mrs. Emptage and Katie, sai at the table sewing, and Mr. Emptage
sat by the fireside, his legs crossed, with an evening paper, enjoying
the leisure of a gentleman who has put away care for the day, it
was pretty to see Dittmer spreading his fingers over the keys and
to listen while he warbled, one after the other, the ditties of the
Fatherland.
It became the custom with the young man, when Katie stayed
until nine — no one could stay later, because that was the time for
the family supper — to walk home with her as far as the door of
Harley House.
English young men as well as Germans ardently desire to tell
about themselves, their prospects, their aims and their ambitions,
but they stifle the yearning. They talk to each other for awhile,
but not after their career is actually begun, A German young
man, on the other hand, looks about for a companion of the opposite
sex, to whom he may confide everything : she becomes his friend,
his adviser, his sympathizer. Sometimes she is young and pretty,
when the result is inevitable : sometimes she is young and plain,
when the result is generally much the same : sometimes she is
middle-aged or old, when the friendship may become a very sweet
and tender one. How much good might be done, if ladies of a
certain age would let it be known that they were ready to under-
take the part of consoler, adviser, and sympathizer each to one
young man ! One feels, speaking as a man, perfectly ready at any
age to do as much for a young lady. Katie played this part to the
young German, while he talked about himself.
'I am not, Fraiilein,' Dittmer Bock explained, ' hochgeborne.
My father conducts a Delikatessen-Handlung in Hamburg, opposite
the Jacobi Church.' May one disguise the good Dittmer's English?
Anyone may speak it as he spoke it. In fact, the German-English
of to-day is as easy to write as the French-English of sixty years
ago— witness the humourist in every American paper. ' My father
had ambitions for his sons above the Delikatessen-Handlung. He
wished that they should become great merchants, such as used to
be found in London.'
DITTMER BOCK. 189
' Are they not found here still ?'
Dittmer shrugi^ed his shoulders. ' I find the memory of great
English merchants, and I find great German houses — Hamburg is
the place where you must look now for great merchants. Did you
ever hear of the Godefroi brothers V'
Katie never had.
' They were boys who worked and looked about them. Perhaps
they had read history, and knew about Whittington and Grcsham.
And they rose and became rich ; they discovered an island, and
they established trade with it and planted it. They became rich.
They founded the great German Colonial Empire of the future' —
here Dittmer spread his arms — ' which will grow and grow until it
swallows up your English Colonies one after the other. I, too,
shall look about the world until I discover another island like
Samoa. Then I shall go there and begin to trade and to plant.'
'It is a great ambition, Dittmer.'
* It has been my resolve since I was a child. In order to carry
it out I have learnt what I could — mathematics, languages, book-
keeping, shorthand, physical geography, commercial and political
history, and the present condition of trade over all the world. I
know every harbour and its exports and imports and the principal
merchants who carry on its trade.'
' That seems a great deal to learn.'
' Modern trade wants all this knowledge. There will very soon
be no more English merchants, because your young men will not
learn the new conditions of trade. In every office there must bo
clerks who can write and speak foreign languages. Your young
men will not learn them, and your schools cannot teach them.
Then we come over — we who have learned them. For my part, I
can write and read English, Swedish, Danish, French, Spanish,
Italian, Dutcli, and German. Do you think we shall be content to
stay here as clerks ? No — no. Do you think that I have come
here to sit down with forty pounds a year? We are cheap, wo
(ierman clerks. You say so. MeinGott! you will iind us dear.
We are learning your trade : we find out all your customers and
your corrcspondentH : we learn your profits and wc undersell you.
We do not go away. Wc remain. And presently, instead of an
English House there is a German House in its jjlace, because your
young men are .so stupid that they will not learn.'
At this point Dittmer Hock was quite carried away and bccamo
almost the American newspaper (Jernian.
'I study English commerce— I study how it began and why it ia
190 KATHARINE REG IN A.
now coming to an end. The English clerk will not learn anything
and expect to be paid like an Amstrichter at least. In Deutsch-
land we learn, and we are poor at first. Jawohl ! we are poor, but
we can wait. It is your high salaries in your army, in your navy,
in your Church, in your trade, in your Administration, which ruins
Great Britain. Everywhere the German merchant drives out the
Englishman and the American ; your commerce goes out of your
hands ; for the moment only it remains in London, thanks to the
Germans and the Jews. When we have taken Antwerp, it will
all go there — all — and where will be your London then ? All — all
— shall be Deutsch . . .'
Then he fell into a philosophical vein.
' Let us look around. Already France decays — for want of men :
England has begun to decay, for there will soon be no more bauer,
no villagers, for soldiers and to make strong and pure the bad
blood of the towns. Deutschland alone will spread until it has
swallowed Holland, Belgium, Scandinavia, and India, and the
English Colonies, and has controlled America. There will be only
three nations left in the world— Deutschland, Russia, China. Will
there be one grand world kingdom, with Berlin for its world
centre ? Always we see, in history, commerce which passes from
hand to hand : everywhere one people which decays and one people
which advances. It is curious ; it is wonderful.'
' But all this will be after your time, Dittmer.'
' As for me,' he answered, coming down from the prophetic
level, ' I shall become another Godef roi, and find another Samoa.'
' I hope you will, Dittmer,' said Katie.
'Fraiilein' — he left olf talking about himself — 'my heart is
sorrowful for you. Every day I tear open the paper and I look
for news. I say. Oh ! perhaps to-day it comes — the telegram that
he is well.'
' Dittmer, please stop. Please — do not say such a thing again.'
' But there is hope, since they have learned nothing about him.'
' How can there be hope ? No — he is dead. I have his letters.
I shall carry them all my life.' Involuntarily she laid her hand
upon the pocket where they were kept. ' The letters are all I
have of him. He is dead, Dittmer. And, oh ! my heart is break-
ing. Never speak again of news. There can be none, unless they
find his bones upon the sands. No news — no news. He is dead —
he is dead.'
They finished their walk in silence. When they reached Harley
House, Katie saw that the tears were running down Dittmer's cheeks.
DITTMER DOCK. 191
' You are good and kind, my friend,' she said. ' Oh ! it is some-
thing to have a friend in the world.'
He stooped and kissed her hand.
'Fraiilein,'— he began, but he choked and said no more.
It is remarkable that although we boast ourselves to be the grand
articulately-speaking race of Man, the most expressive things arc
those which are omitted. Dittmer Bock never finished that sen-
tence, yet Katie knew what he meant, and that she had a servant
as well as a friend.
One evening he had been silent and dull at the house, even re-
fusing to sing. He sjioke to her on another subject.
' Fraiilein,' he said, ' there will be more trouble.'
' What is it, Dittmer ? Trouble for you or for me ?'
' For our friends. Therefore, for you as well as for me.'
'What is it, then?'
He proceeded to tell her, with many excuses and apologies to
himself for betraying the confidence of the House, that in his posi-
tion of confidential secretary and letter-writer, he knew a great
deal more than the clerks in the outer office knew ; that the
partners spoke more freely in his presence than before others : that
in this way, and by putting things together, he had learned that,
owing to the depression of trade and the bad prospects of the
future, it was in contemplation to make a considerable reduction
in the expenses of the establishment.
' What docs that mean ?
' It may mean that Mr. Emptage will be sent away.'
' Oh ! that would be terrible for them.'
*0r perhaps his salary would be reduced.'
' But they are poor enough as it is.'
'1 shall be kejit because 1 am cheap. Tluy think I am cheap.
Ho ! The English clerks are sent away because they are dear, and
because they know neither shorthand nor any foreign language,
and never try to devise any way of extending the business. Tliey
are machines. What did I tell you, FraidcinV Is not London
decaying when her young men will not learn the only things which
will kec|» them from falling V
' But what — oh ! Dittmer, my friend — what will that poor woman
with her six children do if her husband is dismissed V
' I know not. Presently another (Jcrmau House may rise upon
the ruiiiH of an ICnglish House. The good JOinptago is iionest. He
shall count the money in that Hcjuse. And his daughters shall
marry the planters in my Pacific Island.'
192 KATHARINE REGINA.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LOST PLACE.
No prophecies ever come true except prophecies of disaster. Per-
haps the reason is that there have never been any other kind.
Katie went about her duties with a sense of impending disaster
due to Dittmer's prophecies. The children carried on in their
usual fashion : the mother worked and contrived : the precise bald-
headed father came home every day and read the paper slowly,
with his legs crossed, just as usual : and yet something dreadful
was going to happen to them. If you knew that the day after to-
morrow there was going to be an earthquake on so vast and ex-
tended a character that there would be no time to escape, would
you warn the unthinking folk or would you leave them to their
fate ? If you warned them, for every one who would betake him
to his knees, a dozen would take to drink. Better leave them,
unconscious, until the end came. As well warn the skipping lamb
that in a day or two he will be hanging up with his wool gone and
his inside scooped out, in a butchei''s shop.
The blow fell a few days later.
It was on Saturday afternoon, when Mr. Emptage generally came
home at half-past two and spent the rest of the day with the
family, not disdaining to turn his hand to household jobs : few
family men, indeed, were readier at nailing up a blind, mending a
door-handle, or any of those little matters for which the plumber
is too often called in. He generally came home cheerful and con-
tented — tenuity of income is not felt if you desire no more than
you have. This day, however, he returned in a condition which
— unjustly, I declare— forced those who saw him to think of strong
drink.
' John !' said his wife sharply. ' What is the matter ? Where
have you been ?'
His face was white, his lips were tremulous, his hand dangled at
his side — a most undignified thing for hands to do — and he swayed
from side to side.
' John !' his wife repeated. ' What's the matter ?'
* He is ill, Mrs. Emptage,' said Katie. But she knew what had
happened.
' Children !' the poor man groaned, ' wife ! Katie ' — he sunk into
an armchair and buried his face in his hands — ' wc arc ruined !'
THE LOST PLACE. 193
Had he, then, been dismissed ?
'John ! What is it ? Tell me, quick. What ? John ! Speak up !'
' Maria, I will. Give me time. I've eaten no dinner to-day at
all. What right had I to be eating dinner with the poor children
never going perhaps to have any more ?' He uttered these awful
words with his face still in his hands, so that they had a muffled
funereal sound like the drums at the burial of a soldier.
' Oh, John ! Speak up !' his wife repeated.
The younger children began to cry. The elders watched their
mother and Katie. It would not be becoming in them to begin the
crying until they set the example. But they were terrified. John
sat up and looked slowly and solemnly around, shaking his head.
His children were about him, his wife was at his side, and in front
of him was the governess. Oh, how few of his contemporaries
had governesses ! And now he felt ... In moments of great
trouble it is the small thing which seizes first on the mind. John
Emptage suffered less pain at the moment for the loss of his income
than for the loss of his gentility. ' Our governess ! My children's
governess !' Now he would be able to say these words no more.
' Business,' he began with a groan, ' has been terribly bad. It is
bad with everybody, but in our trade it seems to have gone
altogether.'
' Well, my dear, you have said that so often.'
' At last, the partners have reduced the Establishment. Keduced
— Reduced — the Establishment, Maria.'
' John !' shrieked his wife, ' you haven't lost your berth ?'
' They've sent away half the clerks — three are gone ; and they've
cut down the salaries of those who stay on. I'm cut down. Maria
— children— your fatlicr has been cut down !'
'Oil, John ! How much ? Fifty pounds ?'
' The chief partner sent for me. He spoke very kindly. He said
it was very hard on an old servant, but what was he to do ? Ho
said that all his jiersonal expenses had boon cut down to the lowest,
and the estahlishracnt in the City kept u[i in hope of better times,
but the trade seemed gone away for good, and what was ho to do ?
And then he said that he was very sorry indeed, very sorry for mo
he was, but he could no longer go on i)aying salaries on the same
scale, and be was obliged to offer me a reduction of ' — John <l<)ui;led
up and groaned as one who has an internal pain — 'of lialf my screw
— take it or leave it — take it or leave it. That's all, IMaria — take
it or leave it.'
' Oh, Johu ! Only half — that is what wo married on, sixteen
13
194 KATHARINE KEGINA.
years ago. It was plenty then. But now . . . ' she looked round
her. Si.x children ! And the eldest only fifteen ! She groaned
aloud.
Three hundred pounds a year does not seem to some people a
great income : but many families have to make three hundred
pounds suffice for all their wants and all their luxuries : think of
the clergy, half-pay officers, and widows. In careful hands —
nowhere are the hands more careful than those of the London
clerk's wife — three hundred pounds will go a very long way,
particularly when you can get such a governess as Katie — a chance
which falls to few. But divide the three hundred by two — Mrs.
Emptage rapidly made that division and gazed before her in con-
sternation ; some clerks certainly have to do with a hundred and
fifty, even clerks with families of six. But none knew better than
this cousin of a thousand clerks what the income meant,
' Oh ! children,' she cried, ' what shall we do ? The things that
we must give up ! How in the world shall I keep you respectable?'
Then she looked guiltily at Katie.
' You will not be able to keep me any longer,' said Katie. ' Oh !
I am so sorry for you — I am, indeed.'
' My dear.' Mrs. Emptage embraced and kissed her, weeping,
' And you in all your trouble too — oh ! you, of all the world, to be
sent away !'
And then the children lifted up their voices together, from Maria
of fifteen to Elfie of six, and wept to think that Katie must go.
And the poor clerk who had been so respectable and risen to such
a height turned his face away and bewailed his fortune,
' Yes, I must go,' said Katie, ' Of course I understand that.
Don't mind me, Mrs. Emptage. Maria is able to teach the children
— or Agnes, at a pinch, when Maria takes a situation. Let us sit
down and talk over what can be done.'
' Take it or leave it,' the clerk continued. ' That is what it came
to after all the fine words. And yet he can't help himself. And
clerks at a hundred a year can be picked up like blackberries.
That's the sting of it. If you don't take it, another will do the
work as well.'
'No, John,' said his wife, 'not as well. I have lived among
clerks all my life, and for handwriting, punctuality, and trust-
worthiness, there is no one in all London like you.'
'Thank you, Maria.' Oh, Woman the Consoler! 'Perhaps
there are not so many who can pretend to be a better clerk than
your husband. But, my dear, Employers will put up with an in-
THE LOST PLACE. 195
ferior article if it's cheaper. I've heard a good deal of the clerks
out of place, and now it comes home to me. There's thousands of
them walking about the City going from office to office— ah ! men
with good character, besides the profligate and the idle — they say
they are slowly starving to death from insufficient food. And how
their wives and children live, if they've got any, God in Heaven
only knows ! It was take it or leave it. My dear, could I leave it
with the thought of those poor creatures in my mind ? Thousands
there are, begging for anything, anything — and they can't get it.
Take it or leave it ! Why, there didn't want a minute's thought.
" I'll take it, sir,'' I said, " though it's hard at my age — but perhaps
when times get better " "I will, Emptage," he says. "If
times improve, I will." So, my dear, there's a promise.'
' Ah ! I thought there would be something, John. A promise.
Times will get bettor !'
John shook his head,
' No. Times will get worse, I'm afraid, for English clerks. For
now they all want shorthand and foreign languages. And the
German clerks are coming over by hundreds to take the places
that our poor fellows ought to have. Look at young Bock, with
his shorthand and all his languages — and his forty pounds a year !
What chance have we against such competition as that ?'
' Patience, John,' said his wife. * Leave off crying, children.
Katie, my dear, have one more meal with us, if it is only a cup of
tea. Children, Katie will come and see us sometimes — won't you,
my dear V
When Katie came away at nine, she met Dittmer Bock smoking
a Hamburg cigar under the lamp-post.
' They know all now,' he said. 'I was afraid to komin. I am
sorry for them. Yet they have still one liuiidred and liity pounds.
In Hamburg that is a good pay for a clerk. One hundred and fifty
pounds. Three thousand marks. Count it in marks. So is it
twenty times as great— ten marks a day— what cannot be done
with tea marks a day ? They have been too rich, tlie English.
But they will bo rich no longer. The English clerks are sent away.
The (ierman clerk remains. I have but forty pounds a year. Eight
hundred marks. Yes, the German remains and the Englishman is
Bent away. It in the new conc^uest of England. The German
remains.'
' I fear they will have to deny themselves in many things,' said
Katie.
' They will eat enough -but they will no longer ]n: r'u-h. They
will no longer have such a Frai'ilein to teach the cliildrcn.'
13—2
196 KATHARINE REGINA.
*No. I must fiad another place.'
' It is sometimes hard to find— I fear— the other place.'
' I shall find it, somehow. Oh, I have no fear.'
' Fraulein,' — Dittmer turned pale, smitten with a sudden terror —
' you leave this good family : you go away. Himmel ! Where can
I go to meet you now ?'
Katharine hesitated.
' Do you still wish to meet me, Dittmer ?' she asked, without the
least coquetry.
' Ach ! You ask if I still wish — what other pleasure have I
than to meet you, Fraulein ? There is no one else in the world
who listens when I speak.'
' If it is only to tell me what is in your mind, I will try to
arrange for seeing you sometimes. But '
' Fraillein, it is sweet to open my soul to you, because you under-
stand and are kind. You do not laugh. Ja ! It fills my heart
with joy to be with you and to see your face — so wunderschon '
' Dittmer, you must not '
'You ask if I still wish to meet you. Ach ! And all the day,
at my work, I see your beautiful eyes and hear your voice — so soft
and sweet '
' Dittmer,'— Katie laid her hand on his arm — ' understand. I can
never meet you again — unless you promise not to talk like that.
Oh ! Dittmer — I have his letters close against my heart — and — and
— Dittmer, how can you talk to me like that ?'
He made no reply, because the thing he would have wished to
say was exactly the most calculated to prejudice him still further.
He would have said, 'Forget that man, Katie. He is dead and can
feel no more. Think that you are young and beautiful, and made
for love, and listen to the wooing of a gallant young clerk who
means to become a great merchant and to have an island all his
own in the Pacific'
' Good-bye, Herr Bock,' said Katie. ' We will part here.'
Then he pulled himself together, as in the presence of a great
danger.
' Forgive me, Fraulein. I will be your brother and you shall be
my sister. I will call you K;itchen, I will tell you all that is in
my mind. Katchen, will you consent ?' He offered her his hand.
She took it without hesitation.
' Dittmer,' she said, ' you shall be my brother as long as you
please.'
' And when I am rich and have found my island, you shall be
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 197
the queea of the island if you like. If not you shall stay at home
and be rich— with your brother. You shall have a robe of velvet
and of silk — instead of stuff . . .'
She smiled sadly.
* Dittmer, it must always be a black robe, whether it is of silk or
of stuff.'
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME.
In this way did Katie lose her situation and join the ranks of the
multitude of ladies unemployed.
It is a great and a doleful multitude ; nowhere can be seen such
an array of rueful visages as where this crowd is assembled. It
grows daily greater and more doleful, for reasons too various and
too numerous to relate. It consists of all those women who, having
been gently bred, and for the most part without expectation of
labour, and therefore with no special training and no apprentice-
ship, find themselves, perhaps without the least warning, compelled
to work for their living.
The army contains women of all ages, but mostly they are young
— perhaps they are gifted with perpetual youth, which, being love-
less, must be a mockery. Perhaps, in the great battles which they
are always fighting against the allied troops of Poverty and
Hunger, the elder ones get quickly killed. These ladies are the
Amazons who offer themselves as recruits in the Army of Labour,
but, being undrilled and without discipline, are either refused alto-
gether or are else only taken on as auxiliaries, liable to be discharged
at a moment's warning. They may also be described as a Fringe
hanging round every one of the Professions and Trades in which
women may work. They give the most dreadful trouble to every-
one actually trained, skilled, and employed, for many reasons — but
chiefly because they are all incompetent, every one : if they were
not incompetent they would speedily leave these dismal ranks.
Therefore, whatever tlicy try, which is everything, they do badly :
and thus they lower the standard of good work : and because they
are so miserably \H)or thoy have to take any pay ; and so they lower
wagCH, whicii is the beginning of all sorrows.
It is a truly dreadful thing to belong to the Ladies Unemployed.
The hunt for work is with them exactly like the savage's hunt for
food : it begins every morning : tliere is no respite : and it tends to
produce among the ladies much the same elTect as among the
savages. Not with all women, it is true, but with some.
198 KATHARINE REGINA
Miss Beatrice and her sister at Harley House went through the
life without losing the womanly virtues. But it makes many girls
hard, grasping, and unscrupulous ; every one, like the savage,
fighting for her own hand, hunting for her own food. It causes
the tender-hearted to become pitiless ; the unselfish to become
selfish ; the honest and truthful to practise ways that are tortuous ;
the necessities of life make them ready to underbid and to under-
sell each other, and send them by hundreds into the hungry jaws
of sharks who live, like the Loathly Worm of old, upon the tender
limbs of young maidens.
Two of these girls were talking together in a cubicle of Harley
House. One of them stood in the doorway with joined hands, the
other sat on the bed. The former had been six months longer
among the Ladies Unemployed than the other ; and she was there-
fore wiser than her friend.
' I have averaged eight shillings a week,' she said, ' eight shillings
a week. Katie, during the whole time that I have been trying to
get work, I have never possessed more than a single sovereign at a
time to put between me and starvation. Oh ! it is worse than the
life of a slave, and there is no way out of it — not any way — except
one, of course — and for that we have to wait so long.'
' Courage, Lily,' said the other ; ' you will find something
presently.'
Lily shook her head impatiently.
' Well,' Katie went on, ' I have fifteen pounds stored up. Think
of that ! Fifteen jjounds ! It ought to keep us for more than
three months.'
' No, there are boots; you may go in rags if you can hide them,
but you must have boots to wear, and they are frightfully dear.
Besides, I am not going to be so mean as to take your money, Katie,'
' How rich I thought I was,' said Katie, ' when Tom asked me
before he went away if I had plenty of money, and I thought of
my hoard of fifteen pounds, and told him that I had no anxiety at
all about money, and of course I hadn't so long as I had my
situation. And now he is dead,' Katie sighed. ' And my place is
lost. Lily, you must and shall share my money.'
' Oh, Katie, you will want it all.'
' My dear,' Katie took her hand and held it, ' we must be sisters,
because of all the women in the world I do not think there are any
other two so desolate and so fi-iendless as we are.'
'I am sure there are not. I wonder what we have done to deserve
it?'
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 199
' There cannot, surely, be two other girls in the world left without
any friends or relations. Fancy not having a single cousin, to say
nothing of father, mother, brother, or sister.'
'My father,' said Lily with a touch of pride, as if the thing
showed dignity and independence, ' always said that sooner than
return to his relations he would sit down and starve.'
'3Iine,' said Katie without any pride at all, 'refused to let nae
ever speak of my relations. You see, Lily, we must have cousins.'
' And perhaps they are generous cousins who would help us — if
we can be helped ; but mine at least cannot be rich — I am sure they
cannot be rich. When father was ill I forgot to ask him who they
are and where they live.'
' My father,' said Katie, carrying on the comparison, ' would
have told me, I suppose, where he got his money, but he fell down
dead and had no time, poor dear !'
' What have we done to deserve it ?'
' Lily, it is always what your father docs : the responsibility of a
man must be terrible ; it isn't only the income for his own life-
time, it is the future of his children to the third and fourth gener-
ations that he has in his hands. I wonder if they ever think of it ?
I wonder if our fathers, Lily, ever thought of what would happen
to their daughters when they should die.'
' IMine didn't. He thought about his invention, and the man who
stole it and made a fortune out of it. He brooded over it all the
time.'
'And mine thought about his club. Does it seem quite right
that fathers should have such power ? If one's father fails, down
they all go, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. If he
succeeds, up they all go together, higher and higher.'
' Unless they take to drink,' said Lily wisely.
'If he fails, the girls have to look for work '
'And not to find it.'
'Unless,' Katie continued, 'they get married. And then there is
the chance of another father failing.'
'My dear, what is the use of talking about marriage in Harlcy
IIouHc? Love and marriage cannot como in our way. IIow are
wo to make the acfpiaintance of any men? Some of the girls at
the Museum make acquaintances with the readers, but no good ever
came of that sort of acquaintance, yet.'
' liut, Lily, anything may happen.'
'Not out of books, unless it is bad — in real life everything
happens that is bad. Tint as for love and marriage — I declare,
200 KATHARINE REGINA.
Katie, that if wc had our haircut off, and were shut up in a Spanish
convent, a hundred miles from any man, we should have a better
chance of marrying than we have here— I mean we two, who have
no friends at all. Not the rest of the girls, who have brothers, and
can go out with them.'
' I have had my chance, Lily, and I have been robbed of it,' said
Katie,
' Yes, whatever happens you will be the happier for having been
loved. It is something to remember always. Oh ! it must be a
wonderful thing to feel that a man is going to give up all his life —
all his work — to make you happy, and keep you in ease and com-
fort. It must be such a happiness just to feel it, as you did, for a
month or two, that even to think of it makes me go mad with rage
at the cruel fate which keeps us locked up here out of the way of
it, so that we can never, never meet with it.'
' Yes,' said Katie, ' it is a wonderful thing to feel. There is no
other happiness to compare with it — and I have felt it. Oh !' she
clasped her hands, ' I have felt it !'
' Katie, when I am tramping the streets from one place to
another, knowing beforehand that I shall be too late, a terrible
picture arises before my mind, a dreadful nightmare which comes
by day : and I sec my future life stretched out before me plain and
clear— perhaps yours, dear, as well, but I hope — yes — I hope that
God will take you first.'
'Oh, Lily!'
' I must — I cannot help it — I must speak ! The picture comes
of itself and stays before my eyes, and I must tell somebody.
Katie, I see myself going on like this for year after year — all my
life.'
The girl's dark eyes glowed and grew larger as she gazed intently
upon the panoramic picture which rolled itself out before her. As
she spoke it became real to Katie as well,
' Oh !' such a long life — I shall live to eight}'. There will be no
change at all until the time comes when no one will give me any
work to do at all. And then I shall go to the workhouse. I am
always applying for places. Sometimes I get taken on, but generally
I am too late. Always jostling and pushing and fighting with other
women. What a life ! It is yours as well as mine. What a fortune
for us to be born with !'
' Lily, some change will come. It must come !'
' No — never any change. Look at poor old Miss Stidolph, She
is sixty, at least : and she is no better off than when she began —
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 201
thirty years ago and more, after her father failed— to go out as a
daily governess. "What change has ever come to her ? Look at
Miss Augusta and Miss Beatrice : to be sure, they've got fifty
pounds a-year to live upon now. Before it came they were starv-
ing. And their father was a Canon of a Cathedral. What a life
they have led ! No, Katie, for us and those like us there is no
hope — none. I declare, Katie, that if there were any way of escape
— any — offered me, I would take it.'
She looked about her like a prisoner in a cell, and gasped as if
for want of air.
'Lily!'
' Xever enough money,' she went on ; ' never enough food ; never
enough dress ; never any society at all. "What a life it is that lies
before us ! You are twenty-one, and I am twenty-two. Perhaps
fifty or sixty years of it. And oh ! how slowly the hands move
round the clock ! Oh ! how slowly the sun goes down !'
' Lily, you have no right to assume that things will go on just as
they are doing at present.'
• No. They may be worse. Katie, is it right that girls should
be treated so V We are born with the same desire for happiness as
other girls. We could enjoy, like them, beautiful things and lives
of ease. And oh ! look at us. There is not a single lady in this
great town who invites either of us to her house : there is no
chance of meeting a gentleman unless it is the kind of gentleman
who speaks to girls in the street. Happiness! What does it mean?
We do not know what it means. We arc sentenced.'
Katie sighed heavily.
' What good is it to rebel ?' she asked. ' Let us accept our lot
and make what we can out of it. Wliat can wo do more, in the
way of work ?'
'I should like to do nothing. We were made to do notiiiu<r.
That is why women are not able to lift anything and to fight. It
is the business of men to work and nf women to sit down and
enjoy the fruits of their labours. Besides, men like work — and
women don't.'
' What can we do, however ?'
' I can do nothing. I never was taught to do anything. None
of us were.'
' Well, but '
' I can copy, I think, that is all 1 am really fit ior. I can copy
docuraentH, and I can go to the J^Iiiscuni and make extracts. I can
also search. 1 don't suppose,' she added witli candour, ' tiiat I
202 KAfllARINE REGINA.
sliould ever find anything, but I could tiy, if anyone wanted me to
find anything. Some girls scom always able to get search-work to
do. But then I know nobody, and have got no interest. And
oh ! how many there are who are trying to get the work !'
' You can teach, Lily.'
' No,' her black eyes, which had been heavy and sad, flashed with
anger. 'No — I cannot and will not teach. I hate teaching. I
loathe teaching. I want to kill the children : they drive me to
madness. The last time I tried teaching I ran away from the
place, or I should have done something dreadful. Fortunately, I
don't know anything. I can't add up and divide. I can't tell you
the capital of any country, and I do not remember a single date.
And I've forgotten all the Kings of Israel. Katie, I would rather
make button-holes for shirts than teach.'
' Well, dear, there are other things.'
' I could do clerk's work, but no one will have me. I could
write letters.'
' Let us be hopeful, Lily. You are very pretty, and perhaps —
who can tell ? As for me, that is all over ; but you — Lily, ai"e you
sure you have no relations ?'
'I know of none. My father came to London from the North.
But I don't know where. He brought his invention with him, but
somebody stole it from him, and then he became a clerk. He lived
a moody and a lonely life, and he made no friends ; but he always
hoped to make another invention.'
' What was his invention ?'
' I don't know. Something to do with machines. My father
was always making pictures of wheels. I have no friends and no
money. What have I done, I ask again ?'
' It isn't what we have done, dear, I told you : it is what our
fathers did.'
Lily made as if she would say something really severe, but she
refrained.
' Well,' she said mildly, ' to-morrow you will begin the round. I
only hope ' — she said this as one who has no hope — ' that you will
be more lucky than I have been.'
Then the other residents began to come upstairs, and Lily retired
to her own cubicle, and they all went to bed.
In the night, that Vision of a long and hopeless life of Insufficiency
arose before Katie and rolled itself out scene by scene like a never-
ending panorama. It was one of those nightmares which do not
cease when one awakes, sits up, shakes the pillow, and turns over
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 203
on the other side. This kind remains, and the moment you go to
sleep again the story is carried on from the point where it was
stopped by the waking. There was once a man who had a night-
mare of this kind which came every night and carried on the story
slowly, hour by hour, minute by minute— so that he lived two
lives, one by night and one by day. His tombstone — he died young
— says nothing about his nocturnal career : it says he was a good
husband, a kind father, and a straight-walking Christian. Ah !
and how about the other life ? Katie saw herself tramping about
in search of work and finding none. She was always hungry : her
clothes were always shabby : gloom and despair weighed upon her
soul : hopelessness crept over her like a paralysis : she saw her
youth and her strength slipping away : she saw the lines in her
wasted cheek — which Tom once loved so much and thought so
beautiful. Then she saw how she had grown old and was just as
poor as ever and work was just as necessary to her, but it was all
given to the younger ones. Lastly, she found herself with no
monej' at all. And an awful terror— such a terror as she had
never before experienced : as if now, at last, everything was over :
as if there were no God in the Heavens; or if there were, that He
had turned His face from her for ever : she could not pray : to
look forward was more dreadful than to look back : how terrible,
how dreadful a thing is old age in poverty and want, and without
the stay and consolation of Christian hope ! Then iu her dream
she crept friendless and destitute into the streets. Oh ! Tom —
Tom ! was it for this that you perished upon the Egyptian sands ?
Then she awoke with a sob. Lo ! it was morning, and the sun
Hhone upon the windows — even upon the windows of Harlcy
House.
Would you follow these two girls in their que.st of work and
bread ?
It was a hopeless quest, because the things that they could do
were so few and there were already so many girls to do them, and
they had no friends or private interest. All that Katie could do
well was to undertake the teaching and care of young cliildron, or
of those girls with parents to whom the curriculimi of (lio High
School docs not appeal. Slie could liriiig to her task, as slio had
done with the Kmptage children, aircction and care sudi as one
hardly has a right to expect for ten times the salary. Alas ! she
found that for one place there were fifty candidates. And like liily
she was always too late.
204 KATHARINE REGINA.
In the months of July and August young and old alike dream of
green fields, of woods where the shadows are deep and cool, of the
sea-shore where the fresh breezes roll up the blue waves into light
bracken upon the shingle, of rocks with deep pools and dark cool
caves. It is hard in these months to be seeking for work and find-
ing none, while the streets smell like a bakery whose windows have
not been opened for weeks, and the reflected heat mounts up and
strikes your cheeks as with a hot hammer, and the air of the great
town seems used up by the breathing of all the millions, and there
is no refreshment by day or night, and one cannot afford fruit and
ice, and the only place you have got for the evening is hot and
close and filled with depressed and melancholy women. Katie sat
there, among the rest, sad and weary, though Miss Beatrice sat
beside her and held her hand, whispering words of consolation and
patience, and Miss Augusta played solemn music. As for Lily, she
came no longer to the drawing-room : she had taken a lowly
position as figurante in a melodrama : she went to the theatre
every night and stood in the front, being a pretty girl, and received
fifteen shillings a week. The work and the place and the surround-
ings were not exactly what a careful mother would choose for her
child : but, careful mothers, reflect that if your child must work,
she cannot always choose her work, and her reputation will have to
depend upon herself and not upon the safeguards and precautions
arranged for her by her friends. It is, indeed, the first condition
of woman's work that these safeguards must be abandoned.
Lily was on the boards, but Katie could get nothing to do. She
should have remembered that July, August, and September are the
Avorst months in the year for a daily governess looking after work.
But she did not : and she thought continually of her dreadful
dream and of Lily's picture of the long and miserable life.
A girl who has a profession — even if it be only that of nursery
governess — always makes a mistake if she leaves it. Katie made
that mistake. She left her profession and went to the Reading
Room of the British Museum instead.
Here, besides the men who study and the authors who write and
those who hunt into obscure things and clear up doubtful points,
sit the girls who go there in search of work. The attendants know
them : the Superintendent of the room knows them : they are
known to each other. They copy, as Lily had done : they hunt up
passages and write them out : they search in old magazines ; they
find out things for leader-writers, reviewers, authors, members of
Parliament, and men who want to write articles of the thoughtful
THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 205
and practical kind, and have not time to get at the facts : some of
them are so clever in the arrangement and orderly display of the
facts that the article is well-nigh written when the work leaves
their hands : but I never heard that their name appeared at the
end of it. Some of them translate fi-om French, German, or
Italian ; some, the cleverer among them, assist journalists with bits
of London letters for Colonial papers, work up Fashion columns,
do papers for magazines if they can get them in : and write stories.
Yes : unfortunately for the Art of Fiction, the rules of which
they have never studied, they write stories.
There is a great deal of work done in the reading-room, but then
there are so many to take it and the pay is so little. Katie joined
this band. She could not write stories or articles : she had no
literary ability at all : she ought never to have entered the Reading
Room.
If a girl is so clever as by dint of hard work, clear head, and
determination to force herself across the line which separates the
amateur from the professional, she will get out of this dreadful
land of wailing and of wringing of hands, where the women are
for ever filling sieves with water and rolling stones uphill, and
trying to drink the water that continually runs away. The girl
who has in her the touch of genius which enables her to write, to
paint, or to act, or to play, or to administrate, will certainly pass
over the line into the region of comfort if not of honour. These
girls are the exceptions. Most of them, as we said before, are im-
competent. Those who would teach know nothing of the methods
of teaching : nor have they passed examinations, nor have tlicy
learned anything at all thoroughly as boys learn things : those who
would write novels have not the least knowledge or conception of
dramatic effect, selection, exaggeration, emphasis, incident, humour,
character, or any of the things which make up the art into wliicli
they plunge in sheer ignorance that it is an art at all. Those wlio
would be artists can neither ])aint nor draw, even though they have
obtained prizes and medals at the Schools wliich arc kindly manu-
facturing every year fresh batches of incompetents who would like
to be artists. Those who would go on tlio stage have no histrionic
power. Those who would become professional musicians are only
girls who can play a little better than the average. Those wlio
would become singers arc only fit for the ' little music ' of a middle-
class drawing-room. Those who would administrate and become
clerks, HecretaricH, managers, bousckceperH, matrons, and so forth,
have no training in busincsB, no gcuiuH for details, no heads for
2o6 KATHARINE REGINA.
organization, and no power of authority. What is to be done for
tbeni ? Tliere is only the lowest work in every branch : that which
is most miserably paid : and of that there is not enough to go
round.
Alas ! Katie was not one of those who are clever. Nature
destined her, as she destines all but a very few women, for the home
life : she was intended for love : she was meant to be happy with
her lover first, and her husband next, and then her children.
Nature meant one thing. Fate, who constantly disregards Nature's
intentions — indeed they have not been on speaking terms since the
days of Adam and Eve — allotted another thing. She was too weak
in spirit for the struggling competition of labour : she was not
clever enough to excel in any art : she could not fight : she was not
sharp enough to see openings, to push and shove, to apply continu-
ally, to make herself a burden and a nuisance until she could get
what she wanted : she could not be importunate — other girls do this
with brazen front though with sinking heart. Katie could not.
Therefore she got no work except at rare intervals — and the little
store dwindled and shrunk.
Then a great misfortune befell them. Lily fainted on the
boards and had to be carried out in the sight of the audience.
She was forgiven the first time, but she fainted again. This clearly
shewed that she had contracted vicious habits, and the manager
dismissed her. And on the little store there were now two to be
kept.
' My dears,' said Miss Beatrice, ' there was once a widow woman
with a single cruse of oil. But the Man of God came and stayed
with her, and the cruse wasted not.'
' If there is a Man of God anywhere about,' said Lily irreverently,
' he couldn't do better than stay at Harley House.'
CHAPTER IX.
TOM'S DEAD HAND.
James Rolfe sat in his uncle's room at his uncle's table and in his
uncle's own wooden chair. He had succeeded to the business, ap-
parently, as well as the estate. Bundles of papers were laid on
the table before him ; they were the papers connected with his
uncle's estate, now his own. For he had no business of his own,
and his uncle's clients, if he had any left, had gone elsewhere.
The tin boxes round the room with names painted on them con-
tained the papers of dead clients who would i>ay no more fees.
TOM'S DEAD HAND. 207
The afternoons at the end of September are quiet in New Square,
Lincoln's Inn. Save for an occasional footfall on the pavement or
on the stairs, there is nothing to disturb the legal intellect engaged
upon the toughest job. But in September the legal intellect is
chiefly unbent and upon the moors.
In the outer office two elderly clerks, who had worked together
for forty years, under Mr. Joseph Addison, now dozed in their
chairs. Papers were spread out before them and a pen lay ready
to be dipped if anyone called, but they had no work to do. Their
new master, in fact, kept them on purely for the sake of appear-
ance. He thought that the presence of these respectable old
gentlemen lent dignity to the office and the show of confidential
family business. So, doubtless, it would have done, but for the
fact that no one ever came to look at them. In the den beside the
door the office boy, full of roast beef and mild ale, slumbered, his
head upon the desk. It was a blissful time with him, for he had
nothing to do, no errands to run, no message to deliver, no bell to
answer, and nothing to copy. He could go to sleep every day and
all day long, and drew his pay as regularly as in the old master's
time. In his own room James Rolfe, who had lunched cojjiouslj',
with a pint of stout, slept peacefully. The offices of Uncle Joseph,
deceased, had become a Castle of Indolence. Outside, the world
went on, quite unconscious of the office. Nobody ever looked in.
Even the postman passed it by without a letter or a parcel. Every-
body was asleep all day long. It was like the Heaven of the
solicitor's clerk. Each of us has his own little Heaven of imagina-
tion. In that of the solicitor's clerk, every man has an office to
which he is bound to go every morning at nine-thirty, there to
remain with an interval of an hour for dinner until half-past six
or seven. It is a beatific office, because there is no work : nothing
to transcribe, copy out, or engross, and everyone of the Elect may
sleep all day, chut or tell stories, go out and have a glass of l)cer
and a smoke, and take two hours instead of one for dinner, arrive
late, go early, take long holidays, and draw salaries continually in-
creasing wilhout any limit. A holy calm rested upon this office
all day. The chief came late and went away at all hours, and as
yet had said nothing at all about work or pay. The word 'sack'
had not lieon nicntiomd. A holy cahn indceil ! ISow in James's
former office— a small and humble place compared with this beauti-
ful suite of rooms — a singlo boy reprcHentcd the whole clerical
staff : there were, to bo sure, the usual l)undleH of papers on the
table : but though there was, as in this office, an entire absence of
2o8 KATHARINE REGTNA.
clients, there was never any qnict or calm in it, but on the contrary
the noisy laughter and the jokes of sporting men, Jem Rolfe's
friends, resounded in it, and it was charged with an atmosphere of
tobacco, beer, worry, and irritation, with duns continually calling
and ' wanting to know,' and the postman dropping letters from
angry creditors with threats of proceedings, not to speak of the
office boy, who was possessed by a devil, and was always doing
something to madden his master, and to get his own ears boxed.
Yet five minutes, and this calm was to be rudely dispelled, not
to return, so far as concerned the chief, for many a day. In fact,
it has never since returned. This afternoon, the holiest and the
calmest, was the last day of real peace.
Two girls, about to cause this interruption, were at this moment
in Lincoln's Inn Fields.
' I am sure it is the best thing to do, Katie,' said one. 'If this
man was really a friend of Tom's, he would at least be able to
advise — and you must have relations.'
' I do not think he was a friend, although he was a cousin. But
Tom told me to go to him if I was in trouble. We can but try,
Lily.'
Suddenly — without the least warning, in the most unexpected
manner — every one of those sleepers was startled into conscious-
ness.
The office-bell was rung.
Then the chief sat upright, dropped the half-smoked cigarette
from his fingers, and seized the papers tied up with red tape which
lay on the desk before him. He would be discovered, whoever it
was that was come to disturb him, in the act of wrestling with
legal intricacies. The two old clerks jumped in their chairs and
each man seized a pen and dipped it in the ink, then, with squared
shoulders, and heads bent over their work, and pens that flew with
the swiftness of the ready writer, they presented the proper
appearance of industry and pressure, though I know not what they
wrote. The office — it is a well-known rule — must not be discovered
doing nothing. The boy at the door, startled out of sleep, lifted
his head and threw open the pages of a big folio before him con-
taining I know not what old accounts and entries of bygone busi-
ness. The impression of zeal and of an overwhelming amount of
work having been started, he opened the door.
The bell had been rung by two young ladies, neither of whom
TOM'S DEAD HAND. 209
•was known to the boy. One of them gave him her card — ' Miss
Capel.'
James jumped — there is no other way to describe the movement
— when he received the card. He had put away his solemn promise
and sacred pledge in so remote a corner of his brain that he had
almost forgotten the promise and the name of Katharine Capel.
' What the devil,' he murmured, ' does she want ?'
But when his visitors came in he turned pale and looked first at
the card and then at Lily, and then at Katie, and then at the card
again, and then at Katie.
' Miss Capel ?' he said, bowing to Lily and again looking at
Katie with a kind of bewilderment.
' No — this is Miss Capel.'
* Is— is your name Capel ?' he asked. Why should not her name
be Capel ?
' You do not know me, Mr. Rolfe,' said Katie. ' I am — that is,
I was — engaged to your cousin, Tom Addison.'
' You were engaged to my cousin — you ?' He kept staring at
her face. ' You ?' Then he tried to pull himself together. ' Were
you ? Excuse my surprise, Miss Capel : I had heard of you, but
I did not at first catch the name. Yes — certainly — Miss Capel —
oh, yes ! He always spoke of you by your Christian name,'
'My name is Katharine Regina.'
' Katharine Regina — Regina ?' he repeated the second name and
still continued to gaze into her face, not rudely, but as one recog-
nises an old acquaintance.
' It is a family name.'
Mr. Rolfe sat down without asking the ladies to take chairs —
this they proceeded to do.
IJut he fieoraed unable to take his eyes oflE Katie's face, and ho
kejtt winking hard witli both eyes at once.
' Katbarino Regina! . . .' he repeated. 'It is a most curious
name — and Capel. Oh yes, T remember,' he said with an elFort.
'Of course, I ri'member now. It was a most disastrous engage-
ment for you, Miss Capel. Tom told me all aI)out it, of cour.sc.'
'I have come to you, Mr. Rolfe,' said Katie, ' because you were
Tora'H cousin, and he told me how you helped him in the matter of
his uncle's will, and that you would help me, too, if I were in
trouble.'
James bowed with dignity. He had indeed heli)cd his cousin in
the most unsulii.Hb manner.
' I am in great tiouble now.'
14
2IO KATHARINE REGINA.
' And anything that I can do, Miss Capel . . .' he began.
Having now recovered somewhat from his first surprise, James
observed first that both girls presented the appearance of great
poverty ; it was legible in their hats, in their jackets, in their
gloves, and in their boots.
' Only let me hear the circumstances,' said James after making
these observations. Perhaps the recollection of the sacred pledge
and solemn promise "was beginning to produce some effect upon
him.
' I am so unfortunately situated,' Katie explained, ' that I do
not know any of my relations. I want you to advise me how I am
to find them — I am in very great straits, Mr. Rolfe, and I think if
I could find them they might help me.'
' Yes — that ought not to be difficult.'
' Mj' father died suddenly a few months before — before I lost
Tom. He never told me anything about my relations at all,'
'Oh! That was unusual. But you would find something to
help you among his papers, I should say.'
' He left no papers at all.'
' That is more unusual still.' James kept looking at her in the
same inquiring way. ' May I ask what was his profession ?'
' He had none. Formerly he was in the army. He lived upon a
pension, or an annuity of three hundred pounds a year, which he
drew regularly once a quarter. He left no papers behind him and
received no letters. On the few occasions when I ventured to
speak to him about my relations he forbade any mention of them.
I think he had quarrelled with them : the only piece of writing
which we were able to find after his death was a scrap of a letter.'
She gave it to James, who read it aloud — ' in case, therefore, of
my not being able to call as usual for the money on Quarter Day,
you can send it to me by cheque made payable to order and not
crossed, in a registered letter, addressed to Willoughby Capel at
the following address ' — there the paper was torn and there was no
more.
' His name,' said James, ' was Willoughby Capel — Willoughby
Capel — and he bad an annuity of three hundred pounds a year.
Yes.' He laid the scrap of paper upon his desk after looking at
the handwriting. ' You are sure that this is your father's own
hand ?'
'Yes, certainly.'
He went on as if he were putting two and two together.
' Your own name is Katharine Rcgiua and his was Willoughby
TOWS DEAD HAND. 211
Capel : and he had an annuity of three hundred pounds a year.
"Who paid him that annuity ?'
' I do not know. I thought you would, for Tom's sake, help me
to find out.'
' Yes,' he replied, shutting both eyes tight, ' I will help you.
Oh! yes.'
' Tom begged me in his last letter — his last letter ' — she made
that little gesture which assured her that the packet of letters was
still in her pocket — ' that you would help me if I went to you.'
' "What was he like — to look at— your father ?'
' He had been, and was to the last, a very handsome man. He
was tall and had regular features : he was over fifty years of age,
but his hair was still unchanged : it was of a light-brown ; he wore
a small pointed beard and long moustaches. No one who had ever
seen him would ever forget him.'
' You are exactly like him,' said James, speaking his thoughts
instead of concealing them, as is the part of a wise man.
' "Why — have you ever seen him ?'
'No— but you have described yourself. "Well — you desire,
naturally, to find out your relations.'
' Yes. I was a governess, but latterly I have been out of employ-
ment, and I have been trying to get work at the Museum. If my
relations are rich, they may be able to help me. Except my friend
here, there is no one in the world who knows or cares about me.
Will you help me, Mr. Rolfc, for the sake of your poor dead
cousin, who loved me ?'
The tears rose to the girl's eyes : the breaking voice, and the
attitude of sorrow and poverty and helplessness, ought to have
made this young man spring from his chair and swear that he was
ready to fly to the ends of the earth in order to help her. That he
did not instantly and eagerly proffer his friendly offices was due to
a most horrible suspicion — more than a suspicion— a discovery.
The girl'H father had received an annual stipend or income of £800 :
hi.s name, Hhe said, was "Willoughby Capel : her description of tlio
man exactly corresponded witli the Captain IFarry WiIloiiglil)y
who used to come regularly once a (juarter to that very ollico, for
that Harac annual stipend ; the donor of that trust-money waslMiss
Katharine Ufgina Willoughby. Mon; than that, as if that was
not enough, the girl's face was exactly that of Captain Willoughby:
the reHoniiilancc waH startling : it loft no room for doubt : every-
body could see it who had known the lato Captain. As for himself,
he remembered Captain Willoughby very well indued : on her very
14—2
212 KATHARINE REG IN A.
first entrance he was struck with the resemblance, and he thought
— forgetting Katie's existence — that it was Captain Willoughby's
daughter come in person to claim her rights.
She was— she must be — Captain Willoughby's daughter, and she
was come, not to claim her rights, but to ask him — him, of all men
in the world — to take such steps as would, though this she knew
not, lead to the establishment of her rights.
' I will advise,' he said coldly, ' to the best of my ability. We
might advertise. Are you disposed to spend money in advertising ?
It is costly.'
' I have no money to spend in anything.'
' That is unfortunate.'
'If you are disposed to help me,' Katie said timidly, and meeting
no response in his eyes, ' will you lend me the money to advertise ?
I would ask that an answer should be sent to me under my full
name, Katharine Regina Capel. That would perhaps meet the eye
of some cousin.'
' Advertising costs a great deal of money,' James replied, and
with averted eyes. ' You had better let me make a few inquiries
first. Will you write down the late address of your father, and the
name of his club ? Thank you. I will make inquiries, and per-
haps we may stumble on something. It is certainly unusual ' — he
cleared his voice, and shut his eyes half a dozen times in succession
— ' most unusual, for a man to die without relations of any kind
anywhere. Perhaps they are in America or the Colonies, in which
case our search might be hopeless. However, I will do my best —
yes — my best, believe me, Miss Capel. Leave the matter in my
hands, and take no steps yourself. You understand, I am sure,
that when you have placed your affairs in the hands of your solici-
tor, you must not meddle with them yourself at all. Leave the
whole matter in my hands.'
He spoke bravely, but his voice somewhat lacked something of
sincerity, and he did not lift his eyes.
' Katie,' said Lily, when they were in the street once more,
' there is something wrong about that man. He has done something.
He can't look you in the face, and he turned red and pale and
all colours at once ; and why did he keep winking with both
eyes ?'
' I believe that Tom and he were not exactly friends. But he
said he would make inquiries.'
'He certainly said he would, whether he means to or not — but
why shouldn't he ? He will send in a bill for his services, I sup-
TOM'S DEAD HAND. 213
pose. Katie, if I were you I would put in that advertisement as
soon as there was money to spare for it.'
But of money, alas ! there was none.
When the girls were gone, James sat down with a perturbed
countenance, and an unquiet heart. He had no longer any desire
to sleep.
Presently he rang the bell, and one of the old clerks answered it.
' I want,' he said, pretending to search among the papers, ' to find
the last receipt for an annuity which my uncle used to pay to
Captain Harry Willoughby, who appears to have died about six
months ago.'
The clerk brought the book with all the receipts.
' This is his si^gnature, is it ? Very good. The last, dated
January, of the present year. Yes, Do you remember Captain
Willoughby ?'
' Very well, sir.'
' Where did he live ?'
' I do not know. He came here once a quarter and drew his
money.'
' Thank you— that will do.'
The signature of the receipt corresponded exactly with the
writing of the torn letter. There was now not the least room for
doubt. This girl — Tom's /iuncee — was the heiress of the trust-
money. It was his duty — it was his clear and certain duty — to
give up the whole of it. It was no longer possible to juggle with
words, and to gloss over things ; the heiress was found — he had to
give u|) the whole of tliat trust-money to the girl. What a terrible
hole it would make in bis income ! There was no other way out of
it. As for what be had already done, Courts of Justice might take
a harsh view of that : but it was honesty itself compared with
keeping the property now that he had found the heiress. She must
have been led, ho thought, to his olfice by the Dead Hand of Tom
himself. James Rolfo was not a superstitious i)erson, but he had
rejid novels, and he knew very well that dead people do constantly
visit evildoers with curses, and bring troul>Ie upon them, csijucially
when thuy have dealt wickedly with wards.
Yet, bo thought, being a man of this generation, and tin icforo
little afraid of di;ad hands, what harm could a dead man's liand do
to him, compared with wliat he wonld do to hiinsc'lf if he gave up
the projterty ? And in what words HJionid he e.\plain to Harriet?
And how would that dear creature regard the loss of three fourths
of her income, and a return tu the old life ?
2 14 KATHARINE REGINA.
He put the torn scrap of writing in the safe along with the old
letter from Miss Willoughby, the only evidence of the Trust ; and
then, though it was only half-past three, he took his hat and walked
out of the office. He could no longer sit there. When he was
gone some of the former rest and calm returned. The visit of the
young ladies had brought no work. The two old clerks began to
doze again. But the boy, disturbed by the appearance of youth
and beauty, and no longer able to sleep, read a penny novelette.
In the evening, James argued out the whole thing with himself
over some Scotch whisky and a pipe.
He was no worse off, he assured himself, than he had been before
the young lady turned up. He knew, to be sure, who the heiress
was : he was not obliged, however, to know : there was nothing
formally and legally to connect Miss Capel with the daughter of
Captain Willoughby. What did it matter that he himself knew
the fact, provided that he kept it to himself ? No one could pos-
sibly find out that he knew it. But oh ! what a difference there
would have been if Tom had known it before he went away ! He
had promised Tom to give her all that was left after the Trust was
paid. A ridiculous promise extorted at a moment when his mind
was not in the usual judicial balance. Ridiculous, indeed ! But no
one knew it except Tom. Yet he thought it would be well to keep
the promise to a limited extent. He might give her all the money
that was in Tom's name in the bank when he went away. How
much was it ? Thirty pounds or so. He would send — and then
he laughed, remembering a most remarkable occurrence. He had
quite forgotten to ask the lady her address. Therefore he could
not send her anything. Nor could he do anything at all.
It was midnight. He sat in the library, which was perfectly
quiet, because it was at the back of the house, and everybody was
gone to bed. Suddenly — no man was more free from superstition
than James Rolfe — he felt a horrid tremor seize all his limbs, and
cold dews stood upon his forehead. It seemed as if Tom himself
— his dead cousin Tom — stood beside him, invisible but audible,
hurling reproaches at him, calling him ' Cur, Liar, Thief, Black-
guard,' and similar ungentlcmanly names — taking, in fact, a mean
advantage of his ghostliness. He also threatened vengeance in
some undefined manner, which made James feel just as uncomfort-
able as Moab or Ascalon might have felt when it was reported in
the Bazaar that a Prophet was predicting woe for its people.
James seized the decanter.
When he went upstairs, some time after, he awoke his wife —
THE LAST SHILLING. 215
who was sweetly dreaming that she was going to live for ever,
always young and always beautiful, with champagne, and silk
dresses trimmed with lace, and every night a stall at the Theatre —
by banging his shin against the sharp edge of the coalscuttle. This
is enough to make the most pious man awake his wife.
' Good gracious, James,' she cried, ' what is the matter ? Can't
you turn up the gas ?'
He replied somewhat thicklj', rubbing the injured part :
' It's — it's Tom's Dead Hand, my dear.'
CHAPTER X.
THE LAST SHILLING.
The two girls sat together on Katie's bed. Spread out in Lily's
lap was all the money that was left — twenty-two shillings and six-
pence in silver. The little heap meant a fortnight's support.
• Let me reckon up,' said Katie. ' You are so stupid at figures,
you poor thing. There's three and sixpence for bed and one and
nine for breakfast : that makes five shillings and threepence each.'
She set aside ten shillings and sixpence : ' There — that is one
week ; there is left twelve shillings for the next week.'
' But there must be washing, Katie — and, oh ! how can we live
on a few slices of bread and butter taken in the morning ?'
'When the money is all gone, where is the bread and butter to
come from, Lily ?'
' Where, indeed ?'
' It is all my fault, Katie,' Lily burst out. ' I have been eating
up your money — oh ! I will run away and leave you, at least to
have all that is left.'
' Don't Lily. We are all alone : let us keep together, whatever
happens. Lily, let us only keep together. Let us say to each
other that we are not quite alone in the world.'
' What can we do ? Oh ! what can we do?'
' I do not know. There are too many of us, Lily. There is not
enough woik for all, and somehow we do not seem to gut even our
ftbare of what there is. Let us have jiatiencc. Put away the
mnney, (bar. There is a whole fortnight before us. Let us try
every wliero. It isn't so hot now.'
'No. Ilut it will get cold soon, and then — why — Katie' — she
Innghcd bitterly—* with no work to do, no money for lodgings and
food, and no clothes fit for winter, T do think we shall bo llic two
hap{iiost and merriest and most lighthcartcd girls in all the world.'
2i6 KATHARINE REGINA.
She laughed ai^aiu, but hysterically. 'We will go about hand-in-
hand up and down the streets, laughing and singing. We will go
to church to join in the hymns of thanksgiving. Everybody will
wonder to see such a happy pair.'
' Don't, Lily.'
' I must. Sometimes, I must speak. Oh ! I must, when I think
what has happened to you and me and what happens to other girls.
Somewhere or other there are your cousins and mine, sitting in
ease and comfort, a little anxious about their dresses, talking about
their parties and their lovers, while you and I are looking forward
to starvation. What have we done that we should be punished in
this awful way ? I say, Katie — what have we done ? What have we
done ?' This was the question which she asked herself continually.
She sprang to her feet and rushed to the window and threw it
open. The cold autumn air blew upon her forehead. Above the
chimneys and the roofs and the stars in the clear sky there shone
the calm, cold moon, full and bright.
' Oh !' she cried, ' I am full of dreadful thoughts — of things hor-
rible and detestable. Katie, is there such a thing as religion ?
Then — why are we so deserted ? We have done no harm to any-
body, though we may have had bad thoughts. Why are we so
horribly punished ?'
' Don't, Lily — what is the good of asking ?'
' I must ask. I have prayed — oh ! I have prayed for hours in
the night. I have torn my heart out with prayers. Is it wicked to
pray for work and food ? Why, there are thousands of wicked
women who have plenty of food every day and no anxiety. Is
there any such thing as wickedness ?'
' Don't, Lily.'
It was all that she could say.
' The Heavens are silent. Look, there is the cold face of the
moon. There is no care or trouble in it about us. Pray — Katie
— pray, like me, till you feel as if your words were echoed back
from the hard and senseless rocks. Oh ! why were we born ?
Why are we allowed to live ?'
She gasped and panted because of the thought that kept coming
again and again.
' We are not obliged to live,' she went on. ' Katie, I am full of
the most dreadful thoughts. It must be because we have so little
to eat, I suppose, and because the future is so black. Horrible
phantoms fill my brain, asleep or awake. I can't tell you what
they say to me.'
THE LAST SHILLING. 217
' Let us pray again. "We shall get, for answer, patience and
resignation.'
Lily threw herself upon the bed, her face in her hands. But
Katie knelt beside her and prayed for both.
In a fortnight a great deal may be done if you have luck. Alas !
these girls had none. In October the people, it is true, have all
come back, but the work has all been given out. At the Museum,
Katie, a new-comer, was known to few : and there was very little
work going at all. Outside, there seemed no situations vacant :
even the cashier's place in the draper's shop at seven-and-sixpence
a week was filled up — yet how readily now would they have taken
that place.
They read all the advertisements and applied at all the offices ;
but there was nothing.
Then for a week they lived on the breakfast bread and butter ;
and in the evenings they sat silent, always hand in hand, in Katie's
cubicle, waiting for the day when there should be no more money,
hungry, footsore, and heartsore. And in the night there came the
dreadful dreams which torture those who are insufficiently fed.
There came at last one evening — it was Friday evening— when
there was no money, except a single shilling. Saturday morning is
that on which the residents of Harley House pay in advance for the
next week. If they cannot pay they must go. The rule is im-
perative. If the Matron were to break that rule in favour of any
resident she must pay the money herself in advance. There is no
suspension of that rule allowed under any excuse whatever. To
suspend the rule would convert Ilarley House into a charitable
institution, which, as is proudly stated in the prospectus, is not its
character.
Therefore, the two girls would have to go. I think that the
Committee, had they kuown the facts of the case, would have
relaxed that rule, or even paid a week or two in advance themselves
for these two girls.
IJy this time they had sufTered so much that they spoke Ijut little
of their sorrows. They sat together and waited in siknce. Next
day, they would not even have a bed to lie ujjon or a place where
they could sit apart from the rest of the world. What would it be
like? I tliink that even in facing the most terrible swIVeriiig tiiero
is Horaelhing that consoles in the curiosity of wondering what it
will bo like.
There in nothing in which people differ more than in the way
they take diaaster. Most of us are distinctly ' worsened ' by mis-
:?i8 KATHARINE REG IN A.
fortune, particularly in youth. Of these two girls one at least, the
girl with the splendid physique, born for the enjoyment of her
youth, took punishment in the most rebellious way in the world.
The more she was chastened the less was she resigned, until, in
these days of the direst calamity, she was maddened with the sense
of undeserved suffering. What had they done ? Well : they had
had fathers ; Katie found that explanation of their troubles long
ago. It really explains a great deal of human suffering, although
two of the Prophets disagree about it. Katie endured in silence and
put no question to the silent Heavens. Things that are ordered
must be endured.
Downstairs, in the drawing-room, the Residents were talking of
them. Ladies who go in hunger are very slow to speak of their
own sufferings, but they are quick to perceive the privations under-
gone by others.
' They have not taken tea for a fortnight,' said Miss Beatrice,
' the Matron told me so.'
' Katie Capel has sold her engagement-ring,' said another.
' Nothing but the most dreadful necessity would compel her to do
that.'
' They have pawned all their clothes except what they stand in,'
.said another.
' They have tramped over the whole of London and they have
found nothing.'
''i'l'And they have no friends at all. Neither of them has any
friends or any relations that she knows of.'
Then there was a murmuring among each other, and presently
Miss Beatrice went round with a pencil and a bit of paper and
whispered with each.
It was Lily who really understood what their future meant ; at
least, she thought she did, and she began to draw a realistic pictui'e of
what was going to happen. It was almost worthy of the great
Master of the Horrible and the Disgusting. Over a great part of
it I have dropped a veil.
' To-morrow,' she said, * we shall begin to starve. We may, if we
are fortunate, catch cold and die quickly of pneumonia or bronchitis.
That is to say, you may. As for me, I never catch anything,
because I am so strong. We have got a shilling ; we shall use up
that in penny loaves : I don't know how long it will last, because I
am not going to keep any account of time. What does it matter
whether we starve in a week or in a fortnight ? The f ooner 'tis
THE LAST SHILLING. 219
over the sooner to sleep. Because starving, you see, Katie, is a very
slow and troublesome way of dying. We shall wander about till
we are obliged to sit down, and the policeman will order us to move
on. Then we shall feel very weak, as well as very tired, and we
shall stagger as we go, and tumble down, and they will carry us to
the station, and say that we are drunk.'
'Don't, Lily.'
But she went on, It seemed to console her, or it fed her rage, to
picture the very worst that could happen.
' You are happier than I, dear, because you are not nearly so
strong. Why, there is a thin stick of an arm for you ; and look at
mine, big and strong still, in spite of our privations. I am a dread-
fully strong girl. When I was born, Katie — I have never told you
this — all the wicked fairies came about my cradle. One of them
said, "She shall have no mother ;" and another, "She shall have
no relations to help her ;" and a third, " She shall have no friends ;"'
and a fourth, " She shall have no lovers ;'' and another, "She shall
have no money ;" and yet another, " She shall have no work ;" and
another, " She shall have no food ;" and then there was one, the
Queen of the Wicked Fairies — an old woman with only two front
teeth left — and those sticking out over her lower lip — and a most
malignant eye, who carried a cat-o'-ninetails instead of a sceptre.
She stood over me and said, " This child shall be splendidly strong,
so that she shall yearn and long horribly after all she cannot have,
and she shall suffer twice as long and twice as much as any other
woman."'
' Lily ! Something may happen j'et.'
' Oh ! yes, something may. People have been known to pick up
shillings in the streets. We may beg in the streets. We will
borrow a hymn-book and sing along the road " In the Sweet-By-
aiid-T5y. ' I've got a good strong voice. But we shan't like it.
There will be auch terrible discomfort about it that we shall go
back to our starving and begin to get through the terrible jol) at
once and have done with it., Katie, my head is full of horrible
thingH. Suppose,' she whispered, 'suppose we resolve to die at
once and have done with it V
'No, Lily, no. liot us wait and receive what is sent.'
'It is truly wonderful, Katie, to hear you talk. Will iiolliitig
make you relnrl ? Why, if there is no place for us in tin; world,
should we stay in it? Some women arc born consumptive and
have to die. Others, like ourselvcH, are born redundimt. It is a
new dlHeaac. There in now a great deal of Redundancy among
220 KATHARINE REGINA.
•women : we suffer from Redundancy. It is incurable. No drops
have been found for it and no pills. We shall have to die of that
disease. " Died, in the streets on a doorstep, after long suffering,
of Redundancy, Lily and Katharine." That would read very
sweetly, wouldn't it, on a tombstone? But there will be no tomb-
stone for us two, dear — we shall be buried by the parish in the
pauper's corner, where the graves stand side by side as thick as
they can be placed, and the dead bodies of the men and women
moulder away forgotten. It will be like the sea that has closed
over a sinking ship without so much as a single fi-agment left. In
a few days we shall be as much forgotten as if we had never lived :
perhaps to us it will be the same as if we had never lived.'
Lily's bitter words fell upon Katie like the blows of a scourge.
She could endure, but she would not rebel.
' Leave us some hope,' she said. ' If you take away that, we are
indeed the most wretched women in the world.'
Just then they heard a soft step coming up the stairs. Through
the open drawing-room below, they could hear Miss Augusta play-
ing the piano sweetly and softly. The step was that of Miss
Beatrice the Consoler,' who came to talk to them. ' My dears,'
she said, taking a hand of each, ' I am afi'aid you are in terrible
trouble.'
' Yes,' said Katie, ' we are in very sad trouble.'
' Have you found nothing to do, children ?'
' Nothing.'
' Have you no friends to help you ?'
' Not one.'
' Oh ! my poor children. But there is one Friend. Think of
Him.'
Lily shook her head impatiently.
' Have you any money left ?'
' No — none,' said Katie. ' And to-morrow we must pay the week
in advance, or go.'
Miss Beatrice was silent, because it is difficult to find consola-
tion for the lack of money : most of the poets and writers despise
money : and yet, here were two girls who, because they had no
money ....
' My dear,' she said, 'will the Matron not give you leave to stay
a week or two on credit ?'
' No — it is against the rules.'
Then Miss Beatrice exhorted them to patience, and told them in
her sweet religious way how the Lord, who is the Father, is wont
A NIGHT OUT. 221
to open unexpected doors and make things possible which had
seemed impossible : until even the hard heart of Lily melted, and
they all three wept together.
Then Miss Beatrice blessed them and went away with another
exhortation to patience, and a hint, which she meant for a promise
— but they were stupid and did not understand — that something
good and unexpected would happen next day. Why — why did she
not tell them what had been done? For in the drawing-room there
had been a collection made for them, and out of their poverty and
straitness these poor ladies had got together the sum of fifteen
shillings and tenpence, which was to be given to the girls in the
morning, so that they might pay the Matron and have another
week to look about them and to find some emploj^ment. Also it
was resolved unanimously that their cruel case should be brought
before the Committee, although Harley House is not a charitable
institution, in the hope that something might be found for them.
By a most unfortunate accident, however, that little collection
never reached the hands for whom it was intended.
CHAPTER XI.
A NIGHT OUT.
The Ijreakfast at Harley House was served, to suit the convenience
of those whose work begins early, at half-past seven. This was the
last breakfast for which the girls had paid. They were the first to
sit down, because thej' wished to avoid questions.
' This is the last breakfast paid for, Katie,' said Lily. ' Let us
eat as much as wc possibly can. When shall we get another break-
fast, and where ?'
Katie drank the tea, l)ut unfortunately could oat notliing.
' Yon arc taking a mean advantage, Katie,' said her friend. ' You
know you are not half so strong as I am, and yet you are taking
three hours' start in the starving race. Put something in your
pocket. Never mind the rules. You must and shall,'
She cut off half a dozen great crusts and slices of Itrcad and
crammed them into her bag, the little hand-bag that carried abso-
lutely all the possessions of the two girls. Their watches, their
wardrobes, even Katie's engagement-ring, everything was gono
except the clothes they stood in. Never was wreck more complete.
Never had Misfortune made a cleaner sweep of everything. Friends,
work, war<lrobf, Jiioncy- what tiinjo could she lake? Tn a warmer
climat.- slic would have torn the clothes oil' their backs ; but in
222 KATHARINE REGINA.
Great Britain this is not allowed to Misfortune, who leaves grudg-
ingly their clothes upon the backs even of the shirt and match-
makers. One thing more was left to Misfortune. She could
separate the two girls. You shall see presently that she even
accomplished that.
' Now,' said Lily, ' we have eaten our breakfast — at least I have.
Let us go at once, before the Matron comes down, and while there
is nobody to ask questions. Come, Katie, we have left nothing
upstairs. Come.'
Now that the supreme moment had arrived, when there was no
longer any room for hope, Lily assumed a defiant air, much as one
who is led forth to the stake and blasphemes the Holy Inquisition
to the last. ' Come, Katie,' for she lingered and trembled. ' Come,
I say. It will not help us to wait — and cry. We have done our
best ; we have prayed and there has been no answer. Let us go
out now and starve. Come, dear Katie — oh ! my dear — it will not
help to cry. Let us go out and find a place where we can sit down
and wait.'
It was eight o'clock. When the door closed behind them, Katie
sank upon the doorstep and broke into sobs and moaning.
' Oh, Tom — Tom !' she cried. ' How can you be happy in Heaven
while I am so miserable here ? If I am to join you, ask them to
kill me quickly.'
' They'll do that,' said Lily grimly. ' Come.'
She put her hand in Katie's arm and dragged her away.
Five minutes later Miss Beatrice came downstairs, her face full
of sweetness and satisfaction, because she was now going to demon-
strate to these two girls, by means of her collection of fifteen
shillings and tenpence, how faith and patience and resignation are
always rewarded.
But they were gone. One of the servants had seen them leave
the house. Upstairs, they had left nothing.
Perhaps they would return in the evening.
But they did not. The evenings came and went at Harley
House. The girls came home at night heavy of eye and head, tired
with their day's work ; Miss Augusta played to them ; Miss
Beatrice talked to them. For a week or so they remembered the
two who had sunk under the waters ; then they forgot them. As
for the collection, it was all returned to the donors, and only Miss
Beatrice remembered the girls and prayed for them that they might
yet be saved.
At nine f)'clock Katie began to be tired.
A XIGHT OUT. 223
' Are we to walk about all day long, Lily ?' she asked. ' Can we
not find some place to sit down and rest ?'
'We will go to the British Museum. It is quiet there, at least.'
They did. They went to the room where are the great pictures
of Assyrian battles.
Here they sat down. The place was very silent and peaceful.
There were very few visitors so early ; the attendants with their
winds sat about already disposed for the gentle doze which helps
them through the daJ^ Presently Katie leaned her head upon
Lily's shoulder and fell fast asleep. But Lily slept not. She had
been awake nearly all night, but she was not disposed for slumber.
She sat looking at fate with wrathful eyes and continually putting
the same question — it has been asked by every unhappy person since
the world began — ' What have we done — what have we done— that
we should so suffer while the rest of mankind escape '?'
The morning passed — noon came — the attendant woke up and
began to saunter aljout the rooms with the intention of getting an
appetite for dinner. One o'clock struck — Lily sat motionless, un-
conscious of the time — Katie still slept beside her. The attendant
went away to his dinner, and returned refreshed but languid, and
disposed for another doze. AVhen he awoke at three the two girls
still sat there, one asleep, and the other bolt upright, her dark brow
contracted, her black eyes full of rage.
It is not an unusual thing at museums of the scientific kind for
tired visitors to sit down and go to sleep in them, nor is it quite un-
known, in collections which are free, for people to drop in for the
sake of rest. Bethnal Green Museum is naturally considered in
the neighbourhood as erected mainly for the convenience of chil-
dren, and a place of safety for them in bad weather. The custodian
tlioreforo regarded the sleeping damsel without surprise.
It was about half-past three that Katie awoke.
' Well, dear,' said i-iily, 'you have had a long sleep. Do yuu feel
better V
' Yf8, I am quite well now. But oh ! Lily, I am so hungry.'
' It was a good thing that I remembered to put some bread in my
pocket. Lot UH eat our diiiiier.'
They did ho, and were strengthened by the bnad.
' An<i now, Katie, we may move on. 1 don't (jiiiti; know wlicro
we are going. But we had better go, I think.'
Tliey went outside and turned westwards. Fortunately it was a
fine afternoon, and warm. After the bread they felt strong again,
and able to walk.
224 KATHARINE REGINA.
They found themselves, after wandering for half an hour, in St.
James's Park. It was then five o'clock.
' Katie,' said Lily, ' do you see those seats ? There is a whole
row of them outside the railings. They are to be our bed to-night.
To-morrow — no, we must not think of to-morrow — do you think
we might break in upon our shilling ? Oh, how tedious it ia !
Look at the heaps of people who are doing nothing ; I wonder if
they are as poor and as miserable as ourselves.'
St. James's Park this afternoon was thronged with people. They
lay about the grass ; they sat upon the free benches ; they leaned
over the railings ; they stood upon the bridge ; they threw crumbs
to the ducks ; they looked as if they never did any work, and did
not want to do any work, and never had any work offered them.
They might have been as poor as the two girls, but they were
certainly not miserable at all. It may be laid down as a broad
principle that nobody is ever miserable who has solved the problem
of living without doing any work. At six o'clock the evening was
beginning to fall. Then Lily drew Katie, who was now simply
acquiescent, out of the Park.
' We will spend threepence,' she said. ' We will buy more bread,
because that goes furthest. With threepennyworth of bread we
shall have a supper that will carry us on until the morning. Why,
Katie, we shall actually, with care, make oar shilling last till Monday
morning. That is splendid. After that I suppose we shall fulfil
the purpose for which we were born and be starved to death.
Come, dear, don't give in ; hold up your face : trj' to look as if
you liked it.'
When the lights were lit in the street and the shops, there began
for a few minutes a new interest, but it lasted a very little while.
' Lily,' said Katie, ' I cannot walk any more. Take me to some
place where I can sit down.'
' Well, then, we must go back to St. James's Park. It is the
only place that I know of Avhere we can sit down.'
At this moment a great piece of luck befell them. They met,
walking up Waterloo Place, no other than Dittmer Bock. That
young gentleman had been turning his Saturday afternoon to useful
account by observing how trade was conducted in the West End.
' Oh !' cried Katie. ' We are saved, Lily ! Dittmer ! you will
help us.'
She explained the situation in a few words. But the young
German's face dropped. Alas ! he had but eightpence in the
world ; he had lent three shillings and sixpence to a friend — one
A NIGHT OUT. 225
of the three who shared his room — and he could not possibly be
paid before Monday. "What was he to do ? How could he help
them ? Eightpence is a ridiculously small sum. Would they go
with him to his lodgings, where he would persuade the other men
to give up their beds and bestow themselves somewhere — on the
landing, for example ?
' No,' said Katie, ' we cannot do that, Dittmer. I am afraid we
must spend the night here, in the open air, and perhaps to-morrow
you will come for us and find some way of helping us. Oh ! it
will not be so very bad here ; the night is not cold, and our jackets
are thick. I am not afraid, now that we have found you.'
Dittmer hesitated. He had nothing to pawn — no watch or chain
—he had no other clothes than those he wore ; his friends and
fellow-clerks were as poor as himself ; at that moment he had no
more than that eightpence with which he had proposed to tide
over the Sunday. With only forty pounds a year, you see, a young
man is liable to days of tightness ; he takes them as a necessary
part of a situation which is only temporary. Therefore he laughs
and goes hungry with a cheerful heart. If an old man has to go
hungry, he grows melancholy, because the situation is permanent,
so to speak. But that a time of tightness should have happened
at such a juncture was indeed unfortunate. The eightpence was
altogether at their service. But yet . . .
' I know a man,' said Dittmer, ' who will lend me five, or even
ten shillings on Monday. IMy friend will also pay me back two
shillings out of my loan on the same day. Perhaps our Iniullady
would take you into the house, but she makes rules and Avill admit
no ladies at all to her lodgings. But it is impossible, Kiitchen —
you cannot pass the whole night ujmn a bench. It is impossible.'
' We must,' said Lily. ' If you have not any money, there is no
help for it. If that were all, what matter V
' In that case,' said Dittmer, ' I shall pass the night ui)on the
bench with you. Himmel ! Could I go home and leave you hero
— by yourselves ?'
Ho turned and walked with them towards St. James's Park.
*0b, Katie !' said Lily, ' what a difference— what a difTorenco it
makes to have a Man with us ! I feel somehow as if we shouM
pull thr()Ui,'li our troubles. I don't know how it is to bo done or
why we sliould think so. But ho inspires confidence. Courage,
dear, we have a Man with us. Oh ! why don't th(7 kccj) a Man at
Harley Houho only in order to insiiirr ronfidoucoV
They began their night at about half-past seven, when the place
15
226 KATHARINE REGINA.
was full of people walking through, but the girls were tired. They
tied their handkerchiefs round their necks and sat close together,
Lily on the outside and Katie between her and Dittmer, by which
means she was a little protected from the cold.
A night in the open air in the month of October may be enjoy-
able under certain conditions, which must take the form of thick
blankets to begin with. But it cannot by any stretch of imagina-
tion be considered warm. The revulsion of feeling, however, with
the two girls at meeting with a protector, the change from despair
to confidence which Dittmer inspired, made them suddenly gay.
They laughed and prattled ; they made little silly jokes which
pleased them all three ; they seemed to passers-by like a party of
young people perfectly happy and without a care ; just as if their
limbs were not aching all over and their feet were not getting as
cold as a stone ; and as if they were not desperately hungry.
' It is nine o'clock,' said Lily. ' Time for supper. Herr Dittmer,
will you join us ? "We have a beautiful supper, made altogether of
the finest wheaten meal, exquisitely prepared and most delicately
baked till it is a beautiful rich brown. It consists partly of crust
and partly of crumb. Pray, which portion do you prefer, or shall
I assist you to a little of both — without the stuffing ?' and then
these foolish girls laughed.
They were safe. Dittmer had them in his charge. They were
quite safe now.
Dittmer refused to share in their supper because he said, men-
daciously, he had already made a copious meal of bread and sausage,
which would serve him till the morning. Then the girls ate half
the bread between them, and wrapped up the rest for their break-
fast.
At about ten the number of passengers greatly diminished.
About the same time it grew much colder ; a little wind sprang up,
rattling among the sparse leaves of the trees. Katie kept dropping
off to sleep and waking again with a start. Lily seemed sleeping
soundly, and Dittmer was smoking a cigar stolidly. At last Katie
dropped her head and fell into a sleep from which she did not
awake till midnight, when she started into wakefulness. Dittmer
Bock still sat with a cigar between his lips, patiently, as if nothing
was the matter.
' You are cold,' he said. ' Take my hand and run a little, or
jomp, joost jomp.'
Katie tried just to jump, but she was too tired either to run or
to jump. She was desperately cold. Lily, for her part, seemed to
A NIGHT OUT. 227
mind nothing. Also, Katie longed with an intense yearning to lie
down and stretch herself out.
Then Dittmer showed the ingenuity of Man.
He made her lie along the bench, her head in Lily's lap. He
wrapped her skirts tightly round her feet. He found a pair of
gloves in his pocket — he wore twelves, I think — and put them on
Katie's hands, over her own, so that she had a double pair. And then
he produced his own handkerchief — a large coloured silk handker-
chief of a patriarchal character — and tied it round her neck and over
her head. Lastly, he sat down at her feet and laid the skirts of
his great-coat over them, so that she might be still more protected
from the cold.
' Now,' he said, ' Schlafen sie wohl, Kiitchen.'
He lit another cigar — remember that they were cigars of Ham-
burg, not of Havannah— and Katie dropped off to sleep again.
She did not wake up till five o'clock. The young German still
sat patient and resolute, his hands in his pockets ; he was nearly
frozen with the cold ; he had turned up the collar of his coat ; and
he had not slept for one single moment during the whole night.
' Dittmer,' said the girl.
' Ya ; I am awake. Sleep on, KJitchen. It is only five o'clock.'
' No, I have slept long enough. And the seat is very hard.'
She got up and looked about her. It was still night ; by the
lamplight she saw that all the benches near them were similarly
occupied with sleeping figures.
' Are these people all as poor as ourselves, Dittmer ? And,
oh ! you have put your own gloves on my hands and tied your
handkerchief round my neck. Oh ! it is good of you, Dittmer.'
She took his hand. ' Yesterday I thought I had not a friend in the
wliol'j world except Lily. And I forgot you. Forgive me. I
f(jrgot that you promised to be my brother. And you have thrown
your gruatcout over me and are sitting without it. Oh ! it is a
Hhaine. Put it on directly,'
' K;itcheii, you must not forget. It is true that at tliis moment
I have; no uioro than eightpenco, and to-day is Sunday, yet I
will find Bomctbing. Listen to my plan. There is a man — ho is
from Hamburg ; he used to work for my father's Delikatcsson-
HaiKllung ; ho carao to London to make his fortune, and has
already a lari^o baker's shop of his own. I will go to him ;
I will OHk him, because ho knows me, to take you into bis
house for a week or two tintil you can find a b(!tter place. Tlic
baker has a good heart ; he will weep when I tell him your mis-
15—2
228 KATHARINE REG IN A.
fortunes. Ki'itchcn, it was very wrong to forget you had a
brother.'
' I will never forget it any more.'
Dittmer kissed her fingei's.
' All that I have — it is not much — is yours. All my brains ; all
my knowledge ; all my work is yours, Kiitchen. You are my
sister ; you are also the only woman in the world whom I shall
ever love. Ja, my sister — I know. But for me there is no other
woman in the world.'
Katie made no reply. The tears rose to her eyes. Perhaps, had
he pressed her at that moment, gratitude would have suffered him
to change the title of sister. But he was too loyal to take advan-
tage of her emotion.
All this time Lily made no sign at all of being awake, or of
hearing anything. She sat motionless and apparently sleeping,
just as she had sat all the night.
Presently the dawn appeared and grew gradually and spread,
until another day was born.
Then the ladies and gentlemen who had also slept in this al
fresco hotel woke up and rose from their benches, and began to
stamp and swing their arms, and in other ways endeavour to restore
the circulation. They were of a broken-down and reduced appeax'-
ance for the most part ; perhaps because St. James's Park, to the
neighbourhood of which they belonged, is situated in an aristo-
cratic part of the town. When they had warmed themselves they
all went their ways ; some with a hopeful stride, but most, creep-
ing, or slouching, uncertain : and what their ways were on this
Sabbath morning, when no one could seek work anywhere and all
the offices were closed, the Lord only knows.
' On Sunday morning,' said Dittmer, ' bakers sleep late. I go to
seek my friend at seven.'
'I do not know,' said Lily, starting up with animation, 'that I
have ever passed a more delightful night. I mean it, Katie. It
was cold, I dare say, but the ])ast is now done with. We have broken
with respectability ; we have spent a whole night out, sleeping in
the Park. Whatever happens now we can never be governesses
any more. We have lost our character. Nobody would employ
a girl for a governess who had slept out all night. I rejoice. We
have got a man to advise us. Let us eat up all the rest of our
bread, and then we will go to find the baker. We are already on
a lower level ; we can now do any kind of work. I feel as if I
could marry the baker and take the money in the shop.'
7.V THE FOG. 229
She divided the bread into three portions, but again Dittmer
refused his share and the girls finished it.
' And now,' said Dittmer, ' I will go to prepare the mind of the
baker. "Wait for me here. In one hour T return. Then you will
find repose while you look about and consider what is to be done
next. In one hour I come back. Remain here without moving
and I return : in one little hour I return. Ja. I komm.'
CHAPTER XII.
IN THE FOG.
He strode away in the yellow light of the autumn morning.
' He is gone,' said Lily. ' I feel as if I was going to despair
again.'
' He will be back soon ; let us walk about. But we wiU keep
near this place for fear of missing him.'
' Katie ' — no one ever anticipated, prophesied, and realized the
future so clearly and so wholly as Lily — ' I understand exactly
what is going to happen. We shall go to the Baker. He will
be, of cour.se, a Master Baker, the Queen's Chief Baker, perhaps.
He will be a friendly Baker, and he will talk English much worse
than Dittmer ; we shall stay with him for a week or two and then
we shall go into the shop and keep accounts, or perhaps sell loaves
and rolls and buns across the counter. I shall like selling the buns
better than keeping accounts. But you will keep the accounts.
Either occupation will be much better than teaching horrid children.
And then, you know, when wc have quite got used to the life, and
forgotten all about Ilarloy Street and remember only the misery of
Htarving gentility, there will come along a handsome young baker of
Cfcrman origin, and we shall— that is, I shall — go off to church with
him and keep his shop for him ever after.'
* It will be an honourable life. And oh ! what does it matter to
you and me now whether we call ourselves gentlewomen or not ?'
' Xf)thing, my dear. But I wish Dittmer would come liack.'
Where the fog came from I know not. But it fell upon thtiii
Bwiftly and unexpectedly. First, it turned the sun into a copper
disc about the size of a warming-pan, and then it shut him out from
view ftltf)gothcr. And first that fog bluTrcfl the branches of the trees
and then it clothed th< in and covcrcil tlieni uj) with whitu clouil.s,
and then it became yellow and caused the poojilc who l)rcathed it
to roiitfh imd rhf)ke, and then it bccamo suddt nly Iilack with the
blockncMi of midnight.
230 KATHARINE REG IN A.
' Katie, let ns stay quite still. Let us sit here and not move for
fear of losing him. This will not last long.'
It was a terrible fog : it was the well-known historical fog when
the people could not attend the morning service, or, if any found
their way thither, they found that the fog had filled the church so
that nothing could be seen but the nearest lamps, and if any were
in the streets they either stayed where they happened to be, or
they rambled miserably about losing themselves.
The fog lasted all day long. Until nightfall it lay over the
broad City, insomuch that infidels believed the story of Egyptian
darkness, and many were converted. It killed a large number, of
course, but I do not know how many ; it developed asthma, bron-
chitis, pneumonia, and consumption in thousands who had thought
themselves strong and lusty, and now go hobbling towards the
churchyard ; it gave atrophy to infants, indigestion to young ladies,
and the middle-aged it deprived of their gastric powers, so that they
have had, ever since, to give up all their beer, porter, port and
sherry, burgundy and champagne, claret and Rhine wine, and now
drink weak whisky and water with lunch and dinner. Singers it
robbed of their voice ; clergymen of their cheerfulness ; actors of
their memory : and working men of every kind and degree it filled
with discontent as to their own lot, doubt as to their own powers,
and despair as to their future. It was not until three o'clock next
morning that it cleared away and people were able to look about
again — and to see the clear sky set with stars and the ghosts all
flying away and once more to hope.
By that time, as you will sec, it was too late for Katie and for
Lily.
They sat on their bench for an hour hoping that Dittmer would
grope his way back to them, with news from the baker.
He was on his way back to them, with the best of news. But the
fog fell upon him, as upon all the rest of the town, and caused him
to stop and consider. He who in a black fog stops to consider is
lost — for he turns round, and instantly forgets the direction in
which he was walking. Dittmer Bock did this, and instead of
marching straight back to St. James's Park, which was not far
from the baker's, and in a south-westerly direction, he turned north
and walked off resolutely in the direction of Edinburgh. So that
when the fog cleared he was already well on his way to York.
The girls waited in the Park while the hours crept on slowly.
' If we do not move,' said Katie, ' the fog will lift, and he will
come back to us, Let us wait.'
IN THE FOG. 231
' I am hungry,' said Lily, who had the day before been so brave
to face starvation. ' I must eat, whatever happens. Katie, will
you sit here, while I go and buy something ? I am certain that I
can find my way back. We will spend all our money, and then
trust to Dittmer.'
' Oh ! Lily, you must not leave me alone.'
' Then come with me, Katie, we shall not be gone five minutes.
I can find my way blindfold. To be sure it is blindfold. We keep
quite straight along the railings and we get to Buckingham Palace
Road, where there are coffee-houses.'
They kept along the railings without much difficulty ; then they
came to the corner and had to cross the open Place before the
Palace. And now the trouble began ; after what seemed to Katie
half an hour, they found themselves not in Buckingham Palace
Road at all, but in front of more railings. The thick brown fog
grow darker and thicker : then a terrible bewilderment fell upon
them : they knew not which was north, south, east, or west : they
knew not from what quarter they had come, or where these rail-
ings might be : and there was nobody to ask ; they were lost in the
fog, like Dittmer himself, and like every human creature out on
that terrible Sunday morning — when the wayfarers wandered in
the fog like those poor lost creatures who wander in the Desert,
round and round, only to come upon their own footsteps agaiu ; or
tho.se who are lost in a Canadian forest and turn in a circle round
and round, while they think they are marching in a straight line.
' What shall we do, Lily ?'
' Let us walk along the railings : we shall find something.'
They found an open gate leading somewhere : it must be into
the Park ; but what part of the Park ?
' Wo are lost, Katie,' said Lily ; ' we must wait till the fog lifts.'
They waited, but it did not lift.
' Where does Dittmer live, Katie ?'
' I do not know.'
' Whore in his office in tlie City ?'
' I do not know.'
' Then wo arc lost, indeed, if wo cannot find hira.'
They Htood bcsido th(! railings, not daring to move. Nobody
pnHHod by : tlioy wore off the pathway. The fog doadenod sound
an well as Might. It was cold and damp : the fog was in their
throatH and in thoir lungs.
Presently the fog got into thoir Imiiiis ;is well, 'i'iicn one of
them, tlio Htrongcr, began to have viniuuH, and to see spirits wiiich
232 KATHARINE REGINA.
marched past, a procession of devils who mocked, and of women
who wrung their hands and wept — then more devils, and more
weeping women. She kept none of these visions to herself, but
kindly communicated them to her companion, who had slipped
down and was crouched, clinging to the rail, on the cold ground.
' They are the women who seek for work and find none, Katie.
Look at them : there is one as old as Miss Stidolph, and here are
two like Miss Augusta and Miss Beatrice, but they haven't got
their annuity, and there are two like ourselves. The devils mock
them, and drive them with whips. Oh ! it is dreadful to see them.
Do you hear what they are saying ? " This is what you were born
for : nobody wants you : there is nothing that you can do : you
will have to go on like this all your lives : you will live an immense
time : every day you shall feel hunger, and privation, and disap-
pointment. There is no love for you : there is not any hope for
you of being cared for and caressed, with strong hands to work for
you. No. No ! these things are for other women not a bit better
than you." Are you listening, Katie ?'
Katie moaned in reply.
' We shall not go on being driven with whips, Katie, because we
are going to die. Shall we be killed by the black fog and starva-
tion ? Or shall we die a quicker way ? Think of another night in
such a fog, and without Dittmer beside us.'
' Katie,' she repeated, ' think of another night out in this cruel
place.'
Still there was no answer.
' Katie !' she stooped and lifted her head. ' Katie ! are you dead
yet ? Are you so happy as to be dead ?'
' No — I wish we were dead. Oh ! Lily — Lily — how long — how
long ? "Will Dittmer never come ? The seat is cold : he is so
good. He took off his coat and laid it over me. Dittmer is very
good to us.'
She was lightheaded : exhaustion and cold made her forget where
she was. She thought she was still on the bench in the Park,
waiting for Dittmer to come back.
' She is faint with hunger,' said Lily. She instinctively felt her
pocket. There was in it a rough crust, the last of the threepenny-
worth of bread. She gave it to Katie, who devoured it greedily.
'Are you better, dear? Do you think that you could stand?
Do you think that you could walk a little ?'
'Where?'
' It is not far — I should think about half a mile. This time I
IX THE FOG. 233
know that I can fiad my waj'. I see it in my head, every inch,
clear as if there were no fog, though it is as black as night.'
* Where, Lily ? Da you mean ' — she trembled, she rose and
stood beside her friend — ' do you mean '
'It is the Embankment, dear. That is the place where women
go to end their sufferings. The poor woman who has lost her
virtue : the poor shirtmaker who has lost her place : the poor lady
who can get no work : that is the place for all of us. One plunge,
and it is all over — all the sorrow, and all the disappointment.'
' But after death ?'
'After death I shall ask why we were forced to the Embank-
ment.'
' Lily, I am afraid. It will be so cold.'
' We shall not feel the cold one bit. Think of another nij^ht !
Think of the rest of the day ! Think of day after day like this !
. . . Katie, you shall hold my hand. Come.'
She dragged Katie away, walking with the strength of madness,
as fast as her trembling friend could go, sometimes hurrying her,
sometimes encouraging her, sometimes reproving her.
I know not how she found her way or by what strange trick of
brain she was enabled to go straight to the Embankment at the
point where it begins at Westminster Bridge. She took the shortest
way through the Park and along George Street, never halting or
considering or hesitating for a moment any more than if it had
been a day of clear brilliant sunshine. Yet she had before lost her
way simply in crossing from the corner of the railings to the
Buckingham Palace Road.
' Only a few minutes now, dear. Oh, Katie dear, we shall die
together ; we will not let go of each other's bauds. Remember
that. The water will roll over us, and in a moment we shall bo
dead and all will 1)0 over. You will not die alone. We shall go
into the next world together. No more trouble, dear. l*erhaps
you will join Tom and be happy. I think he must be waiting for
you somewhere. It is the shortest way to reach liiin. And as for
me — why — they say that eye hath not seen nor can tongue tell tbo
happiness tliat we shall find there — and it seems to me that all I
want iH rcHt and to be sure that I shall have food to-morrow. You
must not think of the plunge, dear — the river is not a bit colder
than the air: think of last night: think of to-day: think of the
night before us '
'Lily,' said Katie, stopping, 'they are having servico in the
church by the Abbey: listen. ()]] ! it must be the evening service.
234 KATHARINE REGINA.
They are praising God and singing hymns — and we are out in the
fog and the cold and going to kill ourselves.'
* Yes : I could not sing any hymns just now.'
* Lily, let us have one prayer before we go,'
* No — leap first and pray afterwards ; there will be plenty of
time to pray when we are sure that we shall not have to corae back
to this miserable world any more.' She dragged the other girl
along with her — past the Abbey — straight down to the Embank-
ment. ' Hush ! Katie. Don't speak now. This is the very place.'
She stopped at one of the landing-places, where the steps go
down into the water.
' The tide is running up,' said Lily. How did she know, because
they could see nothing ? ' It will carry us up the river : it will
roll us over and over. Don't let go my hand, Katie : it will kill us
in a moment, and then it will drive us and beat us and bang us
against the piers of Westminster Bridge, so that no one will be able
to recognise us when they do find us. And so it will never be known
what became of us. Dear Katie, dear Katharine Regina — poor
Queen without a penny — give me one kiss. Hold my hand. Now
you shall be with your lover in a moment and all your sorrow shall
be over. Hold my hand and run down the steps with me. Quick !
Quick ! Hold my hand hard — harder. Quick !'
She drew Katie to the steps, crying out to her to hasten and to
hold fast, and dragging her down to the river ; Katie was too weak
to resist, mentally and bodily. And all around her lay the thick
black fog like a wall of darkness.
Did you ever think what it would be to be shut up in such an
Inferno as Dante's in a thick black fog, a darkness wrapping you
round as with a horrible cloak from which there was no escape ?
All day long these girls had been sitting in such a fog, without
food, and before them they heard — and now saw with eyes of mad-
ness — the rush of the river which would mercifully take them out
of the fog and land them — at the foot of the golden gates ?
' Quick — Katie — quick ! Don't let go. On !'
The fog lifted a little, suddenly, at this moment.
Before the girls stood a figure, black and gaunt, which stretched
out two long arms and said with harsh and strident voice :
' No, my dears. Not this time you don't.'
Then Lily loosed her hold of Katie's hand and threw out her
arms in a gesture of hopelessness.
' Oh !' she cried, * God will not let us live and He will not let us die.'
Then she turned and fled, leaving Katie alone.
IN THE MORNING. 235
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE MORNING.
Katie stood for a moment stupefied. In front of her, shadowy,
like a ghost, rose this man gaunt and tall : by the lifting of the
fog she saw that he was in tatters. What was he doing on the
steps in the dark ? And Lily was gone.
' No, you don't,' he said to her. ' I thought there'd be some of
you coming along to-night. Is it hunger working up with the
fog, or is it remorse and despair ?'
Katharine made no reply. Where — oh, where was Lily ?
' If it's hunger and the fog, you'll get over it when you've had
something to eat. In course of time you'll get used to hunger.
I'm always hungry.'
' Who are you ? Let me go— let me go.'
'Not this way, then,' he replied — for she made as if she would
rush at the river — ' not this way, Pretty ! Don't do it. Have
patience. Lord ! If j^ou'd gone through as much as I have, you'd
have patience. Don't do it.'
As he spoke the black wall of fog rolled between them again.
Katie stole away under its protection, but she heard him repeat as
she retreated : ' Don't do it. Pretty. Have patience.'
It is now nothing but a memory of the past ; but sometimes the
gaunt and tattered figure of this man, holding out his long arms
between her and the river, returns to Katie's mind and stands up
before her : she sees him blurred in the fog and the dim lainpliglit:
she hears his voice saying, ' Don't do it, Pretty. Have patience !'
Who was this man, this failure and wreck of manhood— and why
did ho lurk in the l;lackness upon those steps ? Then lier misery
comes back to her again, her dreadful hunger and cold and weari-
ness and desolation, and Katie has — change but one letter and the
pathetic becomes bathetic, pathos turns into bathos — has to ' lie
down' — woman's grandest medicine— until the memory of that
night leaves her again.
The fog was so black again that she had not the least knowledge
of the direction she was taking. UndcT eacli liiniii tliere was a
little yellow t,'leam of light. Beyond this a black wall all round
it: when she stood under a lamp it was just exactly as if she were
built up and buried alive in it with a lioir for a little light through
yellow glass in the top.
236 KATHARINE REGINA.
Sometimes, stops came along and faces came out of the black
wall and looked curiously at her as they passed and disappeared.
It was the face of a young man making his way home and march-
ing confidently through the fog : or it was the face of a policeman
who looked at her searchingly, asked her if she was lost, told her
how to get back to the Strand, and went on his beat : once it was a
girl of her own age who stood beside her for a few minutes and
looked as if she wanted to speak, and then suddenly ran away from
her. Why did she run away ? Why, indeed ? And once it was a
very ugly face indeed, which greatly terrified her — a man's face,
unshaven for many days, and therefore thick with bristles round
the mouth, a face with horrid red eyes and red swollen cheeks.
' Have you got the price of a half-pint upon you ?' he asked
roughly.
' I have not got one penny in the world,' she replied.
Lily in fact had all the money belonging to them both — nine-
pence.
' You've got your jacket and your hat. Gimme your jacket and
your hat.'
He proceeded, in the language common to his class, to touch
briefly on the injustice of suffering an honest man to go about
without a penny in his pocket while a girl had a jacket and a hat
which might be pawned. Perhaps he forgot that it was Sunday.
But other steps were heard, and the creature of the Night slunk
away.
Katie knew that she was still at the Westminster end of the
Embankment, because the great clock struck the quarters and the
hours apparently quite close to her.
The night was still and not cold. She was afraid to move out-
side the little yellow circle of light ; but she could no longer
stand ; she sank to the ground, and leaning against the lamp-post,
she fell into a state of half consciousness. The place was quite
deserted now, even by the birds of prey who prowl by night, and
even by the homeless who come here when there is no fog and
huddle together for warmth. When she lifted her head again and
opened her eyes, cramped and cold, she saw that the fog was lifting
and rolling away. The greatest horror of all — the long day and
night of darkness — was passing away ; a few minutes more, and the
long line of lamps upon the bridge on one side and the Embank-
ment on the other stood out clear and bright ; the sky was clear
and studded with stars ; the air was pure again. To look round
and see things once more, to breathe again the pure air, brought
IN THE MORNING. 237
refreshment and relief. Katie got up and looked over the wall
upon the river running at her feet.
She remembered that she had been very near to Death — a
shameful, wicked, violent Death — the Death of those whose wicked
lives have driven them to despair. One more step and she would
have plunged into the dark waters rushing and tearing up the
stream with the tide. She tried to picture to herself what
she had escaped ; she recalled Lily's words ; she would have
been, by this time, a dead body rolled over and over, knocked
against the piles of the bridge, caught by the ropes of barges,
banged against the boats. At last she would have been picked up
somewhere ; no one would have recognised her, and she would
have been buried in the pauper's corner, forgotten for ever. But
imagination, like reason, refuses to work to order unless it is forti-
fied by strong food. The words she recalled and the picture she
conjured up conveyed to her soul in her exhausted state little more
than a trifling addition to her misery. When one is on the rack a
touch of toothache would be little heeded. She shuddered and
turned and slowly crept away. The great clock struck three.
Lily was lost now as well as Dittmer. She was quite alone in the
w(jrld. and penniless. But the fog was gone ; the black wall of
darkness had rolled away.
I know not where she wandered. It was no more beside those
black waters, but along the streets— silent now and deserted, save
for the occasional step of the policeman. It is strange to think of
the great City with all its four millions of people asleep and its
streets empty. Even the worst and the wickedest are asleep at
three in the morning. It is the hour of innocence; the Devil
himself sleeps. No one met the girl as she walked aimlessly
along. She was so tired now that she had no room for any other
fooling. She could no longer think or feel or look forward or
dread anything. She sank on a doorstep and fell asleep again.
At five o'clock she was awakened by the hand of a ])oliceman.
'Come,' he said, not unkindly, 'you mustn't sleep in the streets,
you know. Haven't you got anywhere to goV
She got up and began to understand what had happened.
Another day was going to begin ; she had spent two nights in (lio
street. Another day ! And slio li;id no money. AnotluT day —
oh ! liow long ?
' I liavo nowhere to go,' she said. ' And I have no money.'
* Won't you go homo to your friends ?'
' I have no friends.'
238 KATHARINE REGINA.
She did not look iu the least like most of the girls who have no
friends.
' Haven't you got any money at all ?'
' I have no money, and no friends, and no work *
Then this policeman looked uj) and down the street suspiciously,
as men do who are about to commit a very bad action. There was
nobody looking ; there was nobody stirring yet ; no one would
believe in the bare word of the girl unsupported by any corrobora-
tive evidence ; he would never be found out ; he did it. He put
his hand in his pocket and produced a shilling — a coin which is of
much greater importance to a policeman than to you, dear reader
— at least, I hope so — and he placed this shilling in Katie's hand.
' There !' he said. ' You look as if you were to be pitied. Lord
knows who you are nor what you are — but there ! get something to
eat, at any rate.'
Then he marched stolidly away, and Katie sat down again upon
the doorstep and burst into tears. She had not wept through all
that long night in St. James's Park — to be sure, she had Dittmer
then for protection ; she shed no tears all the long, dark, and
dreadful Sunday ; she had been dragged by Lily to put an end to
her life without tears ; but now she sat down and sobbed and cried
because the one unexpected touch of kindness, more than the cruel
scourge of misfortune, revealed her most wretched and despairing
condition.
' In the darkest moment, my dear ' — she heard the voice of Miss
Beatrice plainly speaking — not whispering, mind, but speaking out
plainly — ' in the darkest moment, when the clouds are blackest and
the world is hardest and your suffering is more than you can bear,
GOD will help you, and that in the most unexpected way.'
It was a very little thing — a shilling is not much — but it touched
her heart as a single ray of sunshine lights up a whole hillside.
And so she sat down and cried, and presently rose up and went on
the way by which she was led.
My friends, we live in an unbelieving and sceptical generation,
and the old phraseology is laughed at, and there is now, to many
of us, no Father who loves and guides His children and orders
their lives as is best for them, as we were once taught to believe ;
all is blind chance — even that policeman's shilling — even what fol-
lowed, this very morning.
Katie's wandering feet led her to Covent Garden Market, where
the coffee-houses are astir and doing good business long before the
rest of the world is thinking of the new day's work. She went
IN THE MORNING. 239
into one and had breakfast— a substantial breakfast with an egg
and a loaf and a great cup of hot brown coffee. Then— she went
to sleep again, and another good Samaritan befriended her. It
was the woman who waited — only a common, rough-tongued, coarse
creature — but she saw that the sleeping girl looked respectable, and
that she looked tired out ; and she let her sleep.
It was past eight when Katie woke up. Mademoiselle de
Samarie was standing before her.
' I — I — I beg your pardon,' said Katie, ' I have been asleep !'
* You've slept for three hours and more. Miss. Pretty tired you
must have been to sleep in all this racket.'
'I've been walking about all night because I had no money.'
' Have you now ? All night ? Just think ! And a lady, I
should say — well now. Miss, if you'd like to brush your hair and
wash your face and make yourself tidy upstairs, you can.'
Was there ever a better Samaritan ?
Katie followed her. She would have cried again, but that she
was stronger, being no longer hungry. But she kissed that woman
of Samaria when she came away, and when Fortune smiled upon
her once more, she sought her out and shed tears when she found
that the good creature was gone, and that no one knew where she
was to be found.
Then, refreshed and strengthened, and with renewed hope and
with sixpence out of the j)oliceman's shilling in her hand, Katie
went forth again for the third day's tramp.
She thought that perhaps if she went back to St. James's Park
she might find Lily waiting therefor her, or perhaps Dittmer Bock.
The homeless and tlie penniless wretches who slept upon the
seats were all gone now, dispersed for another day of vagabondage
and of seeking, of stealing and lying ; of wandering and enduring.
But the scats were not empty. The morning was clear and bright :
a Ijeautiful autumnal day when the few flowers that are left put
on their brightest colours and the yellow leaves stop falling. The
scats were now occupied by the pcoi)le who have notiiing to do.
They form, I believe, a class apart ; tlay make a society of their
own : they know each other and no doubt form attachments, get
married, have children, and grow old and die. But, until they die,
tlicy never leave the Park any more than tlio ducks. It is curious
and interesting to reflect that there should be a race among us, a
race apart, who spend their whole lives in St. James's Park, and
never <lf) anything oxccpt sit on the free Hcats, doze away the sunny
hours, lazily read the papers, converse with each other with iutelli-
240 KATHARINE REGINA.
gcnce, but without entliusiasm, lean over the bridge aud watch the
boats and the ducks, stand about the approach to the Palace and
look at the ladies going to the Drawing Rooms, assist at the playing
of the band at ten o'clock, and never do any work at all. Yet
they live aud are fat. Somebody must work for them, unless the
laws of Nature in their case are suspended.
These people, therefore, were sitting about, but there was no
Lily, and there was no Dittmer Bock. As for the latter, he had
got back early iu the morning from the Great North Road into
which he had been beguiled by the Demon of the Fog, and he was
asleep in bed, but already dreaming that it was time to get up and
dress aud go off to the City, there to conduct the office corre-
spondence in French, German, Swedish and Russian, until the
evening came, when he should be free to find his way back to St.
James's Park and search again for Katchen.
Katie walked slowly up and down the whole length of the walk.
Dittmer Bock, she now remembered, must be in the City at his
office. If she only knew where that office was ! There was no
sign of Lily, anywhere. She left the walk and went into the
Park. There she sat down and tried to think what was to be done
next.
There came along presently an elderly lady dressed very neatly in
a black silk dress and black silk mantle, with bugles, a jet brooch,
and a little black leather hand-bag. She was in black, not because
she was in mourning, but because she liked it. She went with a
sort of hopping movement like a sparrow, and she had a sharp
sparrow-like face with very bright eyes. When she saw Katie she
stopped before her and made a leisurely but not impertinent survey
of her.
' My dear young lady,' she said, ' you were here all Saturday
night.'
Katie made no reply.
' You appear to be what the world calls Respectable. You are,
doubtless, still in Society. Few of those who turn Bird Cage Walk
into an Hotel are still in Society.'
Katie remained silent.
' My dear young lady, I saw you, on Saturday night. I am often
here watching the people. You were with another girl and a young
gentleman. Why were you three out all night ? It was cold, too.
If it was a freak of youth, let me tell you, young lady, that such
freaks may bring you into trouble. And to-day you are here again,
alone. What does it mean ?'
IN THE MORNING. 241
Katie shook her head, but made no reply.
' I come to this Park a great deal. There are many most remark-
able persons who use it. They are nearly all out of Society, you
Ijuow' — why did the old lady whisper this information ?—' men
and women too— out of Society, you know. With a history, of
course. I please myself by learning their histories. They illustrate
the working of Fate. It seems to me, my dear, that you are meet-
ing your Fate early in life. I did so myself. I could tell you most
wonderful histories to illustrate the workings of Fate. My own is
very remarkable, for instance. Quite unique. And yours too, no
doubt. Where is your friend?'
' I do not know. I have lost her.'
' Ah ! To be lost in this great City, if you have no money, is to
court your Fate. I could tell you several stories about that now.
Turn your eyes to the next bench but three, the second person
sitting on it. Don't let her think she is watched. I could tell you
a very curious story about that person. My dear. Fate is all about
us : we do not know our Fates or we should go and drown our-
selves : we should, indeed. I should, long ago, if I had known my
Fate. I have sat about the benches at night and talked to them —
and watched and listened. My dear, they all curse their Fate. So
do I. It is most remarkable.'
Katie rose and fled. This old lady was like a dreadful nightmare.
She walked out of the Park, afraid to stay in the awful place any
longer ; the place where men and women assemble to curse their
Fate and to wish that they had drowned themselves long ago —
why, what had she herself tried to do ?
Then she thought that she would go to Doughty Street and see
her old friend Mrs. Emptage again. Perhaps there might be some
help even from that poverty-stricken household.
She walkt.-d all the way from St. James's Park to Doughty Street.
It is a good step. You go along Long Acre and Great Queen Street,
and Lincoln's Inn Fields and through Gray's Inn. For a girl who
has been walking about all night it is a longi.sh walk. Fortunately
Hho had eaten a good breakfast, but it was at five in the morning.
When Katie arrived in Douglity Street she found that the Emptage
family had gone away, and they had li;ft no .uldrciss.
It was about eleven o'clock. Katie turned away wearily. By
this time she had fallen into that strange state of mind when
nothing seems to matter. The Emptages were gone : and they had
left no address. 'I'liis intelligence airccted hcsr very Hlightly. She
saw that there was a gate ou the left-hand side of Gray's Inn open,
IG
242 KATHARINE REG IN A.
and that it led into a garden where were trees and grass and seats.
She turned in, took the first bench and sank down upon it. At the
other end of the bench sat a young lady dressed in deep mourning.
'You look tired,' said the young lady presently, 'you look ill-
are you ill ? Can I be of any service to you ?'
Katie turned upon her, in reply, eyes so haggard, a face so worn,
so full of despair and misery, that this young lady started and
shuddered.
' Tell me,' she said, ' what it means. Tell me what is the matter
with you.'
Katie tried to speak. But she was past speaking. Her head
dropped and she would have fallen forward upon the ground, but
the young lady caught her in her arms.
CHAPTER XIV.
TUB NUBIAN DESERT.
There was an encampment at the going down of the sun in the
Desert.
The great Nubian Desert is a terx'ible Desert indeed. It covers
a weary waste of country which, if you will examine the map, you
will find lying between the Nile — that part of it where the Second
and Third Cataracts are marked— and the Red Sea. It is reported
by those who have been across this Desert — the number, for certain
reasons, is now much greater than of old — that there are mountains
in it, all arid and bare, level plains covered with sand, rocky passes,
and low hills surrounding small plains of sand. The sand is every-
where. It is a hot and a thirsty country : those who live in it are
a thin, parched, and dried-up people, who are said to regard their
abominable country with affiection. Some of them, those who
belong to the seaboard of the Desert, are not Arabs at all, but pure-
blooded descendants of the blameless Ethiopians. They speak the
same language as their forefathers, but they have changed their
religion a good many times. First they left off worshipping the
Gods of Troy and those of their cousins of Tyre, Sidon, Ascalon,
Zoan, and Kadesh : they then became Christians and had a beauti-
ful ecclesiastical Establishment all to themselves till the Arabs
crossed the Red Sea and persuaded them, by those arts which have
ahvays proved successful in the conversion of a people, to renounce
Christ and follow the Prophet. They eventually turned out the
Arabs, but they remained faithful to the Prophet. The encamp-
THE NUBIAN DESERT. 243
meat was one of this people, but as to the mauners, customs,
language, and folklore of the tribe T am sorry that I cannot de-
scribe them in detail, because I have never been among them, and
the two white men who have lived with them and might have
learned so much never even mastered the language and made no
notes. They were greatly unlike the German traveller who was
lately taken prisoner on the south-east coast of the same continent,
and kept on making notes of what he observed, even on the way
to be ' hotpotted,' and being rescued from the very jaws of death,
preserved these notes, which are a precious addition to anthropo-
logical lore as well as an example worthy of imitation by all
travellers.
When the sun sets over the great Nubian Desert he paints the
mountains and rocks all manner of colours, but especially those
which have to do with purple, crimson, and yellow : he places the
same colours, only paler, in the sky, and he condescends to light up
the level sands with the most beautiful and wonderful mirages.
This evening, for example, those of the people who cared to look
for it might have seen in the south-west, and apparently within easy
access, a most inviting oasis of verdure and beauty incomparable in
any climate. Saw one ever such green grass, such blue lakes, such
waving palms, such a suggestion of bubbling springs, green shade,
fragrance of flowers, balmy rest, and universal delight ? Yet there
were two in this encampment who gazed upon the scene without
joy and without admiration.
'There it is again, Tom,' said one of them, 'a very creditable
mirage. You would swear that it was real, wouldn't you ?'
' Ah. This is the Land of Tantalus. We are always thirsty, and
there are always dangled before us the water and the fruits which
we may not drink or eat.'
It was not a luxurious camp; the water the people had to drink was
warm and blackish ; the only protection they had against the iiiglit-
dews were the cotton sheets which by daj' the men wore as mantles
or wrajipcd round their bodies ; the food they had to cat consisted
chiefly of dates. The men were armed, for the most i)art, with
Bpears and shields, though there wore old guns among them. One
would certainly not think the tribe or the encamj)ment worthy of
the notire of history save for the; fact that riglit in the middle of
thfj camp there were sitting, without any i)rotecti()n of white cotton
tent, the two Englishmen whose remarks on the mirage you have just
heard. Thoy were prisoncrH of war, whose lives were spared when
the Egyptians were all Bi)oared. Why they were not massacred with
It]— 2
244 KATHARINE REGINA.
the rest has never been found out. Perhaps it will remain a secret
for ever.
They were pretty ragged by this time, having been prisoners and
on the tramp for six months. Their coats hung upon their
shoulders in long strips, which they would have torn ofE but for the
protection afforded against the sun ; the legs of their trousers had
been mostly torn off in strips in order to provide bindings for their
feet, from which the boots had either dropped or had been taken
off. To walk barefooted in the African sands is for English feet
very nearly the same thing as to walk upon ten millions of sharp-
pointed needles all red hot. Even the eleven thousand British
virgins of Aachen had only one pin for the whole lot to dance upon.
But suppose they had been ordered to dance upon ten millions of
pins apiece ! Their flannel shirts were in strips ; as for watches,
revolvers, glasses, water-bottles, belts, and everything else, these had
long since been taken from them. Of all their kit they preserved
only their helmets, which, as bound in common gratitude, had in
return preserved their owners' lives against sunstroke. Their hair
had grown long and matted, like the black ringlets of their captors ;
their faces were covered with thick beards, and six months' wander-
ings in the desert on a diet principally composed of dates and
brackish water had taken the superfluous fat from* their figures,
sharpened their features, given their eyes a peculiar brightness and
eagerness unknown in countries of civilization, where the human
eye is apt to swell with fatness, and doubtless added ten years to
their lives should they ever get home.
The scene before them, apart from the mirage, was a landscape of
low hills and rolling ground ; everywhere was gray sand with, for
vegetation, tufts of dead desert-grass. The two Englishmen sat
side by side in silence. There was nothing to say. When a man
has been made to tramp, without aim or object, for six long months,
during which he has had no news of the outer world, and has been
all the time hungry and thirsty, he is not inclined to talk. To-
night the two men were so tired with the day's march that they sat
without speaking a word, until one of their captors brought them
supper, consisting of some bread and dates with a draught of
water.
' Tom,' said one of them, ' is the finest champagne at the club
comparablp with a good pull of warmish water in such a place as
this and after such a day's march ?'
Tom was at the very moment taking that pull.
When they had eaten their supper they began to talk.
THE NUBIAN DESERT. 245
* Tom,' said the first, resuming the conversation of the preceding
night, ' my opinion remains the same. "We have come back some-
where near the place where we started.'
' You see,' said Tom, ' that if you should happen to be wrong our
goose is cooked without the least doubt, and we shall either starve
in this infernal Desert or be captured again, when we shall most
certainly be stuck.'
' Yes — but I am sure that I am not mistaken. I remember the
outline of these hills the very first day we were brought in, when
we expected to be killed every instant.'
' It may happen any minute as it is. These fellows are not in a
hurry, because we are always in their hands. As for me, I very
well remember the funk I was in, but I forget the hills.'
'Tom, if is the same place,' the other man repeated earnestly, ' I
am sure it is. We are within a few hours of the Egyptian fort,
I believe they have come back here in the hopes of meeting other
tribes and getting up another massacre if the Egyptians can be
lured outside their walls. Tom,' he lowered his voice to a whisper,
though no one could understand what they were saying, ' within
half a day's march is freedom, if you want to win it. Do you
understand that ?'
' It is not a dark saying, old man. As for my loanting to win it,'
he replied—* you're a soldier. Take the command and tell me what
to do. I will obey if it leads to death, McLauchliu, on the bare
chance of getting out of this.'
'We will wait until they are all asleep. They have left off
setting a watch. Then we will quietly slip away and make for the
coa-iit. I am sure wo are near it. 1 can smell the sea ; though it is
only the Red Sea. If we are lucky we shall sight the fort and the
BbipH.'
' And suppose we take the wrong turn and go north instead of
Bouth V
' In that case, Tom, we shall travel round the whole world,
twenty-five thousand miles or thereabouts, before we get to the fort.
At twenty miles a day it is only twelve hundred days, or four years,
allowing uh to rest on Sundays.'
* I should give up trying for the fort and strike off north-west,
where London is — and Katie,' said Tom, with a curious catch in his
voice.
' I've got a Katie too,' sjiid the man called McLauchlin. ' I'd go
north-wcKt with you, old man. Oh ! Tom,' he laid his hand on the
other's shoulder, * to be free again ! To go home and t> 11 llicni wo
246 KATHARINE REG IN A.
are not dead, after all. Do you sometimes think of them crying
over us ?'
' Have I thought of anything else during the whole of the time ?
And my girl, you see, has got no one, and now she must be friend-
less. All day long for six months I have heard her sobs. If we do
get away from this prison— if ever there is a real chance of freedom
again, I will tell you about her. I couldn't here. . . .'
Tom said no more.
The sun went down at last with an undignified bob, as one who
is long in making up his mind to go and only goes at last because
he is obliged. Immediately afterwards the colour went out of the
sky and out of the hills, and then, because there is not much
twilight in the great Nubian Desert, the night fell, and the children
of the Desert ceasing to chatter and to scream and to quarrel, lay
down upon the sand, still hot with the day's sun, and were all
asleep in a few minutes. Presently, Captain McLauchlin touched
Tom's shoulder, and they arose and looked round them. By the
light of the stars they could see the sleeping forms all round them.
Only half a day's march to freedom ! But suppose McLauchlin
had made a mistake ? Suppose he had been deceived by the outline
of the hills ? Then, as Tom truly prophesied, they would either
starve slowly — it is a lingering complaint, including the torture of
the burning heat of the sun and a maddening thirst — or they would
be recaptured, and then they would be certainly speared for good.
Freedom, however, is worth some risk ; for the sake of freedom
men have run the chance of many deaths, and those even more
cruel than hunger and thirst in the Desert. These two men might
have fled in the same way nearly every night. What use ? One
might as well leap overboard in mid-ocean and hope to swim ashore
as fly from an encampment in the heart of the Desert. Yet even
that leap has been sometimes taken, when it has been thought
better to sink down in the dark green waters, to lie quiet for ever
and undisturbed among the shells, than to be any longer a slave or
a convict. With freedom within half a day, who would not risk
even that march round the world of which Captain McLauchlin
had spoken ?
A fortnight later the same two men lay in two beds in the
hospital of the friendly Fort, now garrisoned by English as well as
by Egyptian troops.
The half-day's march had in fact turned out to be a march of two
or three days with no food and no water, because, you see, they did
take that wrong turning. When the fugitives were picked up by
THE NUBIAN DESERT. 247
accident and a good way from the Fort, they were very terrible to
look at, black and gaunt and fiei'ce-ej-ed with thirst and hunger and
the heat of the Desert under the fierce sun and the glare of the
water, because they were upon the shore of the Red Sea. Already
they seemed to hear the flopping of the vulture's wings and the
bark of the jackal, when they were rescued by a party of English
officers come out to shoot.
At first, nobody knew them. They were brought in and put to
bed, and for a week or so they could not even tell their story.
When that story was fully heard, those that listened marvelled,
and were sore astonished, because their escape and return to their
friends was like a resurrection from the tomb. Long since, it was
supposed, their bones had been bleaching upon the sands with the
bones of the poor Egyptian soldiers who could not run fast enough
to get away. McLauchlin had been gazetted as killed ; Tom
Addison, war correspondent, was reported killed. By this time
their friends would even be going out of mourning.
' Six months, Tom,' said McLauchlin this afternoon, the room
being quite quiet and shaded,and the pain well nigh gone out of their
feet, which had swollen up and behaved in a most abominable
manner, and inflicted disgusting torture upon them. * Six months,
Tom, may go a long way to make a fellow forgotten even by his
girl. They've got the telegrams by now, and by next week or
thereabouts they will have the letters. I wonder '
' So do I,' said Tom.
' Whether Katie will have forgotten ?'
'Just what I was going to say,' said Tom. 'There's been a
good many odd things hai)peuing in the last six mouths or so, old
man. When they brought us in and my head felt like one inflamed
balloon, and my chest like another, you began to talk of your
Katie, and I began to think we had got mixed ui) somehow. You've
got a Katie, and so have I. They can't, I suppose, bo the same
girl, by any accident ?'
'Mine is named Katharine Regina.'
Tom fell back on bis pillow with a groan.
' 80 is mine,' he said. ' We have got mixed up.'
'Katharine Rfgiria Willonghby, mine is.'
' Katliarinc Regina (Japii is mine,' said Tom. ' There's a chance
for U8 yet. Rut isn't it odd that there should be two girls christened
Katliarino Ri-gina?'
' Porliaps they arc cousins. There is always a Katharine Regina
in the Wilionghby family. Who are your girl's peojile V
248 KATHARINE REGINA.
' She hasn't got any people. She is absolutely without any
relations.'
' No people ?'
'No. There is nobody else like her in the whole world. When I
was taken from her she lost the only person in the world who cared
for her. Poor Katie !'
' But she must have had parents, and they must have had
cousins.'
' Most girls have. Mine did not. She had a father, and his
name was Willoughby Capel.'
' AVilloughby ! That is strange, too. What was he ?'
' He was a gentleman by profession. He was an idle, selfish,
luxurious, useless creature, in reality. He had been in the army,
and he lived on some allowance, or annuity, or something, the
nature of which he never told his daughter. Nor was she told any-
thing about her relations. Her mother was an actress, but Katie
was not permitted to know her name, and she died in childbirth.
There is the whole story.'
' It is only the beginning of one. Why did the man keep his
daughter in ignorance of her relations ?'
' AVell, you see, there is one reason which immediately suggests
itself to the adult. It is based on that adult's experience of the
wickedness of human nature. The man must have done something
which cut him off from the family, or else perhaps all the family
must have done something simultaneously, and so cut themselves
off from him. There are a good many actions which are still
recognised as being dishonourable, even in this lax age. There are
so many, in fact, that there are enough to go round a very large
family, and very likely it was the cousins who disgraced themselves
with one consent. But I doubt it, sir.'
' Tom, it's a very curious thing, and perhaps it means nothing,
and is only a coincidence, but there was a fellow in my Katie's
family who was formerly in the army, and turned out a very bad
hat indeed. He had to send in his papers for something he did. I
never heard what it was, but the rest of his family would have
nothing more to do with him. He was always in debt, I know, for
one thing, and he was pretty unscrupulous as to getting out of
debt.'
'You would suggest that this amiable person was my Katie's
parent ?'
' Perhaps it is only a coincidence. Still, there are other points.
This gallant officer of ours married an actress. So did yours.
THE NUBIAN DESERT. 249
Whether there were any children or not I do not know. Then,
however, come the names. Why should he call himself Willoughby
for his Christian name ? Because it was his surname ? Why
should he call his daughter Katharine Regina ? Because it was a
family name ? Again, it was Katharine Regina Willoughby, my
Katie's great aunt, who kept our man going. She used to say
nothing about it, but it was known in the family that she did so.
Tom, I firmly believe that your Katie is my Katie's cousin. What
sort of a man was her father to look at ?'
' He was an extremely handsome man, tall, and with regular
features — what is called an aristocratic-looking man.'
'All the Willoughbys are tall and extremely handsome. My
Katie '
' And mine as well,' said Tom.
' What colour was his hair ?'
' It should have been gray, but he dyed it. I suppose he kept
to the original colour, which was a dark brown. Ills eyes were
brown.'
' Good heavens, Tom. This is wonderful. I have no doubt at
all that he was old Miss Willoughby's favourite good-for-nothing
nephew. What a strange thing it is that we should have been
lugged about together over that accursed Desert for six mouths,
and that we should be engaged to two cousins !'
' I dare say you are right,' said Tom. ' But as my Katie doesn't
know of your Katie, I don't see how it helps her at the present
juncture. Stay. Good heavens ! If I had known this six months
ago I need never have come out at all.'
' Why ?'
' Because the fortune to which I did not succeed was to go to the
heirs of this very Captain Willoughby, and. if you are right, it is
my own Katie after all who will have it ! Old man, that escape
which you planned and carried out meant more than uur lives, more
than the happiness of the women who love us ; it meant, only I did
not know it, the rcBtoration of Katie to her family and to her
fortune. Good heavens! It is wonderful. It is truly won-
derful.'
Hero the conversation ought to have ended ; the curtain ought
to fall at this point. What follo\vc<l was weak— very weak.
'Old man,' Tom went on, 'if 1 had known that all this was
involved in our getting safe to this haven of refuge, I believe I
should never have pulled tlirongh with you. I should have been
too n<rvf)nH. The sun wouM have kilhd me ; i slimild have fallen
250 KATHARINE REGINA.
down with heat apoplexy ; I should have stepped upon a flying
serpent ; I should have irritated a winged dragon ; I should have
died of that awful thirst ; I could never have survived the over-
whelming desire to get safe home in order to give that poor girl
back to her friends and her fortune. As for me, I've been dead
for six months. She has had time to get over the shock, but she
little thinks, when I do come back, what I am bringing back with
me — beside myself.'
CHAPTER XV.
JOYFUL TIDINGS.
Harriet Rolfe had never, before this evening, felt what it means
to be truly happy. For she was as well dressed as she desired to
be: that is to say, as she had learned to be, because she never
soared to the heights of those ladies who resign themselves into
the hands of their artistes, but arranged, considered, designed and
chose for herself, which is much the best way if you have a touch
of genius. Next, she was in society: that is to say, she sat at the
head of her table, presiding over the first dinner-party given by
Mr. and Mrs. Hanaper Rolfe — the second Christian name came in
handy — in their new house.
There were no ladies : but as yet Harriet had not arrived at the
stage of desiring the society of ladies. Her own sisters, cousins,
aunts and early friends could not, she knew, be asked to meet
gentlemen, and, besides, she liked to be the sole object of their
admiration. She was conscious that few women can be certain of
calling forth this admiration. In a crimson-velvet frock with dead-
gold bracelets and necklace, with her tall and shapely figure and
her comely cheek, she looked indeed a splendid ci-eature. James
regarded her with pardonable pride.
There were four guests : one, a certain baronet whose acquaint-
ance James had made in a billiard-room which he frequented,
where the marker and the habitual players called him Surennery.
To be called Surennery must be true enjoyment of a title. He
was a handsome man, still young, of five-aud- thirty or so, with
rather a weak profile. But his eyes were sharp, like unto those of
a hunter. His private fortune was said to be nothing at all, and
his enemies declared that he lived by ])yramids and shilling pool.
Certainly he was a good player and he played a good deal, perhaps
in the interests of science and to keep up his skill. He 'moved,'
as they say, chiefly in the society of those actors and actresses who
JOYFUL TIDIXGS. 251
are not invited to the houses of the Great. The only occupation,
besides that of billiards, for which Nature had fitted him, was
perhaps that of a genteel shopwalker.
There were besides, three other old friends of the turf and the
billiard-room invited in order that they might see for themselves
in what magnificence their former pal, once so hard-up, was now
living. Nowhere else, certainly, would these gentlemen get such
rare old Port : such East India Sherry : such a bottle of Chateau
Lafitte. For Uncle Joseph's cellar was one of the good old kind,
such as is* now seldom found, in which the wine has been laid down
affectionately and with forethought, as if life was going to be con-
tinued far beyond the usual limits.
The magnificence was so great and the presence of the crimson
velvet so overwhelming that the conversation flagged during dinner.
There was only one topic on which Sir Henry could converse, and
he was uncertain how it would be received if he was to start it —
namely, actors' gossip and green-room whispers.
When Mrs. Rolfe rose the host pushed about the bottles. But
the evening was ' set dull :' no one said anything which called forth
a spark of interest. At last Sir Henry made a remark which,
though he did not mean it, fell like a bombshell and wrecked the
house.
'I saw a War Ofiice man just now,' he said ; 'he told me that
they have just had a telegram about those two fellows who were
supposed to be murdered.'
' What two fellows ?' asked James, quickly looking up.
'Captain McLauchlin and the newspaper chap. It seems they
were prisoners and have got back. It will be in the papers to-
morrow.'
Jem poured out a glass of Port and drank it. Then he took
another — his face was very white and his hands trembled. The
three old pals, who knew how ho had come in for his money, said
nothing but looked at each other with meaning. Tliou, as if
resolved to make the most of an opportunity which would probably
never return, they fell upon the Port with avidity, drinking about
a bottle and a half a head. If this was tru(! liero was an end to
Jem Rolfo's magnififence. Soon he would retnrn to tlu! old haunts
and be as hard up as his neighbourH ; as keen over a pool ; as hot
for a tip ; as ready to borrow ; as loth to lend ; and as tager in the
pursuit of what they and tlicir like fondly call tlu- 'oof liird,' I'ity
that this fxocllent Port shnnld 1)0 again scchided from the thirsty
world ! On the other hand, as has often been pointed out, the
253 KATHARINE REGINA.
satisfaction with which men regard the misfortunes of their neigh-
bours soothed their souls. Poor old Jem ! He looked pale
and his lips tx'embled. Ho also winked with both eyes several
times.
' The newspaper chap, Sir Henry,' he said with dignity, but
huskily, 'was — I mean is — my first cousin.'
' Oh ! I am sorry I spoke so hastily.'
' Not at all. The news naturally surprised me. We had all
given him up long ago. Poor old Tom ! He had no brother, and
we were brought up together.' This was a decoration, so to speak,
of the truth. ' To think that he should turn up again, alive and
well — you said that both were alive and well— and well ?'
' My War Office man certainly said that both had been prisoners
and had escaped.'
' Let us hope that both are well. There is a girl somewhere
about, who will be a happy woman to-morrow when the news
comes. Not to speak of another woman not a hundred miles from
this house.'
He was doing it very well, thought the pals. Then they began
to talk of the strangeness of arriving home when one has been
reported dead and been given up for lost, and mourning has been
ordered and worn — and wills proved — conversation during which
their host winked his eyes hard many times.
Before they went upstairs he made a little request of them :
' My wife,' he said, ' was very fond of my Cousin Tom.' She
had never even seen him. ' She is a very sensitive person — highly
strung and that, you know,' he winked again, ' and the news of his
death affected her terribly. Do not breathe a word of this joyful
intelligence. I will break it to her carefully to-morrow morning,
so that she may not lose her night's rest.'
Going upstairs the three pals nudged each other. A hitch with
the elbow is often better than speech, and communicates more than
mere words can hope to do and in much less time. I have some-
times thought that to be dumb, considering the expressive power
of the eye, the head, and the elbow, is an affliction much lighter
than many others. The pals meant that Jem was keeping it up
first-rate.
Upstairs, Harriet gave her guests tea and a little music. She
knew how to play simple accom])animents, and had a strong full
voice of rather coarse quality which would have done well for the
burlesque stage or the music-hall — and she sang sentimental and
pathetic ditties.
JOYFUL TIDINGS. 253
' You ought to be on the stage, Mrs. Rolfe,' said Sir Henry. ' By
George, you ought !'
* Oh ! Surennery, I don't sing half well enough for that,' she
replied.
' You sing ten times as well as most of them. And you look
twenty times as well as any of them,' he added, in a lower voice.
' Oh ! Surennery !' She looked at her husband, who was gazing
into the fire with an expression, as she read it, of determined
grumpiness. ' That is one of your compliments.'
' It is not, Mrs. Rolfe — it is the truth. There isn't a woman on
the stage who has got your looks or your voice. You should go
on the boards — you should indeed ; lots of ladies are going now.'
Then he sat down himself and sang two or three French songs,
quite certain that no one would understand the words.
'I do think, Jem,' she said, when her guests were gone, 'that
when you bring your friends upstairs you might do better than sit
in a corner and look as glum and grumpy as an undertaker at his
own funeral. Unless you've had too much wine.'
'Yes,' her husband replied, 'it is all over, my dear. Now we
can go back to the fun of the old days again '
' What do you mean ?' she asked sleepily.
' And to Stockwell again, if you like.'
' What do you mean, Jem ?'
She was wide awake now,
' And to the jolly old days of fighting the landlord.'
'Jem ' She turned quite pale, for her husband's face was
serious. ' Jem ! for Heaven's sake, what has happened 'i* Has a
will turned up ?'
' Wf.rso than that.'
' Have yon been losing the money, betting?'
' Worno than that, Harriet.'
' What— worse ?'
' The very worst ; the most unlucky thing in the world. Harriet,
he isn't dead after all.'
' Not dead ! Tom not dead !' She clutched the back of a chair
with both hands. ' Not dead ?'
'Tom haH turned up again, none the worse. He has only been a
prisoner among the Arabs and ho got bark safe. T don't (piito
know how long it takes to get from Suakim to London, but wo
may bo pretty certain that he'll cover that distance in the shortest
time (jii record.'
2 54 KATHARINE REGINA.
'OLl'
There was a conscientious, a heartfelt ring about the interjection.
The deepest grief, the most profound despair, the most bitter help-
lessness — all were there.
' Well, Harriet,' her husband continued. ' It's no use shutting
our eyes. Out we go, my dear. We needn't go just yet ; when
Tom comes home, he shall find us keeping the house warm, be-
cause we couldn't get a tenant ; and as for what we have spent,
trust me for running up a bill of costs and throwing dust in his
eyes.'
' Jem — you are a fool.'
' Why, my dear ?'
' What docs it matter about the past ? It's the future — oh, my
God ! it is the future. What shall we do ?'
Jem, who had been walking about the room, sat down and faced
her with a look of bewilderment.
' I don't know, Harriet. If I only pull through this business —
why — it's a ' She understood not one word of what he meant.
' Good heavens ! If I pull through — it seems hardly to matter
what becomes of us afterwards.'
' We shall have to go back to the old wretched, miserable life.
Where are we to find the money even to pay the rent ? We've got
no furniture ; we've got no money ; we've got no practice — oh !
Jem — Jem — how are we to live ?'
She sunk into a chair and gasped.
Her husband was still occupied with his view of the situation.
' The future may take care of itself, Harriet. It's the past that
I look at. Nobody can prove that I knew that girl to be the
heiress — thank goodness, that can't come out. Very well then —
let us face the situation. Tom was dead. Before Tom went away
he gave me a power of attorney. Well, I am the natural heir. I
advertised for the heir-at-law of Captain Willoughby Capel and no
one replied. Then Tom was killed — I naturally succeeded — I am
his only cousin, on that side. . . . Then he comes home again. I
say to him, " Tom — my dear old Tom " — being much affected —
" how glad am I to restore all to you. The heir cannot be found,
and you had better sit down and enjoy the fortune." If he does,
I have got the knife into him, because the Trust money ought to
go back to Miss Willoughby 's heirs. If he does not, he will make
me the solicitor, and if I know my way about, some of that money
shall stick.'
' What are you talking about V What girl ? What Trust ?'
JOYFUL TIDINGS. 255
'Well, Harri.-t, there was 110 use telling you ; but if you hadn't
been a woman you would have asked a few questions about the
sadden accession. You see I am one of the heirs to Tom's estate
— no one can ever get over that ; one of them — and the others are
in New Zealand — but it's loaded with a Trust, and we did not
know to whom that Trust ought to be handed over just when he
went away. Well, you see — first of all, I promised Tom solemnly
that what was left when that Trust was paid should be given to
his girl.'
' You promised to give away your own ?'
' You're a fool, Harriet. It wasn't my own. It was his. If I
hadn't promised he would have made a will on the voyage, and
given it to her. Besides, I didn't put that promise into writing.
Well — after Tom went away I found that even if this Trust money
was paid there would be an uncommon tidy bit left. So of course
I wasn't going to regard such a promise as binding — not likely.'
' Well, and did you pay the Trust ';:''
'No — I didn't. You see, my dear, there's this certain fact about
the Trust, that not a soul knows anything about it except Tom and
me. It should go to the heirs of a man who is dead — if not, it
would have to revert to the heirs of the original donor . . . Very
good — the awkward thing is that I haven't paid it to either ; and
now Tom is come back and there will be the devil to pay.'
♦ Oh ! Who is the heir ?'
' I found out some time ago. It is no other than Tom's own
sweetheart, Katharine Capel. She doesn't know and Tom never
knew '
* Where is she?'
' I don't know. That is the thing which will save me. I don't
know where she is. Pretty ragged and down on her luck she looked
the only time I saw her. It was then tljat I found out the truth.'
'Jem,' said Harriet, in the direct manner peculiar to her sex,
' you are a scoundrel.'
Her husband made no reply.
' You have stolen !ill tlii.s Trust money. And as for the rest, wo
were only part inheritoiH.'
'Don't be a fool, Harriet. It was for your sake. How else
would you liavo got that crimson- velvet dress ? Don't call names,
but sec if you can't help me out of this mess.'
' How are wo to live, I want to know i"
'Lord knows! The first question is— how will Tom take it?
And how can I put il to hiin '^'
256 KATHARINE REGINA.
' Whan wc go from here, where are we to go ? What are we to
do ? You have deceived me again. You ought to have told me
everything. You ought to have behaved honest to that poor girl,
whatever else happened. I never thought that I should be able to
call my husband '
' Be quiet, damn it !' he cried. ' Stop nagging, Harriet, and
listen. There are lots of things in the house which may go out of
it with us. They'll never be missed. My aunt's jewels — Tom
doesn't know anything about them — take and put them up with
your own things. Send away the servants and then we'll pack up
all wc can. Hang it ! There's my uncle's old silver mugs and
things — we'll have them too. There's a lot of valuable books. I
don't know much about books, but I know some of them are worth
money. There's the pictures. The house is full of pictures. A
lot of them can go without being missed. I don't suppose Tom
ever went into the bedrooms '
' Is that the only way you can think of to keep your wife ?'
Harriet asked with scorn.
' Well, if it isn't good enough for you, find another way. How
did I keep you before ?'
' You were spending the last of your money. When it was gone,
if it hadn't been for Tom's death, I suppose you would have had
to become a billiard-marker, because no one certainly would employ
5'ou as a lawyer. It was a horrible life that you made me lead. A
thousand times a day I wished I was back at my quiet old stall.
Oh ! I loill not lead that life again.'
' Well, Harriet, strike out a new line for yourself. What do you
propose to do ?'
She tossed up her arms and gasped for breath.
' Oh !' she cried, ' and I thought it was all over and we were
going to be respectable. Can I never sit down and bo happy and
well-dressed, with a proper house and servants and no anxiety about
the money ? Oh, Jem ! what a fool I was — what a dreadful fool
— to marry you !'
' Perhaps, my dear, you will remember that on the other hand
you've had a really beautiful four months. I wonder how Tom
will take it. How shall I put it to him ? You see, he's quite
sharp enough to guess that I meant to stick to it.'
' Oh ! He ought not to have come back. After all these months
he ought not.'
' That, my dear, is quite true. I am now going downstairs for a
pipe and a glass of whisky and i)otash. Come down with me, if
JOYFUL TIDINGS. 257
you are able to talk rationally. Come, Harriet,' — he offered to lay
his arm round her neck, but she pushed him off. ' Don't be cast
down ; we will find out something. Look here : Tom's girl is
going to have the money. I will make out such a case of my zeal
in proving her to be the heiress that we may get a lump out of him.
Besides, there's the jewels and the mugs and everything that I
mean to stick to — and the bill of costs. Don't be downhearted.'
She pushed him from her with the vigour which one might
expect of her proportions.
' Oh ! well — if you choose to be a vixen, you may. Don't think,
Harriet, that I'm going to slave and worry on account of a she-
devil. If you've got nothing better to do than to show temper — as
if I wanted Tom to come back — I shall ... go and have my pipe
by myself.'
It was a tame and impotent conclusion, but she turned upon
him and looked so fierce that he collapsed.
In the small hours of the morning James woke up suddenly.
The blinds were up and the moon was streaming in at the windows.
Harriet was standing at the window in her nightdress.
' Harriet,' he cried, ' what are you doing ?'
' I've had a dream, Jem,' she replied. ' A dreadful dream. I
thought that you were tried by the judge and sent to a convict
prison for robbery and I was left destitute. And I'd got a knife
in ray hand' — she held up her hand and showed a dagger which
gleamed in the moonlight ; it was only a little ornamental paper-
knife, but it flashed like steel — ' and I was going to kill myself and
have done with it. You were a convict working at Portland, Jem.'
' Come back to bed this instant !' he said sternly'. ' You and
your dreams — come back and go to sleep. . . .'
She obeyed and went to sleep again calmly and sweetly. But
her husband's teeth chattered and he trembled and shook, because
his actions would, he was conscious, Ijoar such a construction. And
Tom was on his way home, doubtless having much wrath.
CHAPTER XVI.
Tom's kktuun.
Tom did cover the ground between Suakim and London in the
Hhortest time on record. The story of his captivity ami csciipc of
course reached lujme before him in .scrappy fragments, which made
everybody talk of the two prisoncrH. So that they were the Men
of the Moment. It is a great thing in one's life to have been, if
17
258 KATHARINE RECrlNA.
only for once, The Man of the JNtomeiit ; the honour is one which
is bestowed upon people variously distinguished, and may be shared
with Mr. Gladstone or with Charley Peace. But Tom neglected
his opportunity, and refused even so much as to read a paper at
the Royal Geographical.
It was one morning at the beginning of November, about a fort-
night after that awful fog, that Tom arrived at Victoria. He had
sent telegrams from Suakim, from Cairo, from Brindisi, and from
Paris, all addressed to Harley House. He would not burst upon
the poor girl without warning. She would hear of his safety from
the papers ; she should hear of his return from his telegrams. Poor
girl ! Poor Katie ! His eyes filled when he thought of her trouble
and sorrow on his account. But now all the trouble was over.
She knew that he was safe. She was happy again — poor friendless
Katie !
Six o'clock in the morning, and not yet quite light. You cannot
call at a house, even to see your sweetheart who has supposed that
you are dead, at six o'clock in the morning. The lazy maids are
not up at six in a London house — they are only turning round in
the sheets, uneasy because they ought to be getting up and because
they are possessed by that pleasant, teasing, winning, masterful,
persuasive, coaxing Devil (I know not his name) who haunts the
bedrooms of young people at times when they ought to be getting
up, and when the clocks are striking with all their might, and holds
them as if by strong arms in bed, and weighs down their eyelids
and makes them helpless with sleep as by enchantment, insomuch
that for the sake of another hour in bed they are ready to brave
everything, even a month's notice. It is recorded of a certain
mediaeval housemaid — I think the story is in the autobiography of
Guibert de Nogent — that one day, under the malign influence of
this Devil, she actually sold her soul for one more hour's roll in the
sheets. This was duly granted to her. She is now punished —
Id has — by having no sheets at all to roll in.
Six o'clock in the morning. Tom put his kit into a cab and
drove to an hotel, the only place where a welcome awaits the return-
ing traveller at six in the morning. Then he made up his mind
not to hurry things. Katie must have time to get up. He would
restrain himself and call at nine. He would have a tub after his
long journey, get into a change of clothes and take breakfast first.
Even the Troubadour gaily striking his guitar on his way from
Jerusalem would take his breakfast before he sought out his lady.
Tom took his tub and his breakfast ; after that, he took a pipe and
TOM'S RETURN. 259
the morning puper. It was only eight o'clock when he had quite
finished both. But he could wait no longer, and he set off to walk.
You know how, when one goes to keep an appointment, or to
execute some important business, the mind shapes out beforehand
exactly what is going to happen, and you prepare in readiness what
you will say, and what the other man will say, and what you will
say next. Nothing is ever done without this preliminary imagining
and picturing to one's self what is going to happen ; and by the
universal consent of all mankind nothing ever happens at all as it
has been previously mapped out and imagined. Generally, the
thing receives a totally different manner and shape at the very out-
set ; one is put out at the first start ; the other side sets the whole
thing agee after you have rounded it off and made it dramatic,
with all the ' fat ' of the dialogue given to yourself, and basely says
things totally unexpected and totally unprovided for.
Tom pictured in his own mind the sweet face of his girl and her
lovely eyes looking into his once more — he knew that they would
be full of tears— and her dear hands laid in his. He tried to think
what she would say, but he did not get beyond her face and her
eyes and her hands. Of these he was quite sure, and he clung to
them. Half-past eight. He was opposite Harley House. The
door opened and one of the residents came out. It was a girl
employed in a shop as cashier ; her hours were from nine till eight.
His heart began to beat violently. Suppose it had been Katie !
He would wait no longer.
' Miss Capel, sir ?' asked the girl, who was a new-comer. ' There
is no lady of that name here.'
This was the unexpected ; this it was which threw him out
altogether. Tor that Katie should have gone away was tiie hist
thing he expected.
'She was staying here six months ago.'
' Yes, sir. I've only been here ten days.'
' Will you give me her present address i"
' I'll ask the Matron, sir.'
She left hira in the hall, and presently the Matron herself came
to him.
' MisH Capel left here three weeks ago,' she said.
' My name is Addison.'
' Oh !' she said, ' you were engaged to her, and you wore killed
in Kgyi»t. I know now. Oh ! sir, I am so sorry. Ucciuiso I flon't
know where she is gone to nor what she is doing.'
' Why did she leaver"
17—2
26o KATHARINE REG IN A.
' She left because she had no money to pay for her lodgings and
could get no work. There was nothing but trouble for that poor
girl. First she lost you, and it would have moved the heart of a
stone to see her going about so heavy and sad. Then she lost her
place. And then she tried and tried, but what with its being
summer-time, when there is no work going, and what with the
many poor young ladies everywhere looking for work, she could
find none. And so her money got lower and lower and lower, and
— Oh ! sir, don't look like that — you'll find her somewhere.'
' Tell me all. Let me hear everything.'
' She had a great friend here, another girl named Lily Doran.
They stood by each other and shared their money as long as it
lasted. Then one morning they went away together.'
' Where did they go ? They must have had some place to take
their things.'
' They had no things. They had sold or pawned everything —
their watches went first and their clothes last.'
' Oh ! Katie !'
' I would have kept them, but it is against the rules. No one is
allowed to stay here' a day after she is unable to pay her weekly
bill. Harley House is not a Charitable Institution.'
' Gone ! Where could she go ?'
' They must have gone to their friends and relations.'
' Katie had neither friends nor relations.'
' Could she have gone to your friends ?'
' I have only one relation in London. She may have gone to him
for help. She knew his address.'
' Go and inquire, sir. Don't be downhearted. Young ladies
don't get lost in London. She iiui.it be somewhere. Give me your
address, so that if we hear anything — some of our ladies may have
heard of the two girls — I will inquire and let you know.'
Tom turned sadly away. Katie gone, and in great distress.
Nobody knew better than himself how friendless she was. She
had no money left. She had to go.
Perhaps she had gone to his cousin. The more he thought of it,
the more likely this appeared to be. Jem had promised faithfully,
in case of his death, to give her whatever was over after the trust-
money was paid. But she bad no money. Therefore there was
nothing left over. As for his cousin, Tom knew very well that he
had no money of his own. He walked to Westminster, where Jem
had his office ; it was no use driving, because he would not be there
before ten. When he got there he learned that Jem had removed
(
TOM'S RETURN. 261
to Nevf Square, Lincoln's Inn — his Uncle Joseph's oflBces. This
seemed perfectly natural. He retraced his steps and walked all the
way back from Westminster.
In the old office everything looked exactly the same as in the old
times. The door was open, and behind the door sat the office-boy,
who at seeing a visitor jobbed a pen into the ink and made pre-
tence of being immensely busy. Within, the two gray-headed
clerks did much the same thing with the difference due to their
time of life ; that is to say, they dipped their pens with dignity
and looked wise.
In his uncle's office he found his cousin.
' Tom !' He sprang to his feet and seized both his hands, and
laughed and grinned and made every possible demonstration of joy,
winking hard with both eyes at the same time. ' Tom ! old man !
welcome home ! welcome ! I was about the only man who always
refused to believe that you were killed. Shake hands again !' he
repeated the outward and visible signs of delight. 'I always
refused. Why ? Because they never found your body — the
body itself is a piece of evidence that should never be forgotten.
And none the worse ? Let me look at you. None the worse, I
believe.'
' No,' said Tom, ' none the M'orse, except for worry and anxiety,'
' Ah ! you worried about not being able to escape.'
' Well ; one looked to be s-peared every day ; and one expected to
get sunstroke, and one worried about the people at homo ; and the
food was pretty bad, I can tell you, and there seemed no chance of
cscajjc ; and — but there . . . Where is Katie ?'
' You mean — oh, yes — I had almost forgotten — Miss Capel. I
don't know, Tom. How should I ?'
' I left her at Harley House, where she proposed to remain. But
she has gone and left no address.'
' Why, bless my soul !' said Jem, suddenly recollecting, ' she
called here — how long ago 'i About four weeks, I think — to ask if
there was any hope left of you. I could give her none, poor thing !
none. It wa.s no use telling her that I myself believed you to be
alive, was it ?'
' She called — here ? How did she look V 'i'om asked hoarsely.
'She looked, as far as I can judge, very wi II and very beautiful.
In deep mourning, Tom, but very well and veiy bLaiiiiful.'
' Did she — did she seem in poverty or distress V
'I observed nothing.' Jem shut his eyes and opened thera
several times rapidly. ' She was not, to be sure, dressed for the
262 KATHARINE REGINA.
Park. But she siiid nothing about any other distress than her
distress on your account.'
' Poor Katie ! Jem, you made me a solemn promise before I
went away — a solemn promise.'
'I did, old man — I did. If I had observed any signs of distress
— if she had given me the least hint of trouble in that way — I
would — I would have parted with the bottom dollar to relieve her.
I would indeed, Tom.'
' Thanks, Jem.' Tom gave him his hand. ' Then she said
nothing about being in want ?'
* Nothing. Not a word.'
' Yet it must have been about that time that she left Harley
House.'
' Tom/ said his cousin earnestly, ' I hope that you believe me
when I say that I remembered that promise.'
' I am sure you did,' said Tom.
' I have never forgotten it,' he went on confidently. (This asser-
tion, to be sure, was perfectly true. He had never forgotten that
promise.) ' I assured you that when the Trust was paid I would
look after her.'
' No — you would give all that was left, if there was any, to her.'
' Just so. I fully acknowledge the promise. Well, Tom, the
Trust has not been paid ofP. I have advertised everywhere for the
heirs of Captain Harry Willoughby, but have had no answer.'
Perhaps he advertised in the dark arches of the Adelphi or in the
tunnels of the Metropolitan Railway, because those advertisements
could never be found in any of the ordinary channels.
' As for your Uncle's estate, Tom, I found it in a devil of a mess,
and it will take another six months I dare say to unravel it all and
get at a clear statement of how you stand. But there will be more
left over than I thought at first. I can promise you that, Tom-
A good deal more. So much is certain.'
' Oh !' cried Tom, remembering. ' As for the heirs, I have made
a discovery. Oh ! a wonderful discovery.'
His cousin turned pale.
' What discovery, Tom ?'
' I have found the heiress. It is none other than Katie herself,
Jem, I am sure of it — I am quite sure of it. Oh ! if I had known
before I went away !'
' Is it possible ? Miss Capel herself ?'
' Her name is Willoughby. But where is she ?'
' I don't know : but she can't very well be lost. She must have
TOM'S RETURN. 263
seen the telegrams about your return — you've been spread out fine
and large for the last week or so, old man— and shell be sure to
write to you or come to you. She knows your address, of course.'
' She knows my old lodgings and she knows the address of the
paper.'
' Don't worry about her, Tom. Go to the paper and report
yourself. And you'll find a letter waiting for you.'
' I'll go at once.'
He rushed out of the office.
An hour later he returned.
' There's no letter, and I've been to the lodgings. No letter has
been sent there, and nobody has called since you took away the
books and things.'
' There are your books, Tom.' He pointed to the shelves where
they were arranged. ' They are safe enough. But as for this
young lady — it looks odd ; but then, you see, lots of women never
look at a paper at all, while there's others wholl read every word
from beginning to end every day, and wish there was more —
especially more law cases.'
' Wh&i shall we do, Jem ?'
' There's only one thing to be done. Advertise. Leave it to me.'
'I suppose I must,' said Tom unwillingly.
* Leave it to me. I will soon find her for 5'ou if she is above
ground. And now, Tom, let us go back to that discovery of yours.'
' The heiress is none other than Katie herself.'
' So you told me before. How do you know, eh ?'
Tom briefly related the points — we know them already — which
had led him to connect Kutie with the Willoughliy Trust.
' Strange !' said his cousin. ' It seems plausible ; it may be true.'
lie was at the same time thinking how this new turn of affairs
suited his own line of action, in a very delicate situation. Fortu-
nately ho had told no one but Harriet of his own discovery. It
now seemed as if nothing could fall out better. Of course the girl
wouM be found immediately — probaI)ly through his own agency ;
he would be the benefactor ; that would create a bond of gratitude
and friendship.
' It may be true,' he repeated. ' What kind of man was this Mr,
Capel, or Willf)ii(,'lihy, if lh:it was his name ?'
' A tall man, who had once been handsome, and was still good-
l>>f»king ; about fifty-six years of age ; with aquiline features, and
eyes very clear and keen ; he used to dyo his hair, which was
brown.'
264 KATHARINE REGINA.
James Rolfe rang a bell. One of the clerks came in.
' Will you tell this gentleman,' he said, ' what sort of man to
look at was Captain Willoughby — you know — the man who came
once a quarter to draw his money ?'
The clerk described him almost in the same words as those used
by Tom.
' The description corresponds,' said the lawyer with the astute-
ness of his profession, which never fails to perceive that things
which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other, and that
two and two make four. ' I remember him quite Avell, and I
recognised in your description the man who used to come here for
his money. But I wanted the corroboration of a second witness.
Upon my word, Tom, I begin to think you must be right. Re-
member that we could find no relations to Mr. Capel ; and when I
advertised for the heirs of Captain Harry Willoughby, we got no
answer, because, as we know pretty well, his own family have long
since cut him off. I believe, Tom, that you are right. In that case
— lucky dog ! — the inheritance will be yours after all !'
' Katie's, you mean.'
' The same thing, my dear boy, in spite of the Married Women's
Property Act. Just the same thing ; well, I'd ask you home, but
Harriet — who is a woman of a highly sensitive nature — she used to
see your ghost at night when you were first reported as killed —
has become so touched with thankfulness at your safety that I do
not think it would be wise to bring you home without first pre-
paring her.' He thought of the moonlight dagger scene, and was
afraid. ' After you went away there were no tenants. I took
temporary possession of the house in Russell Square. I hope you
approve.'
' Oh yes. Why not ? Somebody must live there, and why not
you ? Besides, it is not my property, but Katie's.'
' Well, Tom, we don't know yet. Besides, you gave me a power
of attorney, and of course I have been administering the estate.
But I should not like to do anything without your knowledge and
approval.'
Oh ! James ! and the cellar of v/ine ! and the jewels, and the old
silver mugs, and the books, and the pictures !
' Find my Katie— only find my Katie, Jem.'
THE SEARCH. 265
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SEARCH.
Then the advertisements began. They did not appear, this time,
in dark tunnels and on inaccessible peaks, but were duly displayed
in the second column of the Times, and in the ' agony ' columns of
the SUtndard, News, Telegraph, Post, and Chronicle. James was
now honestly anxious in his own interests that the girl should be
found. He was satisfied that Tom would ask no nasty questions
when the statement of his affairs was presented to him, and there
was a great difference between handing over the Trust to the heirs
of Miss Willoughby deceased, and retaining the papers so as to act
as the family solicitor for Katie after she was found. This,
together with the indirect methods, so to speak, which he had
already proposed to his wife, seemed to be a natural and easy way
out of the mess. But every day, as this youug man contemplated
the pile of papers connected with the estate, he cursed the luck
that brought his cousin home again. And every day when he went
home — they remained at Russell Square, but the establishment
was reduced to one miserable old woman, and there were no more
dinner-parties — Harriet received him with gloomy looks and sullen
speech. As if it was his fault that Tom had returned ! He put
this to her, but she made no reply, except by that kind of look
which makes a husband at once wrathful and small.
The advertisements began. Before long the whole country knew
that one Katharine Capel, aged twenty-one, had disappeared : that
when she was last seen she had on a black jacket, a black woollen
dress, a hat trimmed with black velvet, and a gray 'kcrcliief round
her neck : that she was five feet five in height, and had light-curling
hair, regular features, and gray eyes : and that she was accompanied
by a young lady, also missing, named Lily Doran, of dark com-
plexion, dressed in brown serge, with a black jacket, and a red
handkerchief. Yet the whole country combined was unable to
produce either of these young ladies. For some five weeks or so
the advertisements were continued. You shall hear, directly, Imw
they came to be discontinued. They produced three letters.
The first was from Mrs. Emptage, and was of no use, because her
information ceased witli i\w day wIkmi Katie left the house : but it
was an honest, good letter, full of: kindness towards the missing
girl, and Tom went to sec the writer. The Emptagu family had
removed from Doughty Street to a small Hemi-detachcd cottage
266 KATHARINE REGINA.
near Kensal Green, whore there is a whole village of cottages let
at eleven shillings a week each, inclusive of water-rates and taxes.
No servants arc kci)t in these cottages, and the children go to the
Board School, where they are much better taught than by gover-
nesses like poor Katie. Mrs. Emptage wept over her lost governess,
and her vanished gentility, and the reduced salary, mixing up all
together, till the series of disasters became one and indivisible, as
if Katie, in leaving the house, had carried out in her handbag the
fortunes of the family, and the family pride and dignity. But she
could give no guess of what had become of Katie.
The second letter was from Dittmer Bock, who asked for an
interview.
His information carried on the fortunes of the two girls for
twenty-four hours after they left Harley House. But, alas ! it
confirmed the news of their utter destitution. In the fog he had
lost them, and he knew no more. Whither had they strayed,
hand-in-hand, that hapless pair, in the yellow fog of that terrible
Sunday ?
' I have seeked,' said Dittmer. ' Ach ! Himmel ! Heilig ! I have
seeked in the bureaux where the names are taken of ladies who
want places. Nowhere do I find her. Whither is she gone ? What
does she do ? Honourable Herr War-Press-Correspondent, what
does she do ?'
It came out, in subsequent conversations and examination, how
he had passed the night with them and pledged his credit— the
credit of a German clerk on forty pounds a year ! — with the friendly
baker for them.
' Her heart was broken— Ja, Herr War-Press-Correspondent —
broken when she heard that you were killed. Afterworts she
never smiled except with the children of the gracious Lady Emptage.
Broken was her heart. Once I ventured to ask would she graciou.=ly
give me only one of the fragments. But she would not part with
the smallest piece. All — all — are yours, Herr War-Press-Corre-
spondent, Now you are back recome, and she, who should have
returned to the friihling and the time of roses — where is she ?
Love waits for her, und die Hochzeit— the High time —but where
is she ? I ask the everlasting stars.'
There was no reply from the stars, who of late years have ceased
to interest themselves in the fortunes of men, and are now silent,
perhaps unmoved, spectators, and refuse by any combinations of
their own to reveal the future or to guide the conduct of those
who consult them.
THE SEARCH. 267
There was, however, a third letter. This came from Harley
House, and was signed Beatrice Aspey. It was written in the old-
fashioned, straight-lined Italian hand which was formerly the only
kind permitted to women. Tom called upon the writer, who had
nothing to tell him but the history of the last weeks of privation
and fruitless hunting for work while the slender resources of the
two girls wasted away too rapidly. But she told him as well of
Katie's patience and her grief. And she spoke with so soft a
voice, a manner so gentle and a face so sweet, that his heart was
drawn towards her.
'And, oh! sir,' she concluded, 'I am sure — I know from my
experience that the two girls must have gone for days and days
with nothing to eat from breakfast one day to breakfast next,
because their breakfasts were all paid for beforehand, you know.
And when they went away Katie told the Matron that they had
not enough, between them, to pay for another week. And they
had parted with all their things.'
' Oh !' Tom groaned. 'My poor girl ! My poor Katie !'
' All thej' took away with them ihey carried in one small hand-
bag. I don't think they had even a change of clothes.'
' Make haste — tell me all.'
' That is all. To look for work week after week : not to find it :
to starve : to grow shabby and poverty-stricken in appearance :
and at last not to have money enough to pay for bed and breakfast
even in such a cheap place as this ! That is all, except that other
girls have friends, who will in the end, though often grudgingly
enough, do something when it comes to the worst. Those poor
girls had no friends. There were never two such girls in tlie
Home before. Their dreadful fiiondles.^ncss brought them together.
They shared what they had : they buffered together : and, oh ! Mr.
Addison, they went out into the streets together hand-in-hand,
quite penniless. Don't cry ; it is dreadful to see a man cry.
Perhaps they have found friends.'
' But where — where — where? And why don't they answer my
advertisementH ?'
' Why, girls like tliat never look at ]iapcrs except to sec if tliero
are any vacant places for which they can apply. What do they
want with news|)aperfl ? What interest can you expect a girl to
have in the world wlion all her thoughts arc centred in the dilFiculty
of finding food ?'
'Into tho ftrectH, friendless and pennilcsR,' Tom repeated. 'Poor
Katie ! Poor child I Was there no one in this House, where there
268 K.n^lTARIXF. REGINA.
are twenty women and more, all of whom knew of her dreadful
trouble, to do her the simple charity of keeping her from starva-
tion ? Not one ?'
' There are thirty women in this House. Not one among us all,'
Miss Beatrice answered with quiet dignity, ' is ever rich enough to
give away half-a-crown. This is Poverty Hall. This is the Refuge
of those who are broken down early or late in life : we are beggars
all, except my sister and myself, who live on a little money which
allows us to give a penny but never a shilling. Oh ! there are
pitying hearts among us. Do not doubt that ; sometimes one's
heart is like to burst with the miserable pitifulness of it all and
the want of power to help it,'
' Yet — so little would have done to help them over a week or
two.'
' How do you know that some of the other women here were
not in the same plight ? Do not condemn us hastily, Mr. Addison.
Only the night before they went away, we made a little collection
for them, and between us we raised a little purse of a few shillings
for them. Alas ! when I got up in the morning to give it them,
they were gone. And we have never seen or heard anything of
them since. I wanted to tell you this. It was not by our hardness
of heart that they were compelled to go away. It was my careless-
ness and laziness — I ought to have got up earlier.'
' It was fate. Everything was against them.'
' They have been looked for in the British Museum where the
girls went sometimes in search of copying work. But they have
not appeared there once. None of the Museum people have seen
them. "We have inquired about them in every likely place, but
there has been no sign.'
'In the streets — think of it! — friendless and penniless!' Tom
repeated.
' Yes — say it again, so that when you find her, you will rejoice
the more. Mr. Addison ' — she laid her hand on his — ' I am an old
woman now, and I have seen a great deal — my sister and I together
— of trouble and privation. We, too, have been reduced to walk
the streets all night for want of a bed and to go hungry for want
of food. Yet we were never utterly forsaken. Your Katie is not
quite friendless. The God who rescued you from the Arabs will
save her from the Devils — who destroy soul as well as body — of
the street ! Have faith, young man. Lift up your heart — oh ! lift
up your heart unto the Lord !'
This language is not so common as it used to be, and is seldom
THE SEARCH. 269
used for the comfort and solace of a London Journalist, who may
chronicle the emotions of religion, but is not often expected to feel
them. Yet the words and this gentlewoman's sweet voice and her
steady eyes so full of faith, fell upon his soul like rain on a thirsty
soil.
' The other girl,' she went on, ' was of a different nature — she
was less patient than Katie : she cried out and complained of the
bitterness of her lot : she was without hope, though she was so
young : the future was always dark to her. I tremble for Lily :
but for Katie I have more than hope, I have confidence.'
'Yet she has never been here to see you since her departure.
And that is over two months ago and more.'
'No ; I cannot understand why she has not come. But patience.
You have yourself been rescued in a manner so miraculous that
you may hope that a lesser miracle may have been wrought for
Katie. When I think of ourselves everything seems possible.
We were getting old — too old for teaching where they prefer
young and active girls — and we were resolving that we would soon
give up trying and go into the workhouse '
' What ? Had you, too, no friends ?'
' We had cousins. Do you know that it is sometimes better to
become a pauper than to accept the bread of grudging charity ?
Do not ask me about our cousins. Yet there was one whom we
remember with gratitude. For he left us a legacy of sixteen
hundred pounds in tbe Funds. It gives us fifty pounds a year.
Wc lodge in this house ; we have learned to live very cheaply on
fruit and such things : we have each other's love, and we have
kept our books. The winter of our days, believe me, is hallowed
by such sun!^liine as never fell upon our spring. Think of us,
young gentleman, when you tremble for the fate of Katie.'
Not a trace of the girls. Think how extremely difficult it is to
effect a disappearance unless one has a trusty confederate. The
face of ever}- man and woman in the world is known to many ;
there are marks ujjon his person ; his dress and speech and gait
are all known to his friends; if lie is 'wanted' by the police,
there is always somebody who is ready to give information ; land-
ladies of lodgings, innkeepers, waiters— arc all eager to get the
reward. With what infinite trouble does a runaway murderer
keej) himself concealed for even a week ! And yet here were two
girls, advertised for, a large reward olTind, their appearance de-
scribed, their stature given, tlieir dress when last seen, tliuir names,
and the probable nature of their occupation, and not a trace of
270 KATHARINE REGINA.
them to be fouad. Perhaps they had left the country. But they
had no money. Or they might have gone into some secluded
place. But it seemed impossible that there should be any place in
(xreat Britain so secluded that no newspaper should reach it. And
now the newspapers had taken up the matter and every day there
were speculations, letters, suggestions, and advice poured into the
columns. There are, it is true, many women who do not read
papers. Domestic servants, as a rule, do not ; many factory
women do not ; needlewomen, shirt-makers, match-makers, jam-
makers, buttonhole-makers, and their kind do not ; many shop-
girls do not ; there are artists who do not allow the serenity of
their souls to be ruffled by the newspapers ; there are young ladies
whose minds are wholly occupied by their Things ; there are
actresses who care for only one column in the newspapers. Yet if
these women do not, their employers, friends, lovers, and com-
panions do. And all the world was talking about the two missing
girls.
They had not been murdered, so far could be learned from the
inquests and police offices ; they might have been abducted — but
this was a thing only whispered ; they might have accepted some
post abroad and gone off by steamer ; they might . . . You may
imagine a thousand possibilities. Murder, suicide, abduction — no-
thing was forgotten, nothing was left to the imagination. The
advertisements went on; the reward was doubled; a hundred
letters were received from people, hojuug to get that reward, in-
forming the advertisers of two girls recently arrived in the neigh-
bourhood. And everybody now knew that the War Correspondent
who had been reported killed, but turned up again unhurt after a
few months of captivity, was engaged to one of the young ladies
who were lost. And day after day the papers announced that no
news had been heard of the missing pair.
It was unfortunate that they were advertised for together, be-
cause nobody had any suspicions at all about a single girl. It was
the pair who were looked for, as if they were Siamese-twins or
double-bodied Nightingales. Yet, as we know, they had been long
since separated.
It was early in December that the first real discovery was made.
Dittmer Bock it was who made it by means of a favourite
amusement of his, which was cheap, pleasant, and attainable every
night even by the clerk on forty pounds a year. He used to go to
the doors of a theatre at eleven o'clock and watch the ladies come
out. Heavens ! How beautiful they look, to the crowd of poor
THE SEARCH. 271
young clerks, who gather about the doors to watch these Visions of
another world ! And how wonderful, how perfect, how stable,
satisfying and complete does the world of Beauty, Wealth, and
Ease seem to the young men whose desires are so catholic and
comprehensive and whose possessions are so small ! One evening
Dittmer stood upon the kerb contemplating this procession of fair
women, filling his soul with sweet images, and wondering what it
would be like to be transported to the land where such creatures
roam free and fearless — suddenly, to the surprise of the bystanders
and the indignation of the policeman, he burst through the crowd
and seized the hand of one of these Heavenly Visions.
' Lily !' he cried.
'You? Dittmer Bock ?'
It was Lily. She was beautifully dressed, and she was on the
arm of a gentleman. There was no more beautiful woman in the
■whole Theatre than Lily, this evening.
She ought to have been proud of her dress and her opera-cloak
and the admiration of the whole house, and the brougham which
awaited her, and everything.
But she snatched her hand away and blushed crimson.
' Yon, Dittmer Bock ?'
'Who is it, Lily ?' asked the gentleman with her.
'An old friend. One moment, Dittmer. Where is Katie?
Don't tell her you have seen me.'
'I do not know where she is. We cannot find her. We are
looking for her everywhere.'
' We were parted in the fog. I have not seen her since that
night. It was in the fog. We tried to die together, Dittmer,' she
whispered — 'we did, indeed, but we were not allowed.'
' Come, Lily,' said the gentleman, ' we block the way.'
He pushed her gently into the carriage and drove away, taking
no notice at all of the clerk.
Dittmer ran straight with the discovery to Tom, and was greatly
astonished at the efFect which the intelligence jjroduced upon him.
This was the reason why the advertisements were discontinued.
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN T II 1; \V (I 1: K K <i (» M.
In an upper room, furnished with cinlit or ten Rewing machincH,
there Kit as many yirls at work. Tlie room was well ventilated
and wanuLiI : the girls looked contented : there was no talking,
272 KATHARINE REGINA.
but every girl sat over her sewing-machine and guided the work,
while the needle jumped up and down in that most surprising and
wonderful instrument. In a smaller room at the back a forewoman
was at work.
Downstairs there was a shoAvroom, quite a humble kind of show-
room, in which one or two more sewing-machines were at work.
And at the back of this was a small office, or sitting-room, in which
there were two ladies conversing. One of them was the lady who
ran this concern. It was conducted on Co-operative principles,
which is the reason why it has since been closed, because of all
things in this world there is nothing more difficult than to persuade
people to buy things at Co-operative productive stores, that is to
say, where the producers sell their things without the medium of
boss, chief, bourgeois, or master. Why this is so, it is impossible
to understand, seeing that there can be no doubt in the world, first,
that all labour will, before long, work out its emancipation from
the middleman, even the labour of those who write, and next, that
there is no single argument that can be urged against Co-operative
productive shops, especially those of women's work, except the fact
that they always fail. And they always fail for two principal
reasons : one being the astonishing hardness of heart which women
display towards their working sisters, and the other the incompe-
tency of the working women themselves.
This particular attempt was just then in the stage when a little
feeble public interest in it had been excited by superhuman efforts
of its friends, and success seemed possible, though there were many
anxieties. The two ladies in the office were discussing these
anxieties and possibilities. One of them, the manager of the con-
cern, a lady no longer young, had spent her whole life among the
working women. She had now arrived at the very unusual stage
of knowing exactly, not only what they say about everything, but
what they feel. Lady Bountiful, you see, hasn't the least idea of
what these people feel about things. She brings along a concert of
the Kyrle Society, and smiles around and feels good, and goes
away with a farewell smile. Sometimes she brings along other
things. But she never becomes one of the people. She is always
outside them.
' My dear,' she said to the younger lady — it was the same young
lady who had caught Katie on the bench as she was falling forward
— ' I really do think we have made a move.'
******
The above stars represent quite a long conversation about linen
IX THE WORKROOM.
-^/ J
garments, and orders and expenses and receipts, from the Co-
operative point of view, deeply interesting.
' And how do you get on with your hands ?'
' There is the usual percentage of stupid girls, lazy girls, and
incompetent girls. I know exactly what to expect. The most
satisfactory of all is the girl you brought to me — Katie.'
' What is her full name ?'
' I do not know — I have not yet asked her. She is quick to learn,
obedient and ladylike.'
' Yes. She is ladylike, poor thing ! Perhaps she was formerly a
lady's-maid.'
' Poor thing !' the other echoed. 'Without friends and without
relations. Left to die. Oh ! what a fate ! What a punishment !'
' Yet her face is full of innocence and purity. Can such a face
lie?
' She said that she had no friends and no relations. What can
that mean ?'
' Let us go upstairs and see her.'
They went upstairs where Katie sat at work before a sewing-
machine, quiet and industrious. She looked up and smiled as the
ladies entered the room. The look, the smile, the very carriage of
the head, were altogether different from the manner in which the
other girls greeted the chief. These girls were all what we call
decent and resjjectable : some of them were comely : some were
even ]>Tctty, as London work-girls very often are, p'ctites, with
narrow sloping shoulders, small face and large eyes : some were
country-bred, and showed it in their figures and the ample width
of their shoulders : some had the manners of the shop : some, of
the factory : some, of the London back street : some, of the slum :
some, of the farm : some, of the servants' hall ; none of them had
the manners which were shown by so simple a thing as Katie's
smile when she lifted her head.
She suffered no longer : she knew not, and liad not the least sus-
picion, of the dreadful things tliat were tliouLjlit and said about her
by the ladies — yes, the very ladies — who had befriended her. Sho
was in a haven of rest. She learned readily how to use the sewing
machine : she even took some kind of interest in the work : she sat
steadily working all day : she gained a siiirieient weekly wage, and
she had a room in a decent house recommended by the lady who
ran the Co-oi)crative IJuwincss. The other '^'irls lift licr alone : she
wa.s a youni^ lady who had somehow gone down the hill and got to
their own level, and yot did nut belong to them. All the day she
18
274 KATHARINE REGINA.
sat at work, but the hours were not long : in the evening she was
free to go home and sit in her room and read, or to walk about.
At first she sat in her room every evening, but she had now begun
to walk about a little. She hoped for nothing : she expected
nothing : she desired nothing, except to earn the means of paying
for a roof and a resting-place, and food and clothes.
Not a healthy mood for so young a girl : but she had gone
through so much suffering that rest was all she wanted. There
are, in every person's life, times of suffering which are followed by
times in which the exhausted brain sees things as in a dream, and
men as trees, walking, and pays no heed to aught that passes.
This was Katie's state. She paid no heed. She did not inquire or
care what was said and thought about her : she did not try to
ex[)lain how she had fallen into such a helpless condition : it
never occurred to her, most fortunately, to ask what was thought
of her.
The young lady, her rescuer, shook hands with her, though
somewhat doubtfully — there are several ways of shaking hands, as
everybody knows, and when a young lady shakes hands with a
girl who has the manners of a lady, but has been picked up starving,
and confesses to having no friends and no relations, a certain
something — constraint, doubt, condescension, or encouragement —
cannot but be remarked in the manner of extending or withdraw-
ing the hand. Chapters — whole essays — great books — might be
written on the differences, shades, and grades of shaking hands,
from the affable greeting of a prince to the cheerful grasp which a
workhouse chaplain bestows upon his sheep.
Katie, however, noticed nothing unusual in this welcome.
' You are quite strong and well again now, are you ?' asked the
young lady.
'Quite, thank you.'
' Are you still living in the same house ?'
'Yes,' Katie replied, without interest in the matter. ' They are
quiet people who leave me alone.'
' Maj' I call upon you some day ?'
' Certainly. Why not ?'
' It must be on Sunday, after service. I shall not interrupt you
then. My name is Katie, like yours — Katie Willoughby. You
will tell me yours, perhaps, when I call at your lodgings. I should
so much like,' she added in a lower voice, ' to be your friend, if you
will let me.'
Katie made no reply. But her eyes fell upon the girl's dress.
JN THE WORKROOM. 275
There was a coloured scarf round her neck and a bit of bright
colour in her hat and tan-coloured gloves.
' I thought,' she said, ' that you were in deep mourning. "Was I
dreaming ? Sometimes a strange feeling comes over me, as if every-
thing was a dream.'
' You are quite right. I was in deep mourning. But oh I Katie,
on the very day that I found you, the most joyful news that ever
reached any girl came to me : it told me that the — the person for
whom I mourned was not dead at all, but living, and I put off my
mourning.'
' Was it your lover ?'
' Yes — it was my lover. Thank God, he was restored to those
who love him.'
' Come on Sundaj',' said Katie, suddenly interested. ' I will tell
you of all my trouble, if you are not too happy to hear it.'
On Sunday morning Miss Willoughby called. But she could not
hear the story that morning, because the girl lay in bed with some
kind of fever. Her head and her hands were hot : her words were
wandering. She spoke of the fog and of the night, and called upon
Tom to come back and help her. But as for her story, she could
not tell it, because reason and will and knowledge and self-rule had
left her brain, which was the abode of delirium.
They carried her to the Hospital for Women in the Marylebone
Road. There was nothing to show where she came from or who
were her friends. In her pocket — girls no longer, except in books,
carry treasures in their bosoms — lay tied together a ])acket of
letters. They were from a man who signed himself ' Tom ' — tout
court — nothing but ' Tom,' and addressed her as Katie. What can
be done with ' Tom 'V This Tom was madly in love with her. Ho
called her every endearing name that a fond lover can invent : ho
recalled the pant days of happiness together : he looked forward to
the future. He was in a railway train : he was on board a ship :
he was among soldiers : he spoke of natives: he spoke of Arabs —
clearly, therefore, a Tom among Egyptians. I'robaljly a Tom who
had been killed. He did not somehow write like an officer : his
letters contained no news ; for that he referred her to the papers :
ail ho bad to loll his girl was that he loved her — he loved her — lie
loved her— and was always and for ever her Tom.
The Hister of the ward read these sacred letters, and placed tliem,
with a sigh that so much honest love hIiouM bo lost, under Kiltie's
pillow. Time enough to try and find out, if she grew worse, what
had become of this Tom and who his Katie really was,
18—2
276 KATHARINE REGINA.
She did grow worse, but she had youth on her side and a good
constitution, which had certainlj^not been spoiled by hixurious living
or the want of exercise. She even lay at the point of death : had
she died there would have been nothing to establish her identity,
but those letters and her handkerchief marked ' K.R.C Then she
would have been buried, and Lily's prophecy would have come
partly true.
' She is better this morning,' said the Sister. ' Her head is cool.
She has been sleeping a long time.'
' She is more beautiful than ever in her weakness.' It was Miss
Willoughby who stood beside the bed with the Sister and the Nurse.
' Sister, think of it ! She told me she was without friends or
relations ! Is it possible ?'
' It is certainly not possible,' said the Sister. ' There is ])erfect
innocence in her face and — more than that — in her talk. We hear
the delirious talk of women whose lives have not been innocent and
we learn their past. This girl's mind is as innocent as her face.
You might make a painting of that and call it " Eve before the
Fall," or "Una," or "Mary, the Sister of Martha." She may be
friendless, but ' The Sister shook her head and went away.
Miss Willoughby sat by the bedside and waited.
'No friends and no relations.' How could a girl have neither
friends nor relations? Yet to conclude that the girl deserved to
have none was cruel and unjust. Miss Willoughby was ashamed of
her hard thoughts. Besides, she had heard from the Sister about
those letters.
Then Katie opened her eyes again, and looked as if she could speak.
' Do you know me now, dear ?' asked Miss Willoughby.
' Yes, I know you.'
' You have been very ill. You are still weak. You must not
talk much. But tell me your name.'
' Katharine Regina.'
' What ?' Miss Willoughby started. ' How did you get that name ?'
' It is my christian name.'
' What is your surname ? What was your father's name ?'
' Willoughby Capel.'
'Willoughby — Katharine Regina! It is very strange. Have
you any relations named Willoughby ?'
' I have no relations at all,'
Then she closed her eyes again.
' Leave her now,' said the Nurse. ' She is weak, and had better
rest and go to sleep again.'
IN THE WORKROOM. 277
Xext day Miss Willoughby called again, bringing grapes. Every
grape upon the bunch was a big tear of repentance because she had
thought so cruelly of her patient. Only the patient never knew.
When one goes about a city a great deal and meets with many
experiences, most of them of a truly dreadful kind, one naturally
draws conclusions which would seem to many ladies most wicked.
In the same way the doctor, when you tell him certain things, at
once suspects the very worst. Katie never knew.
She was sitting up in bed, already in a fair way of recovery.
' Are you strong enough to talk to-day ?' asked Miss Willoughby.
' Oh yes. I can talk to-day. But I have only just begun to
understand all that you have done for me. I cannot thank you
yet '
' Do not talk of that at all.'
' You must have thought me most ungrateful when I was working
at the sewing-machine. But all that time seems like a dream. I
only half remember it. You were in mourning first, and then you
put it off and you told m^ something.'
' I was — I was in the very deepest grief as well as the deepest
mourning, for my lover was said to be dead — and now I am in the
greatest joy and thankfulness because my lover has been miracu-
lously restored to me. Ought I not to be happy?'
' I am so glad. My lover too is dead. But he can never be re-
stored to me.'
' Your lover, dear ? Oh ! You had a lover too, and he was
killed, like mine. Oh !'
She took her hand and pressed it.
* I know his name, because the Sister read his letters in order to
find out who you were. Ilis name was Tom.'
' Yes, it was Tom. And Tom is dead.'
' Will you tell me something more about yourself ?' she asked.
' Not more than you want to tell. I am not curious indeed, but if
I can hel[) you . . . C)li ! lot mo help yf)u, because I met you on
the very day tbat the telegram came which brought my lover back
to life. In the evening when I wont home — after I left you — they
brought it to me. Oh ! my dear — my sister brought it crying —
my father kissed me — and my mother kissed me— and they were all
crying and I know not why — on the very sanio day when I found
you. Can I ever think of that day without thinking of you, too?
God has given you to mo, so that I may deal with yf)U as Ho has
dealt with me. And I can never let you go away— never — never.'
' Oh !' Haid Katie, deeply moved. ' What can I Hay ?'
278 KATHARINE REGINA.
' I shall never forget that day. Oh ! how I rushed to tear off the
black things and to . . . My dear, you arc a part of that day.
Now tell me more. You said your name was Katharine Regina.
That is my name, too. There is always a Katharine Regina in the
family. And I never heard of any other family which had those
two names. And your father's name was Willoughby Capcl. It is
so very odd that I have been thinking about it all night. Tell me
more, dear. You said you had no relations.'
'No — I know of none. My father would not speak of his
relations. I have sometimes thought that they quarrelled with
him. He was once, I know, in the array with the rank of Captain,
and he had an annuity or allowance, but I do not know who paid
it or anything else at all about him.'
' What a strange story !'
' The annuity was not a very large one, and I had to give lessons.
I was governess to a lady — oh ! not a very grand person — whose
husband was a clerk in the city. I went there every morning at
nine and came home at five. She was a good woman and kind to
me — I was more a companion and a nursery governess than any-
thing else.'
' Well, dear ?'
'My father died suddenly at the beginning of this year. But I
was engaged by this time, and as I had Tom I was happy and full
of confidence. I went to live at Harley House — a place where
governesses can live cheaply.'
' I know the place. Sister, what did you say about her face ?
You were quite right. Go on, dear — I know Harley House.'
' Then a very curious thing happened. Tom's uncle died and left
him all his money, and for a week we were rich. But a solicitor —
Tom's cousin — discovered that all the money belonged to somebody
else. So we were poor again, and Tom went out to Egypt.'
' To Egypt ?'
' Yes : he was a AVar Correspondent.'
'Oh! Katie — Katie '—Miss Willoughby caught her hand — 'tell
me — tell me — what was his name ?'
' His name was Addison.'
Upon this, the young lady behaved in a very surprising manner
indeed. For instead of saying ' Oh !' or ' Dear me !' or ' How
very interesting !' she covered her face with her hands, and Katie
saw that she was crying.
' What is the matter ? Why are you crying ?'
' I am ci-ying, my dear — oh, my dear, what am I crying for ? It
IX THE WORKROOM. 279
is because you are getting better. Go on, dear, I won't cry any
more. Go on — Tom was his name, wasn't it ? Poor Tom ! Tom
Addison, and he went out as War Correspondent and was killed by
the Arabs at Suakim with an officer. Captain McLauchlin — but
their bodies were never recovered, were they ? Poor Tom Addison !
Poor Captain McLauchlin ! Poor girls who loved them at home in
England !'
' Do you know all about it ?'
' My dear, it was in the papers — but not your name. The world
is never told more than a quarter of the truth. And none of the
papers said a word about Katharine Regiua.'
' Yes — he was killed, and then — oh ! what did anything matter ?
In the middle of my trouble Mr. Emptage came home one day and
said his salary was cut down from three hundred a year to a
hundred and fifty. They couldn't afford to keep me any longer.
So I had to look for another place. There are thousands of girls —
ladies— looking for work everywhere. Oh ! it is a miserable world
for them. Thousands of girls — you cannot imagine, until you go
about looking for work, how many there are — thousands breaking
their hearts in trying to get work, and some of them starving
because they cannot get any. I was one — and I had nothing left
at all, and I spent two nights walking up and down the streets
without a home, and on the second night I lost my only friend in
the terrible fog. When you found me I had just learned that the
Emptagcs had left Doughty Street and gone away — I knew not
where. And then I think I must have broken down.'
' And then I found you. Oh ! I found you.'
At this poiut the Sister appeared again.
'Not too much excitement, Miss Willoughby,' she said. 'Hasn't
there been enough talk for to-day ? Why, whatever is the matter ?'
It was the young lady in fact, and not the patient, who was
weeping.
'Yes, Sister — I will come again to-morrow. Enough talk for to-
day. My dear, it was none other than the Hand of God Himself
which led me to you that day. Oh ! There are also many happy
women in the world — oh ! so many. See how miserable T was only
a month ago, and now how liai)py and how gral(;ful ! Tlie clouds
will roll away from you too. I see them rolling away : there is
nothing but blue sky and sunshine above, if only you could see
thcin. Yes, Sister, I am coming. I talk too much always. I am
coming. Kiss me, dear. Oh ! kiss me and try to love me always,
becau.so wo have had the same sorrow and may have . . . Yes,
Sister, I am coming — I am coming.'
28o KATIIARISE REG IN A.
She hurried away, but Katie heard her talking and crying again
outside the door. And she heard words — it was the Sister who
said them — which had no meaning, so that she thought the old
dreamy feeling was going to return,
' She must not be told yet : not until she is stronger. But let
the poor man who wrote those letters be told at once.'
This was very remarkable. But the day was full of strange
things. Presently the Secretary, who generally keeps downstairs
all day and writes letters with tremendous energy, getting writer's
cramp in no time, came into the Ward and made straight for Katie's
bed and asked her if she was feeling stronger. As she asked the
question her eyes filled, and she turned hastily away. Then the
Sister came and placed the grapes handy for her and smoothed her
pillows, and her eyes became humid too — fancy a hospital Sister,
who sees so many sick people every day, giving way to the least
resemblance of a tear ! The thing was completed by the visit of
the Senior Physician to the Hospital, who went her rounds in the
afternoon and stood over Katie with eyes which were certainly
misty.
When people are recovering from fever they are as sleepy as
children and as incapable of asking questions of themselves. That
is to say, they may ask those questions, but if there is no reply
forthcoming they immediately cease to wonder why there is none.
So that when Katie had said to herself, ' What mean these pheno-
mena ?' or words to that effect, and when she received no reply, she
did not repeat the question, and she did not wonder in the least why
there was no reply, and she fell fast asleep and slept like a young
child, all round the clock, while in the beds round her some of the
women tossed and turned unquiet, and some slept like herself, and
some looked, with haggard eyes, for more torture, and some silently
jmiyed that death might come to close the record. Always, in a
Hospital, there is life returning and life departing : always may be
heard the long and peaceful breathing of those who sleep while
health returns, and the sighs of those who listen in the hushed
watches of the night for the wings of Azrael.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE SHATTERING OF THE CASTLE.
Thf, Rolfes sat at breakfast in the dining-room of their Russell
Square house. That is to say, James Rolfe was taking breakfast,
while his wife stood at the window looking into the garden, gloomy
THE SHATTERISG OF THE CASTLE. 2S1
with its black trunks and sooty evergreens, regardless of the cold.
Her face was charged with clouds which betoken thunder and
licchtning.
' Harriet,' said her husband, turning round and looking at her,
' what's the good of it ? "What the devil is the good of carrying on
like this ?'
She made no reply,
* I say, Harriet, grumpiness doesn't help. You may sulk as much
as you please, but you won't send Tom back to Egypt.'
' I can't bear it,' she cried, starting up and walking about the
room. ' I won't bear it.'
' What will you do then, Harriet ? You might as well declare
that you won't bear a toothache. Because, my dear, bad temper
never yet cured a toothache or changed a man's luck.'
' Oh ! you deceived me — you deceived me.'
'No, Harriet, no,' he replied calmly. 'I did not deceive you.
Do sit down and have breakfast comfortably. No, my dear. Don't
let us call things by bad names. I only kept back certain facts.'
' You told me nothing about the trust-money.'
'I did not.'
'You told me nothing about the girl. The money was hers,
and you knew it, and you saw she was in trouble, and you let her
go without telling her. Oh ! Jem, you are a villain ! Something
dreadful ought to happen to you.'
' Don't be a fool, Harriet. Tom was dead — a dead man ought
not to be permitted to rise again in this manner — not a soul knew
about this Trust except myself. I am perfectly certain that
nobody knew. As for the girl, she didn't know, so she expected
nothing, and therefore was not disappointed nor any tlic worse.
If I had told you, why, at the very first Hare up, you would have
let it all out. I know you too well, my dear : ranch too well.'
'You deceived me — you have always deceived me,' .she rcjieatcd
with flashing eyes and a red spot on either cheek. 'But it's the
last time. You shall never have the chance of deceiving me again.'
'Just as you like, Harriet. How long is the present rampage
going to continue ?'
'You have always deceived me from tlic beginning. Oh! wliat
a fool I was to trust a word you said. I miglit have guessed what
sort of a man you were from your companions. And now you
want me to help in rol)bing your cousin. Yts — in robbing and
stealing. Oh !'
•Call it what you like, Harriet.' But he reddened. 'I am not
282 KATHARINE REGINA.
going out of this job empty-handed, T promise you. Half of it
ought to be mine, by rights. And what with the jewels and the
silver mugs and the wine and the pictures and my bill of costs and
all ' — he emphasized his conjunctions so as to impress upon himself
the power of arithmetic— ' I intend to come pretty well out of it,
Harriet.' He added a few words of more vigorous English with
reference to Harriet's temper.
' Yes,' she replied, ' I know you will get a few hundred pounds,
and you will spend it all in drink and racing and betting and
billiards, and where shall we be afterwards ? No, Jem, I am not
going back to the old life. Don't think it. I shall go my own way.'
'You always have gone your own way, Harriet. But you are a
fine woman and I'm proud to own you.'
' Own me ?' She was not in the least mollified by the compliment
to her appearance. ' You own me ? I will show you how much
you own me.'
' Proud to own you, my dear,' he repeated. ' A handsome crea-
ture, but the deuce and all in harness. Nasty tempered, stubborn,
hard in the mouth, handy with her heels, skittish, and apt to shy.
They're faults, Harriet, that take the value off the most perfect
animal. And now shut up and have done with it, and don't worry
me any more, or I may lose my temper too ; and that would be bad
for you. Sit quiet : do what I tell you without calling it ugly
names : and I'll pull you through.'
She made some kind of inarticulate answer, and returned to the
chair in the window, where she sat in silence. Her husband inter-
preting — poor mistaken creature ! — silence for submission — who
ever heard of a woman — and such a woman — submitting in silence ?
— chuckled, turned to the table and proceeded with his breakfast
and his morning paper.
The door-bell rang loud and long. Harriet started in her chair,
turned red and pale in turn, and glanced quickly at her husband.
He paid no attention to a ring at the street-door — why should he ?
— and folded his paper so as to get at the sporting news.
But he jumped to his feet when Tom Addison appeared.
' Tom ! my dear boy !' He seized Tom's hand with effusion.
' You are unexpected : but the earlier the better. You can't come
too early. Besides, this is your own house. Let me introduce you
to my wife, whom you have never seen before. Strange, isn't it,
between cousins?' He was winking rapidly with both eyes. ' Harriet
has been longing to make your acquaintance, and to tell you of the
joy and gratitude which she felt when you were reported safe.
Nothing ever affected her with so much happiness.'
THE SHATTERING OF THE CASTLE. 2S3
' That's a falsehood, James,' said his wife quietly.
James turned pale and winked again with both eyes.
' That is my husband's falsehood, Mr. Addison,' she repeated.
' I was not glad or grateful to hear it. I was very sorry, though I
did not swear about it or use the awful language that James did.
We were both horribly sorry, Mr. Addison. Nobody could be
more sorry and miserable than we were when the news came. It
was a most dreadful blow to us. It brought back upon us the ruin
which your death had averted. Don't be deceived. I did not want
to make your acquaintance at all. And you have no worse enemy
in the world than my husband.'
' Go on, Harriet — go on. Make as much mischief as you can.'
' He deceived me. He told me that your death was the luckiest
thing in the world, because it gave us all the property. He never
told me anything about the girl or the trust-money, because he
meant to keep it all to himself,'
' Oh !' Tom cried.
'"Wait a bit,' said his cousin. 'Let her run on.'
' He meant to keep it for himself, because he said that nobody
knew of it but you and him, and he should be a fool to part with
it. He was a thief from the day when you were killed.'
' I'll be even with you for this, Harriet,' her husband murmured.
' Then he found out who the real owner of that money was.
Tom, it was your sweetheart — Miss Capel. He never told me that
either. And when she came to his ofTicc, poor and in misery, he
never told her — though he knew that all this money was hers —
nor offered to help her, and let her go as she came— starving and
in rags.'
' What ? Is this true ?'
■ Wait a bit,' Jem replied huskily.
'Now that you have returned, ho is going to pretend to find
out who ought to have the money and to win your confidence by
telling yon.'
' Harriet — you're a devil. She's put out this nioDiing, Tom.
We've had a row. She doesn't know what she is saying. As for
the Tniat, T tfild you iilwut it long ago, and yon yourself \><h\ ino
that l^Ii.sH Capel is the lieircss.'
Torn turned to Harriet.
' Have you anything more to tell me ? You wrote to mc that if
I wf)nl<] c'lll this morniii!,', your liusband and you liad many tilings
of imijortancc to communicate. Ah for Katit-.'s inheritance, I know
it already. Whether he knew before I told him '
2S4 KATHARINE REGINA.
' lie dill know before you told him. He told me about it before
you came home.'
'Go on, Harriet. I suppose you will come to an end some
time,' said her husband, sitting down. ' I shan't interrupt you any
more.'
Harriet went out of the room and returned with a bag, which
she placed upon the table.
* There are your aunt's jewels, Mr. Addison. My husband made
me pack them up in a bag. He was going to take them away and
sell them. He said that you would never miss them, and that they
were worth a pile of money.'
Her husband said nothing, but drummed upon the table with his
nails.
' He has taken down half the pictures in the house and is going
to cart them away. He says you won't miss them. You will find
them stacked all ready in the hall.'
' Go on,' said Tom. ' Is there any more?'
Harriet opened the doors of the sideboard, which was an old-
fashioned thing with a cupboard in the middle. It was full of
Uncle Joseph's old silver — his collection of mugs and cups, spoons,
bowls, and ladles— a collection worth any amount of money.
' He has put all the old silver here ready to be taken away. He
was going to take it away this evening in a cab.'
Tom groaned. ' Is there much more ?'
' No. There is your uncle's wine-cellar. We've been drinking
the wine ever since we came, and he means to carry away all the
rest. He says you will never know that there was a cellar full,
and he will either drink it himself or sell it.'
' Go on, my angel,' said her husband.
'There is nothing more to tell, Mr. Addison. Now you know
what kind of cousin you've got. Let him deny it who can.'
' Why do you tell me all this ?' asked Tom.
' Because she's had a quarrel with her husband,' said Jem, who,
as the lady's husband, ought to have known. ' When she's in a
rage, she says anything.'
' I tell you all this partly to punish him for his deceptions, and
because I am not going to prison for his sake, and because I am
not going back to the old life. He deceived me when he took me
from my stall and swore he was a rich man : he had no money left ;
and though he had an office, there was no business. He deceived
me again about this money : and at last, he wants me to join him
in stealing and robbing. And that completes the job. I am going
THE SHATTERING OF THE CASTLE. 285
to leave him, ]\Ir. Addison. I shall put on my bonnet and go away
at once. James,' she said with a hard laugh, ' I have saved you
from a crime. You ought to be thankful to me some day. Besides,
you have got rid of me. Why, if you had not taken me from my
stall on pretence of being a rich man, you might have been spared
all this temptation. Mr. Addison, I have told you the truth and
the exact truth. T am truly sorry that the young lady has been
kept out of her rights, and I am, oh ! ever so sorry you ever came
home again, and I don't pretend to be glad. What a dreadful thing
it would be for the world if many dead men became alive again !
When James has got plenty of money and isn't worried he doesn't
get drunk, and he stays at home and lays himself out to be a good
husband and to please his wife. When he's got no money he is
tempted to do wicked things and carries on shameful. That's the
chief reason why I am sorry you are alive. Now I've told you, I
will leave you to settle with him by yourself.'
She turned to her husband as if loth to leave him and yet
resolved.
' Find another wife, Jem,' she said. ' You can always catch a
shop-girl by pretending to be rich.'
Her husband growled.
' Good-bye then, Jem,' she said. ' You will now have nobody to
keep but yourself, unless you find a wife. Living alone ought not
to cost much, I should think. Perhaps you will l)e able to keep
honest.'
He winked hard and made as if he would speak. But no words
came. Then she left the room with a little bow to Tom, and as
much dignity as she could assume. The two men were left alone.
It was an embarrassing situation. These two men had met as
friends a quarter of an hour before ; one of them firmly trusted
the other. And now . . .
' Harriet has made up a voi"y fine collection of lies,' said Jem
with a whole series of tight winkn, and an attempt at a light and
cheery manner. ' When she's in a wax there's nowhere a finer
stringer of big ones' — he glanced furtively at his cousin, who stood
meditating, his liand on the bag containing the jewels. 'Now I
assure you I hail no more notion of what she was going to make
up this time than you yourself. Ran tin in olT line and fluent,
didn't she? In half an hour's time slie will he crying on my neck.
Poor Harriet! It is her infirmity. I'oor Harriet! And as lor
these li( 8, the less we discu.'^s them the better. They're too alisurd
to be mischievouK.'
286 KATHARINE KEG IN A.
' How crime the jewels in the bag ?'
' She put 'em there herself. I know nothing about them.'
' How did she get the key of the safe ?'
' I gave it her. Why, when you were dead, I thought the jewels
and everything else were mine. I gave her the jewels for herself.
She only put them into the bag to make up a story.'
'Yet you promised — you promised solemnly — that if anything
remained over after the trust-money was paid you would give it to
Katie.'
' That was when we thought there would be barely enough in
that Trust. You could not expect '
' Go on.'
* Well — I gave her the key of the safe where the jewels were
lying. That is all I have to explain.'
' Then there is the old silver. I suppose you know that my
uncle's collection of silver is worth a great deal.'
'I gave it all to my wife as well. I didn't want old silver.
Women like those things. I gave it all to her — not to sell, of
course. She wouldn't have sold it. What does she do ? Pack it
up in this sideboard and pretend I put it there.'
' Then there are the pictures. I noticed a whole stack of them
in the hall.'
' I suppose she put them there herself. By the Lord ! Tom, it's
as neat a put up thing as I ever saw.'
' As for the wine now '
' Oh ! as for the wine, I drank it regularly till you came home.
Why not ?'
'Jem — there's some law about inheritance. Were you entitled
to all these things ? I have other cousins, you know, by my
mother's side. They are in New Zealand, to be sure, but still
' Well,' — Jem looked embarrassed, and he winked hard — ' I can
make all that clear to you. But it's a long story. I can't explain
the law of inheritance in five minutes. When we have a quiet
quarter of an hour together '
' Ye — yes,' said Tom. ' Your wife's revelations have made me
see things more clearly. My return must have disgusted you more
than enough, and I ought to have understood it. I forgot that
altogether. Well, you had better, I think, let me take possession
at once of my own house, if it is mine — or temporary care of it, if
it is not mine, with these valuable things. Please make out a
statement of the whole Estate with its liabilities by — say — by to-
morrow. Can you do that ? Shall I send in accountants to help
you ?'
THE SHATTERIXG OF THE CASTLE. 287
' I must saj%' Jem began, ' that your suspicions '
'I do not allow myself to have any suspicions. As for most of
what your wife alleged, I shall never make any further inquiries.
But until I hear from — from Katie's own lips — if ever we find her
— the truth about her interview with you — whether she revealed
her destitute condition to you or not— I cau have no dealings with
you.'
' I suppose,' said Jem, ' that I may make out my bill of costs.'
'Certainlj', Oh ! Jem, if you had acted well by tbat poor girl
— if you had behaved with common honesty and truth — there is
nothing in the house that you might not have taken. Nothing of
mine that you could not have had. Man ! I would have made you
rejoice and thauk God that I returned.'
By this unfortunate and unexpected accident were Jem's hopes
of getting something solid out of his uncle's estate wholly blasted.
Who could have believed that Harriet would have rounded on him
in such a way ?
There is only one more chapter of this history to be written.
And that is a short chapter. Let me therefore explain that Jem's
after-conduct with regard to Uncle Joseph's estate was perfectly
fair and upright. He sent in, the next day, a statement of the
estate and the various securities, houses and lands, belonging to it.
He also sent in his bill of costs, which was naturally heavy, not to
say outrageous, and he wrote a letter couched in most dignified
language, stating that after what had passed he should be pleased
to be relieved of his functions in administering the property with-
out the least delay.
This done, and having received a reply, and a cheque for the bill
of costs, untaxed, he sent the whole of the papers to his cousin's
new advisers, cashed the cheque, called a cab, and drove away.
He never came back. The two old clerks went on dozing and
meditating ; the Ijoy slumbered and read penny novels and played
at astragals in the ofiice below, until Saturday, and then — there
was no money, and no one to ask for it. Tlicy waited another
week. The master came no more. And then they understood that
their engagement had come to an end. Tiie boy was the most
grieved of the tlirec, Ijecause, to him, tlic disaster meant that ho
wouhi now have to find a place where he must work in earnest.
The two old men, wlio had done their life's work, also looked for
other jilaees, but failed to get an engagement elsewhere. One of
them had waved money, and he proceeded to buy himself an annuity,
and is a most respectable old gentleman with strong opinions in
288 KATHARINE REGINA.
jjolitics. The other, who hail saved none, went into the Marylc-
bone "Workhouse, and is now one of those useful collegians who
learu the rules by heart, and insist upon their being carried out to
the letter, and complain to the Guardians continually.
Tom met his cousin a few months afterwards. He looked less
like a serious solicitor than ever. Tom bore no malice — being now
restored to happiness — and shook hands with him in cousinly
fashion.
' And how are you doing ?' he asked. ' Getting on with your
profession ?'
' No. I say, Tom, what that she-devil said was all true, I
meant to have stuck to all the money when you were dead. You
ought not to have come back. You were dead. You had had your
funeral, so to speak — what would happen if dead men kept on
coming back and upsetting things ? When you came back, I saw
that I should get nothing unless I helped myself. But I did hope
that you would find the girl, and that we should arrange everything
friendly,'
' I see,' said Tom. ' Well — it was ordered otherwise, as they say.
And how is your wife ?'
' She is singing at a Liverpool Music Hall. She went her way
and I went mine. A fine woman, Tom, with a temper. I believe
that Baronet fellow, Surennery, as they call him, put her on to it.'
' What is your way, Jem ?'
Jem winked both eyes, and laughed,
' I am now a tipster, Tom, I send the name of the winner, you
know — and the mugs send up their half-crowns by the dozen.
Juggins, thank goodness, is everywhere. Oh ! I'm doing pretty
well. As for the Law, I always hated it. You're looking well and
hearty, Tom, Good-bye — good-bye !'
CHAPTER THE LAST.
LIFE AND LOVE.
Everybody at the Hospital continued to show the most extra-
ordinary interest and sympathy with Katie during her short
convalescence. The Senior Physician spoke mysteriously of Joy
as a great assistance in cases where the patient had been brought
low by trouble : she also said that freedom from anxiety would be
found an invaluable medicine : and that rest from every kind of
work, with perhaps travel amid new scenes, would complete her
cure. She said these ridiculous things just as if rest and case and
LIFE AND LOVE. 289
travel were attainable, and withiu the reach of the poorest girl in
all London. Then the Sister, a most sober-minded and practical
person, free from all enthusiasms, agreed with the Senior Phj-sician,
and said that she was always right, as her patient would find.
Then the Secretary used to sit by her bedside and whisper that,
after all, there was no cui-e so good as Happiness. And so with
everybody. The other patients were all in the same tale, and
would tell her that she was a happy girl, and no one envied her,
because she deserved all. Why, even when visitors came to see the
other patients there used to be a great whispering, and the visitors
would look at her curiously. Because, you see, by this time, all
the world knew the story that I have written down, and there had
been leading articles on "Well-known and Historical Reappearances,
in which the Claimant always furnished one illustration, and a
certain Demetrius another, and Enoch Arden, Perkin Warbeck,
Lambert Simnel, and one Martin never failed to lend their names.
Katie mended fast — and one afternoon her friend Miss Wil-
loughby told her that the time had now come when she could leave
the Hospital.
' And now, my dear,' she said, ' you arc to have a surprise. Oh !
what a lot of things I have to tell you ! I heard yesterday what
the Doctor — oh ! she is a wise woman ! — said about Joy. Yes, Joy
is a beautiful medicine. Thank God, I know it in my own case.
Now there is no luggage to pack up, is there ':"
'I am the only girl in the world,' said Katle^' the only girl, I
believe, who has got no luggage, no possessions, no money, no
fricnd.s, and no relations.'
' Yes : which will make all that follows the more delightful.
You may add, my dear, that you have got no clothes.'
' No clothes ?'
' Why — you could not possibly go to the House of Joy in such
poor shabby things as you had on when we brought you here.'
' But I am in mourning, you know '
' My dear,' — she kissed her — ' nobody knows it better tlini I do.
SoraetimcH, however, we put off mourning — on joyful occasions —
say, for weddingH. It is my fancy, dear, that you put olf mourn-
ing for this day. To-inonow — if you like — you may put it on
again.'
Ihr new clothes were fitting for a young Indy, being, in fact,
much fiiKT than anything the poor girl hail over worn in her lifo
before, but Kitio [lut them on without a word.
I'J
290 KATHARINE REGINA.
' Where have you brought me V Katie looked about the room.
They had come iu a cab : it was five o'clock : outside it was dark
already : they were in a room beautifully furnished with all sorts
of pretty things iu it : the lamp was lit, and on the table tea was
standing in readiness.
' My dear, you must not ask too many questions, because I have
got such a lot to tell you. Oh ! how shall lever begin? First,
you shall have a cup of tea — and so will I — nothing in the world
like a cup of tea. Formerly ladies drank small beer. Think of
that ! Is it sweet enough, dear ? Oh ! Katie — I am so happy to-
night.' She stopped iu J.ier talk to kiss her. 'This is my own
room— is it not a pretty room ? And now I am going to give it up
to my sister, because I am going to be married— you know that,
don't you ? My lover who was dead has come back to life again^
and nothing will please him — the foolish boy ! — but that I must
marry him at once. Oh ! if your lover could come back too !
And I shall never have such a pretty room as this again, I ami^ure.
But I shall have him instead. He was in Egypt, you know, like
your boy — Tom — poor Tom Addison. My boy knew Tom Addison
very well. He will talk to you about him if you like.' She
stopped and kissed her again, and again the tears came into her
eyes.
' Well, it was all in the papers, and I dare say you saw it. There
was an expedition made, an attack, and the Egyptians ran away,
and my boy was reported missing — just like yours. Yes, dear, we
were sisters in misfortune — and we did not know it — that day when
you fell fainting into my arms, and told me you were without
friends and without relatives, and I was your cousin all the time.'
' Are you really my cousin ?'
' That is one of the things I am going to explain to you, dear
Katie. Oh ! if Tom Addison had only come home with Harry
McLauchlin.'
'McLauchlin ! That is the name of the officer who was missing
at the same time,'
' Yes — he was only a prisoner, and he escaped. If Tom had only
escaped with him ! Poor Katie ! we lost our lovers together. Oh 1
if we could find them together!'
She stopped and listened. Outside there were voices.
She ran out of the room, and Katie heard her saying, earnestly ;
'Not yet — oh ! not yet — I implore you — not yet — wait till I call
you.' Then she returned and shut the door carefully. 'Oh! I
have such a lot to tell you. First of all, dear, you are my cousin.
LIFE AND LOVE. 291
Do you see this portrait ?' It was a miniature representing an old
lady, sweet of face and beautiful. ' That is your great-aunt — and
mine — Katharine Regina Willoughby. Your name is the same,
and so is mine.'
'But my name is Capel.'
• Nothing of the kind, my dear. Your father called himself
Capel because he quarrelled with his relations — and — and refused
to speak to them any more, you know.' This was a kind way of
putting it, and the male members of the family reversed this
statement.
' But his real name was Willoughby. Here is a portrait of him
in uniform when he was in the army — there it is.' She brought a
water-colour portrait showing a very gallant young hero in scarlet.
'Tis a colour which sets off the fire and masterfulness of the hero
in his youth.
'Oh ! it is my father,' cried Katie, 'though I cannot remember
him so young as this. But he kept his good looks to the last.'
' Yes — it is your father. It is all proved now without the least
doubt, Katie.' She lowered her voice as one does when one is going
to say a disagreeable thing. ' "We will not talk much about him
because he — he had his faults, I am afraid. But you should keep
this likeness. He was Miss Willoughby's favourite nephew : she
gave him quantities of money : she forgave him all his extrava-
gances : she even placed a large sum in the hands of Mr. Joseph
Addison, her solicitor, so that he might enjoy an annuity of £300
a year, which was paid him regularly.'
' Oh I In Mr. Addison's hands ? Tom's Uncle Joseph ?'
' Yes — after his death the principal was to be given to her niece
— to you, my dear.'
• To me V
•Yes, to you. That Trust, the discovery of which sent Tom to
Egypt, was yours, Katie. Oh ! if you had only known it ! And I
am very nmch afraid tliat Mr. Roife, who seems to have been a
pcrtton of no moniis at all, was actually going to cheat you out of it.
It Ih all yourn, Katie : you arc — not rich perhaps — but you have
plenty. My dear, if Tom had only escaped with Harry !'
' Ob ! but how dill you find out all this ? Is it really true V
• You have lots of frieudn, Katie -(juantities of friend.s. There
arc both friends and relations waiting for yuu. To think that I
did not know, and took you to the (Jo-operativo Work Girls I But
never rain<l. And now I am goin^ to brin;.,' in some of your friomls.'
She rang the bell, and the door was opened with a promptitude
19—2
292 KATHARINE REG IN A.
which proved that the man — it was a man— must have been lurking
outside in readiness.'
' Katie,' said the other Katie, ' this is Harry McLauchlin — my
Harry — who was in captivity among the Arabs for six months with
your Tom. Harry made his escape, you know. If Tom could only
have escaped with him !'
The escaped prisoner, who showed no traces of his long captivity,
bowed and took her hand, but said nothing and looked embarrassed,
' It is like a dream to mc,' said Katie ; ' I cannot understand.
You were a prisoner with Tom — you were present when he — was
killed ?'
' Harry will tell you all if you please to ask him to-morrow ; not
to-day, dear. He will tell you how it fared with them in their long
captivity. But perhaps you will hear from another source.'
' Miss Willoiighby,' said Captain McLauchlin, recovering from his
confusion, ' we found out — Tom and I — in the talks which we had
at night, all about each other. We guessed that you could be none
other than the daughter of Harry Willoiighby.'
' Did Tom send me no message when you escaped ? None at all?'
' None,' said the Captain.
' Captain McLauchlin, tell me' — she caught his hand — ' oh ! tell
me, once for all, how he died ?'
' Not now — not now. Ask me, if you like, to-morrow.'
' Did he suffer ? Was he murdered while he tried to escape
with you ?'
' He was not murdered, but he suffered — well, he suffered about
as much as I did. We had a bad time of it. Miss Willoughby. He
helped me to bear it.'
' Ask him no more questions, dear,' said her cousin. ' To-morrow,
as many as you please. There is another friend who wants to see
you.'
The Captain stepped aside and the other friend came in.
It was Mrs. Emptage — and how she carried on, with what tears
and congratulations — yet she would not explain the thing that
made her so glad : and how she lamented the fallen family fortunes
and the interrupted education of her daughters on the one hand,
and how she rejoiced over Katie's happiness and good fortune on
the other, cannot be expressed. She spoke of her ha2)piness as of a
thing which left nothing at all to be desired.
'I am happy,' said Katie, greatly Avondering, 'because I have
found kindness and friends. But — oh 1 Mrs, I^mptage — I have
lost Tom.'
LIFE AND LOVE. 203
Mrs. Emi)tage nodded and laughed, and nodded again in a
bewildering manner. Then she stood aside. It seemed as if every-
thing was arranged beforehand and as if everybody knew his part.
The next visitor was no other than Miss Beatrice Aspey. She
came dressed in her poor old black stuff frock. Nobody could be
shabbier. The sight of her recalled the days of anxiety and the
circle of poor and struggling gentlewomen and the voice of the
Consoler. Katie sprang up to meet her.
' My dear,' said Miss Beatrice — if she was shabby, no one could
be sweeter, gentler, or more consoling — 'did I not say that in the
darkest moment and the most unexpected manner, God Himself
opens a way ? I have learned all — I know more than you— yes —
out of your sufferings you will learn a thousand lessons of charity
and love for others. You are rich, my dear, I hear, and happy.
Do not forget us. You will find changes. Miss Stidolph has gone
to the workhouse. I go to see her sometimes. And Miss Grant,
who worked so hard every night, is dead. She had been married,
my dear, and nobody knew it, to a wretched man. and she had a
boy for whom she worked so hard. Others have gone and new ones
come. We are all as poor, and we are all as struggling. Do not
forget the poor gentlewomen — oh ! the poor gentlewomen — who
have no friends but their Lord in Heaven !'
' Ffow could I ever forget them ? But oh ! Miss Beatrice, where
18 Lily ?'
Miss Beatrice dropped her eyes.
' I do not know — we have heard something, it is true. But I do
not know, indeed, where to look for her— or what she is doing. My
dear, you must be very humble and thank God for things of which
yon know not, a'< well as for things of which you know.'
So they kissed, and she too stood aside. There arc not many
ladies left who still keep to the old faith and use the old language,
and fear nothing because they live in a sure and certain hope.
Then thf-rn apprarod - none other than Dittmcr Bnck !
At the sitibt of Katio he burst into unfeigned wccjiing and Hob-
binpr, and f*-ll on his knees.
' Ach ! Ilimmcl !' lie cried. ' Tt wns my fault. T ought never to
have left you alone. I was a Dunitn Kopf. T lost my way in the
fog. And it was midniglit when T got back lo the I'ark, and you
were gone — you were gone. K/itchen, can you forgive mo ? All
your HufTorinvH wfro my frnilt. — iniin'. T.nt Uu^y arc all oV( r now
that ' He Htojiperl and rlioked.
She gave him her hand, which ho kisHcd, and got up still penitent.
394 KATHARINE REGINA.
' You did your best, Dittmer. Do not reproach yourself. Can
I ever forget that you were the only friend we had in the world —
Lily and I — before we all lost each other. Where is Lily ?'
Dittmer stammered. 'I — I — I — do not know,' he said, 'I seek
her still.'
' We must find her, Dittmer. Do not let us lose sight of each
other again. You must have so much to tell me after all those
weeks.'
' Ach ! I must no more call you Kiitchen but Fraiilein
Willoughby — and you Avill uo more listen to me, because ' He
stopped and looked confused. ' But you will be happy. What
matter if all the world were bankrupt so that you are happy ? It
is true that my salary which was forty pounds a year is now sixty :
I should have had thirty pounds a year to help you with, because
I could live easily on thirty pounds a year.' He sighed as if he
had lost a beautiful chance. ' I must not grumble. Your happi-
ness is worth more than thirty pounds a year. It is true also that
I have nearly completed a project which would give, I am surcj
another Godefroi to Hamburg if I could be helped by your
sympathy.'
' You will always have that, Dittmer.'
' No : you can no longer listen to my plans. What are ambitions
without a sympathetic friend ?'
' Why not, Dittmer ? Did we not agree that I was always to be
your sister ? What has happened to destroy that agreement ?'
'You are rich : you have many friends : you will have also '
He stopped because the other Miss Willoughby shook her finger.
' Ya — I gombrehend. I say nichts. I search for my island in the
Pacific Ocean, like Herr Godefroi.'
' Herr Bock !' — it was the other Katie — ' you can have no
more time. Now go— all of you — ^because there is still one other
friend. . . .'
'My dear,' she said, when they were alone, ' does joy kill ? Are
you strong enough to bear the greatest surprise of all ? Every-
thing has been restored to you. Your name, which your father
concealed : your fortune, which a dishonest lawyer wished to rob :
and — and — oh ! Katie — we are happy together. Heaven gave you
to me on the day when ray love came back to life — I give you back
to Tom — not killed, but escaped — and at home again and well —
waiting for you — waiting for you, my dear. . . .'
One shall be taken and another left. Where is the woman who
was left ? Alas ! they have not yet found her, though Dittmer
LIFE AXD LOVE. 295
seeks her continually. Perhaps iu the future, far or near, the
happy woman who was taken may be permitted to bring the solace
of love that endureth beyond shame unto the hapless woman who
was left. So mote it be !
They were married from Harley House, so that the girls who
have to seek continually for work and have never any joy in their
lives, or rest, or love, and never get enough of anything, have now
something sweet and pleasant to remember and to tell. Once, the
story now goes, there was a girl in Ilarley House — actually in
Harley House, where no male visitors are allowed on any pretence,
and all the girls go loverless — who had a lover of her own. But
he was killed. Then she lost her work and could find no more,
and became so poor that she had to leave even Harley House —
where one can live so cheaply — actually, she could not find the
money for Harley House — and went forth to wander penniless,
and she met with many remarkable adventures and nearly perished
of want and cold. But lo ! Her lover was not dead after all, and
he came back and found her, after many days, and they were
man-ied from Harley House by express permission of the Com-
mittee, and they now live together happy for ever and for ever in
this world and the next. There is no other Institution or Home
or Asylum or Retreat or Hostel for young gentlewomen who main-
tain themselves by art, literature, music, teaching, copying, or
keeping books, in which there exists so bright and beautiful a
memory. It lights up all the House. The residents tell new-
comers about it, just as the nuns of Whitby Abbey used to exult
over the story of St. HiMa and her miracles. Tlie history gives
them hope : Katie is an Exemplar : what has hajipcncd to her may
happen in like manner to themselves. Very likely it will, because
tlit-y are invited to the house in Russell Square which this happy
pair have now converted into a Garden of Kden — but there aro no
apple-trees in the Square Garden. There they meet young men
who liavc the true feeling for the sex, and call that man churl mul
nidderling ;ind pitiful sneak and cur, wIik would suffer any young
woman whom hu loves to work if ho cuuld order utliL-rwi.sc. All
women who have to work for their bread confess and declare tliat
the chief hapj)incH8, the joy, the crown of love, is to sit (hiwn and
let a man work for them and pour into their ara[)le laps tiio harvest
of bin iiibour — the fruit and corn and wine ; the golden guineas ;
the name and fame — oh ! ye Gods ! the name and fame ! — to
administrate; and receive and distribute and provide. Mircifnl
29'"' KATHARINE REGINA.
Heaven ! Send quickly to Harley House, in spite of the rules, as
many strong-aimed lads as there are lasses fit for them, so that
every poor young gentlewoman may find a man who will believe
her beautiful and best and will worship her, and set her in a chair
with the household linen in her lap and a few friends by her side
for afternoon tea, while, out of doors, he cheerfully mops his
streaming brow and makes the splinters fly !
'SELF OR bearer;
CHAPTER I.
ON A VERSH OF VIUGIL.
When Virgil represented the souls of infants as lying all together
in a cold and comfortless place outside the gates of Tartarus — why
not outside the gates of the Elysian Fields, where the air is finer
and the temperature more moderate ? — he certainly had in his mind
the Roman Hospital for Children, the ruins of which may still be
Been on Mount Aventine, close to the ancient Porta Navalis, where
the population was thickest, the houses tallest, the streets narrowest,
the street-cries loudest, the rumbling of the carts noisiest, the smell
of onions, oil, and vinegar the most profound, the retail of tunny-
fish on the largest scale, and where the population consisted of
porters, sailors, riverside men, gladiators, and loafers. It was a
very good Hospital, The wards were spacious and lofty ; there
was a garden, where vegetables, and flowers, and fruit were grown,
and there was always plenty of fresh air. The provisions were
abundant the Sisters who inirscd the children were mostly young,
and gcnerilly, therefore, pretty. Tiiey dressed in white, sinii)ly
but gracefully, in resi)ectf ul, distant imitation of the Vestal Virgins.
It was their custom to speak with admiration of the celiljato life,
though the young doctors and clinical clerks always fell in love
with them, and they s-ometimLS went away, and lol't tlieir Hospital
children to be married. Then, in due course, they were able to set
up a little Children's Hospital of tlieir own at home The Senior
Physirians wore grave and reverend pursons, who knew to the tenth
part of a drachm how much powder of kittiwakc's brains would
cure i[ifuntinc colic, and liow snail-broth should bo infused with a
298 'SELF OR BEARER.'
certain herb, found only on the Campagna, in order to subdue a
quartan fever or ague. The younger doctors were zealous and
active — too fond, perhaps, of_ trying experiments, but devoted to
science, and always on the look-out for new specifics. It was a
great school of medicine, and the students were notorious in the
Quarter for their singing, drinking, dancing, gambling, fighting,
lovemaking, tavern-haunting, street-bawling, ruffling, roystering,
fanfaronade, and gaillardise.
Yet, with all these advantages, the Romans did not understand
quite so well as we of later and, in other respects, degenerate age,
how to keep the little fluttering spark of life in existence ; nor were
they so skilful in reading the signs of disease, nor had they so many
appliances at hand for relieving the little sufl:erers. Therefore,
there was, in the old Roman Hospital, a continual wailing of the
children.
Now, had Virgil visited the Children's Hospital at Shadwell,
which was founded, unfortunately, after his time, he would have
re-written those lines. He would have represented the souls of
those innocents lying all in rows, side by side, in comfortable cots,
enjoying a mild air with no draughts, and Sisters always present
with thermometers to regulate the temperature, and an endless
supply of bottles and milk. The infant souls would be perfectly
happy, just as they are at Shadwell ; there would be no wailing at
all. Sometimes they would sleep for four-and-twenty hours on
end ; sometimes they would be sucking their thumbs ; sometimes
they would be sucking the bottle ; at other times they would be
kicking fat and lusty legs, or they would be propped up by pillows,
looking straight before them with the indifference absolute to out-
side things and the perfect self-absorption possible only to infants,
mathematicians, and fakeers, their eyes full of the calm, philosophic
wisdom which belongs to Babies. One considers this wisdom with
mingled pity and envy. Is it a memory or an anticipation ? Does
it belong to the past or to the future ? Is the child remembering
the mysterious and unknown past before the soul entered the body,
or does it think of what is to come when the earthly pilgrimage is
finished ? Another theory is that one is born wise, but, owing to
some defect in our nursing, one forgets all the wisdom in the first
year, and only recovers a few fragments afterwards. Now, whether
they are sleeping or waking, the souls of the infants are, one is
perfectly convinced, always happy, and always watched over by
certain pale-faced, beautiful creatures dressed in long white aprons
and white caps, with grave and thoughtful faces, who have no iude-
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL. 299
pendent existence of their own, nor any thoughts, hopes, desires, or
ambitions, but are contented to minister for ever to Baby, mystic
and wonderful.
One is sorry that Virgil never had a chance of seeing the Shad-
well Hospital, not only because he would have written certain lines
differently, but because the place would certainly have inspired
him with a line at least of illustration or comparison. There are
Babies in it by the score, and every Baby is given to understand
on entering the establishment that he is not to cry ; that he will
not, in fact, want to cry, because all his necessities will be antici-
pated, and all his pains removed. At home he has been told the
same thing, but has never believed it, which is the reason why he
has so often sent his father off to work with a headache worse than
the Sunday morning skull-splitter — reminiscence of a thirsty night
— and why he has every morning reduced his mother to the
similitude of a thread-paper, and kept the whole court awake, and
become a terror to the High Street outside the court. Here he
cries no longer, and gives no one a headache, but is considerate, and
good-tempered, and contented.
The Babies are ranged along the sides of the room in cots, but
some are laid in cradles before the ojjcn fireplace, and some are
placed on top of the stove, like a French dish laid to stew in a
Bain-Marie, and some have spray playing upon their faces and down
their throats ; some are sleeping, some are sucking the battle, and
some are lying broad awake, their grave eyes staring straight before
them, as if nothing that goes on outside the crib has tlic least
interest for a Baby. Here and there sits a mother, her child in her
lap ; but there arc not many mothers present, and about the ward
all day and all night perpetually hovers the Sister. When one
first visits this room, there happens a curious dimness to the eyes
with a choking at the throat for thinking of the innocents suffer-
ing for the sins of their fathers and the ignorance of their niotliors.
Presently this feeling passes away, because one perceives tliat they
do not suffer, and one remembers how good it must be for them to
be in such a room with pure air, neither too hot nor too coUl, with
the Sister's careful hands to nurse tlioiu, and, for tlic first time in
their young lives, a holy calm around tliem. To the elder cliildreu
in the Ward above, the quiet, the gentle ways, the tender liandH,
and the kindly words, are full of lessons wliidi they will never
forget. Wliy not for the infants, too?
The SiHter in this Ward wf)rc a gray woollen dress witli a white
apron, which covered the whole front of lier dress, a ' bib apron,' a
30O 'SELF OR BEARER.'
■white collar, and a white cap and no cuffs, because cuffs interfere
with turning up the sleeves. She was young, but grave of face,
with sweet, solemn eyes, and yet a quickly-moved mouth which
looked as if it could laugh on small provocation, were it not that
her occupation made laughing almost impossible, because Babies
have no sense of humour. Her name, in the world, was Calista
Cronan, and she was the daughter of Dr. Hyacinth Cronan, of
Camden Town. As for her age, she was twenty-two, and as for
her figure, her stature, her beauty, and her grace, that, dear reader,
matters nothing to you, because she is the next thing to a nun, and
we all know that a nun's charms must never be talked about.
It was a Sunday morning — a morning in early June — when
outside there was a divine silence, and even the noisy highway of
the Thames was almost quiet. The Sister was loitering round the
cribs in her ward, all the Babies having been looked after, washed,
put into clean things, and made comfortable for the morning.
Two or three mothers — but not many, because there are household
duties for the Sunday morning — were sitting with their own Babies
in their laps, a thing which did not interfere with Sister Calista's
catholic and universal maternity. Everything in the ward was as
it should be : the temperature exactly right, the ventilation per-
fect, the cases satisfactory. Presently the door opened and a
young man came in. As he carried no hat and began to walk
about the cribs and cradles as if they belonged to him, and as the
Sister went to meet him and talked earnestly with him over each
baby, and as he had an air of business and duty, it is fair to sup-
pose that this young gentleman was connected with the Medical
Staff. He was, in fact, the Resident Medical Officer, and his name
was Hush Aquila.
Mr. Hugh Aquila had passed through his Hospital Course and
taken his Medical Degrees with as much credit as is possible for
any young man of his age. Merely to belong to the Profession
should have been happiness enough for him, who had dreamed all
his life of medical science as the one thing, of all things, worthy of
a man's intellect and ambition. There are, in fact, other things
equally worthy, but as Hugh was going to be Medicinge Doctor, it
was good for him to believe, while he was young, that there was
nothing else. So the young limner believes that there is nothing
to worship and follow but his kind of art ; and the physicist con-
siders himself as the Professor of the One Thing Noble and Neces-
sary — all in capitals. But the fates arc unequal, and one man's
cup brims over while another's is empty. To this fortunate young
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL. 301
man Love had been given as well as the Profession which he de-
sired, and a measure of success and reputation — Love, which so
often is kept by Fortune for Consolation Cup, and bestowed upon
those who have lost the i-ace and been overthrown and trampled on
in the arena, and have got neither laurels nor praise, nor any
wreath of victory, nor any golden apples. Yet this youug fellow
had actually aud already obtained the gift of love — though he was
as yet no more than hve-aud-tweuty — in addition to his other gifts,
graces, aud prizes. Perhaps it does not seem a very great thiug to
be Resident Medical Oliicer in a Children's Hospital. But if you
happen to be a youug man wholly devoted to your Profession, and
if you are already in good repute with your seniors, and if you
have faith iu yourself, aud a firm belief in your own powers, and
if, further, you see great possibilities iu the position for study aud
increase of knowledge, then you will understand that to be Resi-
dent Medical Uliicer in the Children's Hospital at Shadwell may be
a very great thing indeed.
When this Resident Medical had completed his round and
finished the work which has every day to be begun again, he stood
for a moment at a wiudow looking out into the silent street below.
It had beeu raining aud the pavements were wet, but the sun was
bright again, aud there were light clouds chasing across the sky.
Within and without everythiug was very quiet.
In the week there were noises all around them : the noise of
steamers on the river, the noise of work in the Loudon Docks, the
murmurs of the multitudes in High Street, Brook Street, Cable
Street, and St. George's-in-the-East. But to-day was Sunday
morning, and everythiug was peaceful. The eyes of tlie young
man, as he stood at the window, had a far-oil look.
' You look tired, Hugh,' said the Sister,
The.se two were not brother and sister. They were not even, so
far as they knew, cousius. Nor had they known each other from
infancy. Yet they addressed each other by their Christian-names.
To be sure Calista was, professionally, the Universal Sister. But
Hugh was certainly not the Universal Brother. 'J'liis singularity
might have given ri.se to surmise and gossip in the Ward, but fcr
the fact that the iiabies took no m.ue notice of it than if it had
never occurred at all- it is a way with liabies. The Sister was
plain Sister to all the world, and therefore to Hugh A-piila she
was Sicter as well ; but with a dillerence, for to him she was sister
with a small initial, because he had entered into u solemn under-
taking aud promise, with the Sacramout of Vows and KisscK, to
30i 'SELF OR bearer:
marry her sister after the mauuer of the world — Norah Cronaa, at
that time Private Secretary to Mr. Murridge, of Finsbury Circus.
All DKuikind were Calista's Brothers, and yet she called one or two
of them by their Christian-names. One of them was Hugh, her
sister's fiance, the other was a young gentleman who, at that
moment, was actually entering the great doors of the Hospital and
making for the direction of the iiesident Medical's private room.
Hugh Aquila, M.D., F.R.C.S., and L.R.C.P., was a strong, well-
built young man, with big limbs, and a large and capable htad — a
head which had been endowed with an ample cheek, a reasonable
forehead, a firm mouth and chin, steady eyes, set under clear-cut
eyebrows, and a nose both broad, straight, and long. This is rather
an unusual nose. The nose which is broad and short is the
humorous nose, but it generally argues a want of dignity ; that
which is narrow and long may belong to a most dignified person,
but he is too often unsympathetic ; that which is both short and
narrow shows a lack of everything desirable in man. Since Hugh
Aquila's nose was both broad and long, he could laugh and cry
over other people's accidents and misfortunes — that is to say, he
had sympathy, which is almost as valuable a quality for a young
Doctor as for a novelist. Such a young man, one is sure at the
very outset, will certainly make a good fight, and win a place
somewhere well to the front, if not in the very front and foremost
rank ; it is not granted to every man to become Commander-in-
Chief ; there are a great many men, very good men indeed, who
miss that supremacy, yet leave behind them a good record for
courage, perseverance, and tenacity. Happy is the woman who is
loved by such a man !
To add one more detail, Hugh had big, strong hands, but his
fingers were delicate as well as strong. This was, perhaps, because
he was skilled in anatomy, and already a sure hand in operations.
' Oh, Hugh,' said the Sister — it had been Mr. Aquila until a day
or two before this — ' oh, Hugh, I have had no opportunity before
of telling you how glad and happy I am for Norah's sake.'
' Thank you, Calista,' he replied simply, taking her hand ; 'every-
body is very kind to me, and it is so much the better that we spoke
and settled matters before this wonderful Succession.'
' Yes, I think it is. Though the Succession ought not to make any
difference. Tell me, Hugh, is it long since you began to think of it T
'I have been here for nearly twelve months ; 1 had been here a
week when first I saw Norah in tliis Ward. I began to think of
it, as you say — that is, to think of her, then and there — my beauti-
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL.
303
fill Norah. She is like you, Calista, and yet uulike. She is as
good as you are, but in another way. She belongs to the world,
and you '
' To my Babies,' said Calista, smiling.
' I should have put it diiferently. Strange and wonderful it is,
Calista, that such a girl as Norah should be able to love such a man
as '
'No, Hugh ; that must not be even thought. Norah is a happy
girl to win your love. I suppose it is good that you should think
your mistress an angel, because it makes her better. Remember
what she thinks of yon, her strong, and brave, and clever lover,
and do not be too humble. Did you see her yesterday ?'
' Yes ; in the evening I found time for Camden Town, and had
supper with her Ladyship.'
Strange to say they both smiled, and then their faces broadened,
and they laughed. Did you ever see a Sister in a Hospital laugh ?
She smiles often. She smiles when the patients thank her and
kiss her hand ; when they get light-headed and talk nonsense ;
when they grumble and groan ; when they go good, and promise to
remain patient and steadfast, clothed in the armour of righteous-
ness ; or when they go away cured and strong again, and effusive
in thanks ; or when they come back again for the tenth time, for
there are some known in Hospital Wards who spend as much of
their lives as they possibly can in these comfortable places. But
no one ever saw a Sister laugh except Hugh ; and tlie elfect on the
Ward was incongruous, as if a Cardinal should dance a hornpipe,
or a Bishop perform a breakdown. Some of the Babies felt it like
a note out of harmony, and began the preliminary cough which, as
every ptve defainUlc remembers, heralds the miduiglit bawl and the
promenade about the bedroom. Calista, perhaps, received tho
cough as a warning ; the laugh did not occur again, and, besides,
to 80 sweet a Sister everything must 1)C allowed. Tiurul'ore, the
cough preliminary was not repeated, and none of the JJabies really
began to cry.
'His Lordship was present,' Hugh repeated. 'Wo IkkI .1 pipe
together. He sat in his robes and his coroiiut, of cdiiisi-, wliioh
become him extremely— especially when he has tho pipe in hia
mouth. Yet I doubt if he ia happier. Hia face expressed some
an,\iety, as if he was uncertain about hia feet in those dizzy
heights, and would like to come down again and be a commoner
once more. Perhaps he thinks that when bcheailing begins again,
Viscounts will have an early turn.'
304 'SELF OK BEARER.'
' Poor dear fatlier !'
' The bras;s-plate remains on the door unchanged — the plain
H. Cronan, M.D. — and there is the red lamp with the night-bell
just as usual. The boy, I believe, runs about with the basket and
the bottles as before ; the medicines are still made up by his Lord-
ship's illustrious fingers ; and he remains what the people unfeel-
ingly call a Common Walker. Not even a carriage with a coronet
upon it.'
' Oh, it seems too absurd if that is all that is to come of it !'
'Her Ladyship wore her court dress — the black silk one— you
know it.'
' I know it. But, Hugh, don't laugh. It is a very trying thing-
for her.'
' I am not laughing at her, Calista. She informed me after
supper that differences of rank must be respected, and that all
matrimonial engagements made before the Succession would have
to be reconsidered.'
'Oh, Hugh!'
' Uncle Joseph chimed in here. I suppose it was he who started
the theory — dear old man! He said that of course his Lordship's
daughters were now entitled to look forward to the most desirable
alliances possible ; they would marry naturally in their own rank,
which has so long been kept concealed from them. Right-minded
young men, he went on, would not require to be reminded of a
thing so obvious. He is, indeed, a delightful old man.'
'What did Norah say?'
' She looked at her father, who laughed. As for me, I made a
little speech. I said that Norah and I were above all things desijipus
of pleasing our parents — which is quite true, isn't it? so long as our
parents are reasonable and try to please us. But marriage is a
thing, I added, which is so curiously personal in its nature, that
the most filial sons and daughters are bound to consider themselves
first. Therefore, I said, Norah and I intended to continue our
engagement, and to complete it as soon as we possibly could, even
if we had to trample on all the distinctions of rank.'
Calista sighed. ' I wish this dreadful title had never come.'
' So do I. A white elephant would have been much more useful.
One might at least kill him, and dissect him, and put his bones
together in the back garden. I should like to have a white elephant.
But what can be done with a Peerage when the income remains
the same, and you have got to go on dispensing your own medi-
cines ?'
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL. 305
' But is there nothing at all ? It must be an extraordinary
Peerage.'
' There is nothing, your father tells me.'
' Then I am sure the best thing to do will be to make no difference
at all, and to go on as if nothing had happened. What does Daffodil
say?'
' He takes it pleasantly, after his manner, and laughs at it. In
fact, no one would take it seriously if it were not for Uncle Joseph,
who has got a fixed idea, which he has communicated to your mother,
that every title is accompanied by a princely fortune. It appears
that at the Hospital there is some excitement over the event-
They haven't had an Honourable at the Hospital for a long time,
and they naturally desire to make much of the title. So they have
raised his rank, and he is now Baron Daffodil, Viscount Daffodil,
and even Earl Daffodil, and while we were taking our cold mutton
and pickles a post-card came for him addressed to the Right
Honourable and Right Reverend His Grace the Duke Daffodil.'
' And what does your mother .say, Hugh ?'
'She says everything that is kind, and something that is sur-
prising.'
And then the young man began talking about himself, and of
the time, not far distant, when he would buy a practice and set up
for himself, and start that partnership with Xorah, and combine
the serious work of a physician with love-making, which should be
as blackberry jam to dry bread, or Royer's sauce to cnld mutton,
and should turn the gloomy Doctor's house— presumably in Old
Burlington Street or Savile Row— into a Palace of Enchantment.
^-'Jilista was a good listener, and she heard it all with answering
smik- and sympathetic eyes, and the young man, in his selfish hap-
piness, accepted her sympathy and interest in his fortunes as if
they were things due to him. Everybody u-sed Calista in this
fasliion.
But the Babies watching tlicir long talk grew suspicious. They
were neglected. This young gentleman, whom they knew because
twice every day ho bent over their cribs, was not a Baby. Wliy
did the Sister waste her time upon him? So great and so wide-
spread was the uneasiness, that tliey first began witii tlio cough
preliminary already alluded to, and then with one accord burst into
that wailing which w.in familiar to Virgil from his acquaintance
with the Hospital near llie I'orta Navalis.
It was just wliat you would expect of a man that, at such a
juncture, he should meanly in 11 aw:iy, and leave the Babies to be
wrestled with by the Sister. This is wiiat Ilugli did.
20
3o6 'SELF OR DEARER.'
He went to his private room, a snuggery whither the Babies
could not follow him, and where he pro])oscd to spend the short
remainder of the morning in an easy-chair, with a book in his
hand to assist meditation on the virtues and graces of a certain
young lady. He did not immediately carry out this intention,
because there was a visitor occupying the one easy-chair in the
room.
' Why, Dick ?' said Hugh. ' I did not expect to see you here
to-day.'
The visitor was a young man about his own age. When Hugh
opened the door, he was sitting, with his head bent and his face set
in deep gloom. But he hastened to put on a smile — rather a weak
and a watery smile.
' I had nothing to do this morning, and so I took the omnibus to
the Bank and walked over.'
' Are you come to contragulate me, Dick?'
' No, I'm not. Daff told me about the engagement. I suppose
you know you've cut me out ? Did she tell you how she'd refused
me ?'
' No. I have not talked about previous aspirants.'
' Yes ; I asked her to marry me. Half a dozen times I asked,
and she refused — that's all. Well, I'll congratulate you if you like.
But I ought to have been told by some of them that you were in
the field. I don't like being kept in the dark.'
' There has been no keeping in the dark, because I only came
into the field, as you call it, four days ago.'
'Well — when are you going to get married?'
Dick looked as if a doubt might be raised as to this assertion.
' I don't know. Perhaps we may have to wait some time. I
must find out, first, what my mother will be able to do for me. I
haven't seen her yet since our engagement, and I don't know bow
she will like Norah. What is the matter, Dick ? You look pretty
bad this morning. If you weren't such a steady file, I should say
you had been drinking and keeping late hours.'
Dick Murridge was at most times a young man of gloomy and
sombre aspect. At this moment, he looked as if sunshine would
have no place in his countenance at all ; his face was pale, and his
hair black and straight ; his eyes were black and set back in his
head ; he had a short moustache ; his mouth was set and hard ; he
never laughed, except in the primitive and primaeval manner of
laughing, namely, when anybody suffered some grievous misfortune,
or when he was able to say a very disagreeable thing ; his chin was
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL. 307
square and hard. He was dressed quietly, even for his age, with
almost ostentatious quietness, in a frock-coat buttoned closely, dark
trousers, and tall hat, something like the good young man who on
Sunday moruing may be met, with a book in his hand, wrapped in
a white handkerchief, on his way to early Sunday School. He did
not carry a book, but there was about him something which pro-
claimed contempt of mashers. Barmaids and ballet-girls would
feel quite safe and therefore happy with a young man who dressed
in this fashion.
' You are such a staid and serious character,' continued the Resi-
dent, ' that it can't be drink and late hours. Got no pain anywhere,
have you ? Is it some worry ?'
'What should I be worried about, I should like to know?' ho
replied almost savagely.
' Can't say, Dick. Shortness of temper, perhaps. It is like short-
ness of breath, difficult to cure, but it can be alleviated. Are you
going to stay and have some early dinner with me '?'
' No ; I must go home. My father expects me at half past one.
Sunday diuner at home is as cheerful as a meal in a sepulchre
among the bones. But I must go. How does Norah like the
Grand Succession and the Family Honours ?'
'Ob, it will not make the least dilTurence to us.'
'There isn't any money with the title, I hear ; but it ought to
help a man in your Profession, for his wife to have a handle to her
name, even if it's only an Honourable. I'd make it help rac, I
know ; if I was a Physician, I'd get money out of it somehow.
Il'rt the only thing in the world worth getting or having. Title !
What's a title without an income'? But if I had the title I'd soon
get the income.'
* I believe you would, Dick,' Hugh replied quietly.
These two young men had been at school together. Of tlic old
Bcliool-dayH there n-mainud the use of tho Gliiistian name. Wlicri
thfy were quitu young th<:y uiay have had the same thoughts and
the like nmbitionH. But their paths from the beginning diverged,
and now they wore ho wiile apart that they looked in oppohito
diructionH : one to the sunny south, and one to the bleak north.
One looked dowuwardn, and the otlier upwards. Gne saw a bright
and flunny picture, with woudurful and unvarying elfectH of light
and colour, and the f)th< t saw only a gray and fog. laden landscape,
with a bit of lurid Hky ; one naw men and wonun, noble, erect, and
grKlIiko ; the other naw men and women, creeping, nneaking, back-
biting, filching, and trcachcroun. One longed to give, and the other
only lived that ho might grab.
20—2
3o8 'SELF OR BEARER.'
Hugh thought he had never seen his former friend more morose
and grumpy. This dark and gloomy creature, to want his bright
and clever Norah ! His cheek flamed at the very thought.
They stood in silence for a while, each expectant that the other
would say something. Then Dick asked if Calista was in her
Ward, and learning that he would find her there, he went away.
' There is something,' said the young Doctor, ' not quite right
with Dick. He can't have taken to drink. Yet there was a look
as of drink — unsteadiness in his hands and eyes, no purpose in his
movements, want of will in his manner. There is something very
queer about Dick Murridge.'
The young Doctor drew two letters from his pocket, and fell to
reading them. That is to say, he read them eagerly, and yet
slowly, as if he wanted to read every word. Nobody shall know
what was in the first letter, except that it was signed ' Norah,'
with some very sweet words preceding the signature. He sat with
this letter in his hands for a while, meditating on the charms and
graces of the writer. Then he put it back into his pocket-book,
and read the other letter, which was from his mother :
'My dearest Son (she said),
' I am quite ready to believe that your mistress is everything
that you believe her to be, as good, and as sweet, and as beautiful.
I pray that you may have as good a wife as you deserve, and that
is saying a great deal. Will you please give Norah my love, and
tell her I am looking forward with the greatest eagerness to seeing
her and getting to know her ? As regards your plan and manner
of living, I quite approve of your ambition to become a successful
Physician. It is fortunate that you are the son of a successful
singer, my dear boy. You will have no difficulty in making the
attempt. As for my money, it was made for you, and is all your
own, if you want it all. There is, however, a great surprise for
me in your letter, apart from the news of your engagement, which
ought not to be a surprise to a mother. It is the surname and the
Christian name of your fiancee. Is she one of the Clonsilla
Cronans ? In that case her Christian name is easily accounted for.
There should be also a Calista in the family, and her father's
Christian name should be Hyacinth. They should also be poor,
which I suppose is the case with them, because you tell me her
father is a General Practitioner in Camden Town. Tell me, when
you write next, about their family, which concerns you in a very
strange manner. But of this I will tell you when we meet. I
ON A VERSE OF VIRGIL. 309
hope to see you — ami Norah — next month. But do not forget to
answer this question — Is her father's Christian name Hyacinth ?
' Your affectionate
'Mother.'
' Well, his name is certainly Hyacinth ; and there is a Calista in
the family. And they are the Clonsilla Cronans. I wonder what
the ^Matcr means ? After all, she will tell me in her own time.'
He laid his head back and closed his eyes. He had been up half
the night with a bad case, and he fell asleep instantaneously, and
slept till they brought him his early dinner.
There certainly was something very queer with the other young
man, and he was going to Calista in order to tell her so. He had
been accustomed for a great many years to make Calista that kind
of half-confidant who shares all the woes, hears nothing of their
cause, and is forgotten when things run smoothlj'. Persons like
Calista always have plenty of friends, who make use of their
sympathies when trouble has to be faced.
' Calista,' he said, dropping into a chair, ' I wish I was dead !'
' Do you, Dick ? You said the same thing about two months
ago, when I saw you last, yet I heard afterwards that you were
cheerful.'
' I wish I was dead now, then.'
• What has happened ? What is the matter ?'
'I didn't say anything had happened. I .said, "I wish I was
dead." '
' Is that all you have come to tell me ?'
'Not quite. I've come to tell you Oh, Calista, I'm the
most miserable, unlucky beggar in the world !'
' What is it, Dick ? Have you done anything foolish ?'
'I've — I've ' lie stopped, because he caught Calista's clear
eyes gazing steadily in his, and it seemed aa if ho changed his pur-
pose. * I diilu't know,' ho said in confusion, ' that it would really
hap|)eii until this morning. Now I find it must.'
' What will happen?'
' You will remombcr my words when it comes off— will you ? I
came to warn you.'
' Well, Dick, if anything is to happen, and 1 am not to know
what it is, I sec no use in warning nie.'
' I warn you because I want you to understand that it is all her
own fault.'
* Whose own fault ?'
3IO 'SELF OR bearer:
' Whose should it be but Norah's ? I'm talking about her, ain't
I ? Very well, then. Let her understand that it is her own fault.'
' AVhat has Norah done ?'
' She's deceived me. That's what she's done. I've offered
myself a dozen times, and slie has refused me. Told me there was
nobody else that she cared for ; said she didn't want to get married ;
said that last week ; and then I hear she's engaged.'
' Very well. You are not going to take revenge upon her, are
you, Dick ? That would be mean indeed.'
' Not revenge. It isn't revenge. And yet it's all her own fault,
whatever happens.'
' You are very mysterious this morning, Dick, and very gloomy.
Well, if you have nothing more to say, had you not better be
getting back home ? It is twelve o'clock already.'
' Y'ou can tell her if anything happens,' he repeated, 'that you
knew all along it was coming, and that it is all her own fault.'
' Go, Dick. You are worse than gloomy this morning. You are
wicked. I will listen to you no longer.'
He turned and flung himself from the room. I use the word
which would have pleased him most, because he desired to fling
himself. The people who fling themselves from a room are the
same who curl their lips as well as their locks, and knit a brow as
easily as a stocking, and flash flames from their eyes as well as from
a lucifer match. But good flinging requires a narrow stage, or, at
least, close proximity to the door. At the Adelphi, before the
villain flings, it may be observed that he carefully edges up close to
the door. Now, the Ward was a long room, and Dick's fling became,
before he reached the door-handle, an ignoble stride, which was
rendered only partially efficient by his banging the door after him,
BO that all the Babies jumped.
'Something,' said Calista, in the same words as those of the
Resident Medical — ' something is certainly wrong with Dick. And
he is trying to set himself right by laying the blame on Norah.
What can it be ? And what can he mean by his vague threats ?'
She tried to dismiss the subject from her mind. A man does
not try to injure a gii-1 because she has refused him. Yet she was
uneasy ; and in the afternoon, when Norah came to the Hospital,
and Hugh made love to her before Calista's eyes, Dick's gloomy
words kept repeating themselves in her brain :
'It is all her fault, whatever happens.'
HIS LORDSHIFS TOWN HOUSE. 311
CHAPTEE II.
HIS lordship's town house.
The residence of Hyacinth Cronan, M.D., L.R.C P., General Prac-
titioner, was in Camden Street, Camden Town. His Surgery, his
consulting-room, and bis red lamp were also attached to the same
house, where patients not only received advice, but saw their medi-
cines mixed before their eyes, and might also, if they wished, have
their teeth drawn. The part of Camden Street where he lived is
that which lies about the Parish Church, and therefore nearly
opposite the cemetery, which is now slowly becoming a kitchen-
garden. The house is on the right-hand side, going north, and just
beyond that very remarkable survival of rural antiquity, whore the
old cottages still stand behind long strips of garden running down
to the road. Some of the gardens are receptacles for old vehicles
and wheelbarrows ; some are strewed with the debris of a work-
shop ; some are gardens still, with cabbages and sunflowers. This
situation, being in the very heart of Camden Town, is a most
desirable one for every medical man who desires such a practice as
Dr. Cronan enjoyed — viz., a wide connection and a large popularity,
the confidence of many thousands, and an income of very few hun-
dreds. Probably — it is not safe to make the statement with greater
confidence — no practitioner in Camden Town had a larger practice ;
very few of his brethren, except among the youngest men — those
just starting — made a smaller income. No man in the parish,
except the p (Stman, walked a greater number of miles every day ;
nor did anybody, except the tramcar conductor — and even he gets
every other Sunday ofi", which the iJoctor does not — work for
longer hours.
There were, in Dr. Cronan's case, the usual compensations ;
though the income was small, the family was large ; there were
plenty of wants to exhaust the scanty means ; though the loaves
were few, the mouths were many. This i.s, as has often been
remarked, one of Dame Nature's playful ways. She subHlitutes
for the things which are missing, tho.se which arc superlluous or
least prayed for ; she adds to the thing.s wjiich are already pos-
8CH.sod otIierH which may deprivi; them of their value. Thus, on
him who has the greatest gond-fortune, luck, and worldly liappi-
nesf, hIk! bc'^tows an anthina which de[iriveH him of the power of
enjoying anything at all, an<l when a poor uiau has succeeded with
infinite trouble and self-denial in saving a little money, she sends
312 'SELF OR bearer:
him an illness or a misfortune which gobbles up his little all ; to
the rich man she denies an heir, and to the poor man, who has
nothing to leave, she showers heirs and heiresses. However, Dame
Nature means well, and we are but poor blind mortals, and, doubt-
less, know not what is best for us. On this principle of playful-
ness, Nature had enriched Dr. Hyacinth Cronan with ten children,
of whom Calista, the eldest, now in her twenty-second year, was, as
we have seen, a Sister at the Children's Hospital. The second,
named Hyacinth, after his father, was at University College Hos-
pital, on the point of completing his student- time. After Hyacinth
came Norah, private secretary to a genealogist, recently engaged to
Hugh Aquila. Then followed Patrick, who followed the sea, and
was a midshipman, or fourth officer, as, I think, it is now called, on
board a P.O. boat in Indian waters. After Pat followed those who
were still at school — Alberic, Terence, Geraldine, Larry, Honor, and
Kathleen.
It will be understood from these names that Dr. Cronan was of
Irish extraction. Ho was born, in fact, in Dublin — he still pro-
nounced it Doblun— and he graduated at Trinity College, and such
relations as he had were understood by his wife, who never saw any
of them, to be still resident in the distressful country, where Irish
people are fond of talking about their families. Dr. Cronan, how-
ever, hardly ever mentioned his people. Yet he gave all his children
Christian-names more common in Ii'eland than on this side of the
Channel. When a man is taciturn on the subject of his origin
there is generally a presumption that it is not such as makes men
stick out their chins. On the mother's side, however, to make up
— Nature's way again — the children could boast of the most honour-
able connections. Their grandfather had been an Alderman. More
important still, he had made money at his trade of chronometer-
maker. He was one of those amiable persons who not only take a
pride in their calling and turn out none but the very best instru-
ments, but who consider that, next to good work, there is nothing
worth thinking of but the saving of money. There are always,
everywhere, plenty of these good persons ; they save, scrape, stint,
skin, and spare through the whole of their lives, happy in leaving
behind them a good large fortune to b3 divided. But in a genera-
tion or so one of them saves so much and has so few heirs that a
new family may be founded ; generally the money is divided among
so many that it just serves to make some of the women of the next
generation lead easier lives, and some of the men lazier. It is
something to achieve, even to improve the lives of a few unborn
HIS LORDSHIP'S TOWN HOUSE. 313
women ; they certainly will never want to do any work, and
perhaps they will not get the chance of marriage, and if they do,
will be all the better for the money they bring to the family pot.
As for the young men, for the most part they run through their
money and take a lower place, cheerfully or sulkily, according to
taste. It is strange, however, that in a country second only to one
in its Love of the Almighty Dollar, justice has never been done to
the benefactor who spends his life in saving up for his graadcliil-
dren. No poems have been written upon him ; no statues have
been erected to his honour — no one is expected to go and do the
like ; he is even held up to ridicule and execration as a money-
grubber, a grinder of noses on the grindstone, a hard master — one
who will have his pound of flesh. What matter for the hardness
when one thinks of the result ? How few among us are there who,
in the days of their youth, remember their unborn grandchildren,
and resolve to work for them, live for them, and save for them !
Think of the resolution that young man must possess who can say :
' I mean to scrape and screw all the days of my life for those I
shall never live to see. I will deny myself the pleasures and
indulgences of my age. I will forego delights, and live laborious
days, and all for those who will never know me, and who will forget
even to thank me, and very likely will be ashamed of the shop. '
A noble young man, indeed ! Would that, in the last generation
but one, there had been a great many more like this young man,
Mrs. Cronan's father. Yot he, for one, was not without reward,
Vjccause he rose to be an Alderman, antl was Warden of his Com-
pany, and, in both capacities, devoured, in his time, quantities of
turtle-soup every year. It was entirely through his virtuous self-
denial that Mrs. (Jronan, his grand-daughter, whom he did not live
to sec, was jiossessed of a substantial income, no loss than two
hundred pounds a year. What the ton children would have done
without that two hundred a year one cannot oven think. What
became of all the rest of the A Merman's nionoy I know not.
Some of the grandchildren had, no doubt, run through tlieir
portionH, and were gone abroad ; some were clerks ; some had
shops ; some were jirofessional men ; not one, I am sure, was
imitating the gnat cxam|>le fif his grandfather, and saving money
for those of the twentieth century to spend.
One evening in June, about half-past nine o'clock, wliilo it is
still almfiHt Iit;ht cnougli to read without a lauip, Dr. Crun.iu sat by
the om)»ty firoplaco in the family dining-room, surrounded by his
family. It wafl not every evening that he could thus sit at hiseaso,
314 'SELF OR DEARER.'
in slippers, with a pipe between his lips, and the ' materials ' on the
table. The room was called the dining-room, but it was used as
the famil}' sitting-room, work-room, study, and anything else.
They lived in it, they received their visitors in it, and they took
their meals in it. The window was open, for it was actually a
warm evening, though only at the beginning of June ; the gas was
lit, and if the room was rather ci'owded it had a happy look, as if
the family were, on the whole, good-tempered. Among those
family possessions which the visitor at once involuntarily recog-
nises, even before he has had time to look at the china and
the pictures, good-temper is the first, if it is found in the house
at all.
The Cronans took their good temper chiefly from their father —
it was just one more of Nature's compensations to make up for the
small income. No one ever saw the Doctor cross or irritable, not
even when, after a long day's work, he was called out again at
bedtime. He was a tall man of spare figure ; his once dark hair
and whiskers well streaked with gray. His features were clear and
handsome, and his blue eyes had a trick of lighting up suddenly,
and his mouth of dropping into a smile on small provocation.
Certainly not a weeping philosopher, nor one inclined to rail at the
times, even if they were ten times as disjointed.
The picture of family life at its easiest and happiest presented
in this Camden Town household is reproduced every night in miles
of streets and thousands of houses. It is complete when the mother
sits — as Mrs. Cronan sat this evening — with a basket of work before
her, placidly stitching. She had been married for twenty-four years,
and had stitched without stopping for twenty-three years, so that
she now desired no other occupation but leisurely stitching. When
the children were younger there was greater pressure — the stitching
was hurried. Beside her sat her second daughter, Norah. She had
a book in her hand, but I think she was not reading much, for she
did not turn over the pages, and her eyes were looking through the
open window into the back-garden, where two lilacs and a laburnum
were in full blossom. When a girl is engaged to the most delight-
ful fellow in the world, and the cleverest, there are not many books
which she cares to read. If it be asked why she was not assisting
her mother in darning the family stockings, it is enough to reply
that a girl who is Private Secretary to a genealogist, who draws a
salary and pays for her own board, and who is engaged all day in
the most scientific researches, cannot be expected to darn stockings
in the evening. Geraldine, the third daughter, was learning a
HIS LORDSHIP'S TOWN HOUSE. 315
lesson for next day's school, and the three boys, Terence, Alberic,
and Larry, were having a Row Royal, in which nobody intei'fered
— in so large a family there is always a row going on between some
of the members — over a backgammon-board. That is to say, two
of them were quarrelling, and the third, who ardently desired to
swing a shillelagh in the fray, had been hustled and bundled out
of the squabble at an early stage, and now sat quiet, waiting for
his chance.
Such a picture as this is truly national ; it represents the English
bonheur de famille. Less civilized nations go to theatres, cafes
chantauts, opon-air concerts, operas, dances, circuses, public gardens
— all kinds of things. All our family people stay at home,
each household in its own nest. The elder boys, however, have got
a trick of spending the evening out. In his hand the Doctor had
an evening paper, and he was reading it slowly, as is the habit with
men who have no time for much reading, and sometimes forget the
newspaper for many days together. From time to time he jerked a
piece of news at his wife, who never read a paper at all, and knew
nothing of any politics outside the walls of her own house.
Then the door opened, and an old gentleman came in. He was
a very clean, good-looking old gentleman, grave, and even severe,
but not benevolent of aspect. Quite the contrary, indeed, though
his locks were so silvery white and so abundant, and his beard so
beautiful and so creamy. He would have looked benevolent,
perhaps, but for his undcr-Iip, which projected and gave a grumpy
look to an otherwise open and kindly couiiteiiaiice. This was
Uncle Joseph himself. He was dressed in evening costume — not
the old-fashioned swallow-tail which old men used to wear by day,
but the correct evening dress of the day, with a shirt-front decorated
with one stud and a white tie. He wore this dress — a most unusual
dress in Camden Town — as if ho was accustomed to it, not as if it
was a kind of diHguise. At sight of their great- uncle, the boys shut
up the backgamraon-board, and all three retired together promptly,
and were heard to finish th<ir game and their fpiarrcl in some up-
stairs a{)artnient. Xorali, for her part, aiiplit-d iiursolf vigorously
to her novel, and her father buried himself in the paper. So groat
was the pf>pularity of Uncle Joseph.
Uncle Joseph shook his head soioinnly, took a chair as if ho were
assiHting at a funeral, ami sat down beside his niece— Mrs, Cronan
— with a sigh that was almost like a groan. He sighed a great deal
in the evening, which, for certain reasons, was a trying time with
him.
3i6 'SELF OR BEARER.'
'Two years ago' — he addressed the Doctor, but received no
response from the newspaper, and therefore he turned to his niece :
'Two years ago, Maria, I should now, at this moment, half-past
nine, be sitting on the right hand, or perhaps the left, of the Chair-
man. The Banquet would be nearly over", and the eloquence of
the evening, in which I always took part in a few well-chosen
sentences, would be about to begin. If you sit down at half-past
seven or a quarter to eight, the speeches generally begin at half-
past niae.'
'Yes, indeed, Uncle Joseph,' Mrs. Cronan replied with a sigh
sympathetic ; 'it must be a beautiful thing to remember.'
' Beautiful indeed, Maria !' He sighed again. ' I will take a
glass of gin-and-water. But it is all over — it is all over. I shall
hear those speeches no more. I shall drink that champagne no
more. Piper sec and Heidsieck are strangers to me henceforth.'
' In heaven, uncle,' Mi's. Cronan suggested piously, ' there is finer
champagne.'
The old man shook his head doubtfully, as if he thought that
could not be.
' And nearly every night, uncle, wasn't it ?'
' Nearly every night, Maria. Always in evening dress, and wear-
ing the magnificent jewels of the order. Always the mysterious
ceremonies of the Lodge, and the Banquet after the work was done.
The Banquet— ah !' again he groaned, 'with the champagne.
Nearly every day of my life, for more than thirty years — except
Sundaj' — the Banquet and the champagne. In summer, the country
Lodges ; in winter, London. What a life, Maria ! What a
Career ! And now it is over,'
Uncle Joseph, in fact, had been for something like thirty years
the Secretary of a very Exalted Institution in Masonry, much
grander than Grand Lodge. In this capacity — for which he was
fitted by a very extraordinary memory and as great a genius for
ceremonial as if he had been Grand Chamberlain — he was con-
stantly occupied in visiting Lodges, and conducting the mysterious
functions of the ' higher ' degrees, those of which the humble
wearers of the blue apron, have no knowledge, and the outer world
no appreciation. He spent, as he proudly told his niece, nearly
every night of his life in this work, and as the Function in every
right-minded Lodge is always followed by a Banquet, there was
certainly no other man in the whole world, outside Royal circles,
who had consumed such an enormous quantity of champagne, and
was possessed of a finer palate. But to all things there cometh an
HIS LORDSHIP'S TOWN HOUSE. 317
end. The Secretary grew old. He began to find travelling weari-
some ; his memory began to fail him — it was whispered that he had
once imparted the secrets of a Higher instead of a Lower Degree by
mistake, a truly dreadful thing to do, and believed to have caused
the Earthquake iu Java ; things began to be said about slipshod
conduct of the work ; and, finally, the Council resolved that the
time was come when he must resigu. They gave him, however, a
pension of one hundred pounds a year, which he brought to the
Cronan household, where he came to lodge and to grumble.
His champagne was cut oflE ; it was gone for good. He would
never a^ain — alas ! — taste of that divine drink. No wonder that
the old man went heavily, and was always discontented. For he
craved continually after champagne. He found some consolation
in putting on his dress-clothes every night, and in talking over the
once splendid past he had a sympathic listener iu his niece, and he
found gin-and-water a substitute for champagne, inadequate it is
true, but better than nothing.
'It has been a brilliant career, Maria,' he said. 'Few men — it
has often been said in my own presence — have sat at more or at
nobler Banquets. I doubt if any man, except a Prince, and he
must be a Prince of seventy at least, has drunk more champagne
than your poor uncle. Yet such a life has its drawbacks ; you
can't save money by eating and diinking ; the more brilliant it is,
the more champagne you drink, the less chance you've got of saving.
You can't save champagne, and now, you see, nothing but the
memory remains.'
' Indeed, Uncle Joseph, we are all proud of you.'
' And now I'm come down to a pension of a hundred a year and
to gin-and-water. Give me another gla«is, IMaria. Gin-and-water !'
' You must think of the Banquets, uncle, and the great company
you kept, uncle.'
' The highest in the land,' he replied solemnly. ' T have initiated
and rained to the most Kublinic Degrees lioyal rriiices and the
nobleat of tlio Nobility, young and old. As for Dukes, Marquises,
EarlH, and Barons, they have been under my liamls, miuk and
obedient, by the hundred. I've lost count of IJaronets, and
Knights I value not at all. Yes, Maria. It gives a man some
Bati•^fa<;ti()n in liis <)1«1 a;,'e to feel he's done so much good, and been
so greatly honoured. No doubt such a life bestows an Air of Dis-
tinctif)n. I put it on with my evening dress. Tlie j(W(;ls are
upstairs. It would not bo proper to adorn my breast with those
splendid regalia outside a Lodge. I can leave my jewels to your
3i8 'SELF OR BEARER.'
children, INIaria, but not the Air of Distinction. That can't be left
to anybody.'
' It cannot, Uncle Joscjih, no more than a Smile.'
' I've often thought, Maria,' the old man continued, ' that I should
have liked one of your boys to take up the same line. But of course
it is too much to expect of them. It is a gift. Such a man as my-
self can't be made. He is born, as they say of a poet. Either a
young man has the genius or he has not. Lord ! Most Masters,
whether in the Chair or past it, have got no more real knowledge
of the Ritual, whatever the Degree, than they have of the Roman
Mass.'
' Of course I don't know what it is,' said Mrs. Cronan ; ' but I've
always understood '
' You can't understand, Maria. No women can. It's beyondtheir
intellects to understand such sublimity and such intricacy. More
than a dozen different Rituals — think of that ! Every one complete
and different, and all to be worked exact and word for word. All
those Rituals at my fingers'-ends, without flaw or hitch, and me the
man deputed to work them, for instruction, for raising and advanc-
ing, and a separate dress for each, with its own Jewels. The aprons
and the scarves are upstairs, with the Jewels. But the Rituals —
they mustn't be written, and there's no one, anywhere, who knows
them like me. They've got a young man in my place. I trained
him. But, as for comparing him with me "Well, I pity the
young man. They will make comparisons, and they will despise
him.'
He shook his head mournfully.
'Your boys are all handsome, Maria. Any of them would look
well in the Apron and the Jewels of the Order. But what is one
to expect of them when their father has always refused to join the
Craft, and scoffs at it openly ? It is wrong of him, Maria, and I
have known Doctors made by joining a Lodge, and making them-
selves popular in it. I would have taught your boys, and advanced
them, and introduced them. But are they taught reverence for the
Ritual ? I would have taken them to a school for manners. How
are manners to be learned in Camden Town ? I could have shown
them a way to associate with the Great. How are they to hope
for intimacy with. Royalty and the Nobility unless they become
Brethren ? Why, for my own part, "I have conversed with the
noblest in the country as their equal — actually their equal. And I
have exchanged opinionswith the Prince himself without a stammer,
Maria.'
HIS LORDSHIP'S TOWN HOUSE. 319
• Oh, good Lord !'
This unseemly interruption was due to the Doctor, who suddenly
jumped up with this profane cry. He dropped back, however,
and sat down again, gazing about him with a look of the blankest
amazement. The start and the cry might have been forced from
him by suddenly sitting on a pin, or by exasperation beyond
endurance with LTncle Joseph's tedious prattle, or by some sharp
internal pain, or by the recollection of some frightful omission or
blunder. But that look of amazement — what did that mean ?
' Gracious !' cried ]\Irs. Cronan ; ' what has come to you, my dear ?'
'Nothing,' said the Doctor.
He picked up the paper which he had dropped, folded it very
carefully, and placed it in his pocket — a thing which he had never
been known to do in all his life before.
' There must be something the matter,' his wife persisted. ' Is
it toothache ?'
' It is nothing/ he repeated ; ' nothing of the least importance to
us, or to anybody.'
' Then it is something,' said Norah, 'and something that concerns
you, at least, papa ; and it is something that you read in the paper.
Let me read the paper, too.'
He made no reply, except to look about him with a bewildered
look, as one who wonders what he is going to do next.
'If I am allowed to talk without being interrupted,' said Uncle
Joseph irritably, ' I was going to say, Maria '
' Papa, let me see the paper,' said Norah again.
' No, my dear, not to-night. I dare say you will hear soon
enough.'
' I was going to say, Maria '
' Yes, Uncle Joseph. Your father will show me the paper to-
night, Norah,' said Mrs. Cronan, in a tone which implied that, as a
wife, she meant to know the Hccrct, whatever it was. 'If there is
anything in it wliich concerns you, of course I can tell it to you in
the morning, (io on, Uncle Joseph.'
' I was going to say, M.iria, when these interruptions began, that
tbero is Hoinothing in noble blood which one remarks on the very
first introduction. It is something '
Hero the door opened, an<l Uncle Joseph was a third time inter-
rupted. Ho sat back in his chair, and began to dniin IIk; tabk;
with his fingers, Ijut only for a few moments, Ijocanso the tiling
which followed wan of such a surprising and startling character
that Eor once ho forgot his own reminiscences.
320 ' SELF OR BEARER.'
This late visitor was an elderly man with iron-gray hair, short of
stature, and of thick build, but not fat ; a man of hard face —
hardness in his gray eyes, hardness in his firm-set mouth, hardness
in his chin. As he stood in the doorway, Norah, who had her mind
full of her novel, thought he looked like a landlord come to sell up
everybody without pity. Nobody knew him better than herself,
and her knowledge of him did not make that resemblance impos-
sible. For Mr. INIurridge was her employer ; she was his Private
Secretary.
' I don't know. Doctor,' said the visitor, ' whether I ought to
offer you mj^ condolences over the death of your illustrious cousin,
or my congratulations on your accession to his honours.'
' I don't know, either — hang me if I do !' said the Doctor.
' You have, I suppose, seen the evening papers ? The paragraph
is in all of them. I wonder how these Editors get hold of news so
quickly. The news of his Lordship's death arrived this morning
only.'
' But my two cousins ?'
' One of them died three years ago, and the other three months
ago.'
' Good Heavens !' cried the Doctor, sinking into his chair.
' Papa,' said Norah, ' something has happened. I think you had
better let me see the paper.'
The Doctor sighed, but he drew the thing out of his pocket and
handed it to his daughter.
While she ran her eye down the columns nobody spoke. Mrs.
Cronan held a needle in suspense at the very moment of action ;
Uncle Joseph ceased drumming ; Mr. Murridge smiled superior, as
one who knows what is coming ; and the Doctor looked more
miserable and foolish than at any previous situation in his whole
life.
' I have found it !' cried Norah. ' Listen, mother. Where is
Daffodil ? Where is Calista ? The children ought to be taken out
of bed and brought down. Oh, here is news ! Listen, everybody.
Papa, is it possible ? You knew it all before, and you told none of
us — not even me. Mother, didn't you know ?'
' Your mother's grandfather, the Alderman ' Uncle Joseph
began ; but Norah interrupted, reading breathlessly :
' "We have to announce the death of Hugh Hyacinth, Viscount
Clonsilla, of the Irish Peerage, which took place in the island of
Madeira, a fortnight ago. Lord Clonsilla was born in Dublin in
the year 1810, and was therefore in his seventy-fifth year. He
HIS LORDSHIFS TOIVX HOUSE. 321
married, in 1836, Ursula, daughter of Sir Patrick M'Crath, Barouet,
and had issue one son, who died unmarried in the year 186G. The
late Lord never took anj' active part in politics. The heir to the
Title is Hugh Hyacinth Cronan, Esquire, M.D., the great-grandson
of the first Yiscount, and son of the late Hugh Hyacinth Cronan,
formerly of the Irish Civil Service. Dr. Cronan has been for
many years practising as a Physician in London." There !'
* What does she mean ?' asked Mrs. Cronan helplessly.
' We are all Yiscounts and Honourables. Oh,' said Xorah, ' what
will Hugh say ? What will Calista say ? Good gracious ! It's
like a dream !'
* Hyacinth, tell me this instant,' cried Mrs. Cronan again, ' what
it means !'
' It means, my Lady,' said Mr. Murridge, bowing low, though he
was an old friend of the family, and bad never bowed low before —
' it means nothing less than that your noble husband is the Right
Honourable the Yiscount Clonsilla, of the Irish Peerage. Nothing
less, I assure you.'
' A Lord Yiscount !' said Uncle Joseph. ' There was a Yiscount
once — he was a Templar. Maria, there ought to be, on this occa-
sion, a bottle of champagne.'
' Nothing less,' repeated Mr. Murridge.
'And nothing more,' said his Lordship. But no one heard him.
' A Yiscount ! ^ly grandfather was an Alderman — and yet
Hyacinth, can't you speak V Why have I not been told ?'
' It's Duke, Marquis, Earl, Yiscount and Baron, Baronet and
Knight, unless you reckon the Ranks of Grand Lodge and the
Thirty-Third,' said Uncle Joseph. ' Really, ^lariix, on such au
occasion '
'There wa.s no use in telling you of a chance which seemed so
inipossiblo,' said the Doctor.
'And I've been married to a nobleman's cousin for five and-
twenty years, and never knew it.'
' Only his second cousin once removed,' said the Doctor. 'My
dear, I told you the truth. My father was in the Civil Service, as
I told you. His grandfather was the first Viscount ("loiisilla and
the second Lord Clonsilla. When last I heard anything about it,
Lord Clonsilla bad a son, and a married brother, and a first cousin ;
all these stood lietween me and tlie Title. Was it worth liilkiiig
about? I had no money ; I had never spoken to the Viscount, or
set eyes on him. Nor bad my father before mo. What was the
good of my groat relations ?'
21
322 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' Great relations are always good,' said his wife. ' If it hadn't
been for the Alderman, my grandfather, and my Uncle Joseph,
where would have been the Family Pride ?'
' At all events, my Lady,' said Mr. Murridge, ' there is no doubt
possible on the subject. The late Lord's only son died twenty
years ago unmarried. His brother, it is true, was married, but he
had no children. And the first cousin, who was the Heir Presump-
tive, died three months ago, also without offspring — S.P. as we say
in genealogies. Consequently, the next heir to the Coronet and
Title is — your husband.'
' Oh,' cried Norah, throwing her arms about her father's neck,
' I am so glad ! You poor dear ! You shan't go any longer slav-
ing like a postman up and down the streets all day ; you shan't be
waked up by a bell, and made to go out in the middle of the night
as if you were a railway-porter ; you shan't any more make up
your own medicines ; you shall hand over all your patients to any-
body who likes — give them to Hugh if you like. What will Hugh
say when he fiinds out that I am the Honourable Norah — or are we
the Ladies Calista and Norah ?'
' The Lord knows !' said the Viscount, still looking helpless and
bewildered.
' Well, I suppose Hugh won't mind much. Oh, and I suppose
we shall go away from Camden Town and live at the West End —
Notting Hill, even '— Norah's knowledge of the West was limited—
' and drive about in our own carriage, and go to Theatres every
night. Daffodil will give up the Hospitals and go into the
House '
'Perhaps we shall all go into the House, Norah, my dear,' said
her father grimly.
' Oh, you will go into the Upper House ! Of course, there's
acres and acres of land in Ireland— dirty acres, the novels call
them ' — Mr. Murridge coughed and the Doctor changed colour —
' and a Country House. What is the name of our Country House ?
Oh ! I know it is a beautiful, grand old place, with a lake and
swans, and a lovely garden, and the most wonderful glass houses,
and a Scotch gardener. I haven't read Miss Braddon for nothing.'
' There was a Country House once. It was called Castle Clon-
silla. But I believe it tumbled down years ago. The late Lord
never saw the place since they shot at his father and hit the
priest.'
'Well, then, there must be a grand old — old — venerable— ancient
—romantic history of the House. You will tell us the Family
HIS LORDSHIP'S TOWN HOUSE. 323
History, won't you, as sooa as we settle down ? All the men were
knights without fear, and all the ladies were beautiful and without
reproach.'
' I will tell it you at once. About two hundred years ago there
was an attorney in Dublin, named Hyacinth Cronan. Creeping
Joe, they called him, so greatly was he admired. He made his sou
a barrister, and the barrister became a Judge, and the Judge was
made, for certain political services, Lord Clousilla. Crawling Joe,
his friends called him, to distinguish him from his father. His
son, for other eminent political services, was raised a step in the
Irish Peerage at the time of the Union. That is all the family
history, Norah ; and I am hanged if I see much to be proud of
when it is told.'
'Not one of them,' said Uncle Joseph, 'so much as a Provincial
Grand Master.'
' Oh ! And no Banshee ? no Ghost ? no White Lady ? Are you
quite sure ?' asked Norah.
' Xot even so much as a Family Bogey, my dear.'
' Well, then there is a Town House somewhere, I am sure. I
hope it is in Ireland. 1 feel real Irish already. To-morrow I shall
try "The Wearing of tlie Green." Where is our beautiful Town
House— Lady Clonsilla's Town House — where she will live in the
season with her daughters, the Ladies Calista, Norah, Honor, and
Kathleen ?'
' There used to be one over in Dublin, but I suppose it's been
Bold long ago.'
' Well, there'H the money and the dirty acres,' Norah persisted.
' I wish you good-night. Lady Clonsilla,' said Mr. Mumdge.
' Unce more, I congratulate you. Good niglit, my Lord.'
Ho bowed very low, much lower than is expected by Viscounts
as a rule, and retired.
' I was about to remark, Maria,' said Uncle JoH(]tb, ' wIkti \vu
were interrupted by Mr. Munidge, that I had always observed
Bomething of the Air of Rank in your husliand. It was certain, to
me, that he waji of noble parentage, though ho concealed the I'uct
from friends who would liavit aiiprcoiated itn iinjiortanco.'
' YtM ; you never told me. Git, llyacitilli !' said his wife reproach-
fully. ' It would have made uh all ho happy to think that you had
HUch noble blood in your veins.'
' My dear,' he repeated, ' I didn't know there was the? least clumco
of the I'eerngo. It's the most extraordinary thing that ever haji-
pened. And, Maria,' he :idde<l, rubbing hiw chin, ' I believe Ivo
21—2
324 'SELF OR BEARER.'
in;idc the greatest Fool of luyself ever known. I'll go and see
Mnrridge about it to-morrow. But I am sure of it, beforehand.
There never was a Greater Fool in all the world than your husband,
!Maria.'
' Oh,' cried Norah again, ' you will look so beautiful in your
coronet !'
' Shall I, my dear ? I wonder where it is. What is more to the
point is, whether the late Lord left any money, and if so, whether
he left any to me. There certainly never could have been a Greater
Fool than your father, child. Esau's case is about the only one
which can compare with it.'
' Maria,' said Uncle Joseph, ' we will all move upwards, imme-
diately, into the highest Society, and we will have a Banquet, with
Champagne, every night. On all points of etiquette rely on me.
There will be, of course, waiters in evening-dress. It will be
exactly like a Banquet of a High Degree, only that ladies will be
present and I shall not wear my Jewels. Of course, I shall sit on
the right hand of the Chairman and respond for the Craft.'
' Oh, Uncle Joseph !' murmured Lady Clonsilla, carried away by
the splendour of his imagination.
' As for his Lordship, I will take him in hand at once '
' I have been the most Almighty Fool,' said his Lordship.
' And initiate him to the Loftiest Degrees. I'll do it with my
own hand, and then he will be a credit and an honour to the
illustrious Peerage of his native country. I can't initiate you,
Maria, nor the girls, because you are females. But the boys I can,
and I will, and when they are Knights Templars, Mark Masters,
Royal Arches, and Thirty-Seconds, they will not be ashamed to
talk with anyone, and will be fit to share in the very highest
Society like their Great Uncle.' He drank half his glass at a gulp,
and went on rather thickly, pointing to the Doctor : ' Look at him,
Maria ! He is a Nobleman all over. Blood in his veins and
Aristocracy upon his upper-lip. Didn't I always say there was a
Something in your husband above his Pills ?'
' It can't be helped, Maria,' said the Viscount. ' But I wish your
husband had not been so great a Fool.'
' Why, on the present occasion,' Uncle Joseph went on — ' an
occasion which may never happen again in the History of the
Lodge — why, Maria — why is there no champagne ? Thank you !
I will take — yes — I will take another glass of gin-and- water.'
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 32S
CHAPTER III.
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY.
;Mr. Mlrridge was, by profession, a Genealogist. This is a trade
in which are few competitors. There are, to be sure, the Heralds),
who are a dignified body, and have a College of their own, and on
occasions of ceremony wear the most beautif al coats in the world,
and, consequently, are tempted to wish that there was a Coronation
every week. They also enjoy much finer titles than the Members
of the Upper House, being called King-at-xVrms, Herald or Pour-
suivant, Rouge Dragon, Rouge Croix, Bliiemantle, and PortecuUis.
Mr. Murridge possessed no other title than that of plain blister,
which we are not expected to enjoy. It was reported of him, by
those who regarded him as an interloper and an unqualified prac-
titioner, that he had originally been apprenticed to a Die-Sinker,
and was afterwards emploj'ed in engraving coats-of-arms for one
who kept a heraldic shop, ornamented outside by the gilded efiigies
of a Loathly Worm, like unto the Dragon of Spindleston Heugh.
This enterprising tradesman not only engraved shields and furnished
family seals, but also found their coats-of-arms for people who had
lost them so long that all memory and trace of them had vanished.
Nothing proves a family to be old so much as to have lost the
memory of their arms. There are many such ; they have withered
in obscurity and neglect for generations ; then one of them makes
mon<y, and such gentlemen as this heraldic sliopkeeper recover the
long- lost connections and land them proudly among the Barons in
the Wars of the Roses. In this way, therefore, old Murridge found
himself impelled in the direction of genealogical studies, and in tiiis
way he gradually neglected the jiracticii of his art, and transformed
himself into a .searcher and grubber into family history.
Although tlierc are not many in the trade, it is sometimes profit-
ahdo. For there are always tiie New Rich, who continually desire
to prove that they have always, though tiieir friends litth- suspected
it, really belonged to the class which rules by Right Divine, and by
the same right possesses hereditary brains ; and there arc. besides
these, the Rich liuiilrriw r, who bear names of J^nglish origin and
would fain prove their connection with groat English Houses, and
are willing to jiay handsomely for such a connection. Therefore,
old Miirri<lKo generally found his hands fully occupied in trneing
pedigrees, finding out missing links, proving marriages, cslaldishing
American connections, following up lines of descent, converting
326 'SELF OR BEARER.'
plain country gentlemen into descendants of Royalty — this is a
very lucrative branch of the profession — and in this way bringing
vainglory, delight, honour, distinction, and solace to all who could
afford to pay for it. So great, indeed, was his skill that he never
failed to prove his client a cadet, at least, of some ancient House,
and, when there was no Estate involved and the family was sup-
posed to be extinct, he not infrequently made his client the Head
of that House. Nothing could be conceived more pleasing to ladies
and gentlemen who had been brought up to believe that for them
there was no Family History — no more than at the beginning of
the world — previous to the Family Shop where the money was
made — whether a Shop with a counter, and a till, and ati apron ;
or a Shop with an office and a clerk ; or a Shop with a box of pills ;
or a Shop with a wig and gown ; or a Shop with a sword and a red
coat ; or a Shop with a steel pen and a few pages of blank paper ;
or a Shop with a bundle of scrip and shares. So that Mr. Murridge
was really a Philanthropist of the first water — an eighteen carat
Philanthropist. If, from time to time, in his grubbing among
genealogies, old wills, and family histories, he came upon curious
discoveries which he was able to turn to his own advantage, he is
not to be blamed. Notably, there was the succession to the Clon-
silla Title, in which, as you will presently see, he did a very good
stroke of business.
He lived modestly in College Street, Camden Town, at the town
end, of course, where the trees are, and where the gentility of the
street do mostly congregate. He was a man of regular habits.
Every morning, at the same time, he took the same omnibus to the
City ; every evening, at the same time, he took the same omnibus
back. He took his dinner every day at the same dining-rooms, and
always spent the same amount upon it — namely, half-a-crown.
When he got home he stayed there. He never read anything at
all out of the way of his business, except the newspaper ; he always
read the same paper — namely, the Standard, because it gives most
news. Whether his plain and regular life was deliberately chosen
on account of parsimony, or whether it had become a habit, in the
course of long years, or whether it was caused by smallness of in-
come, nobody knows, because Mr. Murridge neither invited nor
offered confidence with anyone.
His office was in Finsbury Circus, where he had two rooms on a
second floor ; the front room large and light, looking out on the
open Place ; the back room small and dingy, looking upon the
Limbo of chimneys — workshops, back buildings, outhouses, and
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 327
grimy yards which one finds in that part of London. On the door-
posts below, his name was painted : 'Second Floor, John Mur-
RiDGE.' His own room was furnished with one very large table —
genealogists, like civil engineers, require great tables^aud another
very small one ; he had a great bookcase, full of books of reference,
such as Dugdale, Douglas, Tonge, Beltram, "Wotton, Collins, and
Lysons, a really valuable collection ; as for the county histories,
one needs the resources of a Rothschild to possess them. There
was also a large-sized safe in a corner, and there were tin boxes
piled one above the other, as in a solicitor's office, and there were
three or four chairs. The room at the back was not, properly
speaking, furnished at all. That is to say, there was a table at the
window with a blotting-pad, and an inkstand, and a chair before it.
There was another table beside the fireplace, with a heavy copying-
press upon it, the kind with a handle and a screw. This was for
the boy-clerk, who posted the letters, copied them, and ran errands.
The other table was for Mr. Murridgc, Junior — ]Mr. Richard ISrur-
ridge. His son and the clerk, together with the Private Secretary,
completed Mr. !Murridgo's Staff, and formed his Establishment.
As regards Master Dick, it might be said of him, as of a great
many others, that he would, doubtless, have been different had hia
training been other than what il was. Yet his education was not
neglected. At school he learned only the things most useful in a
commercial life, as a good hand, accounts and book-keeping, short-
hand, French, and the art of writing a business-letter. He also
bad the advantage, being a day-boy, of his father's experience and
practical wisdom, which was on tap, so to speak, every evening.
'I have taught my son, sir,' Mr. ^Murridgc explained, 'to despi.so
the common cant altcut Honour, Friendship, Justice, Charity, and
the rest of it. Tlie world is full of creatures who live by eating
each other. There is no otiier way to live, "NVo come into the
City every day to eat each (jlher, and to defend ourselves against
those who would eat us. The way is to make as much money as
we possibly can. As for Honour, it means that you must play fair
where it is your interest ; and Friendship means putting other
jieople on to a t,'0(.d thing when you can't get it for yourheif, and
in exchange for another good thing, lienevulcnce means keejiing
the peofilu you are eating up in good temper, Dick quite under-
stands the world. There is no nonsense about Dick. Justice
means having all you can get- all tiiat the law allows— to the last
penny, and never forgiving anylwdy. I have made the boy
thoioughly understand these principles. Ho begins life willi a
clear head, and no sentimental humlnig.'
328 'SELF OR BEARER.'
It is not often that a boy's views are thus based upon the first
elements of life and society, and Dick certainly began life with
great advantages.
Unluckily for Dick, he was not allowed to put these principles
into practice in an independent way. Mr. Murridge regarded his
business as a thing to be kept together, and handed down as a
property to his son. He, therefore, without any question as to
Dick's aptitude for genealogical research and the art of clothing a
man with a pedigree, removed him from school at an early age and
placed him in his own back office, where he gave him copying
work. You cannot possibly carry out any of these beautiful pre-
cepts and maxims on mere copying work.
Unfortunately, too, Mr. Murridge could never bring himself to
trust his son. He was a jealous master, who would let no one into
his secrets but himself, and worked, like the mole, underground.
So that, though Dick was now tliree-and-twenty, he knew no more
about his father's business than he did at sixteen, when he first
took his seat in the back-office, except that his father would talk
over the successful conduct of a case when it was completed,
especially if there had been any difficulties or sharp practice in it.
He did not dare to complain, but his position made him continually
grumpy. It is not a good sign for a young man's future when he
nourishes a secret grudge against his father, and when the father,
absorbed in his own business, never stops to consider what his son
is doing, and how he regards his own position and work.
Dick was now drawing the very handsome salary of seventy-five
pounds a year, with breakfast, lodging, washing, supper, if he
wanted it, and his Sunday dinner. He was, therefore, rich as
clerks at three-and-twenty go. We may allow him eighteenpence
a day for his dinner, or ten shillings a week, which comes to
twenty-six pounds a year ; fifteen pounds a year for his dress,
which is not extravagant ; ten pounds for a fortnight's holiday in
the summer ; and five pounds a year for his daily omnibus. There
remained the handsome sum of nineteen pounds a year, or rather
more than a shilling a day, to cover his amusements and his petty
expenses. How many young fellows can afford a shilling a day
for pleasure ?
Dick had so few pleasures, that he must have been saving money.
He was a very quiet young man— sons of masterful fathers gener-
ally are ; he had taught himself to play the piano a little, and to
draw a little, but languidly. When he was at home he spent most
of the time at the old piano, which had been his mother's. When
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 329
he was at the office, he spent most of the time in drawing. He had
no taste for reading ; he seemed to care nothing for the things
which form the ])leasure of so many young men ; he never went to
the theatres or music-halls ; he had no bicycle, belonged to no athletic
club ; and, except one or two old school-fellows, he had no friends.
Yet of late he had got into the habit of spending every evening
out. "Where he went, or what he did, his father did not inquire.
A quiet young man, who seemed to be getting through his youtli
at a regular, even pace, turning neither to the right hand nor to
the left, picking no fruits or flowers, and running after no butter-
flies, caught by none of the Jack-o'-lanterns which lead astray so
many of the London youth — his father should have been satisfied
with such a son.
But be was not. Mr. Murridge was disappointed that his son
had no passion fur anything. Dick was no fool, but he did his work
like a machine ; he took no interest in his work ; he was spiritless.
Now a yourg man who is not a fool cannot be, though he may
appear to be, a machine. Parents who have such sons as Dick
should remember this proverb, which is one of the very few
omitted from Solomon's Unique Collection — how good it is for
the world that this King collected Proverbs instead of old Phoeni-
cian Ware and Prehistoric Pots ! You will presently discover that
Dick was no exception to this provc-rl).
Mr. Murridge's confidctnco was enjoyed, to a certain extent, by
the young lady named Xonih Cronaii, who called herself his Pri-
vate Secretary. He {■alle<l h< r his clerk, but it made no dilTorenco
in the ."alary, which remained at the same figure as that enjoyed
by Dick — namely, seventy-five pounds a year. But ho did next to
nothing for the money, :md she did the work of three men. being
OH hhurp, clover, industrious, and zealous a girl as ever man had the
good fortune to engage in his service. She came every mdrning at
eleven, and generally spent an hour or two with her eniployor
l<efore ^he went off to the Museum, to tin? llecord OIVkm; to eonsidt
parish registers, to read wills, to make extrac^ts, and do all kiinls of
genealogical work, which kejit her all day long aiel very oftoii all
the evening as well. She was nineteen years of age, and she knew
— by heart, I think — nearly every genealogical work that existw in
the vt-rnaenlar. Of course, Mr. Mnrriilge did not wholly trust
her ; perhaps he was afraid she might make discovorieH and keep
them to lnrsolf aiul mak.^ hor own market out of tlwin- he IrnI
done HO himself in llie oM days ; perhaps there were certain risky
connections in his pedigrees which he did not wish to expose to the
330 'SELF OR BEARER:
girl's sharp eyes ; perhaps he was constitutionally unable to trust
anybodj' wholly. He might very well have trusted her, because
she had never yet suspected that she might become a money-winner
instead of a salary-earner — most men never do learn this lesson ;
still fewer women ever learn it, and so are contented to go on all
their lives upon a wage, and nobly rejoice when the smallness of
their own salaries has brought wealth to their employers. There-
fore she was honest, and carried to Mr. Murridge everything she
found, and never dreamed of withholding the least scrap of inform-
ation. This is praiseworthy in every walk of life, but especially
laudable in a genealogist, because this least scrap is always the
thing which is of the greatest importance. Such a simple thing, for
instance, as a single one-line entry in a parish register concerning
a marriage a hundred years ago has been known to prove a very
gold-mine to the discoverer. No man in the City had a more
valuable clerk than Mr. Murridge, or a cheaper clerk.
Some there are who object to girl-clerks on the ground that
although they are always honest, and may be underpaid and over-
worked to any extent, and though they never grumble and always
carry out orders literally and exactly, one cannot swear at them.
There is force in the objection, though it is not, I believe, felt by
some of the gentlemen who employ girls to sell gloves, and bonnets,
and beer, and soda-and brandy, nor was it felt by Mr. Murridge,
who, when Norah first came to him, swore at her every day. She
did not like being sworn at. It made her limbs tremble and her
face turn red and pale, but she thought it wisest to say nothing
about it at home, for the usual reason that there was not much
money going, and her small salary was useful ; and, besides, her
brother being a student at University College Hospital, there was,
just then, less than usual. Whenever Mr. Murridge's orders were
imperfectly obeyed or neglected, he swore at her. Why not ?
When he was a Prentice he had been sworn at every day, cuffed,
caned, and kicked, until he became a smart Prentice and a good
engraver. Why should he not swear at his own clerk ? He did,
and with such wearisome iteration of one word, that Norah grew
to loathe that word, and to take any amount of pains and trouble
in order not to hear it. It is quite a short word, and has been
mistaken by some for good Saxon. This is wrong. The word was
brought into this country by Julius Ca3sar himself, who uttered it
when he fell upon his nose on landing in Pevensey Bay. By this
act he conferred it upon the land, so to speak, by solemn gift and
deed, as a possession for ever. Vortigern subsequently taught it
A LONG MORNING IX THE CITY. 331
to Hengist and his Saxons. St. Edmund of East Anglia taught it
to the Danes just before they cut short his saintly career. Canute
and Edmund Ironsides frequently exchanged it, standing a good
way apart ; Harold, in his last rally, so deeply impressed it upon
Duke William that he strictly enjoined his sons never to suffer the
word to be lost. It was the only paternal injunction which the
Princes agreed in obeying. But the word is not Saxon.
Norah had now, however, been so long with Mr. Murridge, and
had worked for him so well — pedigree-hunting is matter of instinct
with some, like finding old books, or picking up old coins — that he
had almost ceased to use ' language ' even in her presence. He knew
her value, and in his softer moments he had thoughts, even, of
raising her salary.
At half-past ten in the morning all City offices are in their first
fresh vigour and early morning enthusiasm of work. The glow of
the dawn, so to speak, is upon them. The glow lingers till about
half-past eleven, when fatigue and languor begin among the younger
brethren ; at twelve, many havu visibly relaxed, and have begun to
glance at the clock, and to wriggle on their seats. It is not, how-
ever, until five in the afternoon that the curse of labour is really
felt to weigh heavily upon the shoulders of the young clerk. In
Mr. Murridgc's outer office there was no languor or fatigue possible,
because there was no labour either for Mr. Richard or for the boy.
It was a season of forgetf ulness. No work had been given to Dick
for three weeks, and, except in the evening, when there were letters
to be put through the jjress, no work was ever given to the office-
boy. During this enforced idleness, Dick Murridge sat the whole
day at his table by the window which commanded a view of back-
yards, chimneys, and outhouses. He amused himself by drawing
girl-s' head.i upon his blotting-pad in pencil. When one page was
covered he turned it over and drew on the next, so that the pad
was become a perfect gallery of loveliness. By dint of long practice
he. could draw a girl's face very well, whether full or in profile, or
a three-quarter face. He looked at his watch a good deal, and ho
grumbled a good deal, and if the office-boy made any noise ho used
bad language, but not loud enough for his father to hear, because
Mr. Murridge was one of those parents who reserve certain vices
for their own use and forbid them to their sons.
The office-boy sat at another table on which was a copying-press.
He had nothing to do, as a rule, except to copy letters by means of
the press, and to go on errands.
But this boy never found the day too long or the Golden Hours
332 'SELF OR DEARER.'
dull. Tliis was because his table had a drawer. Even to an
industrious clerk a drawer is a standing temptation. To the lazy
clerk it is an ever-present snare ; to the clerk who has nothing to
do, the drawer is a never-failing solace and resource. This boy, a
City-born boy, with sharp eyes, pasty face, and commonplace
features, was able, by means of his drawer, to live all day long in
another world. He kept it half-open, so that at the least move-
ment or sound from the inner office, or change of position in Mr.
Murridge, who sat with his back to him, he could, by a quick for-
ward movement of his chest, shut the drawer suddenly and noise-
lessl}', and be discovered, so to speak, in the attitude of the expec-
tant, read}', and zealous clerk, eager to do something which would
lessen the drain of his three half-crowns a week. Inside the drawer
there was always a story — one of those spirit-stirring, exciting, and
romantic stories of adventure, which can be bought for a penny,
and which never pall upon the reader. So that this boy's days
were passed in a delicious and delirious dream of adventure, love,
and peril, tempered only by the fear of being suddenly found out
and horribly cuffed or even dismissed, when he would catch it
worse at home under the family cane. If the boy is not before
long enabled to live up to that dream and to become a rover, pirate,
smuggler, or highwayman, I fear that his whole future will be
wrecked. Because there inevitably comes a time of hope too long
deferred, when the realization of a dream, though possible, no
longer seems delightful. This boy, at eighteen, may cease to desire
the lawless life ; or, if he pursues it, he may become a mere common
burglar, forger, long-firm man, confidential-dodge man or welsher —
joyless, moody, apprehensive, suspicious, and prone to sneak round
a corner at sight of a man in blue-coat and helmet.
In the front room — Mr. Murridge's room — the Chief sat at a
great table, covered with papers. He was not consulting any ; he
had before him half-a-dozen cheques, and he was looking at them
with perturbed eyes. Sometimes he compared one with another ;
sometimes he looked at each separately ; and as he looked, his hard
face grew harder, and his keen eyes sharper. Six cheques. They
were all drawn for the same sum — twelve pounds ; and they were
all signed by himself. One would not think that the contempla-
tion of half-a-dozen cheques, payable to self or bearer, signed by
one's own name, could take a busy man from his work. But they did.
About eleven o'clock the silence of the office Avas broken by a
light step on the stair. The boy shut up his drawer with a swift
and silent jerk of his chest, so that he might be discovered with
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 333
his elbows on the table, and his hands clasping the handles of the
copying-press, a model attitude for the Zealous Unemployed, when
the door opened, and a young ladj' appeared, carrying a black bag.
This was the Private Secretary. She nodded pleasantly to Dick,
and passed through the room into the inner office. But Dick
responded with a grunt.
Mr. ^lurridge looked up, and greeted her with an ill-tempered
snort.
' You're late again,' he said.
' I'm not,' she replied. ' Eleven is striking ; and I never am late ;
and you know it. Be just, even though you arc out of temper.'
'Your head is turned by your father's Title. I suppose you
think you can say what you like. Is the Honourable Norah Cronan
going to continue in her present employment ?'
' I don't know. Very likoly. Meantime there is this Case to
finish. I have brought you some papers you will be pleased to see.'
* I don't know that anything can please me this morning. Give
them to me. Humph ! Mighty little, considering the time you've
taken !'
' Hadn't you better read before you grumble ? That's alwaj's the
way with you when you get your fur rubbed the wrong way. Look
at this, now.'
' Yes ; will you read it to me ?'
She always 'stood up' to him, and generally reduced him to
good temper by sheer force of courage. To-day, however, ho
attempted no rejoinder, but meekly gave in without reply. It
aHtoni.shed her. Perhaps he was ill.
' Go on, please.'
Nonih, therefore, sat down, and began to explain the nature and
the bearing of her pajiers. (Jenealogical research is really most
interesting work. You are always liunting for someone, and find-
ing someone else. Then you go ofl^ on a dozen hunts, and you
discover the most abominable falsehoods in printed pedigrees, with
gaping llawH, and disconnections, and inipossiliilities, where every-
thing looked fair and smooth. I'lie girl enjoyed tiiese tilings moro
than Mr. Mnrridge, for the simple reason that ho could never for ime
moment forg('t how nni<:b nione}' tliere might be in it. Now, no
one ever enjoyed any kind of work, whether it is i)ainting a picture
with a brush, or painting a succession of pictures with a little steel
pen and a 8heet of blue paper, who keejm thinking all the while of
the money. But while Norali told htr story a strange thing
happened — a very strange thing. For the first time in his life Mr.
334 'SELF OR BEARER.'
Murridge was inattentive, and that over an important piece of work.
He had often before been irritable, but never inattentive.
Outside, Dick Murridge had returned to his blotting-pad, and
was gloomily drawing girls' heads upon it. The office-boy opened
his drawer again very gently, and resumed the reading of his
romance, which had been interrupted at the critical moment when
Spring-heel Jack was commencing his earliest love-adventure.
The lady was not described with any detail, but the boy concluded
that in figure and face she must have greatly resembled Miss
Cronan, whom he himself secretly loved, though he was aware that
he had a rival. What would Spring-heel Jack have done to a rival ?
His mistress, since she was like Miss Cronan, was slender in figure,
wore a neatly-fitting jacket, and a hat with a red feather in it.
She had roses in her cheeks, dark brown hair, and full, steady eyes.
The boy did not know the adjective, but he knew the quality of
steadiness. She also had, like Miss Cronan, a sweet and pleasant
smile. The lady in his story, however, did not resemble Miss
Cronan in one particular. She was not a young lady ' in the City,'
but was a Countess in her own Right, though disguised as a milk-
maid.
Half an hour afterwards the girl came back io the outer office,
with her black bag in her hand, on her way to resume her work
upon the Case. It was, however, with a sense that her work had
not been appreciated. Mr. Murridge was strangely inattentive.
She shut the door after her, and tui'ned to Dick, who slightly
raised his right shoulder, a gesture familiar to the Grum'py, and con-
sidered effective. He then made the same gesture with the left
shoulder. This indicates unrelenting Grumpiness.
' Well, Dick ?' she said, waiting.
He made no reply whatever. The office-boy felt that he really
ought to get up and wring the neck of his master's son for
incivility. But he was not yet man enough.
Then Norah crossed the room, and laid her hand on Dick's shoulder.
' Come, Dick,' she said, 'don't be vindictive. Let us be friends.'
' Friends !' he replied. ' Oh yes ; I know ! You told me there
was nothing between you and anybody, and next day I am told all
about Hugh. Call that truthfulness, I suppose ?'
' It was the truth, Dick. It really was.'
'I don't believe it. Sappbira !'
' Well, Dick, if you take it like that, I've got nothing to say.'
' I don't care what happens now. If anything happens it's your
fault — you and all of you.'
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 335
' What wiU happen, Dick ?'
' Anything may happen, I suppose. How am I to know what
will happen ?'
' Well, Dick,' the girl replied, ' I can't stay to guess riddles. Will
you shake hands ?'
' No. Sapphira !"
Norah retired without another word.
The office-boy thought of Spring-heel Jack, and what he would
do under such provocation. But it was useless. He was not man
enough by several inches.
Half an hour afterwards there was another step on the stairs.
Dick hastened to assume the air of a Junior Partner, and the office-
boy once more closed the drawer and grasped the handle of the
copying-press.
This time it was Dr. Hyacinth Cronan. He was still in the over-
whelming wave of the first day's enjoyment of his new honours.
Yet one might have thought that there was something wanting, as
if the full flavour of his title had not been quite brought out — it
requires time for the complete enjoyment of everything, even a
title. His brow was knitted, as they used to say in the old
metaphorical times when people would knit a brow as well as a
stocking and curl an uppi-r-lip as easily as a ringlet, and hurl scornful
words as readily and as cll'ee lively as big stones. They could also
unhand each other. He looked, to put the thing plainly, disturbed.
' Is your father in his office ?' he asked, cutting short Dick
Murridgc's proposed congratulations. ' I will step in.'
'I expected you this morning,' said Mr. Murridge. 'I expected
you would look in. You came to talk over the new jtosition. Well,
I am not much accustomed ' — he laughed a dry laugh — ' to advise
noble Lords.'
' You need not trouble about the title. I cumo especially to ask
you about a certain document which I .signed hero two or three
years ago,'
'(juito HO. It is in my safe here. For tiiu consideration of
two hundred pounds — money down— you resigned the whole of
your reversionary intorests, whatever they might be,'
' I remember the transaction jKirfectly. Yf)U ofTiied nic two
huiiilred [munds for my rever.sion.iry riglits. I waiitiMl t!i«; money
pretty badly. I always do. Tho reversionary riglits. You cx-
jdained to me at the time that there were two lives Ixtweeii me
and the HucciH«ion. I thought I had no more chance of tho title
than I bad of the Crown of England. Tell mo exactly what it
336 'SELF OR DEARER:
was I sold. There are other I'ights besides reversionary rights, I
suppose ?'
' What 3'ou sold was your chance of succeeding to the property
of which the late Lord Clonsilla was only a life-tenant.'
' What made you offer me the money ?'
' Because I knew that yours was a substantial chance.'
' But there were two lives, men no older than myself, between
Lord Clonsilla and myself.'
' One of them, when you signed that paper, I knew to be suffer-
ing from a hopeless disorder. He died, in fact, a few weeks after-
wards. The other had been married for fifteen years without
children. I hoped that he would have none. Well, my hopes were
well founded ; not only are there no children, but the man himself
is dead. And you are the new Viscount, and what estate there is
has come to me. It isn't much, after all.'
' You kuew this and you did not tell me ?'
' I did. You thought you knew all about it, and you did not even
take the trouble to inquire before you signed. Don't talk about
honour, Doctor, because in the City there is no such thing. Clever
people invented the word in order to keep other people foolish. It
was a sharp practice — nothing more. I was astonished at the time
that a man of your capacity shouldn't have made some inquiries
before you sold your rights. Why didn't you ?'
' I suppose because I trusted you.'
' Did you supi)ose, then, that I was benevolently giving you two
hundred pounds ?'
* No ; I supposed we were making a fair bet. My chance of the
small estate — what is it ? — a thousand a year ? — was worth, I
thought, what you offered.'
' Never think in business — never trust — never believe any man.'
' If there is no honour there is, I suppose, some kind of fair play
between men who deal ? Do you call your play fair?'
' Yes, I do. You might have got the same information as I got.
But never mind fair play. The estate is mine, and I shall send
word to the tenants that they are to pay their rent to me. Do you
dispute my claim ?'
' I would if I could ! laut I fear I cannot.'
'Think of it. Take legal advice about it. As for the land, it is
only a few hundred acres, and none of the tenants have paid the
rent for years. They'll have to pay or go now, if there's law left
in Ireland. You haven't lost anything. You couldn't have made
them pay.'
A LONG MORNING IN THE CITY. 337
' You ou^ht to have told me-
' Xonsense, Doctor,' Mr. Murridge interrupted him sharply.
' That is not the way in which I manage my business. I get
hold of a secret, and I use it for my own advantage. I never
suspected you were cousin to Lord Clonsilla till you gave me a
receipted bill for medical attendance with your full name — Hugh
Hyacinth Cronan. Never dreamed of it till then. But when I
saw that Christian name — you are all Hyacinths, you Cronans— I
began to suspect, and with a question or two put to you, and a little
examination into the pedigree, and a little information about the
heir presumptive, I easily arrived at the whole truth, and I used
that truth to the best advantage. Why didn't you take the same
trouble to protect your rights as I did to acquire them ?'
The Doctor made no reply.
' Honour ! He talks of honour,' Mr. Murridge went on. ' Why,
what is there in the world but self-interest ? Nothing but self-
interest, which is the same thing as self-preservation. That is the
instinct which makes men gather together, and pass laws, and make
pretence of charity, and alTcction, and honour, and such rubbish.
I've got myself to look after ; I must make money to keep myself;
I shall get old and past work, and 1 must make money to support
my old age. I make money as I can. No man can say that I have
robbed him.'
The Doctor at this point started, as if there might be one excep-
tion to this general statement. Mr. Murridge paused for a moment,
but as nothing was said, he went on :
' I've had to take every advantago, and I have taken every
advantage. Very well, then, what have you got to say to that':"
'Nothing at all,' said the Doctor, laughing ruefully. 'Nothing
in the world, except that tliore's one kind of men who believe, and
one kind who suspect. Weil, I shall go back to my patients.' Ho
roHC and took his hat. ' I wonder if there's ever before been a real
Viscount making up his own jtilis for his own patients in Camdm
Street, Camden Town. But I dont tliiiik I need ehangc the door-
plate.'
' Wait a moment, Doctor ; wait, my Lord,' said Mr. Murridge ;
'yon must not go just yet. Dear mo I Pills'!' Patients':' For
the Viscount Clonsilla? You distresB me ; your Lordhhip makes
mc feel as if I had not done a noble action in— in— in clearing the
way for your acccBsion. Why, if it had not been for rac, you would
slill be [(lain Dr. Cronan !'
' That is true, Mr. Murridge 1'
22
338 'SELF OR BEARER:
' "Why, Doctor — I mean my Lord — there are a thousand ways in
which a title may be used. Such a title as yours is a fortune in
itself, and a certain income — a large income if properly used. Even
a Knight can do something, a Baronet can do more ; but a Viscount
— oh, a Viscount is a tower of strength, especially in London, where
all the money is '
' Am I to let the title out at so much an hour, as if it was a
donkey on Hampstead Heath ?'
' Sit down for five minutes. Of all men, medical men are the
least practical. Now, then, put the case plainly. You are Viscount
Clonsilla, and you have no money excejit your professional income,
and your wife's two hundred a year. You have also your children.
Why, to keep up the title decently, you must have two thousand
at least. It can't be done at all with less than two thousand. Shall
I show you how to make that two thousand ?'
' It seems worth hearing, at any rate.'
The Doctor sat down again.
' The world, my Lord, is divided into two classes — those who can
use their chances, and those who can't.'
' Very good.'
' I am one of those who know how to use their chances. Now
and then I get such a haul as a man who will sell his reversionary
interest. But I am not ungrateful. You sold me a certainty for
a song, and in return I will show you how to make money out of
nothing.'
' Go on.'
' To begin with, there are always companies, good and bad, going
to be started. The great difficulty with them all is to inspire con-
fidence at the outset. For this purpose the names of noblemen —
. not men of business in the City — are greatly in demand. Now do
you begin to see ?'
'I do. The name of Lord Clonsilla would look well on a list of
Directors.'
' More than that ; you yourself would look well in the chair.
There is nothing against you. An Irish peer with a small property
who has been a physician in practice. Come, I will run you. I
know of more than one company already that would rejoice in
appointing you as Director ; as for the qualification '
' I think,' said the Doctor, ' that the red lamp will have to stand.'
' Then there is philanthropy. Hundreds of societies for every
kind of object, and all of them wanting a Lord. An income might
be made out of the May meetings alone.'
A LOXG MORNING IN THE CITY.
339
Lord Clonsilla rose and put on his hat.
' Thank you,' he said. ' There was an old proverb, Noblesse
oblige, which I suppose is now translated, '' Sell everything you can
and take the highest bid." The red lamp will have to stay where
it is, with the brass plate, and the less we say about the title the
better. Good-morning, Murridge.'
' The man is a fool,' said Mr. Murridge when the Doctor was
gone ; ' he was a fool to sign away his interest for a song, and now
he is going to fool away his title. Well '
Then his thoughts returned to the cheques, and his face darkened
as he turned back the papers which covered them, and saw them
again all spread out before him.
At five minutes to one exactly there ran up the stairs another
visitor — for the third time that morning the office-boy jammed his
drawer close, and embraced the copying-press. It was hard, because
the heroine was at that very moment taking her famous leap from
London Bridge, followed by Spring-heel Jack. lie caught her, it
will be remembered, in mid-air, and gracefully swam ashore, hold-
ing her inanimate form out of the water with his strong left hand.
Dick Murridge did not this time pretend to be absorbed in business,
because he knew the step.
' Come out and have some dinner, Dick.'
It was a young fellow of one or two and twenty, and he had tlie
unmistakable look of a student, not a clerk. The odicc-boy thought
his real name must be Spring-heel Jack, because he bore himself
bravely and joyously, and was so comely a young man ; and because,
as all young highwaymen are, he walked as if he would rather bo
dancing, and talked as if he would rather be singing, and he was,
no doubt, extraordinarily impudent to all persona in authority.
Mr. Richard, on the other hand, would not make at all a good
highwayman, because ho was generally grumpy. Nobody ever
heard of a grumpy highwayman. And as for a pirate, ho may
carry high spirits to the h-ngth of firing pistols under the table, but
he may not be grumpy.
'Come along, Dick. I had to do somo business in the City for
my mother. I say, what a lark it is about the Title ! You've
heard about it, haven't you ?'
* Yes, I've heard. How much money is tlicro in it ?'
' I don't know. I got home late last night, and ex|)ected a row.
Instead of that, if you please, the Mater burst into tears, ami njcd
out : "Oh, my dear son, your fatlur liirns out to be a Viscoinit in
disguise, aud you are the llonoural>lo IJyaciuth !" Upon my wonl,
2-2— 2
340 'SELF OR DEARER.'
Dick, I thought they were all gone mad together, especially as my
father stood like a stuck pig — as if he was asliamed of himself —
and Norah laughed and said : " You are the Honourable Dafi'odil,
and I'm the Honourable Norah. Larry is the Honourable Larry,
and Calista is the Honourable Calista." And then Uncle Joe
wanted to say something too, but he was up to the back teeth by
that time in gin-and-water, and he could only wag his head like
Solomon.'
' There must be some money in it,' said Dick. ' People can't sit
in the House of Lords without any money.'
'We sha'n't be allowed to sit in the House of Lords, it seems, at
all, because we're Irish — only Irish, you know. My mother talks
already of petitioning the Queen to remove the disability, which,
she says, is a disgrace to the Constitution.'
' My father told me this morning. It isn't often he tells me
anything. I say, Daff ' Dick grew very red — ' I've forgotten
something, and must go back to the office and set it right. We'll
meet at the usual place in five minutes. Look here. Just cash
this cheque for me as you pass the Bank, will you ? Thanks. It
will save me five minutes. Take it in gold.'
He thrust an envelope into his friend's hand, and ran off without
waiting for an answer.
' I say,' said the Honourable Daffodil, ' why should I go to the
Bank and do Dick's messages for him ? I'm not his clerk, nor his
father's clerk, though Norah is. Well, never mind.'
The Bank lay in his way to the Crosby Hall, where they proposed
to take their dinner. He went in, presented the cheque without
looking at it, received the money without counting it, dropped it
in his pocket, and went his way to the dining-place, where he met
Dick and gave him the money. They had their dinner, and after
dinner Daffodil went back to the Hospital in Gower Street, where
he received with cheerfulness the congratulations of his friends on
his accession to the family honours. These congratulations took
the form common among medical students, who have, it must be
owned, small respect for hereditary rank. Yet, out of kindness,
they promoted their comrade, and gave him several steps in the
Peerage, calling him the Right Honourable His Royal Highness
Prince Daffodil.
WHO HAS DONE THIS? 341
CHAPTER IV.
WHO UAS DONE THIS?
There were six cheques lying before Mr. Murridge. All of them
were drawn for the same amount ; all of them, in words and figures,
were written exactly alike, save for the date. Mr. ]Murridge him-
self wrote a small and well-marked hand, very neat and clear — each
letter perfectly formed— such a hand as might be expected of one
who has been brought up as an engraver. Yet, for that very
reason, perhaps, easier to imitate than a more common and slovenly
character. The signatures of these cheques were so perfectly
imitated that even Mr. Murridge himself could only tell by the
dates which were his own and which were forgeries.
' Six cheques,' he said, once more comparing the dates of the
cheques with his own diary, ' and four of them — these four — are
forgeries. These four.'
Agaiu he examined them closely.
They were all drawn for the same amount — namely, twelve
pounds. It was au established rule with this methodical man, a
rule from which he never departed, always to draw the cheques ho
wanted for private and domestic use for the same amount— namely,
twelve pounds. This enabled him to know by a glance at the bank-
book how much he spent on his household, and on salaries, wages,
personal expenses, and oflice. Generally he drew this twelve
pounds once a week. Sometimes, however, he would have to draw
oftcner than once a week. But a cheque for twelve pounds, with
his Hignaturc, payal)lo to bearer, would Ix; cirtainly cashed without
Huspicion or doul>t, when presented across the counter.
The forger must have known that practice of his.
Who did know it ?
Tie had before him, besides the cheques themselves, his l)aiik-
book and his clicque-book.
'Six cheques,' ho wiid, summing up the case, 'have been ab-
stracted from tlie book ; not taken aUof^cthcr, which would liavo
made a scnHJble gap in tli»; book — I sliould liavo noticed that at
once— but one Uiken hire and ono taken tliere, ho as to escape
observation. That was crafty. When could I have Kft IIiccIrciuo-
book lying about? and who would bo in the ofliiM' when 1 went
out leaving it lying on the Uible ? Six ciiequfs. Four have bien
preofiitfxl and paid. There remain two more.'
Mr. .Murridge's business was not one which recpiired the continual
342 'SELF OR DEARER:
paying into the Bank of money, and the drawing of many cheques.
He had his bank-book made up once a month. His son generally
called for it. On this occasion he had, himself, while passing the
Bank that verj^ morning, three days before the usual time, looked
in and asked for it. Therefore, it was probable that the other two
cheques would be both presented before the customary day of send-
ing for the bank-book. Evidently the writer of the cheques knew
perfectly well the routine of his office as well as his signature.
' It could not be the girl,' said Mr. Murridge ; ' she could never
imitate my handwriting to begin with ;' he looked at one of her
papers. It was written in a large hand, rather clumsy, for Norah
belonged to the generation which has not been taught to write
neatly as well as legibly, and the day of the fine Italian hand has
quite gone by. Nobody who wrote such a sprawling hand as hers
could imitate even distantly Mr. Murridge's neat and clearly-formed
characters. ' She may have stolen the cheques for someone, though.
She may have a lover. Girls will do anything for their lovers.
Yet I have always thought her an honest girl. The man who trusts
anyone is a Fool.'
Then he thought of the office-boy. He, too, was incapable of
such an imitation. Yet he might have been put up to the job by
someone outside. Very likely it was the boy. Most likely it was
the boj^ There was also a third person who knew the routine of
the office, and his own customs, and daily rules. Mr. Murridge
started when he thought of this third person, and his face hardened
for a moment, but only for a moment, because the very possibility
of such a thing cannot be allowed to be considered.
He placed all the cheques with the bank-book in his pocket, put
on his hat, and went slowly out of the office. He was so much
troubled in his mind that he actually left the safe unlocked, and all
his papers lying on the table, cheque-book and all. This was a
thing which he had never done before in his life. The office-boy
observed this extraordinary neglect, and thought what a splendid
chance would have been presented to Spring-heel Jack had his
tyrant master left the safe open.
Mr. Murridge was not the kind of person to begin by crying out
that he was robbed. Not at all. He would first be able to lay his
hand upon the man who did it. He therefore went to the Bank
Manager and requested an interview with the clerk of the pay-
counter, merely stating that one of his cheques appeared to have
fallen into the wrong hands.
' Can you tell me,' he asked, ' who presented these cheques ?'
117/0 HAS DONE THIS? 343
The clerk was paying cheques over the counter all day long, and
it seemed rather a wild question to ask. But there was one thing
in favour of his remembering. The only person who was ever
sent to the Bank with Mr. Mun-idge's private cheques was his son.
' I cannot remember each one. But I remember something about
them, because your son usually comes with these twelve-pound
cheques.'
' Well — what do you remember ?'
' Two or three of these cheques — I think three — were presented
by an elderly man with white hair, a white moustache, and a foreign
accent, which I noticed. Ob, and he had lost the forefinger of his
right hand. He took the money each time in gold, and was a long
while counting it.'
' An elderly man, with white moustache, and one finger gone.
You ought to be able to recognise him.'
* I think I should know him. Another of the cheques was pre-
sented by a young lady. 1 should certainly know her,' said the
clerk with more assurance. ' She was well dressed, and very pretty.
Oh, I am sure I should know her.'
' Oh ! Is there anything else you can tell me ?'
'Why, there was another cheque presented half an hour ago.'
' That makes the fifth,' said Mr. Murridge. ' Who presented
that ?'
'A young man— T think I should know him— with light hair and
a light moustache. He wore a pot-hat and a red necktie, and had
a flower in his button-hole. He walked into the Bank aa if tho
place belonged to him. First he said he would take it anyhow, and
then he said he would take it in gold.'
' And the other two— these two ?'
' They were presented by your son as usual. Your cheques
being always for tho same amount, and always being presented by
your son, m.idc me notice a dilTorcncc.'
' Thank you. Observe that I have made a little alteration. This
will, in future, be my signature ; you see tho difference ? Now, if
a cheque in presented without tho variation, you will please detain
the man who prcHonts it, and give him in custody, and scml for nu«.
That's all.'
He went back to his oflico. Something was learned. A man
with a foreign accent, and one forefinger gone, had presented thr«;o
of the che(pic«. A girl, good-looking and well-dresHe<l, i»rescntod
another, and a young gentleman in a jwt-hat and a red tie presented
another. Not a great deal to helj) a detective, but something.
344 'SELF OR BEARER:
His son had not yet returned from his dinner, and the office-boy
was still alone.
' Where is the callers'-book ?' he asked.
The boy produced the book. Mr. Murridge ran his finger slowly
down the list, looking i'or someone to suspect. There was no one.
But the last name of all struck him. It was the name of Mr,
Hyacinth Cronan, junior. The only visitors that morning had
been those members of the Cronan family. He suddenly remem-
bei'ed that Hyacinth, junior, had a way of walking about as if
everything belonged to him, and that he wore a pot-hat, and gener-
ally had a flower in his button-hole. Why, in a general way, the
descriptions agreed, but then it was impossible.
' What did young Mr. Cronan come here for ?' he asked.
' I don't know, sir. He came for Mr. Richard. They went out
together at one o'clock.'
Mv. Murridge gazed thoughtfully at the boy. Young Cronan
might have called at the Bank on his way.
' Go to your dinner,' he said to the boy abruptly.
The boy took his hat and disappeared in trepidation, because the
history of Spring-heel Jack was in the drawer. Suppose his master
was to open that drawer and discover it ! This was exactly what
Mr. Murridge proceeded to do. He opened the boy's drawer, and
examined it very carefully. There was nothing in it at all, except
a boy's penny novel, which he turned over contemptuously, taking
no heed of the way in which the boy was spending the office-time-
What did it matter to him what the boy did so long as he got
through his work ? It is not until middle-age that we learn a truth
which is not one of the most important laws, yet is not without its
uses ; namely, that nobody cares how we do spend our time, every
man being fully occupied with the spending of his own time.
When Mr. Murridge was quite satisfied in his own mind that
there was nothing in the boy's drawer, he turned to his son's table.
He did not in the least suspect his son, or connect him with the lost
cheques, but it was his nature to search everywhere — even in the
least likely places. His profession was to search for missing links.
He knew that anywhere he might find a clue. He, therefore,
opened the drawers. He turned over the papers, and even examined
the blotting-pad, but observed nothing except that the paper was
full of girls' heads, drawn in pencil— very prettily, if he had been
able to examine them from an artistic point of view.
' The boy does think of something, then,' said Mr. Murridge ; 'if
it is only of girls. Perhaps he will wake up now.' Dick was, in
WHO HAS DONE THIS? 345
fact, wide-awake, and had been awake for a long time. ' Girls'
heads ! Well, he is young, and believes in women. Young men
very often do.'
On the shelves round the room were piles of old letters, docu-
ments of no more use to anyone, account-books, and all the litter
of thirty years' accumulation. But to search through this mass of
papers, black with dust, would take too long. He stood beside his
son's table, uncertain, troubled in his mind, not knowing where to
look or whom to suspect. Here his son found him, when he returned
from dinner at two o'clock, studying the pictures on the blotting-
pad.
'Dick,' he said, 'come into my room. Shut the door. Look
here. Do you know these cheques ?' He looked at the cheques,
and not at his son as he spoke, therefore he did not observe the
change of colour which passed swiftly over the young man's face,
followed by a quick hardening of the mouth. * Do you know these
cheques ?'
Dick took them up one by one, and looked at them carefully,
taking his time over each.
Then he replied slowly, and in a husky voice :
' Why, they are only the cheques which I have cashed for you,
are they not ?'
' How many cheques have you cashed for me in the last three
weeks? Think!'
'Two; unless No; two.'
' Look at the dates. They have all been presented during the
last three weeks. There is no doubt as to that fact, at least. Five
out of the .seven, Dick, are forgeries. I have been robbed.'
' Irapo.isiblel' said Dick.
'So I should have said yesterday. To-day I can only repeat, I
have been robbed.'
Dick showed a face full of astonishment.
' Who can have roblied you ?' he asked.
' That, you sec, is what we have to fmd out ; and that, by George,
I will find out — I will find out, Dick !' He rattled hi.s ki-ys in hi.s
pocket. It is HiippoHfd that only persons of great resolutiim ratllo
their keys when they resolve. Hut I doubt this. ' If I do nothing
for the next twelve months I will find out. I have been robbed of
sixty pounds— sixty pounds ! That won't break nic. It isn't the
money so iniirh as the villainy wliicli tronbh's inc ; vill.iiiiy about
the olFino ; viil.iiny at my very ell»ow. Ill find out who ilid it,
Dick ; and then wc will see what tlic Law can do ! Homo men
346 'SELF OR BEARER:
when they arc robbed — oh, I know it goes on every day! — ait down
andhear excuses, and forgive the villain. They let the wife or the
daughter come to them and cry, and then let the fellow go. That
is not my sort, Dick. I will catch this fellow wherever he is— I
will track him down ! He had better have robbed a Bank — which
is bound never to forgive — than have robbed me !'
' How — how,' asked Dick, clearing his throat again — ' bow do
you propose to find him ?'
' As for the amount, it isn't much — sixty pounds. The interest
of sixty pounds at five-and-a-half per cent., which I can get if
anybody can, is three pounds six shillings a year. An estate in
perpetuity, worth three pounds six shillings yearly, has been stolen
from me — from you, too, Dick, because I suppose ' Here he
stopped to heave a sigh. The Common Lot is hard, but hardest of
all to a man who is making money. ' I suppose I shall some day
have to leave things behind me like everybody else. Three pounds
six shillings a year ! Think how long it takes to save that. A little
perpetual spring, so to speak. Who has done it, you say ? That
is just exactly what we have to find out ; and, by George, Dick, I'll
never rest — never — and I'll never let you rest, either — until I have
found out the man !'
Two men there are who particularly resent being robbed. The
one is the man born to great possessions. He is always obliged to
trust people, and he is the natural prey of the crafty, and he feels
personally insulted by a breach of trust because it seems to accuse
him of being credulous, soft, ignorant of the world, and easily
taken in. The other is the man who spends his life in amassing
small gains, and knows the value of money, what it represents, how
much labour, self-restraint, and the foregoing of this world's
pleasures for the sake of getting it, and very often how many
tricks, and what crookedness in his pilgrimage. Mr. Murridge was
the second of these men. His son watched him curiously and
furtively, as he continued wrathfully threatening vengeance and
relentless pursuit.
' Well, sir,' Dick asked, when the storm subsided, ' as yet you
have not told me any particulars.'
' I'm coming to them. I don't know very much. But I am sure
it will prove enough for a beginning. Many a great robbery has
been discovered with fewer facts than these. Now listen, and get
them into your head. A clever detective would very soon get a
clue out of what I have learned.'
He proceeded to relate brieflj' what we already know.
117/0 HAS DONE THIS? 347
' Have you got them all ?' he asked, ' Sit down first and make a
note of the dates. They may be important. Remembei", an elderly
man with a foreign accent, and the forefinger of the right hand
gone. A girl. A young fellow with light hair, a pot-hat, a red
necktie, and a swaggering air.'
* It is not much to remember,' said Dick. ' But why do you want
me to remember them so particularly?'
' Because I want you to find the thief, Dick.'
The son started, and lifted his head.
* What ?' he cried.
' I want you to find the villain, Dick,' Mr. Murridge repeated.
'Me to find him?'
'You shall show me the stuff you are made of. You'll never
make a genealogist worth your salt. It's poor work spending every
evening over a piano or out in the streets, and all day drawing
girls' heads on a blotting-pad. I don't believe you are without
brains, Dick. And here's a chance for you to show what you can
do.'
'Yes,' said Dick thoughtfully.
' Besides, I don't want to make a fuss about the matter. Let us
work quietly without the police, and the Bank and all. I don't
want to arouse suspicion anywhere.'
' I see,' said Dick. ' You want the — the man who did it not to
know that you have found it out already.'
' Yes. It shall be your work. It will be an occupation for you.
Get to the bottom of this case. Take a week over it. Do nothing
else. Think of nothing else. Lord ! I should make a beautiful
Detective. I've often thought that I sliould liave liked the work.
But there's no ^loney in it.'
Dick received these commands with profound amazement.
'Go to the police, if you like. But I would rather you kept it
entirely in your own hands. Anyhow, I don"t care how you lind
it out. Here, take the clic'iiuts ; you may want them, and the
chequebook. That may be useful. Don't let the book lie about,
thr)Ugh it would be of no use to anybody, because I've taken the
precaution to stop the numbers. And as for tlio sixth of the stolen
cheques — the one wbirh is not yet presented — I'm in great liopos,
my boy — particularly if we keep «juiet and nothing is said — tliat
the fiillow will have the itnpinlcnco to hand it across the counter
to-day or tomorrow, when that joker will be pleased to find him-
self askiid to Htc|» int«> tlu; Mianriger's room, while the police are
called in to escort him before the Lord Mayor. .\iid as for my
348 ■ 'SELF OR BEARER.'
signature, I've altered it. And it will be a good long time before
anybody gets the chance of getting my cheque-book again.'
' I — I will do my best,' said his son. ' At present, I confess '
' IMind, Dick, when you've got anything that looks like a Clue,
follow it up — follow it up. Never mind who it is.' He was think-
ing, I am ashamed to say, of his Private Secretary. ' Follow up
any clue which offers, wherever it may lead you. If you find
reason to suspect — even slight reason to suspect anybody — any-
body, I say — find out where that person has lately spent his time,
and what money he paid away, and to what people, and how he
has paid it. Find out his associates. Then find out them. If
necessary, make yourself chummy with them ; make them believe
that you want to cultivate their acquaintance ; go to their places
of amusement. And mind, not a word to any living creature.'
' Not a word,' his son repeated shortly. He held in his hand the
cheque and the cheque-book, and he had a strange look of astonish-
ment and hesitation,
' Why,' Mr. Murridge continued, ' what a poor, miserable, sneak-
ing thief he must be ! He had six cheques, and he could forge my
name so well that even I myself cannot tell the difference. Among
those seven cheques I onlj^ know my own cheques by the numbers
in the book. Yet he fills them up for no more than twelve pounds
each. He will be arrested, committed, tried, and sent to penal
servitude for sixty pounds. Why, he might have made it a couple
of hundred. But he did not know my balance, I suppose. Well,
find him for me, Dick. Don't let me have the trouble of hunting
him down.'
' I will do my best, sir,' said Dick ; but he looked as if he thought
doubtfully of the job.
' Now, there's something else, only this cursed forgery interfered.
It is this Clonsilla succession. It was I, you know, who gave the
Doctor his title.'
' You !'
' No other. He knew, of course, that he was a distant cousin,
but he never dreamed of the title falling to him ; and three years
ago, Dick — three years ago, when I talked the thing over with him,
and showed him that two lives stood between him and the title, he
sold his reversionary rights to me — for a song. And now the re-
version is mine.'
' I thought there was no money in it.'
' There's a small Irish estate, which at present is worth nothing,
because the tenants won't pay. We shall see about that. But
WHO HAS DONE THIS? 349
there's a snug little English property, Dick, about which the
Doctor knows nothing. It isn't a great thing, but there is a house
upon it, with a few acres of land, and it stands in a good position.
I think it is let for three hundred a year, and perhaps we shall be
able to run up the value a bit. Three hundred pounds a year, my
boy, with a good tenant, and I bought it for two hundred pounds
down. I'm a landed proprietor, Dick, and you are my heir. You
shall be a landed proprietor, too, by Gad, when your turn comes !'
He rubbed his hands cheerfully. His son's face, which ought to
have responded with some kind of smile, only darkened more and
more. That was, perhaps, his way of expressing joy.
The thought of that snug little English estate made Mr. Mur-
ridge so cheerful that he forgot his wrath concerning the forgery.
' It will be a cheering thing,' he said, recurring to the subject,
' when the Case is completed, for you to think of the man you
have conducted to the Lord iMayor, and afterwards to the Central
Criminal Court. For sixty pounds— the paltry sum of sixty
pounds — he will have purchased the exclusive use of a white-
washed apartment, rent-free, for seven, or perhaps ten years.
There will be other advantages — the privilege of a whole year
spent alone, with an hour's exercise every day ; then a good many
years of healthy em])loymcnt, without any beer, or wine, or
tobacco, and no amusements and no idle talk. And when, at last,
he comes out, it will be to a world which will turn its back upon
him for the rest of his natural life. The hand of Justice is heavy
in this country on the man who invades the rights of Projicrty ;
but the hand of Society i.s ten times as hard — ten times as hard.
So it ought to be — so it ought to be. For, if Proi)erty is not held
sacred, who would try to make money ?'
Dick went hack to his own desk, bearing with liiiu the cheques
and the che(iue-book. lie sat down and began to think, llr had
a week in which he would lie left quite undistiiilnil to fiml out
the forger. A gocHl deal may be done in a week. If lie fai]e<l, his
father wouM take up the case for himself — his father, whose scent
was a.s keen as a bloixlhound's, and whose pursuit would be as un-
relenting. He had a week ! Foi the moment he could not think
what was to be done ; he had no clue, perhajiH ; or, perhaps he was
not satisfied as to the best way of folhjwing u]) a clue. Perhaps
the problem presented itself to him as it wmiM (<> an (lutsider.
Given a robbery and a forgery. The roMiery must have liecn com-
niitted when Mr. Muriidge was out -that was certain ; the forgery
350 'SELF OR DEARER.'
must have been committed by someone Avell-acquainted with the
custom of drawing twelve-pound cheques as well as able to imitate
a signature. The only persons who had access to the inner office
in Mr. Murridge's absence were himself, Norah Cronan, the office-
boy, and the housekeeper ; but the latter only when the offices were
closed and on Sundays. Suspicion might fall upon any of these
four, but especially upon himself and upon Norah. He put this
quite clearly to himself. As for the office-boy, no one would
suspect him— he was too great a fool even to think of such a crime ;
and the housekeeper, top, was out of the question. There re-
mained, as the most likely persons to be suspected, himself and
Norah.
Having got so far, he remained here, unable to get any farther ;
in fact, he came back to it again and again.
' Myself and Norah,' he thought. * It must lie between us two—
it must lie between us !'
The office-boy watched him curiously. From his position at the
other side of the fireplace he looked, so to speak, over Dick's
shoulder, and could watch him unseen and unsuspected. There
were certain special reasons — in fact, they were concealed in the
pocket of his jacket— why the office-boy thought that something
was going to happen. There were other reasons, such as a great
increase in Mr. Richard's sulkiness, a jumpy manner which had
lately come over him, and his rudeness to Miss Cronan, which
made this intelligent boy believe that something was going to
happen very soon. Then Mr. Murridge had been shut up with his
son for three-quarters of an hour. That meant things unusual.
And now Mr. Richard, instead of drawing girls' heads, was sitting
in moody thought.
You kuow how strangely, when the mind is greatly exercised
and strained, one remembers some little trifle, or forgets some little
habitual thing, such as brushing the hair or putting on a collar.
Dick's eyes fell upon his pocket-book, which lay upon his desk. It
was a diary, one of the diaries which give a certain small space for
every day in the year and a pocket for letters. It belonged, like
his purse and his bunch of keys, essentially to his pocket. Yet he
could not remember when he had last carried it in his pocket.
Consider, if you are accustomed to a bunch of keys in your pocket,
you do not feel their presence, but yet you miss them when they
are no longer there. Dick became suddenly conscious that for
some time — perhaps an hour— perhaps a whole day — perhaps more
—he had not felt the presence of the pocket-book. But his mind
WHO HAS DONE THIS? 351
had been so much occupied by certain pressing anxieties which
beset him about this time, that he had noticed the absence of the
book half- consciously. Now that he saw it lying on his table he
snatched it up, and began turning over the pages, at first confidently
and then hurriedly, as one looks for something lost. There was
something lost. He shook out the leaves ; he looked through them
again; he searched the empty pocket. Then he searched his own
pockets.
The boy behind him watched with a broad grin of satisfaction,
as if he understood the cause of this distress.
Then Dick sprang from his chair and looked under the table, on
the floor, in the blotting-pad, in the letter-rack, and in the drawers.
Then he began all over again. No Greek mime ever expressed
more vividly the anxiety, dismay, and terror of one who has lost a
thing of vital importance. The boy felt as if he should like to
roll on the floor and scream.
' Have you picked up anything, you boy ?' Dick turned upon him
fiercely, so that he was fain to repress the smile upon his lips and
the light of joy in his eye. ' Come here, you little devil !'
The boy obeyed with composed face, and, in fact, with consider-
able trepidation, because there was something in his jacket-pocket
which he ardently desired to conceal from Mr. Richard.
'Have you picked up anything at all ?' he asked again.
' What is it ?' the boy asked by way of reply. ' Is it money
dropped ?'
' You measly little devil ! Why don't you answer? Have you
picked up anylhing ? It is something of no importance to anybody
— a bit of pink paper.'
' I haven't picked up nothing,' replied the boy sullenl}'.
'I've a great mind to search you,' said Dick, catching him liy the
coat-collar. ' You're as full of tricks as you can stick.'
'Search mo, then. Oh yes! Search me. I'll go and call (lie
Guv'nor, and ask him to search me, if you like. You justlemme go,
or I'll scream, and bring out the (iuv'nor and ask him to search me.'
Dick dropped his coat-collar inslantiy.
' Look here,' ho Haid. ' Do you know this pocket-book ?'
' Never saw it before in my life'
This, I regret to say, was a Falselujod. 'I'liu boy iiad seen it
many times before. Every day Mr. llicliard drew that book from
his pocket and wrote in it, and tlieii put it back.
' You came here before mo this moruiug. Was it en my desk
when you came '/'
352 'SELF OR DEARER.'
* Don't know. Never saw it there. Never saw it before in my
life.'
Dick began to think that he was wrong. The book must have
been in his pocket ; he must have taken it out without thinking.
But where was the
' You boy,' he said, ' if you are lying, I'll break every bone in
your body.'
Modern Boy is so constituted that this threat does not terrify
him in the least. Nobody's bones are broken nowadays. It is
true that every father has the right to whack and wollop his own
son, and sometimes does it, but with discretion, otherwise the
School Board Officer will find him out.
' I don't care. Call the Guv'uor, and tell him what you want.
I dun know what you've lost. What is it, then ?'
' I've lost a — a paper. It was in this book.'
' What sort of a paper ?'
Dick made no reply. Perhaps the lost paper would be in his
own room. Stung by the thought that it might be lying about
somewhere, he put on his hat and turned hurriedly away.
' What sort of a paper was it ?' asked the boy. ' If you give
over threatening, I'll help look for it. What sort of paper ?'
' Hold your tongue. You can't help. I've looked everywhere.'
' Perhaps,' said the boy persuasively — ' perhaps it was the house-
keeper.'
Very few people think of the housekeeper. Yet there is always
one in every house let out for offices. She is always elderly — no-
body ever heard of a housekeeper in the City dying — and she is
generally a grandmother with a daughter, also a widow, and three
or four little children — they are always little. Grandmothers and
children always, in the City, remain at the same age. All the week
long the children are hidden away somewhere in the basement ; on
Saturday afternoons and Sundays they come up and have a high
old time, because the front-door is closed, and the place is deserted,
and the whole house is their own. Then the office-doors are thrown
open and the children run races in the most sacred apartments, and
open all the drawers, and ransack their contents, and make them-
selves acquainted with the clerk's secrets and the Chief's hidden
decanter of sherry, and read all the private journals, and pick up
the odd lead-pencils, and provide themselves with steel-pens, pen-
holders, blotting-paper, note-paper, letter-paper, foolscap, india-
rubber, envelopes, and, in ill-regulated offices, with postage-stamps
as well.
WHO HAS DONE THIS? 353
Dick rang the bell for the housekeeper. She declared, which
was quite true, that she had found nothing, and carried away no
papers. She had children in the house, but, unlike children in some
ofBces she could name, her children were never allowed in her
oflBces on Saturday and Sunday.
So she withdrew again, and the lost paper was no nearer re-
covery.
Perhaps Dick had left it in his own room at home. Pierced by
the thought, as with an arrow, he seized his hat and left the office.
Then the office-boy sat down in Mr. Richard's chair, and put his
hands into his trousers- pockets, and spread his legs out, and grinned
from ear to ear.
• It's coming fast,' he said. 'Lor' ! I wish he had searched me.
What would the Guv'nor have said when this little envelope was
found in one jacket-pocket, and this envelope was found in the
other jacket- pocket ? And what would ]Mr. Richard have said ?
I'm a measly little devil, am I ? And Miss Cronan, she's a Sap-
phier, which rhymes with Liar, and goes with Ananias. I've often
heard a boy called Ananias, but never a girl called Sapphier.
Sophy I know, but not Sapphier.'
He could not resist the temptation of drawing out the two
envelopes and looking at the contents.
' Shall I,' he said, ' knock at the Guv'nor's door and give him
these two envelopes at once, or shall I wait ? I think I'll wait.
Ha ! The time will come. Then I shall jump ujton him. Then I
shall make him wriggle. Then I shall see him curl.'
This boy had not read the History of Spring-heel Jack in vain.
But neither at home nor anywhere could Dick INIurridge find that
lost piece of paper, and the loss of it filled him with au.\iuty.
CHAPTER V.
A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING.
That secluded corner of London which lies hidden behind the
three groat stations, and is separated from the rest of tlie world by
the Hampstead Road on the west, and the St. Pancras Road on the
east, contains many houses, and harbours many families, wlioso
histories, were they known, are as romantic and wonderful, and as
deeply laden with i)athoH and interest, as any Moated Grange or
Shield of Sixteen Quarterings.
One of these houses — for reasons which will be immediately
obvious it is not necessary or advisable to name the road in which
23
354 'SELF OR BEARER.'
it stands— is devoted, so to speak, to the nightly conjuring of the
Emotions among those who are privileged to enter its walls. No
Melodrama ever placed upon the boards of a Theatre arouses more
fiercely and more certainly the passions of Terror, Anxiety, Rage,
Despair, and Frantic Joy than the simple passes of the great
Magician who practises nightly in this house. It is nothing more
than a tavern — a simple Corner House, with a signboard and a Bar
of many entrances. Yet it has pretensions somewhat above the
common, for at the side is another door, and this is inscribed with the
legend, ' Hotel Entrance.' It is a quiet and orderly house, with a
family trade, in a quarter where beer is truly the national beverage,
and with regular takings. There are never any rows in this house ;
the landlord has no occasion to persuade the policeman to partial
blindness, and the renewal of the license has never been opposed.
The Spells, Magic and Mystery, are worked on the first-floor,
which is let off for a club which meets here every evening, all the
year round, except on Sundays. The members would meet on
Sundays as well if it were permitted. It is not a club of working-
men, nor can it truthfully be called a club of gentlemen, unless the
widest possible license is allowed in the use of that term. On the
other hand, the members would be very much offended if they,
collectively, were addressed otherwise than as gentlemen ; and they
all wore black coats all day long, which is, in a way, the outward
livery and badge of gentlemen. Yet very few among them possess
such a thing as a dress-coat, so that, perhaps, they are only gentle-
men by courtesy. It is, further, a Proprietary Club. There is no
Committee of Management ; there is no Ballot ; there is no Elec-
tion of Members ; there is no book for Candidates' names ; there
is nothing but the Proprietor. He alone admits the Members,
regulates the time of opening and closing, establishes the tariff for
drinks and tobacco, and is the Autocrat, Despot, and Absolute
Ruler of the Club. There is not even any entrance-fee or subscrip-
tion. Yet the greatest precautions are taken in the admission of
members, and a man stands without, to keep off persons who have
not received the right of entry, and, perhaps, to prevent the Club
being disagreeably surprised.
At seven o'clock the Club opens every evening. It is not a
political club, because Politics are never touched upon ; nor is it a
Social Club, for the members do not converse together after the
manner of ordinary mortals ; nor is it a club founded for the
advance of any Cause, or for the promotion of any Art, or for any
Scientific or Intellectual objects whatever. Yet it is a Club where
A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING. 355
conversation is always animated, and even interjectional, though
sometimes monotonous. It is also absorbing, and it brings aU
heads bent together, it makes all eyes strained ; everybody's face
is anxious and eager ; and it is so witty, so clever, so biting and epi-
grammatic, that at everything that is said some laugh and shout,
and some sigh, weep, and even curse. It is, lastly, a club which
contains everything which the members want to make them com-
pletely happy, though, unfortunately, the members cannot always
get what they want, and what they come for.
At eight o'clock in the evening the club is generally in full
swing. Anyone looking in at that hour would find a group of men
sitting at a table, or arrangement of tables, in the middle of the
room, lit by half a dozen candles.
The men would be fully absorbed in their occupation, with faces
as grave as if they were in church, and eyes as anxious as if they
were about to have a tooth out.
There were eight or nine small tables about the room, each pro-
vided with a pair of candles, and each occupied by two men. There
was a sideboard, or buffet, with decanters and glasses, cigars, cigar-
ettes, and the usual trimmings, behind which stood a young lady of
barmaidenly loveliness. For the look of the thing, there were
champagne-bottles, but the customary drink was whisky or bottled
stout. A dozen men were standing together about the bar, drink-
ing, or talking to the girl. They were those who had come too
late for a place, and were waiting their turn. The atmosphere was
thick and heavy with tobacco-smoke. There was also an open
piano, but no one regarded it.
Among the tables and those who .sat out there moved continually
a man rather small of stature, but of good proportions, of straight
and regular features, and very carefully dressed. He was now. ad-
vanced in life, being perhajis sixty years of age. His hair was
white, and he wore a heavy white moustache. A cigarette was
always between his lips ; his voice was soft, gentle, and ho seemed
to have Horactbing friendly to say to every one of the members ;
his smile was kindly ; his eyes benevolent ; he laughed easily and
musically ; and there was not a man in the room who did not
believe that the Count was his own private, personal, and particular
.friend. They called him, to show their great respect, the Count.
lie did not himself claim the tith;, though, [jcrhaps, he was a Count
in his own country, or even a Prince, for ho was by birth an Italian,
and his card bore the Hiinpli; name f)f Signor Ciuseppo I'irancsi.
• He had lost the forefinger of his right hand— in a duel, it was
23—2
356 'SELF OR BEARER.'
understood, about a lady ; no doubt a Princess. Everybody
believed that the Count had been, in his day, a terrible breaker of
ladies' hearts.
In plain words, the place is a gambling club, run by this Italian
•who was so good a friend to all the members. Not, it must be
understood, exactly a Crockford's, but a suburban second-class club,
the members of which are chiefly tradesmen dwelling in and about
the neighbourhood, and clerks, young and old ; in which the stakes
are in silver, not in gold ; and the group in the middle of the room
were playing baccarat, while the smaller tables were occupied by
those who played ecart^, or any other game of two at which money
may be lost or won.
The rich classes have their gambling clubs ; the workmen have
their clubs where they gamble — a distinction without much differ-
ence — in these days of equality. Why should not the middle
classes, the great, virtuous, honourable middle classes, have their
gambling clubs as well ? -
The game of baccarat, as, perhaps, everyone may not know, is
played at an arrangement of three card-tables set side by side, the
middle one being generally much smaller than the other two. Three
players sit at each of the large tables, and two — the dealer and his
partner, who keeps the bank — sit at the small table opposite to
each other. The dealer gives two cards to the player on his right,
two cards to the player on his left, and two to his partner. Before
the cards are turned up every player places his stake before him.
The amount is limited, and in this small and unpretending coterie
the limit was, one is ashamed to say, five shillings only, most of
the players hazarding only a shilling. The two players who receive
the cards play each for his own table, the dealer for himself.
The stakes placed, each player looks at his hand. If he has a
Natural — that is, a combination of pips, making in the aggregate,
eight or nine — he shows his cards, and all the players at his table
are paid by the dealer. If the dealer has a Natural he is paid at
once. If the player has not a Natural, he can order one more card.
The players on the right and left of the dealer go on playing so long
as they beat the dealer ; as soon as one of them is beaten he resigns
in favour of the man next to him.
There are other rules in this game, but these are sufficient. There
is no play in it ; all is as the true gambler loves to have it, pure
chance. The player is left to the one thing dear to his heart, the
exercise of judgment, prudence, caution, audacity, and persever-
ance in the amount of his stake. It seems as if the chances were*
A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING. 357
equal all round, but somehow the dealer is supposed to be in the least
desirable position, and the plaj-ers have to take turns to be dealer.
The men at the tables in this vulgar little gambling-den were
mostly young, some of them mere boys, who had not long left
school, young clerks in the City, who brought their shillings in the
hope of turning them into pounds, and played with flushed cheeks,
and quivering lips, and eager eyes. Some were middle-aged, and
appeared to be, as they were, tradesmen— shopkeepers in the Euston
Road or the Camden Road. Their shops were left to the care of
their wives and daughters, or to shop-girls, while they came night
after night to temjit fortune at the green table. The humane person
feels a profound pity when he considers the position of the small
shopkeeper, because he has to fight such a desperate fight against
want of capital, want of credit, competition, and the Stores, and
because the Devil is always whispering in his ear, ' They all cheat.
Yon must cheat, too, if you wish to get on.' Yet it must be owned
that the small shopkeeper is not always the highest type of English-
man, and in many cases it would be better for him to remain in
the cold but wholesome discipline of clerkly or shopmanly servitude,
when, perhaps, he would never be tempted to go lusting after the
fever joys of gaming. Some of the players were quite old men,
whose fingers trembled as they made their game, whose hands
could hardly hold the cards, who clutched at the table when the
players turned them up, and laughed when they won, and groaned
miserably when they lost. They were as fierce and as eager as the
boys — more eager, because, of all the joys in life, this was all that
was left to them. At the tal)le they could feel once more the
blood coursing through their veins, the delirious trembling of hope
and fear, the bounding pulse of victory. Play made these old men
young again. At the West-End the old men, whose work is done,
play whist every day. At this club at St. Pancras they play
baccarat. The principle is much the same, save that in Pall ]\[all
skill is joined with chance, and the game is not altogether blind.
A mean and vulgar hell. When the boys have lost their money,
they will go away and get more — somehow ; by borrowing, by
pledginiT, even by stealing and embezzling. Tlieir mistress craves
perpetually for money. Those who lovu her must bring money in
their hands. No other gifts will do ; she must have gf>ld and silver
coins, and if they want to woo her, they must find these coins some-
how. Slic never asks how they find thecf>ins ; she has no suspicions,
and she has no sciiiplcH. Wlictlier the money is honestly earned
or stolen matters nothing to her.
358 'SELF OR BEARER:
Therefore there will come a day in the life of one or two young
men now torn by the raptures and anxieties with which the goddess
rewards her votaries, when there will be an emigrant-ship in the
Loudon Docks ready to be towed out, and on the deck, among the
steerage passengers, a lad, one of these lads, standing with a look,
half of shame, half of defiance. He has gambled away home and
friends, character and place. When the bell rings, and his father
wrings his hand for the last time, he will break down with tears,
in thinking of what he has done and what he has lost. Yet the
next day, out in the Channel, he will be courting his mistress again,
with an old pack of cards and another youth like-minded.
Or there is a worse ending still for one or more of these young
men — an ending in a Police Court, where a young man stands in
the Shameful Dock, and is committed by the Magistrate. As for
this middle-aged tradesman here, who comes here every night to
play away his profits and his capital, his credit, character, substance,
and stock, presently his shop will be shut, and, with wife and
children, this gentleman will go away and vanish into the unknown
depths known only to the district visitor, the Charity Organization
Society, and the rent-collector. They will very likely rescue the
children and alleviate the lot of the wife ; but the man's case is
hopeless, because, at every depth, there is a den somewhere for
those who have a penny to risk and to lose.
As for the old men, they will go on as long as they can drag them-
selves up the stairs, and I suppose the time is not far distant when,
perforce, they must cease to come, and obey reluctantly the summons
to go away to a place where, perhaps, there are no games of chance.
Among the players at the middle table sat Dick Murridge.
His father was right in mistrusting a boy who went about his
work like a machine, and seemed to have no passion, no pursuit, no
ambition — who committed no small follies, and had none of the
headlong faults of ardent youth. Dick had a Pursuit. It was
absorbing and entrancing : he followed it with ardour every even-
ing of the week. It was a pursuit which brought into play, to a
very remarkable degree, the maxims which his father had taught
hira. It requires, for instance, no Law of Honour, except that if
you conceal cards, or play false, or do not pay up, you are out-
kicked. It makes no foolish pretence about Friendship, Philan-
thropy, Charity, or any stuff of that kind. At the baccarat-table
every man is for himself. No skill is wanted ; no dull working
and daily practice in order to acquire dexterity, which would not
be of any use : the whole object of the pursuit is to win money.
A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING. 359
Of all the eager and noisy crew who sat at that table, there was
not one who was more absorbed in the game than Dick Murridge.
The others shouted and swore great oaths when they won or lost,
Dick made no sign. His face betrayed no emotion. The quiet
Gambler is the most determined and the most hopeless.
By the side of Dick sat — alas ! — young Dalfodil Cronan. He
was by no means a silent player. His face was flushed with excite-
ment, his hair tossed ; his lips were parted, and at every turn of
the cards he gasped, whether it brought him victory or loss ; only,
if he won, he laughed aloud.
The Count stood watching the game. He was a most obliging
Proprietor. If anyone wanted to shirk his turn at holding the
Bank, which is considered less advantageous than playing against
the Bank, the Count would take it for him, smiling cheerfully
whether he lost or won. Or, while he stood out, if anyone wanted
to play ecarte, poker, monty, bi-zique, euchre, piquet, sechs und
sechzig, two-handed vingt-et-un, or any other game whatever, the
Count would play with him. He knew all games. He was equally
ready to cut through the pack for shillings, or to toss for sovereigns,
should any of his members desire it. A most obliging Proprietor.
Sometimes he lost and sometimes he won. Whether he lost or
whether he won he laughed gently, as if it mattered nothing to
him. As for his fairness at play, no one entertained the least
doubt. One would like to have the history of such a man. If he
would write down his autobiogra])hy it would be instructive. But
this he will not do unless he be allowed to tell it in his own way,
as Mrs. George Anne Bellamy and Madame du Barry have related
their lives. The autobiography of the Count would be, I am sure,
as interesting as that of Barry Lyndon.
Other attentions he lavished upon the members. If, as some-
times happened, one of them rose hastily from the table, with
haggard face and despairing eyes, the loser of everything, the
benevolent Proprietor would lend him half a sovereign, or half a
crown, according to the ago and social position of that member, and
with regard to the amount of his losings. Ho would also advise
him to go away, and to tempt fortune no more that niglit against
a run of bad luck ; and ho would prescribe for him, mix and
administer, a restorative in wliisky-and-watcr, on the strength of
which the patient would go straight home, and go to bed, and feel
no pangs of remorse and terror until the morning. Or, if one of
the members was not despairing, but only reckless, he would lend
him money to go on with, taking a note of acknowledgment in
36o 'SELF OR DEARER.'
return. He was so benevolent that his pocket-book was stuifed
with these notes.
It was not known how the Count made the club pay. Perhaps
the notes of acknowledgment for money lent included interest ;
perhaps he steadily won ; if he did, it was clearly only by those
games, such as dcarte, which require some skill. But no one
knew.
This evening, it might have been remarked that the Count was
a good deal engaged in watching Dick's play. He observed two or
three things. When Dick won he put his winnings into his pocket
without a word or a sign of satisfaction. When he lost he saw the
stake raked up without the least emotion. Further, he observed
that Dick lost nearly every time. The luck was dead against him
from the beginning. And this circumstance afforded him a certain
satisfaction, but why, one could hardly explain.
The evening went on ; the windows were thrown wide open.
But the air grew intolerably close and heavy ; the players were
more serious and more silent. No one, except Daffodil, laughed,
and then the others turned upon him looks of reproach and wonder.
Those who had left the table sat moodily without, thinking over
their losses or whispering with the Count ; and at the small tables
there was heard the continued cries of ' King — Vole — Trick — More
cards — Play,' in the quick, decided tones of those who play for
money and play quickly.
At ten o'clock Dick rose from the table and laid his hand upon
his friend's shoulder.
' Come,' he whispered ; ' they will be expecting you at home.'
The boy rose unwillingly. He was winning, and for the first
time in his life his pocket was heavy with silver. But Dick dragged
him from the table.
' My young friends,' said the Count, as they left the table, ' you
leave us too early. But perhaps it is best to be home in good time.
I hope you have not lost ?'
He spoke very good English, but with a slightly foreign accent,
and he spoke as if he really did take the deepest interest in their
fortune.
' As for me,' cried Daffodil eagerly, ' I've won a pot. Look here !'
He pulled out a handful of shillings. ' It's glorious !'
The Count laughed encouragingly.
' Good,' he said ; ' very good ! Luck is always with the boys.
At your age I should have broken all the banks. Come again soon.
I love to see the boys win. And you, friend Richard ?'
A STEADY YOUNG MAN'S EVENING. 361
* It doesn't matter to anyone except myself,' Dick replied gloomily,
' whether I win or lose.'
' He is silent,' said the Count. ' I watch him at his play. When
the others laugh or win they curse ; he is silent. No one can tell
from his face whether he has won or lost. A good player should
be silent. — Will you drink before you go ?'
Daffodil went to the bar and had a drink ; Dick refused.
' Do you want another advance, my friend ?' asked the Count.
Dick shook his head, but with uncertainty.
' What is the good ?' he asked. ' My infernal luck follows me
every night. I'm cleaned out again.'
' Dear me ! I am very sorry. Let me see your account. You
have given me three cheques, each for twelve pounds. They were
passed ' — he glanced quickly at Dick's face — ' without question.'
' Why the devil should the}' be questioned ?' Dick asked.
* Ah, my friend, yours is the face for the gambler. You can
keep your countenance, whatever happens. It is a great gift.
Steady eyes — look me in the face —full, steady eyes and fingers ' —
he took Dick's hand in his, and squeezed the fingers critically —
' fingers that are sensitive and quick. Sometimes I think that
fingers are alive. Why, if a devil was to enter into one of these
fingers, and persuade it to — well, to imitate another person's hand-
writing '
' What do you mean ?' asked Dick.
' Steady eyes — steady eyes ! Why, that the finger would imitate
that writing to perfection. Well, as to our account. You owe me,
my young friend, twenty-four pounds. Shall I make you another
advance ? Well, como here to-morrow morning at eleven. Can
you spare the time ? Come ! We shall be quite alone, and I have
something to say. Steady eyes, delicate fingers, hard and cold face.
These are the gifts of the true gambler.'
' What then ?' said Dick.
'What, indeed! I fear they arc gifts wliicli may be wasted.
Some day, when you are in trouble — some day, when you want
money ' ,'
' I always want nionny.'
' You are in troiil>le also, my fiieml ; I nad trouble in your face.'
He dropped his voice to a whisper — a soft, friendly, murmurous
whisper. ' You are in trouble now. Confide in me. Those three
cheques, now '
' No, no ! The cheques are all right, I tell you. Why do you
keep harping upon the cheques?'
362 'SELF OR DEARER.'
' I rejoice to hear it ; I was afraid you might have been deceived.
But you are in trouble.'
' I didn't say that ; I said I wanted money. If you can teach
me how to make it But you can't, else you would make it for
yourself. Why should you teach me ?'
The Count looked at his mutilated hand.
' I could make it for myself once, but I am — I am old, perhaps.
I know how it is to be made, easily, by handfuls, and I can teach
you how to do it, too.'
' Nobody ever gives anything. What am I to pay for the know-
ledge ?'
' Come to-morrow, and I will tell you what you are to pay.
Come here at eleven o'clock, when we shall be quite alone, and
Ah, here is my new friend. My dear boy, I rejoice when my young
friends win. It is our turn to lose. We are the old boys. The
world of pleasure is all for the young. Come here and win more —
win all we have ! Then go and spend your money gaily. There
are plenty of pretty girls who love boys with money. Go — sing —
love — dance — drink ! Then come here again and make more money,
Happy boy — happy youth !'
' Come along, Dick,' said Daffodil, laughing. ' I have won fifty
shillings, at least. Hooray ! What a splendid game it is !'
CHAPTER VI.
THE TEMPTATION.
The soft voice of the man, his measured speech, his calmly prophetic
assurance that Trouble was on the way, affected Dick Murridge at
this juncture of his affairs very disagreeably. He could know
nothing. Yet he spoke as if he knew.
For now the Trouble was actually come. In a few days his
father would expect something from him : a Report, a Clue, a
Theory — something which might be followed up. If there was
nothing, he would himself take up the Case. ' Come to me,' said
the Count, ' when the Trouble falls upon you. Come to me to-
morrow, and let us talk.'
He kept that appointment ; he found the Count in the Club-
room, which, by day, with its tables put together and covered with
a green baize cloth, looked like a Board Room, or a Room for the
Coroner and the Jury, or, at least, like a Room for a Friendly
Lead.
THE TEMPTATION. 363
' So,' said the Count, ' you are here. I expected you. Has the
Trouble come ?'
' There is no Trouble coming,' Dick replied.
' It will come very soon if it has not already come. However,
let us talk business. You owe me twenty-four pounds. You have
borrowed from time to time sixty pounds, and you have paid me
in three cheques thirty-six pounds. You want to borrow more.
Last night you lost ten pounds or thereabouts.'
' How do you know ?'
' I watched you all the evening. That is simple, is it not ? Do
you wish to borrow more money ?'
Dick made no reply. He had lost more than ten pounds out of
the cheque which Daffodil cashed for him— there was, in fact, half
a crown left. Half a crown out of twelve pounds !
' All the young men who come here fall into Trouble, sooner or
later, my dear Richard. I have seen your Trouble coming for a
longtime. "What do you expect ? You want to enjoy life. Very
well then. Nature says that those who enjoy life must have money.
It is reasonable. Those who have money are kings. Those who
have none are slaves. If you win you spend your winnings on
your pleasures. If you lose, you — well, you get into Trouble.'
' I never do win,' said Dick.
' My friend, listen carefully.' The Count sat down and drew
his chair quite close to Dick. ' I have watched you for many nights.
I say to myself, '' I want a pupil. Here is one who may be a credit
to me." Very good ; as for the others, I let them go. They may
help themselves ; but I am willing to help you. For you are
different. I have found that you are hard and you are brave ; you
have no foolish, soft heart, and you have fingers — beautiful fingers,
delicate, full of sense and life, which can be taught to handle
cards.'
'What do you moan?' Dick cried, with the feeling of attraction
which a butterfly feels towards tlie candle.
The first les-son was the most wonderful thing which Dick ever
learned. Yot it was a very small thing ; nothing ])ut a simple
method of turning up the king whenever he was wanted, and a
simple explanation of the fact that in professional gambling the
outsider plays with the man who knows how to turn up the king,
and therefore must, in the long-run, lose.
' Come again to-morrow,' wild tlic Count ; 'meanwhile practise.
Ob, I can teach you I IJutthis is nothing. Understand that what
you have learned to-day is only the very beginning of the Art —
364 'SELF OR bearer:
the first elements. Persevere, my son, and I will place an unheard-
of fortune in your hands.'
' What am I to give you for it ?'
' That you will presently discover. I shall not teach you much,
you may be sure, unless we understand each other.'
The lesson lasted until about three o'clock. It was so strange and
so delightful that the young man actually forgot the Trouble.
That came back to him the moment he left the house.
It was Friday. He spent the afternoon thinking. He called it
thinking. Tn reality it was putting before himself in lively imagin-
ation all the terrors of the situation. In the evening he went to
the club. The Count lent him three pounds, and he won a small
sum. But how could he hope to win back all he owed, and, if he
did, how would that help him with those cheques ?
On Saturday morning he spent another hour or two with the
Count, and learned more. He now understood for the first time
that he who plays at a public table has to do with a man who must
win as often as he pleases, or as often as he dares, because he can
do what he likes with the cards. For some reason of his own, the
Count was teaching him the secrets of the cards. The Saturday
afternoon he spent in ' thinking ' as before. And on Saturday
evening he went again to the club, and again he won ; but not
much. On Sunday morning he awoke full of apprehension. Four
more days ; he must invent or make up something which would keep
his father quiet. He was so full of fears that he resolved to tell
everything to Calista.
It has been seen that he told her nothing.
The reason was, partly that he bethought him, on the way, of the
pain and shame with which she would hear his story ; and partly
because, as he went on the top of an omnibus from Camden Town
to the Mansion House, and again from the Mansion House down
the Commercial Road, there went with him a Voice. There may
have been Something belonging to the Voice, a disembodied Spirit,
a Demon, an Afreet — I know not what. But he heard the Voice,
and he did not see the Afreet.
Said the Voice : ' To-day is Sunday. You have four days — only
four days. What can you make up that will satisfy your father on
Thursday morning ? Four days only left. If you go empty-
handed he will himnelf take up the Case. If he does he will get to
the bottom of that Case somehow or other, before he lets it go. As
for the Count, you can keep him quiet. He wants you for some
purpose of his own : he will teach you all he knows, and you can
THE TEMPTATION. 365
buy his silence. Nobody can prove that he presented the cheques
unless he comes forward. He is the only dangerous one of the
three. But you must invent something — you must say something.'
He could think of nothing. He was ready with no explana-
tion, report, result, or anything at all. In this nagging, uncomfort-
able manner the Voice went on all the way from Camden Town to
Shadwell High Street, which is, as the crow flies, four miles and
a half.
Then while Calista was talking to him, the Voice began again :
' It lies between you and Xorah. It must have been either you or
Norah. One of you two did it. If you are not suspected she must
be.' Well, he, for his part, would not be suspected if he could
avoid it by any means.
This was the reason why he spoke in so strange a fashion to
Calista about what would happen. He was answering, though she
did not know it, this Voice which she could not hear.
He left the Hospital, and got back to the early Sunday dinner at
two. His father, for once, was almost genial, and talked freely
with his son, which was unusual with him. His success in the
matter of the Clonsilla inheritance pleased him. He was a landed
gentleman ; he had an estate in Ireland and another in England ;
he spoke of the land as one who has a stake in the country, and
pointed out to his son that he was now an Heir and must acquire a
knowledge somewhere of the Law as regards land. This was all
very well ; but he proceeded to talk of the robbery, and of the
care with which he himself would tackle the Case if he had the
time, or if he was obliged to take it into hand. This kind of talk
made his son writhe.
After dinner, ^Ir. Murridge, on Sundays, always had a bottle of
port. His son took one glass, and he himself drank the rest of the
bottle. With each glass he became more pleased witli his clever-
ness in outwitting the Doctor, and more eager for revenge in the
matter of the robber}^, so that he mixed up his own astuteness with
the craft of the forger — his ducats with his acres.
' Find him, Dick. Find him for me — make haste !'
' I am doing the Ijcst I can,' said Dick. ' Don't hurry a man.'
' Have you got a Clue yet V' liis father asked.
' Don't ask me anything. You gave mc a week. I am not going
to tell you anything before Thursday morning.'
'Quite right, Dick. Nothing could bt; better, I hate prattling
before a Case is ready. I'.ut there is no harm in a word of ailvicc.
Now, if I had the conduct of the Case, I should advertise a sulj-
366 'SELF OR DEARER:
stantial reward for the discovery of the three persons who pre-
sented the cheques ; once find them and the thing is done. To be
sure there may be a ring of them— one to forge the cheques, one
to steal the cheque-books, and one to present them, and they would
stand by each other. I wonder Bank clerks haven't made a Ring
before now. They might use it merrily for a time. But I don't
think there is a Ring, Dick. The cheques have been taken out of
the book, and given to someone who has copied my signature, and
got the cheques cashed by people he knew. Now, one of them is a
foreigner, old, and gray-headed, and wanting a forefinger on the
right hand— wanting a forefinger, Dick. There can't be many men
in London answering to that description, can there ? Very well,
that's my idea. You will act on it or not, as you please. But find
him, Dick ; let me put him in the Dock. Let me see him going off
to his seven years. It begins with a year on a plank, I believe, and
solitary confinement on bread-and-water or skilly. The Law is a
righteous law which condemns one who steals hard-earned money
to solitary confinement and a plank bed. But he ought to be
hanged, Dick. Nothing but hanging will meet the merits of the
Case.'
Presently Dick escaped, and wandered about the streets of
Camden Town. One thing he clearly perceived must be done at
any cost — he must keep his father from taking up the Case.
To him who thinks long enough there cometh at the last a
suggestion. To Dick it seemed to come from without. It was a
truly villainous and disgraceful suggestion, black as Erebus, crafty
as the Serpent, and cowardly as the Skunk. It had been whispered
in his ear at the Hospital. Now it was whispered again.
'You must accuse someone. It is your only chance. If you
acknowledge that you have failed, your father will immedi-
ately take up the Case himself. He will advertise and offer a
reward. He is quite sure to find out the truth. You must accuse
someone. Whom will you accuse ?
' It must be someone who has access to the office ; someone who
knows your father's habits in drawing cheques ; someone who
would get at his signature easily.
' No. Not the office-boy. There cannot be a proof or a shadow
of proof against the office-boy. Who else comes to the office ?'
Dick waited while that question was put to him a hundred times.
' Who else but Norah ? There is no other. Norah Cronan.'
Dick Murridge had known this girl all his life. When she was
five and he eight, they played together. When she was ten and he
THE TEMPTATION. 367
thirteen he teased and bullied her after the manner of boys ; when
she was sixteen and he nineteen he began to perceive that she was
beautiful ; only a fortnight before he had told her that he loved
her. And now he could harbour the thought of accusing her in
order to save himself. Said the Voice in his ear :
' The first rule of life is self-preservation. Before that every-
thing must give "way. A man must save himself at any sacrifice.
Honour, Love, Friendship, Truth — what are they ? Shadows. The
first thing is self-preservation.'
His father had taught him this precept a hundred times. "What
was it he was going to do but to preserve himself ?
How would his father take it ? Why, that made the thing all
the more easy. She was, if anyone, a favourite with him. He
trusted her more than any other person in the world — more than
his own son. If he interested himself or cared about anyone it was
about this clever, quick, and industrious girl-clerk, who for seventy-
five pounds a year did the work of two men-clerks at double the
salary. If his father could only be persuaded that it was Norah,
he would probably say nothing more about it. He would forgive
her, and all would go on as before. Here Dick was wrong . Mr.
Murridge and men who, like him, trust few, and those not un-
reservedly, are far more dangerous if they are betrayed than men
who trust lightly and easily.
He thought over this villainy all the evening. The longer he
thought of it the more easy and the more likely it appeared. He
saw a way of making the charge pluusiljlc and possible. lie made
up his mind what he would do and how he w^ould do it. At the
same time he resolved to keep on with the Count. It might be
well, in case things turned out badly, to listen to the proposals, at
which ho kept hinting, with promises of wealth unbounded.
It was past ten when he went home. He took his candle, and,
without seeing his father, went straight to his own room. •
' Of course,' he said, ' I would not have her tried, or sent to
prison, or anything. It will be quite enough for my father to think
she's done it. They can't send her to prison, or anyone else, if
there arc no forgeries to convict with.' Then suddenly camo a
really brilliant idea : ' Tliey must have a forg(;ry to go upon. Sup-
pose a man says that a cheque was cashed which he did not draw,
very well then, where is your cheque ? Produce your cheque.' He
did produce a little heap of cheques and a cheqiic-bi)ok. Ho
placed them in the fireplace ; he struck a match ; and he saw them
quickly consume into ashes.
368 'SELF OR DEARER.'
' There,' he said, ' whcre's your proof now ? Where is your
forgery ? The worst that can happen to Norah now, when she
says I gave her the cheque, is not to be believed. It's all right
now. They can't prove anything.'
He was so pleased, pacified, and easy after this act of decision,
that he went to bed, and for the first time for many weeks slept
soundly, and without any apprehensions, nightmares, or dreadful
dreams.
CHAPTER VII.
*We have now,' said Uncle Joseph, regarding his first glass of gin-
and-water with discontented looks — ' we have now, Maria, been
members of the Peerage — actually of the Peerage — the Peerage of
the Realm, for nearly a week. Yet I see no change.'
' No one has called,' said her Ladyship. ' I have put on my best
gown every night. But no one has thought fit to take the least
notice of us.'
'Where is the Coronet ? Where are the Robes ? Where is the
Star ? Where is the Collar ?'
The Doctor silently filled his pipe and went on reading his even-
ing paper, taking no notice of these complaints. Yet it did strike
him as strange that a man should succeed to a Peerage with so
little fuss.
' No message from the Queen,' Uncle Joseph continued ; ' no
officer of the House of Lords with congratulations from that
August Body ; no communications from Provincial Grand Lodge ;
no deputations from a loyal tenantry ; no ringing of bells. Maria,
in the whole course of my experience among the titled classes I
never before saw such a miserable Succession,'
' Miserable indeed I' said her ladyship.
' The reason,' continued Uncle Joseph, ' is not difficult to find.
They are waiting, Maria, for the Banquet. How can a noble Lord
succeed without a Banquet ? You can't do anything without it.
Why, if you initiate a little City clerk, you have a Banquet over it.
If you raise a man to the dazzling height of Thirty-Third, you
must celebrate the occasion with a Banquet. And here we succeed
to the rank of Viscount, and not even a bottle of champagne. Gin-
and-water, in the house of the Right Honourable the Viscount
Clonsilla !'
There was a full attendance of the House, so to speak. The
Honourable Hyacinth was present ; the Honourable Norah, with
'DOWN WITH LANDLORDS r 369
Mr, Hugh Aquila, had just returned from an evening walk among
the leafy groves of Camden Town's one square ; the Honourable
Terry, Larry, and Pat were, as usual, quarrelling over a draught-
board.
'Well, my dear,' said the Doctor at last, ' what did you expect ?
' I expected Recognition. I thought that our brother Peers
would call upon us.'
* What have we received, Maria ?' said Uncle Joseph. ' The
outstretched hand of Brotherhood ? Not at all. Cold neglect.'
' We may belong to the Irish Peerage,' said the Doctor. ' but, re-
member, if you please, that I am still, and am likely to remain to
the end of the Chapter, a General Practitioner, with a large
practice and a small income, of Camden Town. It will be a proud
distinction, no doubt, to reflect that wo are the only titled people
in Camden Town. Well, we must be contented with the pride.
You may add to the Alderman's robe, my dear, your coronet, when
it comes along.'
' We ought,' said Uncle Joseph firmly, * to assert ourselves.
There ought to be a Banquet.'
' At the funeral to-day,' the Doctor continued, ' there was not a
single mourner except myself,'and DafF, and Hugh, who went with
us. Not one. The old Lord seems to have outlived all his friends.
He left no will, so that all the property, whatever it is, entailed or
not, should have come to me, but for an accidental circumstance
which you ought to learn at once.'
* A.S the old Lord is buried,' said Uncle Joseph, ' the time has
come for action ; of course it would have been unseemly to rejoice
before the funeral. Now, if my advice is thought to be worth any-
thing in this family — the advice of a man who has shaken hands
familiarly, yet respectfully, with Earls, and sat next to a Prince at a
Banquet — it is, that we should, without any delay, issue invitations
to a large number of our noble and illustrious brother Peers for a
li;iiK|iict in robes and coronets at the FrcemaHons' or the Criterion.
I will mysoif supoiiiitcnd the Ban(|uet, inspect the menu — at this
time of year, what with lamb, duckling, green peas, salmon, white-
bait, turtle, young potatoes, oarly apricots and strawbcirrics, the
Banriuot will bo unusually choice — choice and toothsome. As for
the champagne— ah !' ho gasped and drank ofT Uw. wliolc glass of
gin-and-water, 'I will order it. Do not ho in anxiety about the
champngnf!, Maria. It shall Ix; my care. Wlien the MniKinet is
over, 3onr health — you '.vill 1)0 in the eh.iir, Doctor— sliall ho t.-iken
after the loyal toasts. I will myself respond for the Craft. Then
21
370 'SELF OR BEARER.'
we will give up this house, which is mean for a Viscount's Town
Residence, and we will move to a Mansion in the West, where
Maria can take that place in Society which she was born to adorn.'
He spoke so confidently, with so much enthusiasm, that her
Ladyship murmured, and even Norah was carried away with the
thought of the Family greatness. A large house in the West End,
with nothing for her father to do, and Society — though it is not
certain how she understood that word — seemed fitting accompani-
ments to a Title.
The Doctor listened gravely. Then he laughed.
' It is too ridiculous,' he said. 'I am Viscount Clonsilla. You,
my dear, are Lady Clonsilla. All you boys and girls are Honour-
ables. And, except for your mother's money, there isn't a penny in
the world for any of us. What do you say, Hugh ?'
' I should let the Title fall into abeyance,' said Hugh. ' I don't
know why, but a title, without land or money, seems contemptible.
I should give it up.'
' Never!' said Uncle Joseph, with decision. 'Give up a Title? Give
up a thing that thousands are envying and longing after? Throw away
a Title ? You must be mad, young man. Actually refuse to enjoy
your Title ? You might as well go to a Banquet and pass the
champagne. But it shows your ignorance. You have never been
among Lords and Honourables. You don't know, young man — you
cannot know, what I mean. You are only a young Doctor. Be
humble. Don't presume to advise, sir, on matters connected with
Rank and Society.'
' I know what science means,' said Hugh ; ' and that's enough
for me. Title ! Who would not rather make a name for himself
than bear a Title ?'
' Let us look at the thing practically, children,' said the Doctor.
' I shall never make a name for myself, unless I make a name as a
great Donkey. As for the Title, then. If Rank allows me to en-
large my practice and makes a better class of patients send for me,
and enables me to ride in a carriage instead of trudging along the
streets, and to double all the bills, and to give up making up my
own medicines, and to have a balance at the bank, why then I will
gladly sport the Title, But if it only makes us ridiculous, let us
give it up. A Coronet on the door of a surgery, where medicines
are made up by the noble Lord within, does seem ridiculous,
doesn't it ?'
Uncle Joseph shook his head.
' Rank,' he said, ' can never be ridiculous. But, if you feel it
'DOWN WITH LANDLORDS r 371
that way, follow my advice : give up the surgery, take a house at
the West End, and go into Society.'
The Doctor shook his head impatiently.
' Let the thing slide,' said Hugh. ' What do you think, Norah ?'
' I shall always be glad, whatever happens, to think that my
father can be a Viscount if he pleases. Of course, at first I thought
there must be a great fortune with it. I always thought that Peers
were very rich men, and I thought it would be delightful to see him
resting a little from his hard work, and not to be afraid any more
of the night-bell.'
The Doctor kissed his daughter.
' Children,' he said, 'I have a confession to make. Listen, now.
Your father has been a terrible Donkey !'
'If I had been consulted ' said Uncle Joseph.
' No doubt,' the Doctor interrupted him. ' Now hear my tale.
Three years ago, I happened to be very much in want of money.
The practice had been very bad, as far as paying patients go. I
was so troubled for money that I consulted Mr. Murridge as to the
best way of getting a loan. I then learned, for the first time in
my life, that my second cousinship to an Irish Lord might be turned
into money. Mr. Murridge thought it was worth exactly two
hundred pounds, and for the two hundrcil pounds, without which
I could not have sent you, DalT, to the University, I sold my re-
version.'
' There was some estate, then ?' said Hugh curiously. ' I under-
stood there was nothing.'
' There was this small estate of— I do not know how many acres,
and I do not know what it is worth, or whether the tenants have
paid any rent.'
And Mr. Murridge — Diok's father — bought your reversion ?' said
Hugh. ' It socras a very strange thing for liini to do.'
'His business lies among genealogies and family histories,' said
the Doctor. 'He found out what I ought to have learned before
signing and selling — that my chances were really very good indeed
— almost a certainty.'
'Then,' said Hugh, 'Mr. Murridge thinks ho is going to bo the
landlord, I hu[)Iioho V
' Certainly ; he has bought me out.'
' Father,' said Norah, ' you did it for the best. It was for us —
for Daff— that you took the money. What does it matter ? Let
us all go on just a** Ixifore. Hugh won't mind ; will you, IIuL^di V'
'No, I don't mind, Norah. But I venture to make a little
'24—2
372 'SELF OR BEARER.'
prophecy, Doctor. Mr. Murridge will never be owner of the Clon-
silla estates, even if they consist of nothing but a four-aci'c field of
bog. He thinks he has got them, but he may find that he has
overreached himself.'
' If I were consulted,' said Uncle Joseph, ' I should invite the
tenants to a '
Again he was interrupted. This tipae it was the last post of the
day, which brought a letter in a great blue envelope, addressed in a
great sprawling hand, as if written with a pitchfork : ' For the
Honnable Lord Viscount Clonsilla, somewhere in London.'
' It is the first Recognition of Rank,' said her Ladyship. ' Open
it and read it quickly. Perhaps it is a missive from the Queen — a
missive of congratulation.'
' Or an invitation from the Lord Chancellor,' said Uncle Joseph.
A summons, no doubt, to a Banquet on the Woolsack.'
The Doctor opened it curiously. It did not look, somehow, like
an Invitation. It was more like a Bill. The writing of the letter
was even worse, more sprawling, than that of the address.
' My Lord,' the letter ran, ' this is to warn you that the first
man evicted from his holding will be the signal for your Bloody
End. No rents. No eviction. Remember Lord Mountmorres.
"We will have Yengeance. Blood and Revenge. You shall die.
Look at the picture. Think of the Whiteboys and the Invincible?.
Death ! Death ! Death ! Every man has got his gun, and we
are sworn. Death ! Death ! Blood and Death ! Down with
Landlords !'
And at the bottom, rudely designed, were a coffin, a gun, a skull,
effectively and feelingly delineated, and two cross-bones copied from
the churchyard.
The Doctor handed this cheerful epistle to his wife with a
laugh ; but no one, even in the secure retreat of a fastness of
Camden Town, quite likes to have a letter sent to him with a
promise of murder if he dares to enforce his rights, and the picture
of a coffin and a skull.
' Murridge, I suppose, has sent them all notices to pay up,' he
said. ' This is a cheerful situation. He is to get the rents, and I
am]to get the credit for them — in bullets. I don't think this was
in the agreement.'
' At all events,' said Hugh, ' they don't know where to find you.
" Somewhere in London" is a little too vague even for an evicted
Irish tenant.'
' As their landlord,' said Uncle Joseph, ' you should gain their
loyalty — by a Banquet.'
'DOWN WITH LANDLORDS!' 373
'Well, children,' the Doctor continued, disregarding this sug-
gestion, 'j'ou have now heard the whole story. What are we to
do ? Shall I alter the plate on the door ? Shall I attend my
patients, at anything I can get a visit, in my coronet ? Shall we
invite the landlord-shooters to Camden Town ? What do you say,
Daff ?'
' Well,' said the medical student, ' as there is no money, there
will be no fun with the Title.'
' We will go on,' said Norah, 'just as before. Only, of course,
with a little more pride. You are pleased, Hugh, are you not, that
you are engaged to a real lady by birth, and the daughter of a
Viscount, if he chooses to take the Title ? It is always best to
belong to a good family.'
' Yes,' said the Doctor ; ' Creeping Bob was '
' Hush !' said Norah. ' I will not hear any stories about my
great-great-grandfather. There are always scandals in every old
family. I prefer to believe that they have all been the soul of
honour — every one of them.'
' Yon are disappointed, my dear.' The Doctor turned to his wife.
' Oh !' she cried, bursting into tears, with the revolutionary letter
in her hand, ' if we are to be murdered in our beds, and all for
nothing, with no money, and no laud, let us say no more about it.
But it is a cruel thing to give up your Rank. And just as the
tradespeople are beginning to find it out. Why, this morning the
butcher congratulated me. He had just heard it, he said. And he
put a penny a pound more upon the beef.'
'Well,' said the Doctor, 'that is settled, then. The Title is
extinct. My children, you will, however, continue to be as Hon-
ourable as you can.'
Before Hugh went to bed that night he read over again a letter
which he had received that morning from his mother. This was
the conclusion :
'And now, my duar boy, you know the whole. If you are
desirouH of acting before the doctor allows me to travel, go to my
Holicitors, McHsrs. Ongar and Greensted, of Lincoln's Inn Fields.
They have the jiaporH, and know my secret. If it is not necessary,
wait until my arrival. I expect to Iju released in a week or ho, if
things go well. Do not, however, move in the matter without coa-
sultini,' tlicni, and I do not think it is j)rudentto tell anyone — even
Norah — until you have cotiHulted them. It is vexatious to conceal
anything fmrn her. Still, have patience for a week.'
' I don't think,' said Hugh, 'that the doctor will mind much.
Murridge, I take it, will be astonished.'
374 'SELF OR DEARER.'
CHAPTER VIII.
TlIK (iUAVE OF HONOUR.
Let this chapter be printed within a deep black border. Let it be
in mouriiiDg. Let it be illustrated with all the emblems which can
be gathered together of disgrace and dishonour. The Valley of
Tophet, with its baleful fires, may furnish a frontispiece — there
may be funereal cypress, henbane, deadly nightshade, and the
poisonous flowers of marsh and ditch may adorn the corners of its
pages. There should be a drawing of Adam turned out of Para-
dise, with portraits of all the most celebrated renegades, turncoats,
and traitors, and the most eminent Sneaks, in history. For a man
may do many things wicked and base, and yet find forgiveness ; he
may drag his name in the dust, and trample on his self-respect, and
give a rein to his passion, and yet be welcomed back into the
world of honourable men. But the thing which Dick Murridge
did was one which can never be forgiven him in this world, save by
the girl to whom he did this wrong. And she, I think, has forgiven
him already.
He did it on the Tuesday morning, two days before his week
expired. He spent the whole of Monday in putting his Case upon
paper in the form of a Report. On Tuesday he went into town
before his father, and on his arrival followed him into the inner
office, with a roll of paper in his hand.
' I think, sir,' he said, ' that I have done all I can in this matter.
I have put down on paper what I have to tell you — for your
private information.'
' Do you mean that you have found the thief and forger ?'
' I think I have.'
' Think ! I want you to be sure. And what do you mean by
talking of my private information ? If you've got the man, I'll
soon show you how private I will keep the information.'
' If 3'ou will read these papers '
'Afterwards. Tell me who did it.'
' Well, then. It was — none other— than — your private clerk —
Norah Cronan.'
Dick looked his father steadily in the face, speaking slowly and
deliberately.
' I don't believe it !'
Mr. Murridge sprang to his feet, and banged the table with his
fist.
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 375
' Read these papers, then.'
' Dick, I dou't believe it ! The thing is impossible ! Where are
your proofs ?'
' Read these papers.'
' Xorah Cronan ! It cannot be !'
Dick smiled, as one who is on a rock of certainty, and can afford
to smile.
'What have you always told me, sir? Never trust anybody.
Every man is for himself. Every man has his price. Everybody
thinks of nothing but himself. Very well, then. Remember these
maxims before you say that anything is impossible. If you will
read these papers, you will find '
' Read the paper yourself. Let me know all that you can prove.
Read the paper yourself. Quick !'
He threw himself into a chair and waited with angry light in
his eye.
Everything happens in the way we least expect. Dick had made
up his mind that he would lay the paper upon the table with
solemnity suitable to the occasion, and then retire, leaving the
document to produce its natural effect. He further calculated
that, after reading the paper, his father would most likely send for
him, and enjoin him to say nothing more about the matter. That,
at least, was what he hoped. But he had not expected to be asked
to read the i)aper aloud, and he naturally hesitated. lie had com-
mitted to writing an Enormous Lie, or, rather, a Chain and Series
of Lies — all strong, massive, well-connected, forming together a
tale which, for cowardice and meanness, never had an equal since
the days when men first learned to tell lies, swop yarns, invent
excuses, and pass on the blame. Certainly, it would never have a
superior. To write such a thing, however, was one thing — to read
it calmly and coldly was another.
When Dick had once made up his mind that escape was only
possible by one method, he gave his whole thought, and devoted
the greatest possible j)ainH to make the nari'ativo complete in all
its parts, and impregnable at every point. He wrote and re- wrote
every single sentence half-a-dozen times ; he read it over and over
again ; be examined the document critically ; he put himself in the
place of a hostile and suspicious critic ; he even read it aloud,
which is the very best way possible of testing the strength of such
a document, whether from the credible and the probable, or from
the plausible and persuasive, or from the [turely literary point of
view. He was not greatly skilled, as may be siipposod, in Fiction
37^ 'SELF OR DEARER.
considered as a Fine Art, which is, perhaps, the reason why he was
quite satisfied in his own mind with his statement, looked at from
any point of view.
'Read it,' his father repeated. 'Let me hear what you have
found. If it is true '
He stopped, because he knew not what he should do if it were
true.
The young man hesitated no longer. With perfectly steady eyes,
which met his father's fearlessly and frankly, and with brazen
front, and with clear, unhesitating voice, he read the Thing he had
made up.
' Before I begin this Statement ' — the words formed part of the
Narrative— ' I wish to explain that nothing but your express com-
mand that I should investigate the Case for you would have in-
duced me to write down what I know about it. You will consider
it as, in part, a Confession.'
Mr. Murridge looked up sharply and suspiciously.
* Yes, as you will presently see,' Dick repeated, answering that
glance, 'a Confession. When the duty of taking up and in-
vestigating this case was laid upon me, my lips, which would other-
wise have remained shut, as a point of honour, were opened. If I
did not obey your command to the fullest extent, innocent persons
might be suspected and even be punished. I have, therefore,
resolved upon telling you all that I know, whatever happens. And
since I must write down the Truth, I pray that no further action
may be taken in the Case, and that this most deplorable business
may be forgotten and dropped, never to be mentioned again.'
' What the Devil do you mean by that ?' his father cried. ' The
business forgotten ! The matter allowed to drop ! Do I look like
the man to forget such a thing ? No further action, indeed !
Wait, you shall see what further action I shall take.'
Dick did not stop to press this petition for mercy.
'It is now four weeks,' he continued, reading from the paper,
since I had the misfortune — it was a great misfortune to me, and I
am very sorry that it happened — to observe, quite accidentally, a
certain suspicious circumstance which took place in your own office.
This circumstance caused me the greatest uneasiness and suspicion
at the time, and has filled me with anxiety ever since. Of course,
as you will immediately understand, directly you spoke to me last
week my susjiicions turned to certainty. I was, as usual, in the
outer office, and I had nothing to do but to sit and wait for any
work which might be sent out. The time was a quarter-past two.
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 377
You were gone out to your dinner, and the boy was gone to his.
There was, therefore, no one at all in the place except myself.
Before you went out you locked up your safe with your papers in
it. I know that, because, as you passed through the outer door,
you dropped the keys into your pocket. You left your own door
wide open. A few minutes afterwards, to my astonishment, Norah
Cronan came in. " Is your father in ?"' she asked in a whisper. I
asked her if she knew what time it was, and whether she expected
a regular man like you to be in at a quarter-past two. She made
no reply, but went into your office very quickly and shut the door.
As she passed me I remarked that her face was red and her eyes
looked swollen, as if she had been crying. I dare say you yourself
have noticed that, for some time past, she has been out of spirits ?'
Mr. Murridge grunted ; but what he meant is not known.
' She shut the door, but, as sometimes happens, the lock did not
catch, and the door stood ajar. From the place where I was sitting
I could see through the door, and could catch something of what
she was about. I was not curious, but I looked, and I observed
that she was tearing something out of a book. This was such a
strange thing to do, that it caught my eye. Why should she come
to your office, when you were out, in order to tear leaves out of a
book ? It certainly seemed to be a book of some kind, but from
my place I was quite unable to see what it was, or why she was
tearing it up. Then she folded the leaves very carefully, and, so
far as I could see, put them in her pocket. After a few minutes
she came out again. Of course I was by this time very curious
indeed, but I a.sked do questions. A man does not like to seem
curious about a thing which he has seen, so to speak, through a
keyhole. I noticed, however, that her breath was quick, and thiit
her hand trembled. And she said a very strange thing to me.
" Dick," she said, " when your father comes back, do not tell him
that I came here. I only came to get something — somdtliing which
I forgot this morning, nothing of any importance." She stanuucred
a great deal while she said this. I tolil lior that it was no business
of mine whether she came or whether she stayed away, because I
had nothing to do with her or lier work. Then sin; laid her hand
on my shouldcT and looked into my face. ''i>ut jiromisi;, I)i('k,"
she said, " Yoa see wo are such old friends, you and I, and DafI
is your bosom friend. We ought to be able to dejiond on you.
Promise, dear Dick ; .say that you will never tell your father that
I came to liis office any day when he was out of it." I naturally
promised. And she went away. As soon as she was gone I went
37S ' SELF OR BEARER.'
into your office to find out what she had been tearing, if I could,
being still curious, and not best satisfied with myself for having
made that promise. There were two or three great books on the
table, your goneulogical books. But she would not be likely to
tear any of the leaves out of them, because they are not the only
copies. I looked about, therefore, and presently, poked away
under some papers, I found your cheque-book lying on the table.
I took it up and examined it. I do not know why, because I had no
suspicion of this kind of thing. What was my astonishment to dis-
cover that six of the cheques had been taken out of the book ! Six ;
they were scattered here and there, not taken out in a lump. This,
of course, was in order to lessen the chance of immediate discovery.
I never before knew that you were in the habit of leaving your
cheque-book out. This was the thing that I found. It was after-
wards, when I began to think about it, that I connected the leaves
torn out of the book, and so carefully folded, with the cheque-
book.'
Mr. Murridge's face, which had been at first expectant and in-
terested, was now as black as Erebus.
' Go on,' he said. ' Get on faster. Let us finish with this.'
'I returned to my desk, and considered what was best to be
done. Of course — I admit this freely — I ought to have gone
directly to you and informed you of my discovery. In not doing
this I committed a great error of judgment, as well as a breach of
duty. For I should have considered that, when the absence of the
cheques was discovered, it would be remembered that there were
only two persons — not counting the office-boy — who had access to
your office. These were Norah and myself. One of us must have
taken them.'
' Why, no,' said Mr. Murridge. ' For it cannot be, proved that
no one came into this office except you two. There is the office-
boy ; there is the housekeeper ; there are any number of people
whom the housekeeper may have admitted on the Sunday or in
the evening ; there is nothing to prove when I left my cheque-book
lying about. It might have been lying on the table all night, or
from Saturday until Monday. I cannot admit that the thing lies
between you and Norah Cronan.'
' Very well, sir ; I am glad you think that it may lie outside us.
That, however, was how I put it to myself, I confess.'
' You ought to have told me at once. You find my cheque-book
with six cheques torn out, and you did not tell me. Were you
mad?'
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 379
' Perhaps ; but remember that I only saw leaves, or what seemed
to be leaves, torn out and folded up. It was not till afterwards, I
repeat, that I suspected Xorah of stealing cheques. It was not
till you told me of your loss that I really connected her with those
cheques.'
' You ought to have told me directly you heard of the loss.'
' I confess, again, that I ought to have told you. Well, I did
not. That is all I can say. First, I had passed my word to Norah
that I would not mention her visit. Next, I was confused and
bewildered on her account, and then I was afraid of you.'
' Oh, afraid of me !'
' Yes, afraid of you. Norah has been your favourite always.
You give her the confidential work, and me the office drudgery. I
thought you would not believe me. Perhaps I hoped that she
would get off altogether. But when you placed the whole Case in
my hands, the first thing that forced itself upon me was that the
forgery must have been committed by means of these very missing
cheques.'
' Well, the numbers prove that.'
' So that nothing was left to me but to confess what I knew, and
to follow up that fact as a clue.'
Dick sighed heavily.
' I wish the task had been entrusted to another man. First I
thongbt of going to Calista and telling her everything. But Norah
is her sister, so that it seemed best to tell you all myself. Perhaps
Calista may be spared the pain of ever learning this dreadful thing.
As for the actual forger, I cannot yet speak. But I have proofs
as to the presentation of two cheques out of the five.'
' Proofs ? Nothing but the clearest proofs will satisfy me !'
' You shall be satisfied, then. What do you think of this for
one jiroof ? Tlie girl described by the Bank Clerk as having pre-
sented one of the cheiiucs was Norali herself. For proof send for
the clerk when she is here. Ho will be able to identify her, I dare
say. That is ray first proof. Now for the second : The young
gentleman who pn'Seiitcd and caslied the clicquc last Thursday, at
one o'clock, was no other than her brotlier, 3'ouiig ilyaciiith Crouan
— DafTodil. lie must have gone to the Bank just before one
o'clock, because he came here a few minutes after one, and we went
out to dinner together. Wo went to Crosby Ilall, and sat there
till two. The clerk, you know, gave one o'clock as the lionr. I
have no doubt but he will identify Dallodil as well, it will bo
perfectly easy.'
38o 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' The cheques may have been given to them.'
' By the actual forger ? Very possible. But in this case unlikely.
Because who would do it for them ?'
' Go on.' The Case was getting blacker.
' As regards the character of Daff — I mean Hyacinth — for steadi-
ness, I am afraid we cannot say much. He is, as you know,
perhaps, at University College Hospital, and he belongs to a fast
set. They play billiards, smoke together, have parties in each
other's rooms, and go to theatres and music-halls ' — all this was
strictly true, and yet — poor Daffodil ! — ' worse still, he goes to a
gaming den. It is a place open every evening for playing baccarat,
and every kind of gambling game. I dare say, when they do
nothing else, they play pitch and toss. I remembered your recom-
mendation to use every means in order to find out the truth, and I
went with him. We went twice last week.' This also,as we know, was
literally true. ' I have also learned that he is in money difficulties.'
Daffodil had shown Dick a letter from his tailor intimating that
something on account would be desirable. ' Altogether, I think
my theory will pi'ove right — Norah took the cheques with a view
to help her brother. Of course she knows very well your custom
of drawing twelve-pound cheques for private purposes. Therefore
she filled these up for that amount, confident that they would then
pass without suspicion, and might even escape your notice. She
imitated your signature ; and she gave them every one to her
brother, except that which she cashed herself, presumably also for
him. I am quite sure she did it for her brother. Whether he
knows how she got the cheques — whether he stands in with her —
I cannot tell. That will be seen when he is confronted with the
Bank Clerk, and charged with presenting the cheque. You will
judge by what he replies to the charge.'
' Has the girl a lover ?'
' She has been engaged for the last week or so only.'
' Who is the man ?'
'His name is Hugh Aquila. He is Resident Medical Officer at
the Children's Hospital. I was at school with him. But you need
not inquire about him. He has got nothing to do with it.'
' How do you know that ?'
' Because his mother has money. Madame Aquila was a pro-
fessional singer, who made money and retired from the profession.
Besides, he thinks about nothing but his work. He has as much
money as he wants, and he never was in debt or any trouble. Why
should he stand in ?'
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 381
' He is not a man who bets and gambles ?'
' Not at all.'
' Humph ! Give me the paper. There's a nest of villainy some-
where about the place.'
Dick folded it neatly, and handed it over with the air of the
undertaker's man handing the gloves at a funeral.
' Of course you are prepared to swear to this statement ?'
' Certainly.' This with perfectly steady eyes. ' Of course, I
trust it will not be necessary.'
' Very well. There remains the man who presented the three
cheques. I have not yet laid my hands upon him. No doubt, if
Norah confesses, she will tell you who he is. If not, you have
enough to satisfy you.'
' I have enough, when I have all. Go now — or stay — where are
the cheques and the cheque-book that I left in your hands ?'
' They are locked up in my private drawer in the other room. I
will get them.' He vanished, but returned in a moment. ' They
are gone !' he cried. ' The cheques are gone !'
'Gone!'
' They are gone ! On Saturday I left them in my private drawer.
Now they are gone.'
' Was the drawer locked ?'
' It is always locked. Here is the key which has just unlocked
it. Indeed, I am sure they were in the drawer on Saturday.'
Mr. Murridgo went into the outer office. The private drawer
contained nothing but a few unimportant papers. The drawer,
indeed, might junt as well have been unlocked. For the forged
cheques and the cheque-book, which Dick said were left there on
Saturday, had disappeared.
' Who has been in this office, boy,' asked Mr. Murridge, ' besides
yourself, mnce Saturday?'
'Only Miss Cronan, sir : and Mr. Riclianl to-day, sir. Nobody
came yesterday, sir.'
' What time did you leave the place on Saturday ?'
'Not till throe o'clock, sir. Miss Cronjin was with you when
you brought rac out the letters to copy and to jmst.'
'Norah was working with mo on Saturday afternoon,' said Mr.
Murridgo, 'until four o'clock. I remember. Tlien she wont
away. I worked here alone till six. Have you a bunch of keys at
all, you boy ?'
'No, sir ; I haven't got anything to lock up. Search me, if you
like.'
382 'SELF OR BEARER:
'Have you seen Mr. Richard's drawer standing open ? I don't
■want to search you. What the devil should I search you for ?'
' No, sir. The drawer is never open that I know of, except Mr.
Richard's in his chair.'
' Have you ever tried to open that drawer yourself, with a key or
without ?'
' No, sir. He always locks it. And I haven't got no keys. And
why should I want to open Mr. Richard's drawer ?'
'There's villainy somewhere.' Mr. Murridge breathed hard,
and put his hands in his pockets, ' Villainy somewhere. I'll get
to the bottom of this.'
' The vanishing of the cheques,' said Dick, ' seems to crown the
whole thing.'
' What do you mean ?' asked his father roughly.
Dick showed his key.
' You see, it is quite a common key. Anybody with a good big
bunch of keys could open the drawer. Perhaps, even— such
things do happen— when the key was turned the bolt fell back,
and the drawer was open. What did you give me the cheques for ?
They were no use to me — not the least use.'
Mr. Murridge grunted. The cheques could not, under any cir-
cumstances, have been of use to his son in his investigation. Now
they were gone, perhaps lost altogether. Why, it was now become
a forgery without what the French call the pieces of conviction.
Who can prove a forgery when there is no document before the
Court ? Mr. Murridge retired to his own office, followed by his son.
' Look here, Dick,' he said, ' this thing is getting more complicated,
I must think it over. You've done your share. Leave it to me.'
' You needn't go investigating, or inquiring, or anything,' said his
son : ' you may entirely depend on the truth of my facts. Start
from them.'
' Perhaps. Yes ; well, I've nothing for you at the office, Dick.
Go and take a holiday ; amuse yourself somehow — as you like to
amuse yourself. But, mind, not a word to anybody — not a syllable.
Not a breath of what you've told me either to Norah or to her
brother. This paper and the accusation it contains belong to me.
Do you hold your tongue about the matter. Let no one suspect,'
Dick desired nothing so much as complete oblivion and the burial
of the whole business. He said so, in fact.
' But what shall you do next ?' he asked.
'That is my business. Only hold your tongue, and leave the
rest of the Case to me,'
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 383
' It has come,' said the office-boy, watching. ' He's done some-
thing at last. He's ordered to leave the office in disgrace. I knew
he would do something ; and I've got something more, and I shall
make him wriggle. He thinks he won't be found out. Ho ! I'm a
measly little devil, and she's a Sapphier. It's something against
her, is it ? Just you wait. The office-boy has a 'eye open.'
Mr. Murridge went back to his own office and sat down gloomy
and wrathful. He left his door wide open, and the boy, sitting at
his own table, his hands on the handle of the letterpress, watched
him carefully, wondering whether the time was yet arrived for him
to step in. But for such a lad to ' step in ' before the right moment
might endanger everything. Suppose if by reason of premature
stepping in, instead of seeing Mr. Richard wriggle, he might himself
have to do all the wriggling ? If he got turned out of his berth
this would certainly happen to him when he went home, his father
being a Fellowship Porter, and stout of arm.
All this took place at ten o'clock, the first thing in the morning.
It was over by half-past ten. When, at eleven o'clock, Norah came
as usual, she found her employer sitting idle. His letters were
unopened, his safe was still shut, his papers were not laid out
before him. The day's work was not yet commenced.
' Why !' cried Norah ; ' what is the matter with you to-day ?
Are you ill ?'
Her eyes were so bright, her face so full of sunshine, her look
fio radiant with the happiness of youth, innocence, and love, that
Mr. Murridge groaned aloud, wondering how this thing could be
possible.
' Wait a moment here,' he said, taking his hat ; 'I will be back in
a few minutes.'
Norah had plenty to occupy her. She opened her black bag,
spread out her papers, and put them in order, till Mr. ]\Iurridgo
returned, whirh was after five minutes ; ho was accompanied by a
young gentleman, wlio, while ]\Ir. Murridge opened his safe, and
rummaged among his {)ai)ers, stared at Norah rather more closely
than was consistent with good manners, according to licr own
views.
'Here,' said -Mr. Murridge presently, taking his head out of
the safe, ' is what you want.' Ho gave the young gentleman a
paper, and followed him out of the office. ' Well ?' he asked in a
whisper.
'That is the young lady,' the clerk replied, also Jii a whisper.
But the office-boy heard and wondered.
384 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' You are quite sure of it ?'
' Quite sure, I would swear to her. I am certain of her identity.'
Then Mv. Murridge carae back and shut the door.
'Norah,' he said, walking up and down the room in considerable
agitation, ' a very curious thing has happened.'
' What is that ?'
'I have been robbed.'
' Oh ! How dreadful ! Is it much ?'
' I have been robbed — treacherously robbed,' he added, as if most
robberies were open-handed and friendly, ' of sixty pounds, by
means of five forged cheques, payable to bearer.'
'Oh!'
' Each was for twelve pounds. Now, listen. Three were brought
to the Bank and cashed by one man — a man who spoke a foreign
accent, and who can be easily identified. He presented them on
the third, the sixth, and thirteenth of this month.'
' Well,' said Norah, ' if he can be identified, you ought to be able
to find him.'
' One, also one of the forged cheques, was presented on Friday,
the fifteenth, at a quarter-past twelve, by a young lady.' Mr.
Murridge watched the effect of his words, and spoke very slowly.
' It was a cheque for twelve pounds, payable to bearer. It was
cashed by a young lady. What is the matter, Norah ?' for the girl
turned white, and reeled as if she was about to faint.
* Nothing. Go on. It is nothing.' But she was white and
frightened, and she trembled, and was fain to sit down. Norah
was a bad actress.
' By a young lady who can also, if necessary, be identified. And
on Thursday last, another for the same sum of twelve pounds was
presented at about a quarter to one by a young gentleman whom
the clerk declares he would recognise at once. He is described as
a handsome boy, with light, curly hair, and an easy manner ; he
wears a pot-hat, and has a red tie. Well, that is nearly all we
know at present. I have nothing more to tell you. Stay, one
thing more. The forged cheques, with the cheque-book from which
they were stolen, were all in my son's private drawer, which he
keeps locked, on Saturday morning. Of that he is certain. They
have now disappeared. They, too, have been stolen. My son's
drawer has been broken open, and the cheques have been taken
from it. Do you quite understand ?'
She tried to speak, but she could not. In the young lady she
recognised herself. She had, with her own hands, presented that
THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 385
cheque, and received gold for it ; she remembered who had given
her the cheque, and to whom she had given the money ; more than
this, in the handsome boy with the red tie she recognised her own
brother Daff ; not because he, too, wore a red tie, but because he
had told her, talking trifles over an evening pipe, how he had
cashed one of Mr. Murridge's cheques that morning, and for whom
he had cashed it.
' Are you quite sure — are you positive that these two cheques,
cashed by the young lady and by the boy, were forgeries ? Oh,
;Mr. Murridge, think. It is a dreadful charge to bring against any-
body. "Were they really forgeries ? You may have forgotten, you
know. They may have been your own. How do you know for
certain that thej' were forgeries ?'
What did she mean ? What on earth did she mean by talking
in this way ?
' They were not my own. They were forged,' he repeated
sternly. ' I know that from the dates, and from the number of
the cheques.'
' Norah,' he said presently, ' you have been a good girl to me ;
a very clever and good girl you've been to me for five years. I
acknowledge it — I feel it. I wish I had raised your salary before.
You deserve more : you've been a very good girl. You have carried
through many difficult Cases for me. I don't know what I should
have done in lots of Cases without your help. This robbery dis-
tresses me. I did not think I could have been so much distressed
by anything. I say it is a most distressing thing to me.' He
repeated his words, and seemed at a loss how to express himself.
'Now I will give you one more sign of my confidence in you — a
complete proof of my confidence in you. I will put this Case,
too, into your hands. Do you hear ? You shall carry it through
for me.'
She made no sign whatever.
' I will give it to you for your own investigation. You shall find
out, Norah, who took the cheques from my cheque-book, who lillid
them and signed them, who presented tliein. You shall help me to
brin^ this villain to justice.' The girl sat befcjre him with pale
check, and eyes down-dropped, and she trembled. Her hands
trembled, her lips treraVjled, her shoulders trembled. ' It shall bo
your task. Will you undertake it ?'
Still she made no sign.
'It may be — I say it may be — that aomo excuses, M'hat men cull
excuses— idle things, but they are sometimes accepted — may bo
2o
386 'SELF OR BEARER:
found. The thing may have been done by someone to help another
person in trouble. Oh, there are people so foolish and Aveak that
they will even incur the risk of crime, and disgrace, and punishment
for others. Women have been known to do such things for their
prodigal lovers and their unworthy brothers. Find out, if you
can, such an excuse ; and when you bring me the name of the
guilty person I will consider how far that excuse may avail in
saving him from punishment.'
' Spare me !' cried Norah. ' Oh, I will do anything else that you
ask me — anything el^e ; but I cannot do this.'
' Why not ?'
' Because I cannot. I can give you no reason.'
' You refuse to do it. Why ? I don't ask you this time, Norah.
I command you. If you are still to remain in my service, under-
take this investigation.'
' I will not. I cannot. I will rather leave your service.'
' Then, before we part, read this paper. It was placed in my
hands this morning by my son. He is your old friend and com-
panion. Your brother is also his old friend and companion. Your
family have all been kind to him. Yet he has been compelled to
write this report for me. Read it. Think of the pain it must
have given him to write it ; and the pain, yes, the deep pain, it
gives me to read it.'
Norah read it. When she came to the place where the writer
spoke of herself she read slowly, not able at first to understand it.
Then she cried aloud in amazement from the pain of the blow,
which was like the stabbing of a sharp stiletto. But she recovered,
and went on to the end. When she had quite finished it, she sunk
into her chair and buried her face in her hands, sobbing and crying
without restraint. The man who had told her he loved her, and
had implored her to marry him one day, had done this thing the
next. The boy in the outer office heard her crying, and wondered
whether now the time had arrived for his own appearance.
Not yet, he thought ; not yet. Above all things an opportune
appearance and a dramatic effect !
' What have you to say ?' asked Mr. Murridge.
' Oh, Dick, Dick !'
It was all she had to say. Presently she lifted her head and
dashed away her tears, and proudly gave back the paper to Mr.
Murridge.
'Well?'
' I have nothing to say,' she replied. ' What is there to say ?'
THE GRAVE OF H OX OUR. 387
' Here is a distinct charge against you. A most serious charge.
The most serious charge that could be made against you.'
' I have nothing to say. Stay ! Yes. The Bank Clerk, he says,
can identify two persons who presented cheques. He need not be
called upon to do so. They were myself and my brother Hyacinth.
I have nothing more to say. I will answer no questions. You
must do as you please.'
' I have done all I could for you. I offered you your chance for
confession and for excuses '
' Confession ! He says, confession !'
* And you meet me with the daring avowal that you and your
brother presented those two forged cheques. Is it possible ?
You!'
' The two cheques. I did not say the two forged cheques. It is
quite true. I drew twelve pounds with one cheque, and Daffodil
drew twelve pounds with another.'
The girl repeated this avowal, looking Mr. MurriJge straight in
the face, without the least shrinking or shame.
' Forged or not, it is the same thing. Since you have owned so
much, confess the rest. Why did you take those cheques ?'
' Why did I take those cheques ? Oh, I have been with this man
for five years, and now — now he asks me why I stole his cheques !"
'Tell me, Norah. Yes, you have been with me five years. You
have been so honest and faithful that I cannot understand it. Tell
me why. I cannot understand it.'
' I will answer no questions. Take up the Case for yourself,
Mr, Murridge. You will find me at my mother's, or with Calista,
when you want me. You must take it up. You cannot let it stay
where it is. You shall not. When you have come to the truth,
you will understand why I refused to speak.'
' Tdll mc the truth now, then, Xorah.'
Mr. Murridge, who trusted no one, and thought love and friend-
ship fond and foolish things, was strangely moved ])y this business.
He had thought that when he could lay his hands upon the person
who had rol)bt;d liim, he would straightway halo that person before
the magistrate without pity, and, indeed, with revengeful joy. But
that jterson stood before him, convicted by his son's evidence and
out of her own mouth, and he was moved to pity.
'Tell me the truth, Norah,' ho repeated. 'For Cod's sake, tell
me the truth, and nothing more sliall Ijc said aliout it! No one
shall know ; it shall be l)ctwecn us two. We will ail go on as
before. Only, my girl, tell mo the truth.'
2.'.— 2
388 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' I cannot — I cannot. You must find it yourself. I presented
one of those cheques, and my brother presented another. That is
all I can tell you.'
She was no longer pale. She did not tremble any more. In her
cheek there was a burning spot, which might have been the outward
and visible sign of conscious guilt. As such Mr. Murridge read it.
On the other hand, it might betoken a wrath too deep for words.
But as such he did not read it. Whatever it was, her eyes were
aflame as she turned her face once more to Mr. Murridge, as she
stood with the door open.
' I advise you for once to follow your own maxims. You have
always advised me to trust no one. Yet you have sometimes
trusted me. In this case trust no one but yourself. "When you are
satisfied, you will ask me to come back to you. Till then you will
see me here no longer.'
The office-boy listened.
' Oh, miss,' he said as she closed the door, ' are you going ? He's
gone too. He's done something . Oh, I know very well ! Are you
really going ?'
' Really going, for a time, Joe ; perhaps altogether.'
' Is there a row, miss ? Is he ' — he jerked in the direction of Mr.
Richard's chair — 'is he in it ?'
' You had better ask him. Joe, good-bye.'
' She's been crying. The tears were on her cheeks. I wonder,'
said the boy, ' whether I ought to go in now ? Oh, if I could go in
with a cutlass and a brace of pistols !'
But he was afraid.
'It is impossible,' said Mr. Murridge. ' She must have done it.
Why did she turn so pale ? Why did she tremble ? Why were
her cheeks so red ? She must have done it ! Why did she refuse
to take up the Case V She must! Very well, then. There is some-
thing behind it— something that Dick can't find out. Very well,
then ; they've got me to deal with now. I will find out the truth
for myself.'
CHAPTER IX.
THE BROKEN KING.
' Calista,' said Norah, half an hour later, walking into the Infants'
Ward, ' I have come to stay with you a little.'
' To stay with me ? My dear Norah ! What has happened ?'
' Nothing. I have left Mr. Murridge, that is all. I am come to
stay with you.'
THE BROKEN RING. 389
* Tell me, Xorah. What is it ?'
' Nothing.'
In proof of this assertion she burst into tears and fell upon her
sister's neck.
' Tell me, Xorah.'
' I cannot — yet. Write to mother and tell her that I am hero —
say, if you please, for a holiday. Yes, tell her I am here for a
holiday.'
* Go into my room, dear. I will be with you directly, and then
you shall tell me as much as you please.'
The Sister's room is at the end of the Ward, so that even when
she is asleep she is never really away from her charge. It is at
once her bedroom and sitting-room, furnished with a table and easy-
chair, as well as a bed. In Calista's case — but this, I believe, is
matter of individual taste — there were books — in case she might
find time to read a little — and pictures, and work. Here Norah sat
down and took off hat and jacket, wondering how long people live
who are accused of dreadful and shameful things.
' Don't ask me why I am here,' she said, when Calista, after seeing
that every Baby was comfortable, and having examined the thermo-
meter and looked to the ventilation, came to her ; 'don't ask me,
Calista, because I cannot tell you. I can tell no one.'
' You have left Mr. Murridge, dear ?'
' Yes. I have left him. I can never, never go back to him
again. And, oh, Calista ! I must see Hugh as soon as possible —
directly.'
' He is somewhere in the Hospital. I will send for him. He can
see you in the corridor or somewhere. You arc going to tell him
what has happened V
' I am going to tell him, Calista,' aaid Norah frigidly, ' that it is
all over between us. I am going to give him back his ring.'
'Oh, Norah !'
' Please don't ask me why. I cannot tell you. It is not my fault,
Calista,' she said, while the tears came again ; 'it is nut my
fault !'
Calista remembered Dick's strange words on Sunday : ' Whatever
happens it will be her fault.'
' Tell me,' she said, ' what has Dick done V
' I cannot tell yon.'
Then it was something done by Dick. How iiad he contrived lo
make mischiof between Mr. Murridgo and Norah ? Calista ro-
Bolved upon taking the earliest opportunity of seeing Master Dick.
390 'SELF OR BEARER.'
Unfortunately the events of the next day made that interview im-
possible for some time to come.
The CoiTidor in the Children's Hospital, Shadwell, is a quiet
place for a Lovers' Tryst, though not like a bosky grove, entirely
secluded from observation. And there are no flowers or hedges in
it, and the spicy breezes blow not over cottage-gardens, but over
the London Docks, which is, perhaps, the reason why they are
sometimes very highly spiced. One is, however, safe from being
overheard. Therefore, when Norah went out to meet her lover
there, she began, quite comfortably, to cry.
' Oh, Hugh !' she said, ' I wonder if you will be sorry ?'
' What for, dear ?'
' I wonder whether you will console yourself very soon ? There
are lots of prettier and better girls in the world. Oh, you will soon
be happy again without me !'
' My dearest child, what do you mean ?'
' I mean, Hugh, that it is all over. Take back your ring. Our
engagement is broken off.'
Hugh put his hands behind him.
' You must take it, Hugh. I am serious.'
* I shall not take it, Norah. I am serious too. It takes two to
make an engagement, and two to break it off. I refuse, my
darling.'
' Hugh, it must be !'
' Tell me why it must be.'
'Because — because I cannot tell you ! Oh, Hugh, believe
me ! I can never marry you now, and I can never marry anyone !'
' Why— why— why ?'
'Hugh,' she turned upon him a pair of the most sorrowful eyes
ever seen, ' would you like to marry a girl disgraced for ever ?'
' Disgraced, Norah !'
' Disgraced ! Go away, Hugh ; I can tell you no more !'
' This is truly wonderful,' said her lover. ' Who dares to speak
of disgrace and my Norah in the same breath ? My dear, when
we two plighted our troth and kissed each other first, it was like
the Church service, you know — for better for worse. Perhaps a
little of the worse has come at the very beginning. Let me share
it with you.'
He took her tearful face in his hands — one on each side — and
kissed her forehead and her lips.
'There is trouble in those dear eyes,' he said, 'but no disgrace.
Norah, I flatly refuse to break it off. What will you do then ?'
THE BROKEN KING. 39^
' Nothing,' she replied. ' I can do nothing. But I am in serious
— terribly serious earnest, Hugh.'
' Then tell me— tell me all.'
She hesitated. The girl who hesitates is not always lost.
' I have been charged with a terrible accusation, Hugh — a dread-
ful accusation, and I have nothing to meet it with but my own
denial.'
' That is enough for those who love you, Norah.'
' It is a charge for which peo])le are every day sent to prison.'
She shuddered and trembled. ' Do you understand that, Hugh ?
You are engaged to a girl who may even be sent to prison, because
I cannot prove that I am innocent. What can innocent people do
when other people tell lies about them ? I am disgraced, Hugh.'
' No, dear ; you cannot be disgraced by a mere accusation. Tell
me all — exactly as it happened.'
' No. I cannot tell you — 1 will not. Let him find out the truth
for himself. If it is hard for me to bear the falsehood, it will be
harder for him to bear the truth.'
' Tell me the truth, then, Norah.'
' No, I will tell no one — not even you.'
' Norah dear, it is my right to ask it.'
' Then I withdraw the right. We are not engaged any longer,
Hugh.'
' Tell me this, then. Is it something connected with Mr.
Murridge ?'
Norah made no reply.
' Is it anything to do with Dick V
Still she was silent.
' Dick came here on Sunday, grumpy and miserable. Norah, let
me bear your burdens for you.'
' You cannot bear my burdens. I take away the right. Hugh,
as long as this thing is hanging over me, until my accuser sliall
withdraw his charge, I am not engaged to you. Oh, Hugh, I ;ini
in dreadful earnest !' She drew his ring from her finger and
kissed it — a pretty, fragile little threa<l of gold, set with pearls and
emeralds. 'Take it, Hugh.' He refused with a gesture. 'Yon
muHt — oh, Hugh, you must I Can I wear your ring when T might
have handcuffs on my wrists ? Take it.' Again he refused. She
twisted it with her fingers and tlu; gold siiajiped. ' Your ring is
broken, Hugh. No— let me go — let mc go !'
He tried toliold her ; he implored her to let him speak, but she l)roko
from him and fled swiftly down iho ('nrri'lnr to lier sister's Ward.
392 'SELF OR DEARER.'
Presently Calista came out, and found the Resident Medical
standing beside the open window, confused and bewildered.
' Do not contradict her,' she said. ' Let her have her own way.
She tells me that she has broken off her engagement, and she is
crying and sobbing in my room. Hugh, it is something that Dick
has done. I am certain of it. He was here on Sunday, gloomy
and careworn. He told me — he warned me, he said, that what-
ever happened was Norah's fault, because, you know, she refused
him.'
' Did he use those words ? He is a cur, Calista ! He was a cur
at school, and he is a cur still. But what could he do or say ? She
has been accused— hush, Calista! the very whisper makes one's
cheeks hot — she has been accused of something — something, she
says, for which people are sent to prison. Think of that — our poor
Norah ! — our poor child !'
Calista laughed scornfully.
' Oh !' she cried. ' This is foolish ; this is absurd ! Who can
have accused her ?'
' I do not know. But I will find out before long.'
' She has left Mr. Murridge, she tells me.'
' Then it must be Mr. Murridge — or — Dick.'
' Hugh ! Can it be that Dick has himself '
She did not finish her question, because Hugh answered it by a
responsive light in his eyes.
' I will go presently,' he said. ' This morning thei'e is too much
to do, but in the afternoon or to-morrow I will go and see Mr.
Murridge myself. Somehow or other, Calista, we will get to the
bottom of this.'
' Dick could not,' said Calista. ' Oh, it is impossible ! Consider.
We have always known Dick. He is almost a brother. He has
been our friend and companion all the days of his life. He thought
he was in love with Norah. Can a man make love to a girl, and
ask her to be his wife one day, and the next day accuse her of
abominable and shameful things ? It is impossible, Hugh. Don't
let us suspect Dick.'
' Why, then, did he give you that warning, Calista ? Yet we will
not suspect him until I have seen Mr. Murridge, and learned all
that can be learned. Meantime, what are we to do with Norah ?'
' Leave her to me, Hugh.'
* But she is crying and unhappy. She should be with me.'
' Leave her with me, Hugh, for to-day. When you have seen Mr.
Murridge we can consider what is to be done. Perhaps you will be
THE DROKEX RING. 393
able to lay this specti-e. Then you can see her and console her as
much as you please.'
Norah sat on Calista's bed, crying. Presently she left off crying
and began to wonder how a man could be so revengeful and so
wicked. Because now she understood quite clearly that the thing
must have been done by no other than Dick, who, in order to screen
himself and divert suspicion, had deliberately, and in cold blood,
accjised her. And this was her old playfellow, the man who had
told her he loved her !
She sat there until the evening. Then she got up, bathed her
tearful face, brushed her hair, and went out into the Ward.
' I am come to work, Calista. My dear, I must work. It will
do me good to sit up all night. If I lie down I shall hear voices
and gee figures. Let me stay here among the Babies and help to
nurse.'
The day-nurses went away and the night-nurses came to take
their places, and among them Norah stood all the brief summer
night till the early morning, when the sun rose over the silent City
of Labour, and then she sat down in a chair and fell fast asleep.
At five o'clock Calista came out in her dressing-gown, and the
imrses carried Norah to the Sister's room and laid her on the bed,
just aa she was, in her clothes, and sleeping heavily.
CHAPTER X.
THE ADVERTISEMENT.
In the whole of Dick iMurridge's future life, whether that be long
or short, one day will stand out in his memory as the most un-
lucky. Every man who has been weak and wicked thinks that the
day when he was found out is the most unlucky day in his life.
Of course, he should consider that the day when he first left the
path of virtue was really that day ; but to arrive at tliat conclusion
implies a return to that thorny path with what used to bo called
heart and soul, which is, I believe, rare. The wicked man not in-
frequently turns away from his wickedness, ho many forces acting
ui)OU him in the direction of righteousness ; but it is seldom indeed
that ho regards the dodges, tricks, cheats, and deceptions of the past
with aught but comi)lacency, 'J'herc was nothing, at first, to rouse
special apprchciiKions. His father was gloomy at breakfast ; he
had lost his clerk as well as his sixty pounds, and the clerk was by
far the more serious loss ; also lie could not understand, in spito of
his own maxims, how the girl could possibly have done it, and what
394 'SELF OR BEAKER.'
she meant by avowing the worst piece of evidence against her, and
then bidding him take up the Case himself. But to his son he said
nothing to alarm him. Dick accepted his father's silence as a proof
that nothing more was going to be done. Norah would be forgiven,
he fondly thought. As if Mr. Murridge was the kind of man to
sit down satisfied with so strange a thing as this unexplained !
Dick, like many crafty persons, was a great Fool. In fact, the
whole history of Crime shows a remarkable development of the
imaginative faculty going parallel with great craftiness, which
prevents its possessors from seeing things in their right proportions,
so that they frequently get caught in their own nets. And as if
Norah was the kind of girl to accept forgiveness !
He spent the morning — for the third time — with the Count, who
was showing him most surprising things with the cards— things
which, he clearly perceived, might, in the hands of one who could
do them dexterously, lead to surprising results.
' There was a time,' said the Count, ' when I could do these
things, before I lost my finger. Do you think I lived in a place
like this, the companion of such men as come here every night ?
Now I can show you how we do them. Anybody may learn how
they are done. But there are few indeed who can do them so as
never to be suspected or caught. I have watched you, friend
Richard, and I know that you can learn. I will make you, if you
please, and little by little, a master of the great Art.'
The great Art, of course, was the practical application of scien-
tific Legerdemain to card-playing and gambling. In its simpler
forms it means turning the king, forcing a suit, making the bridge,
palming a card, giving your adversary the worst hands and yourself
the best. When a young man has learned these things, and can do
them with a turn of the wrist and without a movement of the eye,
he has indeed advanced far, and may be trusted to earn a very
decent and comfortable maintenance. But there are higher flights,
and although there are many Greeks about the gaming-tables, there
never was one who brought to the profession a keener intellect, a
more copious resource, a greater wealth of trickery in its highest
and most occult branches, than the Signor Giuseppe Piranesi.
' And when I have learned all this, what am I to do ?'
' Long before that time comes, you will be glad of the protection
which I can give you. Ask me when the Trouble comes.'
' What do you mean by the Trouble ? You are always talking
about the Trouble.' Dick threw the cards upon the table. ' I tell
you there is no Trouble coming.'
THE ADVERTISEMENT. 395
' Aud I tell you, young gentleman, there is a very great Trouble
coming upon you, and that very soon. I have seen it coming day
after day, and at last it has come. I believe, Richard, that it has
come upon you this very day ; I believe you will not go home to
your father's this evening.'
Dick tried not to tremble, but he succeeded ill. He tried to
laugh, and there came a dismal cackle. lie picked up the cards,
but his hand shook. Was the man a Prophet ?
' I have had a dream, my sou,' said the Count softly. ' T dreamed
that age and youth, experience and inexperience, might help each
other.'
' What has that got to do with me and — and the Trouble ?'
' Wait — wait, and listen. My dream was of an old man and a
young man. They travelled together, and were Partners, though
no one knew it. They worked together. The old man knew
where to go, and the young man how to work. He had been
taught by the old man. They went wherever the money is — there
are only a dozen places in the world worth going to — where, that is,
there are rich young fellows who are fools enough to think they can
win at the game-table. Do you begin to understand this dream ?'
' But what has it got to do with the Trouble ?'
' The Trouble may be the means of making this Dream a reality.
It is a beautiful dream. There is in it the life of luxury, and of
ease, and of love.' Dick hoard of the love and luxury without
much emotion. The former moved him but little, the latter not at
all. * And a life of getting money in it — money, my young friend.'
Dick's cold eyes lit up.
' It will only be necessary for you to follow my instructions, and
to be my pupil. You must obey me, and you shall be my Partner.
I will introduce you, and I will play square, like the fools at the
table, because the cursed loss of my finger prevents mo from play-
ing any other way. IJut you — you — you shall play with every
advantage of Science, skill, and courage.'
'Oh !' Dick, it is fair to say, had no objections on the score
of honesty, but he distrusted his own powers. ' Oli, it is im-
possible !'
'A beautiful dream. Everywhere the most delightful life, and
the ea-siest ; everywhere the fools who sit about the tables, and
expect to win. Porlia{)S a time may cotno wlu-n it will I)c no dream,
but a necessity.' The Count sighed, and Dick's eyes kindled. ' A
divine life, with everything that can bo bought, and always money
at your fingers' ends. You might bo my pu])il. In six months I
396 'SELF OR BEARER:
would teach you enough. Then we would begin. You should be
the young Englishman of fortune on his travels. No one suspects
the young Englishman of fortune ; he is always a Fool ; he is
always the prey of the Profession. Would you like to be that
young Englishman ? He loses when the stakes are low, and he
wins when the stakes are high. Would that suit you ?'
The spider has many blandishments. To the fly he talks the
language of innocence, of flattery, of disinterested friendship, and
of love. But to brother-spider he uses a different kind of talk,
' If I could only get away !' he said. ' As for the City, I hate it !
If I could only get away !'
' You may — you shall. My dear young friend, I will help you
because you can help me. That is the foundation of every friend-
ship. My secrets are yours, and yours are mine for the future.
We must trust each other, because we can be of service to each
other. Hands upon it.'
Dick gave him his hand.
'So,' said the Count. ' Now, my friend, I have business. I will
leave you here. I shall return in two hours. You will stay here ;'
for the first time he assumed a tone of command. ' You will not
leave this house until my return.' He put on his hat and lit a
cigarette. ' By the way, have you got me another cheque ?'
' No,' said Dick shortly.
' Those first three cheques — they were all right — on the square V'
' Of course they were all right. Why should they not be all
right ?'
'Good — very good. Your secrets are mine, and mine are yours.
Partners such as we shall be have no secrets from each other, have
they?'
He laughed pleasantly, and went away.
Dick, left alone, began to imagine that life. His own had been
so dull that he had not the least idea what it would be like. But
there would be no City work, no office, no drudgery of copying
and of making up books. There would be change and excitement
in it ; there would be money in it, and gambling (on the safe side)
in it. Was the Count serious ? Yet he had spent a great deal of
trouble over him. He was not likely to spend that time and trouble
for nothing. The chance of leading such a life depended upon
himself.
He seized the pack of cards, and began to practise some of the
passes and tricks which the Count had taught him. But he was
excited and nervous. The most that he dared to hojjc that morn-
THE ADVERTISEMENT. 397
ing was safety for a time ; what was opened up for him now was
more than safety for a time ; it was rescue.
The Count said that the Trouble was coming that very day.
Well : he knew that the cheques were burned, with the cheque-
book. There can be no forgery unless the documents are produced,
and they were gone. Oh, what a fortunate chance was this that
placed in his hands the very proofs of his own guilt ! The cheques
were burned. If his father discovered the truth, he would do
nothing — nothing at all. There would be a Row ; there would
certainly be a Row. Well, the greatest Row breaks no bones.
And he would, perhaps, be turned into the street. Very well.
Then, perhaps, the Count would really do what he had promised —
become his friend and Partner. Because, 3'ou see, Dick had as yet
none of that sense of honour which exists between brothers in
iniquity. That had to be created in him.
He could do nothing with the cards. He threw them down, and
took up the pajier. It was the T'ime>', and on the second column
his eyes fell upon the following advertisement :
'FiFTKEN Pounds Reavard. — Whereas on the .3rd, the oth, and
the 11th days of June respectively, there were presented and cashed
at the Royal City and Provincial Bank, Finsbury Circus Branch,
three cheques, each for twelve pounds, payable to self or bearer,
and purporting to be signed by myself. The above-named reward
will be paid to any person who shall di.scover the man who pre-
sented them. He is described as an elderly man, well dressed,
speaks with a foreign accent, has short white hair and white
moustache, without beard, and has lost the forefinger of his right
hand.
'(Signed) John MrRiuDfii:,
* Finsbury Circus, E.G.'
^Ir. ^lurridge, in short, was a practical man. The Case per-
plexed and worried him. He could see no way out of it. Norah
took the cheques ; that was certain. She and her brother pre-
sented two of them ; that was certain. Why V And who presented
the other three ?
There cannot bo many men in Jjondon with the three distinctive
characteristics of age, a foreign accent, and the loss of the fore-
finger on the right hand. The man he wanted must be an accom-
[)lice in tliis robbery, or he must have rcceiveil payment with these
cheques. In the former case, he might be discovered by someone
who would see the advertisement ; in the latter, he might himself
398 'SELF OR BEARER.'
come forward. He was quite right ; the advertisement produced
the man. It did more. There were, I think, fifty-two members
of the Club. It was, therefore, remarkable that, in the course of
that day and the next, Mr. Murridge received forty-six letters, all
from the immediate neighbourhood of St. Pancras, King's Cross,
and Camden Town, and all informing him that the writer had it in
his power to produce the man advertised for on receipt of the
promised reward, which might be sent by return post. Thirty-six
of the writers followed up the letter by a personal call ; twenty-six
were abusive when they found that they had to go away with
nothing — not even their tempers, which they lost in the office— and
ten went away sorrowful. There would have been fifty-one letters ;
but, unfortunately, the remaining five did hot see the Times.
A simple advertisement. Nothing more. Yet it knocked down
at one stroke the whole of Dick's careful construction. No more
was left of it after the advertisement appeared than remains of an
Ice Palace in the summer.
Dick knew that. The moment he read the advertisement he
understood what would happen.
At two o'clock the Count returned.
' My friend,' he said gravely, ' you have done wrong.'
' What have I done ?'
'You have not trusted me. A dozen times have I asked you if
those cheques were right.'
' Well, they are ' he began.
' Have done with lies,' said the Count roughly. ' Understand,
once and for all, that there are to be no more lies between us.
You are to tell me the truth — always. Do you hear ? Else you
go your own way. Even this morning I gave you another chance.'
' You ought to have shown me the paper.'
' You might have seen the paper.'
' Have you been to my father's ?'
' I have. In any case I should have gone to him. What ! Am
I to be advertised for ? Am I to go into hiding ? Besides,' his
face broke into a sweet smile, ' there are our worthy friends, the
members. Do you think that, for fifteen pounds, these gentlemen
would not rush to denounce the man without the forefinger ?
Therefore I anticipated them. Why not ?'
Dick waited to know what happened.
* I took a cab. I drove to Finsbury Circus. I sent my card to
your father. He was not alone, but he admitted me immediately.'
'What did he say?'
THE ADVERTISEMENT. 399
'Nothing — your father said nothing ; from which I augur the
worst. For myself, as he might wish to hear from me further, I
have given him my name and my address — not at this house.'
' He knows that I gave you those cheques. Did he say nothing ?'
'He said nothing. When you go htome this evening, he will,
without doubt, have a great deal to say. But to me he said no-
thing at all. There is more, however. I was not alone.'
' Who was there ?'
' Your father knows now that you gave two more cheques to be
cashed. There was another cheque half filled up. A boy in the
office has found it and given it to your father.'
' I knew the little devil had got it. I wish I had him here— just
for five minutes. I wish I had him here !'
' He had also picked up and gummed together the fragments of
paper written all over by you in imitation of your father's hand-
writing. A dangerous boy !'
* I wish I had him here.'
' Wliat will you do now ?'
' I won't go home again,' said Dick.
• Well ?'
'Oh,' cried Dick, 'let that dream of yours come to something.
Count. Teach mc all you can, and I will obey you, and be your
servant, or your Partner, or anything you please. I was a fool
not to tell you all a week ago and more.'
' It was foolish, indeed, because I guessed the truth all along.
There are many young men who do these things. They arc always
found out ; then there is Trouble. As for them, they are mostly
silly boys who are born only to sink and be forgotten. But you
are dilTerent ; you are clever, though too crafty, and cold, yet too
easily frightened ; you have courage — of a kind — such a kind as I
want ; therefore I will helj) you.'
Dick murmured something about gratitude.
'No,' said the Count ; 'do not talk of gratitude. First of all,
you will stay here for awhile until I am ready. While you are
here you must not leave this room. You are a prisoner. T will
Rive out to the landlord that you are an invalid. You will hikihI
your timd in practising the things I will teach you. Courage !
You have burned your boats ; you have broken with the past.'
400 'SELF OR DEARER.'
CHAPTER XL
STILL ONE CHANCE LKI'T.
The blackest cloud sat on- the brow of Mr. Murridgo. Business
was before him which wanted his clever clerk, and she was gone.
Wonderful ! unheard-of ! She confessed what she had done, and
she went away without a word of excuse, without any appeal to
mercy ; just as if somebody else had done the thing. Never was
audacity more complete.
' I could forgive her,' said Mr. Murridge. ' I feel it in me to
forgive her.' Perhaps the thought of her cleverness, and the loss
of her departure, assisted him to this Christian frame of mind.
' Yes ; I feel that I could forgive her. I could stop the sixty
pounds out of her salary, and we could go on just exactly the same
as before ; only I should lock up the cheque-book ; if she'd only
tell me why she did it, and say she was sorry. And the little devil
goes off with a toss of her head and a glare in her eyes as if some-
body else had taken the cheques ! It's wonderful ! it's wonderful !'
Meantime, how could he replace her ?
' I'll make her come back to me,' he said. ' If she won't accept
my terms I'll prosecute her, even without the cheques. She must
have taken them out of Dick's drawer, too. Women will do any-
thing — anything ! But that was clever. What will her father
say ? I don't care. I'll prosecute the Honourable Norah Cronan,
daughter of Viscount Cloni^illa, for forgery ! That is'— he paused
— ' if I can without the cheques ; and then she'll be glad enough
to accept my terms.'
While Mr. Murridge was thus breathing fury and flames, he
received a call. A young gentleman, whose appearance was un-
known to him, knocked at the door and walked in.
' My name is Aquila,' he said. ' You will understand why I have
called when I tell you that I am engaged to Miss Norah Cronan.'
' Oh !' Mr. Murridge rejjlied, with a snort; 'you are, are you?
And has that young lady seen you since yesterday morning ?'
' Yes ; I have seen her.'
'Has she made any kind of statement to you ? Do you under-
stand what has happened ?'
' I learn from her that some kind of charge has been brought
against her.'
' She is accused— not by me, but by another — of theft and
forgery. Sixty pounds is the total. I have been robbed in my
STILL ONE CHANCE LEFT. 401
own office of sixty pounds by five distinct forgeries. She made no
bones of confessing the thing to me. Laughed at it, so to speak.
Laughed at it ! Told me to find out the truth for myself.'
' Confessing ! Norah confessing !'
' Certainly. And if, young gentleman, you can explain how she
came to confess without the least shame, T should be glad to hear
that explanation. Come.'
' Let me understand. How could she confess ? AVhat did she
say?'
* She confessed that she cashed one of the cheques herself, and
that her brother cashed another. Is not that confession enough
for you ?'
'Nothing would be enough for me, because I am as firmly con-
vinced of her innocence as of my own. Much more firmly, in fact,
because Norah could not do this thing. Consider, Mr, Murridge'
— the young man's voice trembled — ' this is a very dreadful charge
to bring against anyone, and most of all against a girl. Yet you
talk of it as if it was not only a possible charge, but already
proved.'
'Every day in this City,' said Mr. Murridge, ' there are robberies
of this kind. They are all committed by perfectly innocent ])ersons
previously unsuspected. When they are found out, the first cry is
that it is impossible. Now, young gentleman, I am very sorry for
the girl's sake — I don't know another person in the world for whom
I would say so much. The thing is impossible, is it not ? Yet it
has happened '
' Is that all ? Tell me exactly. Is it all that Norah said ?'
' She said that she would answer no more questions.'
' Is that all ?'
' Not quite. What she said then — I can't understand it — was that
I must find out the truth for myself. What do you make of that ?'
'Only that you have not got the truth yet. Stay; let us send
for her brother. Will you let me put a question to him in your
presence ?'
' IJy all means. Send the office-boy in a cab.'
Hugh hastily wrote a note, and <lespat(;lied the boy in a hansom.
P^oin the City to (Jowcr Street a toleral>ly swift cab takes twenty
minutes. They had, therefore, forty minutes at least to wait.
'And now,' said Mr. Murridge, 'your relations with this young
lady are so intimate, and you know so much, it would be just as
well if you knew all.'
He opened his safe, and took from it a roll of paper.
26
402 'SELF OR dearer:
' This document,' he said, ' was placed in my hands by no other "
than my own son. Read it, remembering that the girl is his old
companion and friend from childhood.'
Hugh read it through, slowly and deliberately. Then he read it
a second time.
' You accept this statement,' he asked, ' without question ?'
'Surely. It is a perfectly plain statement by my own son, who
can have nothing whatever to gain by misrepresenting the facts.
You observe that he suppressed as long as he could the most
important fact.'
Hugh made no reply. But he read the paper a third time. Then
he looked carefully about the room.
' Come, Mr. Murridge,' he said, ' let us examine this document
with a little more care. Dick says that Norah shut the door ; that
the door, as sometimes happens, was not quite close, but stood
ajar ; that from the place where he sat he could see through this
partly open door. Come into the outer office with me.'
He carefully adjusted the door so that it should be ajar at an
angle of about eleven and a half degrees, which is, so to speak, a
good large jar.
' Now,' he said, ' if it was ajar it certainly could not have been
wider than this. Here are two tables and two chairs : I suppose he
must have been sitting at one of them while he saw the door ajar.'
' This is my son's chair.'
' Sit here, then,' Hugh went on. ' Tell me what you can see in
your own office ?'
Nothing whatever could be seen of the inner office from Dick's
seat, and nothing from the other seat. This will readily be under-
stood if we remember that the fire-place was on the same side for
both rooms, and that Mr. Murridge sat near the fire in his room,
and Dick between the fireplace and the window in his, while the
office-boy was accommodated with a table and a chair on the other
side of the fire.
' Very good,' said Hugh. ' The first point of the story is that
your son saw Norah from his own place, through the partly opened
door. Now, in order to see her, he would have been obliged to
leave the seat and go over to the other side of the room.'
' That makes no difference,' said Mr. Murridge. ' The point is
that he saw what was being done. He may have been standing —
or prying and pee])ing — that matters nothing.'
' I do not agree with you,' said Hugh. ' The point is that, not
being curious, he saw without taking the trouble to spy.'
STILL OXE CHANCE LEFT. 403
' Still, no difference. Why shouldn't he spy ? A man doesn't
like to confess that he was prying and spying.'
Hugh went on to another point.
' He says that Norah folded the cheques and placed them, in her
bosom. Very good. Let us see the cheques ?'
' They are lost. They have been stolen.'
' That is unfortunate. Did you see them ?'
' Of course I did.'
' In what manner. Had they been folded ?'
It was a bow drawn at a venture. But Mr. Murridge changed
countenance and was disconcerted.
' Strange,' he said ; ' I had forgotten. Only one was folded.
The others had been rolled or carried flat in a pocket-book. I
noticed that they were not folded. But one was folded. I am
certain that one of them was folded.'
' This makes, you see, the second mistake in this document.'
' What do these little mistakes matter in so weightj' a charge as
this ? My son says that he saw with his own eyes — it doesn't
signify to me whether he was peeping through a keyhole — he
actually saw Norah tear those cheques out of the book. You
cannot get over that plain fact.'
' Plainly, then, Mr. Murridge, I don't believe it. If that is the
only way out of the difficulty, I do not believe it.'
' You think my son lied V
'I am perfectly sure that if he charges Norah with theft he lies.'
' You are engaged to the young lady. You are bound to say
that. But, young gentleman, get over her confession, if you can.
I tell you I am ready to believe that my son was mistaken if you
can get over the plain facts — that I have been robbed, and that
Norah confesses.'
'Let UH wait till Daffodil comes.'
He sat down opposite to Mr. IMurridge, and they waited. There
was nearly half an hour yet to wait. To sit opposite to a man for
half an hour, waiting for a fpitslion to bo asked, a question in
which is concerned the honour of the girl you love, is awkward.
While they waited, however, there came another visitor.
Mr. Murridge's door was standing wide open, and the visitor
walked in.
lie was an elderly gentleman with lari^o wliit<j moustaclio, very
neatly dressed, with an upright, soldierly l;eariug. lie took oil his
hat politely, and aa he did so Mr. Murridge started, because ho
recognised the man for whom ho had that morning advertised. At
2(3-2
404 'SELF OR DEARER.'
least, this man was short of one finger — the forefinger of his right
hand was gone.
' You are ]\Ir. Murridge ?' he asked in a slightly foreign accent.
' I am, sir. And you ?'
' I believe I am the man whose description is given in the Times
of this morning.'
' Pray go on, sir.'
'It is, perhaps, usual to advertise for a gentleman under the
promise of a reward as if he was a criminal.'
' If he is wanted for evidence, why not ?'
' You may withdraw that advertisement, sir ; and you may save
your money. I am the man who presented three cheques at your
bank, and for twelve pounds, and each signed by yourself.'
' Oh !' said Mr. Murridge. ' Now we shall see.' He turned to
Hugh. ' Perhaps, as you feel so strongly in this business, you
would like to leave me alone with this — this gentleman ?'
' On the contrary, I feel so strongly about it, that I must ask
your permission to hear what he has to say.'
' As you please. It is the next step in the Enquiry. You under-
stand that I shall connect these three cheques, as well as the other
two, with No rah or her brother.'
' You will try.'
' The question is,' said Mr. Murridge, ' first, where you got those
cheques ; and next, for what consideration ':"
' As regards the first,' replied the stranger, ' you ought to know
to whom you gave them.'
' I did not give them to anyone. Those cheques were stolen,
and the signature is a forgery.'
' Really ? That is awkward. It is very awkward.'
' But tell us,' cried Hugh impatiently, springing to his feet.
' Tell us, man !'
' I am much distressed to hear this,' said the stranger. ' I confess,
when I saw this advertisement this morning, that I feared there
was something wrong about the cheques. I am most distressed.'
' You have not answered my question yet,' said Mr. Muri'idge.
'Never mind your distress.'
' I am distressed on your account, sir. However, the person from
whom I received the cheques was your own son, Mr. Richard
Murridge.'
' What !' Mr. Murridge shouted.
' Your own son — no other, certainly.'
Hugh sat down.
STILL OXE CHANCE LEFT. 405
' "Why — why— for what consideration did you receive that money?'
' In part payment of a loan. I had lent my young friend, from
time to time, sums of money amounting in all ' — he produced a
pocket-book and looked at an entry — ' to forty-nine pounds nine-
teen shillings. He has paid me by three instalments of twelve
pounds each — thirty-six pounds. There remains, therefore, the
sum of thirteen pounds nineteen shillings — thirteen guineas we
will say. For this 1 have his acknowledgment — here it is.'
He handed Mr. Murridge a slip of paper — a simple I U drawn
and signed by his son. Mr. Murridge examined it. As he held it
in his hand, the room became dark, and the figures before him
stood as if in thick cloud, and Hugh's voice was like a voice in a
dream. For he suddenly understood that it was his son, and not
Norah at all, who had done this thing, and he saw, in the signature
of his son, what he had never noticed before — perhaps he had never
before seen his son's signature — a fatal resemblance to his own,
' You have not yet, sir,' said Hugh, ' given us your name and
address.'
The stranger laid his card upon the table. Hugh took it, read it,
and handed it to Mr. Murridge.
' Signer Giuseppe Piranesi, No. 88, Argyle Square. That address
will always find you ?'
' I am in lodgings there. That address will find me for a few
weeks longer.'
' Why did you lend my son money ?' Mr. Murridge asked quietly.
' To pay his losses at cards.'
' His losses at — at cards ? Dick ? Losses at cards ?'
* Your son's losses at cards.'
' You will have to prove these things, sir,' said Mr. IMurridge.
' You will have to prove them. You shall go before a magistrate.'
' Before the Lord Mayor himself, if you please. Meantime, I
will keep this little document.' He replaced the I O U in liis
pocket-book. 'And, if I might suggest as the next stej), you niiglit
put one or two questions to your son. As, first, how and where ho
spends his evenings ; next, how he has done lately in the matter of
luck ; and, thirdly, who has lent him money to go on with.'
Mr. Murridge said nntliing.
' Ah to the first, ho will rcjily that ho spends all his evenings at a
certain club, where there is social conversation, with a little friendly
gambling— such as a baccarat-tablo and tables for ecartr, and so
forth, and tliat he is a griinblcr acharm' — for his ago, I have never
seen a more determined gambler. Ah for the second question, he
4o6 'SELF OR BEARER.'
will tell you that luck has been very much against him for some
weeks ; and, as to the third, that the Proprietor of the Club lent
him money from time to time. When you have put these questions
and received these answers, I think that you will not want to go
before any magistrates.'
' You are, then,' said Hugh, ' the Proprietor of a Gambling
Club ?'
' I am its Founder, young gentleman. I shall be happy to welcome
you, in case you, too, like Mr. Richard Murridge, are devoted to
the green table. You will find the Club a highly respectable body
of gentlemen.'
Mr. IMurridge sat quite silent.
Just then DaflEodil arrived. He knew nothing of any trouble,
and walked in with his careless, cheerful bearing.
' Here I am, Mr. Murridge. What do you want me for ? Is my
father elevated to an Earl or a Duke ?'
' Will you ask him the question, or shall I ?' said Hugh.
Mr. Murridge shook his head,
'Well, then,' Hugh went on, 'be serious, DafE, if you can. Do
you remember cashing a cheque at the Royal City and Provincial
Bank the other day ?'
' Yes ; I cashed a cheque all right. For twelve pounds, it was,'
' How did you get that cheque ?'
' Why, Dick gave it to me. Asked me to cash it on my way to
Crosby Hall, where I was to meet him. I gave him the money.
Why?'
' Never mind why. Do you know this gentleman ?'
The Signor offered his hand.
' It is my young friend whom Fortune favours. When shall you
come again ?'
The young man blushed.
' I know him,' he said. ' I have seen him twice.'
' Only twice ?' Hugh asked. ' Consider.'
' Only twice,' replied the Signor. ' The young gentleman has
only twice been to the Club.'
' Are you in the habit of gambling, Daff '?'
' I've only gambled twice in my life,' he replied, blushing.
' Arc you in deljt ?'
'I owe about five pounds to ray tailor. It is more than I can
pay, but it is all I owe.'
' You have only played cards for money twice ?'
' I have played whist in some of the fellows' rooms for threepenny
STILL ONE CHANCE LEFT 407
points. But I have only gambled twice. The first time I won five
shillings, and the second fifty shillings and more.'
' Well, who took you ?'
Daff hesitated and turned red again. No one likes to tell
tales.
' You must tell us. It is for Norah's sake.'
' Well, then, Dick took me.'
' Dick is my most regular member,' said the Signor, as if it was a
credit to him. ' He begins with the first, and he plays as long as
he can stay. My most regular member. There is no one more
regular than Dick. He should have been a Russian.'
' Very good. There is only one other question I want to ask
you. Did Dick, to your knowledge, ever ask anyone else to cash a
cheque for him ?'
' Once he asked Xorah.'
'How do you know ?'
* Xorah told me. We were talking, and she told me. I said she
had no business to run errands for Dick.'
' Xow, sir,' said Hugh, ' I hope you understand the reason which
prompted Norah to refuse any other answer, or to conduct this
Enquiry ? She knew beforehand.'
' There is villainy somewhere,' said Mr. Murridge harshly ;
' villainy somewhere ! How do I know that this is not a con-
spiracy V As for you, sir,' he turned to the Signor, ' I believe you
can be sent to prison for corrupting the young.'
Signor Piranesi laughed courteously.
' I assure you, sir,' he said, ' the members of my Club are quite
corrupt, as regards gambling, before they come to me.'
'And as for you,' Mr. Murridge shook his finger at Daffodil,
'as for you, I believe you are in the job somehow. Villains all !
villains all I'
'And J, too?' said Hugh.
' You have got the girl to defend.''
' The villainy, Mr. Murridge, is established nearer home. You
are ready, I hope, to acquit the person first charged ?'
'(jertaiiily not — certainly not. IIuw do T know that this is not
a conspiracy against my son? Where is he? Let him lie con-
fronted with these two. Let me have more evidence. Let mo lind
the last of the stolen cheques.'
Now, all this time the door had been standing wide-open, and
behind it sat the ofRcc-boy eagerly drinking in every word. Ho
now, for the first time, understood exactly what h;id hajqjencd.
4o8 'SELF OR bearer:
And he now began to experience the joys of revenge, because ho
had it in his power to deal his long-meditated blow on the man
who had called him a measly little devil.
Accordingly, he stepped from his place and boldly entered the
inner office.
' AVhat do you want ?' asked his master.
' Please, sir, I've heard it all.'
' What if you have ? All the world shall hear it all before
long,'
' Please, sir,' the boy's bearing was considerably more humble
than that invariably adopted by his favourite heroes, but the matter
is more important than the manner ; ' please, sir, Pvo found some-
thing which Mr. Richard dropped.'
' What is it ?'
The boy produced an envelope in which were two pieces of paper.
One of them, pink in colour, he laid on the table.
' It is the last of the cheques !' cried Mr. Murridge.
The signature was only, as yet, in pencil, very carefully written.
The rest of the cheque was filled up. Like all the rest, it was
drawn for the sum of twelve pounds,
' What is the other paper in your hand ?' asked Hugh.
' Mr. Richard was always writing things and tearing them up.
One day he spent all the morning in writing over a single sheet of
paper. Then he tore it up into little pieces, I picked them up
and pieced them together.'
He gave Hugh the result. It was a half-sheet of foolscap. It
had been torn into a hundred pieces, and was now put together
like a child's puzzle, and gummed upon another paper. Across it
was written, over and over again, like one of Coutts's cheques, the
name of John ]\Iurridge — John Murridge— John Murridge, all
exactly alike, and all in exact imitation of Mr. Murridge's usual
signature. Hugh placed this before Mr. Murridge.
* Are you satisfied now, sir?' he asked.
' I want my son's explanation. You can all go. I am not satisfied
until I have my son's explanation.'
They left him. But in the outer office the boy sat with a broad
grin upon his expressive countenance. He was one of Nature's
artless children, and the thought of Dick's downfall filled him with
a joy which he had not learned to suppress and was not ashamed
to show. Presently Mr. Richard would come in unsuspecting.
Then his father would call him, and the Row would begin. And
then the policeman would be called in and they would all go off
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT. 409
together to the Mansion House, where he, the office-boy, would
give evidence.
' And then ' — he smiled sweetly — ' then I shall see him wriggle.'
The office-boy sat all day long lulled with this pleasant anticipa-
tion, and contented though he had no novelette in the drawer.
Mr. Richard would come upstairs, unsuspecting that his father
would call him.
Unfortunately, Mr. Richard did not come that day at all. The
office-boy was disappointed. The Row would take place in the
privacy of Camden Town. Again, unfortunately, though Mr.
Murridge went home thinking he would get that explanation from
his son, he was unable even to ask for it, for his son was out when
he arrived, and didn't come home at all. And the office-boy will
now, probably, never see Mr. Richard wriggle.
CHAPTER XIT.
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT.
' Xo, sir !' Mr. Murridge repeated obstinately ; ' I am not satis-
fied.'
It was the next morning. Hugh called again to learn the result
of the proposed explanation.
' I am not satisfied,' he repeated. ' Where is my son ? I don't
know. He has not been home all night.'
' Has he run away, then ? It looks like it.'
'I do not know. I say, that until ho has an opportunity of
meeting these charges, I will not condemn him. Whtit do I know?
The case against him may be a conspiracy got up by you, the girl,
and her brother, ami the scoundrel who owns a gambling-den.
Am I to believe that a Ijoy who has all his life been quiet and
orderly is suddenly to become a thief and a gambler ?'
' We do not ask you to believe that. We ask you to believe that
his vicis wore kept a secret from you — tliat he lost money,
Imrrowod in the hope of winning it back, lost that, and Ijorrowed
more, until ho became deep in debt — deep, that is, for a man of
his position — and that under the temptation and pressure he gave
way. That is what wc ask you to believe !'
' I shall l)clieve n')thin^. I will form no theory, and T will not
condemn my son until I have seen him, and heard what he has to
say. For aught I know you may be keeping him liiilih n (nil of
my way.'
' Then you will not withdraw this charge against Norah V
4IO 'SELF OR DEARER.'
'Certainly not. It was my son's accusation, not mine. It is not
for me to withdraw it until I am convinced that it is false.'
* You have evidence in your hand sufficient to convince any
reasonable person.'
'Perhaps you think so. The evidence of two persons already
accused, and by their own admission implicated— the evidence of a
foreigner and a professed gambler, and the evidence of a miserable
office-boy.'
' With his documents.'
' What do the documents amount to ? Nothing. The imitation
of my signature may have been Norah's, for aught I know.'
Hugh left him. He was not to be shaken.
I suppose Mr. Murridge knew perfectly well that there was no
escape. The fact was proved, but he was obstinate. Until his son
could be confronted with this evidence he would not condemn him.
Until that time, therefore, the charge against Norah would not be
retracted. Nor would she listen to the voice of Love ; nor would
she return to Mr. Murridge ; nor would his business get itself
accomplished ; nor would his clients establish their Royal, Noble,
and Gentle Descent. So that the impediment of Dick's flight pro-
duced consequences of a very wide and unexpected kind. You
stick a little pin into a piece of machinery ; there is the least
possible jar which spreads through all the wheels and pistons, and
is felt even to the foundations on which the machinery is built.
For a whole fortnight they lived in this suspense, Norah remaining
with her sister at the Hospital.
It was reserved for Uncle Jose])h to be the humble instrument by
which this impediment was to be removed. And it happened in
this way.
It was his custom, in these long summer evenings, to revisit, by
the help of the omnibus, some of the scenes of his former greatness,
and especially a certain well-known tavern in Great Queen Street.
Here he knew the manager and some of the head-waiters— in fact,
he knew by sight every waiter in London, and had a nodding ac-
quaintance with hundreds of the gentry who every morning, about
ten o'clock, assemble on the kerbstone outside the great restaurants
waiting to be taken on for the evening. Under their arms most of
them carry the uniform of their jjrofession. They are an inoffensive
folk, as may be gathered by anyone who will loiter for a minute
and listen to their talk ; they give no trouble ; they never want
anybody's property ; if you were to offer them three-acre allotments
they would not listen ; they have never been known to strike, to
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT. 411
combine, to agitate, or to demonstrate ; they never march in pro-
cession, and have not, between them all, a single banner or a bit of
bunting ; they are, in the evening, always beautifully dressed for
their work ; they are civil of speech, active, and zealous ; they have,
one and all, a curiouslj^ cultivated taste in wine ; and they are said
to have but one vice. This they share with many landed gentlemen.
It is a love for the Turf.
Uncle Joseph, who had formerly been an honoured guest two or
three nights in every week, now sat humbly in the manager's room,
reading the menus of the day. Alas ! they were not for him —
those gorgeous-coloured cards, inscribed with the names and titles
(all in French) of the most toothsome and delightful dishes. It
was something to know that the Banquets still went on, though he
was no longer seated at the table near the presiding officer, as richly
decorated as a German official ; and, no doubt, it was a consolation
to accejit the hospitable glass of sherry which was sometimes
proffered in the manager's room.
One evening, about ten days after Dick vanished away, Uncle
Joseph paid a visit to the tavern. There were several beautiful
banquets going on, and he read the menus with the soft regrets due
to the happy past. It was nearly nine when he got up to go — the
hour when the active business of the banquet is tinished, and after
the material, the intellectual Feast was to begin with the speeches.
Alas ! they would never hear him speak again.
As he passed from the manager's room into the hall a door on the
first floor was thrown ojjcn, and there came out such a joyous sound,
a mingling of many sounds in a fine confusion, such as the cliijuetis
of gla.sses, the laughter of men who have drunk plenty of wine, the
BhufTling of waiters' feet, the noi.se of plates, and the popping of
corks, that Uncle Joseph's knees tremldcd.
' Ah,' he said, ' it is a blessing indeed to feel that the Craft is not
falling off.'
He went away, and presently found an omnibus.
Every night about this time he was seized with a dreadful yearn-
ing for champagne. This evening it was a yearning wiiich tortured
him. The festive sound o? the revelry was too much for the old
man, and his heart felt like lead to think tliat there was no more
champagne to be liad during the short reniiiinder of his history.
"When he got out of his omnibus at King's Crfms, and began to walk
honiewardn, this yearning held him and shook him so that ho
trcniblid as lie walk(d, and pt nplc thought that Ik; must be suffer-
ing from senile weakness. It was not this ; it was the ycaniing
412 'SELF OR DEARER.'
after champagne which made his brain to reel and his eyes to swim.
Uncle Joseph had never married ; the experience might have taught
him that the passion of Love in some of its forms, as when its
object is absent, closely resembled this craving of his for the divine
drink which sparkles in the cup and mounts to a man's brain, filling
him with pride, and joy, and charity towards all men. Gin-and-
water might stay the craving, but as yet he was a quarter of an
hour from his gin-and-water, and though there were many public-
houses on the way. Uncle Joseph had no money ; even gin-and-
water was almost as unattainable as champagne.
While he stopped, however, letting his fancy revel in imaginary
goblets, beakers, cups, and glasses, all full, and brimming over, and
foaming, and sparkling, and trembling, he became conscious of a
face, the sight of which was so little in harmony with his thoughts,
that the cup was, so to speak, dashed from his lips and the beverage
of the gods was spilt upon the ground.
The face, or rather the head, was in a second-floor window of a
house on the other side of the street ; it was looking up and down
the street ; a }>erfectly familiar face, yet for awhile Uncle Joseph
could not remember at all to whom it belonged, so great was the
yearning within him for champagne. Presently, however, he re-
gained some command over himself, and understood that the face
belonged to none other than to Dick Murridge. It was twilight
now, but the old, that is to say, some of the old, have long sight,
and the gas below caught the face. Oh, there could be no doubt
that it was the face of Dick Murridge the Runaway.
For by this time it was well known in vague terms that there
was Trouble about some cheques, and that Dick had run away, and
that Norah had quarrelled with Mr. Murridge, and was staying
with Calista under the pretext or pretence of a holiday.
This seemed a very remarkable discovery. Uncle Joseph was, by
nature, curious, inquisitive into other people's affairs, and of a
prying nature. Therefore, he at once resolved to pursue this adven-
ture farther.
The house, he now perceived, was a public-house — something
better than the ordinary run of street-taverns — for it had a side
entrance, marked ' Hotel.' His wits were now completely restored,
and he was able to observe carefully the position of the window at
which Dick Murridge was sitting. As soon as he was quite certain
on this point, he boldly entered by the side-door, and walked
upstairs.
Ten days of hiding in his upper chamber had begun to tell upon
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT. 413
Dick Murridge. So great was the terror instilled into him by his
Instructor and Protector of his father's vengeance and wrath, that
he was afraid to venture out, even after dark, having a confused
notion that every policeman in London would have a warrant for
his arrest in his pocket, and that he would be taken up on suspicion.
He stayed, therefore, all day long in one room, leading a most dole-
ful and miserable existence, ordered by the Count to practise con-
tinually the tricks and cozenage of the cards, which were to advance
him to that life of Perfect Delight promised by the Tempter.
Never had Professor a more eager or an apter pupil. Never did
Chinaman take more kindly to ways of guile than Dick Murridge,
insomuch that his past ardour and passion for gambling wholly died
away, and the excitement of chance seemed a poor thing indeed
compared with the excitement of dexterity. He called it dexterity
because the Professor gave it that name, and because, in his hands,
the mystery of cheating at cards became a Fine Art of the most
manifold and occult contrivance, the most profound combination
and calculation, the swiftest movement of hand, and the steadiest
guard on eye and face. Yet to practise the Black Art all day long,
hidden away from the world in a single room, is monotonous.
Suppose that one were to receive, as a gift, the power of cheating
with the certainty of never being found out. There are a thousand
ways of cheating besides that of cheating at cards. Would not
this power be a constant temptation even to the most virtuous
among us ? AVhat would it not be to one who, like this unfortunate
Dick, had been brought up from childhood to believe that there
never was any morality, any honour, any honesty, except what
springs from a feeling of self-preservation and protection ? Would
he not jump at such a chance? Now, this was exactly the chance
that was offered to Dick Murridge. It came in hisextremity, when
he had cut himself ofl" from his own people by a deed which would
never be forgotten or forgiven. It came when he was in an agony
of despair and terror, and it Hceracd to o[)cn a way of life of the
greatest ease, comfort, and profit, lie know not yet that there is
no way of life without competition, and therefore jealousy, with
its attendant tokens of malice, slander, miscliiof, calumny, and the
biting of back. AIho lie knew not how (juickly the professional
gambler is detected, and how even the most unbounded lovers of
the cards become shy of playing with him. All this ho had still to
learn.
But it was dull in that upper chamber, which he left only to go
downstairs at meal-time to the Bar Parlour, where ho sat at table
414 'SELF OR BEARER.'
with the landlord and his family. They knew him as a young
gentleman, presumably under a temporary cloud, in whom the
Signor, Proprietor of the Club, was interested. It was horribly
dull. He hated reading ; he grew tired of drawing ; he could not
be always practising with the cards ; he wanted someone to talk
with.
' Good-evening, Mr. Richard,' said Uncle Joseph, entering noise-
lessly.
Dick's head and shoulders were out of the window ; but it does
not take long to change the position of a head and shoulders.
' What !' he cried, springing to his feet. ' You here — you ?'
' Yes, I am here. Ah, you are very snug and quiet, Dick, here !
No one would ever expect to find you here. I was just going along
the street, you know — ^just walking down the street, when I saw
your face at the window. What a surprise ! what a surprise ! How
pleased your father will be !'
'Is he? What does he — what does he — what does he want
with me ?'
Uncle Joseph nodded his head impressively. Some men can
convey a solemn and impressive assurance much better by a nod of
the head than by any words. Uncle Joseph's nod made this young
man understand first that his evil deeds were known to everybody,
and next that his father would certainly prosecute him. Therefore
he sat down again with terror undisguised.
' What did you do it for ?' asked Uncle Joseph, who had not the
least idea what had been done. But everybody knew that some-
thing must have been done, else why did Dick run away ?
' Because I was hard up. What else should I do it for ?'
In the extremity of his terror Dick presented a manly sulkiness.
' How did you do it ?' asked Uncle Joseph again.
' Well, if you want money, and can get it by signing another
man's name to a cheque, I suppose you'd do it that way.'
' Ah ! To be sure — to be sure ; I never thought of it in that
light.' Uncle Joseph was acquiring information rapidly. ' Ah, and
when did you do it ?'
' Six weeks ago, if you want to know.'
' To be sure. Six weeks it was ago. Yes. You are perfectly
right, Dick, to keep out of the way — perfectly right — perfectly
right. If I were you I would continue to keep out of the way. It
is a very serious thing. And your father is a hard man — very.
AVhat did you do with the money ?'
' I paid some of my debts.'
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT. 415
' Quite right. Quite right. As an honest man should. So f ar
you acted wisely. And have you any of it left ?'
' Some — not much.'
' This is a very quiet and comfortable room, Dick. I don't know
that I should like to live in a bedroom always, but for a change
now, when one really wishes to be undisturbed. Isn't it rather dull
here ?'
' I suppose it is.'
' Look here, Dick, I'll come here sometimes.' The old man's dull
face lit up suddenly as a brilliant thought occurred to him. 'I'll
come here sometimes of an evening, and we'll chat. It's dull for
me, too, in the evenings, when I recall the glorious evenings I used
to have in the time— dear me ! — in the time that is past.'
Dick received the proposition doubtfully.
' This will be very much better than going to your father and
telling him where you are, won't it ?'
' Can you keep a thing quiet ?' asked Dick.
' Can I ? Haven't I kept the sublime secrets of Thirtj'-Three
Degrees ? Secrets of all the Degrees ? You forget, young man,
that you are speaking to one whose life has been spent in doing
nothing else except to keep the secret and work the Degree, and
enjoy the Banquet afterwards. Give me a secret and I am happy.
With the Banquet afterwards.'
Dick reflected. There had been, earlier in the day, a conversation
with his Professor, in which the latter ])romised to take him out of
the country in a week at furthest, as soon, in fact, as he had con-
cluded the sale of his Proprietary Club with all its rights, advan-
tages, privileges, goodwill, and clientele. The purchaser, we may
explain, in parenthesis, was a gentleman connected with the Turf,
and in some ways entirely fitted for the post of Proprietor. That
is to say, he was perfectly unscrupulous, without morals, honesty,
prejudice, or pity. And yet for want of the good manners which
Hcrvod the Count in lieu of these things, he speedily ruined the
Clul), anrl dispersed the gainblers, who now gamble clHcwhero. A
week at furthest. He could not shove the old gentleman down the
stairs as he wished to do. It was necessary either to change his
lodging or to conciliate him.
Ho conciliated him. He assured Uncle Joseph that it would give
him the greatest satisfaction to confide in his honour, and to receive
him in this apartment.
'Then,' said the old man, with an invulunlaiy smackiug of his
lips, ' as you've got, no doubt, some of the money left, my dear
4i6 'SELF OR BEARER.'
young fricud, and it is very pleasant to sit and talk, let us have—
ah ! — let us have — oh 1' he drew a long, deep sigh, ' a bottle of
champagne.'
I suppose his long professional career had accustomed him to
associate champagne with secrecy, just as other people's experience
leads them to associate champagne with Love, or with racecourses,
or with dancing.
They had a glorious bottle of champagne. Uncle Joseph drank
it nearly all, and on parting shook Dick effusively by the hand,
promised to come again next day, and swore that his secret was as
sacred as that of the Thirty-Third Degree.
He kept his woi'd, and returned faithfully the next evening,
when he had another bottle of champagne. How valuable a thing
is a secret properly handled ! Uncle Joseph rubbed his hands over
his own cleverness. Why, it was almost like a return to the good
old times, except that the bottle of champagne was not preceded
by a Banquet. This caused unsteadiness of gait on the way home,
and a disposition to laugh and sit on doorsteps, to become playful,
and to find one's speech strangely thick. Dick's secret, however,
was safe.
' Oh, my dear young friend,' said Uncle Joseph, ' what a happi-
ness for you that it was I who discovered you ; suppose it had
been your father or Norah ? What would have happened ? I was
in a Police Court this morning ' — he certainly was a delightful
companion — ' I was in a Police Court, and there was a poor young
man brought up for embezzlement. He had run away, and they
found him, and he was committed for trial. I thought of you,
Dick, and my heart bled. I'll come again to-morrow.'
He did return next day, but meantime Dick had heard something
which made him less careful to conciliate the man who had his
secret. In fact, the word had come to be in readiness.
The Count had settled everything, and they were to go away the
very next day. Therefore, when Uncle Joseph rubbed his hands,
and said that it was thirsty weather, sent by Providence in order
to bring out the full flavour of a dry, sparkling wine, Dick coolly
said that he wasn't going to stand any more, but if Uncle Joseph
chose to drink soda-and- whisky, instead, he could.
The old man was wounded in his tenderest and most sacred
depths. But he dissembled, and drank the substitute, which, as
compared with the Great Original, is little better than mere Zoe-
done. He drank it, and went away early, with treachery in his
heart, but a smile upon his lips.
UNCLE JOSEPH AS AN INSTRUMENT. 417
' Come to-morrow night, Uncle Joseph,' said Dick, ' and you shall
hare as much champagne as you can drink. You shall bathe in
champagne if you like.'
There was a Something, this injured old man felt, which meant
mischief. He would not get the promised champagne. Dick
wouldn't look like that if be meant fair and honest. Yet how
mean ! How paltry ! To grudge a single bottle of champagne,
just one a day, for the safe-guarding of so valuable a secret !
In the morning. Uncle Joseph made quite a long journey. He
took the train from King's Cross to Bishopsgate, whence he walked
to the Whitechapel Road. Here he took the tram which goes
along the Commercial Road. He got out half-way down, and made
his way through certain by-streets to Glamis Road, Shadwell,
where stands the Children's Hospital.
By this time he had learned everything, partly by pretending to
know already, and partly by cunning questions, and partly because
Dick, with a brutal cynicism, made no secret of his own infamy.
Among other things, therefore, he knew that Norah's pretended
holiday was a blind to conceal from the Doctor for awhile the
fact that she had left her post as Private Secretary to Mr. Murridge,
under an accusation of com])licity, at least, in a crime.
He went first to Hugh, who presently called Calista.
' I thought,' he said, in conclusion, ' that the young man's friends
ought to know. He may be snatched from worse evils, even if he
is punished for what he has done. His father is a hard man, but
be is, I dare say, just. And Dick is, I fear, in very bad company —
very bad company indeed. There were cards on the table, and I
fear there has been drinking.'
He lingered, as if there was something more he would like to
say. Presently he desired a word in private with Hugh.
He went away with a sovereign in liis pocket. He had so'd his
secret for a sovereign. It was unworthy the Posscs.sor of so many
Degrees.
He spent the evening at a restaurant in the Strand over a largo
bottle of champagne, taken with, and after a colourable imitation
of, a Hantjuet. There were, however, no s]ieecii(^H, Itccause it niiglit
have appeared strange for an elderly gentleman to rise at his little
table and propose his own liealtli, and r('Hi)ond for the Craft.
But the wine was Perrier Jouet, and lie drank it slowly and bliss-
fully.
If in these days of forced abstinence, the Tempter were to ap-
27
4t8 'SELF OR BEARER.'
proach Uncle Joseph, holding a bottle of champagne in his hand
in exchange for the Sublime Secrets of the Thirty-Third Degree,
would his virtue sustain him in that hour ?
CHAPTER XIII.
A LAST APPEAL.
The Count's preparations were complete. He had sold his club ;
he was going to take his pupil with him to some quiet place in
Paris, where serious instruction in the Art of seeming to play fairly
could be carried on without interruption. They were going to cross
by the night-boat, in deference to a newly-developed modesty in
Dick. In the afternoon the Count came with a portmanteau con-
taining all that was wanted in the way of temporary outfit.
' We will start,' he said, ' as we shall continue, as gentlemen.
If we take furnished lodgings, you must not creep in with no
luggage of your own.'
He then proceeded to exhort and admonish his pupil to obedi-
ence, diligence and zeal, all of which, he assured him for the
hundredth time, would be rewarded by such success as his pupil
little dreamt of, and by such dexterity as should make him the
Pride of the Profession.
' Above all,' he said, ' patience, coolness, and continual practice.
You must never for a single day lose the steady eye and the quick
hand. I have confidence in you, my friend. And you have every-
thing to learn — everything. You can play a little, and draw a
little. You must learn to play well, and draw well. They are
accomplishments which will be useful to you. You must even
learn to dance, because a man of your age ought to love dancing.
You must always seem ready to desert the table for the ballroom.
You must learn to fence, and you must learn to use a pistol. You
are going into a country where men fight. You will cease to be an
Englishman. Henceforth you will have no country. The whole
world is yours, because you will command everything which the
world produces. Are you ready ?'
' I am both ready and willing.'
' Good. You must learn to carry yourself less like a London
clerk, and more like a gentleman. You must assume the air of dis-
tinction if you can. You must learn to laugh, and to smile. But
all that will come in another country, and with a new language.
Come,' he looked at his watch ; ' only two hours more and we
A LAST APPEAL. 419
shall be in the train — the past gone and forgotten, everything
before yon new and delightful, not one of the old friends left '
Here the door opened, and Dick sprang to his feet with a cry,
and a sudden change in his eyes to the wildest terror.
'Dick!'
' Calista ! You here ! What do you want ?'
She saw a table littered with cards. On the bed was a portman-
teau, closed and strapped, beside it a hat-box and a strapped bundle.
With Dick, and standing over him, was a man whom she had
never seen ; but, from Hugh's description, he looked like the
foreign person who had called on Mr. Murridge.
' I want to talk with you, Dick — alone.'
' You can talk, mademoiselle,' said the stranger, ' in my presence.
I believe I may say that our friend here has no secrets from me —
now.'
'None,' said Dick, emboldened by the reflection that he was
under protection, and that Calista was alone. ' No secrets at all.
Say what you have to say, Calista, and get it over. You are come
to pitch into me. Very well, then.'
' Oh, Dick, I do not come to reproach you. But — oh, Dick, Dick
— how could you do it ?'
' Never mind that now. What else do you want to say ?'
' Have you confessed to your father, Dick ?'
' No, I haven't ; what's the good ? Confess ! Why, do you take
me for a fool ? Confess to him !'
' Dick, my old friend, there is another person to think of besides
yourself. There is Norah.'
' What about Norah ? My father knows all by this time. But
he hasn't got the cheques. Without the clierjucs there is no
proof.'
' If there are no proofs, come with nie to your father and tell
him that Norah is innocent.'
' What's the use ? He knows it already.'
Calista pointed to the portmanteau.
* You arc going away ?' she said.
' I am going away altogether. You'll gcit rirl of mo, and never
see me again. So miw you will all bo hai)py.'
' Where are you going V
* That is my businos-s. You would like to go and I'll my father,
wouldn't you ?'
' And how are yoii going to live ?'
' Like the sparrows.'
27—2
420 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' Oh, Dick, you have in your head some wild and wicked scheme.
What does it mean ? You are deceived and betrayed by — by your
advisers — by this man. Consider, Dick ; no one knows except
your father, and Norah, and Hugh. I will beg your father to for-
give you. Nothing need ever be said about it. All shall be for-
gotten, and we will go on as if this dreadful time had never
happened — just as we did in the old days, when we were boys and
girls together, and innocent — oh, Dick I — and innocent !'
' Listen to this young lady, Dick,' said the Count softly, ' and
consider. There is still plenty of time to change your mind.
Consider what she says. You will have a delightful time. Your
father is never in an ill-temper, is he ? He looks and talks as if he
was the most indulgent of parents, and of the sweetest disposition.
Of course, he will never remind you of this little indiscretion —
never. And he will trust you always — always. And he will
advance you in his business, and make you partner. And you will
always live in this delightful suburb, where there is nothing.
Heaven ! nothing ! Neither theatre, nor cafe, nor society, nor
amusement of any kind. As for your secret, it is known to no one
except three other people. Of course, they have told nobody ; of
course, they never will ; so that there is no chance of the story
being told abroad, and people will not point fingers at you, and
say : " There is the man who forged his father's name, but repented,
and came back again, and was forgiven !" What a beautiful thing
it will be all your life, to feel that you have been so bad, and that
everybody else is so good !'
' Oh no — no !' said Calista. ' It will not be so, Dick ; it will
not!'
' I have considered,' Dick cried ; ' I have made up my mind.'
' And there is the office-boy, too, who found the last of the
cheques, and put together those bits of paper. He will hold his
tongue, too, of course. Consider well, Dick. You will live despised
and suspected. Bah ! To be a young man forgiven ! The for-
giveness will be a ticket-of-leave ; the return to work will be under
surveillance of the Police. You can never get promotion ; you can
never live down the past. Young lady, is not this true ?'
Calista hesitated ; then she took courage.
' Better this, better obscurity and contempt, than a life of
wickedness. What is he to do ? What do you yourself do ? You
play cards. Do you play honestly ? Better the most humble
life.'
' Matter of opinion, mademoiselle. If he goes with me, I oifer
A LAST APPEAL. 421
him — what ? He kuows very well that at least he will enjoy an
easy life and profitable work, with plenty of money in it, and
society, and '
' Oh, Dick, it cannot be possible ! How should this man give
you all these things ?'
' Dick is a free man,' said the Italian ; ' he is perfectly free. He
can go with you, or he can come with me, just as he pleases. I
understood that he had resolved to accept my offer, and to come
with me. His portmanteau is ready and packed, as you see. But
if he prefers '
' I do not prefer ; I will go with you. Go away, Calista ! Re-
pentance ! Forgiveness !'
' Then, Dick, if you must go, before you do go, I ask you for
one simple act of justice. Write me a letter clearing Norah
altogether.'
' I won't, then ! After Norah's conduct to me '
'Sir,'" said Calista, turning to the stranger, ' you say that you are
going to introduce Dick to the society of gentlemen. I do not
quite understand how he is to take his place among gentlemen, or
what gentlemen will receive him ; but that is your concern. Will
you kindly tell these gentlemen that this man made love to a girl
whom he had known all his life, and, when she refused him, charged
her solemnly, and in writing, with the crime which he had himself
committed V I suppose you care nothing about his having stolen
the thing himself — Calista, in the satiric vein, surprised herself —
' but perhaps '
'I have forgiven him, young lady,' the Count interrupted with a
smile. ' I have anticipated your own kindness, and his father's,
and I have already forgiven him.'
' But, at least,' she went on, regardless, ' you may have manli-
ness enough left to blame him for accusing this innocent girl. She
in my sister, and once his friend. Will you join him in making all
that girl's future life miserable? It is not enough that you know,
and I know, and her lover knows, the truth. This wretched boy
has left bi-hind him a pai)cr to which his fatlier clings as a kind of
last chance that his son is not guilty, after all.'
Dick laughed aloud, and Calista shuddered.
'I think," said the Count gravely, 'that, if I were our young
fricixl here, I should sit down and write a letter witlidrawinj,' the
docunietit in (juestion.'
' What's the good ?' said Dick. 'Of course, ho knows the truth
by this time.'
422 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' I should write a short letter, simply stating that this young
lady — who must be charming indeed to have diverted our friend's
attention from his cards — is perfectly innocent. Our friend, thus
forgiven by you, mademoiselle, and by me — presumably also by
his father — and, we will hope, by the young lady concerned with
himself in the matter, will embark upon his new career with a clear
conscience such as you English love to possess, and a light heart,
and an utter freedom from anxiety as to inquiry by detectives or
unpleasant messages.'
' No one will inquire, I am sure ; no one will send any detectives
after him. I think I can promise that. As for the money, Dick,
Hugh sends me word that he will repay the whole for you.'
Dick offered up, so to speak, a sort of prayer or aspiration con-
cerning the destruction of Hugh. But he was well aware that the
repayment of the money was about the surest way of securing him-
self from pursuit.
'Come,' said the Count, 'write, my friend— write this letter to
the young lady, your old friend. Take the pen.'
Dick sat at the table and unwillingly obeyed,
' Write. I will tell you what to say.'
' Go on, then.'
' My dear mademoiselle — or my dear friend '
' Dear Calista,' wrote Dick. ' There, I knew very well what to
say. Listen to this :
' " Dear Calista,
' " The paper which I gave my father about Norah was false
from beginning to end. I made it up in order to stop him from
taking up the Case himself. I thought that perhaps as he was so
fond of Norah he would be staggered and let the thing drop. I
thought he would rather believe it was me than believe it was
Norah. And it lay between us. Norah did not take the cheques.
Norah had nothing to do with them, nor had DafC. Norah pre-
sented one of the cheques for me, Daif presented one for me ; and
if I ever meet that office-boy, I'll wring his neck. You can do
what you like with this letter. — Good-bye,
'"Dick Mueridge."
' There,' he said, ' take and give that to my father. TelF Norah
I didn't mean, at first, to be hard upon her. But it was either her
or me. And, besides, she had treated me so badly that I was
savage. Tell her that I don't want any forgiving or nonsense.
Who cares about forgiveness ? All that I want is to be left alone.'
A LAST APPEAL. 423
' Oh, thank yon, Dick !' Calista received the letter with softened
eyes. ' Xorah forgives you, whether you want her forgiveness or
not. I am very glad I found you. Now good-bye !' She held out
both hands. ' Oh, Dick ! — poor Dick ! — my brother Dick ! be good,
be honest. There is nothing else in the world worth living for.
Be good, Dick.'
Was it by chance or was it by design that the Signer's hands
should be in his pockets at that moment, and that there should be
the clink of coin?
' Nothing else ?' said Dick. ' There is money.'
He turned his face away without taking her hands or being
softened by the tears in her beautiful eyes.
The Signor stepped to the door and held it open while Calista
passed out. Will there ever, in that unknown future which lies
before this young man, fall upon him the memory of this last
chance and the tears of the girl who was with him more patient
than a sister with a brother, more ready to hear his sorrow, more
sure to forgive, and more careful to excuse ? Will he ever dis-
cover in the years to come that a life of obscurity with honour is
better than the life marked out for him of trickery and cheating ?
Exactly an hour afterwards another cab drew up at the 'Hotel
Entrance' of the tavern. There stepped out of it an old gentle-
man — none other than Uncle Joseph— and an elderly gentleman,
who was Mr. Murridgc.
' On the second floor?' you said.
' Second floor — first door on the left when you get to the landing.
I'll wait for you down here. You can't miss him, and he's afraid
to go out, because of you.'
Mr. Murridge went slowly up the stairs. Any man bound on
Buch an errand would go slowly. He was resolved what to do.
There should not be the least appearance of anger. But he should
demand a full confession. Otherwise He reached the iirst
floor and looked about him. Through an open door he saw a large
room filled with little tables, the atmosphere thick with stale
tobacco-smoke and the reek f)f spirits.
'The gambling club,' he said, and mounted to the second floor.
He went to the door indicated, and opened it without knocking.
The room bore signs of recent occupation ; the bed ii;id not l)een
made since the night, and the bod-clotlies were tumbled about ;
there were cards on the table, and a i»ipe, and a jug which had
contained beer. He thought he must have mistaken the room, and
tried the next, and the next. There were some more rooms on the
424 'SELF OR BEARER.'
landing. They all presented the appearance of being family bed-
rooms. Mr. Murridge slowly came downstairs again.
' You told me the first door on the left,' he said to Uncle
Joseph.
' First door on the left it is.'
Mr. Murridge this time sought the landlord in the bar.
The functionary who was in the bar explained that a young
gentleman had been staying there some little time, but that he was
gone — gone off in a cab that very day. Being asked if he kept a
gambling club in the house, he said that he did not ; he let his first
floor to a social club, which met every night for conversation and
tobacco. There might be cards. He did not know the names of
the members ; it was not his business. The young gentleman who
had just gone away paid his bill regular, and was quiet and well-
mannered. He kept indoors because he was recovering from an
illness. He did not know where he had gone.
Nothing more could be got out of the landlord.
Mr. Murridge came away.
' Well, sir — well ?' asked Uncle Joseph. ' You have seen him,
and made short work with him, no doubt. Ah, he was penitent, I
trust ! And you forgave him, on conditions — of course on con-
ditions. It rejoices me to have been the humble means, under
Providence, of bringing together father and son, under these most
interesting and peculiar circumstances. Sixty pounds, I think you
said ? And five pounds for the humble Instrument. More Provi-
dence ! Sixty-five pounds. It is a sad, sad loss.'
' I promised you five pounds for putting the boy into my hands.
Well, he is not there,'
' Not there ? Mr, Murridge, I give you the word of — of an
ofiBcer in I don't know how many Lodges, that he was there yester-
day,'
' Very likely. He isn't there to-day. However, as you did your
best, here's half a sovereign for you.'
He gave the old man this paltry coin, which will do little more
than purchase one bottle of really good champagne, and left him
standing sorrowfully on the kerbstone.
Half a sovereign ! And Uncle Joseph thought he had secured
at one stroke, a whole dozen of champagne !
CHAPTER THE LAST. 425
CHAPTER THE LAST.
'My poor dear Norah,' said Calistanext morning — she had actually
kept her secret the whole night — ' is it not time that things should
change ?'
' They will never change for me,' said Norah. ' I have been
thinking what I had better do. I never can go back to Mr.
Murridge, that is quite certain ; no one else wants a girl who can
hunt up genealogies. I could not live at home doing nothing. I
have made up my mind, Calista, to become a nurse. I will go to the
London Hospital, and become a Probationer, and then I will be a
hospital nurse.'
' My dear child, you could not,' said Calista.
' I could, and I will. Why, if Hugh could be a Doctor, and you
can be a Sister, cannot I be a nurse ? Besides, then I shall be in
the same Profession as Hugh, and hearing something about him,
though we are parted. I should go mad if I were never to hear
anything more of him.'
' Poor Norah ! But suppose that it will not be necessary for you
to do anything at all — suppose, my dear ' — sisters do sometimes kiss
each other without feeling the force of Hood's remark about sand,
wiches of veal — 'suppose good news were to come for you ?'
'There cannot be any good news for me. Why, Calista, you
know that Mr. Murridge will hear of nothing until Dick has an
opportunity of meeting his accusers. I, for one, have never accused
him— and I never will. And now he has runaway, is it likely that
he will accuse himself V'
'Never mind what is likely. Think of the very best that could
possibly happen.'
• The very best ?'
' The very best.'
'Remember, Calista, it is not enough that Hugh should be
satisfied. Of course he is satisfied. How can he ever love me
unlcHs ho respects me ? I must have much more than that.'
' You sliail have much more.'
'Calista!' Norah caught her hand. ' What have you heard?
What have you done ? Have you seen him ? Have you seen
Dick ?•
' Patience, dear, for half an hour more, and you shall know all.
Tell me, Norah, just this about Dick, Arc you very— very bitter
about him ?'
426 'SELF OR BEARER.'
' I don't kuow. He has robbed me of Hugh.'
' He will give Hugh back to you. Can you forgive him ?'
No rah hesitated.
'I know everything, dear; more than you kuow, even. Dick
has gone. He has fled the country, I believe. There is nothing
left us but to forgive him. He will never know whether you have
forgiven him or not. But tell me that you do.'
' Oh, what will it help him for me to say that I forgive him ? I
would not wish to punish him, nor to take revenge, and yet •
Yes, Calista, I forgive him. Poor Dick ! we loved him once, did
we not '?'
' Even if he does not know, it is something that you forgive him.
Men's crimes follow them with scourges in their hands — scourges
with knots in them, and every knot, for poor Dick, your vengeance
and your unforgiveness. Now he will be punished less fearfully.
My dear, your trouble is over. No one, not even the most spiteful,
will ever be able to hint that there was the slightest truth in this
monstrous accusation. No one except ourselves will ever know of
it. Come, Norah, to Hugh's room. Someone awaits you there — a
most important person, almost as important as Hugh. Come !
A most delightful person ; and oh, Norah, be prepared for the
best news in the world, and for the greatest surprise you ever
imagined.'
Calista led her sister to the Resident Medical Officer's room,
where they found, besides Hugh, a lady whom Norah recognised at
once as Hugh's mother — Madame Aqiiila, the singer. She was in
black silk, that kind of lifelong mourning which some widows
adopt. Her face was kindly and soft, still beautiful, though her
youth had long since vanished.
' My dear,' she said, taking Norah by both hands, so that she
could draw her close and kiss her comfortably — ' my dear child, I
have heard all. You have greatly suffered. But all is over now.
Your sister has made the rough way smooth, and removed the last
obstacle. See what it is to be a Sister in the Hospital ; how helpful
it makes one! And now you will take my Hugh again, will you
not ? He is worth taking, my dear.'
' Oh,' said Norah, her eyes running over, ' Hugh knows that
first '
' Yes, my dear,' Madame Aquila interrupted ; ' Hugh knows
exactly what you intend. Not yet, then. We will wait a little.'
They had not long to wait, for stei)s were heard in the corridor,
and the Doctor entered, accompanied by Mr. Murridge.
CHAPTER THE LAST. 427
' Well, Calista,' said the former, ' I am here in reply to your
letter. What have you got to tell me ?'
' First, here is Madame Aquila, Hugh's mother. Next, you will
have to keep perfectly quiet, and not interrupt for five minutes.
And then I have got a Surprise for you. Such a Surprise !'
'Not another coronet, I hope ?'
' And I am here, Calista,' said Mr. Murridge. ' I have bi'ought
with me a certain document, in obedience to your request. What
next ? My son has left the country, I understand. What next ?'
' First, Mr. Murridge, will you withdraw that document, and own
to Xorah that you have proved it to be false and treacherous from
beginning to end, and then tear it up in our presence ?'
These were brave words. Mr. Murridge heard them with some
surprise.
' I have only to repeat what I said before. I withdraw nothing,
and I acknowledge nothing, until my son has had a chance of
explanation. I admit — I have never tried to deny — that the case
against liim is very black. But I will not condemn my own son
unheard. The paper shall lie in the safe ; the subject shall never
be mentioned; Xorah can come back as soon as she pleases. But
if my son ever returns again — he has gone without a word — he
shall have an opportunity of giving any explanation he pleases.'
' Norah can never go back to you until that Document is de-
stroyed, and its contents acknowledged to be false. More than that,
fihe can never renew her broken engagement until you yourself
acknowledge that its falsehood has been proved.'
' I cannot help her, then,' said Mr. Murridge coldly.
' I wonder if I might ask what is the meaning of all this ?' asked
the Doctor. 'I was promised a Surprise, and it begins with a
mystery.'
' Presently,' said Calista ; ' presently, perhaps. In the meantime,
sit down and say nothing. I liave got somotliing to show to Mr.
Murridge, and then you shall have your Surprise.'
• Perhaps you have another so-called jjrool',' Mr. IMurridgc wont
on. ' I warn you that nothing — nothing hut my son's voice — can
convince rac.'
' Yet you are morally certain V said Hugh.
'It is not a question of ray opinion, but of my son's lionour.
Go on, Calista. Produce your additional facts, if you have any,
and let me go.'
'You shall have his own words, then.' Calista produced her
1 etter. ' Listen to this.'
428 *SELF OR BEARER:
She read aloud the letter which she had got from Dick.
Norah breathed a deep sigh.
'Why ' began the Doctor, about to ask how anyone in the
world could be such an idiot as to suppose that his daughter Norah
could be wrongly connected with cheques, but he was peremptorily
ordered by Calista to preserve silence.
' Here is the letter, Mr. Murridge. Look at it. You know your
son's handwriting. He gave me that letter yesterday afternoon at
the place where he was lodging.'
' At what time ?'
' At six in the afternoon.'
' I must have missed him,' said Mr. Murridge, ' by an hour.'
' Are you satisfied now ?' asked Calista. ' Do you hear his voice
in this letter ?'
Mr. Murridge read the letter again, as if considering every word,
whether it was genuine or not, and whether the signature was really
his son's.
' The writing is my son's,' he said, returning the letter. ' What
do you wish me to say ?'
'Nay, Mr. Murridge ; you know what you have to say.'
He still hesitated. Then he drew a paper from his pocket-book,
unfolded it, and handed it to Norah.
'It concerns you, Norah,' he said. 'Let me place in your
hands the string of falsehoods which has given you so much pain. I
cannot offer any excuses. I have no apologies to make for my un-
happy sou. You do not wish me to tell you what I think of him.
I had but one son,' he added sorrowfully. ' As for that boy's
father '
' Oh no — no !' said Norah. ' It is enough. Hugh — tear — burn —
destroy this hoi-rible paper ! Let us never mention it again. Let
us all agree to forget it. Hugh, tear it into a thousand fragments !'
Hugh placed it in the grate, and applied a lighted match to it.
In a few seconds Dick's masterpiece was in ashes.
' I have one thing to say, Norah,' added Mr. Murridge. ' On
that day when the facts were made clear to me, and the witnesses
one after the other — the gambling man, and your brother, and the
boy — showed that there was one, and only one, guilty person, I
would not admit the truth because there was the chance, the slender
chance, that my son might have had something to explain — some
kind of. excuse. I even tried to persuade myself that there might
be a conspiracy against him.'
' He was your son,' said Calista ; ' poor Dick !'
CHAPTER THE LAST. 429
' At all events,' said Hugh, ' you might have trusted someone,'
'Young gentleman, I trusted — my own son.'
No one replied.
' I trusted my son,' he repeated ; ' I, who have spent my life in
calling those people Fools who trust anyone. Norah, will you
come back to me ?'
Norah looked at Hugh.
' No, sir,' the Resident Medical replied, taking her hand ; ' Norah
shall not work for you or for anyone else any more. It will be my
happiness to work for her.'
' In that case,' said Mr. Murridge, ' and as I have no longer a
clerk, and time is money — at least, my time — I will go. Good-bye,
Norah !' She gave him her hand. ' I am sorry, my dear. You
were a very good clerk to me, worth three times — nay, six times
what I gave you. Well, I wish you ' — he hesitated, and laughed
incredulously—' I wish you what they call happiness in Love and
Marriage. I do not quite understand what they mean by Happi-
ness, but I think it chiefly means making believe, and pretending,
and shutting your eyes to facts a great deal. If you do that, I
don't see why you may net expect to be fairly happy if you have
money enough. Of course, that is the first thing. With the recol-
lection of my example, you will naturally never place any hope or
belief in the future of a child.'
' Do not go, Mr. Murridge,' said Hugh ; ' there remains some-
thing which concerns you. It is the Surprise, sir' — he turned to
the Doctor — 'of which Calista spoke.'
' Now for the Surprise,' said the Doctor. ' After the Mystery
comes the History.'
' It is a Surprise about — about the Title,' Hugh ])cg;ui. ' It was
as much of a Suri»rise, when I first leained it, as it will be to you
and to Mr. Murridge, To you, I hope, not a disagreeable Surpri.se.
And to Mr. Murridge '
' Well, what will it bu to me ?'
' You will see directly. Were you quite sure, Mr. IMurridge —
perfectly sure, from your information and the inquiries you made,
when you bought those reversionary rights, that only two lives
stood between tin; Doctor and the Title ?'
Mr. Murridge started.
'Sure? Of course I am rpiite sure. The late Lord CJlonsilla
had two brothers. One of them died young, and the other died a
few years ago without issue. The next heir was his first cousin,
the grandson of the first Viscount and the third Baron. He it was
430 'SELF OR BEARER.'
who died tho other day. But the papers took no notice of his
death. The next heir is, without the least doubt, the Doctor here.
There are other cousins ; but they have no claim, and they may be
neglected.'
' That is quite right so far ; but are you sure that the late
Viscount had no children ?'
' He had one son, who died young.'
' He died at seven-and-twenty. He died, Mr. Murridge — to my
mother's lifelong sorrow — in the second year of his marriage.'
' What !' cried Mr. Murridge. ' To your mother's sorrow ?'
' To your mother's lifelong sorrow ?' Norah repeated.
The others, I am ashamed to say, not being genealogists, failed
to catch the meaning of these simple words.
Then Mrs. Aquila supplemented them, saying softly :
'It is quite true ; my husband was the only son of Lord Clonsilla.
After his death, I went back to my profession and continued to sing.
Hugh is my son. He is, therefore, if he pleases, Lord Clonsilla.'
' You don't mean this, Hugh ?' cried the Doctor, springing to his
feet.
' It is quite true. If I please, I can call myself by that title,'
said Hugh. 'Forgive me. Doctor. Forgive me, Norah. It is only
a very short time since I heard this intelligence. But it is quite
true. Tell me you do not regret the loss of the Title you had
resolved never to wear ?'
The Doctor gave Hugh his hand.
' Regret it, my dear boy ! I rejoice. I have got sixteen threaten-
ing letters, all arrived within the last three days. Here they are,
with the coffins and skulls and all complete. You are welcome to
them, Hugh ; only, my dear boy, you will be shot instead of
me '
* Oh, Hugh !' cried Norah.
'No, my dear,' said her father. ' On second thoughts, I'll keep
the letters, and Hugh shall be safe. As for me, who ever went out
of his way to shoot a walking general practitioner ? And as for
this Title, it has been on my mind like a dreadful bugbear ever
since I got it. Take it, Hugh — take it !'
' I don't understand this,' said Mr. Murridge. ' I don't under-
stand this at all. If you think, any of you, that I am going to lose
these estates, which I fairly bought, without a blow for them, you
are mistaken.'
' I do not at all expect that you will let things go until you are
quite satisfied,' said Hugh.
CHAPTER THE LAST. 431
'I have issued orders to the tenants to pay up, under pain of
eviction. I will evict them all, if I want the whole British Army
at my back.'
' On the contrary,' said Hugh, ' the tenants will be served with
notices not to pay you any rent. Then it will be for you, I believe,
to find your remedj'.'
' Poor Maria !' the Doctor sighed, ' she is no longer Lady Clon-
silla.'
' I am sorry for her disappointment ; but Norah will, I hope
No, dear,' said Hugh ; 'let us have done, once and for all, with the
gingerbread rubbish. There is neither a noble record, nor a long
pedigree, nor a single great achievement preserved in such a Title
as ours. There is not even the duty of maintaining a great family
estate. Let us remain what we are, and, if I succeed, let me make
a name worth having for those who come after us. This will be
worth a thousand Titles. As for the inglorious coronet, with the
memory of the ignoble services by which it was won, let it go.'
' Yes, Hugh,' said Norah ; ' let it go. We will begin afresh.'
Just then Uncle Joseph appeared. He was hot and flushed,
because he had lost his way in the network of streets between the
Commercial Road and the High Street, Shadwell.
' Most important news, Mr. Murridge !' he said. 'News worth
telling — news worth hearing. I heard you were come down here,
and I made haste after you.'
' I want no more news,' said Mr. Murridge. ' I think I have had
enough.'
' There has been a steamboat accident— a collision. They have
put back, and Mr. Richard, Mr. Murridge — Mr. Richard '
'What? Is he killed V
'No, sir, he is not kilh'd. They have put back. His name is in
the list of passengers picked up. He can be stopped if you please.
You can have him arrested by telegraph ; he is still at Dover.'
Mr. Murridge made no reply. Ho put on his hat and walked
away.
' Now, really, do you think he has gone to send that telegram ?'
said Uncle Joseph. ' An<l without a word of thanks.'
Ho then became aware that Norah was in Hugh Afjuila's arms,
and that the young man was kissing her without the least affecta-
tion of concealment.
'Oh,' he sai<l, 'I am glad that things are made up. Il, will take
place soon, Mr. Hugh ? I am very happy iniliMiii to think of my
part in bringing together two hearts which Avili not, I am sure, be
432 'SELF OR BEARER:
ungrateful. Will the Ceremony of Initiation, I mean of Marriage,
take place soon ?'
' Very soon, Uncle Joseph,' said Hugh. ' As soon as we can
arrange it.'
' There is no ceremony,' said Uncle Joseph with a sweet smile of
anticipation, ' no ceremony at all, next to the Inauguration of a
new Lodge, where I am more at home than a Wedding Breakfast.
On this occasion, Doctor — on this occasion, though our accession to
the Peerage, actually to the Peerage, was allowed to pass unnoticed
and unmarked in the usual manner — on this occasion I do trust
that Champagne will mark the day.'
THE END.
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[April, 1689
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In Maremma.
Othmar.
Wisdom. Wit, and
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Cheap Popular Novels, continued—
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Cheap Popular Novels, continued—
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Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad.
The Stolen White Elephant.
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Wife or No Wife? Bv T. W. Speight.
The Silverado Squatters. By R.
Louis Stevenson.
4
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