'<*.
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS
BY
WILKIE COLLINS
AUTHOR] OP "THE MOONSTONE," "THE NEW MAGDALEN," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY
14 AND 16 VESEY STREET
lllllllllllllltfllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII II I! I! II
PRIVATE LIBRARY
OF
F 5 . A. NKKDHAIVl.
If thou art borrowed by a friend,
Right welcome shall he be
To read, to study; not to lend,
But to return to me.
Not that imparting knowledge doth
Diminish learning's store;
But books. I often find, when lent,
Return to me no more,
Then like a true and honest friend,
If you would gain renown,
For credit's sake, the leaves keep clean,
Nor turn the corners down.
Tkiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinl
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
BY WILKIE
LETTER OF DEDICATION TO EMILE FORGUES.
AT a time when French readers were altogether unaware of
the existence of any books of my writing, n critical examination
of my novels appeared under your signature in the Reeue des
Mondes. I read that article a f the time of its appearance,
with sincere pleasure and sincere gratitude to O).e vwrifce~, "dnd I
have honestly done my best to profit by it'evt-r since.
At a later period, when arrangements were made for the pub-
lication of my novels in Paris, you kindly undertook, at some
sacrifice of your own convenience, to give the first of the series
"The Dead Secret" the great advantage of being rendered
into French by your pen. Your excellent translation of "The
Lighthouse " had already taught me how to appreciate the value
of your assistance; and when "The Dead Secret " appeared in its
French form, although I was sensibly gratified, I was by no
means surprised to find my fortunate work of fiction, not trans-
lated, in the mechanical sense of the word, but transformed
from a novel that I had written in iny language to a novel that
you might have written in yours.
I am now about to ask you to confer one more literary obligation
on me by accepting the dedication of this book, as the earliest
acknowledgment which it has been in my power to make of the
debt I owe to my critic, to my translator, and to my friend.
The stories which form the principal contents of the following
pages are all, more or less, exercises in that art which I have
now sfeudied anxiously for some years, and which I still hope to
cultivate, to better and better purpose, for many more. Allow
>y inscribing the collection to you, to secure one reader for
it at the outset of its progress through the world of letters whose
capacity for seeing all a writer's defects may be matched by
many other critics, but whose rarer faculty of seeing all a writ-
er's merits is equaled by very few.
WILKIE COLLINS,
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
CHAPTER I.
WE were three quiet, lonely old men, and SHE was a lively,
handsome young woman, and we were at our wits' end what to
do with her.
A word about ourselves, first of all a necessary word to ex-
plain the singular situation of our fair young guest.
We are three brothers; and we live in a barbarous, dismal old
house called the Glen Tower. Our place of abode stands in a
hilly, lonesome district of South Wales. No such thing as a
line of railway runs anywhere near us. No gentleman's seat is
within an easy drive of us. We are at an unspeakably incon-
venient distance from a town, and the village to which we send
for our letters is three miles off.
My eldest brother, Owen, was brought up to the Church. All
the prime of his life was passed in a populous London parish.
For more years than I now like to reckon up, he worked unre-
mittingly, in defiance of failing health and adverse fortune,
amid the multitudinous misery of the London poor; and he
would, in all probability, have sacrificed his life to his duty long
before the present time if the Glen Tower had not come into his
possession through two unexpected deaths in the elder and
richer Uranch ,of our family. This opening to him of a place of
rest and refuge saved his life. No man ever drew breath who
better .deserved the gifts of fortune; for no man, I sincerely be-
lieve, moie .tender -a?- others, more diffident of himself, more
gentle, more generous, and more simple-hearted than Owen, ever
walked this earth.
My second brother, Morgan, started in life as a doctor, and
learned all that his profession could teach him at home and
abroad. He realized a moderate independence by his practice,
beginning in one of our large northern towns, and ending n
physician in London; but although he was well-known and ap-
preciated among his brethren, he failed to gain that sort of
reputation with the public which elevates a man into the p<
tion of a great doctor. The ladies never liked him. In the first
place, he was ugly (Morgan will excuse me for mentioning this);
in the second place, he was an inveterate smoker, and he smelt
of tobacco when he felt languid pulses in elegant bedrooms; in
the third place, he was the most formidably outspoken teller of
the truth as regarded himself, his profession, and his patients,
that ever imperiled the social standing of the science of medi-
cine. For these reasons, and for others which it is not necessary to
mention, he never pushed his way, as a doctor,into the front ranks
and he never cared to do so. About a year after Owen came
into possession of the Glen Tower, Morgan discovered that he
had saved as much money for his old age as a sensible man could
want; that he was tired of the active pursuit or, as he term-
ed it, of the dignified quackery of his profession; and that it
was only common charity to give his invalid brother a compan-
ion who could physic him for nothing, and so prevent him from
getting rid of his money in the worst of all possible ways, by
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 3
wasting it on doctor's bills. In a week after Morgan had ar-
rived at these conclusions, he was settled at the Glen Tower;
and from that time, opposite as their characters were, my two
elder brothers lived together in their lonely retreat, thoroughly
understanding, and, in their very different ways, heartily loving
one another.
Many years passed before I, the youngest of the three chris-
tened by the unmelodious name of Griffith found my way, in
my turn, to the dreary old house, and the sheltering quiet of the
Welsh hills. My career in life had led me away from my brothers;
and even now, when we are all united, I have still ties and inter-
ests to connect me with the outer world which neither Owen
nor Morgan possess.
I was brought up to the Bar. After my first year's study of
the law, I wearied of it, and strayed aside idly into the brighter
and more attractive paths of literature. My occasional occupa-
tion with my pen was varied by long traveling excursions in all
parts of the Continent; year by year my circle of gay friends
and acquaintances increased, and" I bade fair to sink into the
condition of a wandering, desultory man, without a fixed pur-
pose in life of any sort, when I was saved by what has saved
many another in my situation an attachment to a good and
sensible woman. By the time I had reached the age of thirty-
five, I had done what neither of my brothers had done before
me I had married.
As a single man, my own small independence, aided by what
little additions to it I could pick up with my pen, had been suf-
ficient for my wants; but with marriage and its responsibilities
came the necessity for serious exertion. I returned to my neg-
lected studies, and grappled resolutely, this time, with the in-
tricate difficulties of the law. I was called to the Bar. My wife's
father aided me with his interest, and I started into practice
without difficulty and without delay.
For the next twenty years my married life was a scene of hap-
piness and prosperity, on which T now look back with a grateful
tenderness that no words of mine can express. The memory of
my wife is busy at my heart while I think of those past times.
The forgotten tears rise in my eyes again, and trouble the course
of my pen while it traces these simple lines.
Let me pass rapidly over the one unspeakable misery of my
life; let me try and remember now, as I tried to remember then,
that she lived to see our only child our son, who was eo good
to her, who is still so good to me grow up to manhood; that
her head lay on my bosom when she died; and that the last frail
movement of her hand in this world was the movement that
brought it closer to her boy's lips.
I bore the blow with God's help I bore it, and bear it still.
But it struck me away forever from my hold on social life; from
the purposes and pursuits, the companions and the pleasures of
twenty years, which her presence had sanctioned and made
dear to me. If my son George had desired to follow my profes-
sion, I should still have struggled against myself, and have kept
place in the world until I had seen him prosperous and set-
4 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
tied. But his choice led him to the army; and before his moth-
er's death he had obtained his commission, and had entered on
his path in life. No other responsibility remained to claim
from me the sacrifice of myself; my brothers had made my
place ready for me by their fireside; my heart yearned, in its
desolation, for the friends and companions of the old boyish
days; my good, brave son promised that no year should pass, as
long as he was in England, without his coming to cheer me;
and so it happened that I, in my turn, withdrew from the world,
which had once been a bright and a happy world to me, and re-
tired to end my days, peacefully, contentedly, and gratefully, as
my brothers are ending theirs, in the solitude of the Glen
Tower.
How many years have passed since jwe have all three been
united it is not necessary to relate. It will be more to the pur-
pose if I briefly record that we have never been separated since
the day which first saw us assembled together in our hillside re-
treat; that we have never yet wearied of the time, of the place,
or of ourselves, and that the influence of solitude on our hearts
and minds has not altered them for the worse, for it has not im-
bittered us toward our fellow-creatures, and it has not dried up
in us the source from which harmless occupations and innocent
pleasures may flow refreshingly to the last over the waste pla
of human life. Thus much for our own story, and for the cir-
cumstances which have withdrawn us from the world for the
rest of our days.
And now imagine us three lonely old men, tall and lean, and
white-headed; dressed, more from past habit than from present
association, in customary suits of solemn black: Brother O\\
yielding, gentle, and affectionate in look, voice, and manner;
brother Morgan, with a quaint, surface-sourness of address, and
a tone of dry sarcasm in his talk, which single him out, on all
occasions, as a character in our little circle; brother Griffith
forming the link between his two elder companions, capable, at
one time, of sympathizing with the quiet, thoughtful tone of
Owen's conversation, and ready, at another, to exchange brisk
severities on life and manners with Morgan in short, a plia' 1
double-sided old lawyer, who stands between the clergy mau-
brother and the physician brother with an ear ready for each
and with a heart open to both, share and share together.
Imagine the strange old building in which we live to be really
what its name implies a tower standing in a glen; in past times
the fortress of a fighting Welsh chieftain; in present times a
dreary Ian J-light-house, built up in many stories of two rooms
each, with a little modern lean-to of cottage form tacked on
quaintly to one of its sides; the great hill, on whose lowest slope
it stands, rising precipitously behind it; a dark, swift-flowing
stream in the valley below; hills on hills all around, and no way
of approach but by one of the loneliest and wildest cross-roads
in all South Wales.
Imagine such a place of abode as this and such inhabitants of
it as ourselves, and then picture the descent among us as of a
goddess dropping from the clouds of a lively, handsom
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 5
ionable young lady a bright, gay, butterfly creature, used to
flutter away its existence in the broad sunshine of perpetual
gayety a child of the new generation, with all the modern ideas
whirling together in her pretty head, and all the modern accom-
plishments at the tips of her delicate fingers. Imagine such a
light-hearted daughter of Eve as this, the spoiled darling of soci-
ety, the charming spendthrift of Nature's choicest treasures of
beauty and youth, suddenly flashing into the dim life of three
weary old men suddenly dropping into the place, of all others,
which is least fit for her suddenly shut out from the world in
the lonely quiet of the loneliest home in England. Realize, if it
be possible, all that is most whimsical and most anomalous in
such a situation as this, and the startling confession contained
in the opening sentence of these pages will no* longer excite the
faintest emotion of surprise. Who can wonder now, when our
bright young goddess really descended on us, that I and my
brothers were all three at our wits' end what to do with her!
CHAPTER II.
WHO is the young lady ? And how did she find her way into
the Glen Tower?
Her name (in relation to which I shall have something to say
a little further on) is Jessie Yelverton. She is an orphan and
an only child. Her mother died while she was an infant; her
father was my dear and valued friend Major Yelverton. He
lived long enough to celebrate his darling's seventh birthday.
When he died he intrusted his authority over her and his re-
sponsibility toward her to his brother and to me.
When I was summoned to the reading of the major's will, I
knew perfectly well that I should hear myself appointed guard-
ian and executor with his brother: and I had been also made
acquainted with my lost friend's wishes as to his daughter's ed-
ucation, and with his intentions as to the disposal of all his prop-
erty in her favor. My own idea, therefore, was, that the read-
ing of the will would inform me of nothing which I had not
known in the testator's lifetime. When the day came for hear-
ing it, however, I found that I had been over hasty in arriving
at this conclusion. Toward the end of the docunent there was
a clause inserted which took me entirely by surprise.
After providing for the education of Miss Yelverton under the
direction of her guardians, and for her residence, under ordinary
circumstances, with the major's sister, Lady Westwick, the
clause concluded by saddling the child's future inheritance with
this curious condition;
From the period of her leaving school to the period of her
reaching the age of twenty-one years, Miss Yelverton was to pass
not less than six consecutive weeks out of every year under the
roof of one of her two guardians. During the lives of both of
them, it was left to her own choice to say which of the two she
would prefer to live with. In all other respects the condition
was imperative. If she forfeited it, excepting, of course, the
6 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
case of the deaths of both her guardians, ehe was only to have a
life-interest in the property; if she obeyed it, the money itself
was to become her own possession on the day when she com-
pleted her twenty-first year.
This clause in the will, as I have said, took me at first by sur-
prise. I remembered how devotedly Lady Westwick had soothed
her sister-in-law's death-bed sufferings, and how tenderly she had
afterward watched over the welfare of the little motherless child
I remembered the innumerable claims she had established in
this way on her brother's confidence in her affection for his
orphan daughter, and I was, therefore, naturally amazed at the
appearance of a condition in his will which seemed to show a
positive distrust of Lady "Westwick's undivided influence over
the character and conduct of her niece.
A few words from my fellow- guardian, Mr. Richard Yelver-
ton, and a little after-consideration of some of my deceased
friend's peculiarities of disposition and feeling, to which I had
not hitherto attached sufficient importance, were enough to make
me understand the motives by which he had been influenced in
providing for the future of his child.
Major Yelverton had raised himself to a position of affluence
and eminence from a very humble origin. He was the son of a
small farmer, and it was his pride never to forget this circum-
stance, never to be ashamed of it, and never to allow the preju-
dices of society to influence his own settled opinions on social
questions in general.
Acting in all that related to his intercourse with the world,
on such principles as these, the major, it is hardly necessary to
say, held some strangely heterodox opinions on the modern
education of girls, and on the evil influence of society over the
characters of women in general. Out of the strength of those
opinions, and out of the certainty of his conviction that his sister
did not share them, had grown that condition in his will which
removed his daughter from the influence of her aunt, for six con-
secutive weeks in every year. Lady Westwick was the most light-
hearted, the most generous, the most impulsive of women; capable
when any serious occasion called it forth, of all that was devoted
and self-sacrificing, but, at other and ordinary times, constitu-
tionally restless, frivolous, and eager for perpetual gayety. Dis-
tnisting the sort of life which he knew his daughter would lead
under her aunt's roof, and at the same time gratefully remem-
bering his sister's affectionate devotion toward his dying wife
and her helpless infant, Major Yelverton had attempted to make
a compromise, which, while it allowed Lady Westwick the close
domestic intercourse with her niece that she had earned by in-
numerable kind offices, should, at the same time, place the young
girl for a fixed period of every year of her minority under the
corrective care of two such quiet old-fashioned guardians as his
brother and myself. Such is the history of the clause in the
will. My friend little thought, when he dictated it, of the ex-
traordinary result to which it was one day to lead.
For some years, however, events ran on smoothly enough.
Little Jessie was sent to an excellent school, with strict instruc-
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 7
tions to the mistress to make a good girl of her, and not a fash-
ionable young lady. Although she was reported to be anything
but a pattern pupil in respect of attention to her lessons, she
became from the first the chosen favorite of every one about her.
The very offenses which she committed against the discipline of
the school were of the sort which provoke a smile even on the
stern countenance of authority itself. One of these quaint
freaks of mischief may not inappropriately be mentioned here,
inasmuch as it gained her the pretty nickname under which she
will be found to appear occasionally in these pages.
On a certain autumn night shortly after the midsummer va-
cation, the mistress of the school fancied she saw a light under
the door of the bedroom occupied by Jessie and three other girls.
It was then close on midnight; and, fearing that some case of
sudden illness might have happened, she hastened into the
room. On opening the door, she discovered, to her horror and
amazement, that all four girls were out of bed were dressed in
brilliantly fantastic costumes, representing the four grotesque
" Queens" of Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs, familiar to
us all on the pack of cards and were dancing a quadrille, in
which Jessie sustained the character of the Queen of Hearts.
The next morning's investigation disclosed that Miss Yelvertou
had smuggled the dresses into the school, and had amused her-
self by giving an impromptu fancy ball to her companions, in
imitation of an entertainment of the same kind at which she
had figured in a "court-card" quadrille at her aunt's country
house.
The dresses were instantly confiscated, and the necessary pun-
ishment promptly administered; but the remembrance of Jes-
sie's extraordinary outrage on bedroom discipline lasted long
enough to become one of the traditions of the school, and she
and her sister-culprits were thenceforth hailed as the " queens "
of the four " suites " by their class- companions whenever the
mistress' back was turned. Whatever might have become of
the nicknames thus employed in relation to the other three girls,
such a mock title as the Queen of Hearts was too appropriately
descriptive of the natural charm of Jessie's character, as well as
of the adventure in which she had taken the lead, not to rise
naturally to the lips of every one who knew her. It followed
her to her aunt's house ife came to be as habitually and fa-
miliarly connected with her, among her friends of alleges, as if it
had been formally inscribed on her baptismal register; and it
has stolen its way into these pages because it falls from my peu
naturally and inevitably, exactly as it often falls from my lips
in real life.
When Jessie left school the first difficulty presented itself; in
other words the necessity arose of fulfilling the conditions of the
will. At that time I was already settled at the Glen Tower, and
her living six weeks in our dismal solitude and our humdrum
society, was, as she herself frankly wrote me word, quite out of
the question. Fortunately, she had always got on well with her
uncle and his family; so she exerted her liberty of choice, and
much to her own relief and to mine also, passed her regular six
8 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
weeks of probation, year after year, under Mr. Richard Yelver-
ton's roof.
During this period I heard of her regularly, sometimes from
my fellow-guardian, sometimes from my son George, who, when-
ever his military duties allowed him the opportunity, contrived
to see her, now at her aunt's house, and now at Mr. Yelverton's.
The particulars of her character and conduct, which I gleaned
in this way, more than sufficed to convince me that the poor
major's plan for the careful training of his daughter's disposi-
tion, though plausible enough in theory, was little better than a
total failure in practice. Miss Jessie, to use the expressive com-
mon phrase, took after her aunt. She was as generous, as im-
pulsive, as light-hearted, as fond of change, and gayety, and fine
clothes in short, as complete and genuine a woman as Lady
West wick herself. It was impossible to reform the " Queen of
Hearts," and equally impossible not to love her. Such, in few
words, was my fellow-guardian's report of his experience of our
handsome young ward.
So the time passed till the year came of which I am now writ-
ing the ever-memorable year, to England, of the Russian war.
It happened that I had heard less than usual at this period, and
indeed for many months before it, of Jessie and her procfvd-
ings. My son had been ordered out with his regiment to the
Crimea in 1854, and had other work in hand now than record-
ing the sayings and doings of a young lady. Mr. Richard Yel-
verton, who had been hitherto used to write to me with tolera-
ble regularity, seemed now, for some reason that I could not
conjecture, to have forgotten my existence. Ultimately I v
reminded of my ward by one of George's own letters, in which
he asked for news of her: and I wrote at once to Mr. Yelverton.
The answer that reached me was written by his wife; he \
dangerously ill. The next letter that came informed me of his
death. This happened early in the spring of the year 1855.
I am ashamed to confess it, but the change irTmy own posi-
tion was the first idea that crossed my mind when I read the
news of Mr. Yelverton's death. I was now left sole guardian,
and Jessie Yelverton wanted a year still of coming of age.
By the next day's post I wrote to her about the altered state
of the relations between us. She was then on the Continent with
her aunt, having gone abroad at the very beginning of the y.
Consequently, so far as eighteen hundred and fifty- five was c
cerned, the condition exacted by the will yet remained to be
performed. She had still six weeks to pass her last six weeks,
seeing that she was now twenty years old under the roof of one
of her guardians, and I was now the only guardian left.
In due course of time I received my answer, written on rose-
colored paper, and expressed throughout in a tone of light, e,
feminine banter, which amused me in spite of myself. I\
Jessie, according to her own account, was hesitating, on receipt,
of my letter, between two alternatives the one, of allowing 1.
self to be buried six weeks in the Glen Tower; the other, of
breaking the condition, giving up the money, and remaining
magnanimously contented with nothing but a life- interest in her
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 9
father's property. At present she inclined decidedly toward
giving up the money, and escaping the clutches of " three hor-
rid old men;" but she would let me know again if she happened
to change her mind. And so, with best love, she would beg to
remain always affectionately mine, as long as she was well out
of my reach.
The summer passed, the autumn came, and I never heard
from her again. Under ordinary circumstances this long silence
might have made me feel a little uneasy. But news reached me
about this time from the Crimea that my son was wounded not
dangerously, thank God, but still severely enough to be laid up
and all my anxieties were now centered in that direction. By
the beginning of September, however, I got better accounts of
him, and my mind was made easy enough to let me think of Jes-
sie again. Just as I was considering the necessity of writing
once more to my refractory ward, a second letter arrived from
her. She had returned at last from abroad, had suddenly chang-
ed her mind, suddenly grown sick of society, suddenly become
enamored of the pleasures of retirement, and suddenly found
out that the three horrid old men were three dear old men, and
that six weeks' solitude at the Glen Tower was the luxury, of
all others, that she languished for most. As a necessary result
of this altered state of things she would therefore now propose
to spend her allotted six weeks with her guardian. We might
certainly expect her on the twentieth of September, and she
would take the greatest care to fit herself for our society by arriv-
ing in the lowest possible spirits and bringing her own sackcloth
and ashes along with her.
Tho first ordeal to which this alarming letter forced me to sub-
mit was the breaking of the news it contained to my two broth-
ers. The disclosure affected them very differently. Poor dear
Owen merely turned pale, lifted his weak, thin hands in a panic-
stricken manner, and then sat staring at me in speechless and
motionless bewilderment. Morgan stood up straight before me,
plunged both his hands into his pockets, burst suddenly into the
harshest laugh I ever heard from his lips, and told me, with an
air of triumph, that it was exactly what he expected.
" What you expected?" I repeated, in astonishment.
"Yes," returned Morgan, with his bitterest emphasis. "It
doesn't surprise me in the least. It's the way things go in this
world it's the regular moral see-saw of good and evil the old
story with the old end to it. They were too happy in the garden
of Eden down comes the serpent and turns them out. Solomon
was too wise down comes the Queen of Sheba and makes a fool
of him. We've been too comfortable at the Glen Tower down
comes a woman and sets us all three by the ears together. All I
wonder at is that it hasn't happened before." With those words
Morgan resignedly took out his pipe, put on his old felt hat and
turned to the door.
" You're not going away before she comes ?" exclaimed Owen,
piteously. " Don't leave us please don't leave us!"
"Going!" cried Morgan, with great con tempt. " What should
I gain by that ? When destiny has found a man out, and heated
10 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
his gridiron for him, he has nothing left to do, that I know of,
but to get up and sit on it."
I opened my lips to protest against the implied comparison be-
tween a young lady and a hot gridiron, but, before I could
speak, Morgan was gone.
" Well," I said to Owen, " we must make the best of it. We
must brush up our manners, and set the house tidy, and amuse
her as well as we can. The difficulty is where to put her; and,
when that is settled, the next puzzle will be, what to order in to
make her comfortable. It's a hard thing, brother, to say what
will or what will not please a young lady's taste."
Owen looked absently at me, in greater bewilderment than
ever opened his eyes in perplexed consideration repeated to
himself slowly the word "tastes" and then helped me with
this suggestion:
" Hadn't we better begin, Griffith, by getting her a plum-cake ?"
"My dear Owen," I remonstrated, "it is a grown young
woman who is coming to see us; not a little girl from school."
"Oh!" said Owen, more confused than before. "Yes I see;
we couldn't do wrong, I suppose could we? if we got her a
little dog, and a lot of new gowns ?"
There was, evidently, no more help in the wav of advice to be
expected from Owen than from Morgan himself. As I came to
that conclusion, I saw through the window our old housekeeper
on her way, with her basket, to the kitchen-garden, and left the
room to ascertain if she could assist us.
To my great dismay, the housekeeper took even a more gloomy
view than Morgan of the approaching event. When I had ex-
plained all the circumstances to her, she carefully put down her
basket, crossed her arms, and said to me in slow, deliber;
mysterious tones:
" You want my advice about what's to be done with this
young woman? Well, sir, here's my advice: Don't you
trouble your head about her. It won't be no use. Mind, I tell
you, it won't be no use."
" What do you mean?"
" You look at this place, sir it's more like a prison than a
house, isn't it ? You look at us as lives in it. We've got (saving
your presence) a foot apiece in our graves, haven't we? When
you was young yourself, sir, what would you have done if they
had shut you up for six weeks in such a place as this, among
your grandfathers and grandmothers, with their feet in the
grave."
" I really can't say."
" I can, sir. You'd have run away. She'll run away. Don't
you worry your head about her she'll save you the trouble. I
tell you again she'll run away."
With those ominous words the housekeeper took up her basket,
sighed heavily, and left me.
I sat down under a tree quite helpless. Here was the whole
responsibility shifted upon my miserable shoulders. Not a lady
in the neighborhood to whom I could apply for assistance, and
the nearest shop eight miles distant frpjn, u,s, Jfce toughest case
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 11
1 ever had to conduct, when I was at the Bar, was plain sailing
compared with the difficulty of receiving our fair guest.
It was absolutely necessary, however, to decide at once where
she was to sleep. All the rooms m the tower were of stone
dark, gloomy, and cold even in the summer-time. Impossible
to put her in any one of them. The only other alternative was
to lodge her in the little modern lean-to, which I have already
described as being tacked on to the side of the old building. It
contained three cottage rooms, and they might be made barely
habitable for a young lady. But then those rooms were occu-
pied by Morgan. His books were in one, his bed was in another,
his pipes and general lumber were in the third. Could I expect
him, after the sour similitudes he had used in reference to our
expected visitor, to turn put of his habitation and disarrange all
his habits for her convenience? The bare idea of proposing the
thing to him seemed ridiculous; and yet inexorable necessity
left me no choice but to make the hopeless experiment. I walked
back to the tower hastily and desperately, to face the worst
that might happen before my courage cooled altogether.
On crossing the threshold of the hall door I was stopped, to my
great amazement, by a procession of three of the farm-servants,
followed by Morgan, all walking after each other, in Indian file,
toward the spiral staircase that led to the top of the tower. The
first of the servants carried the materials for making a fire; the
second bore an inverted arm-chair on his head; the third tottered
under a heavy load of books; while Morgan came last, with his
canister of tobacco in his hand, his dressing gown over his
shoulder, and his whole collection of pipes hugged up together
in a bundle under his arm.
" What on earth does this mean ?" I inquired.
" It means taking Time by the forelock," answered Morgan,
looking at me with a smile of spur satisfaction. " I've got the
start of your young woman, Griffith, and I'm making the most
of it."
" But where, in Heaven's name, are you going?"! asked, as
the head man of the procession disappeared with his firing up
the staircase.
" How high is this tower?" retorted Morgan.
" Seven stories, to be sure," I replied.
" Very good," said my eccentric brother, setting his foot on the
first stair, " I'm going up to the seventh.''
" You can't," I shouted.
"She can't, you mean," said Morgan, "and that's exactly why
I'm going there."
' But the room is not furnished."
' It's out of her reach."
' One of the windows has fallen to pieces."
' It's out of her reach."
' There's a crow's nest in the corner."
' It's out of her reach."
By the time this unanswerable argument had attained its third
repetition, Morgan, in his turn, had disappeared up the winding
stairs. I knew him too well to attempt any further protest.
12 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
Here was my first difficulty, smoothed away most unexpect-
edly, for here were the rooms in the lean-to placed by their own-
er's free act and deed at my disposal. I wrote on the spot to the
one upholsterer of our distant county town to come immediately
and survey the premises, and sent off a mounted messenger with
the letter. This done, and the necessary order also dispatched to
the carpenter and glazier to set them at work on Morgan's sky-
parlor in the seventh story, I began to feel, for the first time, as
if my scattered wits were coming back to me. By the time the
evening had closed in I had hit on no less than three excellent
ideas, all providing for the future comfort and amusement of
our fair guest. The first idea was to get her a Welsh pony; the
second was to hire a piano from the county town; the third was
to send for a boxful of novels from London. I must confess I
thought these projects for pleasing her very happily conceived,
and Owen agreed with me. Morgan, as usual, took the opposite
view. He said she would yawn over the novels, turn up her
nose at the piano, and fracture her skull with the pony. As for
the housekeeper, she stuck to her text as stoutly in the evening
as she had stuck to it in the morning. " Pianner or no pianner,
story-book or no story-book, pony or no pony, you mark my
words, sir that young woman will run away."
Such were the housekeeper's parting vyords when she wished
me good-night.
When the next morning came, and brought with it that ter-
rible waking time which sets a man's hopes and projects before
him, the great as well as the small, stripped bare of every illu-
sion, it is not to be concealed that I felt less sanguine of our
success in entertaining the coming guest. So far as external
preparations were concerned, there seemed, indeed, but little to
improve; but, apart from these, what had we to offer, in our-
selves and our society, to attract her? There lay the knotty
point of the question, and there the grand difficulty of finding
an answer.
I fall into serious reflection, while I am dressing, on the pur-
suits and occupations with which we three brothers have been
accustomed, for years past, to beguile the time. Are they at all
likely, in the case of any one of us, to interest or amuse her?
My chief occupation, to begin with the youngest, consists in
acting as steward on Owen's property. The routine of niy
duties has never lost its sober attraction to my tastes, for it has
always employed me in watching the best interests of my
brother, and of my son also, who is one day to be his heir. But
can I expect our fair guest to sympathize with such family con-
cerns as these ? Clearly not.
Morgan's pursuit comes next in order of review a pursuit of
a far more ambitious nature than mine. It was always part of
my second brother's whimsical, self-contradictory character to
view with the profoundest contempt the learned profession by
which he gained his livelihood, and he is now occupying the
long leisure hours of his old age in composing a voluminous
treatise, intended, one of these days, to eject the whole body
corporate of doctors from the position which they have usurped
QUEEN OF HEARTS. 13
in the estimation of their fellow-creatures. This daring work is
entitled "An Examination of the Claims of Medicine on the
Gratitude of Mankind. Decided in the Negative by a Retired
Physician." So far as I can tell, the book is likely to ex-
tend to the dimensions of an Encyclopedia; for it is Morgan's
Elan to treat his comprehensive subject principally from the
istorical point of view, and to run down all the doctors of an-
tiquity, one after another, in regular succession, from the first
of the tribe. When I last heard of his progress he was hard on
the heels of Hippocrates, but had no immediate prospect of trip-
ping up his successor. Is this the sort of occupation (I ask my-
self) in which a modern young lady is likely to feel the slightest
interest ? Once again, clearly not.
Owen's favorite employment is, in its way, quite as character-
istic as Morgan's, and it has the great additional advantage of
appealing to a much larger variety of tastes. My eldest brother
great at drawing and painting when he was a lad, always in-
terested in artists and their works in after life has resumed, in
his declining years, the holiday occupation of his schoolboy days.
As an amateur landscape-painter, he works with more satisfac-
tion to himself, uses more color, wears out more brushes, and
makes a greater smell of paint in his studio than any artist by
profession, native or foreign, whom I ever met with. In look,
in manner, and in disposition, the gentlest of mankind, Owen,
by some singular anomaly in his character, which he seems to
have caught from Morgan, glories placidly in the wildest and
most frightful range of subjects which his art is capable of rep-
resenting. Immeasurable ruins, in howling wildernesses, with
blood-red sunsets gleaming over them; thunder-clouds rent with
lightning, hovering over splitting trees on the verges of awful
precipices; hurricanes, shipwrecks, waves, and whirlpools fol-
low each other on his canvas, without an intervening glimpse
of quiet, every-day nature to relieve the succession of pictorial
horrors. When I see him at his easel, so neat and quiet, so un-
pretending and modest in himself, with such a composed ex-
pression on his attentive face, with such a weak, white hand to
guide such bold, big brushes, and when I look at the frightful
canvasful of terrors which he is serenely aggravating in fierce-
ness and intensity with every successive touch, I find it diffi-
cult to realize the connection between my brother and his work,
though I see them before me not six inches apart. Will thto
quaint spectacle possess any humorous attractions for Miss
Jessie? Perhaps it may. There is some slight chance that
Owen's employment will be lucky enough to interest her.
Thus far my morning cogitations advance doubtfully enough,
but they altogether fail in carrying me beyond the narrow circle
of the Glen Tower. I try hard, in our visitor's interest, to look
into the resources .of the little world around us, and I find my
efforts rewarded by the prospect of a total blank.
Is there any presentable, living soul in the neighborhood
whom we can invite to meet her ? Not one. There are, as J
have already said, no country seats near us; and society in
country town has long since learned to regard us as thre> '
14 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
anthropes, strongly suspected, from our monastic way of life
and our dismal black costume, of being popish priests in dis-
guise. In other parts of England the clergymen of the parish
might help us out of our difficulty; but here, in South Wales,
and in this latter half of the nineteenth century, we have the
old-type parson of the days of Fielding still in a state of perfect
preservation. Our local clergyman receives a stipend which is
too paltry to bear comparison with the wages of an ordinary
mechanic. In dress, manners, and tastes he is about on a level
with the upper class of agricultural laborer. When attempts
have been made by well-meaning gentlefolks to recognize the
claims of his profession by asking him to their houses, he has
been known, on more than one occasion, to leave his plowman's
pair of shoes in the hall, and to enter the drawing-room respect-
fully in his stockings. Where he preaches, miles and miles
away from us and from the poor cottage in which he lives, if he
sees any of the company in the squire's pew yawn or fidget in
their places, he takes it a? a hint that they are tired of listening,
and closes his sermon instantly at the end of the sentence. Can
we ask this most irreverend and unclerical of men to meet a
young lady? I doubt, even if we made the attempt, whether
we should succeed, by fair means, in getting him beyond the
servants' hall.
Dismissing, therefore, any idea of inviting visitors to entertain
our guest, and feeling at the same time, more than doubtful of
her chance of discovering any attraction in the sober society of
the inmates of the house, I finish my dressing and go down to
breakfast, secretly veering round to the housekeeper's opinion
that Miss Jessie will really bring matters to an abrupt conclusion
by running away. I find Morgan as bitterly resigned to his des-
tiny as ever, and Owen so affectionately anxious to make him-
self of some use, and so lamentably ignorant of how to begin,
that I am driven to disembarrass myself of him at the outset by
a stratagem.
I suggest to him that our visitor is sure to be interested in pict-
ures, and that it would be a pretty attention, on his part, to
paint her a landscape to hang up in her room. Owen brightens
directly, informs me in his softest tones that he is then at
work on the Earthquake at Lisbon, and inquires whether I think
she would like that subject. I preserve my gravity sufficiently
to answ r er in the affirmative, and my brother retires meekly to
his studio, to depict the engulfing of a city and the destruction
of a population. Morgan withdraws in his turn to the top of the
tower, threatening, when our guest comes, to draw all his meals
up to his new residence by means of a basket and string. I am
left alone for an hour, and the upholsterer arrives from the county
town.
This worthy man, on being informed of our emergency, sees
his way, apparently, to a good stroke of business, and thereupon
wins my lasting gratitude by taking, in opposition to every one
else, a bright and hopeful view of existing circumstances.
" You'll excuse me, sir," he says, confidentially, when I show
trim the rooms in the lean-to, " but this is a matter of experience,
THE V OF 15
family man m\self, with grown-up datigi my own,
anl tlif > ' well knov. Make
idle ami you make Vm 1
.Stable at f 1'uniii
nplaint drop from their lip-.
ample, sir you pi;
in that comer, with curlai: Tillable
(hint/; you put on that bedstead \vliat 1 will term a sul1i< '.
Idiiig: and you top up with a sweet little eider-down quilt,
quilt, as light as roses, and similar in color. You do that,
and what, follows? You plea-.' her eye wli. lies down at
night, and you please her eye when \ up in the morning
all right so far, and \ \vill not dwell,
on the toilet-table, nor will 1 seek to detain you about the
w her figure, and the other ghss to show lier face.
T have (lie ariic!e> in stock, and will be myself answerable for
ell'ect on the lady's mind and per
!ed the way into the next room as he spoke, and arrai
and decorations, as he had already pla
OIP. with the strictest r
id shown him to exist 1 mfortable furni-
1 female happin-
Thus far. in my helpless -tate of mind, the man's con fid-
liad impre-sed me in spite of myself, and I had listened to him
in super -ilence. But as he continued to rise, by regular
rom one climax of upholstery to another, warning
bill disclosed themselves in the remote background
of th of luxury and magnificence which my friend was
conjuring up. Certain sharp professional instincts of by-gone
iimed their influence over me: I began to start doubts
i necessary con-'equence, the inter-
-i us soon assumed something like a practical I
ertained what the \ expense of furnishing
nd bavin-- discovered that the process of
ning the le-iii-to (allowing for the time reiiuired to ]ro-
cure certain articles of rarity from .Bristol) would occupy nearly
hK I dismissed the upholsterer with the understanding
that 1 -hould take a day or two for consideration, and let him
know the result. It was the fifth of September, and our <;
of Hearts was to arrive on the twentieth. The work, then
-Aim on the seventh or eighth, would be U-ULI in
In making all - dations with a ce to tl
tieth 1 re!ie<l implicitly, it will K on a
young lady's punctuality in keepin \liicli she
elf made. 1 c;ui only account for such extraordinary
^implicit y on iny part on the supposition that i had be-
d by lot from Whether it
r not. my inno
'ied to be pract i -i the
. Little .ij,| 1
li of the mouth, what the i
of the month had in store for rue.
16 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
On the seventh I made up my mind to have the bedroom fur-
nished at once, and to postpone the question of the sitting-room
for a few days longer. Having dispatched the necessary order
to that effect, I next wrote to hire the piano and to order the
box of novels. This done, I congratulated myself on the for-
ward state of the preparations, and sat down to repose in the at-
mosphere of my own happy delusions.
On the ninth the wagon arrived with the furniture, and the
men set to work on the bedroom. From this moment Morgan
retired definitely to the top of the tower, and Owen became too
nervous to lay the necessary amount of paint on the Earthquake
at Lisbon.
On the tenth the work was proceeding bravely. Toward noon
Owen and I strolled to the door to enjoy tbe fine autumn sun-
shine. We were sitting lazily on our favorite bench in front of
the tower when we were startled by a shout from far above us.
Looking up directly, we saw Morgan half in and half out of his
narrow window in the seventh story, gesticulating violently with
the stem of his long meerschaum pipe in the direction of the
road below us.
We gazed eagerly in the quarter thus indicated, but our low
position prevented us for some time from seeing anything. At
last we both discerned an old yellow post-chaise distinctly and
indisputably approaching us.
Owen and I looked at one another in panic-stricken silence. It
was coming to us and what did it contain ? Do pianos travel in
chaises ? Are boxes of novels conveyed to their destination by a
postilion? We expected the piano and expected the novels, but
nothing else unquestionably nothing else.
The chaise took the turn in the road, passed through the
less gap in our rough inclosure-wall of loose stone, and rapidly
approached us. A bonnet appeared at the window, and a hand
gayly waved a white handkerchief.
Powers of caprice, confusion, and dismay! It was Jessie
Yelverton herself arriving, without a word of warning, exactly
ten days before her time.
CHAPTER III.
THE chaise stopped in front of us, and before we had recovered
from our bewilderment the gardener had opened the door, and
let down the steps.
A bright, laughing face, prettily framed round by a black veil
passed over the head and tied under the chin a traveling-di
of a nankeen color, studded with blue buttons, and trimmed witli
white braid a light brown cloak over it little neatly-gloved
hands, which seized in an instant on one of mine and on one of
Owen's two dark blue eyes, which seemed to look us both
through and through in a moment a clear, full, merrily confi-
dent voice a look and manner gayly and gracefully self-pos-
sessed such were the characteristics of our fair guest which
first struck me at the moment when she left the post-chaise, and
possessed herself of my hand,
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 17
" Don't begin by scolding me," she said, before I could utter
a word of welcome. " There will be time enough for that in
the course of the next six weeks. I beg pardon, with all pos-
sible humility, for the offense of coming ten days before my
time. Don't ask me to account for it, please; if you do, I
shall be obliged to confess the truth. My dear sir, the fact is,
this is an act of impulse."
She paused, and looked us both in the face with a bright
confidence in her own flow of nonsense that was perfectly
irresistible.
" I must tell you all about it," she ran on, leading the way (o
the bench, and inviting us, by a little mock gesture of suppli i-
tion, to seat ourselves on either side of her. " I feel so guilty
till I've told you. Dear me! how nice this is! Here I am quite
at home already. Isn't it odd ? Well, and how do you think it
happened ? The morning before yesterday, Matilda there is
Matilda, picking up my bonnet from the bottom of that re-
markably musty carriage Matilda came and woke me as usual,
and I hadn't an idea in my head, I assure you, till she began to
brush my hair. Can you account for it? I can't but she
seemed, somehow, to brush a sudden fancy for coming here into
my head. When I went down to breakfast, I said to my aunt,
' Darling, I have an irresistible impulse to go to Wales at once,
instead of waiting till the twentieth.' She made all the necessary
objections, poor dear, and my impulse got stronger and stronger
with every one of them. ' I'm quite certain,' I said, ' I shall never
go at all if I don't go now.' ' In that case,' says my aunt, ' ring
the bell, and have your trunks packed. Your whole future de-
pends on your going; and you terrify me so inexpressibly that I
shall be glad to get rid of you.' You may not think it, to look
.at her but Matilda is a treasure; and in three hours more I was
on the Great Western Railway. I have not the least idea how I
got here except that the men helped me everywhere. They
are always such delightful creatures! I have been casting my-
self, and my maid, and my trunks on their tender mercies at
every point in the journey, and their polite attentions exceed all
belief. I slept at your horrid little county town last night; and
the night before I missed a steamer or a train, I forget which,
and slept at Bristol; and that's how I got here. And, now I am
here, I ought to give my guardian a kiss oughtn't I? Shall I
call you papa? I think I will. And shall I call you uncle, sir,
and give you a kiss, too ? We shall come to it sooner or later
sha'n't we? and we may as well begin at once, I suppose."
Her fresh young lips touched my old withered cheek first, and
then Owen's; a soft, momentary shadow of tenderness, that was
very pretty and becoming, passing quickly over the sunshine and
gayety of her face as she saluted ns. The next moment she was
on her feet again, inquiring " who the wonderful man was who
built the Glen Tower," and wanting to go all over it immedi-
ately from top to bottom.
As we took her into the house, I made the necessary apologies
for the miserable condition of the lean-to, and assured her that,
ten days later, she would have found it perfectly ready to recei;
18 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
her. She whisked into the rooms looked all around them
whisked out again declared she had come to live in the old
Tower, and not in any modern addition to it, and flatly declined
to inhabit the lean-to on any terms whatever. I opened my lips
to state certain objections, but she slipped away in an instant
and made straight for the Tower staircase.
" Who lives here ?" she asked, calling down to us, eagerly, from
the first-floor landing.
"I do," said Owen; "but, if you would like me to move
out-
She was away up the second flight before lie could say any
more. The next sound we heard, as we slowly followed her,
was a preparatory drumming against the room door of the sec-
ond story.
" Anybody here ?" we heard her ask through the door.
I called up to her that, under ordinary circumstances, I was
there; but that, like Owen, I should be happy to move out
My polite offer was cut short as my brother's had been. We
heard more drumming on the door of the third story. There
were two rooms here also one perfectly empty, the other stocked
with odds and ends of dismal, old-fashioned furniture, for which
we had no use, and grimly ornamented by a life-size basked
figure supporting a complete suit of armor in a sadly rusty con-
dition. When Owen and I got to the third-floor landing, the
door was open; Miss Jessie had taken possession of the rooms;
and we found her on a chair, dusting the man in armor with
her cambric pocket-handkerchief.
" I shall live here," she said, looking round at us briskly over
her shoulder.
We both remonstrated, but it was quite in vain. She told us
that slit- hail an impulse to live with the man in armor, and that
she would have her way, or go back immediately in the post-
chaise, which we pleased. Finding it impossible to move her,
we bargained that she should, at least, allow the new bed and
the rest of the comfortable furniture in the lean-to to be mo
up into the empty room for her sleeping accommodation. She
consented to this condition, protesting, however, to the last
against being compelled to sleep in a bed, because it was a
modern conventionality, out of all harmony with her place of
residence and her friend in armor.
Fortunately for the repose of Morgan, who, under other cir-
cumstances, would have discovered on the very first day that
his airy retreat was by no means high enough to place him out
of Jessie's reach, the idea of settling herself instantly in her new
habitation excluded every other idea from the mind of our fair
guest. She pinned up the nankeen-colored traveling dress in
festoons all round her on the spot; informed us that we were
now about to make acquaintance with her in the new character
of a woman of business; and darted down-stairs in mad high
spirit, screaming for Matilda and the trunks like a child for a set
of new toys. The wholesome protest of Nature against the arti
ficial restraints of modern life expressed itself in all that she said
and in all that she did. She had never known what it was to be
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 10
happy before* because she had ne^ver been allowed, until now, to
do anything for herself. She was down on her knees at one
moment, blowing the fire, and telling us that she felt like Cin-
derella; she was up on a table the next, attacking the cobwebs
with a long broom, and wishing she had been born a housemaid.
As for my unfortunate friend, the upholsterer, he was leveled
to the ranks at the first effort he made to assume the command
of the domestic forces in the furniture department. She laughed
at him, pushed him about, disputed all his conclusions, altered
all his arrangements, and ended by ordering half his bedroom
furniture to be taken back again, for the one unanswerable
reason that she meant to do without it.
As evening approached, the scene presented by the two rooms
became eccentric to a pitch of absurdity which is quite indescrib-
able. The grim, ancient walls of the bedroom had the liveliest
modern dressing-gowns and morning-wrappers hanging all about
them. The man in armor had a collection of smart little boots
and shoes dangling by laces and ribbons round his iron legs. A
worm-eaten, steel clasped casket, dragged out of a corner,
frowned on the upholsterer's bran-new toilet-table, and held a
miscellaneous assortment of combs, hair-pins, and brushes.
Here stood a gloomy antique chair, the patriarch of its tiibe,
whose arms of blackened oak embraced a pair of pert, new deal
bonnet-boxes not a fortnight old. There, thrown down lightly
on a rugged tapestry table-cover, the long labor of centuries past,
lay the brief, delicate work of a week ago in the shape of silk
and muslin dresses turned inside out. In the midst of all these
confusions and contradictions, Miss Jessie ranged to and fro, the
active center of the whole scene of disorder, now singing at the
top of her voice, and now declaring in her light-hearted way
that one of us must make up his mind to marry her immediately,
as she was determined to settle for the rest of her life at the Glen
Tower.
She followed up that announcement, when we met at dinner,
by inquiring if we quite understood by this time that she had left
her "company manners" in London, and that she meant to
govern us all at her absolute will and pleasure, throughout the
whole period of her stay. Having thus provided at the outset
for the due recognition of her authority by the household gener-
ally and individually having briskly planned out all her own
forthcoming occupations and amusements over the wine and
fruit at dessert, and having positively settled, between her first
and second cups of tea, where our connection with them was to
begin and where it was to end, she had actually succeeded,
when the time came to separate for the night, in setting us as
much at our ease, and in making herself as completely a neces-
sary part of our household as if she had lived among us for years
and years past.
Such was our first day's experience of the formidable guest
whose anticipated visit had so sorely and so absurdly discom-
posed us all. I could hardly believe that I had actually wasted
hours of precious time in worrying myself and everybody else
in the house about the best means of laboriously entertaining q,
6 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
lively, high-spirited girl, who was perfectly capable, without an
effort on her own part or on ours, of entertaining herself.
Having upset every one of our calculations on the first day of
her arrival, she next falsified all our predictions before she had
been with us a week. Instead of fracturing her skull with the
pony, as Morgan had prophesied, she sat the sturdy, sure-footed,
mischievous little brute, as if she were part and parcel of him-
self. With an old waterproof cloak of mine on her shoulders,
with a broad-flapped Spanish hat of Owen's on her head, with a
wild imp of a Welsh boy following her as guide and groom on
a bare-backed pony, and with one of the largest and ugliest cur-
dogs in England (which she had picked up, lost and starved by
the wayside) barking at her heels, she scoured the country in all
directions, and came back to dinner, as she herself expressed it,
" with the manners of an Amazon, the complexion of a dairy-
maid, and the appetite of a wolf."
On days when incessant rain kept her in-doors, she amused
herself with a new freak. Making friends everywhere, as be-
came the Queen of Hearts, she even ingratiated herself with the
sour old housekeeper, who had predicted so obstinately that she
was certain to run away. To the amazement of everybody in
the house, she spent hours in the kitchen, learning to make pud-
dings and pies, and trying all sorts of receipts with very varying
success, from an antiquated cookery-book which she bad dis-
covered at the back of my book- shelves. At other times, when
I expected her' to be up-stairs, languidly examining her finery,
and idly polishing her trinkets, I beard of her in the stables
feeding'the rabbits, and talking to the raven, or found her in
the conservatory, fumigating the plants, and half suffocating
the gardener, who was trying to moderate her enthusiasm in the
production of smoke.
Instead of finding amusement, as we had expected, in Owen's
studio, she puckered up her pretty face in grimaces of disgust
at the smell of paint in the room, and declared that the horrors
of the Earthquake at Lisbon made her feel hysterical. Instead
of showing a total want of interest in my business occupations
on the estate, she destroyed my dignity as steward by joining
me in my rounds on her pony, with her vagabond retinue at her
heels. Instead of devouring the novels I had ordered for her,
she left them in the box, and put her feet on it when she felt
sleepy after a hard day's riding. Instead of practicing for hours
every evening at the piano, which I had hired with such a firm
conviction of her using it, she showed us tricks on the cards,
taught us new games, initiated us into the mysteries of domi-
noes, challenged us with riddles, and even attempted to stimu-
late us into acting charades in short, tried every evening
amusement in the whole category except the amusement of
music. Every new aspect of her character was a new surprise
to us, and every fresh occupation that she chose was a fresh con-
tradiction of our previous expectations. The value of experience
as a guide is unquestionable in many of the most important af-
fairs of life; but, speaking for myself personally, I never under-
stood the utter futility of it, where a woman is* concerned, until
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 21
I was brought into habits of daily communication with our fair
guest.
In her domestic relations with ourselves she showed that ex-
quisite nicety of discrimination in studying our characters, hab-
its, and tastes which comes by instinct with women, and which
even the longest practice rarely teaches in similar perfection to
men. She saw at a glance all the underlying tenderness and
generosity concealed beneath Owen's external shyness, irresolu-
tion, and occasional reserve; and, from first to last, even in her
gayest moments, there was always a certain quietly implied
consideration an easy, graceful, delicate deference in her
manner toward my eldest brother, which won upon me and
upon him every hour in the day.
With me she was freer in her talk, quicker in her actions,
readier and bolder in all the thousand little familiarities of our
daily intercourse. When we met in the morning she always
took Owen's hand, and waited till he kissed her on the fore-
head. In my case she put both her hands on my shoulders,
raised herself on tiptoe, and saluted me briskly on both cheeks
in the foreign way. She never differed in opinion with Owen
without propitiating him first by some little artful compliment
in the way of excuse. She argued bpldy with me on every sub-
ject under the sun, law and politics included; and when I
got the better of her, never hesitated to stop me by putting her
hand on my lips, or by dragging me out into the garden in the
middle of a sentence.
As for Morgan, she abandoned all restraint in his case on the
second day of her sojourn among us. She had asked after him
as soon as she was settled in her two rooms on the third story;
had insisted on knowing why he lived at the top of the tower,
and why he had not appeared to welcome her at the door; had
entrapped us into all sorts of damaging admissions, and had
thereupon discovered the true state of the case in less than five
minutes.
From that time my unfortunate second brother became the
victim of all that was mischievous and reckless in her disposi-
tion. She forced him down stairs by a series of maneuvers
which rendered his refuge uninhabitable, and then pretended to
fall violently in love with him. She slipped little pink three-
cornered notes under his door, entreating him to make appoint-
ments with her, or tenderly inquiring bow he would like to see
her hair dressed ar dinner o*n that day. She followed him into
the garden, sometimes to ask for the privilege of smelling his
tobacco-smoke, sometimes to beg for a lock of his hair, or a
fragment of his ragged old dressing-gown, to put among her
keepsakes. She sighed at him when he was in a passion, and
put her handkerchief to her eyes when he was sulky. In short,
she tormented Morgan, whenever she could, catch him, with
such ingenious and such relentless malice that he actually
threatened to go back to London and prey once more, in the
unscrupulous character of a doctor, on the credulity of mankind.
Thus situated in her relations toward ourselves, and thus oc-
cupied by country diversions of her own choosing, I^ss <l
22 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
passed her time at the Glen Tower, excepting now and then a
dull hour in the long evenings, to her guardian's satisfaction
and, all things considered, not without pleasure to herself. Day
followed day in calm and smooth succession, and five quiet
weeks had elapsed out of the six during which her stay was to
last without any remarkable occurrence to distinguish them,
when an event happened which personally affected me in a very
serious manner, and which suddenly caused our handsome Queen
of Hearts to become the object of my deepest anxiety in the
present, and of my dearest hopes for the future.
CHAPTER IV.
AT the end of the fifth week of our guest's stay, among the
letters which the morning's post brought to the Glen Tower
there was one for me from my son George, in the Crimea.
The effect which this letter produced in our little circle ren-
ders it necessary that I should present it here, to speak for itself.
This is what I read alone in my room:
" MY DEAREST FATHER, After the great public news of the
fall of Sebastopol, have you any ears left for small items of pri-
vate intelligence from insignificant subaltern officers ? Prepare,
if you have, for a sudden and startling announcement. How
shall I write the words ? How shall I tell you that I am really
coming home!
" I have a private opportunity of sending this letter, and only
a short time to write it in; so I must put many things, if I can,
into few words. The doctor has reported me fit to travel at last,
and I leave, thanks to the privilege of a wounded man, by the
next ship. The name of the vessel and the time of starting are
on the list which I inclose. I have made all my calculations,
and, allowing for every possible delay, I find that I shall be with
you, at the latest, on the first of November perhaps some days
earlier.
" I am far too full of my return, and of something else con-
nected with it which is equally dear to me, to say anything
about public affairs, more especially as I know that the news-
papers must, by this time, have given you plenty of informa-
tion. Let me fill the rest of this paper with a subject which is
very near to my heart nearer, I am almost ashamed to say, than
the great triumph of my countrymen, in which my disabled
condition prevented me taking any share.
" I gathered from your last letter that Miss Yelverton was to
pay you a visit this autumn, in your capacity of her guardian.
If she is already with you, pray move Heaven and earth to keep
her at the Glen Tower till I come back. Do you anticipate my
confession from this entreaty? My dear, dear father, all my
hopes rest on that one darling treasure which you are guarding
perhaps, at this moment, under your own roof all my happiness
depends on making Jessie Yelverton my wife.
44 If 1 did not sincerely believe that you will heartily approve
Of my choice, I should hardly have ventured on this abrupt con-
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. V3
fession. Now that I have made it, let me go on and tell you
vhy I have kept my attachment up to this tin ret from
~very one even from Jessie herself. (You see I call her by her
Christian name already!)
" I should have risked everything, father, and have laid my
whole heart open before her more than a year ago, hut for the
order which sent our regiment out to take its share in this great
struggle of the Russian war. No ordinary change in my life
would have silenced me on the subject of all others of which I
was most anxious to speak; but this change made me think
seriously of the future; and out of those thoughts came the reso-
lution which I have kept until this time. For her sake, and for
her sake only, I constrained myself to leave the words unspoken
which might have made her my promised wife. I resolved to
spare her the dreadful suspense of waiting for her betrothed hus-
band till the perils of war might, or might not, give him back to
her. I resolved to save her from the bitter grief of my death if
a bullet laid me low. I resolved to preserve her from the
wretched sacrifice of herself if I came back, as many a brave
man will come back from this war, invalided for life. Leaving
her untrammeled by any engagement, unsuspicious perhaps of
my real feelings toward her, I might die, and know that, by
keeping silence, I had spared a pang to the heart that was dear-
est to me. This was the thought that stayed the words on my
lips when I left England, uncertain whether I should ever come
back. If I had loved her less dearly, if her happiness had been
less precious to me, I might have given way under the hard re-
straint I imposed on myself, and might have spoken selfishly at
the last moment.
"And now the time of trial is past; the war is over; and,
although I still walk a little lame, T am, thank God, in as good
health and in much better spirits than when I left home. Oh,
father, if I should lose her now if I should get no reward for
sparing her but the bitterest of all disappointments! Sometimes
I am vain enough to think that I made some little impression on
her; sometimes I doubt if she has a suspicion of my love. She
lives in a gay world she is the center of perpetual admiration-
men with all the qualities to win a woman's heart are perpet-
ually about her can I, dare I hope? Yes, I must! Only kn-p
her, I entreat you, at the Glen Tower. In that quiet world,
in that freedom from frivolities and temptations, she will 1
to me as she might listen nowhere else. Keep her, my dearest,
kindest father and, above all things, breathe not a word to her
of this letter. I have surely earned the privilege of being the
first to open her eyes to the truth. She must know nothing,
now that I am coming home, till she knows all from my o\vu
lips."
Here the writing hurriedly broke off. I am only giving my-
self credit for common feeling, I trust, when I confess that what
I read deeply affected me. I think I never felt so fond of my
boy, or so proud of him, as at the moment when I laid down his
letter.
24 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
As soon as I could control my spirits, I began to calculate the
question of time with a trembling eagerness, which brought back
to my mind my own young days of love and hope. My son was
to come back, at the latest, on the first of November, and Jessie's
allotted six weeks would expire on the twenty-second of October.
Ten days too soon! But for the caprice which had brought her
to us exactly that number of days before her time, she would
have been in the house, as a matter of necessity, on George's
return.
I searched back in my memory for a conversation that I had
held with her a week since on her future plans. Toward the
middle of November, her aunt, Lady Westwick, had arranged
to go to her house in Paris, and Jessie was, of course, to accom-
pany her to accompany her into that very circle of the best
English and the best French society which contained in it the
elements most adverse to George's hopes. Between this time
and that she had no special engagement, and she had only set-
tled to write and warn her aunt of hei return to London a day
or two before she left the Glen Tower.
Under these circumstances, the first, the all-important neces-
sity was to prevail on her to prolong her stay beyond the allotted
six weeks by ten days. After the caution to be silent impressed
on me (and most naturally, poor boy) in George's letter, I felt
that I could only appeal to her on the ordinary ground of hospi-
tality. Would this be sufficient to effect the object ?
I was sure that the hours of the morning and the afternoon
had, thus far, been fully and happily occupied by her various
amusements in-doors and out. She was no more weary of her
days* now than she had been when she first came among us. But
I was by no means so certain that she was not tired of her even-
ings. I had latterly noticed symptoms of weariness after the
lamps were lit, and a suspicious regularity in retiring to bed the
moment the clock struck ten. If I could provide her with a new
amusement for the long evenings, I might leave the days to take
care of themselves, and might then make sure (seeing that she
had no special engagement in London until the middle of No-
vember) of her being sincerely thankful and ready to prolong her
stay.
How was this to be done ? The piano and the novels had both
failed to attract her. What other amusement was there to
offer?
It was useless, at present, to ask myself such questions as
these. I was too much agitated to think collectedly on the most
trifling subjects. I was even too restless to stay in my own
room. My son's letter had given me so fresh an interest in
Jessie, that I was now as impatient to see her as if we were
about to meet for the first, time. I wanted to look at her with
my new eyes, to listen to her with my new ears, to study her
secretly with my new purposes, and my new hopes and fears.
To my dismay (for I wanted the very weather itself to favor
George's interests), it was raining heavily that morning. 1
knew, therefore, that I should probably find her in her own sit-
ting-room, When I knocked at her door, with George's lettei
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. S5
crumpled up in my hand, with George's hopes in full possession
of my heart, it is no exaggeration to say that my nerves were
almost as much fluttered, and my ideas almost as much con-
fused, as they were on a certain memorable day in the far past,
when I rose, in brand-new wig and gown, to set my future pros-
pects at the Bar on the hazard of my first speech.
When I entered the room I found Jessie leaning back lan-
guidly in her largest arm-chair, watching the rain-drops drip-
ping down the window-pane. The unfortunate box of novels
was open by her side, and the books were lying, for the most
part, strewed about on the ground at her feet. One volume lay
open, back upward, on her lap, and her hands were crossed
over it listlessly. To my great dismay, she was yawning
palpably and widely yawning when I came in.
No sooner did I find myself in her presence than an irresistible
anxiety to make some secret discovery of the real state of her
feelings toward George took possession of me. After the cus-
tomary condolences on the imprisonment to which she was sub-
jected by the weather, I said, in as careless a manner as it was
possible to assume,
" I have heard from my son this morning. He talks of being
ordered home, and tells me I may expect to see him before the
end of the year."
I was too cautious to mention the exact date of his return, for
in that case she might have detected my motive for asking her
to prolong her visit.
"Oh, indeed?" she said. "How very nice. How glad you
must be!"
I watched her narrowly. The clear, dark blue eyes met mine
as openly as ever. The smooth, round cheeks kept their fresh
color quite unchanged. The full, good-humored, smiling lips
never trembled or altered their expression in the slightest degree.
Her light checked silk dress, with its pretty trimming of cherry-
colored ribbon, lay quite still over the bosom beneath it. For
all the information I could get from her look and manner, we
might as well have been a hundred miles apart from each other.
Is the best woman in the world little better than a fathomless
abyss of duplicity on certain occasions, and where certain feelings
of her own are concerned? I would rather not think that; and
yet I don't know how to account otherwise for the masterly man-
ner in which Miss Jessie contrived to baffle me.
I was afraid literally afraid to broach the subject of prolong-
ing her sojourn with us on a rainy day, so I changed the topic, in
despair, to the novels that were scattered about her.
"Can you find nothing there," I asked, "to amuse you this
wet morning?"
"There are two or three good novels," she said, carelessly,
" but I read them before 1 left London."
" And the others won't even do for a dull day in the country?"
I went on.
'They might do for some people," she answered, "but not
for tne. I'm rather peculiar, perhaps, in my tastes. I'm sick to
death of novels with an earnest purpose. I'm sick to death of
6 THE 'QUEEN OF HEARTS.
outbursts of eloquence, and large-minded philanthropy, and
graphic descriptions, and unsparing anatomy of the human
heart, and all that sort of thing. Good gracious me! isn't it the
original intention or purpose, or whatever you call it, of a worl^
of fiction, to set out distinctly by telling a story? And how-
many of these books, I should like to know, do that? Why, so
far as telling a story is concerned, the greater part of them,
might as well be sermons as novels. Oh, dear me! what I
\ want is something that seizes hold of my interest, and makes me
i forget when it is time to dress for dinner something that keeps
' me reading, reading, reading, in a breathless state, to find out
the end. You know what I mean at least you ought. Why,
there was that little chance story you told me yesterday in the
garden don't you remember? about your strange client, whom
you never saw again; I declare it was much more interesting
than half these novels, because it was a story. Tell me another
about your young days, when you were seeing the world, and
meeting with all sorts of remarkable people. Or, no don't tell
it now keep it till the evening, when we all want something
to stir us up. You old people might amuse us young ones out of
your own resources of tener than you do. It was very kind of
you to get me these books, but with all respect to them, I would
rather have the rummaging of your memory than the rummag-
ing of this box. What's the matter ? Are you afraid I have
found out the window in your bosom already ?"
I had risen from my chair at her last words, and I felt that
my face must have flushed at the same moment. She had
started an idea in my mind the very idea of which I had been
in search when I was pondering over the best means of amusing
her in the long autumn evenings.
I parried her questions by the best excuses I could offer; changed
the conversation for the next five minutes, and then, making a
sudden remembrance of business my apology for leaving her,
hastily withdrew to devote myself to the new idea in the solitude
of my ow r n room.
A little quiet thinking convinced me that I had discovered a
means not only of occupying her idle time, but of decoying her
into staying on with us, evening by evening, until my son's re-
turn. The new project which she had herself unconsciously
suggested involved nothing less than acting forthwith on her
own chance hint, and appealing to her interest and curiosity by
the recital of incidents and adventures drawn from my own per-
sonal experience, and (if I could get them to help me) from the
experience of my brothers as well. Strange people and startling
events had connected themselves with Owen's past life as a
clergyman, with Morgan's past life as a doctor, and with my past
life as lawyer, which offered elements of interest of a strong and
striking kind ready to our hands. If these narratives were
written plainly and unpretendingly; if one of them was read
every evening, under circumstances that should pique the curi-
osity and impress the imagination of our young guest, the very
occupation was found for her weary hours which would gratify
her tastes, appeal to her natural interest in the early lives of my
THE QUEEN OF T9. 27
brothers and myself, and lure her insensibly into prolonging her
lays without exciting a suspicion 01 iotive
for detaining her.
I sat <!o\vn at my desk; I hid my face in my hands to keep out
all impressions of external and present things; and ]
back through the mysterious labyrinth of the Past, through the
dim, ever-deepening twilight of the years that were gone.
Slowly, out of the awful shadows, the Ghosts of Memory rose
about me. The dead population of a vanished world came
to life round me, a living man. Men and women whose earthly
image had ended long since, returned upon me from the un-
known spheres, and fond familiar voices burst their way back to
:irs through the heavy silence of the grave. Moving by me
in the nameless inner light, which no eyes saw but mine, the
procession of immaterial scenes and beings unrolled its
silent length. I saw once more the pleading face of a friend of
early days, with the haunting vision that had tortured him
through life by his side again with the long-forgotten dc
in his eyes which had once touched my heart, and bound i
him, till I had tracked his destiny through its darkest windings
i end. I saw the figure of an innocent woman passing to
and fro in an ancient country house, with the shadow of a
strange suspicion stealing after her wherever she went. I saw
a man worn by hardship and old age, stretched dreaming on the
straw of a stable, and muttering in his dream the terrible se-
crets of his life. Other scenes and persons followed these, less
vivid in their revival, but still always recognizable and distinct;
mg girl alone bjf night, and in peril of her life, in a cottage
on a dreary moor an upper chamber of an inn, with two beds
in it; the curtains of one bed closed, and a man standing by
them, waiting, yet dreading to draw them back a husband se-
v following the first traces of a mystery which his wife's
anxious love had fatally hidden from him since the day when
they first met; these, and other visions like them, shadowy re-
ons of the living beings and the real events that had
once, peopled the solitude and the emptiness around me. They
haunted me still when I tried to break the chain of thought
li my own efforts had wound about my mind; they foil
me to and fro in the room; and they came out with me when I
left it. I had lifted the veil from the Past for myself, and 1 was
now to rest no more till I had lifted it for others.
I went at once to my eldest brother and showed him
Id him all that I have written 1 is kind heart
mine had been. He felt for my suspense; he
shared my anxiety, belaid aside his own occupation on
'nly tell me," he said, ho\v I can help, and I will
every hour in the day to you and t<> '
I had come to him with my mind ah full of his
life as of my own; I recalled to his memory
rience as a working clergyman in London king
amo; liieh he had preserved for half his life!
the \ e of which he had ('< long sincr; 1 re-
d to him the
28 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ministered in his sacred office, and whose stories he had heard
from their own lips, or received under their own handwriting.
When we parted he was certain of what he was wanted to do,
and was resolute on that very day to begin the work.
I went to Morgan next, and appealed to him as I had already
appealed to Owen. It was only part of his old character to start
all sorts of eccentric objections in reply to affect a cynical in-
difference, which he was far from really and truly feeling; and
to indulge in plenty of quaint sarcasm on the subject of Jessie
and bis nephew George. I waited till these little surf ace- ebulli-
tions had all expended themselves, and then pressed my point
again with the earnestness and anxiety that I really felt.
Evidently touched by the manner of my appeal to him, even
more than by the language in which it was expressed, Morgan
took refuge in his customary abruptness, spread out his paper
violently on the table, seized his pen and ink, and told me quite
fiercely to give him his work and let him tackle it at once.
I set myself to recall to his memory some very remarkable ex-
periences of his own in his professional days, but he stopped me
before I had half done.
" I understand," he said, taking a savage dip at the ink, " I'm
to make her flesh creep, and to frighten her out of her wits. I'll
doit with a vengeance!"
Reserving to myself privately an editorial right of supervision
over Morgan's contributions, I returned to my own room to be-
gin my share by far the largest one of the task before us.
The stimulus applied to my mind by my son's letter must have
been a strong one indeed, for I had hardly been more than an
hour at my desk before I found the old literary facility of my
youthful days, when I was a writer for the magazines, returning
to me as if by magic. I worked on unremittingly till dinner-
time, and then resumed the pen after we had all separated for
the night. At two o'clock the next morning I found myself
God help me! masquerading, as it were, in my own long-lost
character of a hard- writing young man, with the old familiar
cup of strong tea by my side, and the old familiar wet towel tied
round my head.
My review of the progress I had made, when I looked back at
my pages of manuscript, yielded all the encouragement I wanted
to drive me on. It is only just, however, to add to the record of
this first day's attempt, that the literary labor which it involved
was by no means of the most trying kind. The great strain on
the intellect the strain of invention was spared me by my hav-
ing real characters and events ready to my hand. If I had been
called on to create, I should, in all probability, have suffered
severely by contrast with the very worst of those unfortunate
novelists whom Jessie had so rashly and so thoughtlessly con-
demned. It is not wonderful that the public should rarely know
how to estimate the vast service which is done to them by the
production of a good book, seeing that they are, for the most
part, utterly ignorant of the immense difficulty of writing even
a bad one.
The next day was fine, to my great relief j and our visitor,
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 29
while we were at work, enjoyed her customary scamper on the
pony, and her customary rambles afterward in the neighborhood
of the house. Although I had interruptions to contend with on
the part of Owen and Morgan, neither of whom possessed my
'erience in the production of what heavy people cull "light
literature/' and both of whom consequently wanted assistance,
still I made great progress, and earned my hours of repose on the
ling of the second day.
On that evening I risked the worst, and opened my negotiations
for the future with the "Queen of Hearts."
About an hour after the tea had been removed, and when I
happened to be left alone in the room with her, I noticed that she
rose suddenly and went to the writing-table. My suspicions ,
were aroused directly, and I entered on the dangerous subject by
inquiring if she intended to write to her aunt.
"Yes," she said. " I promised to write when the last week
came. If you had paid me the compliment of asking me to stay
a little longer, I should have returned it by telling you I was
sorry to go. As it is. I mean to be sulky and say nothing."
With those words she took up her pen to begin the letter.
" Wait a minute." I remonstrated. "I was just on the point
of begging you to stay when I spoke."
" Were you indeed ?" she returned. " I never believed in co-
incidences of that sort before, but now, of course, I put the
most unlimited faith in them."
" Will you believe in plain proofs?" I asked, adopting her hu-
mor. " How doJyou think I and my brothers have been employ-
ing our&elves alTto-day and all day yesterday? Guess what we
have been about?"
"Congratulating yourselves in secret on my approaching de-
parture," she answered, tapping her chin saucily with the feath-
er-end of her pen.
I seized the opportunity of astonishing her, and forthwith told
her the truth. She started up from the table, and approached
me with the eagerness of a child, her eyes sparkling and her
cheeks flushed.
" Do you really mean it?" she said.
I assured her that I was in earnest. She thereupon not only
expressed an interest in our undertaking, which was evidently
sincere, but, with characteristic impatience, wanted to begin
the first evening's reading on that very night. I disappointed
her sadly by explaining that we required time to prepare our-
selves, and by assuring her that we should not be ready for the
next five days. On the sixth day, I added, we should be able to
begin, and to go on, without missing an evening, for probably
days more.
"The next five days?" she repeated. "Why, that will just
bring us to the end of my six weeks' visit. I suppose you are
not setting a trap to catch me? Tin's is not a trick of you three
eiiniiin^ old gentlemen to make me stay on, is it?''
I quailed inwardly as that dangerously close guess at the truth
ed her lips.
- fou forget," I said, " that the idea only occurred to me
30 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
after what you said yesterday. If it had struck me earlier, we
should have been ready earlier, and then where would your sus-
picions have been ?"
11 1 am ashamed of having felt them," she said, in her frank,
hearty way. " I retract the word ' trap,' and I beg pardon for
calling you 'three cunning old gentlemen.' But what am I to
say to my aunt?"
She moved back to the writing-table as she spoke.
''Say nothing," I replied, " till you have heard the first story.
Shut up the paper-case till that time, and then decide when you
will open it again to write to your aunt."
She hesitated and smiled. That terribly close guess of hers
was not out of her mind yet.
"I rather fancy," she said, slyly, " that the first story will
turn out to be the best of the whole series."
" Wrong again," I retorted. " I have a plan for letting chance
decide which of the stories the first one shall be. They shall be
all numbered as they are done; corresponding numbers shall be
written inside folded pieces of card and well mixed together;
you shall pick out any one card you like; you shall declare the
number written within; and, good or bad, the story that an-
swers to that number shall be the story that is read. Is that
fair?"
"Fair!" she exclaimed; "it's better than fair; it makes me of
some importance; and I must be more or less than woman not
to appreciate that."
" Then you consent to wait patiently for the next five days?"
" As patiently as I can."
"And you engage to decide nothing about writing to your
aunt until you have heard the first story?"
" I do," sh<j said, returning to the writing-table. " Behold the
proof of it." She raised her hand with theatrical solemnity,
and closed the paper case with an impressive bang.
I leaned back in my chair with my mind at ease for the first
time since the receipt of my son's letter.
" Only let George return by the first of November," I thought
to myself, " and all the aunts in Christendom shall not prevent
Jessie Yelverton from being here to meet him."
THE TEN DAYS.
THE FIRST DAY.
SHOWERY and unsettled. In spite of the weather, Jessie put
on my Mackintosh cloak and rode off over the hills to one of
Owen's outlying farms. She was already too impatient to wait
quietly for the evening's reading in the house, or to enjoy any
amusement less exhilarating than a gallop in the open air.
I was, on my side, as anxious and as uneasy as our guest.
Now that the six weeks of her stay had expired now that
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 31
lay had ivilly arrived, on the evening of which the first story
;td, I began to calculate the chances of failure as
v.i-ll i unices or success. What if my own estimate of
the ii "f the stories turned out to be a false one? "What
ic unforeseen accident occurred to delay my son's return
beyond t<-n days?
The arrival of the newspaper had already become an event of
the deepest importance to me. Unreasonable as it was to ex-
pect any tidings of George at so early a date, I began, neverthe-
less, on this first of our days of suspense, to look for the name
of his ship in the columns of telegraphic news. The mere me-
chanical act of looking was some relief to my overstrained feel-
ings, although I might have known, and did know, that the
search, for the present, could lead to no satisfactory result.
Toward noon I shut myself up with my collection of manu-
scripts to revise them for the last time. Our exertions had thus
far produced but six of the necessary ten stories. As they were
only, however, to be read, one by one, on six successive even-
ings, and as we could therefore count on plenty of leisure in the
daytime, I was in no fear of our failing to finish the little
series.
Of the six complete stories I had written two, and had found a
third in the form of a collection of letters among nay papers.
Morgan had only written one, and this solitary contribution of
his had given me more trouble than both my own put together,
in consequence of the perpetual intrusion of my brother's eccen-
tricities in every part of his narrative. The process of removing
these quaint turns and frisks of Morgan's humor which, how-
ever amusing they might have been in an essay, were utterly out
of place in a story appealing to suspended interest for its effect
certainly tried my patience and my critical faculty (such as it is)
more severely than any other part of our literary enterprise which
had fallen to my share.
Owen's investigations among his papers had supplied us with
the two remaining narratives. One was contained in a letter,
and the other in the form of a diary, and both had been received
by him directly from the writers. Besides these contributions,
he had undertaken to help us by some work of his own, and had
been engaged for the last four days in molding certain events
which had happened within his personal knowledge into the
form of a story. His extreme fastidiousness as a writer inter-
fered, however, so seriously with his progress that he was still
sadly behindhand, and was likely, though less heavily burdened
than Morgan or myself, to be the last to complete his allotted
task.
Such was our position, and such the resources at our com-
mand, when the first of the Ten Days dawned upon us. Shortly
after four in the afternoon I completed my work of revision,
numbered the manuscripts from one to six exactly as they hap-
pened to lie under my hand, and inclosed them all in a port-folio,
covered with purple morocco, which became known from that
time by the imposing title of the Purple Volume.
Miss Jessie returned from her expedition just as I was tying
32 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
the strings of the port-folio, and woman-like, instantly asked
leave to peep inside, which favor I, man-like, positively declined
to grant.
As soon as dinner was over our guest retired to array herself
in magnificent evening costume. It had been arranged that
the readings were to take place in her own sitting-room; and she
was so enthusiastically desirous to do honor to the occasion, that
she regretted not having brought with her from London the dress
ii) which she had been presented at court the year before, and
not having borrowed certain materials for additional splendor
which she briefly described as "aunt's diamonds."
Toward eight o'clock we assembled in the sitting-room, and a
strangely assorted company we were. At the head of the table,
radiant in silk and jewelry, flowers and furbelows, sat the Queen
of Hearts, looking so handsome and so happy that I secretly
congratulated my absent son on the excellent taste he had shown
in falling in love with her. Round this bright young creature
(Owen at the foot of the table, and Morgan and T on either
side) sat her three wrinkled, gray-headed, dingily- attired hosts,
and just behind her. in still more inappropriate companionship,
towered the spectral figure of the man in armor, which had so
unaccountably attracted her on her arrival. This strange scene
was lighted up by candles in high and heavy brass sconces. Be-
fore Jessie stood a mighty china punch-bowl of the olden time,
containing the folded pieces of card, inside which were
written the numbers to be drawn, and before Owen reposed
the Purple Volume from which one of us was to read. The
walls of the room were hung all round with faded tapestry; the
clumsy furniture was black with age; and, in spite of the light
from the sconces, the lofty ceiling was almost lost in gloom. If
Rembrandt could have painted our background, Reynolds our
guest, and Hogarth ourselves, the picture of the scene would
have been complete.
When the old clock over the tower gateway had chimed eight,
I rose to inaugurate the proceedings by requesting Jessie to take
one of the pieces of card out of the punch-bowl, and to declare
the number.
She laughed: then suddenly became frightened and serious;
then looked at me, and said, "It was dreadfully like business;"
and then entreated Morgan not to stare at her, or, in the present
state of her nerves, she should upset the punch-bowl. At last
she summoned resolution enough to take out one of the pieces of
card and to unfold it.
" Declare the number, my dear," said Owen.
" Number Four," answered Jessie, making a magnificent
courtesy, and beginning to look like herself again.
Owen opened the Purple Volume, searched through the manu-
scripts, and suddenly changed color. The cause of his discom-
posure was soon explained. Malicious fate had assigned to the
most diffident individual injthe company the trying responsibility
of leading the way. Num oer Four was one of the two narratives
which Owen had found among his own papers.
"I am almost sorry," began my eldest brother, confusedly,
THE QVEEX OF HEARTS. 33
"that it has fallen to my turn to ivad lirst. T hardly know
which 1 If or my .story."
"Try arid fancy you a'n- in the pulpi
sarcastically. * ( icntlemcn of your cloth, Owen, seldom
to distrust themselves or their manuscripts when t hey --ct into
that position.''
"The fact is," continued Own. mildly impenetrable to his
brother's cynical remark, "that the little thing I am going to
try and read is hardly a story at all. I am afraid it is only an
anecdote. I became possessed of the letter which contains my
narrative under these circumstances. At the time when 1 was
a clergyman in London, my church was attended for some
months by a lady who was the wife of a large farmer in the
country. She had been obliged to come to town, and to remain
there for the sake of one of her children, a little boy, who re-
quired the best medical advice."
At the words " medical advice" Morgan shook his head, and
growled to himself contemptuously. Owen went on:
" While she was attending in this way to one child, his share
in her love was unexpectedly disputed by another, who came
into the world rather before his time. I baptized the baby, and
was asked to the little christening party afterward. This was
my first introduction to the lady, and I was very favorably im-
pressed by her; not so much on account of her personal appear-
ance, for she was but a little woman and had no pretensions to
beauty, as on account of a certain simplicity, and hearty, down-
right kindness in her manner, as well as of an excellent frank-
ness and good sense in her conversation. One of the guests
present, who saw how she had interested me, and who spoke
of her in the highest terms, surprised me by inquiring if I
should ever have supposed that quiet, good-humored little
woman to be capable of performing an act of courage which
would have tried the nerves of the boldest man in England? I
naturally enough begged for an explanation; but my neighbor
at the table only smiled and said. ' If you can find an opportunity,
ask her what happened at the Black Cottage, and you will hear
something that will astonish you. I acted on the hint as soon as
I had an opportunity of speaking to her privately. The lady
answered that it was too long a story to tell then, and explai
on my suggesting that she should relate it on some future day,
that she was about to start for her country home the next morn-
ing. ' But,' she was good enough to add, ' as I have been under
great obligations to you for many Sunda
interested in this matter, 1 will employ my lii-t leisure time
after my return in telling you by writing, instead of by word of
mouth, what really happened to me on one memorable night of
my life in the Black Cottage.'
" She faithfully performed her promise. In a fortnight after-
ward I received from her the narrative which I am now about to
read."
34 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
BROTHER OWEN'S STORY OF THE SIEGE OF THE BLACK COTTAGE.
To begin at the beginning, I must take you back to the time
after my mother's death, when my only brother had gone to sea,
when my sister was out at service, and when I lived alone with
my father in the midst of a moor in the west of England.
The moor was covered with great limestone rocks, and inter-
sected here and there by streamlets. The nearest habitation to
oui-s was situated about a mile and a half off, where a strip of
the fertile land stretched out into the waste like a tongue. Here
the out-buildings of the great Moor Farm, then in the possession
of my husband's father, began. The farm-lands stretched down
gently into a beautiful rich valley, lying nicely sheltered by the
high platform of the moor. When the ground began to rise
again, miles and miles away, it led up to a country house called
Holme Manor, belonging to a gentleman named Knifton. Mr.
Knifton had lately married a young lady whom my mother had
nursed, and whose kindness and friendship for me, her foster-
sister, I shall remember gratefully to the last day of my life.
These and other slight particulars it is necessary to my story
that I should tell you, and it is also necessary that you should
be especially careful to bear them well in mind.
My father was by trade a stone-mason. His cottage stood a
mile and a half from the nearest habitation. In all other direc-
tions we were four or five times that distance from neighbors.
Being very poor people, this lonely situation had one great at-
traction for us we lived rent free oil it. In addition to that ad-
vaiitage, the stones, by shaping which my father gained his
livelihood, lay all about him at his very door, so that he thought
his position, solitary as it was, quite an enviable one. I can
hardly say that I agreed with him, though I never complained.
I was very fond of my father, and managed to make the best of
my loneliness with the thought of being useful to him. Mrs.
Knifton wished to take me into her service when she married,
but I declined, unwillingly enough, for my father's sake. If I
had gone away, he would have had nobody to live with him;
and my mother made me promise on her death-bed that he
should never be left to pine away alone in the midst of the
bleak moor.
Our cottage, small as it was, was stoutly and snugly built,
with stone from the moor as a matter of course. The walls were
lined inside and fenced outside with wood, the gift of Mr. Knif-
ton's father to my father. This double covering of cracks and
crevices, which would have been superfluous in a sheltered po-
sition, was absolutely necessary, in our exposed situation, to
keep out the cold winds which, excepting just the summer months
swept over 'us continually all the year round. The outside
boards, covering our roughly built stone walls, my father pro-
tected against the wet with pitch and tar. This gave to our lit-
tle abode a curiously dark, dingy look", especially when it was
seen from a distance; and so it had come to be called in the
neighborhood, even before I was born, the Black Cottage,
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 35
I have now related the preliminary particulars which it is de-
'e that you should know, and may proceed at once to the
11 ing you iny story.
One cloudy autumn day, when I was rather more than eighteen
herdsman walked over from Moor Farm with a let-
hich had been left there for my father. It came from a
builder living at our county town, half a day's journey off, and
it invited my father to come to him and give his judgment
>r some stone-work on a very large scale.
r's expenses for loss of time were to be paid, and lie
10 have his share of employment afterward in preparing
t IK- stone. Ho was only too glad, therefore, to obey the direc-
which the letter contained, and to prepare at once for his
long walk to the county town.
Considering-the time at which he received the letter, and the
of resting before he attempted to return, it was impos-
sible for him to avoid being away from home for one night, at
. He proposed to me, in case I disliked being left alone in
the Black Cottage, to lock the door, and to take me to Moor
Farm to sleep with any one of the milkmaids who would give
share of her bed. I by no means liked the notion of sleep-
s 'itli a girl whom I did not know, and I saw no reason to
feel afraid of being left alone for only one night; so I declined.
No thieves had ever come near us; our poverty was sufficient
11 against them; and of other dangers there were none
that even the most timid person could apprehend. Accordingly,
I got my father's dinner, laughing at the notion of my taking
re under the protection of a milkmaid at Moor Farm. He
started for his walk as soon as he had done, saying he should
nd be back by dinner-time the next day, and leaving me and
my cat Polly to take care of the house.
I had cleared the table and brightened up the fire, and had sat
down to my work with the cat dozing at my feet, when I heard
the trampling of horses, and running to the door, saw Mr. and
Mrs. Knifton, with their groom behind them, riding up to the
Black ( 'ottage. It was part of the young lady's kindm
i an opportunity of coming to pay me a friendly vi.->it,
and her husband was generally willing to accompany her for
Ice. I made my best courtesy, tht-r.-fi.n-. with a
deal of pleasure, but with no particular snrpri
them. They dismounted and entered the cottage, laughing
talking in great spirit^. I ><.<.n h.-anl that tl
tity town for which my fat her was bound, and ;
led to stay with some friends there for a 1 ml to
irn home on horseback, as they went out.
I heard this, and I also dis<-o\, ivd that they had been having
an argument, in jest, about money matters, as tin long
Mis. Knifton had accused her husband of iu-
iiid of never being abl with
v in his p.M-k.-t without spending it all, if 1; .uld.
. Mr. Knitii'ii had laughin
him--.lt' ! > ing t hat all hi-
36 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
for his wife, and that, if he spent it lavishly, it was under her
sole influence and superintendence.
"We are going to Cliverton now," he said to Mrs. Knifton,
naming the county town, and warming himself at our poor fire
just as pleasantly as if he had been standing at his own grand
hearth. "You will stop to admire every pretty thing in every
one of the Cliverton shop windows; I shall hand you the purse,
and you will go and buy. When we have reached home again,
and you have had time to grow tired of your purchases, you will
clasp your hands in amazement, and declare that you are quite
shocked at my habits of inveterate extravagance. I am only the
banker who keeps the money; you, my love, are the spendthrift
who throws it all away."
" Am I, sir?" said Mrs. Knifton, with a look of mock indigna-
tion. "We will see if I am to be misrepresented in this way
with impunity. Bessie, my dear" (turning to me), "you shall
judge how far I deserve the character which that unscrupulous
man has just given to me. Jam the spendthrift, am I? And
you are only the banker? Very well. Banker, give me my
money at once, if you please."
Mr. Knifton laughed, and took some gold and silver from his
waistcoat pocket.
"No, no," said Mrs. Knifton, " you may want what you have
got there for necessary expenses. Is that all the money you
have about you? What do I feel here?" and she tapped her
husband on the chest, just over the breast-pocket of his coat.
Mr. Knifton laughed again, and produced his pocket-book.
His wife snatched it out of his hand, opened it, and drew out
some bank notes, put them back again immediately, and closing
the pocket-book, stepped across the room to my poor mother's lit-
tle walnut-wood bookcase, the only bit of valuable furniture we
had in the house.
" What are you going to do there ?" asked Mr. Knifton, follow-
ing his wife.
Mrs. Knifton opened the glass door of the bookcase, put the
pocket-book in a vacant place on one of the lower shelves, closed
and locked the door again, and gave me the key.
"You called me a spendthrift just now," she said. "There
is my answer. Not one farthing of that money shall you spend
at Cliverton on me. Keep the key in your pocket, Bessie, and
whatever Mr. Knifton may say, on no account let him have it
until we call again on our way back. No, sir, I won't trust you
with that money in your pocket in the town of Cliverton. I will
make sure of your taking it all home again, by leaving it here in
more trustworthy hands than yours until we ride back. Bessie,
my dear, what do you say to that as a lesson in economy, in-
flicted on a prudent husband by a spendthrift wife ?"
She took Mr. Knif ton's arm while she spoke, and ^drew him
away to the door. He protested and made some resistance, but
she easily carried her point, for he was far too fond of her to
have a will of his own injmy trifling matter between them.
Whatever the men might say, Mr. Knifton was a model hus-
band in the estimation of all the women who knew him.
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 37
" You will see us as we come back, Bessie. Till then you are
our hanker, ami tin- pocket-book is yours," en, d Mrs. Knifton,
gayly, at the door. Her husband lifted her into the saddle,
mounted himself, and away they both galloped over the mo
wild and hapj>\ as a couple of children.
Although my being trusted with money by Mrs. Knifton was
no novelty (in her maiden days she always employed me to pay
her dressmaker's bills), I did not feel quite easy at having a
pocket-book full of bank-notes left by her in my charge. I had
no positive apprehensions about the safety of the deposit placed
in my hands, but it was one of the odd points in my character
then (and I think it is still) to feel an unreasonably strong objec-
tion to charging myself with money responsibilities of any kind,
even to suit the convenience of my dearest friends. As soon as
I was left alone, the very sight of the pocket-book behind the
glass door of the bookcase began to worry me, and instead of re-
turning to my work, I puzzled my brains about finding a place
to lock it up in, where it would not be exposed to the view of
any chance passers-by who might stray into the Black Cottage.
This was not an easy matter to compass in a poor house like
ours, where we had nothing valuable to put under lock and key.
After running over various hiding-places in my mind, I thought
of my tea-caddy, a present from Mrs. Knifton, which I always
kept out of harm's way in my own bedroom. Most unluckily
as it afterward turned out instead of taking the pocket-book to
the tea-caddy, I went into my room first to take the tea-caddy
to the pocket-book. I only acted in this roundabout way from
sheer thoughtlessness, and severely enough I was punished for
it, as you will acknowledge yourself when you have read a page
or two more of my story.
I was just getting the unlucky tea-caddy out of my cup-
board, when I heard footsteps in the passage, and, running out
immediately, saw two men walk into the kitchen the room in
which I had received Mr. and Mrs. Knifton. I inquired what they
wanted sharply enough, and one of them answered immediately
that they wanted niy father. He turned toward me, of course,
as he spoke, and I recognized him as a stone-mason, going
among his comrades by the name of Shifty Dick. He bore a
very bad character for everything but wrestling, a sport for
which the workingmen of our parts were famous all through the
county. Shifty Dick was champion, and he had got his name
from some tricks in wrestling, for which he was celebr
He was a tall, heavy man, with a lowering, scarred face, and
huge, hairy hands the last visitor in the whole world that I
should have been glad to see under any circumstances. His
companion was a stranger, whom he addressed by the name of
Jerry a quick, dapper, wicked-looking man, who took off his
cap to me with mock politeness, and showed, in so doing, a
bald head, with some very ugly- looking knobs on it. I dis-
trusted him worse than I did Shifty Dick, and managed i
between his leering eyes and the bookcase, as I told the t w> that
my father was gone out, and that 1 did not expect him back till
the next day.
88 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
The words were hardly out of my mouth before I repented
that my anxiety to get rid of my unwelcome visitors had made
me incautious enough to acknowledge that my father would be
away from home for the whole night.
Shifty Dick and his companion looked at each other when I
unwisely let out the truth, but made no remark except to ask
me if I would give them a drop of cider. I answered sharply
that I had no cider in the house, having no fear of the conse-
quences of refusing them drink, because 1 knew that plenty of
men were at work within hail, in a neighboring quarry. The
two looked at each other again when I denied having any cider
to give them, and Jerry (as I am obliged to call him. knowing no
other name by which to distinguish the fellow) took off his cap
to me once more, and with a kind of blackguard gentility upon
him, said they would have the pleasure of calling the next day,
when my father was at home. I said good-afternoon as ungra-
ciously as possible, and, to my great relief, they both left the
cottage immediately afterward.
As soon as they were well away, I watched them from the
door. They trudged off in the direction of Moor Farm; and, as
it was beginning to get dusk, I soon lost sight of them.
Half an hour afterward I looked out again.
The wind had lulled with the sunset, but the mist was rising,
and a heavy rain was beginning to fall. Never did the lonely
prospect of the moor look so dreary as it looked to my eyes that
evening. Never did I regret any slight thing more sincerely
than I then regretted the leaving of Mr. Knifton's pocket-book
in my charge. I cannot say that I suffered under any actual
alarm, for I felt next to certain that neither Shifty Dick nor
Jerry had got a chance of setting eyes on so small a thing as the
pocket-book while they were in the kitchen; but there was a
kind of vague distrust troubling me a suspicion of the night a
dislike of being left by myself, which I never remember having
experienced before. This feeling so increased after I had closed
the door and gone back to the kitchen, that when I heard the
voices of the quarrymen as they passed our cottage on their way
home to the village in the valley below Moor Farm, I stepped
out into the passage with a momentary notion of telling them
how I was situated, and asking them for advice and protection.
I had hardly formed this idea, however, before I dismissed it.
None of the quarrymen were intimate friends of mine. I had a
nodding acquaintance with them, and believed them to be hon-
est men, as times went. But my own common sense told me
that what little knowledge of their characters I had was by no
means sufficient to warrant me in admitting them into my con-
fidence in the matter of the pocket-book. I had seen enough of
poverty and poor men to know what a terrible temptation a large
sum of money is to those whose whole lives are passed in scrap-
ing up sixpences by weary hard work. It is one thing to write
fine sentiments in books about incorruptible honesty, and an-
other thing to put those sentiments in practice, when one day's
work is all that a man has to set up in the way of an obstacle
fret ween starvation and his own fireside.
'/'///; QUEEN OF UK ARTS. 39
The only resource that remained was to carry the pocket-book
\vith nir to Moor Farm, and ask permission to pass the night
there. But I could not persuade myself that there was any real
necessity for taking such a course as this; and, if the truth must
be told, my pride revolted at the idea of presenting myself in
the character of a coward before the people at the farm. Tim-
idity is thought rather a graceful attraction among ladies, but
among poor women it is something to be laughed at. A woman
with less spirit of her own than I had, and always shall have,
would have considered twice in my situation before she
made up her mind to encounter the jokes of plowmen and
the jeers of milkmaids. As for me, I had hardly considered
about going to the farm, before I despised myself for entertain-
ing any such notion. "No, no," thought I, "I am not the
woman to walk a mile and a half through rain, and mist, and
darkness, to tell a whole kitchenful of people that I am afraid.
Come what may, here I stop till father gets back."
Having arrived at that valiant resolution, the first thing I did
was to lock and bolt the back and front doors, and see to the
security of every shutter in the house.
That duty performed. I made a blazing fire, lighted my can-
dle, and sat 6x>wn to tea, as snug and comfortable as possible.
I could hardly believe now, with the light in the room, and the
sense of security inspired by the closed doors and shutters, that I
had ever felt even theslightest apprehension earlier in the day. I
sang as I washed up the tea-things; and even the cat seemed to
ratch the infection of my good spirits. I never knew the pretty
creature so playful as she was that evening.
The tea-things put by, I took up my knitting, and worked
away at it so long that I began at last to get drowsy. The fire
was "so bright and comforting that I could not muster resolution
enough to leave it and goto bed. 1 sat staring lazily into the
blaze, with my knitting on my lap sat till the splashing of the
rain outside, and the fitful, sullen sobbing of the wind grew
fainter and fainter on my ear The last sounds I heard before I
fairly dozed off to sleep were the cheerful crackling of the fire
and the steady purring of the cat, as she basked luxuriously in
the warm light on the hearth. Those were the last sounds
before I fell asleep. The sound that woke me was one loud bang
at the door.
I started up, with my heart (as the saying is) in my mouth,
with a frightful momentary shuddering at the roots of my hair
I started up breathless, cold, and motionless, waiting in
silence, I hardly knew for what, doubtful at first whether I had
dreamed about the bang at the door, or whether the blow had
really been struck on it.
In a minute or less there came a second bang, louder than the
first. I ran out into the p;i
" Who's th<
"Let us in, v answered a voire, which I recognized imrne< I i
ly as the voice of Shifty Dick.
"Wait a bit, my de.-ir. ;iml let m< explain." said a second T.
in the low, oily, jeering tonesof Dick's companion the wickedly
40 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
clever little man whom he called Jerry. " You are alone in the
house, my pretty little dear. You may crack your sweet voice
with screeching, and there's nobody near to hear you. Listen
to reason, my love, find let us in. We don't want cider this
time we only want a very neat- looking pocket-book which you
happen to have, and your late excellent mother's four silver tea-
spoons, which you keep so nice and clean on the chimney-piece.
If you let us in we won't hurt a hair of your head, my cherub,
and we promise to go away the moment we have got what we
want, unless you particularly wish us to stop to tea. If you
keep us out, we shall be obliged to break into the house, and
then "
" And then," burst in Shifty Dick, " we'll mash you!"
"Yes," said Jerry, "we'll mash you, my beauty. But you
won't drive us to doing that, will you ? You will let us in ?''
This long parley gave me time to recover the effect which the
first bang at the door had produced on my nerves. The threats
of the two villains would have lerrified some women out of their
senses, but the only result they produced on me was violent in-
dignation. I had, thank God, a strong spirit of my own, and
the cool, contemptuous insolence of the man Jerry effectually
roused it.
" You cowardly villains!" I screamed at them through the
door. " You think you can frighten me because lam only a
poor girl left alone in the house. You ragamuffin thieves, I defy
you both! Our bolts are strong, our shutters are thick. I am
here to keep my father's house safe, and keep it I will against
an army of you!"
"You may imagine what a passion I was in w r hen I vapored and
blustered in that way. I heard Jerry laugh, and Shifty Dick
swear a whole mouthful of oaths. Then there was a dead silence
for a minute or two, and then the two ruffians attacked the
door.
I rushed into the kitchen and seized the poker, and then heap-
ed wood on the fire, and lighted all the candles I could find, for
I felt as though I could keep up my courage better if I had
plenty of light. Strange and improbable as it may appear, the
next thing that attracted my attention was my poor pussy,
crouched up, panic-stricken, in a corner. I was so fond of the
little creature that I took her up in my arms and carried her into
my bedroom, and put her inside my bed. A comical tiling to do
in a situation of deadly peril, was it not? But it seemed quite
natural and proper at the time.
All this while the blows were falling faster and faster on the
door. They were dealt, as I conjectured, with heavy stones
picked up from the ground outside. Jerry sang at his wicked
work, and Shifty Dick swore.
As I left the bedroom after putting the cat under cover, I
heard the lower panel of the door begin to crack.
I ran into the kitchen and huddled our four silver spoons into
my pocket; then took the unlucky book with the bank-notes
and put it in the bosom of my dress. I was determined to de-
fend the property confided to my care with my life. Just as I
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 41
had secured the pocket-book I heard the door splintering, and
rushed into the passage again with my heavy kitchen poker lift-
ed in both hands.
I was in time to see the bald head of Jerry, with the ugly-look-
ing knobs on it, pushed into the passage through a great rent in
one of the lower panels of the door.
" Get out, you villain, or I'll brain you on the spot!" I screech-
ed, threatening him with the poker.
Mr. Jerry took his head out again much faster than he put it
in.
The next thing that came through the rent was a long pitch-
fork, which they darted at me from the outside, to move me
from the door, i struck at it with all my might, and the blow
must have jarred the hand of Shifty Dick up to his very
shoulder, for I heard him give a roar of rage and pain. Before
he could catch at the fork with his other hand I had drawn it in-
side. 63 this time even Jerry lost his temper, and swore more
awfully than Dick himself.
Then there came another minute of respite. I suspected they
had gone to get bigger stones, and I dreaded the giving way of
the whole door.
Running into the bedroom as this fear befell me, I laid hold of
my chest of drawers, dragged it into the passage, and threw it
against the door. On the top of that I heaped my father's big
tool chest, three chairs, and a scuttleful of coals, and last, 1
dragged out the kitchen table and rammed it as hard as I could
against the whole barricade. They heard me as they were
coming up to the door w 7 ith fresh stones. Jerry said, "Stop a
bit!'' and then the t \vo consulted together in whispers. I listened
eagerly, and just caught these words:
'' Let's try it tie other way."
Nothing more was said, but I heard their footsteps retreating
from the door.
Were they going to besiege the back door now?
I h:d hardly asked myself that question when I heard their
voices at the other side of the house. The back door was smaller
than the front, hut it had this advantage in th.> way ol strength
it was made of two solid oak hoards joined lengthwise, and
strengthened inside by heavy cross pieces. It had no holts like
the I'ront door, hut was fastened by a liar of iron running a<
it in a slanting direction, and fitting at either end into the wall.
"They must have the whole cottage down before thc\
break in at that door!'' 1 thought to nnself. And they
found out as much Cor themselves. After five minutes of 1>
t the hack door they ^ave up any further attack in that
ion, -ind cast their heavy stones down with curses of fury
awful to hear.
I went into the kitchen and dropped on the window-seat to
rest for a moment. Suspense and e\< itement together \vn
ginning to tell Upon me. The perspiration broke out thick on
my forehead, and 1 In'^an to feel the l-i had inflicted on
my hands in making the barricade against the front door. I had
not lost a particle of my resolution, but 1 was beginnin
42 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
strength. There was a bottle of rum in the cupboard, which my
brother, the sailor, had left with us the last time he was ashore.
I drank a drop of it. Never before or since have I put anything
down my throat that did me half so much good as that precious
mouthful of rum!
I was still sitting in the window-seat drying my face, when I
suddenly heard their voices close behind me.
They were feeling the outside of the window against which I
was sitting. It was protected, like all the other windows in the
cottage, by iron bars. I listened in dreadful suspense for the
sound of filing, but nothing of the sort was audible. They had
evidently reckoned on frightening me easily into letting them in,
and had come unprovided with house- breaking -tools of any
kind. A fresh burst of oaths informed me that they had recog-
nized the obstacle of the iron bars. I listened breathlessly for
some warning of what they were going to do next, but their
voices seemed to die away in the distance. They were retreat-
ing from the window. Were they also retreating from the house
altogether ? Had they given up the idea of effecting an entrance
in despair ?
A long silence followed a silence which tried my courage
even more severely than the tumult of their first attack on the
cottage.
Dreadful suspicions now l>eset me of their being able to ac-
complish by treachery what they had failed to effect by force.
Well as I knew the cottage I began to doubt whether there
might not be ways of cunningly and silently entering it against
which I was not provided. The ticking of the clock annoyed
me: the crackling of the fire startled me. I looked out twenty
times in a minute into the dark corners of the passage, straining
my eyes, holding my breath, anticipating the most unlikely
events, the most impossible dangers. Had they really gone, or
were they still prowling about the house? Oh, what a sum of
money I would have given only to have known what they were
about in that interval of silence!
I was startled at last out of my suspense in the most awful
manner. A shout from one of them reached my ears on a sud-
den down the kitchen chimney. It was so unexpected and so
horrible in the stillness that I screamed for the first time since
the attack on the house. My worst forebodings had never sug-
gested to me that the two villains might mount upon the roof.
" Let us in, you she devil!" roared a voice down the chimney.
There was another pause. The smoke from the wood fire,
thin and light as it was in the red state of the embers at that
moment, had evidently obliged the man to take his face from
the mouth of the chimney. I counted the seconds while he was,
as I conjectured, getting his breath again. In less than half a
minute there came another shout:
" Let us in. or we'll burn the place down over your head."
Burn it? Burn what? There was nothing easily combustible
Imt tlie thatch on the roof: and that had been well soaked by the
heavy rain which had now fallen incessantly for more than six
Burn the place over my head ? How ?
TJfK (JVEKX OF 43
While I was still casting about wildly in my mind to discover
what possible danger there could be of fire, one of the heavy
stones placed on the thatch to keep it from being torn up by
high winds came thundering down the chimney. It scattered
the live embers on the hearth all over the room. A richly fur-
nished place, with knick-knacks and fine muslin about it, would
have been set on fire immediately. Even our bare floor and
rough furniture gave out a smell of burning at the first shower
of embers which the first stone scattered.
For an instant I stood quite horror-struck before this new proof
of the devilish ingenuity of the villains outside. But the dread-
ful danger I was now in recalled me to my senses immediately.
There \vasa large canful of water in my bedroom, and I ran in
at once to fetch it. Before I could get back to the kitchen a
second stone had been thrown down the chimney, and the floor
was smoldering in several places.
I had wit enough to let the smoldering go on for a moment
or two more, to pour the whole of my canful of water over the
fire before tbe third stone came down the chimney. The live
embers on the floor I easily disposed of after that. The man on
the roof must have heard the hissing of the fire as I put it out,
and have felt the change produced in the air at the mouth of
the chimney, for after the third stone had descended no more
followed it. As for either of the ruffians themselves dropping
down by the same road along which the stones had come, that
was not to be dreaded. The chimney, as I well knew by our ex-
perience in cleaning it, was too narrow to give passage to any
one above the size of a small boy.
I looked upward as that comforting reflection crossed ray
mind I looked up, and saw, as plainly as I see the paper I am
now writing on, the point of a knife coming through the inside
of the roof just over my head. Our cottage had no upper story,
and our rooms had no ceilings. Slowly and wickedly the knife
wriggled its way through the dry inside thatch between the
rafters. It stopped for awhile, and there came a sound of tear-
ing. That, in turn, stopped too; there was a- great fall of dry
thatch on the floor; and I saw the heavy, hairy hand of Shifty
Dick, armed with the knife, come through after the fallen frag-
ments. He tapped at the rafters with the back of the knife, as
if to test their strength. Thank God, they were substantial and
close together! Nothing lighter than a hatchet would have
sufficed to remove any part of them.
The murderous hand was still tapping with the knife when I
heard a shout from the man Jerry, coming from the neighbor-
hood of my father's stone-shed in the back yard. The hand
and knife disappeared instantly. I went to the back door and
put my ear to it, and listened.
Both men were now in the shed. I made the most desperate
efforts to call to mind what tools and other things were left in
it which might be used against me. But my agitation confused
me. 1 could remember nothing except my father's big stone-
saw, which was far too heavy and unwieldy to be used on the
roof of the cottage, I was still puzzling my brains, and making
44 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
my head swim to no purpose, when I heard the men dragging
something out of the shed. At the same instant that the noise
caught my ear, the remembrance flashed across me like light-
ning of some beams of wood which had lain in the shed for
years past. I had hardly time to feel certain that they were
removing one of these beams before I heard Shifty Dick say to
Jerry,
"Which door?"
'The front," was the answer. " We've cracked it already;
we'll have it down now in no time."
Senses less sharpened by danger than mine would have un-
derstood but too easily, from these words, that they were about
to use the beam as a battering-ram against the door. When
tnat conviction overcame me, I lost courage at last. I felt that
the door must come down. No such barricade as I had con-
Ftructed could support it for more than a few minutes against
such shocks as it was now to receive.
" I can do no more to keep the house against them," I said to
myself, with my knees knocking together, and the tears at last
beginning to wet my cheeks. "I must trust to the night and
the thick darkness, and save my life by running for it while
there is yet time."
I huddled on my cloak and hood, and had my hand on the
bar of the back door, when a piteous mew from the bedroom re-
minded me of the existence of poor Pussy. I ran in, and hud-
dled the creature up in my apron. Before I was out in the pas-
gage again, the tirst shock from the beam fell on the door.
The upper hinge gave way. The chairs and the coal-scuttle,
forming the top of my barricade, were hurled, rattling, on to the
floor, but the lower hinge of the door, and the chest of drawers
and the tool-chest still kept their places.
" One more!" I heard the villains cry "one more run with
the beam, and down it comes!"
Just as they must have been starting for that " one more run,"
I opened the back door and fled out into the night, with the
book full of bank-notes in my bosom, the silver spoons in my
pocket, and the cat in my arms. I threaded my way easily-
enough through the familiar obstacles in the back yard, and was
out in the pitch darkness of the moor before I heard the second
shock, and the crash which told me that the whole door had
given way.
In a few minutes they must have discovered the fact of my
flight with the pocket-book, for I heard shouts in the distance as
if they were running put to pursue me. I kept on at the top of
my speed, and the noise soon died away. It was so dark that
twenty thieves instead of two would have found it useless to
follow me.
How long it was before I reached the farm-house the nearest
place to which I could fly for refuge I cannot tell you. I re-
member that I had just sense enough to keep the wind at my
back (having observed in the beginning of the evening that it
blew toward Moor Farm), and to go on resolutely through the
darkness, In all other respects I was by this time half crazed
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 45
by what I had gone through. If it had so happened that the
wind had rhanged after T had observed its direction early in the
"ng. I should have gone astray, and have probably perished
of fatigue and exposure on the moor. Providentially, it still
blew steadily as it had blown for hours past, and I reached the
farm-house with my clothes wet through, and my brain in a
high fever. When I made niy alarm at the door, they had all
gone to bed but the farmer's eldest son, who was sitting up late
over his pipe and newspaper. I just mustered strength enough
to gasp out a few words, telling him what was the matter, and
then fell down at his feet, for the first time in my life in a dead
swoon.
That swoon was followed by a severe illness. When 1 got
strong enough to look about me again, I found myself in one of
the farm-house beds my father, Mrs. Knifton, and the doctor
were all in the room my cat was asleep at my feet, and the
pocket-book that I had saved lay on the table by my side.
There was plenty of news for me to hear as soon as I was fit
to listen to it. Shifty Dick and the other rascal had been caught,
and were in prison, waiting their trial at the next assizes. Mr.
and Mrs. Knifton had been so shocked at the danger I had run
for which they blamed their own want of thoughtfulness in
leaving the pocket-book in my care that they had insisted on
my father's removing from our lonely home to a cottage on their
land, which we were to inhabit rent free. The bank-notes that
I had saved were given to me to buy furniture with, in place of
the things that the thieves had broken . These pleasant tidings
assisted so greatly in promoting my recovery, that I was soon
able to relate to my friends at the farm-house the particulars
that I have written here. They were all surprised and interested,
but no one, as I thought, listened to me with such breathless
attention as the farmer's eldest son. Mrs. Knifton noticed this,
too, and began to make jokes about it, in her light-hearted way,
as soon as we were alone. I thought little of her jesting at the
time; but when I got well, and we we at to live at our new
home, k< the young farmer," as he was called in our parts, con-
stantly came to see us, and constantly managed to meet me out
of doors. I had my share of vanity, like other young women,
and I began to think of Mrs. Knifton's jokes with some atten-
tion. To be brief, the young farmer managed one Sunday I
never could tell how to lose his way with me in returning from
church, and before we found out the right road home again he
had asked me to be his wife.
His relations did all they could to keep us asunder and break
off the match, thinking a poor stone-mason's daughter no fit
wife for a prosperous yeoman. But the farmer was too ob-
stinate for them. He had one form of answer to all their
objections. "A man, if he is worth the name, marries accord-
ing to his own notions, and to please himself,'' he used to say.
" My notion is, that when I take a wife I am placing my
character and my happiness the most precious things I have to
trust in one woman's care. Tin 1 woman I mean to marry had
a small charge confided to her care, and showed herself worthy
48 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
of it at the risk of her life. That is proof enough for me that
she is worthy of the greatest charge I can put into her hands.
Rank and riches are fine things, but the certainty of getting a
good wife is something better still. I'm of age, I know my own
mind, and I mean to marry the stone-mason's daughter."
And he did marry me. Whether I proved myself worthy or
not of his good opinion is a question which I must leave you to
ask my husband. All that I had to relate about myself and my
doings is now told. Whatever interest my perilous adventure
may excite, ends, I am well aware, with my escape to the farm-
house. I have only ventured on writing these few additional
sentences becaiise my marriage is the moral of my story. It
has brought me the choicest blessings of happiness and prosper-
ity, and I owe them all to my night-adventure in The Black
Cottage.
THE SECOND DAY.
A CLEAR, cloudless, bracing autumn morning. I rose gayly,
with the pleasant conviction on my mind that our experiment
had thus far been successful beyond our hopes.
Short and slight as the first story had been, the result of it on
Jessie's mind had proved conclusive. Before E could put the
question to her, she declared of her own accord , and with her
customary exaggeration, that she had definitely abandoned all
idea of writing to her aunt until our collection of narratives was
exhausted.
" I am in a fever of curiosity about what is to come," she
said, when we all parted for the night; "and, even if I wanted
to leave you, I could not possibly go away now, without hearing
the stories to the end."
So far, so good. All my anxieties from this time were for
George's return. Again to-day I searched the newspapers, and
again there were no tidings of the ship.
Miss Jessie occupied the second, day by a drive to our county
town to make some little purchases. Owen, and Morgan, and I
were all hard at work, during her absence, on the stories that
still remained to be completed. Owen desponded about ever get-
ting done; Morgan grumbled at what he called the absurd diffi-
culty of writing nonsense. I worked on smoothly and content-
edly, stimulated by the success of the first night.
We assembled, as before, in our guest's sitting-room. As
the clock struck eight she drew out the second card. It was
Number Two. The lot had fallen on me to read next.
" Although my story is told in the first person," I said, address-
ing Jessie, " you must not suppose that the events related in this
particular case happened to me. They happened to a friend of
mine, who naturally described them to me from his own per-
sonal point of view. In producing my narrative from the rec-
ollection of what he told me some years since, I have sup-
posed myself to be listening to him again, and have therefore
written in his character, and, whenever my memory would help
THE QUEEN OF IIEMiTR. 47
me, as nearly as possible in his language also. By this means T
I have succeeded in giving an air of reality to a story which
ruth, at any rate, to recommend it. I must ask you to ex-
cuse me if I enter into no details in offering this short explana-
tion. Although the persons concerned in my narrative have
d to exist, it is necessary to observe all due delicacy toward
their memories. Who they were, and how I became acquaint-
ed with them are matters of no moment. The interest of the
Ftory, such as it is, stands in no need, in this instance, of any
lance from personal explanations."
With those words I addressed myself to iny task, and read as
follows:
BROTHER GRIFFITH'S STORY OF THE FAMILY SECRET.
CHAPTER I.
WAS it an Englishman or a Frenchman who first remarked
that every man had a skeleton in his cupboard ? I am not learned
enough to know, but I reverence the observation, whoever
made it. It speaks a startling truth through an appropriately
grim metaphor a truth which I have discovered by practical
experience. Our family had a skeleton in the cupboard, and the
name of it was Uncle George.
I arrived at the knowledge that this skeleton existed, and I
traced it to the particular cupboard in which it was hidden, by
slow degrees. I was a child when I first began, to suspect that
there was such a thing, and a grown man when I at last dis-
covered that my suspicions were true.
My father was a doctor, having an excellent practice in a
large country town. I have heard that he married against the
wishes of his family. They could not object to my mother on
the score of birth, breeding, or character they only disliked her
heartily. My grandfather, grandmother, uncles, and aunts
all declared that she was a heartless, deceitful woman; all dis-
liked her manner?, her opinions, and even the expression of her
face all, with the exception of my father's youngest brother,
George.
George was the unlucky member of our family. The rest were
all clever; he was slow in capacity. The rest were all remark-
ably handsome; he was the sort of a man that no woman ever
looks at twice. The rest succeeded in life; he failed. His pro-
fession was the same as my father's, but he never got on when
he started in practice for myself. The sick poor, who could
not choose, employed him and liked him. The sick rich, who
could especially the ladies declined to call him in when they
could get anybody else. In experience he gained greatly by his
profession; in money ;in<l reputation he gained nothing/
There are very few of us, however dull and unattractive we
may be to outward appearance, who have not some strong pas
sion, some germ of what is called romance, hidden more or less
deeply in our natures. All the passion and romance in the iiat-
48 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ure of my Uncle George lay in his love and admiration of my
father.
He sincerely worshiped his eldest brother as one of the noblest
of human beings. When my father was engaged to be married,
and when the rest of the family, as I have already mentioned,
did not hesitate to express their unfavorable opinion of the dis-
position of his chosen wife, Uncle George, who had never vent-
ured on differing with any one before, to the amazement of
everybody, undertook the defense of his future sister-in-law in
the most vehement and positive manner. In his estimation, his
brother's choice was something sacred and indisputable. The
lady might, and did, treat him with unconcealed contempt,
laugh at his awkwardness, grow impatient at his stammering-
it made no difference to Uncle George. She was to be his
brother's wife; and, in virtue of that one great fact, she became,
in the estimation of the poor surgeon, a ver}^ queen, who, by the
laws of the domestic constitution, could do no wrong.
When my father bad been married a little while, he took bis
youngest brother to live with him as his assistant.
If Uncle George had been mado President of the College of
Surgeons, he could not have been prouder and happier than he
was in his new position. I am afraid my father never under-
stood the depth of his brother's affection for him. All the hard
work fell to George's share; the long journeys at night, the
physicking of wearisome poor people, the drunken cases, the re-
volting cases all the drudging, dirty business of the surgery, in
short, was turned over to him; and day after day, month after
month, he struggled through it without a murmur. When his
brother and his sister-in-law went out to dine with the country
gentry it never entered his head to feel disappointed at being
left unnoticed at home. When the return dinners were given,
and he was asked to come in at tea-time, and left to sit unre-
garded in a corner, it never occurred to him to imagine that he
was treated with any want of consideration or respect. He was
part of the furniture of the house, and it was the business as
well as the pleasure of his life to turn himself to any use to
which his brother might please to put him.
So much for what I have heard from others on the subject of
my Uncle George. My own personal experience of him is lim-
ited to what I remember as a mere child. Let me say something,
however, first about my parents, my sister, and myself.
My sister was the eldest born and the best ioved. I did not
come into the world till four years after her birth, and no other
child followed me. Caroline, from her earliest days, was the
perfection of beauty and health. I was small, weakly, and, if
the truth must be told, almost as plain -featured as Uncle George
himself. It would be ungracious and undutiful in me to pre-
sume to decide whether there was any foundation or not for the
dislike that my father's family always felt for my mother. All
I can' venture to say is. that her children never had any canse to
complain of her.
Her passionate affection for my sister, her pride iu the ( -liiM*-<
beauty, I remember well, as also her uniform kindness and in-
QUKEN OF H HARTS. 49
rd inc. My personal defects must have been a sore
trial to her in secret, but neither she nor my father ever showed
me that they perceived any difference between Caroline and my-
self. When presents were made to my sister, presents were
made to me. When my father and mother caught my sister up
in their arms and kissed he.r they scrupulously gave me my turn
afterward. My childish instinct told me that there was a differ-
ence in their smiles when they looked at me and looked at her, that
the kisses given to Caroline were warmer than the kisses given
to me; that the hands which dried her tears in our childish
griefs touched her more gently than the hands which dried mine.
But these, and other small signs of preference like them, were
such as no parents could be expected to control. I noticed them
at the time rather with wonder than with repining. I recall
them now without a harsh thought either toward my father or
my mother. Both loved me, and both did their duty by me. If
I seem to speak constrainedly of them here, it is not on my own
account. I can honestly say that, with all my heart and soul.
Even Uncle George, fond as he was of me, was fonder of my
beautiful child-sister.
When I used mischievously to pull at his lank, scanty hair,
he would gently and laughingly take it out of my hands, but he
would let Caroline tug at it till his dim, wandering gray eyes
winked and watered again with pain. He used to plunge peril-
ously about the garden, in awkward imitation of the cantering
of a horse, while I sat on his shoulders, but he would never pro-
ceed at any pace beyond a slow and safe walk when Caroline
had a ride in her turn. When he took us out walking, Caro-
line was always on the side next to the wall. When we inter-
rupted him over his dirty work in the surgery, he used to tell
me to go and play until he was ready for me: but he would put
down his bottles, and clean his clumsy fingers on his coarse
apron, and lead Caroline out again, as if she had been the
greatest lady in the laud. Ah! how he loved her! and let me be
honest and grateful, and add, how he loved me too!
When I was eight years old and Caroline was twelve. I was
separated from home for some time. I had been ailing for
many months previously, had got benefit from being taken to
the sea-side, and had shown symptoms of relapsing 011 bring
brought home again to the midland county in which we resided.
After much consultation, it was at last resolved that I should
be sent to live, until my constitution got stronger, with a
maiden sister of my mother's, who had a house at a watering-
place on the south coast .
1 left home. 1 remember, loaded with presents, rejoicing over
the prospect of looking at the sea ai;;iin, as cureless of the fut-
ure and as happy in the present as any hoy could be. Uncle
(leorge petitioned fora holiday to take me to the sea-side, hut
lie could not be spared from the surgery, He consoled himself
i me hy promising to make me a may;mlicetit model of a ship.
I ha\e that model hefoie my eyes now while 1 write. It is
dusty with age; the paint, on it is cracked; (he ropes are tangled,
the sails are moth-eaten and yellow. The hull is all out of pro-
50 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
portion, and the rig has been smiled at by every nautical friend
of mine who has ever looked at it. Yet, worn-out and faulty as
it is inferior to the cheapest miniature vessel nowadays in any
toy-shop window I hardly know a possession of mine in this
world that I would not sooner part with than Uncle George's
ship.
My life at the sea-side was a very happy one. I remained
with my aunt more than a year. My mother often came to see
how I was going on, and at first always brought my sister with
her, but during the last eight months of my stay Caroline never
once appeared. I noticed also, at the same period, a change in
my mother's manner. She looked paler and more anxious at
each succeeding visit, and always had long conferences in private
with my aunt. At last she ceased to come and see us altogether,
and only wrote to know how my health was getting on. My
father, too, who had, at the earlier period of my absence from
home, traveled to the sea- side to watch the progress of my re-
covery as often as his professional engagements would permit,
now kept away like my mother. Even Uncle George, who had
never been allowed a holiday to come and see me, but who had
hitherto often written and begged me to write to him, broke off
our correspondence.
I was naturally perplexed and amazed by these changes, and
persecuted my aunt to tell me the reason of them. At first she
tried to put me off with excuses; then she admitted that there was
trouble in our house; and finally she confessed that the trouble
was caused by the illness of my sister. When I inquired what
that illness was, my aunt said it was useless to attempt to ex-
plain it to me. I next applied to the servants. One of them
was less cautious than my aunt, and answered my questions,
but iu terms that I could not comprehend. After rauch expla-
nation, I was made to understand that "something was grow-
ing on my sister's neck that would spoil her beauty forever,
and perhaps kill her, if it could not be got rid of." How well I
remember the shudder of horror that ran through me at the vague
idea of this deadly " something!" A fearful, awe struck curiosity
to see what Caroline's illness was with my own eyes troubled
rny inmost heart, and I begged to be allowed to go home and
help to nurse her. This request was, it is almost needless to say,
refused.
Weeks passed away, and still I heard nothing, except that my
sister continued to be ill.
One day I privately wrote a letter to Uncle George, asking
him, in my childish way, to come and tell me about Caroline's
illness.
I knew where the post-office was, and slipped out in the morn'
ing unobserved and dropped my letter in the box. 1 stole home
again by the garden, and climbed in at the window of a back
parlor on the ground floor. The room above was my aunt's bed-
chamber, and the moment I \vas inside the house I heard moans
and loud convulsive sobs proceeding from it. My aunt was a
singularly quiet, composed woman. I could not imagine that the
loud sobbing and moaning came from her, and I ran down ter-
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 51
rifled into the kitchen to ask the servants who was crying so vio-
lently in my aunt's room.
I found the housemaid and the cook talking together in
whispe/s with serious faces. They started when they -aw me as
if I had been a grown-up master who had caught them neglect-
ing their work.
" He 1 s too young to feel it much," I heard one say to the other.
" So far as he is concerned, it seems like a mercy that it hap-
pened no later."
In a few minutes they had told me the worst. It was, indeed,
my aunt who had been crying in the bedroom. Caroline was
dead.
I felt the blow more severely than the servants or any one else
about me supposed. Still I was a child in years, and I had the
blessed elasticity of a child's nature. If I had been older, I
might been too much absorbed in grief to observe my aunt so
closely as I did when she was composed enough to see me later
in the day.
I was not surprised by the swollen state of her eyes, the pale-
ness of her cheeks, or the fresh burst of tears that came from her
when she took me in her arms at meeting. But I was both
amazed and perplexed by the look of terror that I detected in
her face. It was natural enough that she should grieve and
weep over my sister's death, but why should she have that
frightened look as if some other catastrophe had happened ?
I asked if there was any more dreadful news from home
besides the news of Caroline's death. My aunt said No in a
strange, stifled voice, and suddenly turned her face from me.
Was my father dead ? No. My mother? No. Uncle George?
My aunt tiembled all over as she said No to that also, and bade
me cease asking any more questions. She was not fit to bear
them yet she said, and signed to the servant to lead me out of
the room.
* |The next day I was told that I was to go home after the fu-
neral, and was taken out to ward evening by the housemaid, partly
for a walk, partly to be measured for my mourning clothes.
After we had left the tailor's, I persuaded the girl to extend our
walk for some distance along the sea-beach, telling her, a
went, every little anecdote connected with my lost sister that
came tenderly back to my memory in those first days of sorrow.
She was so interested in hearing and I in speaking, that we let
the sun go down before we thought of turning back.
The evening was cloudy, and it got on from dusk to dark by
the time we approached the town again. The housemai'i
rather nervous at finding herself alone with me on the b
and once or twice looked behind her distrustfully as we went on.
Suddenly she squeezed my hand hard and said, " Let's get upon
the cliff as fast as we can."
The words were hardly out of her mouth before I heard foot-
steps behind me a man came round quickly to my side, snatched
me away from the girl, and, catching me up in his arms, with-
out a word, covered my face with kisses. I knew he wa-
jtog, because my cheeks were instantly wet with his tears; but it
62 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
was too dark for me to see who he was, or even how he was
dressed. He did not, I should think, hold me half a minute in
his arms. The housemaid screamed for help. I was put down
gently on the sand, and the strange man instantly disappeared
in the darkness.
When this extraordinary adventure was related to my aunt,
she seemed at first merely bewildered at hearing of it; but in a
moment more there came a change over her face, as if she had
suddenly recollected or thought of something. She turned
deadly pale, and said in a hurried way, very unusual with her:
"Never mind; don't talk about it anymore. It was only a
mischievous trick to frighten you, I dare say. Forget all about
it, my dear forget all about it."
It was easier to give this advice than to make me follow it.
For many nights after, I thought of nothing but the strange man
who had kissed me and cried over me.
Who could he be ? Somebody who loved me very much, and
who was very sorry. My childish logic carried "me to that
length. But when I tried to think over all the grown-up gen-
tlemen who loved me very much, I could never get on, to my
own satisfaction, beyond my father and my Uncle George.
CHAPTER II.
I WAS taken home on the appointed day to suffer the trial a
hard one even at my tender years of witnessing my mother's
passionate grief and my father's mute despair. I remember that
the scene of our first meeting after Caroline's death was wisely
and considerately shortened by my aunt, who took me out of the
room. She seemed to have a confused desire to keep me from
leaving her after the door had closed behind us; but I broke
away and ran down-stairs to the surgery, tago and cry for my
lost playmate with the sharer of all our games, Uncle George.
I opened the surgery door, and could see nobody. I dried my
tears, and looked all round the room it was empty. I ran up-
stairs again to Uncle George's garret bedroom he was not
there; his cheap hair brush and old cast-off razor-case that had
belonged to my grandfather were not on the dressing-table.
Had he got some other bedroom ? I went out on the landing,
and called softly, with an unaccountable terror and sinking at
my heart:
" Uncle George!"
Nobody answered; but my aunt came hastily up the garret
stairs.
" Hush !" she said. " You must never call that name out here
again !"
She stopped suddenly, and looked as if her own words bad
frightened her.
"Is Uncle (George dead?" I asked.
My aunt turned red and pale, and stammered.
I did not wait to hear what she said . I brushed past her,
down the stairs. My heart was bursting my flesh felt cold,
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 53
Iran breathlessly and recklessly into the room wh<>re my father
and mother had received me. They were both sitting there
still. I ran up to them, wringing my hands, and crying out in
a passion of tears:
" Is Uncle George dead ?"
My mother gave a scream that terrified me into instant
silence and stillness. My father looked at her for a moment, rang
the bell that summoned the maid, then seized me roughly by
the arm and dragged me out of the room.
He took me down into the study, seated himself in his accus-
tomed chair, and put me before him between his knees. His
were awfully white, and I felt his two hands, as they
grasped my shoulders, shaking violently.
"You are never to mention the name of Uncle George again,"
he said, in a quick, angry, trembling whisper. ''Never to me,
never to your mother, never to your aunt, never to anybody in
this world I Never never never!''
The repetition of the word terrified me even more than the
suppressed vehemence with which he spoke. He saw that I was
frightened, and softened his manner a little before he went on.
" You will never see Uncle George again,'' he said. "Your
mother and I love YOU dearly; but if you forget what I have
told you you will be sent away from home. Never speak that
name again mind, never! Now, kiss me, and go away."
How his lips trembled and oh, how cold they felt on mine!
I shrunk out of the room the moment he had kissed me, and
went and hid myself in the garden.
" Uncle George is gone. I am never to see him any more; I
am never to speak of him again '' those were the words I re-
peated to myself, with indescribable terror and confusion, the
moment I was alone. There was something unspeakably horrible
to my young mind in this mystery which I was commanded al-
ways to respect, and which, so far as I then knew. I could never
hope to see revealed. My father, my mother, my aunt, all ap-
peared to be separated from me now by some impassable barrier.
Home seemed home no longer with Caroline dead. Uncle George
gone, and a forbidden subject of talk perpetually and mysteri-
ously interposing between my parents and me.
Though I never infringed the command my father had given
me in his study (his words, and looks, and that dreadful scream
of my mother's which seemed to be still ringing in my ears,
were more than enough to insure my obedience), I also never lost
the secret desire to penetrate the darkness which clouded over
the fate of Uncle George.
* For two years I remained at home and discovered nothing. If
I asked the servants about my uncle, they could only tell me
that one morning he disappeared from the house. Of the mem-
bers of my father's family I could make no inquiries. They
lived far away, and never cam*- to sec us: and the idea of writ-
ing to them, at my age and in my position, was out of the ques-
tion. My aunt was as unapproachably silent as my lather and
mother; but 1 never forgot how her ia< .vhen she
reflected fora moment alter hearing of my extraordinary ad-
54 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
going home with the servant over the sands af
night. The more I thought of that change of countenance ii !
connection with what had occurred on my return to my father's.
house, the more certain I felt that the stranger who had kissed
me and wept over me must have been no other than Uncle
George.
At the end of my two years at home I was sent to sea in the
merchant navy by my own earnest desire. I had always de-
termined to be a sailor from the time when I first went to stay
with my aunt at the sea-side, and I persisted long enough in my
resolution to make my parents recognize the necessity of acced-
ing to my wishes.
My new life > delighted me, and I remained away on foreign
stations more than four years. When I at length returned home,
it was to find a new affliction darkened our fireside. My father
had died on the very day when I sailed for my return voyage to
England.
Absence and change of scene had in no respect weakened my
desire to penetrate the mystery of Uncle George's disappearance.
My mother's health was so delicate that I hesitated for some time
to approach the forbidden subject in her presence. When I at
last ventured to refer to it, suggesting to her that any prudent
reserve which might have been necessary while I was a child,
need no longer be persisted in now that 1 was growing to be a
young man, she fell into a violent fit of trembling, and com-
manded me to say no more. It had been my father's will, she
said, that the reserve to which I referred should be always
adopted toward me; he had not authorized her, before he died,
to speak more openly; and now that ho was gone, she would not
so much as think of acting on her own unaided judgment. My
aunt said the same thing in effect when I appealed to her. De-
termined not to be discouraged even yet, I undertook a journey,
ostensibly to pay my respects to my father's family, but with the
secret intention of trying what I could learn in that quarter on
the subject of Uncle George.
My investigations led to some results, though they were by no
means satisfactory. George had always been looked upon with
something like contempt by his handsome sisters and his pros-
perous brothers, and he had not improved his position in the
family by his warm advocacy of his brother's cause at the time
of my father's marriage. I found that my uncle's surviving
relatives now spoke of him slightingly and carelessly. They
assured mo that they had never heard from him, and that they
knew nothing about him, except that he had gone away to settle,
as they supposed, in some foreign place, after having behaved
very basely and badly to my father. He had been traced to
London, where he had sold out of the funds the small share of
money which he had inherited after his father's death, and he
had been seen on the deck of a packet bound for France later on
the same day. Beyond this nothing was known about him. In
what the alleged baseness of his behavior had consisted none of
his brothers and sisters could tell me. My father had refused to
pain them by going into particulars, not only at the time of his
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
>rotlior's disappearance, but afterward, whenever (he subject
' ioned. George had always been the black sheep of the
and lit- must have beer urns of his own baseness, or
ould certainly have written to explain and t juMit\ him
lelf.
Sudi were the particulars which I gleaned during my visit to
ny I family. To my mind, they tended rather to deepen
han to reveal the mystery. That such a gentle, docile, affec-
tionate creature as Uncle George should have injured the br
he loved by word or deed, at any period of their intere<
seemed incredible; but that he should be guilty of an act of base-
ness at the very time when my sister was dying was simply and
plainly impossible. And yet there was the incomprehensible
fact staring me in the face that the death of Caroline and the
ranee of Uncle George had taken place in the
week! Never did I feel more daunted and bewildered by the
family secret than after I had heard all the particulars in con-
nection with it that my father's relatives had to tell me. i
I may pass over the events of the next few years of my life
briefly enough.
My nautical pursuits filled up all my time, and took me far
away from my country and my friends. But, whatever I did,
and wherever I went, the memory of Uncle George, and the de-
sire to penetrate the mystery of his disappearance-, haunted me
like familiar spirits. Often, in the lonely watches of the night
at sea, did I recall the dark evening on the beach, the strange
man's hurried embrace, the startling sensation of feeling his
tears on my cheeks, the disappearance of him before I had
breath or self-possession enough to say a word. Often did I
think over the inexplicable events that followed, when I had re-
turned, after my sister's funeral, to my father's house; and
oftener still did I puzzle my brains vainly in the attempt to form
some plan for inducing my mother or my aunt to disclose the
secret which they had hitherto kept from me so perseverin.uly.
My only chance of knowing what had really happened to I
George, my only hope of seeing him again, rested with those two
md dear relatives. I despaired of ever getting my mother
ak on the forbidden subject after what had passed between
ut I felt more sanguine about my prospects of ultimately
inducing my aunt to relax in her discretion. My anticipations,
in this direction were not destined to be fulfilled. On
my ut xt visit to England I found my aunt prostrated by a ;
lytic attack, which deprived her of the power of speech. She
i afterward in my arms, leaving me her sole heir. I
searched anxiously among her papers for some reft > the
family mystery, but found no clew to guide me. All my
mother's letters to her sister at the time of Caroline's illness and
death had been destroyed.
CHAPTER III.
MORE years passed; my mother followed my aunt to thegr
and still I was as far as ever from making any discoveries in re-
56 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
lation to Uncle George. Shortly after the period of tliis last af-
fliction my health gaye way, and I departed, by my doctor's ad-
vice, to try some baths in the south of France.
I traveled slowly to my destination, turning aside from the
direct road, and stopping wherever I pleased. One evening,
when I was not more than two or three days' journey from the
baths to which I was bound, I was struck by the picturesque
situation of a little town placed on the brow of a hill at some
distance from the main road, and resolved to have a nearer look
at the place, with a view to stopping there for the night, if it
pleased me. I found the principal inn clean and quiet ordered
my bed there and, after dinner, strolled out to look at the
church. No thought of Uncle George was in my mind when I
entered the building; and yet, at that very moment, chance was
leading me to the discovery which, for so many years past, I had
vainly endeavored to make the discovery which I had given up
as hopeless since the day of my mother's death.
I fV>und nothing worth notice in the church, and was about to
leave it again, when I caught a glimpse of a pretty view through
a side door, and stopped to admire it.
The churchyard formed the foreground, and below it the hill-
side sloped away gently into the plain, over which the sun was
setting in full glory. The cure of the church was reading his
breviary, walking up and down a gravel path that parted the
rows of graves. In the course of my wanderings I had learned
to speak French as fluently as most Englishmen, and when the
priest came near me I said a few words in praise of the view, and
complimented him on the neatness and prettiness of the church-
yard. He answered with great politeness, and we got into con-
versation together immediately.
As we strolled along the gravel- walk my attention was at-
tracted by one of the graves standing apart from the rest. The
cross at the head of it differed remarkably, in some points of
appearance from the crosses on the other graves. While all the
rest had garlands hung oh them, this one cross was quite bare;
and, more extraordinary still, no name was inscribed on it.
The priest, observing that I stopped to look at the graves,
shook his head and sighed.
" A countryman of yours is buried there," he said. " I was
present at his death. He had borne the burden of a great sor-
row among us, in this town, for many weary years, and his con-
duct had taught us to respect and pity him with all our hearts."
" How is it that his name is not inscribed over his grave ?" I
inquired.
" It was suppressed by his own desire," answered the priest,
with some little hesitation. " He confessed to me in his last
moments that he had lived here under an assumed name. I
asked his real name, and he told it to me, with the particulars
of his sad story. He had reasons for desiring to be forgotten
after his death. Almost the last words he spoke were, ' Let my
name die with me.' Almost the last request he made was that
I would keep that name a secret from all the world excepting
only one person."
T8.
id r.
i nephi 1 flic pn
The moment the la-t \\ord U.i^ out of his mouth, n
ing hound. 1 su|)|>" e I imi-t have
chai: for (he mrr looked ;tt ine with sudden at-
* >u and ml.
nepheu V the priest went on. " whom he had loved like
wn child. He told me that if this nephew ever traced him
to liis huriul-place, and asked ahout him, I was free in that
to disclose all 1 knew. ' I should like my little ( 'harley to know
the truth,' he said. ' In spite of the difference in our ;
i 'harley and I were playmates years ago."
My heart heat faster, and I felt a choking sensation at the
throat the moment I heard the priest unconsciously mention my
v'hri-iian Lame in reporting the dying man's last words.
dd steady my voice and feel certain of my self-
D, I communicated my family name to the cure, and
i him if that was not part of the secret that he had been re-
rve.
He started hack several steps, and clasped his hands amazedly.
an it her" lie said, in low tones, gazing at me earnestly,
with something like dread in his face.
him my passport, and looked away toward the grave.
The tears came into my eyes as the recollections of past days
crowded hack on me. Hardly knowing what I did. I knelt down
%y the grave, and smoothed the grass over it with my hand. Oh,
Uncle George, why not have told your secret to your old play-
mate? Why leave him to find you here?
The priest raised me gently, and begged me to go with him
into his own house. On our way there, I mentioned persons
and places that I thought my uncle might have spoken of, in or-
isfy my companion that I was really the person I repre-
1 myself to he. By the time we had entered his little par-
nd had sat down alone in it, we were almost like old friends
lier.
I thought it hest that I should begin by telling all that I have re-
lated here, on the subject of Uncle George, and his disappearance
from home. My host listened with a very sad face, and said,
when I had done:
44 1 ran understand your anxiety to know what I am author-
: > tell you, but pardon me it I say first that there ai
cu instance.^ in your uncle's story which it may pain you to
hear He Stopped suddenly.
" \Vhi"h it may pain me to hear as a nephew ':" 1
"No," said Mie priest, looking away from me. " as a son."
I gratefully expressed my sen<e of -lie delicacy and kind
which had prompted my companion's warning, but I be
him at the same time to keep me no 1-mger in suspense, and to
tell me t ; , triuh, n > matter how painfully it might affect
me a- tier.
In telling me all you ki>"w al"u what you t^nr the Fa'uilr
-aid the pri. u hav,- me'iti"ned as a -traiiL:<
nee that your sisterV deal), ai.il your x;nc!i
58 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
took place at the same time. Did you ever suspect what cause
it was that occasioned your sister's death ?"
" I only knew what my father told me, and what all our
friends believed that she died of a tumor in the neck, or, as I
sometimes heard it stated, from the effect on her constitution
of a tumor in the neck.'
"She died under an operation for the removal of that tumor,"
said the priest in low tones; " and the operator was your Uncle
George."
In those few words all the truth burst upon me.
" Console yourself with the thought that the long martyrdom
of his life is over," the priest went on. " He rests; he is at
peace. He and his little darling understand each other, and are
happy now. That thought bore him up to the last on his death-
bed. He always spoke of your sister as his ' little darling.' He
firmly believed that she was waiting to forgive and console him
in the other world and who shall say he was deceived in that
belief?"
Not I. Not any one who has ever loved and suffered, surely.
"It was out of the depths of his self-sacrificing love for the
child that he drew the fatal courage to undertake the opera-
tion," continued the priest. " Your father naturally shrank
from attempting it. His medical brethren whom he consulted
all doubted the propriety of taking any measures for the re-
moval of the tumor, in the particular condition and situation of
it when they were called in! Your uncle alone differed with
them. He was too modest a man to say so, but your mother
found it out. The deformity of her beautiful child horrified her.
She was desperate enough to catch at the faintest hope of reme-
dying it that any one might hold out to her, and she persuaded
your uncle to put his opinion to the proof. Her horror at the
deformity of the child, and her despair at the prospect of its
lasting for life, seem to have utterly blinded her to all natural
sense of the danger of the operation. It is hard to know how to
say it to you, her son, but it must be told nevertheless, that one
day, when your father was out, she untruly informed your
uncle that his brother had consented to the performance of the
operation, and that he had gone purposely out of the house
because he had not nerve enough to stay and witness it.
After that, your uncle no longer hesitated. He had no fear of
results, provided he could be certain of his own courage. All
he dreaded was the effect on him of his love for the child when
he first found himself face to face with the dreadful necessity of
touching her skin with the knife."
I tried hard to control myself, but I could not repress a shud-
der at those words.
'x "It is useless to shock you by going into particulars,' said the
priest, considerately. "Let it be enough if I say that your uncle's
fortitude failed to support him when he wanted it most. His
love for the child shook the firm hand which had never trembled
before. In a word, the operation failed. Your father returned,
and found his child dying. The frenzy of his despair when the
truth was told him carried him to excesses which it shocks me
HEARTS.
to mention- which began in his degrading his brother
hlow, which ended in his binding himself by an oath to
that brother sutler public punishment for his fatal raph-
>irt of law. Your uncle was too heart-broken by
had happened to feel those outr:i OHM- men might
frit thfin. He looked for one moment at his >i>ter-in-law
not like to say your mother, considering what I have now
to tell you). ; e would acknowledge that she had en-
couraged him to attempt the operation, and that she had dec.
him in saying that he had his brother's permission to try it. She
ilent. and when she spoke, it was to join her husband in
denouncing him as the murderer of their child. Whether fear of
your father's anger, or revengeful indignation against your uncle
most actuated her, I cannot presume to inquire in your presence.
I can only state facts."
The priest paused, and looked at me anxiously. I could not
speak to him at that moment I could only encourage him to
proceed by pressing his hand.
He resumed in i ins:
Meanwhile, your uncle turned to your father, and spoke the
last words he was ever to address to his eldest brother in this
world. He said, ' I have deserved the worst your anger can in-
flict on m^, but I will spare you the scandal of bringing me to
justice in open court. The law, if it found me guilty, could at
the worst but banish me from my country and my friends. I
will go of my own accord. God is my witness that I honestly
believed I could save the child from deformity and suffering. I
have risked all and lost all. My heart and spirit are broken. I
am tit for nothing but to go anci hide myself, and my shame and
ry, from all eyes that have ever looked on me. I shall
r come back, never expect your pity or forgiveness. If you
think less harshly of me when I am gone, keep secret what has
happened; let no other lips say of me what yours and your wife's
have said. I shall think that forbearance 'a tenement enough-
atonement greater than I have deserved. Forget me in this
world. May we meet in another, where the secrets of all hearts
are opened, and where the child who is gone before may make
peace between us!' He said those words and went out. Your
father never saw him or heard from him again."
I knew the reason now why my father had never confided the
truth to any one, his own family included. My mother had evi-
dently confessed all to her sister under the seal of . and
there the dreadful disclosure had been arrested.
"Your uncle told me," the priest continued, "that before he
left England betook lea\e of you by stealth, in a place you were
staying at by \\\< le. lie had not the 1 quit his
country and his friend^ forever without kiting you for th<
time. He followed you in the dark, and caught you up in his
arms, and left \ ou again before yon had a chance of discovering
him. The next day he quilted England."
his place'.''- I a^ked.
" Yes. I le had spent a v.
at the time he was a pupil in the Hotel IMtu. and to tin- ,
60 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
he returned to hide, to suffer, and to die. We all saw that he
was a man crushed and broken by some great sorrow, and we
respected him and his affliction, fie lived alone, and only came
out of doors toward evening, when he used to sit on the brow of
the hill yonder, with his head on his hand, looking toward Eng-
land. That place seemed a favorite with him, and he is buried
close by it. He revealed the story of his past life to no living
soul here but me, and to me he only spoke when his last hour
^ as approaching. What he had suffered during his long exile
no man can presume to say. I, who saw more of him than
any one. never heard a word of complaint fall from his lips.
He had the courage of the martyrs while he lived, and the res-
ignation of the saints when he died. Just at the last his mind
wandered. He said he saw his little darling waiting by the
bedside to lead him away, and he died with a smile on his face
the first I had ever seen there."
The priest ceased, and we went out together in the mournful
twilight, and stood for a little while on the brow of the hill where
Uncle George used to sit, with his face turned toward England.
How my heart ached for him as I thought of what he must have
suffered in the silence and solitude of his long exile! Was it well
for me that I had discovered the Family Secret at last? I have
sometimes thought not. I have sometimes wished that the dark-
ness had never been cleared away which once hid from me the
fate of Uncle George.
THE THIRD DAY.
FINE again. Our guest rode out, with her ragged little groom,
as usual. There was no news yet in the paper that is to say,
no news of George or his ship.
On this duy Morgan completed his second story, and in two or
three days more I expected to finish the last of my own contri-
butions. Owen was still behindhand and still despondent.
The lot drawn to-night was Five. This proved to be the num-
ber of the first of Morgan's stories, which he had completed be-
fore we began the readings. His second story, finished this
day, being still uncorrected by me, could not yet be added to the
common stock.
On being informed that it had come to his turn to occupy
the attention of the company, Morgan startled us by imme-
diately objecting to the trouble of reading his own composi-
tion, and by coolly handing it over to me, on the ground that
my numerous corrections had made it, to all intents and pur-
poses, my story.
Owen and I both remonstrated; and Jessie, mischievously per-
sisting in her favorite jest at Morgan's expense, entreated that
he would read, if it was only for her sake. Finding that we
were all determined, and all against him, he declared that, rather
than hear our voices any longer, he would submit to the minor
inconvenience of listening to his own. Accordingly, he took his
Til r -EN OF HEARTS. 61
m mi user i again, ami, with an air of surly resign.!
im,
1 <I<>n't think you will like this story, miss," he began, ad-
but I shall road it, nevertheless, with the {great-
est pi ins in a stable it gropes its way through a,
i it k< pa ny with a hostler and it stops wit hoi
end. What do you think of that?"
Aft ing his audience with this promising preface, Mor-
gan indulged himself in a chuckle of supreme satisfaction, and
then began to read, without wasting another preliminary word
on any one of us.
BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY OP THE DREAM -WOMAN.
CHAPTER I.
I HAD not been settled much more than six weeks in my coun-
i act ice when 1 was sent for to a neighboring town, to con-
sult with the resident medical man there on a case of very
dangerous illness.
horse had come down with me at the end of a long ride the
night before, and had hurt himself, luckily, much more than he
had hurt his master. Being deprived of the animal's services, I
d for my destination by the coach (there were no railways
at that time), and I hoped to get back again, toward the after-
noon, in the same way.
After the consultation was over, I went to the principal inn of
wn to wait for the coach. When it came up it was full in-
:iid out. There was no resource left me but to* get home as
cheaply as I could by hiring a gig. The price asked for thi
commodation struck me as being so extortionate, that Id
mined to look out for an inn of inferior pretensions, and to try if
I could not make a better bargain with a less prosperous estab-
lishment.
I soon found a likely -looking house, dingy and quiet, with an
Old-fashioned sign, that had evidently not been repainted for
many years past. The landlord, in this case, was not above mak-
ing a small profit, and as soon as we came to terms he rang the
yard-bell to order the gig.
" Has Robert not come back from that errand?'' asked the
landlord, appealing to the waiter who answered the bell.
" No. sir. he hasn't/'
" Well. then, you must wake up 1-
"Wake up Isaac!'' I repeated: " that sounds rather odd. Do
your hostlers go to U>d in the day tit;
"This one docs." said the landlord, smiling to himself in
rather a strange way.
too," added the waiter; " I sha'nt forget the
turn me the first time 1 heard him."
\ mind about tli I the propr
nd rou up. The gentleman's waiting for h
42 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
great deal more than they either of them said. I began to sus-
pect that I might be on the trace of something professionally in
teresting to me as a medical man, and I thought I should like tc
look at the hostler before the waiter awakened him.
" Stop a minute," 1 interposed; "I have rather a fancy few
seeing this man before you wake him up. I'm a doctor; and il
this queer sleeping and dreaming of his comes from anything
wrong in his brain, I may be able to tell you what to do witi
him."
" I rather think you will find his complaint past all doctoring
sir," said the landlord; " but if you would like to see him, you'rt
welcome, I'm sure."
He led the way across a yard and down a passage to the sta
bles, opened one of the doors, and waiting outside himself, tolc
me to look in.
I found myself in a two-stall stable. In one of the stalls j
horse was munching his corn; in the other an old man was lyinj
asleep on a litter.
I stooped and looked at him attentively. It was a withered
woe- begone face. The eyebrows were painfully contracted ; th(
mouth was fast set, and drawn down at the corners. The hoi
low wrinkled cheeks, and the scanty grizzled hair, told their owr
tale of some past sorrow or suffering. He was drawing hit
breath convulsively when I first looked at him, and in a momenl
more he began to talk in his sleep.
"Wake up!" I heard him say, in a quick whisper, through hif
clinched teeth. " Wake up there! Murder!"
He moved one lean arm slowly till it rested over his throat
shuddered a little, and turned on his straw. Then the arm lefi
his throat, the hand stretched itself out, and clutched at the sid<
toward which he had turned, as if he fancied himself to b(
grasping at the edge of something. I saw his lips move, and beni
lower over him. He was still talking in his sleep.
" Light gray eyes," he murmured, "and a droop in the lefi
eyelid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it all right
mother fair white arms, with a down on them little lady'*
hand, with a reddish look under the finger nails. The knife al
ways the cursed knife first on one side, then on the other. Aha
you she-devil, where's the knife?"
At the last word his voice rose, and he grew restless on a sud
den. I saw him shudder on the straw; his withered face becami
distorted, and he threw up both his hands with a quick hyster
ical gasp. They struck against the bottom of the manger unde:
which he lay, and the blow Awakened him. I had just time t<
slip through the door and close it before his eyes were fairly
open, and bis senses his own again.
*' Do you know anything about that man's past life ?" I said t<
the landlord.
" Yes, sir, I know pretty well all about it," was the answer
" and an uncommon queer story it is. Most people don't belie v
it. It's true, though, for all that. Why just look at him," con
tiaued the landlord, opening the stable door again. ' ' Poor devU
THE QUEEN OP HEARTS. 63
he's so worn out with his restless nights that he's dropped back
into his .^1. <ly."
>| "Don't \vake him," I said; "I'm in no hurry for the gig.
[Wait till tin* other man comes back from his errand; and, in the
rlmeantime, suppose I have some lunch and a bottle of sherry,
(land suppose you come and help me to get through it ?"
(I The heart of mine host, as I had anticipated, warmed to me
[lover his own wine. He soon became communicative on the sub-
of the man asleep in the stable, and by little and little I
^Idrew the whole story out of him. Extravagant and incredible
ejas the events must appear to everybody, they are related here
st as I heard them and just as they happened.
CHAPTER II.
SOME years ago there lived in the suburbs of a large sea-port
town on the west coast of England a man in humble circum-
stances, by name Isaac Scatchard. His means of subsistence
ire derived from any employment that he could get as an ost-
, and occasionally when times went well with him, from
nporary engagements in service as stable-helper in private
>uses. Though a faithful, steady, and honest man, he got on
idly in his calling. His ill luck was proverbial among his
bors. He was always missing good opportunities by no
ault of his own, and always living longest in service with ami-
ible people who were not punctual payers of wages. " Unlucky
1 was his nickname in his own neighborhood, and no on*e
u Id say that he did not richlv deserve it.
"With far more than one man's fair share of adversity to endure,
saac had but one consolation to support him, and that was of
,he dreariest and most negative kind. He had no wife and chil-
Jren to increase his anxieties and add to the bitterness of his
various failures in life. It might have been from mere insensi-
Dility, or it might have been from generous unwillingness to
nvolve another in his own unlucky destiny: but the fact undoubt-
edly was, that he bad arrived at the middle term of life without
narrying, and, what is much more remarkable, without once
exposing himself, from eighteen to eight-and- thirty, to the genial
inputation of ever having had a sweetheart.
When he was out of service he lived alone with his widowed
nother. Mrs. Scatchard was a woman above the averaj:
ler lowly station as to capacity and manners. Sho had seen
r days, as the jli but she never referred to them in
he presence of curious visitors; and, though perfectly polite to
one., who approached her, never cultivated any intima-
ies among her neighbor-. She contrived to provide, hardly
'noiih, for her simple wants by doing rough work for the
ailors. and always managed to keep a decent home for her son
turn to whenever his ill-luck drove him out helpless into the
Id.
bleak autumn, when Isaac was Y on fast tov
. and when he was, as usual, out of place through no fault
64 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
of his own, he set forth from his mother's cottage on a long
walk inland to a gentleman's seat, where he had heard that a
stable-keeper was required.
It wanted then but two days of his birthday; and Mrs. Scatch-
ard, with her usual fondness, made him promise, before he
started, that he would be back in time to keep that anniversary
with her, in as festive a way as their poor means would allow.
It was easy for him to comply with this request, even supposing
he slept a night each way on the road.
He was to start from home on Monday morning, and, whether
he got the new place or not, he was to be back for his birthday
dinner on Wednesday at two o'clock.
Arriving at his destination too late on the Monday night to
make application for the stable-keeper's place, he slept at the
village inn, and in good time on the Tuesday morning presented
himself at the gentleman's house to fill the vacant situation.
Here again his ill-luck pursued him as inexorably as ever. The
excellent written testimonials to his character which he was able
to procure availed him nothing; his long walk had been taken
in vain: only the day before the stable- helper's place had been
given to another man.
Isaac accepted this new disappointment resignedly and as a
matter of course. Naturally slow in capacity, he had the blunt-
ness of sensibility and phlegmatic patience of disposition which
frequently distinguish men with sluggishly- working mental
powers. He thanked the gentleman's steward with his usual
quiet civility for granting him an interview, and took his depart-
ure with no appearance of unusual depression in his face or
manner.
Before starting on his homeward walk, he made some inquiries
at the inn, and ascertained that he might save a few miles on
his' return by following a new road. Furnished with full in-
structions, several times repeated, as to the various turnings he
was to take, he set forth on his homeward journey, and walked
on all day with only one stoppage for bread and cheese. Just as
it was getting toward dark, the rain came on and the wind be-
gan to rise, and he found himself, to make matters worse, in a
part of the country with which he was entirely unacquainted,
though he knew himself to be some fifteen miles from home.
The first house he found to inquire at was a lonely roadside inn,
standing on the outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as the place
looked it was welcome to a lost man who was also hungry,
thirsty, foot-sore, and wet. The landlord was civil, and respect-
able-looking, and the price he asked for a bed was reasonable
enough. Isaac therefore decided on stopping comfortably at
the inn for that night. .
He was constitutionally a temperate man. His supper con
sisted of two rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread, and
a pint of ale. He did not go to bed immediately after this mod-
erate meal, but sat up with the landlord, talking about his bac
prospects and his long run of ill luck, and diverging from thest
topics to the subject of horseflesh and racing. Nothing was
said either by himself, his host, or the few laborers who strayec
KEN OF HEARTS. 65
into the tap-room, which could, in the slightest degree, excite
(he very small and very dull imaginative faculty which Isaac
hard p.
At a little after eleven the house was closed. Isaac went
round with the landlord and held the candle while the doors
and I ,\ere being secured. He noticed with
i of tin; holts and bars, and iron-sheathed shut-
" You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. " We
have had any attempts made to break in yet, but it's al-
well to be on the safe side. When nobody is sleeping
I am the only man in the house. My wife and daughter
are timid, and the servant-girl takes after her missuses. An-
other glass of ale before you turn in? No! Well, how such a
sober man as you come to be out of place is more than I can
out, for one. Here's where you're to sleep. You're our
only lodger to-night, and I think you'll say my missus has done
her 1). ake you comfortable. You're quite sure you won't
have another glass of ale? Very well. Good- night."
It was half- past eleven by the clock in the passage as they
went up-stairs to the bedroom, the window of which looked on
ie wood at the back of the house.
ic locked the door, set his candle on the chest of drawers,
and wearily got ready for bed. The bleak autumn wind was
still blowing, and the solemn monotonous, surging moan of it in
the wood was dreary and awful to hear through the night-
silence. Isaac felt strangely wakeful. He resolved, as he lay
down in bed, to keep the candle alight until he began to grow
sleepy, for there was something unendurably depressing in the
bare idea of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dis-
inal, ceaseless moaning of the wind in the wood.
Sleep stole on him before he was aware of it. His eyes closed,
and he fell off insensibly to rest without having so much as
thought of extinguishing the candle.
The lii tion of which he was conscious after sink-
ing into slumber was a strange shivering that ran through
him suddenly from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at
the heart, Mich as he had never felt before. The shivering only
disturbed his slumbers; the pain woke him instantly. In one
moment lie pa ed from a state of sleep to a state of wakeful-
ness his ide open his mental perceptions cleared on a
H' a miracle.
The candle had burnt down nearly to the last morsel of tallow,
but the, top of the unsniiHVd wick had just fallen olf. and the
light in the little room was, for the moment, fair and full.
Between tb f his bed and the closed door there stood a
with a knife in her hand, looking at him.
less with terror, but he did not lose the
if his faculties, and he never took his
tf the woman. She ^aid not a word as they stared .
_;an to move slowly toward the left-
of the bed.
His eyes f"llowed her. She was a fab:, fine woman, with yel-
66 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
lowish flaxen hair and light gray eyes, with a droop in the left
eyelid. He noticed those things and fixed them on his mind
before she was round at the side of the bed. Speechless, with no
expression in her face, with no noise following her footfall, she
came closer and closer stopped and slowly raised the knife.
He laid his right arm over his throat to save it; but, as he saw
the knife coming down, threw his hand across the bed to the
right side, and jerked his body over that way just as the knife
descended on the mattress within an inch of his shoulder.
Hip eyes fixed on her arm and hand as she slowly drew her
knife out of the bed; a white, well-shaped arm, with a pretty
down lying lightly over the fair skin a delicate lady's hand,
with the crowning beauty of a pink flush under and round the
finger nails.
She drew the knife out, and -passed back again slowly to the
foot of the bed; stopped there for a moment looking at him;
then came on still speechless, still with no expression on the
blank, beautiful face, still with no sound following the stealthy
footfalls came on to the right side of the bed, where he now
lay.
As she approached she raised the knife again, and he drew
himself away to the left side. She struck, as before, right into
the mattress, with a deliberate, perpendicularly -down ward action
of the arm. This time his eyes wandered from her to the knife.
It was like the large clasp-knives which he had often seen labor-
ing men use to cut their bread and bacon with. Her delicate
little fingers did not conceal more than two-thirds of the handle;
he noticed that it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining, as
the blade was, and looking like new.
For the second time she drew the knife out, concealed it in the
wide sleeve of her gown, then stopped by the bedside, watching
him. For an instant he saw her standing in that position, then
the wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket; the flame
diminished to a little blue point, and the room grew dark.
A moment, or less, if possible, passed so, and then the wick
flamed up, smokingly for the last time. Hie eyes were still
looking eagerly over the right-hand side of the bed when the
final flash of light came, but they discerned nothing. The fair'
woman with the knife was gone.
The conviction that he was alone again weakened the hold of
the terror that had struck him dumb up to this time. The pre-
ternatural sharpness which the very intensity of his panic had
mysteriously imparted to bis faculties left them suddenly. His
brain grew confused his heart beat wildly his ears opened for
the first time since the appearance of the woman to a sense of
the woful ceaseless moaning of the wind among the trees.
With the dreadful conviction of the reality of what he had seen
still strong within him, he leaped out of bed, and screaming
" Murder! Wake up there! wake up!" dashed headlong through
the darkness to the door.
It was fast locked, exactly as he had left it on going to bed.
His cries on starting up had alarmed the house. He heard the
terrified, confused exclamations of women; he saw the master
THE QUEEN OF 67
of the house approaching along the passage with his burning
i candle in OIK* hand and his pun in tin.- other,
.cd the landlord, breathlessly.
Isaac could only answer in a whisper. " A woman, with a
in her hand,'' he gasped out. " In my room a fair, yel-
ow-haired woman; she jobbed at me with the knife twice
over."
The landlord's pale cheeks grew paler. He looked at Isaac
jagerly by the flickering light O f his candle, and his face began
t red again; his voice altered, too, as well as his complexion.
>he seems to have missed you twice," he said.
11 1 dodged the knife as it came down," Isaac went on, in the
same scared whisper. " It struck the bed each time."
The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately.
fn less than a minute he came out again into the passage in a
violent passion.
"The devil fly away with you and your woman with the
cnife! There isn't a mark in the bedclothes anywhere. What
do you mean bv coming into a man's place, and frightening his
family out of tneir wits about a dream ?"
I'll leave your house," said Isaac, faintly. " Better out on
;he road, in rain and dark, on my road home, than back again
n that room, after what I've seen in it. Lend me a light to get
my clothes by, and tell me what I'm to pay."
"Pay!" cried the landlord, leading the way with his light
sulkily into the bedroom. "You'll find your score on the slate
vhen you go down-stairs. I wouldn't have taken you in for all
money you've got about you if I'd known your dreaming,
hing ways beforehand. Look at the bed. Where's the
in of a knife in it. Look at the window is the lock bursted ?
lx)ok at the door (which I heard you fasten yourself) is it broke
n? A murdering woman with a knife in my house! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
ic answered not a word. He huddled on his clothes, and
hen went down-stairs together.
"Nigh on twenty minutes past two!" said the landlord, as
hey i>as>i>d a clock. " A nice time in the morning to frighten
lonest people out of their wits!*'
ic paid his bill, and the landlord let him out at the front
ioor, asking, with a grin of contempt, as he undid the strong
'astenings, whether "the murdering woman got in that v
They parted without a word on either side. The rain
I, but the night was dark, and the wind bleaker than ever.
Little did the darkness or the cold, or the uncertainty about the
home matter to Isaac. If he had been turned out into the
s in a thunder-storm, it would have Kvn a relief after
ivhat he had suffered in the bedroom of the inn.
What was the fair woman with the knife? T ure of a
iream, or that other creature from the unknown world called
he name of ghost? lh- could make nothing of
he mystery had made nothing of it. e\en when it was midday
m V, lay, and when In- stod. a' many t
his road, once more on the doorstep of his home,
68 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
CHAPTER III.
His mother came out eagerly to receive him. His face told
her in a moment that something was wrong.
" I've lost the place; but that's my luck. I dreamed an il
dream last night, mother or maybe I saw a ghost. Take il
either way, it scared me out of my senses, and I am not my owr
man again yet."
" Isaac, your face frightens me. Come in to the fire come
in, and tell mother all about it."
He was as anxious to tell as she was to hear; for it had beer
his hope, all the way home, that his mother, with her quickei
capacity and superior knowledge, might be able to throw som<
light on the mystery which he could not clear up for himself
His memory of the dream was still mechanically vivid, thougl
his thoughts were entirely confuted by it.
His mother's face grew paler and paler as he went on. Sh<
never interrupted him by so much as a single word; but whei
he had done, she moved her chair close to his, put her arm*
around his neck, and said to him:
"Isaac, you dreamed your ill dream on this Wednesday
morning. What time was it when you saw the fair womai
with the knife in her hand ?''
Isaac reflected on what the landlord had said when they ha<
passed by the clock on his leaving the inn; allowed as nearly a
he could for the time that must have elapsed between the un
locking of his bedroom door and the paying of his bill just befon
going away, and answered:
*' Somewhere about two o'clock in the morning."
His mother suddenly quitted her hold of his neck, and strucl
her hands together with a gesture of despair."
"This Wednesday is your birthday, Isaac, and two o'clock ii
the morning was the time when you were born.
Isaac's capacities were not quick enough to catch the infectioi
of his mother's superstitious dread. He was amazed, and a littl
startled also, when she suddenly rose from her chair, opened he
old writing-desk, took pen, ink, and paper, and then said to him
" Your memory is but a poor* one, Isaac, and, now I'm an ol
woman, mine's not much better. I want all about this drear
of yours to be as well known to both of us, years hence, as it i
now. Tell me over again all you told me a minute ago, whe
you spoke of what the woman with the knife looked like."
Isaac obeyed, and marveled much as he saw his mother car<
fully set down on paper the very words that he was saying.
" Light gray eyes," she wrote, as they came to the descripth
part, " with a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair, with a golc
yellow streak in it; white arms, with a down upon them; litti
lady's band, with a reddish look about the finger nails; clas]
knife with a buck-horn handle, that seemed as good as new
To these particulars Mrs. Scatchard added the year, month, da
of the week, and time in the morning when the woman of tl
dream appeared to her son. She then locked up the paper car
fully in the writing-desk.
V OF ttd
Neither on that -r on any day after could her son induce
>irn to tin- matter <>(' tin- dream. She obstinat
herself, and even refused to refer again
o tlie paper in her writing-desk. Ere long Isaac grew weary of
.ike her break her resolute silence; and time,
wind or later out all things, gradually wore
the impression produced on him by the dream. He be^an by
hinkingof it carelessly, and he ended by not thinking of it at all.
The result was the more easily brought about by the advent of
:ome important changes for the better in his prospects which
ommeneed not long after his terrible night's experience at the
nn. He reaped at last the reward of his long and patient suffer-
under adversity by getting an excellent place, keeping it for
sev s, and leaving it on the death of his master, not only
with an excellent character, but also with a comfortable annuity
)equeathed to him as a reward for saving his mistress' life in a
riage accident. Thus it happened that Isaac Scatchard re-
turned to his old mother, seven years after the time of the dream
t the inn, with an annual sum of money at his dispo'sal suffi-
cient to keep them both in ease and independence for the rest of
their lives.
The mother, whose health had been bad of late years, profited so
much by the care bestowed on her and by freedom from money
anxieties, that when Isaac's birthday came round she was able
X) sit up comfortably at table and dine with him.
On that day, asj the evening drew on, Mrs. Scatchard discov-
ered that a bottle of tonic medicine which she was accustomed
:o take, and in which she had fancied that a dose or more was
still left, happened to be empty. Isaac immediately volunteered
;o go to the chemist's and get it filled again. It was as rainy and
>leak an autumn night as on the memorable past occasion when
ic lost his way and slept at the roadside inn.
On going into the chemist's shop he was passed hurriedly by a
-i 1\ -dressed woman coming out of it. The glimpse he had of
tier face struck him, and he looked back after her as she
^ ;he door-steps.
" You're noticing that woman?" said the chemist's apprentice
behind the counter. " It's my opinion there's something wrong
with her. She's been asking for laudanum to put to a bad tooth.
Master's out for half an hour, and I told her I wasn't allowed to
sell poison to strangers in his absence. She laughed in a queer
and said she would come back in half an hour. If sh
ister to serve her, I think she'll be disappointed. 1
nicide. sir, if ever there was one y.
These words added immeasurably to the -udden interest in the
woman which Isaac had felt at the first sight of her face. .
he had ^ot the medicine- bottle tilled he looked about anxiously
for I oon as he was out in the street. E walking
slowly up and down on the opposite side of the road. \Vitl his
ry much to his own surprise, beating fast ; Isaac crossed
over and spoke to her.
He asked if she \\a> in any di- pointed to her torn
shawl, her scanty dress, her crushed, dirty bonnet; then moved
70 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
under a lamp so as to let the light fall on her stern, pale, but still
most beautiful face.
" I look like a comfortable, happy woman, don't I " she said,
with a bitter laugh.
She spoke with a purity of intonation which Isaac had never
heard before from other lips than ladies' lips. Her slightest ac-
tions seemed to have the easy, negligent grace of a thorough-
bred woman. Her skin, for all its poverty-stricken paleness,
was as delicate as if her life had been passed in the enjoyment
of every social comfort that wealth can purchase. Even her
small, finely- shaped hands, gloveless as they were, had not lost
their whiteness.
Little by little, in answer to his questions, the sad story of the
woman came out. There is no need to relate it here: it is told
over and over again in police reports and paragraphs about
attempted suicides.
" My name is Rebecca Murdoch," said the woman, as she
ended. ^ I have ninepence left, and I thought of spending it at
the chemist's over the way in securing a passage to the other
world. Whatever it is, it can't be worse to me than this, so
why should I stop here ?"
Besides the natural compassion and sadness moved in his
heart by what he heard, Isaac felt within him some mysterious
influence at work all the time the woman was speaking which
utterly confused his ideas and almost deprived him of his powers
of speech. All that he could say in answer to her last reckless
words was that he would prevent her from attempting her own
life, if he followed her about all night to do it. His rough,]
trembling earnestness seemed to impress her.
" I won't occasion you that trouble,'' she answered, when hel
repeated his threat. " You have given me a fancy for living bjj
speaking kindly to me. No need for the mockery of protesta|
tions and promises. You may believe me without them. COON
to Fuller's Meadow to-morrow at twelve, and you will find m<[
alive, to answer for myself No! no money. My ninepenc<
will do to get me as good a night's lodging as I want."
She nodded and left him. He made no attempt to follow
felt no suspicion that she was deceiving him.
" It's strange, but I can't help believing her," he said to hinoj
self, and walked away, bewildered, toward home.
On entering the house his mind was still so completely all
sorbed by its new subject of interest that he took no notice c
what his mother was doing \vben he came in with the bottle c
medicine. She had opened her old writing-desk in his absencn
and was now reading a paper attentively that lay inside it. Oj
every birthday of Isaac's since she had written down the pa
ticulars of his dream from his own lips, she had been accu
tomed to read that same paper, and ponder over it in private.
The next day he went to Fuller's Meadow.
He had done only right in believing her so implicitly She w
there, punctual to a minute, to answer for herself. The last-k i
faint defenses in Isaac's heart against the fascination which j
word or look from her began inscrutably to exercise over hi
THE QUEEN OF TS. 71
sank down and vanished before her forever on that memorable
ing.
When a man previously insensible to the influence of woman
forms an attachment in middle life, the instances are rare in-
deed, let the warning circumstances be what they may, in which
be is found capable of freeing himself from the tyranny of the
new ruling passion. The charm of being spoken to familiarly,
fondly, and gratefully by a woman whose language and manners
still retained enough of their early refinement to hint at the high
I station that she had lost, would have been a dangerous
luxury to a man of Isaac's rank at the age of twenty. But it
was far more than that it was certain ruin to him now thafc
liis heart \\as opening unworthily to a new influence at that
middle time of life when strong feelings of all kinds, once im-
planted, strike root most stubbornly in a man's moral nature.
A few more stolen interviews after that first morning in Fuller's
Meadow completed his infatuation. In less than a month from
the time when he first met her, Isaac Scatchard had consented
to give Rebecca Murdoch a new interest in existence, and a
chance of recovering the character she had lost by promising to
make her his wife.
She had taken possession, not of his passions only, but of his
faculties as well. All the mind he had he put into her keeping.
She directed him on every point even instructing him how to
break the news of his approaching marriage in the safest man-
ner to his mother.
"If you tell her how you met me and who I am at first," said
the cunning woman, " she will move heaven and earth to prevent
our marriage. Say I am the sister of one of your fellow -servants
ask her to see me before you go into any more particulars
and leave it to me to do the rest. I mean to make her love me
next best to you, Isaac, before she knows anything of who I
really am."
The motive of the deceit was sufficient to sanctify it to Isaac.
The stratagem proposed relieved him of his one great anxiety,
and quieted his uneasy conscience on the subject of his
mother. Still, there was something wanting to perfect his hap-
s something that he could not realize, something mysteri-
ously untraeeable, and yet something that perpetually made
felt: not when he was absent from Rebecca Murdoch, but,
straii v, \vhen he was actually in her presence! She was
kiudi If with him. She never made him feel his inferior
1 inferior manners. She showed the sweetest anx-
iety to |>le:i-e him in the smallest trifles; but, in spite of all these,
attractions, lie never could feel quite at hi * ith her. At
their tirst meeting, there had mingled with his admiration, when
he looked in ht a faint, involuntary feeling of doubt
tier that face was entireh stran.-e to him. No after famil-
iarity had the slightest ejlect on this Inexplicable, wearisome un-
certain!
Concealing the truth as he bad been directed, he announced
engagement i>reei|>itatfly and confusedly to his
mother ou the day when he cont i. Poor Mrs. Scatchard
72 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
showed her perfect confidence in her son by flinging her arms
round his neck, and giving him joy of having found at last, in
the sister of one of his fellow-servants, a woman to comfort and
care for him after his mother was gone. She was all eagerness
to see the woman of her son's choice, and the next day was fixed
for the introduction.
It was a bright sunny morning, and the little cottage parlor
was full of light as Mrs. Scatchard, happy and expectant, dressed
for the occasion in her Sunday gown, sat waiting for her son and
her future daughter-in-law.
Punctual to the appointed time, Isaac hurriedly and nervously
led his promised wife into the room. His mother rose to receive
her advanced a few steps smiling looked Rebecca full in the
eyes, and suddenly stopped. Her face, which had been flushed
the moment before, turned white in an instant; her eyes lost
their expression of softness and kindness, and assumed a blank
look of terror; her outstretched hands fell to her sides, and she
staggered back a few steps with a low cry to her son.
" Isaac," she whispered, clutching him fast by the arm when
he asked her alarmedly if she was taken ill, "Isaac, does that
woman's face remind you of nothing ?"
Before he could answer before he could look round to where
Rebecca stood, astonished and angered by her reception, at the
lower end of the room, his mother pointed impatiently to her
writing-desk, and gave him the key.
M Open it," she said, in a quick, breathless whisper.
" What does this mean ? Why am I treated as if I had no bus-
iness here ? Does your mother want to insult me ?" asked Re-
becca, angrily.
" Open it, and give me the paper in the left-hand drawer.
Quick! quick, for Heaven's sake!" said Mrs. Scatchard, shrink-
ing further back in terror.
Isaac gave her the paper. She looked it over eagerly for a
moment, then followed Rebecca, who was now turning away
haughtily to leave the room, and caught her by the shoulder-
abruptly raised the long, loose sleeve of her gown, and glanced
at the hand and arm. Something like fear began to steal over
the angry expression of Rebecca's face as she shook herself free
from the old w r oman's grasp. " Mad!" she said to herself; " and
Isaac never told me." With these few words she left the room;
Isaac was hastening after her when his mother turned and
stopped his further progress. It wrung his heart to see the mis-
ery and terror in her face as she looked at him.
" Light gray eyes," she said in low, mournful, awe-struck
tones, pointing toward the open door; "a droop in the left eye-
lid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it; white arms, with a
down upon them; little lady's hand, "with a reddish look under the
finger nails The Dream-Woman, fsaaCjjthe Dream- Woman!"
That faint cleaving doubt which he had never been able to
shake off in Rebecca Murdoch's presence was fatally set at rest
forever. He luid seen her face, then, before seven years before,
on his birthday, in the bedroom of the lonely inn,
THE V OF 7/7 73
" Be warned ! oh. my son, bo warn
and do you stop with m
lething darkened tlio parlor window r t were
said. A Hidden chill ran through him. and he glan long
at the shadow. Rebecca Murdoch had come hack. She
ing in curiously at them over the low window-blind.
I h:ive promised to marry, mother," lie said, "and marry T
must."
The a into his eyes as he spoke and dimmed his
hut he could just discern the fatal face outside moving
ain from the window,
mother's head sank lower.
\re you faint V he whispered.
" Broken-hearted, Isaac."
stooped down and kissed her. The shadow, as he did so,
returned to the window, and the fatal face peered in curiously
once more.
CHAPTER IV.
THREE weeks after that day Isaac and Rebecca were man and
wife. All that was hopelessly dogged and stubborn in the man's
moral nature seemed to have closed round his fatal passion, and
to have fixed it unassailably in his heart.
After that first interview in the cottage parlor no considera-
tion would induce Mrs. Scatchard to see her son's wife again,
or even to talk of her when Isaac tried hard to plead her cause
after their marriage.
This course of conduct was not in any degree occasioned by a
very of the degradation in which Rebecca had lived. There
no question of that between mother and son. There was
r\o question of anything but the fearfully exact resemblance
between the living, breathing woman, and the sp >man
J dream.
i her side, neither felt nor expressed the si i.^:
\v at the estrangement between herself and her mother-in-
law, lor the sake of peace, had never contradicted her
tirst idea that age and long illness had affected Mrs. Scatchard's
mind. He even allowed his wife to upbraid him for not having
confessed this to her at the time of their marriage > icnt,
rather than risk anything by hinting at the truth. The sacrifice
of Ms integrity before bis one all-ma delusiot ! but
a small tiling, and cost his cons little after ;
he had already made.
The time of waking from this delusion the cruel and rueful
-was not far oil'. After some quiet months of married life,
as the summer \va- ending, and the year was get tit vvard
the month of his birthday found his wife alt- ward
him. Bhe grew sullen and contemptuous; -he i :cquaint-
kind in defiance of hi- ions.
mm.-uids: and. worst of all, she learned,
ere long, aft- h difference with her husband. !<
the deadly self-oblivion of drink. Little by little, after the first
74 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
miserable discovery that his wife was keeping company witl
drunkards, the shocking certainty forced itself on Isaac that sh<
had grown to be a drunkard herself.
He had been in a sadly despondent state for some time befon
the occurrence of these domestic calamities. His mother'!
^health, as he could but too plainly discern every time he went t<
see her at the cottage, was failing fast, and he upbraided him
self in secret as the cause of the bodily and mental suffering she
endured. When to bis remorse on his mother's account was
added the shame and misery occasioned by the discovery of hi*
wife's degradation, he sank under the double trial his face be
gan to alter fast, and he looked what he was, a spirit-broker
man.
His mother, still struggling bravely against the illness thai
was hurrying her to the grave, was the first to notice the sac
alteration in him, and the first to hear of his last worst troubk
with his wife. She could only weep bitterly on the day wher
he made his humiliating confession, but on the next occasior
when he went to see her she had taken a resolution in referenc(
to his domestic afflictions which astonished and even alarmec
him. He found her dressed to go out, and on asking the roasor
received this answer:
" I am not long for this world, Isaac," she said, " and I shal
not feel easy on my death-bed unless I have done my best to the
last to make my son happy. I mean to put my own fears anc
my own feelings out of the question, and to go with you to youi
wife, and try what I can do to reclaim her. Give me your arm,
Isaac, and let me do the last thing I can in this world to help mj
son before it is too late."
He could not disobey her, and they walked together slowly
toward his miserable home.
It was only one o'clock in the afternoon when they reached the
cottage where he lived. It was their dinner-hour, and RebeccE
was in the kitchen. He was thus able to take his mother quietly
into the parlor, and then prepare his wife for the interview. She
had fortunately drunk but little at that early hour, and she was
less sullen and capricious than usual.
He returned to his mother with his mind tolerably at ease
His wife soon followed him into the parlor, and the meeting be
tween her and Mrs. Scatchard passed off better than he had veut
ured to anticipate, though he observed with secret apprehensior
that his mother, resolutely as she controlled herself in other re-
spects, could not look his wife in the face when she spoke to her,
It was a relief to him, therefore, when Rebecca began to lay th
cloth.
She laid the cloth, brought in the bread-tray, and cut a slict
from the loaf for her husband, then returned to the kitchen,
At that moment, Isaac, still anxiously watching his mother,
was startled by seeing the same ghastly change pass over hei
face which had altered it so awfully on the morning when Re
becca and she first met. Before he could say a word, she wbis
pered, with a look of horror;
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 75
" Take me ba ok home, home again, Isaac. Come with me,
again."
1 Ir \\ as afraid to ask for an explanation; he could only sign to
her to be silent, and help her quickly to the door. As
passed the bread-tray on the table she stopped and pointed to it.
Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she
i, iu a low whisper.
uother I was not noticing what was it?"
" Lookl"
He did look. A new clasp-knife, with a buck-horn handle,
lay with the loaf in the bread-tray. He stretched out his hand
shudderingly to possess himself of it; but, at the same time,
there was a noise in the kitchen, and his mother caught at his
arm.
" The knife of the dream! Isaac, I'm faint with fear. Take
me away before she comes back."
He was hardly able to support her. The visible, tangible real-
f the knife struck him with a panic, and utterly destroyed
any faint doubts that he might have entertained up to this time
in relation to the mysterious dream-warning of nearly eight
years before. By a last desperate effort, he summoned self-pos-
session enough to help his mother out of the house so quietly
that the " Dream- woman " (he thought of her by that name now)
did not hear them departing from the kitchen.
" Don't go back, Isaac don't go back!" implored Mrs. Scatch-
ard, as he turned to go away, after seeing her safely seated again
in her own room.
" I must get the knife," he answered, under his breath. His
mother tried to stop him again, but he hurried out without an-
other word. .
On his return he found that his wife had discovered their
secret departure from the house. She had been drinking, and
was in a fury of passion. The dinner in the kitchen was flung
under the grate; the cloth was dK the parlor table. Where was
the knife?
Unwisely, he asked for it. She was only too glad of the oppor-
tunity of irritating him, which the request afforded her. " He
wanted the knife, did he? Could he give her a reason why ? Nol
Then he should not have it not if he went down on his knees to
ask for it." Further recriminations elicited the fact that she had
bought it a bargain, and that she considered it her own es-
il property. Isaac saw the uselessness of attempting to get
the knife by fair means, and determined to search for it.
in the day, in secret. The search was unsuccessful. Night
on. and he left the house to walk about the streets. He
was afraid now to sleep in the same room with her.
Three weeks passed. Still sullenly enraged with him, she
would not give up the knife; and still that fear of sleeping in
the same room with her possessed him. He walked about at
night, or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching by his mother's
ide. Before the expiration of the first week in the new
month his mother died. It wanted then but ten days of her
son's birthday. She had longed to live till that anniversary.
76 THE QUEEN OF &EARTS.
Isaac was present at her death, and her last words in this world
were addressed to him.
" Don't go back, my son, don't go back!"
He was obliged to go back, if it were only to watch hia wife.
Exasperated, to the last degree by his distrust of her, she had re-
vengefully sought to add a sting to his grief, during the last
days of his mother's illness, by declaring that she would assert
her right to attend the funeral. In spite of all that he could do
or say, she held with wicked pertinacity to her word, and on the
day appointed for the burial forced herself inflamed and
shameless with drink into her husband's presence, and declared
that she would walk in the funeral procession to his mother's
grave.
This last worst outrage, accompanied by all that was most in-
sulting in word and look, maddened him for the moment. He
struck her.
The instant the blow was dealt he repented it. She crouched
down, silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed him steadily; it
was a look that cooled his hot blood and made him tremble. But
there was no time now to think of a means of making atone-
ment. Nothing remained but to risk the worst till the funeral
was over. There was but one way of making sure of her. He
locked her into her bedroom.
When he came back some hours after, be found her sitting,
very much altered in look and bearing, by the bedside, with a
bundle on her lap. She rose and faced him quietly, and spoke
with a strange stillness in her voice, a strange repose in her eyes,
a strange composure in her manner.
" No man has ever struck me twice," she said, "and my hus-
band shall have no second opportunity. Set the door open and
let me go. From this day forth we see each other no more."
Before he could answer she passed him and left the room. He
saw her walk away up the street.
Would she return ?
All that night he watched and waited, but no footstep ' came
near the house. The next night, overpowered by fatigue, he
lay down in bed in his clothes, with the door locked, the key on
the table, and the candle burning. His slumber was not dis-
turbed. The third night, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth passed,*
and nothing happened. He lay down on the seventh, still in his
clothes, still with the door locked, the key on the table, and the
candle burning, but easier in his mind.
Easier in his mind, and in perfect health of body when he fell
off to sleep. But his rest was disturbed. He woke twice with-
out any sensation of uneasiness. But the third time it was that
never-to-be-forgotten shivering of the night at the lonely inn,
that dreadful sinking pain at the heart, which once more
aroused him in an instant.
His eyes opened toward the left-hand side of the bed, and
there stood
The Dream-Woman again? No! his wife; the living reality,
with the dream-specter's face, in the dream-specter's attitude;
the fair arm up, the knife clasped in the delicate white hand.
THE QUEEN OP TS. 77
sprung upon her almost at the instant of seeing her, and
uickly enough to prevent, her from hiding the knife.
\Vitl ; from him without a cry from < pin-
i her in a chair. With one hand he felt up her sleeve, and
then-, where tin- Dream-Woman had hidden the kn if <.
liad hidden it the knife with the buck-horn handle, that looked
Tn t lirof that fearful moment his brain was steady, his
hear; I m. lie looked at her fixedly with the knife in his
id these last words:
" You told me we should see each other no more, and you have
come back . It is my turn now to go, and to go forever.
that we shall see each other no more, and my word shall not be
broken."
He left her, and set forth into the night. There was a bleak
wind abroad, and the smell of recent rain was in the air. The
distant church-clocks chimed the quarter as he walked rapidly
beyond the last houses in the suburb. He asked the first police-
man he met what hour that was of which the quarter-past had
just struck.
The man referred sleepily to his watch, and answered, "Two
o'clock." Two in the morning. What day of the month was
this day that had just begun ? He reckoned it up from the day
of his mother's funeral. The fatal parallel was complete: it was
his birthday!
Had he escaped the mortal peril which his dream foretold ? or
had he only received a second warning ?
As that ominous doubt forced itself on his mind, he stopped,
reflected, and turned back again toward the city. He was still
resolute to hold to his word, and never to let her see him more;
but there was a thought now in his mind of having her watched
and followed. The knife was in his possession; the world was
before him; but a new distrust of her a vague, unspeakable,
superstitious dread had overcome him.
' I must know where she goes, now she thinks I have left
he said to himself, as he stole back wearily to the precincts
of Ms hou-e.
It was still dark. He had left the candle burning in the bed-
chamber; but when he looked up to the window of the room now,
there was no light in it. He crept cautiously to the house door.
ing away, he remembered to have closed it; on trying it
now, lie found it open.
11. waited outside, never losing sight of the house, till day-
light. Then he ventured in-doors listened, and heard nothing
looked into kitchen, scullery, parlor, and found nothing:
went up. at last, into the bedroom it was empty. A picklock
H the tloor. betraying how she had gained entrance in. the
night, and that was the, only trace of her.
Whither had she gone? That no mortal tongue could tell
him. The darkness had covered her flight; and when the day
no man could say where the light found h
ring the house and the town i he gave instruc-
tions to a friend and neighbor to sell his furniture for anything
73 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
that it would fetch, and apply the proceeds to employing the
police to trace her. The directions were honestly followed, and
the money was all spent, but the inquiries led to nothing. The
picklock on the bedroom floor remained the one last useless trace
of the Dream- Woman.
# * # v- * * *
At this point of the narrative the landlord paused, and, turn-
ing toward the window of the room in which we were sitting,
looked in the direction of the stable-yard.
" So far," he said, " I tell you what was told to me. The little
that remains to be added lies within my own experience. Be-
tween two and three months after the events I have just been
relating, Isaac Scatchard came to me, withered and old-looking
before his time, just as you saw him to-day. He had his testi-
monials of character with him, and he asked for employment
here. Knowing that my wife and he were distantly related, I
gave him a trial in consideration of that relationship, and liked
him in spite of his queer habits. He is as sober, honest, and will-
ing a man as there is in England. As for his restlessness at
night, and his sleeping away his leisure time in the day. who can
wonder at it after hearing his story ? Besides, he never objects
to being roused up when he's wanted, so there's not much incon-
venience to complain of, after all."
" I suppose he is afraid of a return of that dreadful dream, and
of waking out of it in the dark ?" said I.
" No," returned the landlord. " The dream comes back to him
so often that he has got to bear with it by this time resignedly
enough. It's his wife keeps him waking at night, as he has often
told me."
" What! Has she never been heard of yet ?"
" Never. Isaac himself has the one perpetual thought about
her, that she is alive, and looking for him. I believe he wouldn't
let himself drop off to sleep toward two in the morning for a
king's ransom. Two in the morning, he says, is the time she
will find him, one of these days. Two in the morning is the
time all the year round when he likes to be most certain that he
has got that clasp-knife safe about him. He does not mind being
alone as long as he is awake, except on the night before his birth-
day, when he firmly believes himself to be in peril of his life.
The birthday has only come round once since he has been here,
and then he sat up along with the night-porter. ' She's looking
for me.' is all he says when anybody speaks to him about the
one anxiety of his life; ' she's looking for me.' He may be right.
She may be looking for him. Who can tell?"
"Who can tell?" said I.
THE FOURTH DAY.
THE sky once more cloudy and threatening. No news of
George. I corrected Morgan's second story to day; numbered it
Seven, and added it to our stock.
Undeterred by the weather, Miss Jessie set off this morning oil
Til V OF
the longest ride she had yet undertaken had heard
thn t my hi laborers, I believe ial
existence, in this nineteenth century, <f n less a pers< m
a V <rd, who was to be found at a distant farm
beyond the limits of Owen's property. Tin- pn>-pect of discov-
markable relic of past times hurried her oil". un<
the ' her ragged groom, in a high state of exciteim -nt.
hear the venerable man. She was away the wh
. and for the first time since her visit she kept us waiting
half an hour for dinner. The moment we all sat do-
table, she informed us, to Morgan's great delight, that t
is a rank impostor.
Why, what did you expect to see?" I asked.
"A Welsh patriarch, to be sure, with a long white beard,
flowing robes, and a harp to match," answered Miss Jessie.
" And what did you find ?"
" A highly respectable middle-aged rustic; a smiling, smoothly-
shaven, obliging man, dressed in a blue swallow-tailed coat,
with brass buttons, and exhibiting his bardic legs in a pair of
extremely stout and comfortable corduroy trousers."
" But he sang old Welsh songs, surely ?"
" Sang! I'll tell you what he did. He sat down on a Wind-
sor chair, without a harp; he put his hands in his pockets,
cleared his throat, looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly burst
into a series of the shrillest falsetto screeches I ever heard in my
life. My own private opinion is that he was suffering from
hydrophobia. I have lost all belief, henceforth and forever, in
bards all belief in everything, in short, except your very de-
tful stories, and this remarkably good dinner."
Ending with that smart double fire of compliments to her
hosts, the Queen of Hearts honored us all three with a smile of
approval, and transferred her attention to her knife and fork.
The Dumber drawn to-night was One. On examination of
the Purple Volume, it proved to be my turn to read again.
"Our story to-night," T said, ''contains the narrative of a
very remarkable adventure which really befell me when I was a
ing man. At the time of my life wheu these events happened
1 was dabbling in literature when I ought to have been studying
law, and traveling on the Continent when I ought to ha-.
y terms at Lincoln's Inn. At the outset of the story,
you will find that I refer to the county in which I lived in
nth. and to a neighboring family possessing a Iar<;e estate in
it. .unity is situated in a part of England far aw;
the (lien T nd that family is therefore not to be ass<
with any present or former neighbors of ours in this part of the
world." *
After saying these n< words of explanation T oj>
the first page and l>egan the story of my Own Ad . I ob-
served that my audience started a little as I i title, which
I must add. hi my o\vn defense, h id been almost forced on my
choice by the peculiar char >f the narrative. It v
" MAD MONKTON."
80 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
BROTHER GRIFFITH'S STORY OF MAD MONKTON.
CHAPTER I.
THE MonktoDS of Wincot Abbey bore a sad character for want
of sociability, in our county. They never went to other
people's houses, and, excepting my father, and a lady and her
daughter living near them, never received anybody under their
own roof.
Proud as they all certainly were, it was not pride, but dread
which kept them thus apart from their neighbors. The family had
suffered for generations past from the horrible affliction of heredi-
tary insanity, and the members of it shrank from exposing their
calamity to others, as they must have exposed it if they had min-
gled with the busy little world around them. There is a frightful
story of crime committed in past times by two of the Monktons,
near relatives, from which the first appearance of the insanity
was always supposed to date, but it is needless for me to shock
any one by repeating it. It is enough to say that at intervals
almost every form of madness appeared in the family, mono-
mania being the most frequent manifestation of the affliction
among them. I have these particulars, and one or two yet to
be related, from my father.
At the period of my youth but three of the Monktons were
left at the Abbey Mr. and Mrs. Monkton, and their only child
Alfred, heir to the property. The one other member of this,
the elder branch of the family, who was then alive, was Mr.
Monkton's younger brother, Stephen. He was an unmarried
man, possessing a fine estate in Scotland; but he lived almost
entirely on the Continent, and bore the reputation of being a
shameless profligate. The family at Wincot held almost as little
communication with him a? with their neighbors.
I have already mentioned my father, and a lady and her
daughter, as the only privileged people who were admitted into
Wincot Abbey.
My father had been an old school and college friend of Mr.
Monkton, and accident had brought them so much together in
later life that their continued intimacy at Wincot was quite in-
telligible. I am not so well able to account for the friendly
terms on which Mrs. Elmslie (the lady to whom I have alluded)
lived with the Monktons. Her late husband had been distantly
related to Mrs. Monkton, and my father was her daughter's
guardian. But even these claims to friendship and regard never
seemed to me strong enough to explain the intimacy between
Mrs. Elmslie and the inhabitants of the Abbey. Intimate, how-
ever, they certainly were, and one result of the constant inter-
change of visits between the two families in due time declared
itself: Mr. Monkton's son and Mrs. Elmslie's daughter became
attached to each other.
I had no opportunities of seeing much of the young lady; I
only remember her at that time as a delicate, gentle, lovable
girl, the very opposite in appearance, and apparently in charac-
QUEEN OF 81
ter also, to Alfred Monkton. But perhaps that was one reason
why they fell in love with each other. The atta
soon . and \\ from being disapproved b
In all essential points except th
Klmslies were nearly tin; equals of the M
in a bride was of no eonsequenee to the heir
of Wincot. Alfred, it was well known, would succeed to thirty
tin u on his father's death.
Thus, though the parents on both sides thought the y<
t old enough to he married at once, they saw no r
why Ada and Alfred should not be engaged to each other, with
the understanding that they should be united when young
Moukton came of age, in two years' time. The person to be
i in the matter, after the parents, was ray father, in his
capacity of Ada's guardian. He knew that the family misery
:iown itself many years ago in Mrs. Monkton, who was her
ind's cousin. The /////c.s.v. as it was significantly called, had
d by careful treatment, and was reported to have
passed away. But my father was not to be deceived. He knew
\\ here the hereditary taint still lurked; he viewed with horror
the bare possibility of its reappearing one day in the childr
iend's only daughter, and he positively refused his coi
to the marriage engagement.
The result was that the doors of the Abbey and the doors of
Mrs. Elmslie's house were closed to him. This suspension of
friendly intercourse had lasted but a very short time when Mrs.
Monkton died. Her husband, who was fondly attached to her,
caught a violent cold while attending her funeral. The cold was
ttled on his lungs. In a few months' time he
followed his wife to the grave, and AKred was left master of the
grand old Abbey and the fair lands that spread all around it.
this period Mrs. Klm>lie had the indelicacy to endea\
id time to procure my father's consent to the marriage en-
t. He refused it again more positively than before,
than a year pa.'d away. The time was approachin:_
when Alfred would i I returned from college to spend
the 1' ition at home, and made some advances tow a rd bet-
iv acquaintance with young Monkton. They were
evaded certainly with perfect politeness, but still in such a
prevent me from offering my friendship to him again.
Any mortification that I might have felt at this petty repulse
under ordinary eireumstaii' 1 from my mind by
the occiirtvnrr of a real misfortune m our household. For
months paM my father's health bad been failing, and. just at the
time of which lam now writing, bis sons had t" mourn the irrep-
arable calamity of his death.
This event, thn ue informality or error in the late Mr.
Elmslie's will, left the future of Ada' her mother's
nsequence was theimn ication of the
man i .;agemrnt to which my fat herb
- publicly annoui)'
intimai- quainted
with the reports affecting the Monkton family, ventured to
82 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
mingle with their formal congratulations one or two significant
references to the late Mrs. Monkton, and some searching in-
quiries as to the disposition of her son.
Mrs. Elmslie always met these polite hints with one bold form
of answer. She first admitted the existence of those reports
about the Monktons which her friends were unwilling to specify
distinctly, and then declared that they were infamous calum-
nies. The hereditary taint had died out of the family genera-
tions back. Alfred was the best, the kindest, the sanest of
human beings. He loved study and retirement; Ada smypa-
thized with his tastes, and had made her choice unbiased; if any
more hints were dropped about sacrificing her by her marriage,
those hints would be viewed as so many insults to her mother,
whose affection for her it was monstrous to call in question.
This way of talking silenced people, but did not convince them.
They began to suspect, what was indeed the actual truth, that
Mrs. Elmslie was a selfish, worldly, grasping woman, who
wanted to get her daughter well married, and cared nothing for
consequences as long a? she saw Ada mistress of the greatest
establishment in the whole county.
It seemed, however, as if there was some fatality at work to
prevent the attainment of Mrs. Elmslie's great object in life.
Hardly was one obstacle to the ill-omened marriage removed by
my father's death before another succeeded it in the shape of
anxieties and difficulties caused by the delicate state of Ada's
health. Doctors were consulted in all directions, and the result
of their advice was that the marriage must be deferred, and
that Miss Elmslie must leave England for a certain time, to
reside in a warmer climate the south of France, if I remember
rightly. Thus it happened that just before Alfred came of age,
Ada and her mother departed for the Continent, and the union
of the two young people was understood to be indefinitely post-
poned.
Some curiosity was felt in the neighborhood as to what Alfred
Monkton would do under these circumstances. Would he fol-
low his lady-love ? or would he go yachting? would he throw
open the doors of the old Abbey at last, and endeavor to forget
the absence of Ada and the postponement of his marriage in a
round of gayeties ? He did none of these things. He simply
remained at Wincot, living as suspiciously strange and solitary
a life as his father had before him. Literally, there was no
companion for him at the Abbey but the old priest the Monk-
tons, I should have mentioned before, were Roman Catholics
who had held the office of tutor to Alfred from his earliest
years. He came of age, and there was not even so much as a
private dinner-party at Wincot to celebrate the event. Families
in the neighborhood determined to forget the offense which his
father's reserve had given them, and invited him to their houses.
The invitations were politely declined. Civil visitors called reso-
lutely at the Abbey, and were as resolutely bowed away from
the doors as soon as they had left their cards. Under this com-
bination of sinister and aggravating circumstances, people in all
directions took to shaking their heads, mysteriously when the
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 83
name of Mr, Alfred Monkton was mentioned, hinting at tho
,dty, and wondering peevishly or sadly, as
tempers inclined them, what he could possibly do to occupy him-
self month after month in the lonely old house.
The right answer to this question was not easy to find. It was
quite list-less, for example, to apply to the priest for it. He was
y quiet, polite old gentleman; his replies were always ex-
cessively ready and civil, and appeared at the time to convey an
immense quantity of information; but when they came to be
reflected on, it was universally observed that nothing tangible
could ever be got out of them. The housekeeper, a weird old
woman, with a very abrupt and repelling manner, was too fierce
and taciturn to be safely approached. The few in-door servants
had all been long enough in the family to have learned to hold
their tongues in public as a regular habit. It was only from the
farm-servants who supplied the table at the Abbey that any in-
formation could be obtained, and vague enough it was when
they came to communicate it.
Some of them had observed the " young master" walking
about the library with heaps of dusty papers 17 1 his hands.
Others had heard odd noises in the uninhabited parts of the
Abbey, had looked up, and had seen him forcing open the old
windows, as if to let light and air into rooms supposed to have
l>een shut close for years and years, or had discovered him
standing on the perilous summit of one of the crumbling turrets,
never ascended before within their memories, and popularly con-
sidered to be inhabited by the ghosts of the monks who had once
possessed the building. The result of these observations and
discoveries, when they were communicated to others, was of
course to impress every one with a firm belief that " poor young
Monkton was going the way that the rest of the family had gone
before him," which opinion always appeared to be immensely
strengthened in the popular mind by a conviction founded on
no particle of evidence that the priest was at the bottom of all
the mischief.
Thus far I have spoken from hearsay evidence mostly. What
I have next to tell will be the result of my own personal experi-
ence.
CHAPTER IL
ABOUT five months after Alfred Monkton came of age I left
college, and resolved to anmse and instruct myself a little by
traveling abroad.
At the time when I quitted England young Monkton was still
leading his secluded life at the Abbey, and was. in the opinion of
everybody, sinking rapidly, if he had not already succumbed
under the hereditary curse of his family. ,\ Elmsli*
port said that Ada had benefited by her sojourn abroad, and
that mother and daughter were on their \\ land
to resume their old relations witli the heir of Wincot
they returned, I was away on my travels, and wandered half
Europe, hardly ever planning whither I should shap<
&4 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
course beforehand. Chance, which thus led me everywhere, led
me at last to Naples. There I met with an old jschool friend,
who was one of the attaches at the English embassy, and there
began the extraordinary events in connection with Alfred
Monkton which form the main interest of the story I am now
relating.
1 was idling away the time one morning with my friend the
attache in the garden of the Villa Reale when we were passed by
a young man, walking alone, who exchanged bows with my
friend.
I thought I recognized the dark, eager eyes, the colorless
cheeks, the strangely- vigilant, anxious expression which I
remembered in past times as characteristic of Alfred Monkton's
face, and was about to question my friend on the subject, when
he gave me unasked the information of which I was in search.
"That is Alfred Monkton," said he; "he comes from your
part of England. You ought to know him."
" I do know a little of him," I answered; "he was engaged
to Miss Elmslie when I was last in the neighborhood of Wincot.
Is he married to her yet?"
" No, and he never ought to be. He has gone the way of the
rest of the family or, in plainer words, he has gone mad."
" Mad! But I ought not to be surprised at hearing that, after
the reports about him in England."
" I speak from no reports; I speak from what he has said and
done before me, and before hundreds of other people. Surely
you must have heard of it ?"
"Never. I have been out of the way of news from Naples
or England for months past."
"Then I have a very extraordinary story to tell you. You
know, of course, that Alfred had au uncle, Stephen Monkton.
Well, some time ago this uncle fought a duel in the Roman
States with a Frenchman, who [shot him dead. The seconds
and the Frenchman (who was unhurt) took to flight in dif-
ferent directions, as it is supposed. We heard nothing here
of the details of the duel till a month after it happened, when
one of the French journals published an account of it, taken
from the papers left by Monkton's second, who died at Paris of
consumption. These papers stated the manner in which the
duel was fought, and how it terminated, but nothing more.
The surviving second and the Frenchman have never been
traced from that time to this. All that anybody knows, there-
fore, of the duel is that Stephen Monkton was shot; an event
which nobody can regret, for a greater scoundrel never existed.
The exact place where he died, and what was done with the
body, are still mysteries not to be penetrated."
" But what has all this to do with Alfred ?"
"Wait a moment and you will hear. Soon after the news of
his uncle's death reached England, what do you think Alfred
did ? He actually put off his marriage with Miss Elmslie, which
was then about to be celebrated, to come out here in search of
the burial-place of his wretched scamp of an uncle; and no
power on earth will now induce him to return to England and
V OF TS. 85
iss Elmslie until lie has found tin-body, nnd can take it back
with him, to bo buried with all the other dead Monktons in the
vault under \Vi >bey Chapel. He I his
the police, and exposed himself to the ridicule
of the men and the indignation of the women for i three
months in trying to achieve his insane purpo-r. and :
far from it as ever. He will not assign to anybody tin
>nduct. You can't laugh him out of it
nit of it. When we met him just now I happen to 1.
<>n his way to the office of the police miui-t T, to
send out fresh agents to search and inquire through the Roman
States for the place where his uncle was shot. And, rnind. all
this time he professes to be passionately in love with Miss Klms-
nd to be miserable at his separation from her. Just think
of that! And then think of his self-imposed absence from her
. to hunt after the remains of a wretch who was a disgrace
to the family, and whom he never saw but once or twice in his
Of all the * Mad Monktons,' as they used to call them in
England, Alfred is the maddest. He is actually our principal
excitement in this dull opera season; though, for my part, when
I think of the poor girl in England, I am a great deal more ready
-pise him than to laugh at him.''
" You know the Elmslies, then V
" Intimately. The other day my mother wrote to me from
England, after having seen Ada. This escapade of Monktons
has outraged all her friends. They have been entreating her to
break off the match, which it seems she could do if she liked.
her mother, sordid and selfish as she is, has been obliged at
in common decency, to side with the rest of the family;
but the good, faithful girl won't give Monkton up. She humors
his insanity; and declares he gave her a good reason in secret for
I away; says she could always make him happy when they
tlier in the old Abbey, and can make him still happier
when they are married; in short, she loves him dearly, and will
believe in him to the last. Nothing shakes her. She
made up her mind to throw away her life on him, and she
will do it."
" I hope not. Mad as his conduct looks to us, he may have
some sensible reason for it that we cannot imagine. Does
his mind seem at all disordered when he talks on ordinary
topi<
" Xot in the least. When you can get him t< ivthing,
which is not often, he talks like
about his p: rrand here, and you would t'
him the L and most temperate of human ut touch
nbjeet of hi Q uncle, and th- nad-
ness comes out din The other \ ,rd him,
. of course, whether he ha<:
>d at her like a perfect, lirnd, and s I his
uncle would answer her question day, if they
from hell to do it. We lar : ds. but th.
tainted at his looks, and we had
1 1 lU'iii ( . \ A'ould 1:
86 TEE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
out of the room for nearly frightening a pretty woman to death
in that way; but ' Mad Monkton,' as we have christened him, is
a privileged lunatic in Neapolitan society, because he is English,
good-looking, and worth thirty thousand a year. He goes out
everywhere under the impression that he may meet with some-
body who has been let into the secret of the place where the
mysterious duel was fought. If you are introduced to him he is
sure to ask you whether you know anything about it; but beware
of following up the subject/ after you have answered him, unless
you want to make sure that he is out of his senses. In that case,
only talk of his uncle, and the result will rather more than
satisfy you."
A day or two after this conversation with my friend the at-
tache, I met Monkton at an evening party.
The moment he heard my name mentioned, his face flushed
up, he drew me away into a corner, and referring to his cool re-
ception of my advance years ago toward making his acquaint-
ance, asked my pardon for what he termed his inexcusable in-
gratitude with an earnestness and an agitation which utterly
astonished me. His next proceeding was to question me, as my
friend had said he would, about the place of the mysterious
duel.
An extraordinary change came over him while he interrogated
me on tin's point. Instead of looking into my face as they had
looked hitherto, his eyes wandered away, and fixed themselves
intensely, almost fiercely, either on the perfectly empty wall at
our side, or on the vacant space between the wall and ourselves,
it was impossible to say which. I had come to Naples from
Spain by sea, and briefly told him so, as the best way of satisfy-
ing him that I could not assist his inquiries. He pursued them
no further; and, mindful of my friend's warning, I took care to
lead the conversation to general topics. He looked back at me
directly, and, as long as we stood in our corner, his eyes never
wandered away again to the empty wall or the vacant space
at our side.
Though more ready to listen than to speak, his conversation,
when lie did talk, had no trace of anything the least like in-
sanity about it. He had evidently read, not generally only, but
deeply as well, and could apply his reading with singular felic-
ity to the illustration of almost any subject under discussion,
neither obtruding his knowledge absurdly, nor concealing it
affectedly. His manner was in itself a standing protest against
such a nick-name as " Mad Monkton." He was so shy, so quiet,
so composed and gentle in all his actions, that at times I should
have been almost inclined to call him effeminate. We had a
long talk together on the first evening of our meeting; we often
saw each other afterward, and never lost a single opportunity of
bettering our acquaintance. I felt that lie had taken a liking to
me, and, in spite of what I had heard about his behavior to Miss
Elmslie, in spite of the suspicions which the history of bin fam-
ily and his own conduct had arrayed against him, 1 began to
like " Mad Monkton " as much as he liked me. We took many
a quiet ride together in the country, and sailed often along^the.
THE V OF rS. 87
of tho Bay on either side. But for two eroonti i
his condu hi could not at all understand, I should
t'elt as much at my ease in I iv as it lit- had been my
own brother.
The fust of these eccentricities consisted in the reappearance
of the odd expression in his eyes which I
i when he asked me whether I knew anything about
iel. No matter what we were talking about, or when
happened to be, there were times when he would suddenly look
away from my face, now on one side of me, now on the other,
I ways where there was nothing to see, and always with the
same intensity and fierceness in his eyes. This looked so like
madness or hypochondria at the least that I felt afraid to ask
him about it, and always pretended not to observe him.
The second peculiarity in his conduct was that he never re-
I, while in my company, to the reports about his errand at
Naples, and never 'once spoke of Miss Elmslie, or of his life at
"Wincott Abbey. This not only astonished me, but amazed those
who had noticed our intimacy, and who had made sure that I
must be the depositary of all his secrets. But the time was
near at hand when this mystery, and some other mysteries of
which I had no suspicion at that period, were ah to be re-
vealed.
I met him one night at a large ball, given by a Russian noble-
man, whose name I could not pronounce then, and cannot re-
member now. I had wandered away from reception-room, ball-
room, and card-room, to a small apartment at one extremity of
the palace, which was half conservatory, half boudoir, and
which had been prettily illuminated for the occasion with Chi-
nese lanterns. Nobody was in the room when I got there. The
view over the Mediterranean, bathed in the bright softness of
Italian moonlight, was so lovely that I remained fora long time
at the window, looking out, and listening to the dance-music
which faintly reached me from the ball-room. My thoughts
were far away with the relations I had left in England, when I
was startled out of them by hearing my name softly pro-
noun 1
I looked round directly, and saw Monkton standing in the
room. A livid paleness overspread his face, and his eyes were
turned away from me with the same extraordinary expression
in them to which I have already alluded.
" Do you mind leaving the ball early to-night?" he asked, still
not looking at me.
"Not at all," said I. " Can I do anything for you? Are you
HI?"
"No at least nothing to speak of. Will you come to my
rooms ?"
" At once, if you like."
"No, not at once, /must go home directly; but don't you
come to me for half an hour yet. You have not been at my
rooms before, I know, but you will easily find them out;
are close by. There is a card with my address. I must speak
88 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
to you to-night; my life depends on it. Pray come! for God's
Bake come when the half hour is up!"
I promised to be punctual, and he left me directly.
Most people will be easily able to imagine the state of nervous
impatience and vague expectation in which I passed the allotted
period of delay, after hearing such words as those Monkton had
spoken to me. Before the half hour had quite expired I began
to make my way out through the ball-room.
At the head of the staircase my friend the attache met me.
" What! going away already ?" said he.
' ' Yes; and on a very curious expedition. I am going to Monk-
ton's rooms, by his own invitation."
"You don't mean it! Upon my honor, you're a bold fellow to
trust yourself alone with ' Mad Monkton ' when the moon is at
the full."
" He is ill. poor fellow. Besides, I don't think him half as
mad as you do."
"We won't dispute about that; but mark my words, he has
toot asked you to go where no visitor has ever been admitted
before without a special purpose. I predict that you will see or
hear something to-night which you will remember for the rest
of your life."
We parted. When I knocked at the courtyard gate of the
house where Monkton lived, my friend's last words on the pal-
ace staircase recurred to me, and though I had laughed at him
when he spoke them, I began to suspect even then that his pre-
diction would be fulfilled.
CHAPTER III.
THE porter who let me into the house where Monkton lived
directed me to the floor on which his rooms were situated. On
getting up-stairs, I found his door on the landing ajar. He
heard my footsteps, I suppose, for he called to me to come in be-
fore I could knock.
I entered, and found him sitting by the table, with some loose
letters in his hand, which he was just tying together into a
packet. I noticed, as he asked me to sit down, that his expres-
sion looked more composed, though the paleness had not yet left
his face. He thanked me for coming; repeated that he had
something very important to say to me, and then stopped short,
apparently too much embarrassed to proceed. I tried to set him
at his ease by assuring him that, if my assistance or advice could
be of any use, I was ready to place myself and my time heartily
and unreservedly at his service.
As I said this I saw his eyes beginning to wander away from
my face to wander slowly, inch by inch, as it were, until they
stopped at a certain point, with the same fixed stare into va-
cancy which had so often startled me on former occasions. The
whole expression of his face altered as I had never yet seen it
alter; he sat before me looking like a man in a death trance.
" You are very kind," he said, slowly and faintly, speaking,
KEN OF TS. 80
it in the direction in which his eyes were still Ji
" 1 !, a help im-: but "
ll ; his lure whitened 'horribly, and the pers;
r it. ll<- tried to continue said a word m
eriously alarm cd about him, I rose from
\\ith tin- intention of getting him some water from a
which 1 nding on aside-table.
lit- sprang up at the same moment. All the suspicions I had
heard whimpered against his sanity flashed over my mind
in an instant, and I involuntarily stepped back a pace or K
op," he said, seating himself again: "don't mind me; and
don't leave your chair. I want I wish, if you please, to make
a little alteration, before we say anything more. Do you mind
sitting in a strong light?"
"Not hi the least."
I had hitherto been seated in the shade of his reading-lamp,
the only light in the room.
As I answered him he rose again, and, going into another
apartment, returned with a large lamp in his hand; then took
two candles t'rom the side-table, and two others from the chimney-
piece; placed them all, to my amazement, [together, so as to
stand exactly between us, and then tried to light them. His
hand trembled so that he was obliged to give up the attempt,
and allow me to come to his assistance. By his direction, I took
the shade off the reading-lamp after I had lit the other lamp and
four candles. When we sat down again, with this concentra-
tion of light between us, his better and gentler manner began to
return, and while he now addressed me he spoke without the
slightest hesitation.
4 ' It is useless to ask whether you have heard the reports about
me," he said; " I know that "you have. My purpose to-night is
to give you some reasonable explanation of the conduct which
has.produced those reports. My secret has been hitherto confided
to one person only; I am now about to trust it to your keeping,
with a special object winch will appear as I go on. First, how-
I must be^in by telling you exactly what the great diffi-
culty is which obliges me to be still absent from England. I want
your advice and your help; and, to conceal nothing from yon, I
want also to test your forbearance and your friendly sympathy
before I can venture on trusting my miserable secret into your
ing. Will you pardon this apparent distrust of your frauk
and open character this apparent ingratitude for your kin*
ird me e > we first met ':"
I begged him not to speak of these things, but to go on.
You know,'' he proceeded, "that lam here to recover the
body of my Uncle Stephen, and to carry it back with me to our
family burial-place in England, and yoii must also beawaiv that
1 have not yet succeeded in discovering his remains. Try to
over, for the present, whatever may seem extraordinary
and incomprehensible in such a purpose as mine is, and read
per article where the ink-line is traced. It i
only evidence hitherto obtained on the subject of the fatal duel
iu which my uncle fell, and 1 want to hear what course of pro-
90 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ceeding the perusal of it may suggest to you as likely to be best
on my part."
He handed me an old French newspaper. The substance of
what I read there is still so firmly impressed on my memory that
I am certain of being able to repeat correctly at this distance of
time all the facts which it is necessary for me to communicate
to the reader.
The article began, I remember, with editorial remarks on the
great curiosity then felt in regard to the fatal duel between the
Count St. Lo and Mr. Stephen Monkton, an English gentleman.
The writer proceeded to dwell at great length on the extraordi-
nary secrecy in which the whole affair had been involved from
first to last, and to express a hope that the publication of a cer-
tain manuscript, to which his introductory observations re-
ferred, might lead to the production of 'fresh evidence from
other and better- informed quarters. The manuscript had been
found among the papers of Monsieur Foulon, Mr. Monkton's
second, who had died at Paris of a rapid decline shortly after
returning to his home in that city from the scene of the duel.
The document was unfinished, having been left incomplete at
the very place where the reader would most wish to find it con-
tinued. No reason could be discovered for this, and no second
manuscript bearing on the all-important subject had been found,
after the strictest search among the papers left by the deceased.
The document itself then followed.
It purported to be an agreement privately drawn up between
Mr. Monkton's second, Monsieur Foulon, and the Count St. Lo's
second, Moneieur Dalville, and contained a statement of all the
arrangements for conducting the duel. The paper was dated
" Naples, February 22d," and was divided into some seven or
eight clauses.
The first clause described the origin and nature of the quarrel
a very disgraceful affair on both sides, worth neitflier remem-
bering nor repeating. The second clause stated that, the chal-
lenged man having chosen the pistol as his weapon, and the
challenger (an excellent swordsman) having, on his side, there-
upon insisted that the duel should be fought in such a manner
as to make the first fire decisive in its results, the seconds, see-
ing that fatal consequences must inevitably follow the hostile
meeting, determined, first of all, that the duel should be kept a
profound secret from everybody, and that the place where it
was to be fought should not be made known beforehand, even
to the principals themselves. It was added that this excess of
precaution had been rendered absolutely necessary in conse-
quence of a recent address from the Pope to the ruling powers
commenting on the scandalous frequency of the practice of
dueling, and urgently desiring that the laws against duelists
should be enforced for the future with the utmost rigor.
The third clause detailed the manner in which it had been ar-
ranged that the duel should be fought.
The pistols having been loaded by the seconds on the gSGiaBd,
the combatants were to be placed thirty paces apart, and woro Co
toss up for the first fire. The man who won was to advance too
77; V OF Hi: AH, 91
pacen marked out for him beforehand and wag then to discharge
!. Tf he missed or failed to disable his opponent, tlie
to advance, if he chose, the whole remaining
s l>efore he fired in his turn. This air. nt in-
e termination of the duel at the first discharge
of the pistols, and both principals and seconds pledged themselves
on either side to abide by it.
The fourth clause stated that the seconds had agreed that the
duel should be fought out of the Neapolitan States, but left
themselves to be guided by circumstances as to the exact local-
ity in which it should take place. The remaining clauses, so far
as I remember them, were devoted to detailing the different pre-
cautions to be adopted for avoiding discovery. The duelists and
their seconds were to leave Naples in separate parties; were to
change carriages several times, were to meet at a certain town,
or, failing that, at a certain post-house on the high road from
Naples to Rome; were to carry drawing- books, color- boxes, and
camp-stools, as if they bad been artists out on a sketching tour;
and were to proceed to the place of the duel on foot, employing
no guides, for fear of treachery. Such general arrangements as
these, and others for facilitating the flight of the survivors after
the affair was over, formed the conclusion of this extraordinary
document, which was signed, in initalsonly, by both the seconds.
Just below the initials appeared the beginning of a narrative,
dated " Paris," and evidently intended to describe the duel itself
with extreme minuteness. The handwriting was that of the
deceased second.
Monsieur Foulon, the gentlemen in question, stated his belief
that circumstances might transpire which would render an ac-
count by an eye-witness of the hostile meeting between St. Lo
and Mr. Monkton an important document. He proposed there-
fore, as one of the seconds, to testify that the duel had been
fought in exact accordance with the terms of the agreement,
both the principals conducting themselves like men of gallantry
and honor (!). And he further announced that, in order not to
compromise any one, he should place the paper containing his
testimony in safe hands, with strict directions that it was on no
account to be opened except in a case of the last emergency.
After this preamble. Monsieur Foulon related that the duel
had been fought two days after the drawing up of the a.
raent, in a locality to which accident had conducted the dueling
party. (The name of the place was not mentioned, nor even the
iborhood iu which it was situated.) The men having been
placed according to previous agreement, the Count St. Lo had
won the toss for the first fire, had advanced his ten p.i
had shot his opponent in the body. Mr. Monkton did not im-
mediately fall, but Bi I forward >oine six or seven paces,
discharged his pistol ineilVrtually at the count, and dropped to
the ground a dead man. Monsieur Foulon then stated that he
tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote on it a brief desrnj
of the manner in which Mr. Monkton had died, and pinned tin-
r to his clothes; this proceeding having been rendered
the peculiar nature of the plan organ i.
92 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
for safely disposing of the dead body. What this plan was, or
what was done with the corpse, did not appear, for at this im-
portant point the narrative abruptly broke off.
A foot-note in the newspaper merely stated the manner in
which the document had been obtained for publication, and re-
peated the announcement contained in the editor's introductory
remarks, that no continuation had been found by the persons in-
trusted with the care of Monsieur Foulon's papers. I have now
given the whole substance of what 1 read, and have mentioned
all that was then known of Mr. Stephen Monkton's death.
When I gave the newspaper back to Alfred be was too much
agitated to speak, but he reminded me by a sign that he was
anxiously waiting to hear what I had to say. My position was
a very trying and a very painful one. I could hardly tell what
consequences might not follow any want of caution on my part,
and could think at first of no safer plan than questioning him
carefully before I committed myself either one way or the
other.
" Will you excuse me if I ask you a question or two before I
give you my pdvice?" I said.
He nodded impatiently.
" Yes, yes any questions you like."
"Were you at any time in the habit of seeing your uncle fre-
quently ?"
" I never saw him more than twice in my life on each occa-
sion when I was a mere child."
" Then you could have had no very strong personal regard for
him."
" Regard for him! I should have been ashamed to fee) any
regard for him. He disgraced us wherever he went."
' ' May I ask if any family motive is involved in your anxiety
to recover his remains ?"
" Family motives may enter into it among others but why do
you ask ?"
"Because, having heard that you employ the police to assist
your search, I was anxious to know whether you had stimulated
their superiors to make them do their best in your service by
giving some strong personal reasons at headquarters for the very
unusual project which has brought you here."
"I give no reasons. I pay for the work I want done, and, in
return for my liberality, I am treated with the most infamous
indifference on all sides. A stranger in the country and badly
acquainted with the language. I can do nothing to help myself.
The authorities, both at Rome and in this place, pretend to
assist me, pretend to search and inquire as I would have tnem
search and inquire, and do nothing more. I am insulted, laughed
at, almost to my face."
" Do you not think it possible mind I have no wish to excuse
the misconduct of the authorities, and do not share in any such
opinion myself but do you not think it likely that the police
may doubt whether you are in earnest ?"
" Not in earnest," he cried, starting up and confronting me
fiercely, with wild eyes and quickened breath, " Not_iu earnest!
h
777 A: ni<* HI 93
think I'm not in . I know you think it, though
ou don't. Stop; before We 883 another woi
>\vn . 1 1 ico you, Come here only for a minute
>nly for one mim
him into his bedroom, which open.-d out of tie
ing room. At one side of his bed stood a large packing
lain \\ood. upward of seven feet in length.
the lid and look in," he said, " while T hold th- candlo
-o that you can
1 oljeyed his directions, and discovered tomyastonishment that
he packing ca^e contained a leaden coffin, magnificently em-
ned with the arms of the Monkton family, and inscribed in
>ld-fashioned let ten with the name of "Stephen Monkton," his
:nd the manner of his death being added underneath.
I keep his coffin ready for him." whispered Alfred, close at
ear. I Joes that look like earnest V"
looked more like insanity so like'tbat I shrank from an-
wering him.
"Yes! yes! I see you are convinced," he continued, quickly;
' we may go back into the next room, and may talk without re-
traint on either side now."
( >n returning to our places, I mechanically moved my chair
iway from the table. My mind was by this time in such a state
f confusion and uncertainty about what it would be best for me
o say or do next, that I forgot for the moment the position he
iad assigned to me when we lit the candles. He reminded me
>f this directly.
" Don't move away," he said, very earnestly; " keep on sitting
n the light; pray do! I'll soon tell you why I am so particular
bout that. But first give me your advice; help me in my great
ss and suspense. Remember, you promised me you would."
I made an effort to collect my thoughts, and succeeded. It
vas useless to treat the affair otherwise than seriously in his
>resence; it would have been cruel not to have advised him as I
)est could.
"You know," I said. " that two days after the drawing up of
the agreement at Naples, the duel was fought ou,
po lit, an States. This fact has of course led you to the conclusion
that all inquiries about localities had better be confined to the
Roman territory?"
ertainly; the search, such as it is, has been made then-, and
If I can believe the police, they and their a;...
have inquired for the place where the duel was fought (otlVrjng
a large reward in my name to the person who can discover r
along the high road from Naples to Rome. They have also cir-
d at 1' hey tell me < 1. '-cii |>t ions ot t he duelist
seconds; have left .t to superintend in ions
;it the post hou-e, and another at the town mention
ing-points in the agreement; and ha\e endravoivd, l>
n authorities, to I race the Count Si.
ieur Dalville to their place or pla<
efforts, supposing them to have been really mai<
proved utterly fruitl-
94 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
"My impression is," said I, after a moment's consideration,
" that all inquiries made along the high road, or anywhere near
Rome, are likely to be made in vain. As to the discovery of
your uncle's remains, that is, I think, identical with the dis-
covery of the place where he was shot; for those engaged in the
duel would certainly not risk detection by carrying a corpse any
distance with them in their flight. The place, then, is all that
we want to find out. Now let us consider for a moment. The
dueling party changed carriages; traveled separately, two and
two; doubtless took roundabout roads; stopped at the post-house
and the town as a blind; walked, perhaps, a considerable dis-
tance unguided. Depend upon it, such precautions as these
(which we know they must have employed) left them very little
time out of the two days though they might start at sunrise
and not stop at nightfall for straightforward traveling. My
belief therefore is that the duel was fought somewhere near the
Neapolitan frontier; and if I had been the police agent who con-
ducted the search, I should only have pursued it parallel with
the frontier, starting from west to east till I got up among the
lonely places in the mountains. That is my idea; do you think
it worth anj'thing?"
His face flushed all over in an instant. " I think it an inspi-
ration!" he cried. " Not a day is to be lost in carrying out our
plan. The police are not to be trusted with it. 1 must start
myself to morrow morning; and you
He stopped; his face grew suddenly pale; he sighed heavily;
his eyes wandered once more into the fixed look at vacancy; and
the rigid, deathly expression fastened again upon all his feat-
ures.
" I must tell you my secret before 1 talk of to-morrow,"
he proceeded, faintly. ''If I hesitated any longer at confessing
everything, I should be unworthy of your past kindness, un-
worthy of the help which it is my last hope that you will gladly
give me when you have heard all."
I begged him to wait until he was more composed, until he
was better able to speak; but he did not appear to notice what I
said. Slowly and struggling as it seemed against himself, he
turned a little away from me, and, bending his head over the ta-
ble, supported it on his hand. The packet of letters with which
I had seen him occupied when I came in lay just beneath his
eyes. He looked down upon it steadfastly when he next spoke
to me.
CHAPTER IV.
" You were gborn, I believe, in our county," be said; " perhaps,
therefore, you may have heard at some time of a curious prophecy
about our family, which is still preserved among the traditions
of Wincot Abbey?"
"I have heard of such a prophecy," I answered, "but 1
never knew in what terms it was expressed. It professed to
predict the extinction of your family, or something of that sort,
did it not?"
9ri
"No inquir went on, "hai prophecy
lie when il ; none of our family n
tell us anything of its origin. Old servants ami old t>
O have heard it from their father- and grandfa-
iiiiuiks, whom we succeeded in the Abbe\ in li
the Kighth's time, got knou ledge of it in some way. for 1 m
d the rhymes, in which we know the prophecy to
been >TV remote period, written on a blank
lie of the Abbev manuscripts. These are the verses, if
they d. -serve to be called:
" ' When in Wincot vault a pi,
Waits for one of Monkton's nice
When that one forlorn shall lie
Graveless under open sky,
Beggared of six feet of earth,
Though lord of acres from his birth
That shall I in sitrn
Of the end of M.mktoifs Hue.
Dwindling ever faster, faster,
Dwindling to the last-left master;
From mortal ken, from light of day,
nkton's race shall ay.' '
?The prediction seems almost vague enough to have been ut-
tered by an ancient oracle/' said I, observing that he waited,
after repeating the verses, as if expecting me t' mething.
Vague or not, it is being accomplished." lie returned. "I
ain now ' the last-left master ' the last of that elder line of our
family at which the prediction points; and the corpse of Stephen
Monkton is not in the vaults of Wiucot Abbey. Wait before you
exclaim against me. I have more to say about this. Long be-
fore the At -hey was ours, when we lived in the ancient inanor-
hotise near it (the very ruins of which have long since disap-
peared), the family burying-place was in the vault under the
Abbey chapel. Whether in those remote times the prediction
against us was known and dreaded or not. this much is certain:
. one of the Monktons (whether living at the Ahlx'v or on
mailer estate in Scotland) was buried in Wincot vault, no
matter at what risk or what sacrifice. In the fierce fighting
days of the olden time, the bodies of my ancestors who fell iu
11 places were recovered and brought hack to \Vincot,
j;h it often cost not heavy ransom only, but desperate blood-
shed as well, to obtain them. This superstition, if you plea
call it so, lias never died out of the family from that time to the
at day: for centuries the succession of the dead in the
vault at the Abbey has been unbroken absolutely unhro;.
until now. The place mentioned in I he prediction as waiting to
be tilled is Stephen Monkton's place; the voice that linly
to the earth for shelter is the spirit- \ irely
as if I saw it, I know that they have left him unburied on the
ground where he fell!''
He stopped me before I could utter a \\ord in renioi
wly rising to his feet, and pointing in the same dire.
trd which his eyes had wandered a >hort time sin.
" 1 can guess \\ hat you want to a>k me," he exclaimed,
96 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
and loudly; "you want to ask me how I can be mad enough to
believe in a doggerel prophecy uttered in an age of superstition
to awe the most ignorant hearers. I answer " (at those words
his voice sank suddenly to a whisper), "I answer because
Mcjificn- Motiktoii himself xtantls thereat this moment confirm-
ing me in my belief."
Whether it was the awe and horror that looked out ghastly
from his face as he confronted me, whether it was that I had
never hitherto fairly believed in the reports about his madness,
and that the conviction of their truth now forced itself upon me
on a sudden, I know not, but 1 felt my blood curdling as he
spoke; and I knew in my own heart, as I sat there speechless,
that I dare not turn round and look where he was still pointing
close at my side.
" I see there," he went on, in the same whispering voice, " the
figure of a dark-complexioned man standing up with his head
uncovered. One of his hands, still clutching a pistol, has fallen
to his side; the other presses a bloody handkerchief over his
mouth. The spasm of mortal agony convulses his features; but
I know them for the features of a swarthy man who twice
frightened me by taking me up in his arms when I was a child
at Wincot Abbey. I asked the nurses at the time who that man
was, and they told me it was my uncle, Stephen Monkton.
Plainly, as if he stood there living, I see him now at your side,
with the death glare in his great black eyes; and so have I ever
seen him, since the moment when he was shot; at home and
abroad, waking or sleeping, day and night, we are always to-
gether wherever I go!"
His whispering tones sank into almost inaudible murmuring
as he pronounced these last words. From the direction and ex-
pression of his eyes, 1 suspected that he was speaking to the ap-
parition. If I had beheld it myself at that moment, it would
have been, I think, a less horrible sight to witness than to see
him, as I saw him now, muttering inarticulately at vacancy.
My own nerves were more shaken than I could have thought
possible by what had passed. A vague dread of being near him
in his present mood came over me, and I moved back a step or
two.
He noticed the action instantly.
"Don't go! pray pray don't go! Have I alarmed you?
Don't you believe me? Do the lights make your eyes ache? I
only asked you to sit in the glare of the candles because I could
not bear to see the light that always shines from the phantom
there at dusk shining over you as you sat in the shadow. Don't
go don't leave me yet!"
There was an utter forlornness, an unspeakable misery in his
face as he spoke these words, which gave me back my self-pos-
session by the simple process of first moving me to pity. 1 re-
sumed my chair, and said that I would stay with him as long as
he wished
"Thank you a thousand times. You are patience and kind-
ness itself," he said, going back to his former place and resuming
his former gentleness of manner. " Now that I have got over
TB 97
on of tin- 11 i secret wher-
. I think I can tell you Calmly all that remains fn I*;
nl. my rnde Si In- turned away
his head (puckly. and looked down at the table us the name
If Stephen came twice to Wincot
while 1 was a child, and on both occasions frightened me di
fulh 'dy took i ML- up in his arms and spoke to me very
kindly, as I afterward heard, for linn but he terrified me,
. Perhaps I was frightened at his great stature, his
iliv complexion, and his thick black hair and mustaei
other children might have been; perhaps the mere sight of him
had some Grange influence on me which I could not then under-
stand and cannot now explain. However it was, I used to
dream of him long after he had gone away, and to fancy that
he was stealing on me to catch me up in his arms whenever 1
left in the dark. The servants who took care of me found
this out, and used to threaten me with my Uncle Stephen when-
ever 1 was perverse and difficult to manage. As I grew up, I
still retained my vague dread and abhorrence of our absent rel-
ative. 1 always listened intently, yet without knowing why,
whenever his name was mentioned by my father or my mother
listened with an unaccountable presentiment that something
ile had happened to him, or was about to happen tome.
This feeling only changed when 1 was left alone in the Abbey;
and then it seemed to merge into the eager curiosity which had
begun to grow on me, rather before that time, about the origin
of the ancient prophecy predicting the extinction of our race.
Ar.- you folio wing me r"
1 follow every word with the closest attention."
"You must know, then, that I had first found out some frag-
ments of the old rhyme in which the prophecy occurs quoted as
'iriosity in an antiquarian book in the library. On the page
op|K)site this quotation had been pasted a rude old wood-cut,
representing a dark-haired man. whose face was so strongly like
what 1 remembered of my Uncle Stephen that the portrait abso-
lutely startled me. When I asked my father about this it was
then just before his death he either knew, or pretended to
know, nothing of it; and when I afterward mentioned the pre-
diction he fretfully changed the subject. It was just the same
with our chaplain when I spoke to him. Ile said the portrait
had been done centuries before my uncle was born, and called
the prophecy doggerel and nonsense. I used to argue with him
on the i int. asking why we Catholics, who believed that
the gift of working miracles had never departed from certain
fav r-on-, might not just as well believe that the gift
iihecy had never departed either? He would not dispute with
he would only say that 1 must not waste time in thinking
of such trifles; that 1 had more imagination than was good for
and must >uppiv^ instead of exciting it. Such as
this only irritated my curiosity. I determined secretly to search
throughout the oldest uninhabited part of the AbU-y, and try if
find out from forgotten f.-imih what n
Iran mil when the prophecy had been first written or ut-
98 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
tered. Did you ever pass a day alone in the long-deserted cham-
bers of an ancient house?"
"Never! such solitude as that is not at all to my taste."
"Ali! what a life it was when I began my search. I should
like to live it over again. Such tempting suspense, such strange
discoveries, such wild fancies, such inthralling terrors, all be-
longed to that life. Only think of breaking open the door of a
room which no living soul had entered before you for nearly a
hundred years; think of the first step forward into a region of
airless, awful stillness, where the light falls faint and sickly
through closed windows and rotting curtains; think of the
ghostly creaking of the old floor that cries out on you for tread-
ing on it, step as softly as you will; think of arms, helmets,
weird tapestries of by- gone days, that seem to be moving out on
you from the walls as you first walk up to them in the dim
light; think of prying into great cabinets and iron-clasped
chests, not knowing what horrors may appear when you tear
them open; of poring over their contents till twilight stole on
you, and darkness grew terrible in the lonely place; of trying to
leave it, and not being able to go, as if something held you; of
wind wailing at you outside; of shadows darkening around you,
and closing you up in obscurity within only think of these
things, and you may imagine the fascination of suspense and
terror in such a life as mine was in those past days."
(I shrunk from imagining that life: it was bad enough to see
its results, as I saw them before me now.)
"Well, my search lasted months and months; then it was
suspended a little; then resumed. In whatever direction I pur-
sued it, I always found something to lure me on. Terrible con-
fessions of past crimes, shocking proofs of secret wickedness
that had been hidden securely from all eyes but mine, came to
light. Sometimes these discoveries were associated with par-
ticular parts of the Abbey, which have had a horrible interest of
their own for me ever since; sometimes with certain old por-
traits in the picture-gallery, which I actually dreaded to look at
after what I had found out. There were periods when the re-
sults of this search of mine so horrified me that T determined to
give it up entirely; but I never could persevere in my resolution;
the temptation to go on seemed at certain intervals to get too
strong for me, and then I yielded to it again and again. At last
I found the book that bad belonged to the monks with the whole
of the prophecy written in the blank leaf. This first success
encouraged me to get back further yet in the family records. I
had discovered nothing hitherto of the identity of the mysteri-
ous portrait; but the same intuitive conviction which had as-
sured me of its extraordinary resemblance to my Uncle Stephen
seemed also to assure me that he must be more closely connected
with the prophecy, and must know more of it than any one else.
I had no means of holding any communication with him, no
means of satisfying myself whether this strange idea of mine
were right or wrong, until the day when my doubts were settled
forever by the same terrible proof which is now present to me
in this very room,"
TIfV QUEEN OF 1II-:.\RTS. 99
TTe paused for ;i moment, and looked at me intently and sus-
piciously: then asked if I believed all he had said to me so far.
My instant reply in the aflirmative seemed to satisfy his doubts,
and he weni
" On a fine evening in February I was standing alone in one
of, the 1 rooms of the western turret at the Abbey, lopk-
Jng at the sunset. Just before the sun went down I frit a sensa-
tion stealing over me which it is impossible to explain. I saw
nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. This utter self-oblivion
-uddenly; it was not fainting, for 1 did not fall to the
ground, did not move an inch from my place. If such a thing
i ild be, I should say it was the temporary separation of soul
and body without death; but alt description of my situation at
that time is impossible. Call my state what you will, trance or
catalepsy, I know that I remained standing by the window ut-
ly unconscious dead, mind and body until tho sun had set.
Then I came to my senses again; and then, when I opened my
>-s, there was the apparition of Stephen Monkton standing op-
posite to me, faintly luminous, just as it stands opposite me
at this very moment by your side."
" Was this before the news of the duel reached England?'' I
asked.
" Two weeks before the news of it reached us at Wincot. And
even when we heard of the duel we did not hear of the day on
which it was fought. I only found that out when the docu-
ment which you have read was published in the French newspa-
per. The date of that document, you will remember, is Febru-
ary 22d, and it is stated that the duel was fought tw r o days after-
ward. I wrote down in rny pocket-book on the evening when I
saw the phantom, the day of the month on which it first ap-
peared to me. That day was the 34th of February."
He paused again, as if expecting me to say something. After
the words he had just spoken what could f say? what could I
think ?
" Even in the first horror of first seeing the apparition," he
went on, " the prophecy against our house came to my mind,
and with it the conviction that I beheld before me, in that spec-
tral presence, the warning of my own doom. As soon as I re-
covered a little, I determined, nevertheless, to test the reality of
what I saw; to find out whether I was the dupe of my own dis- '
eased fancy or not. I left the turret; the phantom left it with
me. I made an excuse to have the drawing-room at the Abbey
brilliantly lighted up; the figure was still opposite me. I walked
out into the park; it was there in the clear starlight. I went
away from home, and traveled many miles to the sea-side; still
the tall dark man in his death-agony was with me. After this
1 strove against the fatality n<> more. 1 returned to the Abl>ey,
and tried to iv.-L'ii myself to my mi-tr\. Hut this was nut
I had a hope that was deanr to me than my own life; 1 had
one treasure belonging to me that I shuddered at the prospect
of losing; and when the phantom pn - <od a warning ob-
stacle between me and this one treasure, this dearest hope, tl
grew heavier than I roiild bear. You mu-l know
100 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
what I am alluding to; you must have heard often that I was
engaged to be married ?"
"Yes, often. I have some acquaintance myself with Miss
Elmslie."
"You never can know all that she has sacrificed for me
never can imagine what I have felt for years and years past "
his voice trembled, and the tears came into his eyes "but I
dare not trust myself to speak of that; the thought of the old
happy days in the Abbey almost breaks my heart now. Let me
get back to the other subject. I must tell you that I kept the
frightful vision which pursued me, at all times and in all places,
a secret from everybody, knowing the vile reports about my
having inherited madness from my family, and fearing that an
unfair advantage would be taken of any confession that I might
make. Though the phantom always stood opposite to me, and
therefore always appeared either before or by the side of any
person to whom I spoke, I soon schooled myself to hide from
others that I was looking at it except on rare occasions, when I
have perhaps betrayed myself to you. But my self-possession
availed me nothing with Ada. The day of our marriage was
approaching.
He stopped and shuddered. I waited in silence till he had
controlled himself.
" Think," he went on, " think of what I must have suffered
at looking always on that hideous vision whenever I looked on
my betrothed wife! Think of my taking her hand, and seeming
to take it through the figure of the apparition! Think of the
calm angel-face and the tortured specter- face being always to-
gether whenever my eyes met hers! Think of this, and you will
not wonder that I betrayed my secret to her. She eagerly en-
treated to know the worst nay, more, she insisted on knowing
it. At her bidding I told all, and then left her free to break our
engagement. The thought of death was in my heart as I spoke
the parting words death by my own act, if life still held out
after our separation. She suspected that thought; she knew it,
and never left me till her good influence had destroyed it for-
ever. But for her I should not have been alive now: but for her
I should never have attempted the project which has brought
me here."
" Do you mean that it was at Miss Eltnslie's suggestion that
you came to Naples ?" I asked, in amazement.
"I mean that what she said suggested the design which has
brought me to Naples," he answered. "While I believed that
the phantom had appeared to me as the fatal messenger of death,
there was no comfort there was misery, rather, in hearing her
Bay that no power on earth should make her desert me, and that
she would live for me, and for me only, through every trial.
But it was far different when we afterward reasoned together
about. I lie purpose which the apparition had come to fulfill far
different when she showed me that its mission might be for goo i
instead of for evil, and that the warning it was sent to ^ivc
might be to my profit instead of to my loss. At those W(
the new idea which gave the new hope of life came to me i>
'ill TS. 101
i, what I believe DOW, that I have a BU-
int for my errand here. In that faith I live;
without it I should die. Hlie never ?i<Mcul-d it. never Boomed it
rk what I say! TIu sp/ri, >ln'- ap;
in tii. never left me bince that stands!
our side, warns me t<> - -^ ap> from the *V
nr rare, and command^ I>K>, if I wo'uld 'av<
i he unburied dead. Mortal loves and mortal interests must
that awful bidding. The specter-presence will never
me till I have sheltered the corpse that cries to the
it! I dare not return I dare not marry till I have filled
lace that is empty in Wincot vault."
His eyes Hashed and dilated his voice deepened a fanatic
ecstasy shone in his expression as he uttered these words.
Shocked and grieved as I was, I made no attempt to remon-
or to reason with him. It would have been useless to
I to any of the usual commonplaces about optical
delusions or diseased imaginations worse than useless to have
upted to account bv natural causes for any of the extraor-
dinarv coincidences and events of which he had spoken. Briefly
as he'h::d referred to Miss Eluislie, he had said enough to show
me that the only hope of the poor girl who loved him best and
had known him longest of any one was in humoring his delu-
sions to the last. How faithfully she still clung to the belief
that she could restore him! How resolutely was she sacrificing
If to his morbid fancies, in the hope of a happy future that
might never come! Little as I knew of Miss Elmslie, the mere
thought of her situation, as I now reflected on it, made me feel
it heart.
" They c.ill me Mad Monkton!" he exclaimed, suddenly break-
ing the silence between us during the last few minutes. " Here
and in England everybody believes I am out of my senses e-\
Ada and you. She has been my salvation, and you will be my
salvation too. Something told me that when I first met you
walking in the Villa Reale. 1 struggled against the strong de-
sire that was in me to trust my secret to you, but I could resist
when 1 saw you to-night at the ball: the phantom
d to draw me on to you as you stood alone in the quiet
room. Tell me more of that idea of yours about finding the
place where the duel was fought. If I set out to-morr
tor it myself, where must I go first? where?" He stopped;
trength was evidently becoming exhausted, and his mind
confused. What am I to do? lean uln-r.
know e\.-r\ thing will you not help me? My mi -cry has
made me unable to help my-elf." 1
II.- MopjKMl, murmured something about failing if he wei
the frontier alone, and spoke confusedly of delays that n
ital. then tried to utter the nam. la:" but, in
nouncing the first letter, his voice faltered, and, turning ab-
ruptly from me, he burst into t
pity for him got the better of my piudeiiee at that
ment, and, without thinking of responsibilities 1 promi^
lo do for him whatever he asked. The wild triumph ill hU
QUEEN OF HEARTS.
expression as he slnrtod up mid seized my hand, showed me that
I had better have been .more cautious; but it was too late now
to retrac'-i what I ha<J .said.: The next best thing to do was to
try if I -could, riot irVmcc 4iim to compose himself a little, and
then to.gQ.away and think coolly over the whole affair by my-
i r ."..*''" * *
ydL ,,-,.<*..;
" Yes, yesj'^'he* *e joined, in* answer to the few words I now
spoke to try and calm him, " don't be afraid about me. After
what you have said, I'll answer for my own coolness and com-
posure under all emergencies. I have been so long used to the
apparition that I hardly feel its presence at all except on rare
occasions. Besides, I have here, in this little packet of letters,
the medicine for every malady of the sick heart. They are
Ada's letters; I read them to calm me whenever my misfortune
seems to get the better of my endurance. I wanted that half
hour to read them in to-night before you came, to make myself
fit to see you, and I shall go through them again after you are
gone; s-'o, once more, don't be afraid about me. I know I shall
succeed with your help, and Ada shall thank you as you deserve
to be thanked when we get back to England. If you hear the
fools at Naples talk about my being mad, don't trouble yourself
to contradict them; the scandal is so contemptible that it must
eud by contradicting itself."
I left him, promising to return early the next day.
When I got back to my hotel, I felt that any idea of sleeping
after all that I had seen and heard was out of the question; so I
lit my pipe, and, sitting by the window how it refreshed my
mind just then to look at the calm moonlight! tried to think
what it would be best to do. In the first place, any appeal to
doctors or to Alfred's friends in England was out' of the ques-
tion. I could not persuade myself that his intellect was suf-
ficiently disordered to justify me, under existing circumstances,
in disclosing the secret which he had intrusted to my keep-
ing. In the second place, all attempts on my part to induce
him to abandon the idea of searching out his uncle's remains
would be utterly useless after what I had incautiously said to
him. Having settled these two conclusions, the only really great
difficulty which remained to perplex me was whether I was jus-
tified in aiding him to' execute his extraordinary purpose.
Supposing that, with my help, he found Mr. Monkton's body,
and took it back with him to England, was it right in me thus to
lend myself to promoting the marriage which would most likely
follow these events a marriage which it might be the duty of
every one to prevent at all hazards? This set me thinking about
the extent of his madness, or to speak more mildly and more
correctly, of his delusion. Sane he certainly was on all ordinary
subjects; nay, in all the narrative parts of what he had said to
me on this very evening, he had spoken clearly and connectedly.
As for the story of the apparition, other men, with intellects as
clear as the intellects of their neighbors, had fancied them-
selves pursued by a phantom, and had even written about it in
a high strain of philosophical speculation. It was plain that the
real hallucination, in the case now before me lay in Monkton's
77 V OF HKMlTS. 103
conviction of the trulli of the old prophecy, and in his idea that
the fancied apparition was a supernatural warning to him to
evade it-> denunciations ; and it was equally cli lx>th de-
lusions had been produced, in the first instance, by the lonely
life lie had led acting on a naturally excitable temperament,
which was rendered further liable to moral disease by an hered-
itary taint of insanity.
\\.is this curable? Miss Elmslie, who knew him far better
than I did, seemed by her conduct to think so. Had I any rea-
son or right to determine off-hand that she was mistaken ?" Sup-
posing I refused to go to the frontier with him, he would then
most certainly depart by himself, to commit all sorts of errors,
and perhaps to meet with all sorts of accidents; while I, an idle
man, with my time entirely at my own disposal; was stopping
at Naples, and leaving him to his fate after I had suggested the
plan of his expedition, and had encouraged him to confide in
me. In this way I kept turning the subject over and over again
in my mind, being quite free, let me add, from looking at it in
any other than a practical point of view. I firmly believed, as
a aerider of all ghost stories, that Alfred was deceiving hin
in fancying he had seen the apparition of his uncle before the
news ot Mr. Monkton's death reached England, and I was on
this account, therefore, uninfluenced by the slightest infection
of my unhappy friend's delusions when I at last fairly decided
to accompany him in his extraordinary search. Possibly my
harum-scarum fondness for excitement at that time biased me
a little in forming my resolution; but I must add, in common
justice to myself, that I also acted from motives of real sym-
pathy for Monkton, and from a sincere wish to allay, if I could,
the anxiety of the poor girl who was still so faithfully waiting
and hoping for him far away in England.
Certain arrangements preliminary to our departure, which J
found myself obliged to make after a second interview with Al-
fred, betrayed the object of our journey to most of our Neapol-
itan friends. The astonishment of everybody was of course un-
bounded, and the nearly universal suspicion that I must be as
mad in my way as Monkton himself, showed itself pretty plainly
in my presence. Some people actually tried to combat my reso-
lution by telling me what a shameless profligate Stephen Monk-
ton had been as if I had a strong personal interest in hunting
out his remains! Ridicule moved me as little as any arguments
of this sort; my mind was made up, and I was as ol then
as I am now.
In two days' time 1 had got everything ready, and had ordered
the traveling carriage to the door some hours earlier than we
bad origin/illy settled. \Ye were jovially threatened with " a
parting cheer " by all our English acquaint nd I thought
-irable to a\oid this on my frien nut; for he had
-cit.-d. ,i . hy the preparations for the jour-
han I at all liked. According with-
out a soul in the Mr. . ly left
Nobody will wonder, 1 think, that T exp'-ri- ;
culty in realizing my own pM-ition, and shrunk instinct
104 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
from looking forward a single day into the future, Avhen I now
found myself starting, in company with "Mad Monkton," to
hunt for the body of a dead duelist all along the frontier line of
the Roman States!
CHAPTER V.
1 HAD settled it in my mind that we had better make tt)6 town
of Fondi, close on the frontier, our headquarters, to begin with,
and I had arranged, with the assistance of the embassy, that
the leaden coffin should follow us so far, securely nailed^ up in its
packing case. Besides our passports, we were well -!axmished
with letters of introduction to the local authorities afc most of
the important frontier towns, and, to crown all. we had money
enough at our command (thanks to Monkton's vast fortune) to
make sure of -the services of any one whom we wanted to assist
us all along our line of search. These various resources insured
us every facility for action, provided always that we succeeded
in discovering the body of the dead duelist. But, in the very
probable event of our failing to do this, our future prospects-
more especially after the responsibility I had undertaken were
of anything but an agreeable nature to contemplate. I confess
I felt uneasy, almost hopeless, as we posted, in the dazzling
Italian sunshine, along the road to Fondi.
We made an easy two days' journey of it; for 1 had insisted,
on Monkton's account, that we should travel slowly.
On the first day the excessive agitation of my companion a
little alarmed me; he showed, in many ways, more symptoms
of a disordered mind than I had yet observed in him. On the
second day, however, he seemed to get accustomed to contem-
plate calmly the new idea of the search on which we were bent,
and, except on one point, he was cheerful and composed enough.
Whenever his dead uncle formed the subject of conversation, he
still persisted on the strength of the old prophecy, and under
the influence of the apparition which he saw, or thought he saw
always in asserting that the corpse of Stephen Monkton, wher-
ever it was, lay yet unburied. On every other topic he deferred
to me with the utmost readiness and docility; on this he main-
tained his strange opinion with an obstinacy which set reason
and persuasion alike at defiance.
On the third day we rested at Fondi. The packing-case, with
the coffin in it, reached us, and was deposited in a safe place
under lock and key. We engaged some mules, and found a man
to act as guide who knew the country thoroughly. It occurred
to me that we had better begin by confiding the real object of
our journey only to the most trustworthy people we could find
among the better- educated classes. For this reason, we fol-
lowed, in one respect, the example of the fatal dueling party, by
starting, early on the morning of the fourth day, with sketch-
books and color-boxes, as if we were only artists in search of
the picturesque.
After traveling some hours in a northerly direction within
THE QUEEN Ohl 111
tho Roman frontier, we halted to rest our- <I our mules
;il a wild little village far out of the tr;i< k of 1< .TM!.
The only person of the smallest importance in the p
the i iid to him I addressed my first inqur <ving
Monkton to await my return with the guide. I spoke Italian
quite fluently, and correctly enough for my purpose, aii'l
mely polite and cautious in introducing my ousiness, l>ut,
in spit*- of all the pains I took, I only succeeded in frightening
and bewildering tlie poor priest more and more with every fresh
word I said to him. The idea of a dueling party and a dead
man seemed to scare him out of his senses. He bowed, fidgeted,
cast his eyes up to Heave"n. and, piteously shrugging his shoul-
told me, with rapid Italian circumlocution, that he hud
not the faintest idea of \vhat I was talking about. This \\ -a
first failure. I confess I was weak enough to feel a little dispirit-
ed when I rejoined Monkton and the guide.
After the heat of the day was over we resumed our journey.
About three miies from the village, the road, or rather
track, branched off in two directions. The path to the right,
our guide informed us, led us up among the mountains to a
convent about six miles off. If we penetrated beyond the con-
vent we should soon reach the Neapolitan frontier. The path
to the left led far inward on the Roman territory, and would
conduct us to a small town where we could sleep for the night.
Now the Roman territory presented the first and fittest field for
our search, and the convent was always within reach, suppos-
ing we returned to Fondi unsuccessful. Besides, the path to tho
left led over the wildest part of the country we were starting to
explore, and I was always for vanquishing the greatest difficulty
first; so we decided manfully on turning to the left. The expe-
dition in which this resolution involved us lasted a whole week,
and produced no results. We discovered absolutely nothing,
and returned to our headquarters at Fondi so completely baffled
that we did not know whither to turn our steps next.
I was made mueh more uneasy by the effect of our failure on
Monkton th;u by the failure itself. His resolution appeared to
break down altogether as soon as we began to retrace our si
He became first fretful and capricious, then silent and despond-
ing. Finally, he sank into a lethargy of body and mind that
usly alarmed me. On the morning after our return to
Fondi he showed a strange tendency to sleep incessantly, which
made ni" suspect the existence of some physical malady in his
brain. The whole day he hardly exchanged a word with me.
and seemed to l>o never fairly awake. Karly the next morning
it into his room, and found him as silent and lethargic as
ever, li mt, who was with us, informe>l UK- that Alfred
had" twice before exhibited such physical sympton
mental exhaustion as we were now ol-ervmg during his father's
lifetime at Win cut AbU-y. This pieee of information made me
r, and left my mind free to return i.itiou of
rrand which had brought us to Fondi.
I resolved to occupy the time until my companion g
in prosecuting our search by myself. That path to the right
106 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
which led to the convent had not yet been explored. If I had
set of to trace it, I need not be away from Monkton more than
one night, and I should at least be able on my return, to give
him the satisfaction of knowing that one more uncertainty re-
garding the place of the duel had been cleared up. These con-
siderations decided me. I left a message for my friend, in case
he asked where I had gone, and set out once more for the vil-
lage at which he had halted when starting on our first expedi-
tion.
Intending to walk to the convent, I parted company with the
guide and the mules where the track branched off, leaving them
to go back to the village and await my return.
For the first four miles the path gently ascended through an
open country, then became abruptly much steeper, and led me
deeper and deeper among thickets and endless woods. By the
time my \vatch informed me that I must have nearly walked
my appointed distance, the view was bounded on all sides and
the sky was shut out overhead by an impervious screen of leaves
and branches. I still followed my only guide, the steep path:
and in ten minutes, emerging suddenly on a plot of tolerably
clear and level ground, I saw the convent before me.
It was a dark, low, sinister-looking place. Not a sign of life
or movement was visible anywhere about it. Green stains
streaked the once white facade of the chapel in all directions.
Moss clustered thick in every crevice of the heavy, scowling
wall that surrounded the convent. Long lank weeds grew out
of the fissures of roof and parapet, and, drooping far downward,
waved wearily in and out of the barred dormitory windows.
The very cross opposite the entrance- gate, with a shocking life-
size figure in wood nailed to it, was so beset at the base with
crawling creatures, and looked so slimy, green, and rotten all
the way up, that I absolutely shrank from it.
A bell-rope with a broken handle hung by the gate. I ap-
proached it hesitated, I hardly knew why looked up at the
convent again, and then walked round to the back of the build-
ing, partly to gain time to consider what I had better do next,
partly from an unaccountable curiosity that urged me, strangely
to myself, to see all I could of the outside of the place before I
attempted to gain admission at the gate.
At the back of the convent I found an out-house built on to
the wall a clumsy, decayed building, with the greater part of
the roof fallen in, and with a jagged hole in one of its sides,
where in all probability a window had once been. Behind the
out-house the trees grew thicker than ever. As I looked toward
them I could not determine whether the ground beyond me rose
or fell whether it was grassy, or earthy, or rocky. 1 could see
nothing but the all- pervading leaves, brambles, ferns, and long
grass.
Not a sound broke the oppressive stillness. No bird's note rose
from the leafy wild ness around me; no voices spoke in the con-
vent garden behind the scowling wall; no clock struck in the
chapel-tower; no dog barked in the ruined out-house. The dead
silence deepened the solitude of the place inexpressibly. I began
1(17
to feel it w< on my spirit^ the more, oods
were with n ilk in. The sort of
>ral happiness which poets often represent when \
of lift- in flic wood> never, (o my mind, has had the char
>n the mountain or in the plain. When I am in a
i lie boundless loveliness of the sky, and the delici
ithly view beneath. I feel
oppressively the change which the free air suffers when it
imprisoned among leaves, and I am always awed, rather than
d. by that mysterious still light which shines with such a
strange dim luster in deep places among trees. It may convict
i want of taste and absence of due feeling for the marvelous
beauties of vegetation, but 1 must frankly own that I never
penetrate far into a wood without finding that the getting out
of it again is the pleasantest part of my walk the getting out
on to the barest down, the wildest hillside, the bleakest mount-
ain top the getting out anywhere, so that I can see the sky
1 the view before me as far as my eye can reach.
After such a confession as I have now made, it will ap
surprising to no one that I should have felt the strongest possible
inclination, while I stood by the ruined out-house, to retrace my
at once, and make the best of my way out of the wood. I
had, indeed, actually turned to depart, when the remembrance
of the errand winch had brought me to the convent suddenly
stayed my feet. It seemed doubtful whether I should be ad-
mitted into the building if I rang the bell; and more than
doubtful, if I were let in, whether the inhabitants would be able
to afford me any clew to the information of which I was in
h. However, it was my duty to Monkton to leave no means
of helping him in his desperate object untried; so I resolved to
go round to the front of the convent again, and ring at the gate-
U-ll at all hazards.
By the merest chance I looked up as I passed the side of the
house where the jagged hole was, and noticed that it was pierced
rather high in the wall.
As I stopped to observe this, the closeness of the atmosphere in
the wood seemed to be affecting me more unpleasantly than
1 waited a minute and untied my cravat.
( 'lose i less'.' surely it was something more than that. The air
was even more di-tasteful to my nostrils than to my h.
Then me faint, indescribable smell loading it -oine Miiell
of which I had never had any previous experience mell
which 1 thought (now that my attention was directed to it )
and ni' inly traceable to its M)i:rce the I ad-
vanced to the otit-h<
By the time I had tried the experiment t mes,
and hail made my-. -If sure of this fact, my curi
cited. There were plenty of fra-in.-nts of stone and brick King
about me. 1 gathered some of them together, and piled them
up below the hole, then mounted the top. and feeling rather
ashamed of what 1 was doing, peeped into the out-hoi!
The sight of horror that met my in- instant 1 k
H)8 77 /A; <,r A' AW 0-P 11 MARTS.
through the hole is as present to my memory now as if I had
beheld it yesterday. I can hardly write of it at this distance of
time without a thrill of the old terror running through me again
to the heart.
The lirst impression conveyed to me, as I looked in, was of a
long recumbent object, tinged with a lightish blue color all
over, extended on trestles, and bearing a certain hideous, half-
formed resemblance to the human face and figure. 1 looked
again, and felt certain of it. There were the prominences of thf
forehead, nose, and chin, dimly shown as under a veil there,
the round outline of the chest and the hollow below it there,
the points of the knees, and the stiff, ghastly, upturned feet. I
looked again, yet more attentively. My eyes got accustomed to
the dim light streaming in through the broken roof, and I sat-
isfied myself, judging by the great length of the body from head
to foot, that I was looking at the corpse of a man a corpse that
had apparently once had a sheet spread over it, and that had
lain rotting on the trestles under the open sky long enough for
the linen to take the livid, light-blue tinge of mildew and decay
which now covered it.
How long I remained with my eyes fixed on that dread sight
of death, on that tombless, terrible wreck of humanity, poisoning
the still air, and seeming even to stain the faint descending light
that disclosed it, I know not. I remember a dull, distant sound
among the trees, as if the breeze were rising the slow creeping
on of the ound to near the place where I stood the noiseless
whirling of a dead leaf on the corpse below me, through the gap
in the out-house roof and the effect of awakening my energies,
of relaxing the heavy strain on my mind, which even the slight
change wrought in the scene I beheld by the falling leaf pro-
duced in me immediately. I descended to the ground, and sit-
ting down on the heap of stones, wioed away the thick perspira-
tion which covered my face, and which I now became aware of
for the first time. It was something more than the hideous spec-
tacle unexpectedly offered to my eyes which had shaken my
nerves as I felt that they were shaken now. Monkton's predic-
tion that, if we succeeded in discovering his uncle's body, we
should find it unburied, recurred to me the instant I saw the
trestles and their ghastly burden. I felt assured on the instant
that I had found the dead man the old prophecy recurred to
my memory a strange yearning sorrow, a vague foreboding oi
ill, an inexplicable terror, as I thought of the poor lad who was
awaiting my return in the distant town, struck through me witli
a chill of superstitious dread, robbed me of my judgment and
resolution, and left me, when I had at last recovered myself,
weak and dizzy, as if I had just suffered under some pang of
overpowering physical pain.
I hastened around to the convent gate and rang impatiently at
the bell waited a little while, and rang again then heard foot-
steps.
In the middle of the gate, just opposite my face, there was a
small sliding panel, not more than a few inches long; this was
presently pushed aside from within. I saw, through a bit of iron
///:. I//.
Crating, two dull, light staring vacantly at me, aim
ile, husky voice Bayii
e to \vai
' 1 :IIM ;i r " I began.
" \\ in a miserable place. We have nothing to ahow
"Id'S here."
" I don't come to see anything. I have an important
;o ask, which I believe some one in this convent will l>e able to
r. It' you are not willing to let me in, at least com.
ami speak to me here."
"Are you alone?"
"Quite alone."
" Are there no women with you ?"
"None."
The gate was slowly unbarred, and an old Capuchin, very in-
firm, very suspicious, and very dirty, stood before inc. 1
far too excited and impatient to waste any tim in prefatory
phrases; so, telling the monk at once how 1 had looked through
[lie hole in the out- house, and what I had seen inside, 1 asked him.
in plain terms, who the man hud been whose corpse I had beheld,
ana why the lx>dy was left unburied ?
The old Capuchin listened to me with watery eyes that twinkled
suspiciously. He had a battered tin snuff-box in his hand, and
his linger and thumb slowly chased a few scattered grains of
snuff round and round the inside of the box all the lime I was
speaking. When I had done, he shook his head and said, "That
was certainly an ugly sight in their out-house: one of the ugliest
sights, he felt sure, that ever I had seen in all my life!"
"I don't want to talk of the sight," I rejoined, impatiently;
" I want to know who the man was, how he died, and why he is
not decently buried. Can you tell me ?"
The monk's finger and thumb having captured three or four
grains of snuff at last, he slowly drew them into his nostrils,
holding the box open under his nose the while, to prevent the
. bility of wasting even one grain, sniffed once or twice luxu-
riously closed the box then looked at me again with \\i>
watering and twinkling more suspiciously than before.
"Yes," said the monk, " that's an ugly sight in our out-hou-e
a very ugly sight, certainly!''
I never had more difficulty in keeping my temper in my lite
than at that moment. I succeeded, however, in repi
< -I fnl expression on the subject of monks in general.
which was on the tip of my tongue, and made another attempt
nquer the old man's exasperal i nunatel
mychan 'icceeding with him. 1 v. r myself,
and 1 had a box full of excellent English snuff in my jMJcket,
which I now produced as a bribe. It was my last resoii
" I thought \onr box seemed empty just now/' said 1: " will
you try a pinch out of mine?"
The offer was accepted with an almost youthful alacrn
ire. The I'apuchin took the largest pinch 1 e\
between any man's linger and thumb inhaled it slowly wii
110 THE QUEEN Of HEARTS.
spilling a single grain half closed his eyes and, wagging hie
head gently, patted me paternally on the back.
" Oh, my son," said the monk, "what delectable snuff! Oh,
my son and amiable traveler, give the spiritual father who lovee
you yet another tiny, tiny pinch!"
"Let me fill your box for you. I shall have plenty left for
myself.
The battered tin snuff- box was given to me before I had done
speaking; the paternal hand patted my back more approvingly
than ever; the feeble, husky voice grew glib and eloquent in my
praise. I had evidently found out the weak side of the old
Capuchin, and, on returning him his box, I took instant advan-
tage of the discovery.
" Excuse my troubling you on the subject again," I said, " but
have particular reasons for wanting to hear all that you can tell
me in explanation of that horrible sight in the out-house."
" Come in," answered the monk.
He drew me inside the gate, closed it, and then leading the
way across a grass-grown courtyard, looking out on a weedy
kitchen-garden, showed me into a long room with a low ceiling,
a dirty dresser, a few rudely-carved stall seats, and one or two
grim, mildewed pictures for ornaments. This was the sacristy.
" There's nobody here, and it's nice and cool," said the old
Capuchin. It was so damp that I actually shivered. "Would
you like to see the church ?" said the monk; " a jewel of a church,
if we could keep it in repair; but we can't. Ah! malediction
and misery, we are too poor to keep our church in repair!"
Here he shook his head, and began fumbling with a large
bunch of keys.
" Never mind the church now," said I. " Can you, or can you
not, tell me what I want to know ?"
"Everything, from beginning to end absolutely everything.
Why, I answered the gate-bell I always answer the gate-bell
here," said the Capuchin.
" What, in Heaven's name, has the gate-bell to do with the un-
buried corpse in your house?"
"Listen, son of mine, and you shall know. Some time ago-
some months ah! me, I'm old; I've lost my memory; I don't
know how many months ah! miserable me, what a very old,
old monk I am !" Here he comforted himself with another pinch
of snuff.
" Never mind the exact time," said I. "I don't care about
that."
" Good," said the Capuchin. " Now I can go on. Well, let us
say it is some months ago we in this convent are all at break-
fastwretched, wretched breakfasts, son of mine, in this con-
vent! we are at breakfast, and we hear bang ! bang ! twice over.
' Guns,' says I. ' What are 'they shooting for ?' says Brother
Jeremy. 'Game,' says Brother Vincent. 'Aha! game,' says
Brother Jeremy. ' If I hear more, I shall send out and discover
what it means,' says the father superior. We hear uo more, and
we go on with our wretched breakfasts."
" Where did the report of fire-arms come from?" I inquired.
>F ///:.! KTO 111
"From down below beyond the big trees at tbo bark of tho
where the:- und nice ground, if it
wasn't for the pools and puddles. But, ah I misery, how damp
we are in these parts! how very, very damp!"
vVell. what happened after the report of firearms?"
Yi MI shall hear. We are still at breakfast, all silent for
what have we to talk about here? What have we but our de
>ur kitchen-garden, and our wretched, wretched hits of
breakfasts and dinners V I say we are all silent, when there
- suddenly such a ring at the bell as never was heard before
devil of a ring a ring that caught us all with our bits
our wretched, wretched bits! in our mouths, and stopped us
before we could swallow them. ' Go, brother of mine/ says the
r superior to me, 'go; it is your duty go to the gate.' I
am brave a very lion of a Capuchin. I slip out on tip-toe I
wait I listen I pull back our little shutter in the gate I wait,
I listen again I peep through the hole nothing, absolutely
nothing that I can see. lam brave I am not to be daunted.
What do I do next? I open the gate. Ah! sacred mother of
'n. what do I behold lying all along our threshold? A man
dead! a big man; bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger
than anybody in this convent buttoned up tight in a fine coat,
with black eyes, staring, staring up at the sky, and blood soak-
'trough and through the front of his shirt. What do I do?
am once I scream twice and run back to the father su-
perior!"
All the particulars of the fatal duel which I had gleaned from
the French newspaper in Monkton's room at Naples recurred
vividly to my memory. The suspicion that I had felt when I
d into the out-house became a certainty as I listened to the
old monk's last words.
** So far I understand," said I. " The corpse I have just seen
in the out-house is the corpse of the man whom you found
dead outside your gate. Now tell me why you have not given
'emains decent burial.''
"Wait wait wait," answered the Capuchin. "The father
superior hears me scream, and comes out: we all run together to
ate: \ve lift up the big man. and look at him close. 1'
this (smacking the dresser with his hand). We look
again, and see a bit of paper pinned to the collar of his coat.
Aha! son of mine, you start at that. I thought I should mako
tart at :
I had started indeed. That paper was doubtle nen-
tioned in the second's unfinished narrative as having 1
out of his jiock- t-hook. and I with t how
the dead man had lost his life. If proof j mtM
ientify the dead b.d\ . ! such proof found.
" What do JOEL think \\as uritten on the bit
tinned the ( 'apuchiu. <% We read and shudder. This dead man
killed in a duel he, the desperate, the miserable,
died in the commission of mortal sin; and the men who saw the
killing of him ask us Oipuchin-. holy men, servant
children of our lord the pop. him bu
112 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
Oh! but we are outraged when \vo read that; we groan, we wring
our hands, we turn away, we tear our beards, we
" Wait one moment," said I, seeing that the old man was
heating himself with his narrative, and was likely, unless I
stopped him, to talk more and more fluently to less and less pur-
pose "wait a moment. Have you preserved the paper that
was pinned to the dead man's coat; and can I look at it r*
The Capuchin seemed on the point of giving me an answer,
when he suddenly checked himself. I saw his eyes wander
away from my face, and at the same moment heard a door
softly opened and closed again behind me.
Looking round immediately, I observed another monk in the
sacristy a tall, lean, black-bearded man, in whose presence my
old friend with the snuff-box suddenly became quite decorous and
devotional to look at. I suspected I was in the presence of the
father superior, and I found that I was right the moment he ad-
dressed me.
" I am the father superior of this convent," he said, in quiet,
clear tones, and looking me straight in the face while he spoke,
with coldly attentive eyes. "I have heard the latter part of
your conversation, and I wish to know why you are so particu-
larly anxious to see the piece of paper that was pinned to the
dead man's coat ?"
The coolness with which he avowed that he had been listen-
ing, and the quietly imperative manner in which he put his con-
cluding question, perplexed and startled me. I hardly knew
first what tone I ought to take in answering him. He observed
my hesitation, and attributing it to the wrong cause, signed to
the old Capuchin to retire. Humbly stroking his long gray
beard, and furtively consoling himself with a private pinch of
the " delectable snuff," my venerable friend shuffled out of the
room, making a profound obeisance at the door just before he
disappeared.
" Now," said the father superior, as coldly as ever, "lam
waiting, sir, for your reply."
" You shall have it in the fewest possible words," said I, an-
swering him in his own tone. " I find, to my disgust and horror,
that there is an unburied corpse in an out-house attached to
your convent. 1 believe that corpse to be the body of an En-
glish gentleman of rank and fortune, who was killed in a duel.
I have come into this neighborhood, with the nephew and only
relation of the slain man, for the express purpose of recovering
his remains; and I wish to see the paper found on the body,
because I believe that paper will identify it to the satisfaction of
the relative to whom I have referred. Do you find my reply
sufficiently straightforward ? And do you mean to give me per-
mission to look at the paper ?"
" I am satisfied with your reply, and see no reason for refusing
you a sight of the paper," said the father superior. " but I have
something to say first. In speaking of the impression produced
on you by beholding the corpse, you used the words * disgust '
and ' horror.' This license of expression in relation to what you
have seen in the precincts of a convent proves to me that you
Til V n/-' lirMlTS.
are out of the pale of tlio Holy Catholic Church. You harp no
right, th- Kpeot any explanation; hut I will <_
one, nevertln a favor. The slain man died, una
in the commission of mortal sin. We infer so much from the
paper which we found on his body; and we know by the
of our own eyes and ears, that he was killed on the terri-
lories of the Church, and in the act of committing direct viola-
tion of th nil laws against the crime of dueling, the strict
enforcement of which the holy father himself has urged on tho
faithful throughout his dominions by letters signed with his own
hand. Inside this convent the ground is consecrated, and wo
Catholics are not accustomed to bury the outlaws of our re-
ligion, the enemies of our holy father, and the violators of our
most sacred laws in consecrated ground. Outside this convent
we have no rights and no power; and, if we had both, we should
remember that we are monks, not grave-diggers, and that the
only burial with which ice can have any concern is burial with
rayers of the Church. That is all the explanation I think
it necessary to give. Wait for me here, and you shall see the
paper." With those words the father superior left the room as
quietly as he had entered it.
I had hardly time to think over this bitter and ungracious ex-
planation, and to feel a little piqued by the language and man-
ner of the person who had given it to me, before the father su-
perior returned with the paper in his hand. He placed it before
me on the dresser, and I read, hurriedly traced in pencil, the
following lines:
" This paper is attached to the body of the late Mr. Stephen
Monkton, an Englishman of distinction. He has been shot in a
duel, conducted with perfect gallantry and honor on both e
His body is placed at the door of this convent, to receive burial
at the hands of its inmates, the survivors of the encounter being
obliged to separate and secure their safety by immediate flight.
I, the second of the slain man, and the writer of this explana-
tion, certify, on my word of honor as a gentleman, that the shot
which killed my principal on the instant was fired fairly, in the
strictest accordance with the rules laid down beforehand for the
conduct of the duel.
"(Signed), F."
"F." I recognized easily enough as the initial letter of Mou-
pieur Foulon's name, the second of Mr. Moukton, who had <lied
of consumpton at Paris.
The discovery and the identification were now comj
Nothing remained but to break the news to Alfred, and t
n to remove the remains in the out -house. I hetran al-
most to doubt the evidv'iice of my own senses, when 1 n-t'
thai the apparently impracticable ohjert with which we had left
Naples was already, ly the mere t chance, virtually accom
plisl
"The evidence of the paner is d< i'l I. hanlii
back. "There can be no aonbl that the remain- in tl
house are the remains of which we have been in search. >
114 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
inquire if any obstacles will be thrown in our way should the
late Mr. Monkton's nephew wish to remove his uncle's body to
the family burial-place in England ?"
" "Where is this nephew?" asked the father superior.
" He is now aw aiting my return at the town of Fondi."
" Is he in a position to prove his relationship?"
" Certainly; he has papers with him which will place it beyond
a doubt."
" Let him satisfy the civil authorities of his claim, and he need
expect no obstacle to his wishes from any one here."
I was in no humor for talking a moment longer with my sour-
tempered companion than I could help. The day was wearing
on fast; and, whether night overtook me or not, I was resolved
never to stop on my return till I got back to Fondi. Accordingly,
after telling the father superior that he might expect to hear
from me again immediately, I made my bow, and hastened out
of the sacristy.
At the convent-gate stood my old friend with the tin snuff-box,
waiting to let me out.
" Bless you, my son," said the venerable recluse, giving me a
farewell pat on the shoulder; " come back soon to your spiritual
father who loves you, and amiably favor him with another tiny,
tiny pinch of the delectable snuff."
CHAPTER VI.
I RETURNED at the top of my speed to the village where I had
left the mules, had the animals saddled immediately, and suc-
ceeded in getting back to Fondi a little before sunset.
When ascending the stairs of our hotel, I suffered under the
most painful uncertainty as to how I should best communicate
the news of my discovery to Alfred. If I could not succeed in
preparing him properly for my tidings, the results, with such an
organization as his, might be fatal. On opening the door of his
room, I felt by no means sure of myself; and when I confronted
him, his manner of receiving me took me so much by surprise
that, for a moment or two, I lost my self-possession alto-
gether.
Every trace of the lethargy in which he was "sunk when I
had last seen him had disappeared. His eyes were bright, his
cheeks deeply flushed. As I entered, he started up, and refused
my offered hand.
"You have not treated me like a friend," he said, passionately;
" you had no right to continue the search unless I searched with
you you had no right to leave me here alone. I was wrong to
trust you; you are no better than all the re^t of them."
I had by this time recovered a little from my first astonish-
ment, and was able to reply before he could say anything more.
It was quite useless, in his present state, to reason with him or
to defend myself. I determined to risk everything, and break
my news to him at once.
"You will treat me more justly, Monkton, when you know
that I have been doing you good service during my absence," I
V OF J in
"I ly mistaken, the object for which
pies may he ii.-aivr attainment bv both
The flush left his cheeks almost in an instant.
mil iii my face, or some tone in my voice, of which 1
LOUS, had re\ealed to his nervously-quickened pei
tion more tliai: 1 had intended that he should know at fir-t. His
1 themselves intently on mine; lii.s hand i my
arm; and he said to me in an eager whisper:
-11 me the truth at once. Have you found him?"
It was too late to hesitate. I answered in the affirmative.
'.iiried or unlmnVd ?"
His voi. abruptly as he put the question, and his unoc-
cupied hand fastened on my other arm.
"Unburied,"
I had hardly uttered the word before the blood flew back into
his cheek-: his eyes flashed again as they looked into mine.
be burst into a fit of triumphant laughter, which shocked and
startled me inexpressibly.
' What did I tell you? What do you say to the old prophecy
now ?" he cried, dropping his hold on my arms, and pacing hack-
ward and forward in the room. "Own you were wrong. Own
all Naples shall own it, when once'l have got him safe in
his < -of I'm!''
His laughter grew more and more violent. I tried to quiet
him in vain. 1 Us servant and the landlord of the inn entered
the room, but they only added fuel to the fire, and I made them
;ain. As I shut the door on them, I observed lying on
ii tahle near at hand the packet of letters from Miss Elmslie.
which my unhappy friend preserved with such care, and read
and re-read with such unfailing devotion. Looking toward me
just when I passed by the table, the letters caught his eye. The
new hope for the future, in connection with the writer of them,
which my news was already awakening in his heart, seemed to
ovi rwhelm him in an instant at sight of the treasured memorials
that reminded him of his betrothed wife. His laughter ce:
his face changed, he ran to the table, caught the letters up in
Ids hand, looked from them to me for one moment with an al-
tered expression which went to my heart, then sank down on
his knees at the tahle, laid his lace on the letters, and hurst into
tears. I let the new emotion have its way uninterruptedly, and
quitted the room without saying a word. When I returned
a lapse of some little time, I found him sitting quietly in his
chair, reading one of the letters from the packet which i.
on his knee.
His look was kindness itself; his gesture almost womanly in
its gent I- me, and anxiously held out his
hand.
He was quite calm enough now to hear in detail all that T had
to tell him. 1 sup) nothing hut the particulars of the
in which I had found the corpse. I assumed no right
of direction as to the share he was to take in our future pro
ings, with the exception of insisting beforehand that he should
116 THE QUEEN OP HEARTS.
leave the absolute superintendence of the removal of the body
to me, and that he should be satisfied with a sight of Monsieur
Foulou's paper, after receiving my assurance that the remains
placed in the coffin were really and truly the remains of which
we had been in search.
"Your nerves are not so strong as mine," I said, by way oi
apology for my apparent dictation, " and for that reason I must
beg leave to assume the leadership in all that we have now tc
do, until I see the leaden coffin soldered down and safe in youi
possession. After that I shall resign all my functions to you.
"I want words to thank you for your kindness," he answered,
*' No brother could have borne witli me more affectionately, 01
helped me more patiently than you."
He stopped and grew thoughtful, then occupied himself ir
tying up slowly and carefully the packet of Miss Elmslie's let-
ters, and then looked suddenly toward the vacant wall behind
me with that strange expression the meaning of which I knew
so well. Since we had left Naples I had purposely avoided ex-
citing him by talking on the useless and shocking subject of the
apparition by which he believed himself to be perpetually fol-
lowed. Just now, however, he seemed so calm and collected
so little likely to be violently agitated by any illusion to th<
dangerous topic, that 1 ventured to speak out boldly.
"Does the phantom still appear to you," I asked, "as it ap
peared at Naples ?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"Did I not tell you that it followed me everywhere?" Hii
eyes wandered back again to the vacant space, and he went or
speaking in that direction as if he had been continuing the con
versation with some third person in the room. " We shall part,'
he said, slowly and softly, " when the empty place is filled in Win
cot vault. Then ' shall stand with Ada before the altar in th<
Abbey chapel, and when my eyes meet hers they will see th
tortured face no more."
Saying this, he leaned his head on his hand, sighed, and begai
repeating softly to himself the lines of the old prophecy:
" When in Wincot vault a place
Waits for one of Monkton's race
When that one forlorn shall lie
Graveless under open sky,
Beggared of six feet of earth,
Though lord of acres from his birth
That shall be a certain sign
Of the end of Monkton's line.
Dwindling ever faster, faster,
Dwindling to the last-left master;
From mortal ken, from light of day,
Monkton's race shall pass away."
Fancying that he pronounced the last lines a little incoherent
ly, I tried to make him change the subject. He took no notic
of what I said, and went on talking to himself.
"Monkton's race shall pass away," he repeated, "but no
with me. The fatality hangs over my head no longer. I shaJ
bury the unburied dead; I shall fill the vacant place in Wince
7V; 117
nnlt: nntl then (hen the new life, the life with Ada!" That
ned t<> recall him to himself. He drew In ling
i rd him, placed the packet of letters in it. and then
lu-i-t of paper. "I am going to WIT
id, turning to me, " and tell her the good IWVB. H-r I
hen she knows it, will he even ureiittT than mil
Worn out by the events of the day, I left him writing and
!ol>e<l. I was, however, either too anxious or too tired to
Tn this waking condition, my mind naturally occupied
with the discovery at the convent, and with the events to
.-Inch that discovery would in all probability lead. As I thought
n t he future, a depression for which I could not account weighed
n my spirits. There was not the slightest reason for the vaguely
melancholy forebodings that oppressed me. The remains, to the
which my unhappy friend attached so much impor-
had been traced; they would certainly be placed at his
il in a few days; he might take them to England by the
Merchant vessel that sailed from Naples; and, the gratitiea.-
r his strange caprice thus accomplished, there was at least
>n to hope that his mind might recover its tone, and
lie new life he would lead at Wincot might result in mak-
ng him a happy man. Such considerations as these w< re, in
Delves, certainly not calculated to exert any melancholy in-
e over me; and yet, all through the night, the same incon-
eivable, unaccountable depression weighed heavily on my spirits
-heavily through the hours of darkness heavily, even when I
d out to breathe the first freshness of the early morning air.
With the day came the all-engrossing business of opening ne-
otiations with the authoriti'
Only those who have had to deal with Italian officials can
marine how our patience was tried by every one with whon
ame in contact. We were bandied about from one authority to
;her, were stared at, cross questioned, mystified not in the
east because the case presented any special difficulties or intri-
. but because it was absolutely necessary that every civil
lignitary to whom we applied should assert his own importance
ding us to our object in the most roundabout manner pos-
i'ble. After our first day's experience of official life in Italy, [
e absurd formalities, which we had no choice but to jx-r-
orm, to lie accomplished by Alfred 'done, and applied myself to
he really serious question of how the remains in the convent
it-home were to be safely removed.
The best plan that suggested itself to me was to writ.
I iu Kome, where I knew that it was a custom to embalm
ihe bodies of high dignitaries of the Church, and where, 1 con
sequeutly inferred, such chemical assistance as \\.: din
Mir emergency might be obtained. 1 simply Dialed in my I.
val of the body was imperative. th< I the
I ion in which 1 had found it : and < t hat in.
m our par! --hould be spared if the right pers. >n .r i- ..uM
md to help us. li liu. more difflcoltfes'interp
hemselves. and m formalit \>-
.lirough, but m the end pat; and m
118 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
umphed, and two men came expressly from Rome to undertake
the duties we required of them.
It is unnecessary that I should shock the reader by entering
into any detail in this part of my narrative. When I have said
that the progress of decay was so far suspended by chemical
means as to allow of the remains being placed in the coffin, and
to insure their being transported to England with perfect safety
and convenience, I have said enough. After ten days had been
wasted in useless delays and difficulties, I had the satisfaction
of seeing the convent out -house empty at last; passed through a
final ceremony of snuff- taking, or rather, of snuff-giving, with the
old Capuchin, and ordered the traveling carriages to be ready at
the inn door. Hardly a month had elapsed since our departure
ere we entered Naples successful in the achievement of a design
which had been ridiculed as wildly impracticable by every friend
of ours who had heard of it.
The first object to be accomplished on our return was to obtain
the means of carrying the coffin to England by sea, as a matter
of course. All inquiries after a merchant vessel on the point of
sailing for any British port led to the most unsatisfactory results.
There was only one way of insuring the immediate transportation
of the remains to England, and that was to hire a vessel. Impa-*
tient to return, and resolved not to lose sight of the coffin till he
had seen it placed in Wincot vault, Monkton decided imme-
diately on hiring the first ship that could be obtained. The
vessel in port which we were informed could soonest be got
ready for sea was a Sicilian brig, and this vessel my friend ac-
cordingly engaged. The best dockyard artisans that could be
got were set to work, and the smartest captain and crew to be
picked up on an emergency in Naples were chosen to navigate
the brig.
Monkton, after again expressing in the warmest terms his
gratitude for the services I had rendered him, disclaimed any
intention of asking me to accompany him on the voyage to
England. Greatly to his surprise and delight, however, I offered
on my own accord to take passage in the brig. The strange co-
incidences I had witnessed, the extraordinary discovery I had
hit on since our first meeting in Naples, had made his one great
interest in life my one great interest for the time being as well.
I shared none of his delusions, poor fellow; but it is hardly an
exaggeration to say that my eagerness to follow our remarkable
adventure to its end was as great as his anxiety to see the coffin
laid in Wincot vault. Curiosity influenced me, I am afraid, al-
most as strongly as friendship, when I offered myself as the
companion of his voyage home.
We set sail for England on a calm and lovely afternoon.
For the first time since I had known him, Monkton seemed to
be in high spirits. He talked and jested on all sorts of subjects,
and laughed at me for allowing my cheerfulness to he affected
by the dread of sea sickness. I had really no sm-li IVar; it was
my excuse to my friend for a return of that unaccountable
depression under which I had suffered at Fondi. Everything
was in our favor; everybody on board the brig was in good
77//<: QUEEN OF^ 119
The captain was delighted with t' 1; the <
Italians and Maltese, were in high glee at the p
short voyage on high wages in a well pro
alone felt heavy at There was no valid reason tl
could assign to myself for the melancholy that o|
I struggled against it in vain.
on our lirst night at sen. I made a discovery which was
calculated to restore my spirits to their usual vmii-
librium. Monkton was in the cabin, on the floor of which had
placed the packing-case containing the coffin, and I v\
The wind had fallen almost to a calm, and I was la/ily
watching the sails of the brig as they flapped from time to time
against the masts, when the captain approached, and, drawing
me out of hearing of the man at the helm, whispered in my
"There's something wrong among the men forward. Did
you observe how suddenly they all became silent just before sun-
I had observed it, and told him so.
" There's a Maltese boy on board," pursued the captain, "who
mart enough lad, but a bad one to deal with. 1 have found
out that he has been telling the men there is a dead body inside
that packing-case of your friend's in the cabin."
My heart sank as he spoke. Knowing the superstitious irra-
iity of sailors of foreign sailors especially I had taken
to spread a report on board the brig, before the coffin was
shipped, that the packing-case contained a valuable marble
statute which Mr. Monkton prized highly, and was unwilling to
trust out of his own sight. How could this Maltese boy have
vered that the pretended statue was a human corpse/ \s
I pondered over the question, my suspicions fixed themselves on
Monkton's servant, who spoke Italian fluently, and whom 1
knew to be an incorrigible gossip. Thf man denied it when 1
charged him with betraying us, but I have never believed his
ial to this day.
"The little imp won't say wh%re he picked up this notion of
his about the dead body," continued the captain. " It's not m\
place to pry into secrets; but I advise you to call the crew aft.
and contradict the boy, whether he speaks the truth or not. The
are a parcel of fools who believe in ghost*, and all the
of it. Some of them say they never would have signed our
articles if they had known they were going to sail with a dead
man: others only grumble; but I am afraid wo shall h.;
trouble with them all, in ease of rough weather, unless the
ntradicted by you or the other gentleman. The men
iat if either you or your friend tell them on your \
of honor that the Maltese is a liar, they will hand him up
e's-eiided accordingly; but that if you won't, they have
up their minds to believe t he lx>y."
Here the captain paused and awaited my answer. I could
him none. 1 felt hopeless under our u< emerget
lie l>oy punished by giving my word of hon
i falsehood was not to be thought of even for a moment.
120 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
What other means of extrication from this miserable dilemms
remained ? None that I could think of. I thanked the captair
for his attention to our interests, told him I would take time tc
consider what course I should pursue, and begged that he woulc
say nothing to my friend about the discovery he had made. H<
promised to be silent sulkily enough, and walked away from me
We had expected the breeze to spring up with the morning
but no breeze came. As it wore on toward noon the atmosphere
became insufferably sultry, and the sea looked as smooth a
glass. I saw the captain's eye turn often and anxiously to wind
ward. Far away in that direction, and alone in the blue heaven
I observed a little black cloud, and asked if it would bring ui
any wind.
"More than we want," the captain replied, shortly; and then
to my astonishment, ordered the crew aloft to take in sail. Th<
execution of this maneuver showed but too plainly the tempei
of the men; they did their work sulkily and slowly, grumbling
and murmuring among themselves. The captain's manner, a)
he urged them on with oaths and threats, convinced me we wer<
in danger. I looked again to windward. The one little clout
had enlarged to a great bank of murky vapor, and the sea at tin
horizon had changed in color.
" The squall will be on us before we know where we are," sai<
the captain. " Go below; you will be only in the way here."
I descended to the cabin, and prepared Monkton for what wai
coining. He was still questioning me about what I had observec
on deck when the storm burst on us. We felt the little brig
strain for an instant as if she would part in two, then she seeme<
to be swinging round with us, then to be quite still for a mo
ment, trembling in every timber. Last came a shock whic)
hurled us from our seats, a deafening crash, and a flood of wate:
pouring into the cabin. We clambered, half drowned, to tin
deck. The brig had, in nautical phrase, "broached to," and sin
now lay on her beam-ends.
Before I could make out anything distinctly in the horribli
confusion except the one tremendous certainty that we wen
entirely at the mercy of the sea, I heard a voice from the fon
part of the ship which stilled the clamoring and shouting of th<
rest of the crew in an instant. The words were in Italian, but
understood their *fatal meaning only too easily. We had sprung
a leak, and the sea was pouring into the ship's hold like the raa
of a mill-stream. The captain did not lose his presence of mine
in this fresh emergency. He called for his axe to cut away th<
foremast, and, ordering some of the crew to help him, directec
the others to rig out the pumps.
T he words had hardly passed his lips before the men broki
into open mutiny. With a savage look at me, their ringleade)
declared that the passengers might do as they pleased, but tha
he and his messmates were determined to take to the boat, anc
leave the accursed ship, and the dead man in her, to go to tin
bottom together. As he spoke there was a shout among th<
sailors* and I observed some of them pointing derisively behinc
me.. Looking round, I saw Monkton, who had hitherto kep
Till] V OF 121
my side, unking li; l>ackto the cabin. I follov,
him directly, hut the \\ I confusion on deck, and the im-
sibility, from the position of the brig, of moving the feet
without the slow assistance of the hands, so impeded <>g-
that it was impossible for me to overtake him. When I had
below he was crouched upon the coffin, with the water on
the cabin floor whirling and splashing about him as the ship
M-d and plun^'d. I saw a warning brightness in his eyes, a
warning flush on his cheek, as I approached and said to him:
"Then- is nothing left for it, Alfred, but to bow to our mis-
me, and to do the best we ran to save our lives."
ive yours," lie cried, waving his hand to me, " for you have
a future before you. Mine is gone when this coffin goes to the
bottom. If the ship sinks, I shall know that the fatality is ac-
complished, and shall sink with her."
I saw that he was in no state to be reasoned with or persuaded,
and raised myself again to the deck. The men were cutting
away all obstacles so as to launch the long-boat, placed amid-
ships over the depressed bulwark of the brig as she lay on her
Bide, and the captain, after haying made a last vain exertion to
restore his authority, was looking on at them in silence. The
violence of the squall seemed already to be spending itself, and
I asked whether there was really no chance for us if we remain-
ed by the ship. The captain answered that there might have
been the best chance if the men had obeyed his orders, but that
theie was none. Knowing that I could place no depend-
e on the presence of mind of Monkton's servant, I confided
to the captain, in the fewest and plainest words, the condition
of my unhappy friend, and ask if I might depend on his help.
He nodded his head, and we descended together to the cabin.
Even at this day it costs me pain to write of the terrible neo<
sijy to which the strength and obstinacy of Monkton's delusion
reduced us in the last resort. We were compelled to secure his
hands, and drag him by main force to therleck. The men were
on the point of launching the boat, and refused at first to receive
us into it.
" You cowards!" cried the captain, " have we got the dead /
man with us this time ? Isn't he going to the bdltom along with /
the brig ? Who are you afraid of when we get into the boat ':"
This sort of appeal produced the desired effect: the men
une ashamed of themselves, and retracted their refusal.
Just as we pushed off from the sinking ship, Alfred made an
eil'ort to break from me, but I held him firm, and he never repeat-
ed the attempt. He sat by me with drooping head, still and silent
while the sailors n>\ved away fiom the vessel; still and silent
when, with one ac< ord, they paused at a little distance oil', and
we all waited and watched to see the brig sink; still and silei
even when that sinking happened, when the lal>oring hull
plunged slowly into the hollow of the sea hesitated, as it
for one moment, rose a little again, then sank to rise no
Sank with her dead freight sank, and snatched forever from
our power the corpse which we had di !>ya mi;
122 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
cle those jealously-preserved remains, 011 the safe-keeping of
which rested so strangely the hopes and the love-destinies of two
living beings! As the last signs of the ship disappeared in the
depths of the waters, I felt Monkton trembling all over as he sat
close at my side, and heard him repeating to himself, sadly, and
many times over, the name of "Ada."
I tried to turn his thoughts to another subject, but it was use-
less. He pointed over the sea to where the brig had once been,
and where nothing wns left to look at but the rolling waves.
" The empty place will now remain empty forever in Wincot
vault."
As he said those words, he fixed his eyes for a moment sadly
and earnestly on my face, then looked away, leaned his cheek
on his hand, and spoke no more.
We were sighted long before nightfall by a trading vessel,
were taken on board, and landed at Cartagena in Spain. Alfred
never held up his head, and never once spoke to me of his own
accord the whole time we were at sea in the merchantman. I
observed, however, with alarm, that he talked often and inco-
herently to himself constantly muttering the lines of the old
prophecy constantly referring to the fatal place that was empty
in Wincot vault constantly repeating in broken accents, which
it affected me inexpressibly to hear, the name of the poor girl
who was awaiting his return to England. Nor were these the
only causes for the apprehension that I now felt on his account.
Toward the end of our voyage he began to suffer from alterna-
tions of fever-fits and sbivering-fits, which I ignorantly imag-
ined to be attacks of ague. I was soon undeceived. We had
hardly been a day on shore before he became so much worse that
I secured the best medical assistance Cartagena could afford.
For a day or two the doctors differed, as usual, about the nature
of his complaint, but ere long alarming symptoms displayed
themselves. The medical men declared that his life was in
danger, and told me that his disease was brain fever.
Shocked and grieved as I was, I hardly knew how to act at first
under the fresh responsibility now laid upon me. Ultimately I
decided on writing to the old priest who had been Alfred's tutor,
and who, as I knew, still resided at Wincot Abbey. 1 told this
gentleman all that had happened, begged him to break my mel-
ancholy news as gently as possible to Miss Elmslie, and assured
him of my resolution to remain with Monkton to the last.
After I bad dispatched my letter, and had sent to Gibraltar to
secure the best English medical advice that could be obtained, I
felt that I had done my best, and that nothing remained but to
wait and hope.
Many a sad and anxious hour did I pass by my poor friend's
bedside. Many a time did I doubt whether 1 had done right in
giving any encouragement to "his delusion. The reasons for
doing so which had suggested themselves to me after my first
interview with him seemed, however, on reflection, to bo valid
reasons still. The only way of hastening his return to England
and to Miss Klmslie, who was pining for that return, was the
way I had taken. It was not my fault that a disaster which no
TE
ill lu's projects ;md all
Rut. Ti<>\\- tint Hi" c;damity had happen* < 1 and was irretriev.-il.le,
! of his physical recovery, was his moral malady
< on I reflected on the hereditary taint in his menta'
11, on that first childish fright of Stephen Monkton t
i he had never recovered, on the perilously-secluded life
be had led at the Abbey, and on his firm persuasion of the
v of the apparition by which he believed himself to l>c
y followed, I confess 1 despaired of shaking his sup-
faith in every word and line of the old family propl
If the series of striking coincidences which appeared to attest its
truth had made a strong and lasti?ig impression on -nic (and this
issiiredly tin bow could 1 wonder that they had pro-
I the effect of absolute conviction on ///.s mind, constituted
as it was? If I argued with him, and he answen 'me liow could
in? If he sai<l, ''The prophecy points at the last of the
family: I am the last of the family. The prophecy mentions an
empty pla-e in Wincot vault: there is such an .'inpty plac there
; moment. On the faith of the prophecy I told \ou that
Stephen Monkton's lx>dy was nuburied, and you found that it
unburied " if he said this, what use would it be for me to
reply, "These are only stran.uv coincidences after all?"
The more 1 thought of the task that lay before me. if In
e<l, the more I felt inclined to despond. The oftener the
English physician who attended on him said to me, ''He may
r of the fever, but he has a fixed idea, which n
s him night or day, which has unsettled his reason, and
which will end in killing him. unless you or some of his friends
can remove it " the oftener I heard this, the more acutely 1 felt
my own powerlessness. the more I shrank from every idea that
onnected with the hopeless future.
I had only expected to receive my answer from Win cot in the
of a letter. It was consequently a K''<'-'i< surprise, as well
as a great relief, to be informed one day that two gentlemen
d to speak with me. and to find that of these two gentle-
Ben the tirst was the old priest, and the second a male relative
of Mrs. El nisi ie.
Just before their arrival the fever-symptoms had disappeared,
and Alfred had been pronounced out of danger. Both the priest
and his companion were eager to know when the sufferer would
rong enough to travel. They had come to Carta
take him home with them, and felt far more hopeful
[ did of the restorative effects of his native air. After all
ions connected with the first important point of tho
journey to England had been asked and answered, f
K> make some inquiri l li>s Kimshv. Efer relative informed
njil'ering lioth in bod\ and in mind
on Alfred's account. They Ind le-n obliged \.
> the dangerous nature of his illm
r from accompanying the priest and her relation on their
n to Spain.
\vly and inn
124 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
something of his former physical strength, but no alteration ap-
peared in his illness as it affected his mind.
From the very first day of his advance toward recovery, it had
been discovered that the brain fever had exercised the strangest
influence over his faculties of memory. All recollection of recent
events was gone from him. Everything connected with Naples,
with me, with his journey to Italy, had dropped in some mysteri-
ous manner entirely out of his remembrance. So completely had
all late circumstances passed from his memory that, though he
recognized the old priest and his own servant easily on the first
days of his convalescence, he never recognized me, but regarded
me with such a wistful, doubting expression, that I felt inex-
pressibly pained when I approached his bedside. All his ques-
tions were about Miss Elmslie and Wincot Abbey, and all his
talk referred to the period when his father was yet alive.
The doctors augured good rather than ill from this loss of
memory of recent incidents, saying that it would turn out to be
temporary, and that it answered the first great healing purpose
of keeping his mind at ease. I tried to believe them tried to
feel as sanguine, when the day came for his departure, as the
old friends felt who were taking him home. But the effort was
too much for me. A foreboding that I should never see him
again oppressed my heart, and the tears came into my eyes as I
saw the worn figure of my poor friend half helped, half lifted
into the traveling- carriage and borne away gently on the road
toward home.
He had never recognized me, and the doctors had begged that
I would give him, for some time to come, as few opportunities
as possible of doing so. But for this request I should have ac-
companied him to England. As it was, nothing better remain-
ed for me to do than to change the scene, and recruit as best I
could my energies of body and mind, depressed of late by much
watching and anxiety. The famous cities of Spain were not new to
me, but I visited them again, and revived old impressions of Al-
hambra and Madrid. Once or twice I thought of making a pil-
grimage to the East, but late events had sobered and altered me.
That yearning, unsatisfied feeling which we call "homesick-
ness " began to prey upon my heart, and I resolved to return to
England.
I went back by way of Paris, having settled with the priest
that he should write to me at my banker's there as soon as he
could after Alfred had returned to Wincot. If I had gone to
the East, the letter would have been forwarded to me. I wrote
to prevent this; and, on my arrival at Paris, stopped at the
banker's before I went to my hotel.
The moment the letter was put into my hands, the black border
on the envelope told me the worst. He was dead.
There was but one consolation he had died calmly, almost
happily without once referring to those fatal chances which had
MTOUght the fulfillment of thf ancient prophecy. " My beloved
pupil," the old priest wrote, " seemed to rally a little the first
few days after his return, but he gained no real strength, and
soon suffered a slight relapse of fever. After this he sank .:
7V : \ <>!<' Ill
ually and gently day by day, and so depart. 1 from us on the
'I read journey. Miss Elmslie(who knows that I am writing
TPS me to express her deep and lasting gratitude for all
your kindness to Alfred. She told me -when we brought him
back that she had waited for him as his promised wife, and that
would nurse him n \v as a wifo should; and she never left
him. Flis face was turned toward her, his hand was clasped in
when he died. It will console you to know that he i
mentioned events at Naples, or the shipwreck that followed
them, from the day of his return to the day of his death.''
Three days after reading the letter I was at Wincot, and heard
all the details of Alfred's last moments from : he priest. I felt a
shock which it would not be very easy for me to analyze or ex-
plain when I heard that he had been buried, at his own desire,
in the fatal Abbey vault.
The priest took me down to see the place a grim. cold, sub-
nean building, with a low roof, supported on heavy Saxon
arches. N; rrow niches, with the ends only of coffins visible
MI them, ran down each side of the vault. The nails and
silver ornaments flashed here and tbere as my companion moved
past them with a lamp in his hand. At the lower end of the
he stopped, pointed to a niche, and said, " He lies there,
between his father and mother." 1 looked a little further on,
and saw what appeared at first like a long dark tunnel. ' That
is only an empty niche," said the priest, following me. "If the
body of Mr. Stephen Monkton had been brought to Wincot, his
coffin would have been placed there."
A chill came over me, and a sense of dread which I am
ashamed of having felt now, but which I could not combat then.
The blessed light of day was pouring down gayly at the other
end of the vault through the open door. I turned my back on
the empty niche, and hurried into the sunlight and the fresh air.
As I walked across the grass glade leading down to the vault,
rd the rustle of a woman's dress behind me, and, turning
round, saw a young lady advancing, clad in deep mourning.
Her sweet, sad face, her manner as she held out her hand, told
me who it was in an instant.
' I heard that you were here," she said, " and I wished
Her voice faltered a little. My heart ached as I saw how her lip
trembled, but before I could say anything she recover*
and went on: "I wished to take your hand, and thank you for
orotherly kindness to Alfred; and I wanted to tell you that
lam sure in all you did you acted tenderly and consider
for the best. Perhaps you may he soon way f nun home
. and we may not meet any more. I shall
t that you were kind to him when he wanted a friend, ami
vii have thegn aim of any one on earth to be grate-
fully remembered in my thoughts as long as I i
The inexpressible tender ness of her voice, trembling a little all
the while she spoke, the pale beaut \ of her face, th< - can-
dor in her sad, quiet eyes, so affected me that I could not trust
if to answer her at first except by gesture. Before I i
;.33 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
pred my voice she had given me her hand once more and left
me.
" I never saw her again. The chances and changes of life
kept us apart. When I last heard of her, years and years ago,
she was faithful to the memory of the dead, and was Ada Elms-
lie still for Alfred Monkton's sake.
THE FIFTH DAY.
STILL cloudy, but no rain to keep our young lady in-doors.
The paper, as usual, without interest to me.
To-day Owen actually vanquished his difficulties and finished
his story. I numbered it Eight, and threw the corresponding
number (as I had done the day before in Morgan's case) into the
china bowl.
Although I could discover no direct evidence against her, I
strongly suspected the Queen of Hearts of tampering with the
lots on the fifth evening, to irritate Morgan by making it his
turn to read again, after the shortest possible interval of repose.
However that might be, the number drawn was certainly Seven,
and the story to be read was consequently the story which my
brother had finished only two days before.
If I had not known that it was part of Morgan's character always
to c'o exactly the reverse of what might be expected from him,
I should have been surprised at the extraordinary docility he
exhibited the moment his manuscript was placed in his hands.
" My turn again ? v he said. "How very satisfactory! I was
anxious to escape from this absurd position of mine as soon as
possible, and here is the opportunity most considerately put into
my hands. Look out, all of you! I won't waste another mo-
ment. I mean to begin instantly. "
"Do tell me," interposed Jessie, mischievously, "shall I be
verv much interested to-night?"
""Not you!" retorted Morgan. ;< You will be very much fright-
ened instead. Your hair is uncommonly smooth at the present
moment, but it will be all standing on end before I've done.
Don't blame me, miss, if you are an object when you go to bed
to-night!"
With this curious introductory speech he began to read. I
was obliged to interrupt him to say the few words of explana-
tion which the story needed.
"Before my brother begins," I said, "it may be as well to
mention that he is himself the doctor who is supposed to relate
this narrative. The events happened at a time of his life when
he had left London, and had established himself in medical prac-
tice in one of our large northern towns."
With that brief explanation, I apologized for interrupting the
reader, and Morgan began once more.
TI/K QUEEN ')/' 11 KM
BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY OF mi: hi AD HAND.
"Win-:\ this present ninetieth century was younger by a good
mar)' than it is now, a certain friend of mine, named
Arthur Holliday. happened to arrive in the town of Done
exactly in the middle of the race week, or, in other words, in
tin- middle of the month of September.
He was one of those reckless, rattle-pated, open-hearted,
and open-mouthed young gentlemen who possess the gift of
familiarity in its highest perfection, and who scrambled care-
along the journey of life, making friends, as the phrn
wherever they go. H is fat her \vas a rich manufacturer, and had
bought landecl property enough in one of the midland counties to
make all the born squires in his neighborhood thoroughly envious
of him. Arthur was his only son, possessor in prospect of the
great estate and the great business after his father's death; well
supplied with money, and not too rigidly looked after during
his father's lifetime. Report, or scandal, whichever you pi
said tlmt the old gentleman had been rather wild in his youthful
. and that, unlike most parents, he was not disposed to be
violently indignant when he found that his son took after him.
This may be true or not. I myself only knew the elder Mr.
Holliday when he was getting on in years, and then he was as
quiet and as respectable a gentleman as ever I met with.
Well, one September, as I told you, young Arthur comes to
Doncaster, having decided all of a sudden, in his hare-brained
way, that he would go to the races. He did not reach the town
till toward the close of evening, and he went at once to see
about his dinner and bed at the principal hotel. Dinner they
ready enough to give him, but as for a bed, they laughed
when he mentioned it. In the race-week at Doncaster it is no
uncommon thing for visitors who have not bespoken apartments
to pass the night in their carriages at the inn doors. As for the
si.rt <>f stra Mirer-. I myself have often seen them, at that
full time, sleeping out on the door-steps for want of a covered
place to creep under. Rich as he was, Arthur's chance of get-
ting a night's lodging (seeing that he had not written beforehand
to secure one) was more than doubtful. He tried the second
hotel, and the third hotel, and two of the inferior inns after
that, and was met everywhere with the same form of an-
nmodation for the night of any sort was left. All the
bright golden sovereigns in his pocket would not buy him a bed
at 1> r in the race-week.
To a young fellow of Arthur's temperament, the novelty of
being turned away into the street like a penniless vagabond, at
every house where he asked for a lodging, presented itself in the
lightof a new and highly-amusing j . xperieuce. He went
on with his carpet-bag in his hand, applying for a bed at every
place of en tortainment for travelers that lie could find in Don-
caster, until he wandered into the outskirts of the town.
By this time the last glimmer of twilight had faded out, the
138 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
moon was rising dimly in a mist, the wind was getting cold, the
clouds were gathering heavily, and there was every prosp< < t
that it was soon going to rain!
The look of the night had rather a lowering effect on young
Holliday's good spirits. He began to contemplate the houseless
situation in which he was placed from the serious rather than
the humorous point of view, and he looked about him for an-
other public house to inquire at with something very like down-
right anxiety in his mind on the subject of a lodging for the
night.
The suburban part of the town toward which he had now
strayed was hardly lighted at all, and he could see nothing of
the houses as he passed them, except that they got progressively
smaller and dirtier the further he went. Down the winding
road before him shone the dull glance of an oil lamp, the one
faint lonely light that struggled ineffectually with the foggy
darkness all round him. He resolved to go on as far as this lamp
and then, if it showed him nothing in the shape of an inn, tore-
turn to the central part of the town, and to try if he could not
at least secure a chair to sit down on through the night at one of
the principal hotels.
As he got near the lamp he heard voices, and, walking close
under it, found that it lighted the entrance to a narrow court,
on the wall of which was painted a long hand in faded flesh-
color, pointing with a lean fore-finger to thio inscription:
" THE TWO ROBINS."
Arthur turned into the court without hesitation to see what
the Two Eobins could do for him. Four or five men were
standing together round the door of the house, which was at the
bottom of the court, facing the entrance from the street. The
men were all listening to one other man better dressed than the
rest, who was telling his audience something in a low voice, in
which they were apparently very much interested.
On entering the passage Arthur was passed by a stranger
with a knapsack in his hand, w T ho was evidently leaving the
house.
"No," said the traveler with the knapsack, turning round
and addressing himself cheerfully to a fat, sly-looking, bald-
headed man, with a dirty white apron on, who had followed
him down the passage, " no, Mr. Landlord, I am not easily scared
by trifles; but I don't mind confessing that I can't quite stand
that: 9
It occurred to young Holliday, the moment he heard these
words, that the stranger had been asked an exorbitant price for
a bed at the Two Robins, and that he was unable or unwilling
to pay it. The moment his back was turned, Arthur, comfort-
ably conscious of his own well-filled pockets, addressed himself
in a great hurry, for fear any other benighted traveler should
slip in and forestall him, to the sly- looking landlord with the
dirty apron and the bald head.
"If you have got a bed to let," he said, "and if that
Tli V OF lit
\vlio lias just K""<' ""< won't pay your price for it.
II."
The sly landlord looked hard a! Arthur.
\\'iil 3 " h<- asked, in a meditative, doubtful \\
"K -ur price," said young lloiliday, thinking the
landlord's hesitation sprang from some boorish distrust of him.
"Name your price, and I'll give you the money at one-
you like."
" Are you game for five shillings ?" inquired the landlord, rub-
bing his stubby double chin, and looking up thoughtfully at the
ceiling above him.
Arthur nearly laughed in the man's face: but, thinking it pru-
dent to control himself, offered the five shillings as seriously as
he could. The sly landlord held out his hand, then suddenly
drew it back again.
" You're acting all fair and overboard by me," he said, " and,
before I take your money, PJ1 do the same by you. Look here;
it stands in. Do you see what I mean, young gentleman ?"
tins is how it stands. You can have a bed all to yourself for five
shillings, but you can't have more than half share of the room,
" Of course I do," returned Arthur, a little irritably. " You
mean that it is a double-bedded room, and that one of the beds
is occupied ?'' *
The landlord nodded his head and rubbed his double chin
harder than ever. Arthur hesitated, and mechanically moved a
step or two toward the door. The idea of sleeping in the same
room with a total stranger did not present an attractive prospect
to him. He felt more than half inclined to drop his five shillings
into his pocket, and to go out into the street once more.
" Is it yes or nor" asked the landlord. " Settle it as quick as
you can, because there's lots of people wanting a bed at Don-
caster to-night besides you."
Arthur looked toward the court, and heard rain falling heavily
in the street outside. He thought he would ask a question or
two before he rashly decided on leaving the shelter of the Two
Robins.
" What sort of man is it who has got the othei bed?" he in-
quired. " Is he a gentleman? I mean is heaquiet, well-behaved
person V
" The quietest man I ever came across," said the landlord, rub-
bing his fat hands stealthily one over the other. " As sober as a
judge, and as regular as clockwork in his habits. It h
struck nine not ten minutes ago, and he's in his bed already. I
don't know whether that comes up to vour notion of a quiet
man: it goes a long way ahead of mine, I can tell you."
" Is he asleep, do you think ?" asked Arthur.
*' I know he's asleep," returned the landlord: "ami, what's
more, he's gone oil" so fast that I'll warrant you don't wake him.
This way, sir," said the landlord, speak: young Holliday's
shoulder, as if he was addressing some new guest who \v;i
preaching the house.
" Here you are,'' said Arthur, determined to he beforehand
with the stranger, whoever he might be. "I'll take the bed.**
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
And lie handed the five shillings to the landlord, who nodded,
dropped the money carelessly into his waistcoat pocket, and
lighted a candle.
'' Come up and see the room," said the host of the Two Robins,
leading the way to the staircase quite briskly, considering how
fat he was.
They mounted to the second floor of the house. The landlord
half opened a door fronting the landing, then stopped, and
turned round to Arthur.
" It's a fair bargain, mind, on my side as well as on yours," he
said. " You give me five shillings, and I give you in return a
clean, comfortable bed; and I warrant, beforehand, that you
won't be interfered with or annoyed in any way, by the man
who sleeps in the same room with you." Saying these words,
he looked hard, for a moment, in young Holliday's face, and
then led the way into the room.
It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would
be. The two beds stood parallel with each other, a space of
about six feet intervening between them. They were both of
the same medium size, and both had the same plain white cur-
tains, made to draw, if necessary, all round them.
The occupied bed was the one nearest the window. The cur-
tains were all drawn round it, except the half curtain at the bot-
tom, on either side of the bed furthest from the window. Arthur
saw the feet of the sleeping man raising the scanty clothes into
a sharp little eminence, as if he was lying flat on his back. He
took the candle, and advanced softly to draw the curtain
stopped half way, and listened for a moment then turned to the
landlord.
" He is a very quiet sleeper," said Arthur.
"Yes," said the landlord, "very quiet."
Young Holliday advanced with the candle, and looked at the
man cautiously.
" How pale he is," said Arthur.
" Yes," returned the landlord, " pale enough, isn't he?"
Arthur looked closer at the man. The bedclothes were drawn
up to his chin, and they lay perfectly still over the region of his
chest. Surprised and vaguely startled as he noticed this, Arthur
stooped down closer over the stranger, looked at his ashy, parted
lips, listened breathlessly for an instant, looked again at the
strangely still face, and the motionless lips and chest, and turned
round suddenly on the landlord with his own cheeks as pale for
the moment as the hollow cheeks of the man on the bed.
" Come here," he whispered, under his breath. "Come here,
for God's sake! The man's not asleep he is dead."
" You have found out sooner than I thought you would,*' said
the landlord, composedly. " Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He
died at five o'clock to-day."
" How did he die? Who is he?" asked Arthur, staggered for
the moment by the audacious coolness of the answer.
"As to who is he," rejoined the landlord, " I know no more
about him than you do. There are his books, and letters, and
things all sealed up in that brown paper parcel for the coroner's
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. 131
inquest to open to-morrow or next day. He's been here a week,
paving Mis way fairly enough, and stopping in-dpors, for the
ii' h<- was ailing. My girl brought him up his tea
at five to- (lay, and as he was pouring it out, he fell down in a
faint, or a lit, or a compound of both, for anything I know.
We couldn't bring him to, and I said he was dead. And the
uldn't bring him to, and the doctor said he was dead.
And then- lie is. And the coroner's inquest's coming as soon as
i. And that's as much as J know about it."
Arthur held the candle close to the man's lips. The flame"
still buuiecl straight up as steadily as ever. There was a mo-
ment of silence, and the rain pattered drearily through it
against the panes of the window.
"If you haven't got nothing more to say to me," continued
the landlord, " I suppose I may go. You don't expect your five
shillings bark, do you? There's the bed I promised you, clean
and comfortable. There's the man I warranted not to disturb
you, quiet in this world forever. If you're frightened to stop
alone witli him, that's not my lookout. I've kept my part of
the bargain, and ] mean to keep the money. I'm not Yorkshire
myself, young gentleman, but I've lived long enough in these
parts to have my wits sharpened, and I shouldn't wonder if you
found out the way to brighten up yours next time you come
among us."
With these words the landlord turned toward the door, and
laughed to himself softly, in high satisfaction at his own sharp-
ness.
Startled and shocked as he was, Arthur had by this time suf-
ficiently recovered himself to feel indignant at the trick that
had been played on him, and at the insolent manner in which
the landlord exulted in it.
" Don't laugh," he said, sharply, " till you are quite sure you
have got the laugh againet me. You sha'n't have the five shil-
lings for nothing, my man. I'll keep the bed."
"Will you?" said the landlord. "Then I wish you a good
night's rest." With that brief farewell he went out and shut the
door after him.
A good night's rest! The words had hardly been spoken, the
door hud hardly been closed, before Arthur half repented the
hasty words that had just escaped him. Though not naturally
-ensitn e, and not wanting in courage of the moral as well
as the physical ,ort, the presence of the dead man had an instan-
taneously chilling effect on his mind when he found hii
alone in the room alone, and bound by his own r
stay there till the next morning. An "older man would have
thought nothing of those words, and would ha\ without
reference to them, as his calmer sense sug;. But Arthur
was too \oung to treat the ridicule even of his inferiors with
oung not to fear the momentary humiliation of
falsifying his own foolish boast more than he feared the trial
of watching out the long night in the sauie chamber with the
v* ^-*
dead.
132 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
" It is but a few hours," he thought to himself, and I can get
away the first thing in the morning."
He was looking toward the occupied bed as that idea passed
through hi% mind, and the sharp angular eminence made in the
clothes by the dead man's upturned feet again caught his eye.
He advanced and drew the curtains, purposely abstaining as he
did so, from looking at the face of the corpse lest he might un-
nerve himself at the outset by fastening some ghastly impression
of it on his mind. He drew the curtain very gently, and sighed
involuntarily as he closed it.
" Poor fellow," he said, almost as sadly as if he had known
the man. " Ah! poor fellow!"
He went next to the window. The night was black, and he
could see nothing from it. The rain still pattered heavily
against the glass. He inferred, from hearing it, that the win-
dow was at the back of the house, remembering that the front
was sheltered from the weather by the court and the buildings
over it.
While he was still standing at the window for even the
dreary rain was a relief, because of the sound it made; a relief,
also, because it moved, and had some faint suggestion, in con-
sequence, of life and companionship in it while he was stand-
ing at the window, and looking vacantly into the black dark-
ness outside, he heard a distant church clock strike ten. Only
ten! How was he to pass the time till the house was at'tir the
next morning?
Under any other circumstances he would have gone down to
the public-house parlor, would have called for his grog, and
would have laughed and talked with the company assembled as
familiarly as if he had known them all his life. But the very
thought of whiling away the time in this manner was now dis-
tasteful to him. The new situation in which he was placed
seemed to have altered him to himself already. Thus far his
life had been the common, trifling, prosaic, surface-life of a
prosperous young man, -with no troubles to conquer and no
trials to face. He had lost no relation whom he loved, no friend
whom he treasured. Till this night what share he had of the
immortal inheritance that is divided among us all had lain dor-
mant within him. Till this night, Death and he had not once
met, even in thought.
He took a few turns up and down the room, then stopped.
The noise made by Iris boots on the poorly -carpeted floor jarred
on his ear. He hesitated a little, and ended by taking his boots
off, and walking backward and forward noiselessly.
All desire to steep or to rest had left him. The bare thought
of lying dow r n on the unoccupied bed instantly drew the picture
on his mind of a dreadful mimicry of the position of the dead
man. Who was he? What was the story of his past life. Poor
he must have been, or he would not have stopped at such a place
as the two Robins Inn; and weakened, probably, by long ill-
ness, or he could hardly have died in the manner which the
landlord had described. Poor, ill, lonely dead in a strange
nil':
place dead, with nobody but a stranger to pity him. A sad
i y; truly, on the men- fare of it, a v ry!
While these thoughts \ sing through his mind
stopped insensibly at the window, close to which stood th>
of the bed with the closed curtains. At first he looked at it ab-
sently; then he became conscious that his eyes were fixed on it:
thru a perverse desire took possession of him to do the
tiling which he had resolved not to do up to this time to look
at the dead man.
He stretched out his hand toward the 'curtains, but die
himself in the very act of undrawing them, turned his back
sharply on the bed, and walked toward the chimney-pier
see what things were placed 011 it, and to try if he could keep
the dead man out of his mind in that way.
There was a pewter ink-stand on the chimney-piece, with some
mildewed remains of ink in the bottle. There were two coarse
china ornaments of the commonest kind; and there was a square
of embossed card, dirty and fly-blown, with a collection of
wretched riddles printed on it, in all sorts of zigzag directions,
and in variously colored inks. He took the card and went a way
to read it at the table on which the candle was placed, sitting
down with his back resolutely turned to the curtained bed.
He read the first riddle, the second, the third, all in one corner
of the card, then turned it round impatiently to look at another.
Before he could begin reading the riddles printed here the sound
of the church clock stopped him.
Eleven.
He had got through an hour of the time in the room with the
dead man.
Once more he looked at the card. It was not easy to make out
the letters printed on it in consequence of the dimness of the
light which the landlord had left him a common tallow candle,
furnished with a pair of heavy old fashioned steel snuffers. Up
to this time his mind had been too much occupied co think of
the light. He had left the wick of the candle unsnuffed till it
had risen higher than the flame, and had burned into an odd
pent-house shape at the top, from which morsels of the charred
cotton fell off from time to time in little flakes. He took up the
snuffers now and trimmed the wick. The light brightened di-
rectly, and the room became less dismal.
Again he turned to the riddles, reading them doggedly and
resolutely, now in one corner of the card, now in another. All
his efforts, however, could not fix his attention on th-m. lie
pursued his occupation mechanic-ally, deriving no sort of im-
pression from what he was reading. It if a shadow from
the curtained bed had got between the mind and the _
printed letters a shadow that nothing could di \t last he
gave up the struggle, threw the card from him impatiently,
and took to walking softly up and down the room again.
The dead man, the dead man, the Indden dead man on the
bed!
There was the one persistent idea still haunting him. Hid-
den I Was it only the body being there, or was it the body be-
134 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ing there, concealed, that was preying on bis mind ? He stopped
at the window with that doubt in him, once more listening to
the pattering rain, once more looking out into the black dark-
ness.
Still the dead man!
The darkness forced his mind back upon itself, and set his
memory at work; reviving with a painfully vivid distinctness
the momentary impression it had received from his first sight of
the corpse. Before long the face seemed to be hovering out in
the middle of the darkness, confronting him through the win-
dow, with the paleness whiter with the dreadful dull line of
light between the imperfectly-closed eyelids broader than he had
seen it with the parted lips slowly dropping further and further
away from each other with the features growing larger and
moving closer, till they seemed to fill the window, and to silence
the rain, and to shut out the night.
The sound of a voice shouting below stairs woke him suddenly
from the dream of his own distempered fancy. He recognized
it as the voice of the landlord.
"Shut up at twelve, Ben," he heard it say. " I'm off to
bed."
He wiped away the damp that had gathered on his forehead,
reasoned with himself for a little while, and resolved to shake
his mind free of the ghastly counterfeit which still clung to it
by forcing himself to confront, if it was only for a moment, the
solemn reality. Without allowing himself an instant to hesi-
tate, he parted the curtains at the foot of the bed, and looked
through.
There was the sad, peaceful,white face, with the awful mystery
of stillness on it, laid back upon the pillow. No stir, no change
there! He only looked at it for a moment before he closed the
curtains again, but that moment steadied him, calmed him, re-
stored him mind and body to himself. He returned to his old
occupation of walking up and down the room, persevering in it
this time till the clock struck again.
Twelve.
As the sound of the clock-bell died away, it was succeeded by
the confused noise down-stairs of the drinkers in the room
leaving the house. The next sound, after an interval of silence,
was caused by the barring of the door and the closing of the
shutters at the back of the inn. Then the silence followed
again, and was disturbed no more.
He was alone now absolutely, hopelessly alone with the dead
man till the next morning.
The wick of the candle wanted trimming again. He took up
the snuffers, but paused suddenly on the very point of using
them, cr.l looked attentively at the candle then back, over his
should e:, at the curtained bed then again at the candle. It had
been lighted for the first time to show him the way up-stairs, and
three parts of it, at least, were already consumed. In another
hour it would be burned out. In another hour, unless he called
at once to the man who had shut up the inn for a fresh candle,
be would be left in the dark.
Til E QUEEN OF
Strongly as his mind had boon affected since ho had entered
the room, his unreasonable dread of encountering ridicule and
of exposing his courage to suspicion had not altogether lost its
influence over him even yet.
He lingered irresolutely by the table, waiting till he could
iil on himself to open the door, and call from the landing,
to the man who had shut up the inn. In his present h< -.-it a ting
frame of mind, it was a kind of relief to gain a few mon
only by engaging in the trifling occupation of snuffing the
candle. His hand trembled a little, and the snuffers were heavy
and awkward to use. When he closed them on the wick, he
closed them a hairs breadth too low. In an instant the candle
was out, and the room was plunged in pitch darkness.
The one impression which the absence of light immediately
produced on his mind was distrust of the curtained bed distrust
which shaped itself into no distinct idea, but which was powerful
enough, in its very vagueness, to bind him down to his chair, to
make his heart beat fast, and to set him listening intently. No
sound stirred in the room, but the familiar sound of the rain
against the window, louder and sharper now than he had heard
it yet.
Still the vague distrust, the inexpressible dread possessed him,
and kept him in his chair. He had put his carpet-bag on the
table when he first entered the room, and he now took the key
from his pocket, reached out his hand softly, opened the bag,
and groped in it for his traveling writing-case, in which he knew
that tin -re was a small store of matches. When he had got one of
the matches, he waited before he struck it on the coarse wooden
table, and listened intently again without knowing why. Still
there was no sound in the room but the steady, ceaseless rattling
sound ot the rain.
He lighted the candle again without another moment of delay,
and, on the instant of its burning up, the first object in the room
that his eyes sought for was the curtained bed.
Just before the light had been put out he had looked in that
direction, and had seen no change, no disarrangement of any
sort in the folds of the closely- drawn curtains.
When he looked at the bed now, he saw hanging over the side
of it a long white hand.
It lay perfectly motionless midway on the side of the bed,
where the enrtain at the head and the curtain at the foot
Nothing more was visible. The clinging curtains hid i '
thing but the long white hand.
He stood looking at it, unable to stir, unable to call out feel-
ing nothing, knowing nothim lie posst
gathered up and lost in the one seeing faculty. How long that
[rank- held him he never could tell afterward. It might
have been 01 dy for a moment it mi^ht have been for many
minutes together. Ho\v he got to ; whether he nr
it ht . or whether he approached it slowly how he
wrought himself up to unclose the curtains and look m, he never
has remembered, and never will remember to his dying day. It
136 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
is enough that he did go to the bed, and that he did look inside
the curtains.
The man had moved. One of his arms was outside the clothes;
his face was turned a little on the pillow; his eye-lids were wide
open. Changed as to position and as to one of the features, the
face was otherwise fearfully and wonderfully unaltered. The
dead paleness and the dead quiet were on it still.
One glance showed Arthur this one glance before he flew
breathlessly to the door and alarmed the house.
The man whom the landlord called " Ben " was the first to ap-
pear on the stairs. In three words Arthur told him what had
happened, and sent him for the nearest doctor.
I, who tell yon this story, was then staying with a medical
friend of mine, in practice at Doncaster, taking care of his
patients for him during absence in London; and I, for the time
being, was the nearest doctor. They had sent for me from the
inn when the stranger was taken ill in the afternoon, but I was
not at home, and medical assistance was sought for elsewhere.
When the man from the Two Robins rang the night-bell, I was
just thinking of going to bed. Naturally enough, I did not
believe a word of his story about " a dead man who had come
to life again." However, I put on my hat, armed myself with
one or two bottles of restorative medicine, and ran to -the inn,
expecting to find nothing more remarkable, when I got there,
than a patient in a fit.
My surprise at finding that the man had spoken the literal
truth was almost, if not quite, equaled by my astonishment at
finding myself face to face with Arthur Holliday as soon as I
entered the bedroom. It was no time then for giving or seeking
explanations. We just shook hands amazedly, and then I
ordered everybody but Arthur out of the room, and hurried to
the man on the bed.
The kitchen fire had not been long out. There was plenty of
hot water in the boiler, and plenty of flannel to be had. With
these, with my medicines, and with such help as Arthur could
render under my direction, I dragged the man literally out of
the jaws of death. In less than an hour from the time when I
had been called in, he was alive, and talking in the bed on which
he had been laid out to wait for the coroner's inquest.
You will naturally ask me what had been the matter with
him, aud I might treat you, in reply, to a long theory, plentifully
sprinkled with what the children call hard words. I prefer tell-
ing you that, in this case, cause and effect could not be satisfac-
torily joined together by any theory whatever. There are mys-
teries in life and the conditions of it which human science has
not fathomed yet; and I candidly confess to you that, in bring-
ing that man back to existence, I was, morally speaking, groping
haphazard in the dark. I know (from the testimony of the doc-
tor who attended him in the afternoon) that the vital machinery,
so far as its action is appreciable by our senses, had, in this case,
unquestionably stopped, and I am equally certain (seeing that I
recovered him) that the vital principle was not extinct. When I
add that fee had suffered from a long and complicated illness,
Til 137
and that his whole nerv utterly deranged. I have
told you all [ really know of the physical condition of my dead-
patient at the T\vo Ivobins Inn.
When ! 3 tlu- phrase goes, he was a startling oh-
to look at, with his colorless fare, hi- sunken ol
wild bla< . and his long black hair. The first (pi
I me about himself when he could speak made in
that I had been called in to a man in my own prole ion. I
mentioned to him my surmise, and he told me that I \\
He said he had come last from Paris, where he had
tached to a hospital; that he had lately returned to Kn^land, on
his way to Edinburgh, to continue his studies; that he had been
taken ill on the journey; and that he had stopped to rest and re-
cover himself at Doncaster. He did not add a word about his
name, or who he was, and of course I did not question him on
the subject. All I inquired when he ceased speaking was what
branch of the profession he intended to follow.
" Any branch," he said, bitterly, "which will put bread into
the mouth of a poor man."
At this, Arthur, who had been hitherto watching him in si-
lent curiosity, burst out impetuously in his usual good-humored
way:
"My dear fellow " (every body was " my dear fellow" with
Arthur), " now you have come to life again, don't begin by
being downhearted about your prospects. I'll answer for it I
can help you to some capital thing in the medical line, or if I
can't, I know my father can/'
The medical student looked at him steadily.
"Thank you," he said coldly; then added, " May I ask who
your father is ?"
ri He's well enough known all about this part of the country."
renlied Arthur. " He is a great manufacturer, and his na:
llolliday."
My hand was on the man's wrist during this brief convt
lion. The instant the name of Holliday was pronounced I felt
the pulse under my fingers flutter, stop, go on suddenly with a
bound, and b- at afterward for a minute or two at the fever rate.
11 How did you come here?" asked the stranger, quickly,
citably. passionately almost.
Arthur related briefly what had happened from the time of
his first taking the bed ;it the inn.
" I am indebted to Mr. Holliday's son, then, for the help rhat
i my lit- I the medical student, sp.-.-ikin.i;- to him-
self, with a singulai M in his voice. "Tom
He held out. as lie spoke, his I.-n^. white. l>ony right hand.
" With all iny heart," said Arthur, taking his hand cordially.
"I may confess it now." lie continued, lau^hini;. "upon my
honor, you almost frightened me out of my \\
mger did not seem to listen. Hiswild
with a look of eager interest on Arthur long
lit hold on Arthur's hand. Young I loll-
on his side, returned the gaze, amazed and puzzled by the n
cal student's odd language and manners. The two faces were
138 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
close together: I looked at them, and, to my amazement, I was
suddenly impressed by the sense of a likeness between them
not in features or complexion, but solely in expression. It must
have been a strong likeness, or I should certainly not have found
it out, for I am naturally slow in detecting resemblances be-
tween faces.
" You have saved my life," said the strange man, still looking
hard in Arthur's face, still holding tightly by his hand. "If
you had been my own brother, you could not have done more for
me than that."
He laid a singularly strong emphasis on those three words,
" my own brother," and a change passed over his face as he pro-
nounced them a change that no language of mine is competent
to describe.
"I hope I have not done being of service to you yet," said Ar-
thur. " I'll speak to my father as soon as I get home."
" You seem to be fond and proud of your father," said the
medical student. " I suppose, in return, he is fond and proud of
you ?"
"Of course he is," answered Arthur, laughing. "Is there
anything wonderful in that ? Isn't your father fond "
The stranger suddenly dropped young Holliday's hand and
turned his face away.
" I beg your pardon," said Arthur. " I hope I have not unin-
tentionally pained you. I hope you have not lost your father?"
" I can't well lose what I have never had," retorted the medi-
cal student, with a harsh, mocking laugh.
" What you have never had!"
The strange man suddenly caught Arthur's hand again, sud-
denly looked once more hard in his face.
" Yes," he said, with a repetition of the bitter laugh. " You
have brought a poor devil back into the world who has no busi-
ness there. Do I astonish you ? Well, I have a fancy of my
own for telling you what men in my situation generally keep a
secret. I have no name and no father. The merciful law of
society tells me I am nobody's son! Ask your father if he will
be my father too, and help me on in life with the family name."
Arthur looked at me more puzzled than ever.
I signed to him to say nothing, and then laid my fingers again
on the man's wrist. No, in spite of the extraordinary speech
that he had just made, he was not, as I had been disposed to
suspect, beginning to get light-headed. His pulse, by this time,
had fallen back to a quiet, slow beat, and his skin was moist ami
cool. Not a symptom of fever or agitation about him.
Finding that neither of us answered him, he turned to me, and
began talking of the extraordinary nature of his case, and ask-
ing my advice about the future course of medical treatment to
which he ought to subject himself. I said the matter required
careful thinking over, and suggested that I should send him a
prescription a little later. He told me to write it at once, as he
would most likely be leaving Doncaster in the morning before I
was up. It was quite useless to represent to him the folly and
danger of such a proceeding as this. He heard me politely and
V OF III 130
ntly, but hold to li ition. without offering an
xplanation, and repeated to me that, if 1 u
liim a chance nf seeing my prescription, I must write it at
Hearing this, Arthur volunteered the loan of a travel!
which he said he had with him, and bringing it to the
-hook the note paj>er out of the pocket of the case forth with
in his usual way. With the paper there fell out on the
counterpane of the hed a small packet of sticking-plaster, and a
little water color drawing of a landscape.
The medical student took up the drawing and looked at it.
< II on some initials neatly written in cipher in one
ner. He started and trembled; his pale face grew whiter than
ever; his wild black eyes turned on Arthur, and looked through
and through him.
"A pretty drawing," he said, in a remarkably quiet tone of
voice.
''Ah! and done by such a pretty girl," said Arthur. "Oh,
such a pretty girl! I wish it was not a landscape I wish it was
a portrait of her!"
" You admire her very much?"
Arthur, half in jest, half in earnest, kissed his hand for an-
swer.
" Love at first sight," said young Holliday, putting the draw-
ing away again. " But the course of it doesn't run smooth.
It's the old story. She's monopolized, as usual; trammeled by a
rash engagement to some poor man who is never likely t
money enough to marry her. It was lucky I heard of it in tiuip.
or I should certainly have risked a declaration when she gave me
that drawing. Here, doctor, here is pen, ink, and paper all
ready for you."
" When she gave you that drawing? Gave it? gave it ?''
He repeated the words slowly to himself, and suddenly ci
his eyes. A momentary distortion passed across his face, and I
saw one of his hands clutch up the bedclothes and squeeze them
hard. I thought he was going to be ill again, and pegged that
there might be no more talking. He opened his eyes when (
spoke, fixed them once more searclungly on Arthur, and said,
slowly and distinctly:
"You like her, and she likes you. The poor man may die out
of your way. Who can tell that she may not give you he:
as well as her drawing after all?"
Before young Holliday could answer, he turned to me.
said in a whisper. "Now for the prescription." From that t
though he spoke to Arthur again, he never looked at him n
When I had written the prescription, he examined it, :i ;
of it. and then astonished us both by abruptly wisl, good-
night. I offered to sir up with him. and lie shook 1;
Arthur offered to sit up with him. and he said, shortly, with his
face turned away. " No." I insisted on having - iv left to
h him. He gave way when he found I was detenu
and said he would accept the services of the waiter at the inn.
nank you both," he said, as w. i go. " I have one
last favor to ask not of you, doctor, for 1 1. u to exercise
140 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
your professional discretion, but of Mr. Holliday." His eyes,
while he spoke, still rested steadily on me. and never once
turned toward Arthur. " I beg that Mr. Holliday will not men-
tion to any one, least of all to his father, the events that have
occurred and the words that have passed in this room. I en-
treat him to bury me in his memory as, but for him, I might
have been buried in my grave. I cannot give my reasons for
making this strange request. I can only implore him to
grant it."
His voice faltered for the first time, and he hid his face on the
pillow. Arthur, completely bewildered, gave the required
pledge. I took young Holliday away with me immediately
afterward to the house of my friend, determining to go back to
the inn and to see the medical student again before he left in the
morning.
I returned to the inn at eight o'clock, purposely abstaining
from waking Arthur, who was sleeping off the past night's ex-
citement on one of my friend's sofas. A suspicion had occurred
to me, as soon as I was alone in my bedroom, which made me
resolve that Holliday and the stranger whose life he had saved
should not meet again, if I could prevent it.
I have already alluded to certain reports or scandals which I
knew of relating to the early life of Arthur's father. While I
was thinking, in my bed, of what had passed at the inn; of the
change in the student's pulse when he heard the name of Holli-
day; of the resemblance of expression that I had discovered be-
tween his face and Arthur's; of the emphasis he had laid on those
three words, " my own brother;" and his incomprehensible ac-
knowledgment of his own illegitimacy while I was thinking of
these things, the reports I have mentioned suddenly flew into
my mind, and linked themselves fast to the chain of my pre-
vious reflections. Something within me whispered, "It is best
that those two young men should not meet again." I felt it be-
fore I slept; I felt it when I woke; and I went, as I told you,
alone to the inn the next morning.
I had missed my only opportunity of [seeing my nameless pa-
tient again. He had been gone nearly an hour when I inquired
for him.
I have now told you everything that I know for certain in re-
lation to the man whom I brought back to life in the double-
bedded room of the inn at Doncaster. What I have next to add
is matter for inference and surmise, and is not, strictly speaking,
matter of fact.
1 have to tell you, first, that the medical student turned out to
be strangely and unaccountably right in assuming it as more
than probabie that Arthur Holliday would marry the young
lady who had given him the water-color drawing of the land-
scape. That marriage took place a little more than a year after
the events occurred which I have just been relating.
The young couple came to live in the neighborhood in which
I was then established in practice. I was present at the wed-
ding, and was rather surprised to find that Arthur was singu-
larly reserved with me, both before and after his marriage, on
THE QUEEN OF HEARTH, 141
ct of the young lady's prior ei: nt. He onl
I to it c .-realou y tolling UK-, on that
occasion, that his wife had done all that honor and duty required
of her in the matter, and that the engagement had been broken
off with the full approval of her parents. I never heard more
from him than this. For three years lie and his wife lived to
gether happily. At the expiration of that time the symptoms
of a serious ilh,< ieelared themselves in Mrs. Arthur Hol-
. It turned out to be a long, lingering, hopeless malady.
I attended her throughout. We had been great friends when
she was well, and we heeame more attached to each other than
fever when she was ill. I had many long and interesting con-
versations with her in the intervals when she suffered least.
The result of one of those conversations 1 ma} briefly relate,
leaving you to draw any inferences from it that you please.
The interview to which I refer occurred shortly before her
death.
I called one evening as usual, and found her alone, with
a look in her eyes which told me she had been crying. She
only informed me at first that she had been depressed in
spirits, but by little and little she became more communica-
tive, and confessed to me that she had been looking over some
old letters which had been addressed to her before she had seen
Arthur, by a man to whom she had been engaged to be married.
I asked her how the engagement came to be broken off. She
replied that it had not been broken off, but that it had died out
in a very mysterious manner. The person to whom she was en-
gaged her first love she called him was very poor, and there
was no immediate prospect of their being married. He followed
my profession, and went abroad to study. They had corre-
sponded regularly until the time when, as she believed, he had
returned to England. From that period she heard no more of
him. He was of a fretful sensitive temperament, and she feared
that she might have inadvertently done or said something to
offend him. However that might be, he had never written to
her again, and after waiting a year she had married Arthur. I
asked when the first estrangement had begun, and found that
the time at which she ceased to hear anything of her first lover
exactly corresponded with the time at which I had been called
in to my mysterious patient at the Two Robins Inn.
A fortnight after that conversation she died. In cours
time Arthur married again. Of late years he has principally
lived in London, and I have seen little or nothing of him.
I have some years to pass over before I can approach anything
like a conclusion of this fragmentary narrative. And even when
that later period is reached, the little that I hav will not
occu; y your attention for more than a few minutes.
One rainy autumn evening, while I was still practicing as a
country doctor, I was sitting alone, thinking over a ease then
under my charge, \\hi<-h .-orely perplexed me, when 1 heard a
knock at the door of my room.
" Come in," I cried, looking up curiously to see who wanted
me.
142 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
After a niomentary delay, the lock moved, and a long, white 1 ,
bony hand stole around the door as it opened, gently pushing it
over a fold in the carpet which hindered it from working freely
on the hinges. The hand was followed by a man whose face in-
stantly struck me with a very strange sensation. There was
something familiar to me in ,h. look of him, and yet it was also
something that suggested the idea of change.
He quietly introduced hims If as " Mr. Lam," presented to me
some excellent professional recommendations, and proposed to
fill the place, then vacant, of my assistant. While he was
speaking I noticed it as singular that we did not appear to be
meeting each other like strangers, and that, while I was cer-
tainly startled at seeing him, he did not appear to be at all
startled at seeing me.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I thought I had
met with him before. But there was something in his face, and
something in my own recollections I can hardly say what
which unaccountably restrained me from speaking, and which
as unaccountably attracted me to him at once, and made me
feel ready and glad to accept his proposal.
He took his assistant's place on tha, very day. We got on to-
gether as if we had been old friends from the first; but, through-
out the whole tim of his residence in my house, he never volun-
teered any confidences on the subject of his past life, and I
never approached the forbidden topic except by hints, which he
resolutely refused to understand.
I had long had a notion that my patient at the inn might have
been a natural son of the elder Mr. Holliday's, and that he might
also have been the man who was engaged to Arthur's first wife.
And now another idea occurred to me, that Mr. Lar- wat, the
only per- on in existence who could, if he chose, enlighten me
on both those doubtful points. But he never did choose, and I
was never enlightened. He remained with me till I removed to
London to try my fortune there as a physician for the second
tune, and then he went his way and I went mine, and we have
never seen one another since.
I can add no more. I may have been right in my suspicion,
or I may have been wrong. All I know is that, in those day of
my country practice, when I came home late, and found my as-
sistant asleep, and woke him, he used to look, in coming to,
wonderfully like the stranger at Doncaster as he raised himself
in the bed on that memorable night.
THE SIXTH DAY.
AN oppressively mild temperature, and steady, soft, settled
rain dismal weather for idle people in the country. Miss
Jessie, after looking longingly out of the window, resigned her-
self to circumstances, and gave up all hope of a ride. The gar-
dener, the conservatory, the rabbits, the raven, the housekeeper,
and, as a last resource, even the neglected piano, were all laid
under contribution to help her through the time. It was a long
THE QVE1-:X OF 111 148
day, but, thanks to her own talent for trilling, t lived to
occupy it pleasantly enough.
Still no news of my sou. The time was getting on now, and
:;s surely not unreasonable to look for some tidings of him.
To-day i and I both finished our third and
I corrected my brother's contribution with no very great diffi-
culty on, this occasion, and numbered it Nine. My own story
came next, and was thus accidentally distinguished as the
Number Ten. When I dropped the two corre-
sponding cards into the bowl, the thought that there would be
no more to add seemed to quicken my prevailing sense of
anxiety on the subject of George's return. A heary depre
hung upon my spirits, and I went out desperately in the rain to
shake my mind free of oppressing influences by dint of hard
bodily exercise.
The number drawn this evening was Three. On the produc-
tion of the corresponding manuscript, it proved to be my turn to
read again.
" I can promise you a little variety to-night," I said, address-
ing our fair guest, " if I can promise nothing else. This time it
is not a story of my own writing that I am about to read, but a
of a very curious correspondence which I found among my
professional papers."
Jessie's* countenance fell. "Is there no story in it?" she
asked, rather discontentedly.
"Certainly there is a story in it," I replied "a story of a
much lighter kind than any we have yet read, and which may,
on that account, prove acceptable, by way of contrast and re-
lief, even if it fails to attract you by other means. I obtained
the original correspondence, I must tell you, from the office of
the Detective Police of London."
^ie's face brightened. " That promises something to begin
with.'' she said.
onie years since," I continued, "there was a desire at
! to increase the numbers and etliciency or' the De-
tective Police, and I had the honor of being one of the persons
privately consulted on that occasion. The chief obstacle to the
plan proposed lay in the difficulty of finding new recruits. The
ordinary rank and file of the police of London are sober, trust-
iiy, and courageous men, but as;i l.ody they are sadly want-
ing in intelligence. Knowing this, the authorities took int<
^deration a M-hrine. which looked plausible enough on p
i hemselves of the service of that p: My sharp
class of men, the experienced clerks in attorney 3 otii :nong
the persons whoso ud\ic<- was sought on tins point, 1 was the
only one who dissented from tl 1. I felt
.in that the really expei i ierk, hit rush d with conduct-
ing private investigations and hunting idence,
too well paid and too independently in their various
offices to care about entering the t the Detective Police,
and submitting themselves to the rigid discipline of Scotland
Yard, and I ventured to predict that the inferior clerks only,
whose discretion was not to be trusted, would prove to be the
144 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
men who volunteered for detective employment. My advice was
not taken, and the experiment of enlisting the clerks was tried
in two or three cases. I was naturally interested in the result,
and in due course of time I applied for information in the right
quarter. In reply, the originals of the letters of which I am
now about to read the copies were sent to me, with an intimation
that the correspondence in this particular instance offered a fair
specimen of the results of the experiment in the other cases.
The letters amused me, and I obtained permission to copy them
before I sent them back. You will now hear, therefore, by his
own statement, how a certain attorney's clerk succeeded in con-
ducting a very delicate investigation, and how the regular mem-
bers of the Detective Police contrived to help him through his
first experiment."
BROTHER GRIFFITH'S STORY OF THE BITER BIT.
Extracted from the Correspondence of the London Police.
FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE, OF THE DETECTIVE POLICE
TO SERGEANT BULMER, OF THE SAME FORCE.
LONDON, 4th July, 18.
SERGEANT BULMER, This is to inform you that you are wanted
to assist in looking up a case of importance, which will require
all the attention of an experienced member of the force. The
matter of the robbery on which you are no\v engaged you will
please to shift over to the young man who brings you this letter.
You will tell him all the circumstances of the case, just as they
stand; you will put him up to the progress you have made (if
any) toward detecting the person or persons by whom the money
has been stolen; and you will leave him to make the beet be can
of the matter now in your hands. He is to have the whole re-
sponsibility of the case, and the whole credit of his success if he
brings it to a proper issue.
So much for the orders that I am desired to communicate to
you.
A word in your ear next, about this new man who is to take
your place. His name is Matthew Sharpin and he is to have the
chance given him of dashing into our office at one jump sup-
posing he turns out str ng enough to take it. You will naturally
ask me how he comes by this privilege. I can only tell you that
he has some uncommonly strong interest to back him in certain
high quarters, which you and I had better not mention except
under our breaths. He has been a lawyer's clerk, and he is
wonderfully conceited in his opinion of himself, as well as mean
and underhand to look at. According to his own account, he
leaves his old trade and joins ours of his own free will and pref-
erence. You will no more believe that than I do. My notion is,
that he has managed to ferret out some private information in
connection with the affairs of one of his master's clients, which
makes him rather an awkward customer to keep in the office for
the future, and which, at the same time, gives him hold enough
over his employer to make it dangerous to drive him into a cor
THE V OF 145
v turning him away. I think the giving him this unl
of chance among us is. in plain words, pretty much like giving
him hush-money to keep him quiet. However that may be, Mr.
Alatthew Sharpin is to have the case now in your hands, and if
ds with it lie pokes his ugly nose into our office as sure
I put \o;i up to this, sergeant, so that you may not
ntand in your own light by giving the new man any cause to
i plain" of you at h. Mil-quarters, and remain yours,
FRANCIS THEAKSTONE.
FROM MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.
LONDON, 5th July, 18 .
DEAR SIR, Having now been favored with the necessary in-
i ions from Sergeant Bulmer, i beg to remind you of certain
dir ''-lions which I have received relating to the report of my
future proceeding which I am to prepare for examination at
headquarters.
The object of my writing, and of your examining what I have
written before you send it to the higher authorities, is, I am in-
formed, to give me, as an untried hand, the benefit of your ad-
vice in case I want it (which I venture to think I shall not) at
any stage of my proceedings. As the extraordinary circum-
es of the case on which I am now engaged make it impos-
sible for me to absent myself from the place where the robbery
was committed until I have made some progress toward dis-
covering the thief, I am necessarily precluded from consulting
you personally. Hence the necessity of my writing down the
various details, which might, perhaps, be better communicated
ord of mouth. This, if I am not mistaken, is the position
in which we are now placed. I state my own impressions on
the subject in writing, in order that we may clearly understand
each otner at the outset; and I have the honor to remain your
obedient servant, MATTHEW SHARPI
FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE TO MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN.
LONDON, 5th July, 18.
SIR, You have begun by wasting time, ink, and paper. We
both of us perfectly well knew the position we stood in toward
each other when I sent you with my letter to Sergeant Bulmer.
There was not the least need to repeat it in writing. Be so good
as to employ your pen in future on the business actually in
hand.
You have now three separate matters on which to write me.
First, you have to draw up a statement of your instruct ion -
ceived from Sergeant Bulmer, in order to show us that nothing
has escaped your memory, and that
quainted with all the circumstances of the case which 1
intrusted to you. Secondly, you are to inform me what
you propose to do. Thirdly, you are to report every inch of
your progress (if you make any) from < i ay, and, if
be, from hour to hour as well. This is //<"/ duty. As to what
my duty may l>e, when I want you to remind me of it, I will
write and tell you so. In meantime, I remain, yours,
FRANCIS THEAKSTONE.
146 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
FROM ME. MATTHEW SHARPIN TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.
LONDON, 6th July, 18.
SIR, You are rather an elderly person, and, as such, naturally
inclined to be a little jealous of men like me, who are in tbe
prime of their lives and their faculties. Under these circum-
stances, it is my duty to be considerate toward you, and not to
bear too hardly on your small failings. I decline, therefore,
altogether to take offense at the tone of your letter; I give you
the full benefit of the natural generosity of my nature; I sponge
the very existence of your surly communication out of my
memory in short, Chief Inspector Theakstone, I forgive you,
and proceed to business.
My first duty is to draw up a full statement of the instructions
I have received from Sergeant Bulmer. Here they are at your
service, according to my version of them.
At number 13 Rutherford Street, Soho, there is a stationer's
shop. It is kept by one Mr. Yatman. He is a married man, but
has no family. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Yatman, the other inmates
in the house are a lodger, a young single man named Jay, who
occupies the front room on the second floor a shopman, who
sleeps in one of the attics, and a servant-of-all-work, whose bed
is in the back kitchen. Once a week a char-woman comes to
help this servant. These are all the persons who, on ordinary
occasions, have means of access to the interior of the house,
placed, as a mutter of course, at their disposal.
Mr. Yatman has been in business for many years, carrying on
his affairs prosperously enough to realize a handsome independ-
ence for a person in his position. Unfortunately for himself,
he endeavored to increase the amount of his property by specu-
lating. He ventured boldly in his investments; luck went
against him; and rather less than two years ago he found him-
self a poor man again. All that was saved out of the wreck of
his property was the sum of two hundred pounds.
Although Mr. Yatman did his best to meet his altered circum-
stances, by giving up many of the luxuries and comforts to which
he and his wife had been accustomed, he found it impossible to
retrench so far as to allow of putting by any money from the in-
come produced by his shop. The business has been declining of
late years, the cheap advertising stationers having done it injury
with the public. Consequently, up to the last week, the only
surplus property possessed by Mr. Yatman consisted of the two
hundred pounds which had been recovered from the wreck of
his fortune. This sum was placed as a deposit in a joint-stock
bank of the highest possible character.
Eight days ago Mr. Yatman and his lodger, Mr. Jay, held a
conversation on the subject of the commercial difficulties which
are hampering trade in all directions at the present time. Mr.
Jay (who lives by supplying the newspapers with short para-
graphs relating to accidents, offenses, and brief records of re-
markable occurrences in general who is, in short, what they
call a penny-a-liner) told his landlord that he had been in the
city that clay and heard unfavorable rumors on the subject of the
THE QV '/'' HI-: ARTS. 147
joint-stock banks. The rumors to which he alluded had all-
ot' Mr. Yatman from other quarters, and the
continuation of them by his lodger had such an effect on his
mind predisposed as it was to alarm by the experience of his
former lo-^.-s that he resolved to go at once to the hank and
withdraw his deposit. It was then getting on toward the end of
the afternoon, and lie arrived just in time to receive his money
before the hank closed.
He received the deposit in bank-notes of the following
amounts: one fifty-pound note, three twenty-pound note-
ten-pound notes, and six five-pound notes. His object in draw-
ing the money in this form was to have it ready to lay out imme-
diately in trifling loans, on good security, among the small
trades-people of his district, some of whom are sorely pressed
for the very means of existence at the present time. Invest-
ments of this kind seemed to Mr. Yatman to be the most safe
and the most profitable on which he could now venture.
He brought the money back in an envelope placed in his
breast pocket, and asked his shopman, on getting home, to look
for a small, flat, tin cash-box, which had not been used for
years, and which, as Mr. Yatman remembered it, was exactly
of the right size to hold the bank-notes. For some time the
cash-box was searched for in vain. Mr. Yatman called to his
to know if she had any idea where it was. The question
was overheard by the servant-of -all- work, who was taking up
the tea-tray at the time, and by Mr. Jay, who was coming down-
stairs on his way out to the theater. Ultimately the cash-box
was found by the shopman. Mr. Yatman placed the bank-
notes in it, secured them by a padlock, and put the box in his
coat pocket. It stuck out of the coat pocket a very little, but
enough to be seen. Mr. Yatman remained at home, up- stairs,
all that evening. No visitors called. At eleven o'clock he went
to bed, and put the cash-box under his pillow.
When he and his wife woke the next morning the box was
gone. Payment of the notes was immediately stopped at the
Bank of England, but no news of the money has been heard of
since that time.
So far the circumstances of the case are perfectly clear. They
point unmistakably to the conclusion that the robbery must have
been committed by some person living in the house. Suspicion
falls, therefore, upon the servant-of-all-work, upon the shop-
man, and upon Mr. Jay. The two first knew that the cash-box
l>eing inquired for by their master, but did not know what
it was he wanted to put into it. They would assume, of course,
that it was money. They both had opportunities (the servant
when she took away the tea, and the shopman when he came,
after shutting up, to give the keys of the till to his master) of
ig the cash-box in Mr. Yatman's pocket, and of inferring
naturally, from its position there, that he intended to take it
into his bedroom with him at night.
Mr. Jay, on the other hand, had been told, during the after-
noon's conversation on the subject of joint-stock banks, that his
landlord had a deposit of two hundred pounds in one of them.
148 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
He also knew that Mr. Yatman left him with the intention of
drawing that money out; and he heard the inquiry for the cash-
box afterward, when he was cpming down-stairs. He must,
therefore, have inferred that the money was in the house, and
that the cash- box was the receptacle intended to contain it.
That he could have had any idea, however, of the place in which
Mr. Yatman intended to keep it for the night is impossible, see-
ing that he went out before the box was found, and did not re-
turn till his landlord was in bed. Consequently, if he committed
the robbery, he must have gone into the bedroom purely on
speculation.
Speaking of the bedroom reminds me of the necessity of
noticing the situation of it in the house, and the means that
exist of gaining easy access to it at any hour of the night.
The room in question is the back room on the first floor.
In consequence of Mrs. Yatmairs constitutional nervousness on
the subject of fire, which makes her apprehend being burned
alive in her room, in case of accident, by the hampering of the
lock if the key is turned in it, her husband has never been ac-
customed to lock the bedroom door. Both be and his wife are,
by their own admission, heavy sleepers; consequently, the risk
to be run by any evil -disposed persons wishing to plunder the
bedroom was of the most trilling kind. They could enter the
room by merely turning the handle of the door; and, if they
moved with ordinary caution, there was no fear of their waking
the sleepers inside. This fact is of importance. It strengthens
our conviction that the money must have been taken by one of
the inmates of the house, because it tends to show that the rob-
bery, in this case, might have been committed by persons not
possessed of the superior vigilance and cunning of the experi-
enced thief.
Such are the circumstances, as they were related to Sergeant
Bulmer when he was first called in to discover the guilty parties,
and, if possible, to recover the lost bank-notes. The strictest in-
quiry which he could institute failed of producing the smallest
fragment of evidence against any of the persons on whom sus-
picion naturally fell. Their language and behavior on being in-
formed of the robbery was perfectly consistent with the lan-
guage and behavior of innocent people. Sergeant Bulmer felt
from the first that this was a case for private inquiry and secret
observation. He began by recommending Mr. and Mrs. Yat-
man to affect a feeling of perfect confidence in the innocence of
the persons living under their roof, and he then opened the
campaign by employing himself in following the goings and
comings, and in discovering the friends, the habits, and the se-
crets of the maid-of-all-work.
Three days and nights of exertion on his own part, and oil
that of others who were competent to assist his investigations,
were enough to satisfy him that there was no sound cause for
suspicion against the girl.
He next practiced the same precaution in relation to the shop-
man. There was more difficulty and uncertainty in privately
clearing up this person's character without his knowledge, but
TV V OF r$. 149
'othed away with t< B success;
and. though there is not the same amount of certainty in this
case which there \\as in tho case of the girl, there is still fair
I for supposing that the shopman has had nothing to do
with the robbery of the cash-box.
As a ne< .<>M<|Utiice of these proceedings, the range of
icion no\v heroines limited to the lodger, Mr. J.
"When I presented your letter of introduction to Sergeant Bul-
lie had already made some inquiries on the subject of this
young man. The result, so far, has not been at all favorable.
Mr. Jay's habits are irregular: he frequents public houses, and
be familiarly acquainted with a great many dissolute
characters; he is in debt to most of the tradespeople whom lie
employs; he has not paid his rent to Mr. Yatman for the last
month; yesterday evening he came home excited by liquor, and
last week he was -ecu talking to a prize-lighter; in short, though
Mr. Jay does call himself a journalist, in virtue of his penny-a-
line contributions to the newspapers, he is a voung man of low
3, vulgar manners, and bad habits. Nothing has yet been
discovered in relation to him which redounds to his credit in the
smallest degree.
I have now reported, down to the very last detail, all the par-
ticulars communicated to me by Sergeant Bultner.
you will not find an omission anywhere; and I think you will
admit, though you are prejudiced against me, that a clearer
rnent of facts was never laid before you than the statement
1 have now made. My next duty is to tell you what I propose
to do now that the case is confided to my hands.
In the first place, it is clearly my business to take up the case
at the point where Sergeant Bulmer has left it. On his author-
ity, I am justified in assuming that I have no need to trouble
myself about the maid-of -all- work and the shopman. Their
char re now to be considered as cleared up. \Vhat re-
mains to be privately investigated is the question of the guilt
or innocence of Mr. Jay. Before we give up the notes for lost,
\\ e must make sure, if we can, that he knows nothing about
them.
This is the plan that I have adopted, with the full approval of
Mr. and Mrs. Yatman, for discovering whether Mr. Jay is or is
Dot the pei son who has stolen the cash-box:
I propose to-day to present m\>elf at the house in the charac-
ter of a young man who is looking for lodgings. The back
on the second floor will be shown to me as the room to let, and I
shall establish myself there to-night as a person from the
country who has come to London to look for a situation in a re-
spectable shop or ofh'ce.
By this means 1 shall be Ii\ d by
Mr. Jay. The partition between u^ is meiv lath and plaster. 1
shall make a small hole in it. near the cornice, through which I
what Mr tea in bis room, and heai 1 that
is said when any friend happens to call on him. Wherever he
is at home. I >hall lie ,,i m >t observation; whenever he
goes out, I shall be after him. By employing these means of
150 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
watching him, I believe I may look forward to the discovery of
his secret if he knows anything about the lost bank-notes as
to a dead certainty.
What you may think of my plan of observation I cannot un-
dertake to say. It appears to me to unite the invaluable merits
of boldness and simplicity. Fortified by this conviction, I close
the present communication with feelings of the most sanguine
description in regard to the future, and remain your obedient
servant, MATTHEW SHABPIN.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
7th July.
Sin, As you have not honored me with any answer to my last
communication, I assume that, in spite of your prejudice against
me, it has produced the favorable impression on your mind
which I ventured to anticipate. Gratified and encouraged be-
yond measure by the token of approval which your eloquent
silence conveys to me, I proceed to report the progress that has
been made in the course of the last twenty-four hours.
I am now comfortably established next door to Mr. Jay and I
am delighted to say that I have two holes in the partition in-
stead of one. My natural sense of humor has led me into the
pardonable extravagance of giving them both appropriate names.
One I call my peep-hole, and the other my pipe- hole. The name
of the first explains itself; tte name of the second refers to a
small tin pipe or tube inserted in the hole, and twisted so that
the mouth of it comes close to my ear while I am standing at my
post of observation. Thus, while I am looking at Mr. Jay
through my peep-hole, I can hear every word that may be spoken
in his room through my pipe-hole.
Perfect candor a virtue which I have possessed from my
childhood com pels me to acknowledge, before I go any further,
that the ingenious notion of adding a pipe-hole to my proposed
peep-hole originated with Mrs. Yatman. This lady a most in-
telligent and accomplished person, simple, and yet distinguished
in her manners, has entered into all my little plans with an en-
thusiasm and intelligence which I cannot too highly praise. Mr.
Yatman is so cast down by his loss that he is quite incapable of
affording me any assistance. Mrs. Yatman, who is evidently most
tenderly attached to him, feels her husband's sad condition of
mind even more acutely than she feels the loss of the money, and
is mainly stimulated to exertion by her desire to assist him in rais-
ing him from the miserable state of prostration into which he
has now fallen.
" The money. Mr. Sharpin," she said to me yesterday evening,
with tears in her eyes, " the money may be regained by rigid
economy and strict attention to business. It is my husband's
wretched state of mind that makes me so anxious for the dis-
covery of the thief. I may be wrong, but I felt hopeful of suc-
cess as soon as you entered the house; and I believe that, if the
wretch who robbed us is to be found, you are the man to dis-
cover him." I accepted this gratifying compliment in the spirit
Til TS. 151
in which it was oil'. red, tinnly believing ll, ill l>e found,
sooner or later, t > horoughly deserved it.
Let me urn to business that is to say, to my peep-
hole and my pipe-h-
I have i' hours of calm observation of Mr. Jay.
Though : as I understand from Mrs. Yatman. on
ordit as, he has been in-doors the whole of this day.
That is suspicions, to begin with. I have to report, further, that
hour this morning (always a bad sign in a young
il that he lost a great deal of time, after he was up,
nd complaining to himself of headache. Like other
debauched ch^ractejx. he ate little or nothing for breakfast. His
liny; was to smoke a pipe a dirty clay pipe, which
a gentleman would have been ashamed to put between his lips.
11 he had done smoking he took out pen, ink, and paper,
and sat down to write with a groan whether of remorse for
having taken the bank-notes, or of disgust at the task before
hirn, I am unable to say. After writing a few lines (too far
away from my peep-hole to give me a chance of reading over
his shoulder), he leaned back in his chair, and amused himself
by humming the tunes of popular songs. I recognized "My
Mary Anne," " Bobbin' Around," and " Old Dog Tray," among
other melodies. Whether these do or do not represent secret
signals by which he communicates with his accomplices remains
to be seen. After he had amused himself for some time by
humming, he got up and began to walk about the room, occa-
sionally stopping to add a sentence to the paper on his desk.
Before long he went to a locked cupboard and opened it. I
strained my eyes eagerly, in expectation of making a discovery.
I saw him take something carefully out of the cupboard he
turned round and it was only a pint bottle of brandy! Having
drunk some of the liquor, this extremely indolent reprobate
lay down on his bed again, and in five minutes was fast
asleep.
After hearing him snoring for at least two hours, I was recalled
to my peep-hole by a knock at his door. He jumped up and
opened it with suspicious activity.
A very small boy, with a very dirty face, walked in, said,
" Please, sir, they're waiting for you," sat down with his legs a
long way from the ground, and instantly fell asleep! Mr. Jay
swore an oath, tied a wet towel round his head, and, going back
to his pa; an to cover it with writing as fast as his ti;
could move the pen. Occasionally getting up to dip the I
tier and tie it on a-ain. lie continued at this employment for
nearly three hours; then folded up the leaves of writing, woke the
boy, and y;ave them to him, with this remarkable expression:
"Now, then, young sleepy-head, quick march! If you see the
rnor, tell him to have the money ready for me when I call
for it." The boy grinned and disappeared. I was sorely tempt-
ed to follow " sleepy-head." but. on i ft, considered it
till to keep my eye on the proeeeding of Mr. ,1,
In half an hour's time lie put on his hat and walked out. Of
course I put on my hat and walked out also. As I went down-
152 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
stairs I passed Mrs. Yatman going up. The lady had been kind
enough to undertake, by previous arrangement between us, to
search Mr. Jay's room whilo he is out of the way, and while I
1 am necessarily engaged in the pleasing duty of following him
wherever he goes. On the occasion to which I now refer, he
walked straight to the nearest tavern, and ordered a couple of
mutton-chops for his dinner. I placed myself in the next box
to him, and ordered a couple of mutton-chops for my dinner.
Before I had been in the room a minute, a young man of highly
suspicious manners and appearance, sitting at a table opposite,
took his glass of porter in his hand and joined Mr. Jay. I pre-
tended to be reading the newspaper, and listened, as in duty
bound, with all my might.
" Jack has been here inquiring after you," says the young
man.
"Did he leave any message?" asks Mr. Jay.
"Yes," says the other. "He told me, if I met with you, to
say that he wished very particularly to see you to-night, and
that he would give you a look in at Rutherford Street at seven
o'clock."
" All right," says Mr. Jay. " I'll get back in time to see him."
Upon this, the suspicious-looking young man finished his por-
ter, and saying that he was rather in a harry, took leave of his
friend (perhaps I should not be wrong if I said his accomplice ?),
and left the room.
At twenty-five minutes and a half past six in these serious
cases it is important to be particular about time Mr. Jay fin-
ished his chops and paid his bill. At twenty-six minutes and
three-quarters I finished my chops and paid mine. In ten min-
utes more I was inside the house in Rutherford Street, and was
received by Mrs. Yatman in the passage. That charming
woman's face exhibited an expression of melancholy and disap-
pointment which it quite grieved me to see.
" I am afraid, ma'am," says I, ." that you have not hit on any
little criminating discovery in the lodger's room?"
She shook her head and sighed. It was a soft, languid, flut-
tering sigh and, upon my life, it quite upset me. For the
moment I forgot business, and burned with envy of Mr. Yat-
man.
" Don't despair, ma'am," I said, with an insinuating mildness
which seemed to touch her. "I have heard a mysterious con-
versation I know of a guilty appointment and I expect great
things from my peep-hole and my pipe-hole to-night. Pray clpn't
be alarmed, but I think we are on the brink of a discovery."
Here my enthusiastic devotion to business got the better part of
my tender feelings. I looked winked nodded left her.
When I got back to my observatory, I found Mr. Jay digesting
his mutton-chops, in an arm-chair, with his pipe in his mouth.
On his table were two tumblers, a jug of water, and the pint-bot-
tle of brandy. It was then close upon seven o'clock. As the hour
struck the person described as "Jack " walked in.
He looked agitated I am happy to say he looked violently
agitated. The cheerful glow of anticipated success diffused it-
THE Ql'i '/' I!F..\kTS.
self (to u so a strong expression) all < from head to foot.
h my p 'I saw
the v I he '* Jack* 1 of this delightful ca lo\vn,f;
it the <>: ide <>f tin- table to Mr. Jay. Making allow-
t'or the difference in ea n which their countenances
sow happened to exhibit, t hose two abandoned villains were
iso much alike in other respects as to lead at once to the conclu-
sion that they were brothers. Jack \v;is the cleaner man and
the better dressed of the two. I admit that at the outset,
perhaps, one of my failures to push justice and impartial!
their utmost limits. I am no Pharisee, and where Vice h.
ming point, I say, let Vice have its due yes, yes, by all
manner of means, let Vice have its due.
"What's the matter now. Jack?" says Mr. Jay.
m't you see it in my face?" says Jack. " My dear fellow,
delays are dangerous. Let us have done with suspense, and risk
it the day after to-morrow."
''So soon as that,'' cries Mr. Jay, looking very much aston-
ished. " Well. I'm ready, if you are. But. I say. Jack, is some-
body else ready too? Are you quite sure of th.
He smiled as he spoke a frightful smile and laid a very
strong emphasis on those two words, " Somebody else." There
is evidently a third ruffian, a nameless desperado, concerned in
the business.
"Meet us to-morrow," gays Jack, "and judge for yourself.
Be in the Regent's Park at eleven in the morn in <r. and look out
for us at the turning that leads to the Avenue Road.''
il be there." says Mr. Jay. " Have a drop of brandy and
water? What are vou getting up for? You're not going al-
read
** Yes, I am," says Jack. " The fact is, I'm so excited and
tated that I can't sit still anywhere for live minutes together.
Ridiculous as it may appear to you. I'm in a perpetual state of
>us flutter. I can't, for the life of me, help fearing that we
shall be found out. I fancy that every man who looks twice at
me in the street is a spy ''
At thse words I thought my legs would have given way under
me. Nothing but strength of mind kept me at my peep-hole
nothing else, I give you my word of honor.
-tuff and nonsense!" cries Mr. Jay, with all the effront* ry
of a veteran in crime. "We have kept the secret up to this
and we will manage cleverly to the end. Have a
of brandy and water, and vou will feel as certain aUuit it as
1 d<
Jack steadily refused the brandy and water, and stead il\
"d in taking his l.-ave.
" I must try if I can't walk it off," he said. " Remember
morrow morning eleven o'clock, Avenue Ro: the
Regent's Park."
With those, words he went out. Hi-h; i\- hm
iierately and resumed the dirty day pipe.
I sat down on the side of my bed, actually quivering with ex-
citement.
154 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
It is clear to me that no attempt has yet been made to change
the stolen bank-notes, and I may add that Sergeant Bulmer was
of that opinion also when he left the case in my hands. What
is the natural conclusion to draw from the conversation which
J have just set down. Evidently that the confederates meet to-
morrow to take their respective shares in the stolen money, and
to decide on the safest means of getting the notes changed the
day after. Mr. Jay is, beyond a doubt, the leading criminal in
this business, and he will probably run the chief risk that of
changing the fifty-pound note. I shall, therefore, still make it
my business to follow him attending at the Regent's Park to-
morrow, and doing my best to hear what is said there. If an-
other appointment is made for the day after, I shall, of course,
go to it. In the meantime, I shall want the immediate assistance
of two competent persons (supposing the rascals separate after
their meeting) to follow the two minor criminals. It is only
fair to add that, if the rogues all retire together, I shall probably
keep my subordinates in reserve. Being naturally ambitious, I
desire, if possible, to have the whole credit of discovering this
robbery to myself.
8th July.
I have to acknowledge, with thanks, the speedy arrival of my
two subordinates men of very average abilities, I am afraid;
but, fortunately, I shall always be on the spot to direct them.
My first business this morning was necessarily to prevent pos-
sible mistakes by accounting to Mr. and Mrs. Yatman for the
presence of two strangers on the scene. Mr. Yatman (between
ourselves a poor feeble man) only shook his head and groaned.
Mrs. Yatman (that superior woman) favored me with a charming
look of intelligence.
" Oh. Mr. SharpinP'she said, "I am so sorry to see those two
men ! Your sending for their assistance looks as if you were
beginning to be doubtful of success."
I privately winked at her (she is very good in allowing me to
do so without taking offense), and told her, in my facetious way,
that she labored under a slight mistake.
"It is because I am sure of success, ma'am, that I send for
them. I am determined to recover the money, not for my own
sake only, but for Mr. Yatman's sake and for yours."
I laid a considerable amount of stress on those last three words.
She said, " Oh, Mr. Sharpin!" again, and blushed of a heavenly
red, and looked down at her work. I could go to the world's
end with that woman if Mr. Yatman would only die.
I sent off the two subordinates to wait until I wanted them at
the Avenue Road gate of the Regent's Park. Half an hour after-
ward I was following the same direction myself at the heels of
Mr. Jay.
The two confederates were punctual to the appointed time. I
blush to record it, but it is nevertheless necessary to state that
the third rogue the nameless desperado of my report, or, if you
prefer it, the mysterious " somebody else" of the conversation
between the two brothers is a woman! and, what is worse, a
young woman! and, what is more lamentable still, a nice look-
'VI IF, ( t )l'i
\omnn! I liavo long resisted a growing conviction that,
IB mischief in this world, an individual of the
t-x is inevitably certain to be mixed up in it. After the ex-
i norning, I can struggle against tl con-
nger. I give up the sex excepting Mrs. Yatman,
I give up the sex.
The man named "Jack" offered the woman his arm. Mr.
fd himself on the other side of her. The three then
walk slowly among the trees. I followed them at
i nee. My two subordinates, at a respectful distance
also, followed me.
It was, I deeply regret to say, impossible to get near enough
to them to overhear their conversation without running
i a risk of being discovered. I could only infer from their
mil actions that they were all three talking with extra-
ordinary earnestness on some subject which deeply inter
them. After having been engaged in this way a full quarter of
an hour, they suddenly turned round to retrace their steps. My
of mind did not forsake me in this emergency. I signed
to tne two subordinates to walk ou carelessly and pass them,
while I myself slipped dexterously behind a tree. As they came
e, I heard " Jack v address these words to Mr. Jay:
Let us say half past ten to-morrow morning. And mind you
come in a cab. We had better not risk taking one in this neigh-
borhood.''
Mr. Jay made some brief reply which I could not overhear.
walked back to the place at which they had met, shaking
hands there with an audacious cordiality which it quite sickened
o see. They then separated. I followed Mr. Jay. My sub-
ordinates paid the same delicate attention to the other two.
Instead of taking me back to Rutherford Street, Mr. Jay led
me to the Strand. lit 1 stopped at a dingy, disreputable-looking
. which, according to the inscription over the door, A\
new^pap-r olHce, but which, in my judgment, had all the ex-
ternal appearance of a place devoted to the reception of stolen
goods.
After remaining inside for a few minutes, he came out whis-
tling, with his linger and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. Some
men would now have anested him on the spot. I remembered
the necessity of catching the two confederates, and the impor-
of not ini with the appointment that had been
made f.-r the next morning. Such coolness as this, under trying
ciirumstances, is rarely to be found, I should imagine, in a
yomi tier, whose reputation as a detective policeman is
still to mal.
From the house of suspicious appearance Mr. Jay betook him-
self to a cigar-divan, and read the maga/ <>root.
i the divan he strolled to the tavern and had his chops. I
strolled to the tavern and had my chop-. When he had
he went back to his lodging. When I had done I went back to
mine. I ith drowsin- in the evening,
and went to bed. As soon as I heard him snoring, I was over-
wit h drowsiness and went to bed also.
156 THE QUEKN OF HEARTS.
Early in the morning my two subordinates came to make
their report.
They had seen the man named " Jack " leave the woman at
the gate of an apparently respectable villa residence not far from
the Regent's Park. Left to himself, he took a turning to the
right, which led to a sort of suburban street, principally inhab-
ited by shopkeepers. He stopped at the private door of one of
the houses, and let himself in with his own key looking about
him as he opened the door, and staring suspiciously at my men
as they lounged along on the opposite side of the way. These
were all the particulars which the subordinates had to commu-
nicate. 1 kept them in my room to attend on me, if needful,
and mounted to my peep-hole to have a look at Mr. Jay.
He was occupied in dressing himself, and was taking extraor-
dinary pains to destroy all traces of the natural slovenliness of
his appearance. This was precisely what I expected. A vaga-
bond like Mr. Jay knows the importance of giving himself a re-
spectable look when he is going to run the risk of changing a
stolen bank-note. At five minutes past ten o'clock he had given
the last brush to his shabby hat and the last scouring with bread-
crumb to his dirty gloves. At ten minutes past ten he was in the
street, on his way to the nearest cab-stand, and I and my subor-
dinates were close on his heels.
He took a cab, and we took a cab. I had not overheard them
appoint a place of meeting when following them in the Park on
the previous day, but I soon found that we were proceeding in
the old direction of the Avenue Road gate. The cab in which
Mr. Jay was riding turned intfo the Park slowly. We stopped
outside, to avoid exciting suspicion. I got out to follow the cab
on foot. Just as I did so, I saw it stop, and detected the two
confederates approaching it from among the trees. They got in,
and the cab was turned about directly. I ran back to my own
cab, and told the driver to let them pass him, and then to follow
as before.
The man obeyed my directions, but so clumsily as to excite
their suspicions. We had been driving after them about three
minutes (returning along the road by which we had advanced)
when I looked out of the window to see how far they might be
ahead of us. As I did this, I saw two hats popped out of the
windows of their cab, and two faces looking back at me. I sank
into my place in a cold sweat; the expression is coarse, but no
other form of words can describe my condition at that trying
moment.
"We are found out!" I said, faintly, to my two subordinates.
They stared at me in astonishment. My feelings instantly
changed from the depth of despair to the height of indignation.
"It is the cabman's fault. Get out, one of you," T said, with
dignity " get out, and punch his head."
Instead of following my directions (I should wish this act of
disobedience to be reported at head -quarters) they both looked out
of the window. Before I could pull them back they both sat
down again. Before I could express my just indignation, they
both grinned, and said to me, "Please to look out, sir!"
Til V OF HEARTS.
I did look out. Their cab had stopped.
\Vh.
At a church door!
Wl scovery might have had upon the ordinary
run of men I don't kn<>\v. Being of a strong religious turn my-
self, it filicd me with horror. I have often read of the unprin-
cipled cin.nin^ of criminal persons, but I never before heard of
three thieves attempting to double on their pursuers by entering
a church! The sacrilegious audacity of tbat proceeding
should think, unparalleled in the annals of crime.
I eheeki-I my grinning subordinates by a frown. It was
hat was passing in their superficial minds. If I had
able to look below the surface, I might, on observing
d men and one nicely- dressed woman enter a
church before eleven in the morning on a week day, have come
to the same hasty conclusion at which my inferiors had
dently arrived. As it was, appearances had no power to impose
on inc. I got out. and, followed by one of my men, entered the
church. The other man I sent round to watch the vestry door.
You ma\ i weasel asleep, but not your humble servant,
Matthew Sharpjn.
We stole up the gallerv stairs, diverged to the organ-loft, and
rjeered through the curtains in front. There they were, all three,
sitting in a pew below yes, incredible as it may appear, sitting
in a pew below.
Before I could determine what to do, a clergyman made his
i ranee in full canonicals from the vestry door, followed by
i k. My brain whirled and my eyesight grew dim. Dark
remembrances of robberies committed in vestries floated through
my mind. I trembled for the excellent man in full canonicals
I even trembled for the clerk.
The clergyman placed himself inside the altar rails. The
three desperadoes approached him. He opened his book, and
began to read. What ? you will ask.
1 answer, without the slightest hesitation, the first lines of the
Marriage Service.
My subordinate had the audacity to look at me, and then to
stuff his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth. I scorned to pay
any attention to him. After I had discovered that the mail
was the bridegroom, and that the. man J?iy acted the
ither. and gave a way the bride. 1 left the church, fol-
1 by my men, and joined the other subordinate out-i:
v door. Some people in my position would now ha\<
rath' illen. and would have l>egun to think that
foolish mistake. Not the faint'
kind trouMed me. I did not feel in the >iiuhtt st de^r.
'1 in my own estimation. And e\
mv mind remains. I am happy to say, in the same
calm and hopeful condition.
it as I and my sul>onlinat' ther
Outside the church, 1 intimated my intention of still following
the other cal> in spite of \\ hat li.
riding ou this course will appear pi
^58 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
nates appeared to be astonished at my resolution/ One of them
had the impertinence to say to mo:
" If you please, sir, who is it that we are after ? A man who
has stolen money, or a man who has stolen a wife?"
The other low person encouraged him by laughing. Both have
deserved an official reprimand, and both, I sincerely trust, will
be sure to get it.
When the marriage ceremony was over, the three got into
their cab, and once more our vehicle (neatly hidden round the
corner of the church, so that they could not suspect it to be near
them) started to follow theirs.
We traced them to the terminus of the Southwestern Railway.
The newly-married couple took tickets for Richmond, paying
their fare with a half-sovereign, and so depriving me of the
pleasure of arresting them, which I should certainly have done
if they had offered a bank-note. They parted from Mr. Jay,
saying, <; Remember the address 14 Babylon Terrace. You
dine with us to-morrow week." Mr. Jay accepted the invita-
tion, and added, jocosely, that he was going home at once to get
off his clean clothes, and to be comfortable and dirty again for
the rest of the day. I have to report that I saw him home safely,
and that he is comfortable and dirty again (to use his own dis-
graceful language) at the present moment.
Here the affair rests, having by this time reached what I may
call its first stage.
I know very well what persons of hasty judgment will be
inclined to sa} 7 of my proceedings tbus far. They will assert
that 1 have been deceiving myself all through in the most ab-
surd way; they will declare that the suspicious conversations
which I have reported referred solely to the difficulties and
dangers of successfully carrying out a runaway match; and
they will appeal to the scene in the church as offering undeniable
proof of the correctness of their assertions. So let it be. I
dispute nothing up to this point. But I ask a question, out
of the depths of my own sagacity as a man of the world,
which the bitterest of my enemies will not, I think, find it
particularly easy to answer.
Granted the fact of the marriage, what proof does it afford
me of the innocence of the three persons concerned in that
clandestine "transaction? It gives me none. On the contrary,
it strengthens my suspicions against Mr. Jay and his confeder-
ates, because it suggests a distinct motive for their stealing the
money. A gentleman who is going to spend his honeymoon at
Richmond w y ants money; and a gentleman who is in debt to
all his tradespeople wants money. Is this an im justifiable im-
putation of bad motives ? In the name of outraged Morality, I
deny it. These men have combined together, and have stolen a
woman. Why should they not combine together and steal a
cash-box ? I take my stand on the logic of rigid Virtue, and I
<ici v all the sophistry of Vice to move me an inch out of my
position.
Speaking of virtue, I may add that 1 have put this view of
the case to Mr. and Mrs. Yatman. That accomplished and charm-
777 159
ing woman found it difficult follow t
I an; that shf
shed iaii'1 in pi-
<>unds. Bu! a litt!<
explanation on my p rt. am! a In tie at enti
ultimately c! :iion. She now agrees with rn
thrrc is nothing in this unexpected circums! the da:
tine mar liich al)solutely tends to divert SB
Mr. Jay, or Mr. "Jack." or the runaway lady. . \udacious
the term my fair friend used in speaking of her;
.ft that pass. It is more to the purpose to record ;
ian has not lost 'confidence in me, and that Mr. Yatman
promises to follow her example, and do his best to look hope-
fully for future results.
1 have now, in the new turn that circumstances have taken.
to await advice from your office. I pause for fresh orders with
all the composure of a man who has got two string.- to his bow.
When I traced the three confederates from the church door to
the railway terminus, I had two motives fordoing so. Fii
followed them as a matter of official bu.-< iieving them
still to have been guilty of the robbery. Secondly, I foil-
them as a matter of private speculation, with a view of disc
ing the place of refuge to which the runaway couple intend'-.!
it, and of making my information a marketable com-
modity to offer to the young lady's family and friends. Thus.
whatever happens, I may congratulate myself beforehand on not
having wa-ted my time. If the office approves of my conduct.
1 have my plan ready for further proceedings. If the otlice
Mann s me, I shall take myseli' off, with my marketable informa-
tion. to the genteel villa residence m the neighborhood of the
Park. Anyway, the affair puts money into m\
and does credit to my penetration as an uncommonly sharp
man.
L have only one more word to add, and it is this: If any indi-
vidual ventures ; ; that Mr. Jay and his con fed,
of all share in the stealing of the cash-box. I. in return.
defy that individual though he may even be Thief Insp
ne himself to tell me who lias committed the robbery
utherford street, Solio.
in that conviction, I have the honor to be your
obedient servant, MATTHEW SHARP
FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE 'I R.
BlRMIN(JH v
:GEANT BULMER. That em: led pup; Matthew
Sharpin. has made a mess of tlu ; Knth<
! Iv as 1 , i lu' would. Business keeps m- in this town.
lie matter straight. 1 inclose with this
the pages of feeble scribble-scrabble which i tun-- Sh
a report. Look them over: and \\
through all the gabble, I think you will agree with m<
but the right one. " You can lay your hand on the guill
160 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
in five minutes, now. Settle the case at once; forward your re-
port to me at this place, and tell Mr. Sharpin that he is sus-
pended till further notice.
Yours, FRANCIS THEAKSTONE.
FROM SERGEANT BULMER TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.
LONDON, July 10th.
INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE, Your letter and inclosure came safe
to hand. Wise men, they say, may always learn something
even from a fool. By the time I had got through Sharpin's
maundering report, of his own folly, I saw my way clear enough
to the end of the Rutherford Street case, just as you thought I
should. In half an hour's time I wsis at the house. The first
person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.
" Have you come to help me ?" says he.
" Not exactly," says I. " I've come to tell you that you are
suspended till further notice."
" Very good," says he, not taken down by so much as a single
peg in his own estimation. " I thought you would be jealous of
me. It's very natural; and I don't blame you. Walk in, prav,
and make yourself at home. I'm off to do a little detective busi-
ness on my own account, and in the neighborhood of the Regent's
Park. Ta-ta, sergeant, ta-ta!"
With those words he took himself out of the way, which was
exactly what I wanted him to do.
As soon as the maid -servant had shut the door, I told her to
inform her master that I wanted to say a word to him in private.
She showed me into the parlor behind the shop, and there was
Mr. Yatman all alone, reading the newspaper.
" About this matter of the robbery, sir," says I.
He cut me short, peevishly enough, being naturally a poor,
weak, womanish sort of man. "Yes, yes, I know," says he.
"You have come to tell me that your wonderfully clever man,
who has bored holes in my second-floor partition, has made a
mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel who has stolen my
money."
" Yes, sir," says I. " That is one of the things I came to tell
you. But 1 have got something else to say besides that."
" Can you tell me who the thief is ?" says he, more pettish than
ever.
" Yes, sir," says I, " I think I can."
He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious
and frightened.
" Not my shopman?" says he. "I hope, for the man's own
sake, it is not my shopman."
" Guess again, sir," says I.
"That idle slut, the maid?" says he.
" She is idle, sir," saye I, " and she is also a slut; my first in-
quiries about her proved as much as that. But she's not the
thief."
" Then, in the name of heaven, who is?" says he.
" Will you please to prepare yourself for'a very disagreeable sur-
prise, sir?" says I. "And, in case you lose your temper, will
KEN OF 161
irking tliat I am the stronger man of the,
unintentionally liurt you, in pure self-def< i
iimied and pushed his chair two QI tl
"You have asked me to tell r. who has taken, your
money," I went on. "If you insist on my giving yon an an-
"
i il, faintly. " Who has taken it?"
iir wife has taken it." I said, very quietly, and very posi*
tively at the same time.
jumped out of the chair as if I had put a knife into him,
and struck his fist on the table so heavily that the wood cracked
:n.
ir," says I. " Flying into a passion won't help you
to the truth.' 1
'It's a lie!" says he. with another smack of his fist on the
table "a base, vile, infamous lie! How dare you "
He stopped, and fell back into the chair again, looked about
him in a bewildered way, and ended by bursting out crying.
"^ r sense comes back to you, sir," says I, "I
am sure you will be gentleman enough to make an apology for
the lan.mia.ue you have just used. In the meantime, ;
i, it you can. to a word of explanation. Mr. Sharpin has
sent in a report to our inspector of the most irregular and ridicu-
lous kind, setting down not only all his own foolish doings and
sayings, hut thedoiugs nnd sayings of Mrs. Yatrnau as well. In
es, sucli a document would have been fit only for the
basket: but in this particular case it so happens that
Mr. Sharpin's budget of nonsense leads to a certain conch;
which the simpleton of a writer has been quite innocent ol
ng from the beginning to the end. Of that conclusion I am
so sure that I will forfeit my place if it does Liot turn out that
Mrs. Yatman ha- been practicing upon the folly and conceit <>f
this young man, and that she has tried to shield herself from
very by purpo-eh encouraging him to suspect the wrong
as. I tfll you that confidentially; and I will even go further.
I will undertake to give a decided opinion as to why Mrs. Yat-
man took the money, and what she has done with it, or with a
\'obody can look at that lady, sir, without being
struck by tin- great taste and beauty of her dress "
Aj9 X said those last words, the p<-or man seemed to find his
,in. He cut me short directly as haughtily
as it' he had been a duke instead of a stationer.
"Try some other means of justifying your vile calumny
against my wit'. he, " Her mi! nill for the past
is on my tile of receipted account- at this moment.''
-e me, sir,'' sa;. s I, " but that proves nothing. Milliners,
I must tell you. have a certain rascally custom which comes
within the daily experi. !)- of our ol - d lady who
wishes i( e;m keep tw.. ftCCOUnti at : IS the
iint which her husband >ees and pa the pri-
account, \\hich contains all the extravagant items, and
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS,
which the wife pays secretly, by installments, whenever she can.
According to our usual experience, these installments are mostly
squeezed out of the housekeeping money. In your case, I sus-
pect, no installments have been paid; proceedings have been
threatened; Mrs. Yatman, knowing your altered circumstances,
has felt herself driven into a corner, and she has paid her private
account out of your cash-box."
" I won't believe it," says he. " Every word you speak is an
abominable insult to me and to my wife."
" Are you man enough, sir,'' says I, taking him up short, in
order to save time and words, "to get that receipted bill you
spoke of just now off the file, and come with me at once to the
milliner's shop where Mrs. Yatman deals?"
He turned red in the face at that, got the bill directly, and
put on his hat. I took out of my pocket-book the list containing
the numbers of the lost notes, and we left the house together
immediately.
Arrived at the milliner's (one of the expensive West- end houses,
as I expected), I asked for a private interview, on important
business, with the mistress of the concern. It was not the first
time that she and I had met over the same delicate investigation.
The moment she set eyes on me she sent for her husband. I
mentioned who Mr. Yatman was, and what we wanted.
"This is strictly private?" inquires the husband. I nodded
my head.
" And confidential?" says the wife. I nodded again.
"Do you you see any objection, dear, to obliging the sergeant
with a sight of the books?" says the husband.
"None in the world, love, if you approve of it," says the wife.
All this while poor Mr. Yatman sat looking the picture of as-
tonishment and distress, quite out of place at our polite confer-
ence. The books were brought, and one minute's look at the
pages in which Mrs. Yatman's name figured was enough, and
more than enough, to prove the truth of every word that I had
spoken.
There, in one book, was the husband's account which Mr. Yat-
man had settled; and there, in the other, was the private ac-
count, crossed off also, the date of settlement being the very day
after the loss of the cash-box. This said private account
amounted to the sum of a hundred and seventy-five pounds, odd
shillings, and it extended over a period of three years. Not a
single installment had been paid on it;. Under the last line was
an entry to this effect: " Written to for the third time, June
23d." I pointed to it, and asked the milliner if that meant " last
June." Yes, it did mean last June; and she now deeply regretted
to say that it had been accompanied by a threat of legal proceed-
ings.
" I thought you gave good customers more than three years'
credit?" says I.
"The milliner looks at Mr. Yatman, and whispers to me,
" Not when a lady's husband gets into difficulties."
She pointed to the account as she spoke. The entries after
the time when Mr, Yatman's circumstances became involved
77' 103
on in li i iation, as
the entries for flic year before tlint period. If (lie lady hadeCOn-
oniiy. irrthin tainly not economized in the
Th< nothing: loft now hut to examine (1, >ook, for
Tlic money had been paid in notes tin-
and numbers of win ly tallied with tin- figures set <!
in my '
er that. T thought it best to get Mr. Yatman out of the
i-itely. He was in such a pitiable condition that I
d him liome in it. At first
and raved like a child: hut I soon quieted him; and I must add,
thut he made me a most handsome ai>< >r his
language as the cab dre\v up at his house door. In return 1 tried
in some advice about how to set matters right for the
future with his wife, lie paid very little attention to me, and
rs muttering to himself about a separation. Wheth-
er M;- iau will come cleverly -out of the scrape or not
iibtt'ul. I should say myself that she would go into
hin<;- h . and so frighten the poor man into forgiv-
ing her. But this is no business of ours. So far as we are con-
d. the case is no\v at an end, and the present report may
' to a conclusion alon<^ with it.
I remain, accordingly, yours to command,
THOMAS BULMER.
P. S. I have to add that, on leaving Rutherford Street, I met
Mr. Matthew Sharpin coming to pack up his things.
"Only think." says he, rubbing his hands in great spirits,
I ye been to the genteel villa residence, and the moment I men-
tioned my business they kicked me out directly. There were
two witnesses of the assault, and it's worth a hundred pounds
3 worth a farthii
" I wish you joy of your hick." say> I.
" Thank you. "says he. When may I pay you the same com-
plinn nt on finding the thief?''
>% \Vhen I. "for the thief is found."
"Just what t expected," says he. "I've done all the work,
and now you cut in and claim all the credit Mr. Ja\
-; I.
" Who i- It, then .-'' says he.
Vatmau. i. ''She's waiting to tell you."
11 right! I'd much rather hear it 1'rom th;: ning
an than from you." >a\s lie. ami pies into the house in a
ity hurry.
What do you think of that. Inspector Thea! Would
you like to stand in Mr. Sharpin's shoes? 1 shouldn't, I
promise ,
'RTHF.y To MR. M. \TTF1KW SUM
July IClh.
mt Bulmer has alrcad\ ti>ld you to conoid
I until further n<
164 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
add that your services as a member of the Detective Police are
positively declined. You will please to take this letter as noti-
fying officially your dismissal from the force.
I may inform you, privately, that your rejection is not in-
tended to cast any reflections on your character. It merely im-
plies that you are not quite sharp enough for our purposes. If
we are to have a new recruit among us, we should infinitely
prefer Mrs. Yatman. Your obedient servant,
FRANCIS THEAKSTONE O
NOTE ON THE PRECEDING CORRESPONDENCE, ADDED BY MR.
THEAKSTONE.
The inspector is not in a position to append any explanations
of importance to the last of the letters. It has been discovered
that Mr. Matthew Sharpin left the house in Rutherford Street
five minutes after his interview outside of it with Sergeant
Bulmer, his manner expressing the liveliest emotions of terror
and astonishment, and his left cheek displaying a bright patch
of red, which looked as if it might have been the result of what
is popularly termed a smart box on the ear. He was also heard
by the shopman at Rutherford Street to use a very shocking ex-
pression in reference to Mrs. Yatman, and was seen to clinch his
fist vindictively as he ran round the corner of the street. Noth-
ing more has been heard of him; and it is conjectured that he
has left London^ with the intention of offering his valuable serv-
ices to the provincial police.
On the interesting domestic subject of Mr. and Mrs. Yatman
still less is known. It has, however, been positively ascertained
that the medical attendant of the family was sent for in a great
hurry on the day when Mr. Yatman returned from the milli-
ner's shop. The neighboring chemist received, soon afterward,
a prescription of a soothing nature to make up for Mrs. Yatman.
The day after, Mr. Yatman purchased some smelling-salts at the
shop, and afterward appeared at the circulating library to ask
for a novel descriptive of high life that would amuse an invalid
lady. It has been inferred from these circumstances that he
has not thought it desirable to carry out his threat of separating
from his wife, at least in the present (presum condition of
that lady's sensitive nervous system.
THE SEVENTH DAY.
FINE enough for our guest to go out again. Long, feathery
lines of white cloud are waving upward in the sky, a sign of
coming wind.
There was a steamer telegraphed yesterday from the West
Indies. When the next vessel is announced from abroad, will
it be George's ship ?
I don't know how my brothers feel to-day, but the sudden ces-
sation of my own literary labors has left me still in bad spirits.
I tried to occupy my mind by reading, but my attention wan-
dered. I went out into the garden, but it looked dreary; the
THE QVi 165
autumn ftowc" i -the lawn k*-d
and sodden with in. I wandered ii
tied to his painting, but was nd \\orkr
me, with his customars as.-iduity and hi< custom
. lit.
had a long talk together alxmt George and Jessie and the
future. Owen ur^ed me to risk speaking of my son in h>
ence once more, on Hie chance of making her betray herself on
ion. and I determined to take his advice. But
h high spirits when she came home to dinner on this
Seventh Day, and seemed so incapable, for the time being, of
either feeling or speaking seriously, that I thought it \\
wait till her variable mood altered again with the next wet day.
The number drawn this evening was Eight, being the number
of the story which it had cost Owen so much labor to write. He
lookedalittle fluttered and anxious as he opened the manuscript.
This was the tirst occasion on which his ability as a narrator was
to be brought to the test, and I saw him glance nervously at
Jessie's attentive face.
"1 need not trouble you with much in the way of preface,"
he said. "This is the story of a very remarkable event in the
life of one of my brother clergymen. He and I became ac-
quainted through being associated with each other in the man-
agement of a Missionary Society. I saw him for the last time
in London when he was about to leave his country and his
friends forever, and wa then informed of the circumstances
which have afforded the material for this narrative."
BROTHER OWEN'S STORY OF THE PARSON'S SCRUPLE.
CHAPTER I.
IF you had been in the far West of Ei^gland about thir
e, and if you had happened to take up one of the l.'or-
nisli newspapers on a certain day of the month, which need not
be specially mentioned, you would have seen this notice of a
marriage at the top of a column:
On the third instant, at the parish church, the Reverend A 1-
fredrarlin^. Rector of Penliddy, to Emily I :' the
late Fergus Duncan, Esq., of Glendarn, N. B.
The rector's marriage did not produce a very favorable im-
ion in the town, solely in consequence of the unaccoun
private and unpretending manner in which th hnd
been performed. The middle-a.^ed bride and had
walked quietly to church one morning, had been married by tho
curate before any 01, it. and iiad <
diately afterward in the steamer for Ten by, win i
- their honeymoon. The 1
I'ldy, all inquiries about JUT piwioi fruitless,
and the townspeople had no alternative but ton
166 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
investigations for enlightenment when the rector and his wife
came home to settle among their friends.
After six weeks' absence Mr. and Mrs. Carling returned, and
the simple story of the rector's courtship and marriage was
gathered together in fragments, by inquisitive friends, from his
own lips and from the lips of his wife*
Mr. Carling and Mrs. Duncan had met at Torquay. The rec-
tor, who had exchanged houses and duties for the season with a
brother clergyman settled at Torquay, had called on Mrs. Dun-
can in his clerical capacity, and had come away from the inter-
view deeply impressed and interested by the widow's manner
and conversation. The visit was repeated; the acquaintance
grew into friendship, and the friendship into love ardent, de-
voted love on both sides.
Middle-aged man though he was, this was Mr. Carling's first
attachment, and it was met by the same freshness of feeling on
the lady's part. Her life with her first husband had not been a
happy one. She had made the fatal mistake of marrying to
please her parents rather than herself, and had repented it ever
afterward. On her husband's death his family had not behaved
well to her, and she had passed her widowhood, with her only
child, a daughter, in the retirement of a small Scotch town,
many miles away from the home of her married life. After a
time the little girl's health had begun to fail, and, by the doc-
tor's advice, she had migrated southward to the mild climate of
Torquay. The change had proved to beof no avail, and rather
more than a year since the child had died. The place where her
darling was buried was a sacred place to her, and she had re-
mained a resident at Torquay. Her position in the world was
now a lonely one. She was herself an only child; her father
and mother were both dead; and, excepting cousins, her one
near relation left alive was a maternal uncle living in London.
These particulars were all related simply and unaffectedly be-
fore Mr. Carling ventured on the confession of his attachment.
When he made his proposal of marriage, Mrs. Duncan received
it with an excess of agitation which astonished and almost
alarmed the inexperienced clergyman. As soon as she could
speak she begged, with extraordinary earnestness and anxiety,
for a week to consider her answer, and requested Mr. Carling
not to visit her on any account until the week had expired.
The next morning she and her maid departed for London.
They did not return until the week for consideration had ex-
pired. On the eighth day Mr. Carling called again and was
accepted.
The proposal to make the marriage as private as possible came
from the lady. She had been to London to consult her uncle
(whose health, she regretted to say, would not allow him to
travel to Cornwall to give his niece away at the altar), and he
agreed with Mrs. Duncan that the wedding could not be too pri-
vate and unpretending. If it was made public, the family of
her first husband would expect cards to be sent to them, and a
renewal of intercourse, which would be painful on both sides,
might be the consequence. Other friends in Scotland, again,
7V/ 167
would resent her marry! -ond time at her age, and would
er and annoy her future husband in t> She
ith h-r pa
_rin a new and happier Hfe, un trammeled by any connection
witb id troubles. She urged the
had i offer of marriage, with an agitation which was
almost painful to sec. This peculiarity in her conduct, how
li might have irritated some men, and rendered other-
i ul, had no unfavorable effect on Mr. Carling. He
down t<> an excess of sensitiveness and delicacy which charmed
him. H liuiself though he never would confess it a
shy, nervous man hy nature. Ostentation of any sort was some-
which he shrank from instinctively, even in the simplest
daily life; and his future wife's proposal to avoid all
the usual ceremony and publicity of a wedding was therefore
re thau !e to himit was a positive relief.
The courtship was kept secret at Torquay, and the man
rated privately at IVnliddy. It found its way into the
a matter of course, but it was not, as n
j, ad \ertised in the Tinu-x. Both husband and wife
lally happy in the enjoyment of their t new life, and
equally unsocial in taking no measures whatever to publish it to
otn<
Such was tlie story of the rector's marriage. Socially, Mr.
( 'arling's position was hut little affected either way by the change
in his life. As a bachelor, his circle of friends had been a small
and when lie married he made no attempt to enlarge it. He
had never been popular with the inhabitants of his parish gen-
erally ntially a weak man, he was, like other weak men,
only rting himself positively in serious matters
by runninu into extremes. As a consequence of this moral
defect, he presented ingular anomalies in character. In
the ordinary ;,tl'airs of life he was the gentlest and most yield-
ing of men. but in all that related to strictness of religious
principle he was the ster . the mi fanatics.
In the pulpit, lie was a preacher of merciless sermons an inter-
r of the Uible by the letter rather than by the spirit, as piti-
one of the Puritans of old: while, on the
other hand, by nis own fireside he was considerate, forbearing,
and humble almost to a fault. As a necessary result of this
.Mar in< <-y of chara'-ter. lie was feared, and soine-
'n disliked, by the members of his congregation who
only knew him as their pastor, and he was prized ami loved by
the small fir-le of frien.ls who also knew him as a man.
Those friends gathered around him imu ,d more
itely than e\er after his marria.
int >!,!> , but inllu. bj the ;. us that
icty of liis wife. Her re line
of manner: her extrai 'nliuan aeconi|tli-hn
'iij>er, ajid her quick, winning,
womanly intelligence in iiarmed mie \\h<>
appro iciied her. Sheu.i, i|iioted as :i model wife and woman
M her husbaiKl's friends, and she amp!;
168 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
acter that they gave her. Although no children came to cheer
it, a happier and a more admirable married life has seldom been
witnessed in this world than the life which was once to be seen
in the rectory house at Penliddy.
With these necessary explanations, that "preliminary part of my
narrative of which the events may be massed together generally,
for brevity's sake, comes to a close. What I have next to tell is
of a deeper and a more serious interest, and must be carefully
related in detail.
The rector and his wife had lived together without, as I hon-
estly believe, a harsh word or an unkind look once passing be-
tween them for upward of two years, when Mr. Carling took his
first step toward the fatal future that was awaiting him by de-
voting his leisure hours to the apparently simple and harmless
occupation of writing a pamphlet.
He had been connected for many years with one of our great
Missionary Societies, and had taken as active a part as a country
clergyman could in the management of its affairs. At the period
of which I speak, certain influential members of the society had
proposed a plan for greatly extending the sphere of its opera-
tions, trusting to a proportionate increase in the annual subscrip-
tions to defray the additional expenses of the new movement.
The question was not now brought forward for the first time.
It had been agitated eight years previously, and the settlement
of it had been at that time deferred to a future opportunity.
The revival of the project, as usual in such cases, split the work-
ing members of the society into two parties; one party cautiously
objecting to run any risks, the other hopefully declaring that the
venture was a safe one, and that success was sure to attend it.
Mr. Carling sided enthusiastically with the members who es-
poused this latter side of the question, and the object of Ms
pamphlet was to address the subscribers to the society on the
subject, and so to interest them in it as to win their charitable
support, on a larger scale than usual, to the new project.
He had worked hard at his pamphlet, and had got more than
half way through it, when he found himself brought to a stand-
still for want of certain facts which had been produced on the
discussion of the question eight years since, and which were
necessary to the full and fair statement of his case.
At first he thought of writing to the secretary of the society
for information; but, remembering that he had not held his
office more than two years, he had thought it little likely that this
gentleman would be able to help him, and looked back to his own
Diary of the period to see if he had made any notes in it relating
to the original discussion of the affair. He found a note refer-
ring in general terms only to the matter in hand, but alluding
at the end to a report in the Times of the proceedings of a depu-
tation from the society which had waited on a member of the
government of that day, and to certain letters to the editor
which had followed the publication of the report. The note de-
scribed these letters as " very important," and Mr. Carling felt,
as he put his Diary away again, that the successful conclusion
Til 169
of his pamphlet now depended on his IMMII^ nl>!>
ack numbers of the
iim lie \VMS t bus stopped in In
and the i of a journey to London (the only place he I
of ;it which lilts of tlic paper were to l>e found) did not \n-
many ;it tract ions; and yet lie could sec no other and easier in
of effecting his object. After considering for a little \vhil.
arriving at no positive conclusion, he left the study, and
into tin- drawing-room to con suit his wife.
He found her working industriously by the blazing fire. She
happy and comfortable so gentle and eharmii
lu-r pivtty little lace cap. and her warm brown morning-dress, with
i^ht cherry -colored ribbons, and its delicate swim's do\\ n
trimming circling round her neck and nestling over her bo
that he stooped and kissed her with the tenderness of his bride-
groom days before he spoke. When lie told her of the cause that
uspended his literary occupation, she listened, with the s.
tion of the kiss &il\ lingering in her downea and her
smiling lips, until he came to the subject of his Diary and its
reference to the newspa|>er.
As he mentioned the name of the Timcx, she altered and lo
him straight in the face gravely.
"Can you suggest any plan, love," lie went on, " which may
me the necessity oi' a journey to London at this bleak time
of the year? 1 must possitively have this information, and. so
far as lean see, London is the only place at which I can hope to
t with a file of the TYwc.v/'
\ file of the VYw.s /" she repeated.
"Yes of eight years since," he said.
The instant the words passed his lips he saw her face over-
id by a ghastly paleness; her eyes lixed on him with a sti
mixture of rigidity and vacancy in their look: her hands, with
her work tijj;ht in them, dropped slowly on her lap, and a shiver
ran through her from head to foot.
He sprang to his feet, and snatched the smelling-salts from
her work-table, thinking she was going to faint. She put the
bottle from her, when he otj'cred it. with a hand that thrilled
him with the deadly eoldne-s of its touch, and said, in a whis-
A sudden chill, dear let me go np-stairs and lie down."
1 le took her to her room. As he laid her down on the bed.
cau.uht his hand, and said, entreatingly :
You won't i^o t<> London, darling, and leave me here ill?"
He promised that nothing should separate him from her until
she was well a.irain. ami then ran down-stairs to r (he
doctor. The doctor came. and pronounced that rling
only sutVerin-j; from a nervous attack; that t ;
the lea^t reason to be alarmed; and that, with proper care, she
would be well a.uain in a few d.>
Both husband and u ife bad a dim in the t
nat evei Mr. ( 'arlin.^ propi-ed to \\rii'
main with his wife. Hut -he \\oiild not hear <! hin
lie party on her account. The d.
170 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
that his patient should be left to her maid's care, to fall asleep
under the influence of the quieting medicine which he meant to
give to her. Yielding to this advice, Mr. Carling did his best to
suppress his own anxieties, and went to the dinner-party.
CHAPTER II.
AMONG the guests whom the rector met was a gentleman
named Rambert, a single man of large fortune, well known in
the neighborhood of Penliddy as the owner of a noble country-
seat and the possessor of a magnificent library.
Mr. Rambert (with whom Mr. Carling was well acquainted)
greeted him at the dinner party with friendly expressions of re-
gret at the time that had elapsed since they had last seen each
other, and mentioned that he had recently been adding to his
collection of books some rare old volumes of theology, which
he thought the rector might find it useful to look over. Mr.
Carling, with the necessity of finishing his pamphlet uppermost
in his mind, replied, jestingly, that the species of literature
which he was just then most interested in examining happened
to be precisely of the sort which (excepting novels, perhaps) had
least affinity to theological writing. The necessary explanation
followed this avowal as a matter of course, and, to Mr. Carting's
great delight, his friend turned on him gayly with the most sur-
prising and satisfactory of answers:
"You don't know half the resources of my miles of book-
shelves," he said, " or you would never have thought of going
to London for what you can get from me. A whole side of one
of my rooms up-stairs is devoted to periodical literature. I have
reviews, magazines, and three weekly newspapers, bound, in
each case, from the first number; and, what is just now more
to your purpose, I have the Times for the last fifteen years in
huge half-yearly volumes. Give me the date to-night, and you
shall have the volume you want by two o'clock to-morrow after-
noon."
The necessary information was given at once; and, with a
great sense of relief, so far as his literary anxieties were con-
cerned, Mr. Carling went home early to see what the quieting
medicine had done for his wife.
She had dozed a little but had not slept. However, she was
evidently better, for she was able to take an interest in the say-
ings and doings at the dinner-party, and questioned her hus-
band about the guests and the conversation with all a woman's
curiosity about the minutest matters. She lay with her face
turned toward him, and her eyes meeting his, until the course of
her inquiries drew an answer ifrom him which informed her of his
fortunate discovery in relation to Mr. Rambert's library, and of
the prospect it afforded of his resuming his labors the next day.
When he mentioned this circumstance she suddenly turned
her head on the pillow so that her l';ire was hidden from him,
and he could see through the counterpane that the shivering,
which he had observed when her illness had reized her in the
morning, had returned again.
V OF TS. 171
" I am "i,i i, in a hurried way, with !
and
1 1 ( iiil, and ha<l 'laced on the
that sh' I unwilling to I, lie-
did no* remDve ihe clothes from her face when he wished her
lit, hut ' pressed his lips on her head, and patted it
gently with IMS hand. She shrank at the touch as if it hurt her,
light ;i s it wa:-\ and In- went down-stair-. < send for tin-
am if she did not get to rest on being left quiet. Jn
Inn half an lrtlr afterward the maid came down and re-
lieved hi-- anxiety by reporting that her mistress vs ep.
ling he found her in better spirits. Here
aid, felt loo weak to bear thelight. so she kept the bedroom
darkened. But in other resp> had but little to complain of.
After answering her husband's tirst inquiries she questioned
him about his plans for the day. He had letters to write which
would occupy him until twelve o'clock. At two o'clock he ex-
pected the \olume of the Time* to arrive, and he should then de-
vote the rest of the afternoon to his work. After hearing what his
plan Mrs. Carling suggested that he should ride out after
he had done his letters, so as to* get some exercise at the fine part
of the day; and she then reminded him that a longer time than
usual had elapsed since he had been to see a certain old pen-
sioner of his, who had nursed him as a child, and who was now
bed-ridden in a village at some distance called Tringweighton.
Although the rector saw no immediate necessity for making this
charitable visit, the more especially as the ride to the village and
back, and the intermediate time devoted to gossip, would occupy
at least two hours and a half, he assented to his wife's proposal,
perceiving that she urged it with unusual earnestness, and being
unwilling to thwart her, even in a trifle, at a time when she was
ill.
Accordingly his horse was at the door at twelve precisely. Im-
pat lent to get hack to the precious volume of the Times, he rode
BO much faster than usual, and so shortened his visit to the old
woman, that lie was home again by a quarter past two. Ascer-
taining from the servant wiio opened the door that the volume
had been left by Mr. Rambert's messenger punctually at two.
, n up to his wife's room to tell her about his visit before he
secluded himself for the rest of the afternoon over his work.
On entering the bedroom he found it still darkened, and he
struck 1 11 of burnt paper in it.
\vife(who was n<>w dressed in her wrapper and lyingon the
sofa) accounted for the smell by telling him that she ha
the room felt close, and that she had burnt some paper
afraid of the cold air if she opened the window to fun
Her eyes were evidently still weak, for i>t her hand
them while she spoke. After remaining with i
to relate the few trivial events of In-
to his study to occupy himself at last with the volume of the
Tin
It lay on his table in the shape of a large flat brown j
package. On proceeding to undo the covering, ; that
172 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
it had been very carelessy tied up. The springs were crooked
and loosely knotted, and the direction bearing hii; name ;ind ad-
dress, instead of being in the middle of the paper, was awkwardly
folded over at the edge of the volume. However, his business
was with the inside of the parcel; so he tossed away the cover-
ing and the string, and began at once to hunt through the vol-
ume for the particular number of the paper which be wished
first to consult.
He soon found it, with the report of the speeches delivered by
the members of the deputation, and the answer returned by the
minister. After reading through the report, and putting a mark
in the place where it occurred, he turned to the next day's num-
ber of the paper, to see what further hints on the subject the let-
ters addressed to the editor might happen to contain.
To his inexpressible vexation and amazement, he found that
one number of the paper was missing.
He bent the two sides of the volume back, looked closely be-
tween the leaves, and saw immediately that the missing number
had been cut out.
A vague sense of something like alarm began to mingle with
his first feeling of disappointment. He wrote at once to Mr.
Rambert, mentioning the discovery he had just made, and sent
the note off by his groom, with orders to the man to wait for an
answer.
The reply with which the servant returned was almost inso-
lent in the shortness and coolness of its tone. Mr. Rambert had
no books in his library which were not in perfect condition. The
volume of the Times had left his house perfect, and whatever
blame might attach to the mutilation of it rested, therefore, on
other shoulders than those of the owner.
Like many other weak men, Mr. Carling was secretly touchy
on the subject of his dignity. After reading the note and ques-
tioning his servants, who were certain that the volume had not
been touched till he had opened it, he resolved that the missing
number of the Times should* be procured at any expense and in-
serted in its place; that the volume should be sent back in-
stantly, without a word of comment; and that no more books
from Mr. Rambert's library should enter his house.
He walked up and down the study considering what first step
he should take to effect the purpose in view. Under the quick-
ening influence of his irritation, an idea occurred to him, which,
if it had only entered his mind the day before, might probably
have proved the means of saving him from placing himself under
an obligation to Mr. Rambert. He resolved to write immediately
to his bookseller and publisher in London (who knew him well
as an old and excellent customer), mentioning the date of the
back number of the Times that was required, and authorizing
the publisher to offer any reward he judged necessary to any
person who might have the means of procuring it at the office of
the paper or elsewhere. This letter he wrote and dispatched in
good time for the London post, and then went up-stairs to see
bis wife and to tell her what had happened.
Her room was still darkened and she was .still on the sofa, On
\ r OF ///:. 1/tTS. 173
g number sin- said
poke with lli '
temp ourse the pompous old f<>l \v.-ix m, i the
proper thing to do W88 to send hack the \olume in>tantl\
take no more notice of him,
" It shall be sent back," said Mr. Carling, ''but not till
nx number is replaced." And he then told her what lie
had done.
The effect of that simple piece of information on Mrs. ( 'arling
was so extraordinary and so unaccountable that her husband
fairh aghast. For the first time siu< <
saw her temper suddenly in a flame. She started up fiom the
sofa and walked about the room as if she had lost h>
upbraiding him for making the weakest, of concessions t<> Mr.
Rambert's insolent assumption that the rector was t<> blame. If
she could only have laid her hands on that letter, she would
have consulted her husband's dignity and independence by put-
ting it in the fire! She hoped and prayed the number of the
paper might not be found! It fact, it was certain that the num-
ber, after all these years, could not possibly be hunted up. The
idea of his acknowledging himself to be in the wrong in that
when he knew himself to be in the right! It was almost
ridiculous no, it was qiu'ff ridiculous! And she threw he
back on the sofa, and suddenly burst out laughing.
At the first word of remonstrance which fell from her hus-
band's lips her mood changed again in an instant. She sprung
up once more, kissed him passionately, with tears streaming
from her eyes, and implored him to leave her alone to recover
herself. He quitted the room so seriously alarmed about her
that he resolved to go to the doctor privately and question him
on the spot. There was an unspeakable dread in his mind that
the nervous attack from which she had been pronounced to bo
suffering might be a mere phrase intended to prepare him for
uture disclosure of something infinitely and indescribably
worse.
The doctor, on hearing Mr. Carting's report, exhibited no sur-
prise and held to his opinion. Her nervous system was out of
order, and her husband had been needlessly frightened by a
rical paroxysm. If she did not get better in a v
change of scene might then be tried. In the meantime, there
the least cause for alarm.
On the next day she was quieter, but she hardly spoke at all.
At night she slept well, and Mr. Oarling's faith in the
man iin.
The morning after was the morning which won
ver from the publisher in London. Th-
ou the ground iloor. and when he heard 1 nan's knock,
being especially anxious that morning about his correep
.lit out into the hall to moment they
were put on the table.
It was not the footman who had a ual,
but Mrs. Carling's maid. She had taken the let! n the
postman, and she w away with them lip-stair^.
THE QUEEN OP HEARTS.
He stopped her and asked her why she did net put the letters
on the hall table as usual. The maid, looking very much confused,
said that her mistress had desired that whatever the postman
had brought that morning should be carried up to her room.
He took the letters abruptly from the girl, without asking any
more questions, and went back into his study.
Up to this time no shadow of a suspicion had fallen on his
mind. Hitherto there had been a simple obvious explanation
for every unusual event that had occurred during the last three
or four days; but this last circumstance in connection with the
letters was not to be accounted for. Nevertheless, even now, it
was not distrust of his wife that was busy at his mind he was
too fond of her and too proud of her to feel it the sensation
was more like uneasy surprise. He longed to go and question
her, and get a satisfactory answer, and have done with it. But
there was a voice speaking within him that had never made it-
self heard before a voice with a persistent warning in it, that
said, Wait; and look at your letters first.
He spread them out on the table with hands that trembled he
knew not why. Among themjwas the back number of the Times
for which he had written to London, with a letter from the pub-
lisher explaining the means by which the copy had been pro-
cured.
He opened the newspaper with a vague feeling of alarm at
finding that those letters to the editor which he had been so
eager to read, and that perfecting of the mutilated volume
which he had been so anxious to accomplish, had become ob-
jects of secondary importance in his mind. An inexplicable
curiosity about the general contents of the paper was now the
one moving influence which asserted itself within him. He
spread open the broad sheet on the table.
The first page on which his eye fell was the page on the right-
hand side. It contained those very letters three in number
which he had once been so anxious to see. He tried to read
them, but no effort could fix his wandering attention. He
looked aside to the opposite page, on the left hand. It was the
page that contained the leading articles.
They were three in number. The first was on foreign politics;
the second was a sarcastic commentary on a recent division in
the House of Lords; the third was one of those articles on social
subjects which have greatly and honorably helped to raise the
reputation of the Times above all contest and all rivalry.
The lines of this third article, which first caught his eye, com-
prised the opening sentence of the second paragraph, and con-
tained these words:
"It appears, from tho narrative, which will be found in
another part of our columns, that this unfortunate woman mar-
ried, in the spring of the year 18 , one Mr. Fergus Duncan,
of Glendarn, in the Highlands of Scotland."
The letters swam and mingled together under his eyes before
be could go on to the next sentence. His wife exhibited as an
object for public compassion in the Times newspaper! On the
77 /
him, hi-
; <, and a deadly i
I a sid> drank
d himself seized on the newspaper with h<>ti
tiling that could feel the d
tion of his grasp, and read the article through, seui
tener, word by word.
The subject was the Law of Divorce, and the example qu<
wa ample of his wife.
that time England stood disgracefully alone as the
civilized country in the world having a divorce law for the hus-
i which was not also a divorce law for the wife. The \\
in the 'fine's boldly and eloquently exposed this discreditable
ialv in the administration of justice; hinted delicately at the
unutt"r;ible wrongs Miii'ered by Mrs. Duncan: and plainl
v?as indebted to the accident of having been married in
and, and to her consequent right of appeal to I he S
tribunals, for a full and linnl release from the tie that bound lid-
to the vilest of husbands, which the English law of that day would
have n, lu^-d.
He n-ad that. Other men might havegone on to the narrative
i from the Scotch newspaper. But at the last word of
the article lie stopped.
newspaper, and the unread details which it contained, lost
all hold on his attention in an instant, and, in their stead, living
and burning on his mind, like the Letters of Doom on the walls
of Helshazzar, there rose up in judgment against him th-
if a verse in the Gospel of Saint Luke:
" IT irrieih her tlntt /.s put <untt/ from her I
committeth mini 1
He had preached from these words. He had warned his hearers,
with the whole strength of the fanatical sincerity that was in
him, to I i prevaricating with the prohibition which that
ned, and to accept it as literally, unreservedly, finally
16 marriage of a divorced woman. He had in
on that plain interpretation of plain words in terms \\hich
_ at ion tremble. And now he Bl i the
'i chamberseir -c<.n\ icted of thedeadly sin which
d denounced he stood, as he had told the u \
would stand at the I
,Iu<U '
1 h- was in ; time; he never K
many minutes or lew brfon- th-
room idcidy arul softly openr.j. It dido;
in.
In her wli I, awl thrown o
shoulders; her dark hair, so neat and glossy at other n
led about her colorless cheeks, and
r in her
an pi. from her husband--! he woman win
his lift- happy and had stained hi- -MM! wilh a d. adlj
She n to within a I him with>i
176 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
of her face. She looked at him with a strange look; she pointed
to the newspaper crumpled in his hand, with a strange gesture;
she spoke to him in a strange voice:
"You know it!" she said.
His eyes met hers she shrank from them turned and laid
her arms and her head heavily against the wall.
"Oh, Alfred," she said, " I was so lonely in the world, and I
was so fond of you!''
The woman's delicacy, the woman's trembling tenderness
welled up from her heart, and touched her voice with a tone of
its old sweetness as she murmured those simple words.
She said no more. Her confession of her fault, her appeal to
their past love for pardon, were both poured forth in that one
sentence. She left it to his own heart to tell him the rest. How
anxiously her vigilant love had followed his every word and
treasured up his every opinion in the days when they first met;
how weakly and falsely, and yet with how true an affection for
him, she had shrunk from the disclosure which she knew but
too well would have separated them even at the church door;
how desperately she had fought against the coming discovery
which threatened to tear her from the bosorn she clung to, and
to cast her out into the world with the shadow of her own
shame to darken her life to the end all this she left him to feel;
for the moment which might part them forever was the mo-
ment when she knew best how truly, how passionately he had
loved her.
His lips trembled as he stood looking at her in silence, and the
slow, burning tears dropped heavily, one by one, down his
cheeks. The natural human remembrance of the golden days of
their companionship, of the nights and nights when that dear
head turned away from him now in unutterable misery and
shame had nestled itself so fondly and so happily on his breast,
fought hard to silence his conscience, to root out his dreadful
sense of guilt, to tear the words of Judgment from their ruthless
hold on his mind, to claim him in the sweet names of Pity and
of Love. If she had turned and looked at him at that moment,
their next words would have been spoken in each other's arms.
But the oppression of her despair under his silence was too heavy
for her, and she never moved.
He forced himself to look away from her; he struggled hard
to break the silence between them.
" God forgive you, Emily!" he said.
As her name passed his lips his voice failed him, and the tort-
ure at his heart burst its w,ay out in sobs. He hurried to the
door to spare her the terrible reproof of the grief that had now
mastered him. When he passed her she turned toward him with
a faint cry.
He caught her as she sank forward, and saved her from drop-
ping on the floor. For the last time his arms closed round her.
For the last time his lips touched hers cold and insensible to
him now. He laid her on the sofa and went out.
One of the female servants was crossing the hall. The girl
started as she met him, and turned pale at the sight of his face,
177
He could not speak to her, hut he pointed to tin- -Judy door. He
ml ihen I'-ft the hon
it more. ;itil lit- ;iiid his wife never met
in.
ii that last day. a sister of Mr. Carting's a mar
woman living in the town came to tin- rector
with her. addressed 1o the unhappy in f the
hous< -ntained th> lines, blotted and stained with
"M grant us both the time for repentance! If Iliad
1 you less. I might have trusted myself to see you a
ive me. and pit;. id remember me in your pi
and pity, and remember you.''
He had tried to write more, but the pen had dropped from his
hand. His sister's entreaties had not moved him. After giving
lie note to deliver, he had solemnly charged her to be gen-
tle iu communicating the tidings that she bore, and had departed
for London, lie heard all remonstrances with pati<
d not deny that the deception of which his wife had been
guilty was the most pardonable of all concealments of the truth,
rang from her love for him; but he had the
;<ns\vcr for every one who tried to plead with him the
<>m the (Jospel of Saint Luke.
His purpose in traveling to London was to make then*
arrangements I'or his wife's future existence, and then t<
employment which would separate him from his home and all
itions. A missionary expedition to one of the Pa-'ilie
Islands accepted him as a volunteer. Broken in body and spirit,
his last look of England from the deck of the ship was his last
look at land. A fortnight afterward his brethren read the burial
Beryii him on a calm, cloudless evening at sea. Before he
< ommitted to the deep, his little pocket Bible, which had
it from his wife, was, in aecordance with his.!
wishes, placed open on his breast, so that the inscription,
my dear Husband," might rest o\er his heart.
His unhappy wife Still lives. When the farewell lines of her
husband's writing reached her she was incapable of compre-
hending them. The mental prostration which had followed the
parti: -oou complicated by physical sntf.
I he brain. To the surprise of all who attended
ring with the comple!
onefaciilt\. which, in her Munition, poor thii
and a gain to her the faculty of memory. From that tit
t hi- she I r had the slightt >t u learn of recollection of any-
thing that happened hef. Tn her happy ohli
the veriest trifle new and as in! f she
uning her existence again.
the friends wlio now pn r, she li the life
of a child. When her last hour con die \\ith noth-
on her memory but. the recollection of their kiinlr
178
THE EIGHTH DAY.
THE wind that T saw in the sky yesterday has come. It sweeps
down our little valley in angry, howling gusts, and drives the
heavy showers before it in great sheets of spray.
There are some people who find a strangely exciting effect
produced on their spirits by the noise, and rush, and tumult of
the elements on a stormy day. It has never been so with me,
and it is less so than ever now. I can hardly bear to think of
my son at sea in such a tempest as this. "While I can still
get no news of his ship, morbid fancies beset me which I vainly
try to shake off. I see the trees through my window bending
before the wind. Are the masts of the good ship bending like
them at this moment? I hear the wash of the driving rain. Is
he hearing the thunder of the raging waves? If he had only
come back last night! it is vain to dwell on it, but the thought
will haunt me if he had only come back last night!
I tried to speak cautiously about him again to Jessie, as Owen
had advised me; but I am so old and feeble now that this ill-
omened storm has upset me, and I could not feel sure enough of
my own self-control to venture on matching myself to-day
against a light- hearted, lively girl, with all her wits about her.
It is so important that I should not betray George it would be
so inexcusable on my part if his interests suffered, even acci-
dentally, in my hands.
This was a trying day for our guest. Her few trifling in-door
resources had, as I could see, begun to lose their attractions for
her at last. If we were not now getting to the end of the
stories, and to the end, therefore, of the Ten Days also, our
chance of keeping her much longer at the Glen Tower would be
a very poor one.
It was, I think, a great rolief for us all to be summoned to-
gether this evening for a definite purpose. The wind had fallen
a little as it got on toward dusk. To hear it growing gradually
fainter and fainter in the valley below added immeasurably to
the comforting influence of the blazing fire and the cheerful
lights when the shutters were closed for the night.
The number drawn happened to be the last of the series Ten
and the last also of the stories which I had written. There
were now but two numbers left in the bowl. Owen and Morgan
had each one reading more to accomplish before our guest's stay
came to an end, and the manuscripts in the Purple Volume were
all exhausted.
" This new story of mine," I said, " is not, like the story I last
read, a narrative of adventures happening to myself, but of ad-
ventures that happened to a lady of my acquaintance. I was
brought into contact, in the first instance, with one of her male
relatives, and, in the second instance, with the lady herself, by
certain professional circumstances which I need not particularly
describe. They involved a dry question of wills and title-deeds
in no way connected with this story, but sufficiently important
to interest me as a lawyer. The ease came to trial at ti
179
on my circuit, and T won it in tli
\\ell put nn the other side. 1 wa- in poor heali
the time, and m\ exertion so completely knocfe 'ipthat I
lined to my bed in my lodgings for a \
fill lady came and nursed you, I suppi .
}, in her smart, off-liand \\
iful lady did something much moiena(ur.il in her
and niucii more useful in mine,' 1 I ans\vered
sent : ant to attend on me. He was an elderly man. who
had been in I ice since the time of her first mairiage, and
'so one of the most sensible and well-informed person*
whom I have ever met with in his station of life. From hints
which he dropped while he was at my bedside. 1 discovered for
the first time that his mistress hnd been unfortunate in her
id marriage, and that the troubles of that period of her life
had ended in one of the most singular events which had hap-
pened in that part of England for many a long da ft is
hardly necessary t<> say that, before I allowed the man to enter
into any particulars, I stipulated that he should obtain his mis
ive to communicate what he knew. Having gained
this, and having further surprised me by mentioning that he
had been himself connected with all the circumstance, in- told
me the whole story in the fullest detail. I have now tri>
reproduce it as nearly as I could in his own language. Imagine,
therefore, that I am just languidly recovering in bed, and that a
respectable elderly man, in quiet black costume, is sitting at my
pillow and speaking to me in these terms "
Thus ending my little preface, I opened the manuscript and
began my last story.
BROTHER GRIFFITH'S STORY OF A PLOT IN PRIVATE LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
THE first place I got when I began going out to service was
not a very profitable one. I certainly gained the advanta.
learning my business thoroughly, but I never had my due in the
matter of wages. My master was made a bankrupt, and his
servants sutTered with the rest of his creditors.
My second situation, however, amply compensated me for my
want of luck in the fir>t. 1 had the good fortune to enter the
ice of Mr. and Mrs. Norcross. My master rich
gentleman. He had the Darrock house and lands in '
land, an ]s>> in Yorkshire, and a
aica, which product d at that time, and for some ye.
ward, a great income. Out in the West Ii ! with a
pretty young lady, a i;-o\vrness in ai b family, and, taking
>lent fancy to her, married her. though
and-twenty years younger than him^ tOT tin- wedding
id. and it was at this time that I was lucky
enough to be 1 by them
I lived with my new n ress thr
180 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
had no children. At the end of that period Mr. Norcross died.
He was sharp enough to foresee that his youn^ widow would
marry again, and he bequeathed bis property so thnt it all went
to Mrs. Norcross first, and then to any children she might have
by a second marriage, and, failing that, to relations and friends
of his own. I did not suffer by my master's death, for his widow
kept me in her service. I had attended on Mr. Norcross all
through bis last illness, and had made myself useful enough to
win my mistress' favor and gratitude. Besides me she also
retained her maid in her service a quadroon woman named
Josephine, whom she brought with her from the West Indies.
Even at that time I disliked the half-breed's wheedling manners
and her cruel, tawny face, and wondered how my mistress
could be so fond of her as she was. Time showed that I
was right in distrusting this woman. I shall have much
more to say about her when I get further advanced with my
story.
Meanwhile I have next to relate that my mistress broke up the
rest of her establishment, and, taking me and the lady's maid
with her, went to travel on the Continent
Among other wonderful places we visited Paris, Genoa, Ven-
ice, Florence, Rome, and Naples, staying in some of those cities
for months together. The fame of my mistress' riches followed
her wherever she went; and there were plenty of gentlemen, for-
eigners as well as Englishmen, who were anxious enough to get
into her good graces and to prevail on her to marry them. No-
body succeeded, however, in producing any very strong or last-
ing impression on her; and when we came back to England,
after more than two years of absence, Mrs. .Norcross was still a
widow, and showed no signs of wanting to change her condition.
We went to the house on the Yorkshire estate first; but my
mistress did not fancy some of the company round about, so we
moved again to Darrock Hall, and made excursions from time to
time in the lake district, some miles off. On one of these trips
Mrs. Norcross met with some old friends, who introduced her to
a gentleman of their party bearing the very common and very
uninteresting name of Mr. James Smith.
He was a tall, fine young man enough, with black hair, which
grew very long, and the biggest, bushiest pair of black whiskers I
ever saw. Altogether he had a rakish, unsettled look, and a bounce-
able way of talking, which made him the prominent person in
company. He was poor enough himself, as I heard from his
servant, but well connected a gentleman by birth and educa-
tion, though his manners were so free. What my mistress saw
to like in him I don't know; but when she asked her friends to
stay with her at Darrock, she included Mr. James Smith in the
invitation. We had a fine, gay, noisy time of it at the Hall, the
strange gentleman, in particular, making himself as much at
home as if the place belonged to him. T was much surprised at
Mrs. Norcross putting up with him as she did, but T was fairly
thunderstruck some months afterward when I heard that she
and her free-and-easy visitor were actually going to be married!
She had refused offers by dozens abroad, from higher, and richer,
Till': QUEEN OP IlEARi 181
and 5 havod men. It seemed next to impossible th; '
could M-ri"Usly think of throwing her
tied, headlong, pen' m as Mr. James
Smith.
Married, nevertheless, they were, in due course of time; and,
after spending the honeymoon abroad, thev came 1 Dar-
roek Hall.
-on found that my new master had a very variable temper.
Ther> ys when he was as easy, and familiar, and
ant with his servants as any gentleman need lie. At
some devil within him seemed to get possession of his
whole nature. He flew into violent passions, and took wrong
into his head, which no reasoning or remonstrance could
It rather amazed rue, considering how gay ]
his tastes, and how restless his hahits were, that lie should con-
sent to live at such a quiet, dull place as Darrock. Tl
for this, however, soon came out. Mr. James Smith was not
much of a sportsman: he cared nothing for in-door amn
such ling, music, and so forth: and he had no ambition
for representing the county in Parliament. The one pursuit
that he was really fond of was yachting. Darrock was within
n miles of a sea-port town, with an excellent harbor, and
to this accident of position the Hall was entirely indebted for
I unending itself as a place of residence to Mr. James Smith.
had such an untiring enjoyment and delight in crui
about at sea, and all his ideas of pleasure seemed to be so cl<
connected with his remembrance of the sailing trips he had
. on board different yachts belonging to his friends, that I
v believe his chief object in marrying my mistress was to
lie command of money enough to keep a vessel for himself.
at as it may, it is certain that he prevailed on her, some
time after their marriage, to make him a present of a fine
schooner yacht, which was brought round from Cowes to our
town, and kept always waiting, ready for him in the
harbor.
\[\< wife required some little persuasion before she could
make up her mmd to let him have the vessel. She suffered so
much from sea-sickness that pleaMire-sailing was out of the
question for her; and, being very fond of her husband, she was
naturally unwilling that he should engage in an ment
which took him away from her. However. Mr. James Smith
his influence over her cleverly, promising that i
r go away without t ing her Iea\ ngaging that
rms of absence at sea should never la^t for :
'rdingly, my mistress, who
and most unselfish woman in the world, put
,vn feel ie. ; md made her husband happy in the pos-
ion of ;i !' his own.
While my mas; tress had a dull
time i he Hall. The few gentlefolks th.
part of the country Imd at a d; and could onl\
Darrock when tl
for the village near us, there wa.- but i son living in it
182 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
whom my mistress could think of asking to the Hall, and that
person was the clergyman who did duty at the church.
This gentleman's name was Mr. Meeke. He was a single man,
very young, and very lonely in his position. He had a mild,
melancholy, pasty-looking face, and was shy and soft-spoken as
a little girl altogether, what one may call, without being un-
just or severe, a poor, weak creature, and, put of all sight, the
very worst preacher I ever sat under in my life. The one thing
he did, which, as I heard, he could really do well, was playing
on the fiddle. He was uncommonly fond of music so much so
that he often took his instrument out with him when he went
for a walk. This taste of his was his great recommendation to
my mistress, who was a wonderfully fine player on the piano,
and who was delighted to get such a performer as Mr. Meeke to
play duets with her. Besides liking his society for this reason,
she felt for him in his lonely position; naturally enough, I think,
considering how often she was left in solitude herself. Mr.
Meeke, on his side, when he got over his first shyness, was only
too glad to leave his lonesome littlo parsonage for the fine music-
room at the Hall, and for the company of a handsome, kind-
hearted lady, who made much of him, and admired his fiddle-
playing with all her heart. Thus it happened that, whenever
my master was away at sea, my mistress and Mr. Meeke were
always together, playing duets as if they had their living to get
by it. A more harmless connection than the connection between
those two never existed in this world, and yet, innocent as it
was, it turned out to be the first cause of all the misfortunes that
afterward happened.
My master's treatment of Mr. Meeke was, from the first, the
very opposite of my mistress'. The restless, rackety, bounce-
able Mr. James Smith felt a contempt for the weak, womanish,
fiddling little parson, and, what was more, did not care to con-
ceal it. For this reason, Mr. Meeke (who was dreadfully fright-
ened by my master's violent language and rough ways) very
seldom visited at the Hall except when my mistress was alone
there. Meaning no wrong, and therefore stooping to no con-
cealment, she never thought of taking any measures to keep Mr.
Meeke out of the way when he happened to be with her at the
time of her husband's coming home, whether it was only from a
riding excursion in the neighborhood or from a cruise in the
schooner. In this way it so turned out that whenever my mas-
ter came home, after a long or short absence, in nine cases out
of ten he found the parson at the Hall.
At first he used to laugh at this circumstance, and to amuse
himself with some coarse jokes at the expense of his wife and
her companion. But, after awhile, his variable temper changed,
as usual. He grew sulky, rude, angry, and, at last, downright
jealous of Mr. Meeke. Though too proud to confess it in so
many words, he still showed the state of his mind clearly enough
to my mistress to excite her indignation. She was a woman
who could be led anywhere by any one for whom she had a re-
gard, but there was a firm spirit within her that rose at the
slightest show of injustice or oppression, and that resented
7V/
mieal usage of any son The
'! in ;i Ham. the in* . and
niic time, the in".-,! natural
rig it. The ruder licr husband was to Mi-. M.--ke, the more
kindly she behaved to him. This led to -
disse? and t hence, in time, to a violent quarrel. I
not avoid hearing the la-t part of the altercation between t
for it took place in the garden-walk, outside the dining-room
window, while I was occupied in laying the table for lun
Without repeating their words which I have no right to do,
having heard by accident what I had no business to hear T may
say generally, to show how serious the quarrel was, that my
mistress charged my master with having married from m
nary motives, with keeping out of her company a? much as he
could, and with insulting her by a suspicion which it would be
ha nl ever to forgive and impossible ever to forget. He replied
by violent language directed against herself, and by command-
ing her never to open the doors a^ain to Mr. Meeke; >!:>
side, declaring that she would never consent to insult a
clergyman and a gentleman in order to satisfy the whim
-mical husband. Upon that he called out, with a great oath,
to have his horse saddled directly, declaring that he would not
stop another instant under the same roof with a woman who
had set him at defiance, and warning his wife that he would
come back, if Mr. Meeke entered the house again, and 1
whip him. in spite of his black coat, all through the villa
With those words he left her, and rode away to the sea-port
where hi-; yacht was lying. My mistress kept up her spirit till
as out of sight, and then burst into a dreadful screaming
<>u of tears, which ended by leaving her so weak that
had to be carried to her bed like a woman who was at the point
ath.
The same evening my master's 1: a ridden back 1
nirer, who brought a scrap of note paper with him ad<'
me. It only contained these lines:
"Pack up my clothes and deliver (hem immediateh lo the
r. You may tell your mistress that I sail to-night
Sweden, Forward my K-t
ofli<
d the orders given to me except that relating to my
The doctor had 1 it for. and 'i the
housi . I '-'.Msulted him upon the pvopri
lie positively forehade me t- that ni
told me to -ive him the slip of paper, and leave it t
tion to show it to her or not the ii'-xt I'lorn
The IIP had hardly been LTOI our when Mr.
'Came to the Ball with a roll of musi.
my mistress. I told the woman of my
ure. and of the doctor beimr in the This news brought
Mr. himself to (he Hall in a -real thiti.
I felt so angry with him for being the it as he
184 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
might be of the shocking scene which had taken place, that I
exceeded the bounds of my duty, and told him the whole truth.
The poor, weak, wavering, childish creature flushed up red in
the face, then turned as ] ale as ashes, and dropped into one of
the hall chairs crying literally crying fit to break his heart.
"Oh, William," says he, wringing his little frail, trembling
white hands as helpless as a baby, "oh, William, what am I to
do?"
" As you ask me that question, sir," says I, " you will excuse
me, I hope, if, being a servant, I plainly speak my mind not-
withstanding. I know my station well enough to be aware
that, strictly speaking, I have done wrong, and far exceeded my
duty, in telling you as much as I have told you already; but I
would go through fire and water, sir," says I, feeling my own
eyes getting moist, " for my mistress' sake. She has no rela-
tion here who can speak to you; and it is even better that a serv-
ant like me should risk being guilty of an impertinence, than
that dreadful and lasting mischief should arise from the right
remedy not being applied at the right time. This is what I should
do, sir, in your place. Saving your presence, I should leave off
crying, and go back home and write to Mr. James Smith, say-
ing that I would not, as a clergyman, give him railing for rail-
ing, but would prove how unworthily he had suspected me by
ceasing to visit at the Hall from this time forth, rather than be
a cause of dissension between man and wife. If you will put
that into proper language, sir, and will have the letter ready for
me in half an hour's time, I will call for it on the fastest horse
in our stables, and, at my own risk, will give it to my master
before he sails to-night. I have nothing more to say, sir, except
to ask your pardon for forgetting my proper place, and for
making bold to speak on a very serious matter as equal to eq ual,
and as man to man."
To do Mr. Meeke justice, he had a heart, though it was a very
small one. He shook hands with me, and said he accepted my
advice as the advice of a friend, and so went back to his parson-
age to write the letter. In half an hour I called for it on horse-
back, but it was not ready for me. Mr. Meeke was ridiculously
nice about how he should express himself when he got a pen
into his hand. I found him with his desk littered with rough
copies, in a perfect agony about how to turn his phrases deli-
cately enough in referring to my mistress. Every minute being
precious, I hurried him as much as I could, without standing on
any ceremony. It took half an hour more, with all my efforts,
before he could make up his mind that the letter would do. I
started off \with it at a gallop, and never drew rein till I got to the
sea-port town.
The harbor clock chimed the quarter past eleven as I rode by
it, and when I got down to the jetty there was no yacht to be
seen. She had been cast off from her moorings ten minutes
before eleven, and as the clock struck she had sailed out of the
harbor. I would have followed in a boat, but it was a fine star-
light night, with a fresh wind blowiog, and the saiJors on the
pier laughed at me when I spoke of rowing after a schooner
THE ^,7<:/-:.\ or rs.
yrirht which 1m I f an ho, with the
wind abeam and flic tide in her favor.
I rode kick with a heavy h> \II I could do MOV
send (he letter to the post-office. Stockholm.
Tile !;i\ the doctor showed II1V III!
with the no on it from my master, and an hour or
two after that, a 1< Her was sent to her in Mr. Meeke's 1
writi iainin^ tlic why she must not expect to see
him at the Hall, and rot'errin.ir to me in terms of high pi
faithful man who had spoken the right word at the
right time. lam able to repeat the substance of the i<
ise I heard all about it from my mistress, under very un-
pleasant circumstances, so far as I was concerned.
The news of my master's departure did not affect her as the
doctor had supposed it would. Instead of distressing her, it
d her spirit and made her angry; her pride, as I imagine,
beinir wounded by the contemptuous manner in which her hus-
band had notified his intention of sailing to Sweden at the
of a i to a servant about packing his clothes. Finding
her in that temper of mind, the letter from Mr. Meekeonly irri-
tated her the more. She insisted on getting up, and as soon as
she v, ed and down-stairs, she vented her violent humor
on me, reproaching me for impertinent interference in the a fairs
of my betters, and declaring that she had almost made uj
mind to turn me out of my place for it. I did not defend my-
self, because I respected her sorrows and the irritation that
came from them; also, because I knew the natural kindne
her nature well enough to be assured that she would make
amends to me for her harshness the moment her mind was com-
posed again. The result showed that I was right. That same
evening she sent for me, and begged me to forgive and forget
the hasty words she had ppokenin the morning with a grace and
sweetness that would have won the heart of any man who list-
ened to her.
Weeks passed after thi, till it was more than a month s
the day of my master's departure, and 110 letter in his hand-
writing came to Darrock Hall.
My mistress, taking this treatment more angrily than son
fully, went to London to consult her nearest relations, who lived
there. On leaving home she stopped the carriage at the parson-
and went in (as I thought, rather defiantly) !
o Mr. Meeke. Site had answered his letter, and
others from him, and had answered them lik*
urse, seen him everv Sunday at church, and ha
stopped to speak to him after the servi< e: but this was
occasion on which she had visited him at his house.
riage stopped, the little } out, in great hurry and agi-
tation, to meet her at thei;ard<
"Don't look alarmed, Mr. Meeke." s,
out. "Though you have engaged ' ill, 1
have made no promise to keep ;t\\ ;iy from the parso; With
those words she went into the hou
The quadroon maid, Jo>ephii ' ing with me in
186 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
rumble of the carriage, and I saw a smile on her tawny face as
the parson and his visitor went into the house together. Harm-
less HS Mr. Meeke was, and innocent of all wrong as I knew my
mistress to be, I regretted that she should be so rash as to de-
spise appearances, considering the situation she was placed in.
She had already exposed herself to be thought of disrespectfully
by her own maid, and it was hard to say what worse conse-
quences might not happen after that.
Half an hour later we were away on our journey. My mis-
tress stayed in London two months. Throughout all that long
time no letter from my master was forwarded to her from the
country house,
CHAPTER II.
WHEN the two months had passed we returned to Darrock
Hall. Nobody there had received any news in our absence of
the whereabouts of my master and his yacht.
Six more weary weeks elapsed, and in that time but one event
happened at the Hall to vary the dismal monotony of the lives
we now led in the solitary place. One morning Josephine came
down after dressing my mistress with her face downright livid
to look at, except on one cheek, where there was a mark as red
as burning fire. 1 was in the kitchen at the time, and I asked
what was the matter.
"The matter!'' says she, in her shrill voice and her half- foreign
English. " Use your own eyes, if you please, and look at this
cheek of mine. What! have you lived so long a time with your
mistress, and don't you know the mark of her hand yet?"
I was at a loss to understand what she meant, but she soon
explained herself. My mistress, whose temper had been sadly
altered for the worse by the trials and humiliations she had gone
through, had got up that morning more out of humor than
usual, and, in answer to her maid's inquiry as to how she had
passed the night, had begun talking about her weary, miserable
life in an unusually fretful and desperate way. Josephine, in
trying to cheer her spirits, had ventured, most improperly, on
making a light, jesting reference to Mr. Meeke, which had so
enraged my mistress that she turned round sharp on the lialf-
breed, and gave her to use the common phrase a smart box
on the ear. Josephine confessed that, the moment after she had
done this her better sense appeared to tell her that she had taken
a most improper way of resenting undue familiarity. She had
immediately expressed her regret for having forgotten herself,
and had proved the sincerity of it by a gift of half a dozen cam-
bric handkerchiefs, presented as a peace-offering on the spot.
After that I thought it impossible that Josephine could bear any
malice against a mistress whom she had served ever since she
had been a girl, and I said as much to her when she had done
telling me what had happened up-stairs.
" I! Malice!" cried Miss Josephine, in her hard, sharp, snap-
pish way. "And why, and wherefore, if you please? If niy
mistress smacks my cheek with one hand, she gives me hand-
with tin? other. My :<. I mistres-
I. the servant.
\h! yon !>a<l man. even to tliink of
\h! fie. fie! I am quite aslian
look -the wickedest look I ever s
burst out laughing the harsliest laugh I ever h-
AvoinaiTs lips. Turning away from me directly after, she
an<l in rred to the subject again 011 any BII
<|iient occasion.
l-'n>m tliat time, however, I noticed an alteration in
i-hine; not in the way of doing her work, for she
1 rp and careful about it as ever, but in her manners and
iw nnia/.in-ly quiet, and passed almost all her
e time alone. I could bring no charge against her which
authori/ed me to speak a word of warning; but, for all ti
could not help feeling that if I had been in my mistress' pi.-,
would have followed up the present of the cambric handker-
\ ing her a month's wages in advance, and sending
from the house the same evening.
With the exception of this little domestic matter, which ap-
peared trilling enough at the time, but which led to very serious
consequences afterward, nothing happened at all out of the ordi-
way during the six weary weeks to which L have referred.
At the beginning of the seventh week, however, an event oc-
curred at last.
One morning the postman brought a letter to the Hall ad-
my mistress. I took it up stairs, and looked at the
lion as I put it on the salver. The handwriting was not my
master's; was not. as it appeared to me, the handwriting of any
well-educated person. The outside of the letter \\
dirty, and the seal a common office-seal of the usual lattice-
work pattern. ' This must be a begging-letter," 1 thought to my-
is I entered the breakfast -room and advanced with it to my
misti
She held up her hand before she opened it, as a sign to me
that she had some order to give, and that I was not to leave the
room till I had received it. Then she broke the seal and began
to read the letter.
Her eyes had hardly been on it a moment before her face
turned as pale as death, and the paper began to tremble in her
;d on to the end, and suddenly turned from pale
t. started out of her chair, crumpled the letter up
v in her hand, and took several turns backward and
in the room, witho ing to notice me as I stood 1.
door. "You villain! you villain! you villaii
'> herself many times over, in a qi.
she stopped, and said on a sudden. " Can it be. t
she looked up. and. seeing me standing at the d< 'ted as if
1 been a stranger, changed color again, and told me. in a.
stitled voice, to i r and come :iin in half an hour.
I ob. lain that she must
had new-, of her hu-l-aiid. and
188 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
When I returned to the breakfast-room her face was as much
discomposed as ever. Without speaking a word she handed me
two sealed letters: one, a note to be left for Mr. Meeke at the
parsonage; the other, a letter marked "Immediate," and ad-
dressed to her solicitor in London, who was also, I should add,
her nearest living relative.
I left one of these letters and posted the other. When I came
back I heard that my mistress had taken to her room. She re-
mainecl there for four days, keeping her new sorrow, whatever
it was, strictly to herself. On the fifth day the lawyer from
London arrived at the Hall. My mistress went down to him in
the library, and was shut up there with him for nearly two
hours. At the end of that time the bell rang for me.
" Sit down, William," said my mistress, when I came into the
room. "I feel such entire confidence in your fidelity and at-
tachment that I am about, with the full concurrence of this
gentleman, who is my nearest relative and my legal adviser, to
place a very serious secret in your keeping, and to employ your
services on a matter which is as important to me as a matter of
life and death."
Her poor eyes were very red, and her lips quivered as she
spoke to me. I was so startled by what she had said that I
hardly knew which chair to sit in. She pointed to one placed
near herself at the table, and seemed about to speak to me again,
w-hen the lawyer interfered.
"Let me entreat you," he said, "not to agitate yourself un-
necessarily. I will put this person in possession of the facts, and
if I omit anything, you shall stop me and set me right."
My mistress leaned back in her chair and covered her face
with her handkerchief. The lawyer waited a moment, and
then addressed himself to me.
"You are already aware," he said, "of the circumstances
under which your master left this house, and you also know, I
have no doubt, that no direct news of him has reached your
mistress up to this time?"
I bowed to him, and said I knew of the circumstances go far.
"Do you remember," he went on, "taking a letter to your
mistress five days ago ?"
"Yes, sir," I replied; "a letter which seemed to distress and
alarm her very seriously."
"I will read you that letter before we say any more," con-
tinued the lawyer. "I warn you beforehand that it contains a
terrible charge against your master, which, however, is not at-
tested by the writer's signature. I have already told your mis-
tress that she must not attach too much importance to an anony-
mous letter; and I now tell you the same thing."
Saying, that, he took up a letter from the table and read it
aloud. I had a copy of it given to me afterward, which I looked
at often enough to ttx the contents of the letter in my memory.
I can now repeat them, I think, word for word.
" MADAM, I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to leave you
in total ignorance of your husband's atrocious conduct toward
7 7 /
you. If you have ever been disposed to r,
r. Hope and pray, rat her, that \ou and he may
iin in tliis world. I writ*- in t
and in great fear of being observed. Time fails n
ought to be prepared for what I have now to
<>se. I must tell you plainly, with much respect for you
-orrow for your misfortune, that your husband /m.s- in<i
(mot/ . L sa\v the ceremony performed unknown to him.
If I could not have spoken of this infamous act as an eye wit-
I would not have spoken of it at all.
knowledge who I am, for I believe Mr. James
Smith would stick at no crime to revenge himself on me if he
ame to a knowledge of the step I am now taking, and of
the means by which I got my information: neither have I time
particulars. I simply warn you of what has hap-
pened, and leave you to act on that warning as you please. You
elieve this letter because it is not signed by any uarae.
In that case, if Mr. James Smith should ever venture into
nmend you to ask him suddenly what lie has
done with his tn-ir irifi\ and to see if his countenance does not
immediately testify that the truth has been spoken hv
* ' YOUR UN K NOW x FRIEND. "
Poor as my opinion was of my master, I had never believed
him to U> capable of such villainy as this, and 1 could not be-
lieve it when the lawyer had done reading the letter.
Oh. sir," I said, "surely that is some base imposition?
Surely it cannot U> true?"
'* That is what I have told your mistress," he answered. *' But
she says in return
" That I feel it to be true," 1 my mistress broke in. ^peaking be-
hind the handkerchief in a faint, smothered vo
We need not debate the question." the lawyer went on.
' Our bn now to prove the truth or falsehood of thi
Thar must lie done at once. 1 have written to erne of my
clerks, who i< accustomed to conducting delicate in ions,
to this house without loss of time. He is to b.
with anything, and he will pursue the needful inquiries imme--
iy. Tt is absolutely nece^ary to make sure of committing
no mistakes, (hat he should be accompanied by some one who is
well acquainted with Mr. James Smith's habits am. 1 ap-
. and your mistress has fixed upon you to he that p.-r-on.
11 the inquiry is managed, it may U- attend,
much trouble and delay, may necessitate a long journey, and
>me personal danger. A the
lawyer. I nan! at me, ready to suffer any incon
[md'to run any risk for your mistress' sake?"
" There is nothing I ran d> I. "that T will not
am afraid I am not clever enough to be of much u-<
is troubles and risks are coi I, 1 am ready for anything
? rom this moment."
My mi-tn -s took the handkerchief from her fac. i at
,th her eyes full of tears, and held out her hand.
190 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
came to do it I don't know, but I stooped down and kissed the
hand she offered me, feeling half startled, half ashamed at iny
own boldness the moment after.
" Yo will do, my man," said the lawyer, nodding his head.
" Don't trouble yourself about the cleverness or the cunning that
may be wanted. My clerk has got head enough for two. I have
only one word more to say before you go down-stairs again.
Remember that this investigation and the cause that leads to it
must be kept a profound secret. Except us three, and the
clergyman here (to whom your mistress has written word of
what has happened), nobody knows anything about it. I will let
my clerk into the secret when he joins us. As soon as you and
he are away from the house, you may talk about it. Until then,
you will close your lips on the subject."
The clerk did not keep us long waiting. He came as fast as
the mail from London could bring him.
I had expected, from his master's description, to see a serious,
sedate man. rather sly in his looks, and rather reserved in his
manner. To my amazement, this practiced hand at delicate in-
vestigations was a brisk, plump jolly little man, with a comfort-
able double chin, a pair of very bright black eyes, and a big
bottle-nose of the true groggy red color. He wore a suit of
black, and a limp, dingy white cravat; took snuff perpetually
out of a very large box; walked with his hands crossed behind
his back; and looked, upon the whole, much more like a parson
of free-and-easy habits than a lawyer's clerk.
"How d'ye do?" says he, when I opened the door to him.
"I'm the man you expect from the office in London. Just say
Mr. Dark, will you? I'll sit down here till you come back; and,
young man, if there is such a thing as a glass of ale in the house,
I don't mind committing myself so far as to say that I'll drink it."
I got him the ale before I announced him. He winked at me
as he put it to his lips.
" Your good health," sa)'S he. " I like you. Don't forget that
the name's Dark; and just leave the jug and glass, will you, in
case my master keeps me waiting."
I announced him at once, and was told to show him into the
library.
When I got back to the ball the jug was empty, and Mr. Dark
was comforting himself with a pinch of snuff, snorting over it
like a perfect grampus. He had swallowed more than a pint oi
the strongest old ale in the house; and, for all the effect it seemed
to have had on him, he might just as well have been drinking
so much water.
As I led him along the passage to the library, Josephine passed
us. Mr. Dark winked at me again, and made her a low bow.
"Lady's maid," I heard him whisper to himself. " A fine
woman to look at, but a damned bad one to deal with." I turned
round on him rather angrily at his cool ways, and looked hare
at him just before I opened the library door. Mr. Dark looker
hard at me. "All right," says he. "lean show myself in.'
And he knocks at the door, and opens it, and goes in with an
other wicked wink, ;) )l iq a moment,
191
r the bell rang for me. Mr. Darkwassil
my mi-tress (who was looking at liiin in am
and tin- i A- ho was looking at him wit!
upon his knee, and a pen in his hand. J u
by In "inmunieation of the -eeret about my n
did not seem to have made the smallest impression on him.
" 1 to ask you a question." sa\ > lie, the mon
When you found your master's yacht gone, did you
which way she had sailed? Was it northward t'
: land '.- Speak up. voting man, speak up!"
" Yes," 1 answered. " The boatmen told me that when 1 made
inquiries at the harbor."
" Well. ir. Dark, turuingto the lawyer. " if li-
as going to Sweden, he seems to have stalled on the road to
it at all events. I thud; T have got my instructions now?"
The lawver nodded, and looked at my n. who b<
her head to him. He then said, turning to me:
uek up your bag for traveling at once, and have a con
got ready to go to the nearest post-town. Look sharp,
young man look sharp'/'
nd, whatever happens in the future," added my HUM
her kind voice trembling a little, " believe. William, that I --b;dl
never forget the proof you now show of your devotion to me.
It is still some comfort to know that I have your fidelity to de-
pend on in this dreadful trial your fidelity and the extraordinary
intelligence and experience of Mr. Dark."
Mr. Dark did not seem to hear the compliment. He was busy
writing, with his paper upon the map on his knee.
A quarter of an hour later, when I had ordered the <
and had got down into the hall with my bag packed. I found
him there waiting for me. He was sitting in the same chair
which he had occupied when he tir-t arrived, and he had an-
other jug of the old ale on the table by his side.
ny fishing-rods in the house?" -ays he, when I put my
down in the hall.
Yes," I replied, astonished at the question. ' What do
wain with tl;
iiple in cases for traveling." says Mr. Dark. with
and hooks, and fly-books all complete. Ha\
"U go and don't stare. William, do;
I'll let the light in on you as soon as -we are out of ti
Off with you for the Vods! I wain
Bainu
When 1 cam* 1 back with II:. ! 1 found Mr. Dark
in tl
" MOI., \ . lishing-n*K p.i
anonymous letter, guide-book, map."
dud the things wan the- journey " all right, so far.
>k the reins and started the h<>'
:iy mistress and .Josephine looking f the
wind, ,,jid floor. The m two at-
tentive face.- one .-.o fair and so good, the oth. How and
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
so wicked haunted my mind perpetually for many days after-
ward.
" Now, William, " says Mr. Dark, when we were clear of the
lodge gates, " I'm going to begin by telling you that you must
step out of your own character till further notice. You are a
clerk in a bank, and I'm another. We have got our regular
holiday, that comes, like Christmas, once a year, and we are
taking a little tour in Scotland to see the curiosities, and to
breathe the sea air, and to get some fishing whenever we can.
I'm the fat cashier who digs holes in a drawerful of gold with a
copper shovel, and you're the arithmetical young man who sits
on a perch behind me and keeps the books/ Scotland's a beau-
tiful country, William. Can you make whisky-toddy ? I can;
and, what's more, unlikely as the thing may seem to you, I can
actually drink it into the bargain."
" Scotland!" says I. " What are we going to Scotland for?"
"Question for question," says Mr. Dark. "What are we
starting on a journey for?"
" To find my master," I answered, " and to make sure if the
letter about him is true."
" Very good," says he. " How would you set about doing
that, eh ?"
" I should go and ask about him at Stockholm in Sweden,
where he said his letters were to be sent."
'* Should you, indeed ?" says Mr. Dark. " If you were a shep-
herd, William, and had lost a sheep in Cumberland, would you
begin looking for it at the Land's End, or would you try a little
nearer home?"
*' You're attempting to make a fool of me now," says I.
" No," says Mr. Dark. " I'm only letting the light in on you,
as I said I would. Now listen to reason, William, and profit by
it as much as you can. Mr. James Smith says he is going on a
cruise to Sweden, and makes his word good, at the beginning,
by starting northward toward the coast of Scotland. What
does he go in ? A yacht . Do yachts carry live beasts and a
butcher on board? No. Will joints of meat keep fresh all the
way from Cumberland to Sweden? No. Do gentlemen like
living on salt provisions ? No. What follows from these three
Noes ? That Mr. James Smith must have stopped somewhere or
the way to Sweden to supply his sea-larder with fresh provisions
Where, in that case, must he stop. Somewhere in Scotland
supposing he didn't alter his course when he was out of sight o
your sea-port. Where in Scotland ? Northward on the mail
land; or westward at one of the islands ? Most likely on the mail
land, where the sea-side places are largest, and where he is sur
of getting all the stores he wants. Next, what is our business
Not to risk losing a link in the chain of evidence by missing an
place where he has put his foot on shore. Not to overshoot th
mark when we want to hit it in the bull's-eye. Not to wast
money and time by taking a long trip to Sweden till we kno 1
that we must absolutely go there. Where is our journey of di
co' .-cry to take us to first, then ? Clearly to the north of Sco
77/7': vr/-:/'.\v OF 193
land. What do you say to that . Mr. William ? Is my catechism
all < de muddled my hea
:hat no ale could do that, and I
i>-d, winked at me. and taking
ould now turn the \vli
ind make KUIV that he had got all : rings
ol it ijur
the time lie reached the post-town he had accomplished
aental eifurt to liis own perfect satisfaction, and was quite
to compare the ale at the inn with the aleatDarrock Hall.
\\as left to be taken back the next morning by the
hostler. A post-chaise and horses were ordered out. A lo
bread, a Bologna sausage, and two bottles of sherry were put into
the p : nage; we took our seats, and started briskly
on our doubtful journey.
''One word more of friendly advice," says Mr. Dark, settling
himself comfortably in his corner of the carriage. ''Take your
William, whenever you feel that you can get it. You
won't find yourself in bed again till we get to Glasgow."
CHAPTER III.
ALTHOUGH the events that I am now relating happened many
ago, I shall still, for caution's sake, avoid mentioning by
name the various places visited by Mr. Dark and myself for the
purpose of making inquiries. It will be enough if I describe
ally what wo did, and if I mention in substance only the
which we ultimately arrived.
On reaching Glasgow, Mr. Dark turned the whole case over in
;nd once more. The result was that he altered his original
tion of going straight to the north of Scotland, considering
Per to make sure, if possible, of the cour icht had
aken in her cruise along the western c<
The carrying out of this new resolution involved the necessity
f delaying our onward journey by perpetually diverging from
lie direct road. Three \\\\\ ^ we to wild
in the Hebrides by false reports. Twice we wandered
inland, following gentlemen who answered generally to
ption of Mr. James Smith, but who turned out to be
rong m- -n as we set eyes on them. These vain ex-
ns especially the three to the western island- consumed
It wax more than t wo months from the <!
Hall before we found oui ;> at the
rotland at last, driving into a < .-side
own, with a harbor attached to it. Thus far our journey had
ilts, and I began to despair for Mr.
he never -ot to the end of hi-
Yon don't know how to wait. William." was his constant
em ark whenever lie heard me complainin
\Yedroveinto the town toward eveiim ^ttle
:iid put up. according to (air u-ual .at one of the in-
erior inns.
194 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
11 We must begin at the bottom," Mr. Dark used to say. " High
company in a coffee-room won't be familiar with us; low com-
pany in a tap- room will." And he certainly proved the truth of
his own words. The like of him for making intimate friends of
total strangers at the shortest notice I have never met with be-
fore or since. Cautious as the Scotch are, Mr. Dark seemed to
have the knack of twisting them round his finger as he pleased.
He varied his way artfully with different men, but there were
three standing opinions of his which he made a point of express-
ing in all varieties of company while we were in Scotland. In
the first place, he thought the view of Edinburgh from Arthur's
Seat the finest in the world. In the second place he considered
wMeky to be the most wholesome spirit in the world. In the
third place, he believed his late beloved mother to be the best
woman in the world. It may be worthy of note that, whenever
he expressed this last opinion in Scotland, he invariably a,dded
that her maiden name was Macleod.
Well, we put up at a modest little inn, near the harbor. I
was dead tired with the journey, and lay down on my bed to
get some rest. Mr. Dark, whom nothing ever fatigued, left me
to take his toddy and pipe among the company in the tap-
room.
I don't know how long I had been asleep when I was roused by
a shake on my shoulder. The room was pitch dark, and I felt
a hand suddenly clapped over my mouth. Then a strong smell
of whisky and tobacco saluted my nostrils, and a whisper stole
into my ear:
" William we have got to the end of our journey."
"Mr. Dark," I stammered out, "is that you? What, in
Heaven's name, do you mean ?"
"The yacht put in here," was the answer, still in a whisper,
." and your blackguard of a master came ashore
" Oh, Mr. Dark," I broke in, " don't tell me that the letter is
true!"
"Every word of it," says he. "He was married here, anc
was off again to the Mediterranean with number two a goo
three weeks before we left your mistress' house. Hush! don'
say a word. Go to sleep again, or strike a light, if you like i
better. Do anything but come down-stairs with me. I'm go
to find out all the particulars without seeming to want to kno\
one of them. Yours is a very good-looking face, William, bn
it's so infernally honest that I can't trust it in the tap-room
I'm making friends with the Scotchmen already. They knov
my opinion of Arthur's Seat; they see what I think of whisky
and I rather think it won't be long befors they hear that nr
mother's maiden name was Macleod."
With those words he slipped out of the room, and left me a
he had found me, in the dark.
I was far too much agitated by what I had heard to think c
going to sleep again, so I struck a light and tried to amuse mj
self as well as I could with an old newspaper that had bee
stuffed into my carpet bag. It was then nearly ten o'clocj
Til V OF IIKAKTS. 195
Two hours later, when the house shut up. Mr. Dark came back
ain in hi^li spirits.
" J 'pp m tf i
-*' the whole <; ieat and clean as if it was drav
a brief. That master of yours doesn't .-tick at a I rifle. \Vi '
It's my opinion that your mistress andyou have
of him \
\V. nig that night in a douhle-bedded room.
soon as Mr. Dark had secured the door and disposed hii
comfortably in his bed, lie entered on a detaited narrative of the
particulars communicated to him in the tap-room. The
stance of what he told may be related as tollo\\
The yacht had had a wonderful run all the way to Cape
Wrath. On rounding that headland she had met the wind near
id against her, and had beaten every inch of the way to the
rt town, where she had put in to get a supply of provisi
and to wait for a change in the wind.
Mr. James Smith had gone ashore to look about him, and to see
whether the principal hotel was the sort of house at which he
.vould lik p for a few days. In the course of his wander-
ng about the town, his attention had been attracted to a decent
. where lodgings were to be let, by the sight of a very
v ^irl sitting at work at the parlor window. He was so
:k by her face that he came back twice to look at it, deter-
mining, the second time, to try if he could not make acquaint-
mce with her by asking to see the lodgings. He was shown the.
rooms by the girl's mother, a very respectable woman, whom he
d to be the wife of the master and part owner of a small
stin^ vessel, then away at sea. With a little maneuvering
ie in to get into the parlor where the daughter w
vork, and to exchange a few words with her. Her voice and
manner completed the attraction of her face. Mr. James Smith
lecided. in his headlong way, that he was violently in love with
nd. without hesitating another instant, he took the lodg-
n the spot for a month certain.
i unnecessary to say that his designs on the girl were of the
disgraceful kind, and that he represented himself to the
mother and daughter as a single man. Helped by his advan-
of money, position, and personal appearance, he had made
iiirethat the ruin of the uirl might be effected with very little
lilliculty: but he soon found that he had undertaken
poqui
mother's watchfulness never slept, and the daugb
mind never failed her. She admired Mi
smith's tall figure and splendid whiskers; she showed the :
raging partiality for his society ; she si 'ipli-
d whenever he looked at her; but, whether it
mining, or whether it wasinn<
)f understanding that his advances toward I any
than an honorable kind. At the slightest approach to tin-
iliarity. she drew back with a kind of contemptuous
iiirprise in ) which utterly j I Mr. James Smith.
id not calculated on that nd he could
196 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
not see his way to overcoming it. The weeks passed: the month
for which he had taken the lodgings expired. Time had
strengthened the girl's hold on him till his admiration for her
amounted to downright infatuation, and he had not advanced
one step yet toward the fulfillment of the vicious purpose with
which he had entered the house.
At this time he'must have made some fresh attempt on the girl's
virtue, which produced a coolness between them; for, instead of
taking the lodging^ for another term, he removed to his yacht in
the harbor, and slept on board for two nights.
The wind was now fair, and the stores were on board, but he
gave no orders to the sailing-master to weigh anchor. On the
third day, the cause of the coolness, whatever it was, appears to
have been removed, and he returned to his lodgings on shore.
Some of the more inquisitive among the townspeople observed
soon afterward, when they met him in the street, that he looked
rather anxious and uneasy. The conclusion had probably forced
itself upon his mind, by this time, that he must decide on pur-
suing one of two courses: either he must resolve to make the
sacrifice of leaving the girl altogether, or he must commit the
villainy of marrying her.
Scoundrel, as he was, he hesitated at encountering the risk
perhaps, also, at being guilty of the crime involved in this last
alternative. While he was still in doubt, the father's coasting
vessel sailed into the harbor, and the father's presence on the
scene decided him at last. How this new influence acted it was
impossible to find out from the imperfect evidence of persons
who were not admitted to the family councils. The fact, how-
ever, was certain, that the date of the father's return and the
date of Mr. James Smith's first wicked resolution to marry the
girl might both be fixed, as nearly as. possible, at one and the
same time.
Having once made up his mind to the commission of the crime,
he proceeded, with all possible coolness and cunning, to provide
against the chances of detection.
Returning on board his yacht, he announced that he had given
up his intention of cruising to Sweden, and that he intended to
amuse himself by along fishing tour in Scotland. After this
explanation, he ordered the vessel to be laid up in the harbor,
gave the sailing-master leave of absence to return to his family
at Cowes, and paid off the whole of the crew, from the mate to
the cabin-boy. By these means he cleared the scene, at one
blow, of the only people in the town who knew of the existence
of his unhappy wife. After that, the news of his approaching
marriage might be made public without risk of discovery, his
own common name being of itself a sufficient protection in case
the event was mentioned in the Scotch newspapers. All ME
friends, even his wife herself, might. read a report of the mar-
riage of Mr. James Smith without having the slightest suspicior
of wbo the bridegroom really was.
A fortnight after the paying off of the crew he was marriec
to the merchant-captain's daughter. The father of the girl \va:
well known among his fellow-townsmen as a selfish, grasping
STJH '/' UKAHTS. 197
who \v ii.vious to seruiv a ri--h BOD in-!;i\v to ot
to any proposals for hastening the mania;:
and a lew intiiiK! , lia<l he n pre.-ent at the cereiii
and. after it had been performed, the m wly-m;r uple.
left tlie town at once for a honeymoon trip to the High
lakes.
Two days later, however, they unexpectedly returned, an-
nouncing a complete change in their plans. The t.n
(thinking, prohahly, that he would be safer out of England than
m it) had heen pleasing tin? bride's fancy by his descriptio:
uid the scenery of southern parts. The new Mrs.
James Smith was all curiosity to see Spain and Italy; and, hav-
I'tfii proved herself an excellent sailor on board her father's
1. was anxious to go to the Mediterranean in the easiest way
t. Her atlectioiiate husband, having now no other object
in life than to gratify her wishes, had given up the Highland ex-
cursion, and had returned to have his yacht got ready for sea
immediately. In this explanation there was nothing to awaken
ispicions of the lady's parents. The mother thought Mr.
James Smith a model bridegroom. The father lent his assistance
to man the yacht at the shortest notice with as smart a crew as
could be picked up about the town. Principally through his ex-
ertions, the vessel was got ready for sea with extraordinary dis-
patch. The sails were bent, the provisions were put on board,
and Mr. James Smith sailed for the Mediterranean with the un-
fortunate woman who believed herself to be his wife before Mr.
Dark and myself set forth to look after him from Darrock Hall.
Such was the true account of my master's infamous conduct
in Scotland as it was related to me. In concluding, Mr. Dark
hinted that he had something still left to tell me, but declared
that he was too sleepy to talk any more that night. As soon as
we were awake the next morning he returned to the subject.
I didn't finish all I had to say last night, did I 'f he began.
ou unfortunately told me enough, and more than enough,
to prove the truth of the statement in the anonymous letter, ' I
d.
"Yes," says Mr. Dark, "but did I tell you who wrote the
anonymous letter?"
'ii don't mean to say that you have found that out!" sa
"I think I have." was the cool answer. "When I 1
about your precious master paying oil the regular crew of the
'. I put the circumstance by in my mind, to ught
j;ain and sifted a little as soon as the opportunity offered.
It offered in about half an hour. Saya I to the ganger, win
the principal talker in the room, 'How about those men that
-mith paid off? J)id they all j n as t! their
ir did they stop here till they had farthing
in the public h'ouses? The
. in the broadest possible Scotch (which I'll trans-
lish. William, for your hem-tit ): ' no such luck: they
all went south, to spend their money among finer people than us
all, that is ; with oi thought the
ird of 1 lit hud gone along with tin hen, the
Id8 THE QUEEN , OF HEARTS.
very day Mr. Smith sailed for the Mediterranean, who should
turn up unexpectedly but the steward himself! Where he had
been hiding, and why he had been hiding, nobody could tell.'
' Perhaps he had been imitating his master, and looking out for
a wife,' says I. ' Likely enough,' says the gauger; ' he gave a
very confused account of himself, and he cut all questions short
by going away south in a violent hurry.' That was enough for
me; I let the subject drop. Clear as daylight, isn't it, William?
The steward suspected something wrong the steward waited
arid watched the steward wrote that anonymous letter to your
mistress. We can find him, if we want him, by inquiring at
Cowes: and we can send to the church for legal evidence of the
marriage as soon as we are instructed to do so. All that we
have got to do now is to go back to you mistress, and see what
course she means to take under the circumstances. It's a pretty
case, William, so far an uncommonly pretty case, as it stands,
at present."
We returned to Darrock Hall as fast as coaches and post-
horses could carry us.
Having from the first believed that the statement in the anony-
mous letter was true, my mistress received the bad news we
brought calmly and resignedly so far. at least, as outward ap-
pearances went. She astonished and disappointed Mr. Dark by;
declining to act in any way on the information that he had col-'
lected for her, and by insisting that the whole affair should still
be buried in the profoundest secrecy. For the first time since l!
had known my traveling companion, he became depressed in
spirits on hearing that nothing more was to be done, and,
although he left the Hall with a handsome present, he left it
discon tentedly .
"Such a pretty case, William," says he, quite sorrowfully, as
we shook hands "such an uncommonly pretty case it's a
thousand pities to stop it, in this way, before it's half over!"
" You don't know what a proud lady and what a delicate lady
my mistress is," I answered. "She would die rather than ex-
pose her forlorn situation in a public court for the sake of pun-
ishing her husband."
"Bless your simple heart!" says Mr. Dark, "do you reallyj
think, now, that such a case as this can be hushed up ?"
" Why not," I asked, " if we all keep the secret?"
"That for the secret!" cries Mr. Dark, snapping his fingers.)
"Your master will let the cat out of the bag, if nobody elstj
does.*'
" My master!" I repeated, in amazement.
"Yes, your master!' says Mr. Dark. " I have had some (fl
perience in my time, and I say you have not seen the last of hin
yet. Mark my words, William, Mr. James Smith will conn
back."
" With that prophecy, Mr. Dark fretfully treated himself tos
last pinch of snuff, and departed in dudgeon on his journe;
back to his master in London. His last words hung heavily o
mind for days after he had gone. It was some weeks befoj
7V/ KEN OF HI 193
I got over a habit of starting whenever the bell was rung
:it the front door.
CHAPTER IV.
OUR life at the Hall soon returned to its old, dreary course.
The la\vyer in London wrote to my mistress to ask her to come
and stay for a little while, with his wife: but she declined i
invitation, bein^ averse to facing company after what had hap
'd to her. Though she tried hard to keep the real state of
her mind concealed from all about her, I, for one, could
plainly enough that she was pining under the bitter injury that
hud been inflicted on her. What effect continued solitude might
have had on her spirits I tremble to think.
innately for herself, it occurred to her, before lonj.-
send and invite Mr. Meeke to resume his musical practicing witli
her at the Hall. She told him and, as it seemed to me. with
perfect truth that any implied engagement which he had made
with Mr. James Smith was now canceled, since the person
named had morally forfeited all claims as a husband, first, by
his desertion of her, and, secondly, by his criminal marri;
with another woman. After stating this view of the matter, she
left it to Mr. Meeke to decide whether the perfectly innocent
connection between them should be resumed or not. The little
parson, after hesitating and pondering in his helpless way, ended
agreeing with my mistress, and by coming back once more
to the Hall with his fiddle under his arm. This renewal of their
old habits might have been imprudent enough, as tending to
aken my mistress' case in the eyes of the world, but, for all
i it was the most sensible course she could take for her own
xe. The harmless company of Mr. Meeke, and the relief of
E laying the old times again iti the old way. saved her, I verily
: rom sinking altogether under the oppression of the
shocking situation in which she was now placed.
So, with the assistance of Mr. Meeke and his fiddle, my mis-
IP through the weary time. The winter passed, the
ing came, and no fresh tidings reached us of Mr. James
lith. It had been a lou^;, bard winter that year, and the
spring was backward and rainy. The first really fine day we
had was the day that fell on the fourteenth of March.
I am particular in mentioning this date merely because it is
fixed forever in my memory. As long as there is life in n,
ill remember that fourteenth of March, and the smallest cir-
cumstan-es connected with it.
The day be^an ill, with what superstitious people would think
a bad omen. My mi> named late in her room in the
morning, amused herself by lookin^over her clothes, and by
ting to rights some drawers in her cabinet which he bad
opened for some time past. Just before luncheon we irt-
; by hearing the drawing-room hell nmi; violently. 1 ran up
see what was the matter, and the <|iiadroon. .Joseph!:
had heard the bell in another part of the house, lias' :m-
200 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
swer it also. She got into the drawing-room first, and I followed
close on her heels. My mistress was standing alone on the
hearth-rug, with an appearance of great discomposure in her
face and manner.
"I have been robbed !" she said vehemently, "I don't know-
when or how; but I miss a pair of bracelets, three rings, and a
quantity of old-fashioned lace pocket-handkerchiefs.''
" If you have any suspicions, ma'am," said Josephine, in a
sharp, sudden way, "say who they point at. My boxes, for
one, are quite at your disposal."
"Who asked about your boxes?" said my mistress, angrily.
" Be a little less ready with your answer, if you please, the next
time I speak."
She then turned to me, and began explaining the circum-
stances under which she had discovered her loss. I suggested
that the missing things should be well searched for first, and
then, if nothing came of that, that I should go for the constable
and place the matter under his direction.
My mistress agreed to this plan, and the search was under-
taken immediately. It lasted till dinner-time, and led to no re-
sults. I then proposed going for the constable. But my mis-
tress said it was too late to do anything that day, and told me
to wait at table as usual, and to go on my errand the first thing
the next morning. Mr. Meeke was coming with some new mu-
sic in the evening, and I suspect she was not willing to be dis-
turbed at her favorite occupation by the arrival of the constable.
When dinner was over the parson came, and the concert went
on as usual through the evening. At ten o'clock I took up the
tray, with the wine, and soda-water, and biscuits. Just as I was
opening one of the bottles of soda-water, there was a sound of
wheels on the drive outside, and a ring at the bell.
I had unfastened the wires of the cork, and could not put the
bottle down to run at once to the door. One of the female serv-
ants answered it. I heard a sort of half scream then the sound
of a footstep that was familiar to me.
My mistress turned round from the piano, and looked me hard
in the face.
" William," she said, "do you know that step?"
Before I could answer the door was pushed open, and Mr.
James Smith walked into the room.
He had his hat on. His long hair flowed down under it over
the collar of his coat; his bright black eyes, after resting an in-
stant on my mistress, turned to Mr. Meeke. His heavy eyebrows
met together, and one of his hands went up to one of his bushy
black whiskers, and pulled at it angrily.
" You here again!" he said, advancing a few steps toward the
little parson, who sat trembling all over, with his fiddle hugged
up in his arms as if it had been a child.
Seeing her villainous husband advance, my mistress moved
too, so as to face him. He turned round on her at the first step
she took as quick as lightning.
" You shameless woman!" he said. " Can you look me in the
Til \KTS. 201
fa< f that n lie poii,
Mr. Me<
My mistrees neyer shrank when lio furncd upon her. v
sign of fear was in her face when they confronted
Not the faintest flush of anger came into her cheeks v
of the insult and injury that he had infli.
on her, and the consciousness of knowing his guilty -
h'T all her self- possession at that trying moment.
"I ask yon again." he repeated, finding that she did not
answer him. " how dare you look me in the face in the presence
of that man?"
she raised her steady eyes to his hat, which he still kept on his
id.
" Who has taught you to come into a room and speak to a
lady with your hat on V" she asked, n quiet, contornptn
tones. " Is that a habit which is sanctioned by i/nnr mir irifef"
My o\es were on him as she said those last words. His com-
plexion, naturally dark and swarthy, changed instantly t
livid yellow white: his hand caught at the chair nearest to him,
and lie dropped into it heavily.
" I don'l understand you," he said, after a moment of silenco,
looking about the room unsteadily while ho spoke.
"You do," said my mistress. "Your tongue lies, but your
face .speaks the truth."
He called back his courage and audacity by a desperate effort,
and started up from the chair again with an oath.
The instant before this happened, I thought I hoard the sound
of a rustling dross in the passage outside, as if one of the women
servants was stealing up to listen outside the door. I should
have gone at once to see whether this was the case or not, but
my master stopped me just after he had risen from the chair.
ie bed made in the Rod Room, and light a tire there
directly." lie said, with his fiercest look and in his roughest
Atones. "When 1 ring the bell bring me a kettle of hoi;
water and a bottle of brandy. As for you." he continued, turn-
ing toward Mr. Meeke, who still sat pale and speechless with his
fiddle hugged up in his arms, M leave the house, or you won't
find your cloth any protection to you."
this insult the blood flew into my mistress' face. Before
she conM sav anything, Mr. James Smith raised his ud
enough to drown h
" 1 won't hear another word from you," ho cried out. brutally.
" You have been talking like a mad woman, and you look Ml
madwoman. You are out of yoi; . As s-
I'll have you examined by the doctors to-morrow. Why the
devil do \ on stand there. undrel'.'" I ng
round on his heel to me. " Why don't you obey my ord-
1 looked at my mistress. If she had d > knock
James Smith down, big as he was. 1 think at that momet
" l>o as he tells you. William," she /intr one of her
hands firmly over her bosom, as if she \vn
202 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
the rising indignation in that way. " This is the last order of his
giving that I shall ask you to obey."
" Do you threaten me, you mad "
He finished the question by a word I shall not repeat.
" I tell you," she answered, in clear, ringing, resolute tones,
"that you have outraged me past all forgiveness and all endur-
ance, and that you shall never insult me again as you have in-
sulted me to-night.'*
After saying those words she fixed one steady look on him, then
turned away and walked slowly to the door.
A minute previously Mr. Meeke had summoned courage
enough to get up and leave the room quietly. I noticed him
walking demurely away, close to the wall, with his fiddle held
under one tail of his long frock-coat, as if he was afraid that the
savage passions of Mr. Jajpes Smith might be wreaked on that
unoffending instrument. He got to the door before my mistress.
As he softly pulled it open, I f saw him start, and the rustling of
the gown caught my ear again from the outside.
My mistress followed him into the passage, turning, however,
in the opposite direction to that taken by the little parson, in
order to reach the staircase that led to her own room. I went
out next, leaving Mr. James Smith alone.
I overtook Mr. Meeke in the hall, and opened the door for
him.
" I "beg your pardon, sir," I said, " but did you come upon any-
body listening outside the music- room when you left it just
now ?"
" Yes, "William," said Mr. Meeke, hi a faint voice, " I think it
was Josephine; but I was so dreadfully agitated that I can't be
quite certain about it."
Had she surprised our secret ? That was the question I asked
myself as I went away to light the fire in the Red Room. Call-
ing to mind the exact time at which I had first detected the
rustling outside the door, I came to the conclusion that she had
only heard the last part of the quarrel between my mistress and
her rascal of a husband. Those bold words about the "new
wife " had been assuredly spoken before I heard Josephine steal-
ing up to the door.
As soon as the fire was alight, and the bed made, I went
back to the music-room to announce that my orders had been
obeyed. Mr. James Smith was walking up and down in a per-
turbed way, still keeping his hat on. He followed me to the
Red Room without saying a word.
Ten minutes later he rang for the kettle and the bottle of
brandy. When I took them in I found him unpacking a small
carpet- bag, which was the only luggage he had brought with
him. He still kept silence, and did not appear to take any no-
tice of me. I left him immediately without 'our having so much
as exchanged a single word .
So far as I could tell, the night passed quietly.
The next morning I heard that my mistress was suffering so
severely from a nervous attack that she was unable to rise from
T8.
her bed. It was no in be told that, knowing as I did
what she I,
<>ut nine o'clock I went with some hot v.
.Vfter knocking twice ] tried the d.i Aiding it
it in with the jug in my hand.
I 1. bed I looked all around the r<>oin. Not a
of Mr. J nith was to he seen anywh-
Judging by appearances, the lied had certainly be.
Tim the counterpane lay the nigQt~gown he hud
worn. I took it up and saw some spots on it. I looked at them
a little clo-er. They were spots of blood.
CHAPTER V.
THE first amazement and alarm produced by Ibis di
deprived me of my presence of mind. Without (Stopping to think
what I ought to do first. I ran back to the servants' hall, calling
out that something had happened to my mast <
All the household hurried directly into the Red Room, Jose-
phine among the rest. I was first brought to my senses, as it
were, by observing the strange expression of 1
when she saw the bedgown and the empty room. All i
servants were bewildered and frightened. She alone, after giv-
ing a little start, recovered herself directly. A look of de\
satisfaction broke out on her face, and she left the room quickly
and quietly, without exchanging a word with any of us. ]
this, and it aroused my suspicions. There is no need to mention
what they were, for, as events soon showed, they were ent
wide of the mark.
Having come to myself a little, I sent them all out of the
room except the coachman. We two then examined the j
The Red Room was usually occupied by visitors. It wa
(lie ground floor, and looked out into the garden. We f
the window-shutters, which I had barred over night. <
the window itself was down. The tiro had been out Ion.
for the grate to be quite cold. Half the bottle of brnmh
drunk. The carpet-bag was gone. There wen- no marks
of violence or struggling anywhere about the bed or the room,
xamined every corner carefully, but made no othe
than these.
When I returned to the servants' hall, bad news of my mis-
tress was awaiting me there. The unusual noise and c
in the house bad reached her ears, and she had been told
had happened without .sufficient caution being
paring her to hear it. In her weak, nervoi:
the intelligence had quite pro-trated her. Sl.e h;,d fall* n into a
swoon, and had been brought back to 1 3 with l-
itHculty. As to giving me or anyb
to do under 1he embarrassing circumstances which I
occurred, she was totally incapable of the effort.
1 waited till the middle of the day, in the hope that she in
irong enough to give her orders, but no message came
204 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
her. At last I resolved to send and ask her -what she thought it
best to do. Josephine was the proper person to go on this errand ;
but when I asked for Josephine, she was nowhere to be found.
The housemaid, who had searched for her ineffectually, brought
word that her bonnet and shawl were not hanging in their usual
places. The parlor rnaid, who had been in attendance in my
mistress' room, came down while we were all aghast at this new
disappearance. She could only tell us that Josephine had begged
her to do lady's-maid's duty that morning, as she was not well.
Not well! And the first result of her illness appeared to be that
she had left the house!
I cautioned the servants on no account to mention this cir-
cumstance to my mistress, and then went up-stairs myself to
knock at her door. My object was to ask if I might count on
her approval if I wrote in her name to the lawyer in London,
and if I afterward went and gave information of whjit had oc-
curred to the nearest justice of the peace. I might have sent to
make this inquiry through one of the female servants; but by this
time, though not naturally suspicious, I had got to distrust every-
body in the house, whether they deserved it or not.
So I asked the question myself, standing outside the door.
My mistress thanked me in a faint voice, and begged me to do
what I had proposed immediately.
I went into my own bedroom and wrote to the lawyer, merely
telling him that Mr. James Smith had appeared unexpectedly at
the Hall, and that events had occurred in consequence which
required his immediate presence. I made the letter up like a
parcel, and sent the coachman with it to catch the mail on its
way through to London.
The next thing was to go the justice of the peace. The nearest
lived about five miles off, and was well acquainted with my
mistress. He was an old bachelor, and he kept house with his
brother, who was a widower. The two were much respected
and beloved in the county, being kind, unaffected gentlemen,
who did a great deal of good among the poor. The justice was
Mr. Robert Nicholson, and his brother, the widower, was Mr.
Philip.
I had got my hat on, and was asking the groom which horse I
had better take, when an open carriage drove up to the house.
It contained Mr. Philip Nicholson and two persons in plain
clothes, not exactly servants and not exactly gentlemen, as far
as I could judge. Mr. Philip looked at me, when I touched my
hat to him, in a very grave, downcast way, and asked for my
mistress. I told him she was ill in bed. He shook his head at
hearing that, and said he wished to speak to me in private. I
showed him into the library. One of the men in plain .clothes
followed us, and sat in the hall. The other waited with the
carriage.
" I was just going out, sir," I said, as I set a chair for him,
" to speak to Mr. Robert Nicholson about a very extraordinary
circumstance "
"1 know what you refer to," said Mr. Philip, cutting me short
rather abruptly ; " and I must beg, for reasons which will presently
77 /
u ill tir -iii-iit of 'intil
,-ird \vh:it 1 ha\
iid. \viii-
Hi
I 1 felr that 1 was turnr
our master. Mr. James Smith," he went on. "came
Ming, and slept in this liousn last
nielli. Before be retired to rest, he and your mistress had hitfh
which ended, 1 mil sorry to hear, in a thn .
lure addressed by Mrs. James Smith to her hus-
band. They slept in separate rooms. This moriiing y<.n went
vour master's room and saw no sign of him there. You
found his iiiu'lit uown on the bed. spotted with Mood."
id, in as steady a voice as, I could command.
I am not examining you," said Mr. Philip. ' vl I am only
making a certain Statement, the truth of which you can admit
re my brother."
mr brother, sir!" 1 I repeated. " Am I suspected of
anything wrong r"
'1 ; suspicion that Mr. Jnmos Smith has been mur-
deu-d," \\ ,-!- the answer I received to that question.
ilesh began to creep all over from head to foot.
" 1 am -hocked I am horrified to say," Mr. Philip went on,
' that the suspicion affects your mistress in the tir.-t {'lace, and
ad."
I shall not attempt to describe what I felt when he said that.
-rds of mine, no words of anybody's, could give an id.
her men would have done in my situation I don't
know. 1 stood before Mr. Philip, staring straight at him, with-
out speaking, without moving, almost without breathing. If he
or any other man had struck me at that moment, I do not be-
lieve 'l should have felt the blow.
>th my brother and myself," said Mr. Philip, "have such
nnfe ped f<>r your mistress, such sympathy for her under
frightful circuni lances, and such an implicit belief in her
capability of proving her innocence, that we are desirous of
sparing Tier in this dreadful emergency as much as possible.
those , I have undertaken to come here with the per
appointed to execute my brother's warrant "
" Warrant, sir!" 1 said. jj.e!t:n.u r command of my voice a
pro- that word ** a warrant against my ml
Lgainet her and againsl you." said Mr. Philip.
ircums: >rn to hv a wit-
- d.-elar.-d on oath i ir mistr- . and
that you are an accomp
11 What u itne>-. sir V"
Your mistress' quadroon maid, wh
this nn.rninu. and who has made 1 m."
And \\ ho is iiell." 1 .-ried 01. -nately.
. >rd slie t mv n:
1 hope DO, I will JA~'> further, ai
206 THE QUEEN OF HEAR'l
said Mr. Philip. "But her perjury must be proved, and the
necessary examination must take place. My carriage is going
back to my brother's, and you will go in it, in charge of one of
my men, who has the warrant to take you in custody. I shall re-
main here with the man who is waiting in the hall; and, before
any steps are taken to execute the other warrant, I shall send
for the doctor to ascertain when your mistress can be removed."
"Oh, my poor mistress!" I said, "this will be the death of
her, sir."
" I will take care that the shock shall strike her as tenderly
as possible," said Mr. Philip. " I am here for that express pur-
pose. She has my deepest sympathy and respect, and shall have
every help and alleviation that I can afford her."
The hearing him say that, and the seeing how sincerely he
meant what he said, was the first gleam of comfort in the
dreadful affliction that had befallen us. I felt this; I felt a
burning anger against the wretch who had done her best to ruin
my mistress* fair name and mine, but in every other respect I
was like a man who had been stunned, and whose faculties had
not perfectly recovered from, the shock. Mr. Philip was obliged
to remind me that time was of importance, and that I had better
give myself up immediately, on the merciful terms which his kind-
ness offered to me. I acknowledged that, and wished him good-
morning. But a mist seemed to come over my eyes as I turned
round to go away a mist that prevented me from finding my
way to the door. Mr. Philip opened it for me, and said a friendly
word or two which I could hardly hear. The man outside took
me to his companion in the carriage at the door, and I was
driven away, a prisoner for the first time in my life.
On our way to the justice's what little thinking faculty I had
left in me was all occupied in the attempt to trace a motive for
the inconceivable treachery and falsehood of which Josephine
had been guilty.
Her words, her looks, and her manner, on that unfortunate
day when my mistress so far forgot herself as to strike her,
came back dimly to my memory, and led to the inference that
part of the motive, at least, of which I was in search might be
referred to what ha'd happened on that occasion. But was
this the only reason for her devilish vengeance against my
mistress? And, even if it were so; what fancied injuries had I
done her? Why should I be included in the false accusation?
In the dazed state of my faculties at that time I was quite in-
capable of seeking the answer to these questions. My mind was
clouded all over, and I gave up the attempt to clear it in despair.
I was brought Mr. Robert Nicholson that day, and the fiend
of a quadroon was examined in my presence. The first sight of
her face, with its wicked self-possession, with its smooth, leering
triumph, so sickened me that I turned my head away and never
looked at her a second time throughout the proceedings. The
answers she gave amounted to a mere repetition of the deposi-
tion to which she had already sworn. I listened to her with the
niost breathless attention, and was thunderstruck at the incon-
7V < 207
hlo artfulness with which sin- had mixed up truth and
falsehood in her eh t my mi
Tin
After describing the manner of Mr. Jamea Smitl il at
the Hall, the wr >sephine Durand, confe.-M-d that she had
been led t<> listen at the music-room door l>y hearing a-
. and she then described truly enough the I
(he altercation between husband and wife. Fearing,
after this, that something serious might happen, she had kept
h in her room, which was on the same tloor as her mis-
. She had heard her mistress' door open softly,
.(iid two in the morning had followed her mistress, who
carried a smaJllamp, along the passage and down the stairs into
the hall had hidden herself in the porters chair had seen her
mistress take a dagger in a green sheath from a collection of
rn curiosities kept in the hall had followed her again and
f'tly enter the Red Room had heard the h<
breathing of Mr. James Smith, which gave token that he was
ji had slipped into an empty room next door to the
Room, and had waited there about a quarter of an hour, when
her i came out again with the dagger in her hand had
followed her mistress again into the hall, where she had put the
'I- hack into its place had seen her mistress turn into a
side passage that led to my room had heard her knock at my
door, nnd heard me answer and open it had hidden again in
the |K>rter's chair had, after a while, seen me and my mi-
Aether into the passage that led to the Red Room had
iied us both into the Red Room and had then, through
>f being discovered and murdered herself if she risked de-
n any longer, stolen back to her own room for the rest of
the night.
After deposing on oath to the truth of these atrocious f
3, and declaring, in conclusion, that Mr. James Smith had
murdered by my mistress, and (hat T was an acconi]
the quadroon had further a in order to show am
for the crime, that Mr. Meeke was my mistre-s' lover; that he
had been forbidden the house by her husband, and that he was
found in the house, and alone with her, on the evening of Mr.
is Smith's return. Here again there were some grar
truth cunningly mixed up with a revolting lie. and they had
their elT the falsehood a look of probability.
i in the usual manner, and asked if I had
thing
plied that I was innocent, but that I would wait for I
I defended myself. The justice remanded me,
and the examination wa lays later my unh
mistress was subjected to the same trial. 1 was not
commun ith her. All I knew was that the lawyer had
arrived from London to help h--r. Toward the evening he was
admitted to see me. Me shook his head sorrowfully
iy mist i
"Iain ' he said. * that she has sunk under the h>
of the situation in which that vilr woman
208 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
Weakened by her previous agitation, she seems to have given
way under this last shock, tenderly and carefully as Mr. Philip
Nicholson broke the bad news to her. All her feelings appeared
to be strangely blunted at the examination to-day. She an-
swered the questions put to her quite correctly, but at the same
time, quite mechanically, with no change in her complexion,
or in her tone of voice, or in her manner, from beginning to end.
It is a sad thing, William, when women cannot get their natural
vent of weeping, and your mistress has not shed a tear since she
left Darrock Hall."
'" But surely, sir," I said, " if my examination has not proved
Josephine's perjury, my mistress' examination must have ex-
posed it ?"
"Nothing will expose it," answered the lawyer, "but pro-
ducing Mr. James Smith, or, at least,' legally proving that he is
alive. Morally speaking, I have rid doubt tnat the justice before
whom you have beeri examined is as firmly convinced as we can
be that the quadroon has perjured herself. Morally speaking,
he believes that those threats which your mistress unfortunately
Used, referred (as she said they did to-day) to her intention of
leaving the Hall early in the morning, with you for her attend-
ant and coming to me, if she had been well enough to travel, to
seek effectual legal protection frdni her husband for the future.
Mr, Nicholson believes that; and I, who know more of the circum-
stances than he does, believe also that Mr. James Smith stole
&way from Darrock Hall in the night under fear of being indicted
for bigamy. But if I can't find him if I can't prove him to be
alive if I can't account for those spots of blood on the night
gown, the accidental circumstances of the case remain unex-
plained your mistress' rash language, the bad terms on which
she has lived with her husband, and her unlucky disregard of
appearances in keeping up her intercourse with Mr. Meeke, all
tell dead against us and the justice has no alternative in a legal
point of view, but to remand you both, as he has now done, for
the production of further evidence."
"But how, then, in Heaven's name, is our innocence to be
proved, sir?" I asked.
" In the first place," said the lawyer, " by finding Mr. James
Smith; and. in the second place, by persuading him, when he is
found, to come forward and declare himself."
"Do you really believe, sir," said I, "that he would hesitate
to do that, when he knows the horrible charge to which his dis-
appearance has exposed his wife? He is a heartless villain, I
know; but surely
"I don't suppose," said the lawyer, cutting me short, "that
he is quite scoundrel enough to decline coming forward, suppos-
ing he ran no risk by doing so. But remember that he has
placed himself in a position to be tried for bigamy, and that he
believes your mistress will put the law in force against him."
I had forgotten that circumstance. My heart sank within IMC
when it was recalled to my memory, and I could say nothing
more.
"It is a very serious thing," the lawyer went on "it is a
THE
<.v of the land to make any pri-
to this man. Kn A hat we
know, our di. -oil citi/ udi in
bring him to trial. I tell you plainly that, if I did not
1 your mistress in the position <>]' a n-l
as a legal adviser. I should think twice about running '
risk on which 1 am now about to vent UP
is, I have taken tbe right me:
Mr. James Smith that he will not be treated according to his
is. When he knows what the circun are. he will
trust as-6nppoeing always that we can tind him. The search
about this neighborhood has been quite n I have
private instructions by to-day's post to Mr. Dark in London, and
with them a carefully worded form of advertisement for the,
public newspapers. You may rest assured that every human
18 of tracing him will be tried forthwith. In the n
time, 1 have an important question to be put to you about
->he may know more than we think she <
may have surprised the secret of the second marriage, and
epmg it in reserve to use against ns. If this should turn
out to l>e the east-. 1 shall want some other chance against her
besides the chance of indicting her for perjury. her
motive now for making this horrible accusation, what can
tell me about that. William?''
" Her motive against me?"
"No, no, not against you. I can see plainly enough that she
accuses yon because it is necessary to do so to add to the prob-
ability of her story, which, of course, assumes that you helped
your mistress to dispose of the dead body. You are coollj
d to some devilish vengeance against her mistro-. Let ns
. t that first. Has there ever been a quarrel between th
I told him of the quarrel, and of how Josephine had 1<>
and talked when she showed me her eh.
"Yes/' he said, "that is a strong motive for revenge with a
naturally pitiless, vindictive woman. Hut is that all? Had
your nu ny hold over her? Is there any selt'-in;
mixed up along with this motive of vengeance? Think a little.
William. Has anything ever happened in the house to
promise this woman, or to make her fane f compromi
The remembrance of my mistres-' lost trinkets and ban-:
chiefs, which later and greater troubles had put out of my mind,
flashed back into my memory while he spoke. I told bin
mediately of the alarm in the house when the loss wa
d.
"Did your mistress suspect Josephine and question her ?" he
rly.
"No. sir." 1 replied. i>h-
ine impudently asked who 9J vied, and bold!
own ho\e< to IH> search 1
The lawyer's face turned red He jumped OU
his chair, and hit me such a smack on the shoulder tl.
thought he had gone mad.
210 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
"By Jupiter!" lie cried out, " we have got the whip-hand of
that she-devil at last!"
I looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, man alive," he said, "don't you see how it is?
Josephine's the thief! I am as sure of it as that you and I are
talking together. This vile accusation against your mistress
answers another purpose besides the vindictive one it is the
very best screen that the wretch could possibly set up to hide
herself from detection. It has stopped your mistress and you
from moving in the matter; it exhibits her in the false character
of an honest witness against a couple of criminals; it gives her
time to dispose of the goods, or to hide them, or to do anything
she likes with them. Stop! let me be quite sure that I know
what the lost things are. A pair of bracelets, three rings, and
a lot of lace pocket-handkerchiefs is that what you said ?"
'"Yes, sir."
"Your mistress will describe them particularly, and I will
take the right steps the first thing to-morrow morning. Good-
evening, William, and keep up your spirits. It sha'n't be nay
fault if you don't soon see the quadroon in the right place for
her at the prisoner's bar."
With that farewell he went out.
The days passed, and I did not see him again until the period
of my remand had expired. On this occasion, when I once more
appeared before the justice, my mistress appeared with me. The
first sight of her absolutely startled me, she was so sadly altered.
Her face looked so pinched and thin that it was like the face of
an old woman. The dull, vacant resignation of her expression
was something shocking to see. It changed a little when her
eyes first turned heavily toward me, and she whispered, with a
faint smile, " I am sorry for you, William I am very, very sorry
for ?/ow." But as soon as she had said those words the blank
look returned, and she sat with her head drooping forward,
quiet, and inattentive, and hopeless so changed a being that her
oldest friends would hardly have known her.
Our examination was a mere formality. There was no addi-
tional evidence either for or against us, and we were remanded
again for another week.
I asked the lawyer, privately, if any chance had offered itself
of tracing Mr. James Smith. He looked mysterious, and only
said in answer, " Hope for the best." I inquired next if any
progress had been made toward fixing the guilt of the robbery on
Josephine.
" I never boast," he replied. " But, cunning as she is, I should
not be surprised if Mr. Dark and I together turned out to be
more than a match for her."
Mr. Dark! There was something in the mere mention of his
name that gave me confidence in the future. If I could only
have got my poor mistress' sad, dazed face out of nay mmd, I
should not have had much depression of spirits to complain of
during the interval of time that elapsed between the second ex-
amination and the third.
Til HEARTS. 211
CHAPTER VI.
ON the thinl appearance of my mistress and myself before the
'e, I noticed some faces in the room which I had not seen
. reatly to my astonishment for the previous
.iiiations had been conducted as privately as possible I re-
marked the \ of two of the servants from the Hall, and
of three or four of the tenants on the Darrock estate, who lived
> the house. They all sat together on one side of thu
justice-room. Opposite to them, and close at the side of a <
: my old acquaint a nee, Mr. Dark, with his big snuff -box, his
jolly face, and his winking eye. He nodded to me, when I
1 at him, as jauntily a were meeting at a party of
ure. The quadroon woman, who had been summoned to
the examination, had a chair placed opposite to the witness-box,
and in a line with the seat occupied by my poor mi
looks, as 1 was grieved to see, were not altered for the b-
The lawyer from London was with her, and I stood behind her
chair.
We were all quietly disposed in the room in this way, v
the justice, Mr. Robert Nicholson, came in with his brother. It
might have been only fancy, but I thought I could see iu both
their faces that something remarkable had happened sine
had met at the last examination.
The deposition of Josephine Durand was read over by the
clerk, and she was asked if she had anything to add to it. She
replied in the negative. The justice then appealed to my mis-
tress' relation, the lawyer, to know if he could produce any evi-
relating to the charge against his clients.
I have evidence," answered the lawyer, getting briskh
his legs, " which I believe, sir, will justify nie in asking for their
disch:i!
Where are your witnesses?" inquired the justice, IcoK
hard at Josephine while he spoke.
"One of them is in waiting, your worship," said Mr. Dark,
ing the door near which he was standing.
lie went out of the room, remained away about a nun-
returned with his witness at his heels.
My hea a bound as if it would jump out of my 1
. with his long haircut short, and his bushy whi
shared off there, in his own proper person, safe and sound as
ever, was Mr. James Smith!
The quadroon's iron nature resisted the
pected presence on I with a steadiness that 'liiug
short of marvelous. Her thin lips closed to:
and there was a slight movement iu the muscles of her tl
But not a word, not a siirn I r. Even th
tinge of her complexion remained uncl
iot nee. 1 should time and v\
in referring 'to the wicked and pre; dust my
clients," said the lawyer, add
"Th< .th'cient justification for discharging then; inn
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ately is before you at this moment in the person of that gentle-
man. There, sir, stands the murdered Mr. James Smith, of Dar-
rock Hall, alive and well, to answer for himself."
" That is not the man!" cried Josephine, her shrill voice just as
high, clear, and steady as ever. ''I denounce that man as an
impostor. Of my own knowledge I deny that he is Mr. James
Smith."
" No doubt you do," said the lawyer; " but we will prove his
identity for all that."
The first witness called was Mr. Philip Nicholson. He couM
swear that he had seen Mr. James Smith, and had spoken to him.
at least a dozen times. The person now before him was Mr.
James Smith, altered as to personal appearance by having his
hair cut short and his whiskers shaved off, but still unmistak-
ably the man he assumed him to be.
" Conspiracy!" interrupted the prisoner, hissing the word out
viciously between her teeth.
" If you are not silent," said Mr. Robert Nicholson, "you will
be removed from the room. It will sooner meet the ends of
justice," he went on, addressing the lawyer, " if you prove the
question of identity by witnesses who have been in habits of
daily communication with Mr. James Smith/'
Upon this, one of the servants from the Hall was placed in the
box.
The alteration in his master's appearance evidently puzzled
the man. Besides the perplexing change already adverted to,
there was also a change in Mr. James Smith's expression and
manner. Rascal as he was, I must do him the justice to say
that he looked startled and ashamed when he first caught sight
of his unfortunate wife. The servant, who was used to be eyed
tyrannically by him, and ordered about roughly, seeing him now
for the first time abashed and silent, stammered and hesitated
on being asked to swear to his identity.
" I can hardly say for certain, sir," said the man, addressing
the justice in a bewildered manner. " He is like my master,
and yet he isn't. If he wore whiskers and had his hair long,
and if he was, saving your presence, sir, a little more rough and
ready in his way, I could swear to him anywhere with a safe
conscience."
Fortunately for us, at this moment Mr. James Smith's feeling
of uneasiness at the situation in which he was placed changed to
a feeling of irritation at being coolly surveyed and then stupidly
doubted in the matter of his identity by one of his own servants.
" Can't you say in plain words, you idiot, whether you know
me or whether you don't!" he called out angrily.
" That's his voice!" cried the servant, starting in the box.
" Whiskers or no whiskers, that's him!"
"If there is any difficulty, your worship, about the gentle-
man's hair," said Mr. Dark, coming forward with a grin, " here's
a small parcel which, I may make so bold as to say, will remove
it." Saying that, he opened the parcel, took some locks of hair
out of it, and held them up close to Mr. James Smith's head.
" A pretty good match, your worship," continued Mr. Dark.
1)1 '
" I h doubt t
off. 'id. l)Ut
the hair: and they are in the paper (if one may say such at!
>k fir 1;
"Lies! lies! lit imed Josephine, losing her wicked
control at tli of the proceed ii
Tin- justice made a sign to two of the constables pr-
; with those exclamations, and tl
her to an adjoining room.
The second servant from the Hall was then put in '
and was followed by one of the tenants. After what I
heard and seen, neither of these men had any hesitation ;
ively to their master's identity.
"It is quite unnecessary," said the ju- the box
< mpty again, "to examine any more o the
ion of identity All the legal formaliti iplished.
and the charge against the prisoners falls to the ground. I have
plt-asnre in ordering the immediate diseh both the
'il persons, and in declaring from this place that they leave
;rt without tlie slightest stain on their characte:
He bowed low to mv mistress as he said that, paused a mo-
ment, and then looked inquiringly at Mr. James Smith.
"I have hitherto abstained from making any remark uncon-
nected with the immediate matter in hand.'' he weii But,
now that my duty is done, I cannot leave this chair without ex-
ing my strong sense of disapprobation of the condu
Mr. James Smith conduct which, whatever may be the motives
that occasioned it, has given a false color of probability to a
horrible charge against a lady of unspotted reputation, and
against a person in a lower rank of life whose good char
ought not to have l>een imperiled even fora moment. Mr. Smith
may or may not choose to explain his mysterious disappea'
from Darrock Hall, and the equally unaccountable change which
he has chosen to make in his personal appeaiance. Tl
charge against him: but, speaking morally. 1 should he un-
iy of the place 1 hold if I hesitated to declare my pi
conviction that his conduct has been deceitful, mcon>id<
and unfeeling in the highest degree."
To this sharp reprimand Mr. James Smitl -itly tut
-id as to what he was to say) replied that, in attending
re the ju-tice. lie wished to |M>rform a plain dut;
himsdf strictly within the letter of the law. He
that the only legal obligation laid on him A'.
and to enable
prove his identity. This duty accomplished, he h.
add. that he preferred submr reprimand from the
h, to entering into explanati" 1 f i would involve the
disclosure of domestic cirCUOQSte unhappy nature.
rief reply he had nothing fu d he
ttfully request the justi ' ii-sion to \vith<i-
The permission was accorded. \
r his wife, and said
214 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
11 1 have done you many injuries, but I never intended this. I
am sorry for it. Have you anything to say to me before I go ?"
My mistress shuddered and hid her face. He waited a mo-
ment, and finding that she did not answer him, bowed his head
politely and went out. I did not know it then, but I had seen
him for the last time.
After be had gone, the lawyer, addressing Mr. Robert Nichol-
son, said that he had an application to make in reference to the
woman Josephine Durand.
At the mention of that name my mistress hurriedly whispered
a few words into her relation's ear. He looked toward Mr.
Philip Nicholson, who immediately advanced, offered his arm to
my mistress, and led her out. I was about to follow, when Mr.
Dark stopped me, and begged that I would wait a few minutes
longer, in order to give myself the pleasure of seeing " the end
of the case."
In the meantime the justice had pronounced the necessary
order to have the quadroon brought back. She came in, as bold
and confident as ever. Mr. Robert Nicholson looked away from
her in disgust, and said to the lawyer:
" Your application is to have her committed for perjury, of
course ?"
'For perjury?" said Josephine, with her wickrd smile.
" Very good. I shall explain some little matters that I have not
explained before. You think I am quite at your mercy now ?
Bah! I shall make myself a thorn in your sides yet."
"She has got scent of the second marriage," whispered Mr.
Dark to me.
There could be no doubt of it. She had evidently been listen-
ing at the door on the night when my master came back longer
than I supposed. She must'have heard these words about "' the
new wife " she might even have seen the effect of them on Mr.
James Smith.
" We do not at present propose to charge Josephine Durand
with perjury," said the lawyer, " but with another offense, for
which it is important to try her immediately, in order to effect
the restoration of property that has been stolen. I charge her
with stealing from her mistress, while in her service at Darroek
Hall, a pair of bracelets, three rings, and a dozen and a half of
lace pocket-handkerchiefs. The articles in question were taken
this morning from between the mattresses or her bed; and a let-
ter was found in the same place which clearly proves that she
had represented the property as belonging to herself, and that
she had tried to dispose of it to a purchaser in London." "While
he was speaking, Mr. Dark produced the jewelry, the handker-
chiefs, and the letter, and laid them before the justice.
Even Josephine's extraordinary power of self-control now gave
way at last. At the first words of the unexpected charge agaiust
her she struck her hands together violently, gnashed her sharp
white teeth, and burst out with a torrent of fierce-sounding
words in some foreign language, the meaning of which I did not
understand then, and cannot explain now.
v "I think that's checkmate for marmzelle," whispered Mr.
77,
Park, with 1 > the
Hall now. William, and lr;i <>f that
ale o; il be after \ou in Bve minutes, as -"'ii aw the,
de nil!."
n!<l lianily reali/e it when I found myself walking bar
in.
hi a quarter of an hour's time Mr. Dark joined me. and di
to my healtli, happin 1 ])rosperity in three separate turn-
After performing this ceremony, he \ I and
chuekled with an appearance of sueh excessive enjoyment that
1.1 not avoid remarking on his high spirits.
"It William it's the beautiful neatness of the
that quite intoxicates me. Oh Lord, what a happiir
rued in sueh a job as this!" cries Mr. Dark, slapping his
stumpy hands on his fat knees in a sort of ecst;i
1 had a very different opinion of the case for my own part, hut
I did 7iot venture on expressing it. I was too anxious to know
how Mr. .Jame-, Smith had l>een discovered and produced at the
ination to enter into any arguments. Mr. Dark gu-
what was passing in my mind, and, telling me to sit down and
make myself comfortable, volunteered of his own accord to in-
form me of all that I wanted to know.
"When I got my instructions and my statement of partic-
ulars," he began, " I was not at all surprised to hear that Mr.
James Smith had comeback. (I prophesied that, if you remem-
\Villi-im, the last time we met?) But I was a <rood deal
ished. nevertheless, at the turn things had taken, and I
can't say I felt very hopeful about finding our man. Ho\\
I followed my master's directions, and put the advertisement in
the paper-. It addressed Mr. James Smith by name, but it
very carefully worded as to what was wanted of him. Two
after it appeared, a letter came to our office in a woman's
handwriting. It was my business to open the ' ml I
opened that. The writer was short and mysterious. S!
quested that somebody would call from our o; t certain
addi veen the hours of two and four that afternoon, in
the advertisement which we had inserted in tins
Of course. I was the somebody who went. I kept
If from budding up hopes by tl knowing what
of Mr. ,). niths there were in London. On getting to the
e, 1 was shown into t he drawing-room, and there, dr-
aper and lying on a sofa, was an uncommon!
woman, who looked as if she was just recovering from an ill*
. She had a newspaper by her side, and < point
at once: ' My husband's name is .lames Smith.' she sa
I have my rea-ons for wanting to know if he is the pe:
ii search of/ 1 described our man a> Mr. .lames Smi:
Darrock Hall, Cumberland. 'I know no Mich i
"
11 What! was it not the second wife, after all?" I broke out.
" Wait a bit," says Mr. Dark. M I mentioned the name of the
an 1 she started ui
i think you
216 THE QUEEN OF 1 HEARTS.
She turns as pale as ashes, and drops back on the sofa, and says
faintly: ' It is my husband. Oh, sir, what has happened ? What
do you want with him ? Is he in debt ?' I took a minute to
think, and then made up my mind to tell her everything, feel-
ing that she would keep her husband (as she called him) out of
the way if I frightened her by any mysteries. A nice job I had,
William, as you may suppose, when she knew about the bigamy
business. What with screaming, fainting, crying, and blowing
me up (as if I was to blame!), she kept me by that sofa of hers
the best part of an hour kept me there, in short, till Mr. James
Smith himself came back. I leave you to judge if that mended
matters. He found me mopping the poor woman's temples with
scent and water; and he would have pitched me out of the
window, as sure as I sit here, if I had not met him and staggered
him at once with the charge of murder against his wife. That
stopped him when he was in full cry, I can promise you. ' Go
and wait in the next room,' says he, * and I'll come in and speak
to you directly.' "
"And did you go?" I asked.
" Of course 1 did," said Mr. Dark. " I knew he couldn't get
out by the drawing-room windows, and I knew I could watch
the door; so away I went, leaving him alone with the lady, who
didn't spare him by any manner of means, as I could easily hear
in the next room. However, all rows in the world come to an
end sooner or later, and a man with any brains in his head may
do what he pleases with a woman who is fond of him. Before
long I heard her crying and kissing him. ' I can't go home,' she
says, after this. ' You have behaved like a villain and a mon-
ster to me but, oh! Jemmy, 1 can't give you up to anybody!
Don't go back to your wife! Oh, don't go back to your
wife!' ' No fear of that,' says he. ' My wife wouldn't have
me if I did go back to her.' After that I heard the door
open, and went out to meet him on the landing. He began
swearing the moment he saw me, as if that was any good.
' Business first, if you please, sir,,' says I, 'and any pleasure
you like, in the way of swearing, afterward.' With that
beginning I mentioned our terms to him, and asked the pleasure
of his company to Cumberland in return. He was uncom-
monly suspicious at first, but I promised to draw out a legal
document (mere waste paper, of no earthly use except to pacify
him), engaging to hold him harmless throughout the proceed-
ings; and what, with that, and telling him of the frightful danger
his wife was in. I managed, at last, to carry my point/
" But did the second wife make no objection to his going away
with you?" I inquired.
" Not she," said Mr. Dark. " I stated the case to her just as
it stood, and soon satisfied her that there was no danger of Mr.
James Smith's first wife laying any claim to him. After hear-
ing that, she joined me in persuading him to do his duty, and
said she pitied your mistress from the bottom of her heart.
With her influence to back me, I had no great fear of our man
changing his mind. I had the door watched that night, how-
ever, so as to make quite sure of him. The next morning he
1 a )ii;i in hour
that tin- north road.
journe\ with p. g afraid of ch
yon knou , in pir ( >n tin- way down V.
Smith and 1 ^<>t on as comfortably together as it' we hail I
of old friends. 1 told tin f our t racing him \-
north of Scotland, and IK- i^ave me the particulars, in return,
of his boltii Darrock Hall. They are rather am u
William: would yon like to hear them?
id Mr. Dark that lit- had anticipated the very question I
k him."
l> \Ycll," he said, "this is how it was: To begin at the b<
our man really took Mrs. Smith, Number Two. i<
.n. as we heard. He sailed uj> the Spanish
and, after short tups ashore, stopped at a sea-side place in Fi
called Cannes. There ht saw a house and grounds to be
which took his fancy as a nice retired pla-'r to keep NumberTwo
in. Nothing particular was wauted but the money to buy it,
and, not having the little amount in his own p<
iiith makes a virtue of necessity, and uors b,-,
land to his wife with private designs on her pur>e-strin.L;s. Num-
ber Two, who objects to be left behind, ^oes with him as far as
London. There he trumps up the lirst story that comes into his
about rents in the country, and a house in Lincolnshire
that is too damp for her to trust herself in; and so, leaving her
days in London, starts boldly for Darroek Hall. His
> wheedle your mistress out of the money by
behavior; but it seems he started badly by quarreling with her
it a fiddle-playing parson "
" Y 1 know all about that part of the story,"! broke in,
4 by Mr. Dark's manner that lie was likely to -<p.-ak both
intly and impertinently of my mistros' unlucky friendship
lr. Meeke. "Go on to the time when I left my master alone
in the Red Room, and tell me what he did hi ! and
the next morning."
Did '."'' said Mr. Dark. "Why. he went to bed with the un-
ant conviction, on his mind that your mi-;
turnout, and with no comfort to speak iat he could
it of the brandy InUtle. lie couldn't 'nore
! and tumbled, the more certain he felt that his wii
tended to have him tried for bi^amv. At I 1-1. tou
of the morning, he could stand it no lon-jvr. and he ; his
mind to law the slip while h-- had the chan
i. it struck him that there mi-hi
otTered for catching him. and he deiermine.l to make in
change in Ins p.-r><>nal appearaiicv \\ hich pu/./led
so much before the mai^i-i r
!>s his hair in no time, and i;
iire was out, and he had to >hav.
What with that, and what with the llui ml, naturally
i.u'h he cut himself v
dried the hi I with h i.
\Vitn hi>
218 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
thing that lay handy, and he snatched it up. Wait a bit, though;
the cream of the thing is to come. When he had done being his
own barber, he couldn't for the life of him hit on a way of get-
ting rid of the loose hair. The fire was out, and he had no
matches, so he couldn't burn it. As for throwing it away, he
didn't dare do that in the house or about the house, for fear of
its being found, and betraying what he had done. So he wraps
it all up in paper, crams it into his pocket to be disposed of when
he is at a safe distance from the Hall, takes his bag, gets out at
the window, shuts it softly after him, and makes for the road as
fast as his long legs will carry him. There he walks on till a
coach overtakes him, and so travels back to London to find him-
self in a fresh scrape as soon as he gets there. An interesting
situation, William, and hard traveling from one end of France
to the other, had not agreed together in the case of Number Two.
Mr. James Smith found her in a bed, with doctor's orders that
she was not to be moved. There was nothing for it after that
but to lie by in London till the lady got better. Luckily for us,
she didn't hurry herself; so that, after all, your mistress has to
thank the very woman who supplanted her for clearing her
character by helping us to find Mr. James Smith."
* And, pray, how did you come by that loose hair of his which
you showed before the justice to-day ?" I asked.
" Thank Number Two again," says Mr. Dark. " I was put to
asking after it by what she told me. While we were talking
about the advertisement, T made so bold as to inquire what first
set her thinking that her husband and the Mr. James Smith
whom we wanted might be one and the same man. Nothing,'
says she, ' but seeing him come home with his hair cut short
and his whiskers shaved off, and finding that he could not give
me any good reason for disfiguring himself in that way. I had
my suspicions that something was wrong, and the sight of your
advertisement strengthened them directly.' The hearing her
say that suggested to my mind that there might be a difficulty
in identifying him after the change in his looks, and I asked
him what he had done with the loose hair before we left Lon-
don. It was found in the pocket of his traveling coat just as he
hud huddled it up there on leaving the Hall, worry, and fright,
and vexation having caused him to forget all about it. Of course
I took charge of the parcel, and you know what good it did as
well as I do. So to speak, William, it just completed this beau-
tifully neat case. Looking at the matter in a professional point
of view, I don't hesitate to say that we have managed our busi-
ness with Mr. James Smith to perfection. We have produced
him at the right time, and we are going to get rid of him at the
right time. By to-night he will be on his way to foreign parts
with Number Two, and he won't show his nose in England again
if he lives to the age of Methuselah."
It was a relief to hear that, and it was almost as great a com-
fort to find, from what Mr. Dark said next, that my mistress
need fear nothing that Josephine could do for the future.
The charge of theft, on which she was about to be tried, did
not afford the shadow of an excuse in law any more than in
Til HEAR'. ' 219
for alludin I hirli her m I. If
;t to tall 16 might
iiion. hi;' <-uld not ha< lightest
usly in a court of law.
' In sh> ; r. Dark, risit ice his It-
told you William, i' unate for marm/elle.
didn't in. <-f the robbery half as -harph
should have expected. She certainly began \\ell enough by
Modestly at a lodging in the village her al 1
ic examinations, as it might be required: nothing could
more innocent and respectable so far: hut her hiding the
n the mat Irenes of her bed the very first ;
that need man would think of looking in was
an amazingly -tupid thing to do. that I really can't account for
her mind had more weighing on it than it was able to
which, considering the If 1 for, is
h. Anyhow, her hands are tied now, and
;'or the matter of that. Give my
and tell her that her runaway husband and her lying
maid will never either of them harm her again as long as they
live. She has nothing to do now but to pluck up her spirits and
iappv. Here's long life to her anH to William, in the last
md here's the same toast to myself in the bottom of
the jug."
"With these words Mr. Dark pocketed his lartre snuff-box. L
a last wink with his bright eye. and walked rapid!
whistling, to catch the London coach. From that time to this
ul 1 have never met again.
A few l-i-t words relating to my mistress and to the other
ehiefly concerned in this narrative will conclude all that is
iry for me to say.
For some months, the relatives and friends, and I myself, felt
misgivings on my poor mi u-count. We doubt
le. with such a quick, sensible nature as hers, that
. ould Mipport the shock which had been inflicted on her.
Hut our powers of endurance are. MS I have learned to believe.
en equal to the burdens laid upon us than we are apt t"
imagine. Iha\- ,rpri-;ing r< from illness
after all hope had been lost, and I have liv- my mi-
torn tin ';d terror which we once thought would
:al to her. It was long before ^ie began to hold up her
lin: bn and kindness, and time and change,
wrought their ell'ect on her at la^t. She is not now. ;md :
will M, the woman si : her manner is al;
and she ! ier by n than -he really i>. HI.
healt h cans. -s us no anxiety now: her spirits are cal 'jiial.
and I h that many qu 1 n her
re left for me still. I myself hav.
lon.u I of time which I am now passing over in;
This chang" in my life is. |>erhaps not wt>rth me:
ing. but 1 am reminded of mv two lin \\hen I
it ion. think t
i happiness, and i: r life,
220 - THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
and prevent her from feeling lonely and dried up at heart. It
is a pleasant reflection to me to remember this, and perhaps it
may be the same to you, for which reason only I speak of it.
As for the other persons connected with the troubles at Dar-
rock Hall, I may mention the vile woman Josephine first, so as
to have the sooner done with her. Mr. Dark's guess, when he
tried to account for her want of cunning in hiding the stolen
property by saying that her mind might have had more weigh-
ing on it than she was able to bear, turned out to be nothing less
than the plain and awful truth. After she had been found
guilty of the robbery, and had been condemned to seven years,
transportation, a worse sentence fell upon her from a higher
tribunal than anv in this world. While she was still in the
county jail, previous to her removal, her mind gave way, the
madness breaking out in an attempt to set fire to the prison.
Her case was pronounced to be hopeless from the first. The law-
ful asylum received her, and the lawful asylum will keep her to
the end of her days.
Mr. James Smith, who, in my humble opinion, deserved hang-
ing by law, or drowning by accident at least, lived quietly
abroad with his Scotch wife (or no wife) for two years, and then
died in the most quiet and customary manner, in his bed, after
a short illness. His end was" described tome as a " highly edify-
ing one." But as he was also reported to have sent his forgive-
ness to his w r ife which was as much as to say that he was the
injured person of the two I take leave to consider that he was
the same impudent vagabond in his last moments that he had
been all his life. His Scotch widow has married again, and is
now settled in London. I hope her husband is all her own prop-
perty this time.
Mr. Meeke must not be forgotten, although he has dropped out
of the latter part of my story because he had nothing to do with
the serious events which followed Josephine's perjury. In the
confusion and wretchedness of that time, he was treated with
very little ceremony, and was quite passed over when we left the
neighborhood. After pining and fretting some time, as we after-
ward heard, in his lonely parsonage, he resigned his living at the
first chance he got, and took a sort of under-chaplain's place in
an English chapel abroad. He writes to my mistress once or
twice a year to ask after her health and well- being, and she
writes back to him. That is all the communication they are ever
likely to have with each other. The music they once played to-
gether will never sound again. Its last notes have long since
faded away, and the last words of this story, trembling on the
lips of the teller, may now fade with them.
THE NINTH DAY.
A LITTLE change in the weather. The rain still continues, but
the wind is not quite so high. Have I any reason to believe, be-
cause it is calmer on land, that it is also calmer at sea ? Per-
haps not. But my mind is scarcely so uneasy to-day, neverthe-
less,
77 / V OF TS.
I had looked over fix- newspaper with I 1
had laid it down with t i
handed me M letter which she had i
'itten by her aunt, and it upbraided her in
d terms which ladies love t" cmpl.
if tlieir own are concerned. long
: nl her ' from home. Home! I thought of
d of the one hope on which ail 1:
MI! 1 felt jealous of tho word when I saw it i
tier to our guest. What right had ai
home" to her until (reorge had spoken first?
" 1 must answer it hy return of post, said Jessie, with a
rrow in her voice for which my heart warmed to her. "
M very kind to me: TOU have taken more pains to i
rid amuse me than I am worth. lean laugh about most
ut T can't laugh ahout going away. I am honestly and
ul for that."
paused, eame round to where I was sitting, perched
self on the end of the table, and, resting her hands on my r-hotil-
. added gently:
"It must be the day after to-morrow, must it not?"
>uld not trust myself to answer. If I had spoken, I should
ha\ i'(l (Jeorge's secret in spite of myself.
''To-morrow is the tenth day." she went OD, softly. "It
-elfish and so ungrateful to go the moment I h;:
the last of the stories, thai I am quite di : at hein_
to enter on the subject at all. And yet, what choice i>
what can I do when my aunt writes to me in that wa
She took up the letter again, and looked at it so ruefully that
I drew her head a little nearer to me, and gratefully kis<ed tho
>th white forehead.
" If your aunt is only half as anxious to see you again, my
love, ag I am to -on, I must forgive her for tal.
v from
The words came from me without premeditation. It
alculation this time, but sheer instinct that impel
;er in this way. once more, by a direct ivferen
She was 80 Close to me that T felt hei breath quiver on my c!
Her eyes had been fixed on my face a moment before, but thev
wandered away from it constrainedly. One of her hands
trembled a little on my shoulder, and she took it off.
hank you for tr make our parting easier to i
said, quickly, and in a lower tone than she had spoken in
1 made no answer, but still looked her anxiously in i
is her nimble, delic,
and refolded the letter from her aunt. \< brupth
her p .sit ion.
"The sooner I wrr .oner it will be
hurriedly turned away to the paper Me.
How was the change in her mariner to U> rightly interpiv
hurt by what I had said. r \\ :Iy so much
it, in the impressionable state of her min
'nt, LIS to be incapable oung g<
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
ary self-control? Her looks, actions and language might bear
either interpretation. One striking omission had marked her
conduct when I had referred to George's return. She had not
inquired when I expected him back. Was this indifference?
Surely not. Surely indifference would have led her to ask the
conventionally civil question which ninety-nine persons out of a
hundred would have addressed to me as a matter of course. Was
she, on her side, afraid to trust herself to speak of George at a
time when an unusual tenderness was aroused in her by the
near prospect of saying farewell ? It might be it might not be
it might be. My feeble reason took the side of my inclination:
and, after vibrating between Yes and No, I stopped where I had
begun at Yes.
She finished the letter in a few minutes and dropped it into
the post-bag the moment it was done.
" Not a word more," she said, returning to me with a sigh of
relief " not a word about my aunt or my going away till the
time comes. We have two more days; let us make the most
of them."
Two more clays! Eight-and -forty hours still to pass; sixty
minutes in each of those hours; and every minute long enough
to bring with it an event fatal to George's future! The bare
thought kept my mind in a fever. For the remainder of the
day I was as desultory and as restless as our Queen of Hearts
herself. Owen affectionately did his best to quiet me, but in
vain. Even Morgan, who whiled away the time by smoking in-
cessantly, was struck by the wretched spectacle of nervous
anxiety that I presented to him, and pitied me openly for being
unable to compose myself with a pipe. Wearily and uselessly
the hours wore on till the sun set. The clouds in the western
heaven wore wild and tortured shapes when I looked out at
them ; and, as the gathering darkness fell on us, the fatal, fear-
ful wind rose once more.
When we assembled at eight, the drawing of the lots had no
longer any interest or suspense, so far as I was concerned. I
had read my last story, and it now only remained for chance to
decide the question of precedency between Owen and Morgan.
Of the two numbers left in the bowl, the one drawn was Nine.
This made it Morgan's turn to read, and left it appropriately to
Osven, as our eldest brother, to close the proceedings on the next
night.
Morgan looked round the table when he had spread out his
manuscript, and seemed half inclined to open fire, as usual,
with a little preliminary sarcasm; but his eyes met mine; he
saw the anxiety I was suffering; and his natural kindness, per-
versely as he might strive to hide it, got the better of him. He
looked down on his paper; growled out briefly, "No need for a
preface; my little bit of writing explains itself; let's go on and
have done with it," and so began to read without another word
from himself or from any of us.
riJAITKlt I.
IT was certainly a dull little dinner-party. < M
two of U- leu between fil'ty and sixty, and t\.
youths between eighteen and twenty, and v.v had in,
Million. We were all intimate witli cur Imst. but \
slightly acquainted with each other. Perl
got on better if there had been some 1.
T of the house was a baehelor, and.
maid, who assisted in waiting on us at dinner, no da;
Eve was present to brighten the dreary scene.
We tried all sorts of subjects, but they di :ic after the
other. The elder gentlemen seemed to he afraid of committing
themselves by talking too freely within hearing of us jm
and we, on our side, restrained our youthful fl<
youthful freedom of conversation put of d- to our
who seemed once or twice to In- feeling a little i! t the
continued propriety of our behavior in the pr<
spectable guests. To make matters worse, \ve had dine-!
sensible hour. When the bottles made their first round at
sert, the clock on the mantel-piece only struck eight. 1 counted
the strokes, and felt certain, from the expression of his face 1 , that
the other junior guest, who sat on one side of me >und
table, was counting them also. When we came to the
eight, we exchanged looks of despair. "Two hours mor
this! What on earth is to become of us?'' In the language of
the eyes, that was exactly what we said to each ot!
The wine was excellent, and I think we all came se
and secretly to the same conclusion that our chair
through the evening was intimately connected wit
tion hi getting through the bottles.
As a matter of course, we talked wine. No companx
lishmen can assemble together for an evenin
that. Every man in this country who is rich en
income-tax has at one time or other in his li
very remarkable transaction in wine. Sometimes he 1
such a bargain as he never expects to make again,
he is the only man in England, not a 1m, who
has got a sin.-le drop of a certain famou iiicli ha
; from the face of the earth. Sometirir
with a friend, a fe\v last left do/ens from the cellar.
price so exorbitant that 1;.
head and decline mentioning it; and. if you
wag Ins head, and decline mentioi
at an out-of-th- untry inn; ha- found ti
not drinkable; has asked if (her. me in the 1;
has been informed that then tutfthat
nobody every drinks;" ha -'.-ailed fi :id it
Burgundy, such as all I annot now produ
ningly kept his own coun-; -1 with the landlady, and ha
224 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
the whole stock for " an old song." Sometimes he knows the
proprietor of a famous tarern in London, and he recommends
nis one or two particular friends, the next time they are passing
that way, to go in and dine and give his compliments to the
landlord, and ask for a bottle of the brown sherry, with the light
blue as distinguished from the dark blue seal. Thousands of
people dine there every year, and think they have got the
famous sherry when they get the dark blue seal; but the real
wine, the famous wine, is the light blue seal, and nobody in
England knows it but the landlord and his friends. In all these
wine- con versatioDS, whatever variety there may be in the various
experiences related, one of two great principles is invariably as-
sumed by each speaker in succession. Either he knows more
about it than any one else, or he has got better wine of his even
than the excellent wine he is now drinking. Men can get to-
gether sometimes without talking of women, without talking of
horses, without talking of politics, but they cannot assemble to
eat a meal together without talking of wine, and they cannot
talk of wine without assuming to each one of themselves an ab-
solute infallibity in connection with that single subject which
they would shrink from asserting in relation to any other topic
tinder the sun.
How long the inevitable wine-talk lasted on the particular
social occasion of which I am now writing is more than I can
undertake to say. T had heard so many other conversations of
the same sort at so many other tables that my attention wan-
dered away wearily, and I began to forget all about the dull lit-
tle dinner-party, and the badly-assorted company of guests of
whom I formed one. How long J remained in this not over-
courteous condition of mental oblivion is more than I can tell;
but when my attention was recalled, in due course of time, to
the little world around me, I found that the good wine had be-
gun to do its good office.
The stream of talk on either side of the host's chair was now
beginning to flow cheerfully and continuously; the wine conver-
sation had worn itself out; and one of the elder guests Mr.
Wendell was occupied in telling the other guest Mr. Trow-
bridge of a small fraud which had lately been committed on
him by a clerk in his employment. The first part of the story I
missed altogether. The last part, which alone caught my at-
tention, followed the career of the clerk to the dock of the Old
Bailey.
" So, as I was telling you," continued Mr. Wendell, "I made
up my mind to prosecute, and I did prosecute. Thoughtless peo-
ple blamed me for sending the young man to prison, and said I
might just as well have forgiven him, seeing that the trifling
sum of money I had lost by his breach of trust was barely as
much as ten pounds. Of course, personally speaking, I would
much rather not have gone into court; but I considered that my
duty to society in general, and to my brother merchants in par-
ticular, absolutely compelled me to prosecute for the sake of ex-
ample. I acted on that principle, and I don't regret that I did
so. The circumstances under which the man robbed me were
Til
M'tilarly 'fill. ! a hard- ,ir, if
ever there \v;ts out- yet: and I 1
ed nothing luit th>
himself."
At the moment when Mr. Wendell personified hi- con-
summate villainy by quoting the example of Fauntleroy, I saw
(her middle-aged gentleman Mr. Tro \vhri
;dden, and 1 fidget in liis chair.
u want to produce an instance of a villain.
sir.' 1 said Mr. Trowbi -idi_ r e. " I wisli you could contrive to quote
some other example than FamUler*
Mr. Wendell naturally enough looked excessively astoni
when he heard these words, which were very firmly, and, at the
same time, very politely, addressed to him.
lay I inquire why you object to my example?" he asked.
"I object to it, sir," said Mr. Trowbndge, " i>
me very uncomfortable to hear Fauntleroy called a villain."
"Good he- xclaimed Mr' Wendell, utterly be-
wild. Uncomfortable! \ ou, a mercantile man like" my-
selfyou, whose character stands so high everywhere you uh-
comfortahle when you hear a man who was hanged for forgery
called a villain! In the name of wonder, why ?"
"B> answered Mr. Trowbridge, with perfect compos-
ure, " Fauntleroy was a friend of mine."
"Excuse me, my dear sir," retorted Mr. Wendell, in as pol-
ished a tone of sarcasm as he could command; k 'but of all the
friends whom you have made in the course of your useful and
honorable career, I should have thought the friend you have just
ioiied would have been the very Ia.-4 to whom you were
likely to refer in respectable society, at least by name.
tnntleroy committed an unpardonable crime, and died a
aceful death," said Mr. Trow bridge. "But, for all that,
Fauntleroy was a friend of mine, and in that character I shall
always acknowledge him boldly to my dying day. 1 have a ten-
mory. though he violated a sacred trust, and
died for it on the gallows. Don't look .shocked, Mr. Wendell.
1 will tell you, and our other friends here, if :
why I feel that tenderness, which looks SO str > dis-
vour eyes. It is rather a curious a
st, 1 think, for all observers of human nature quite
apart from it- coi oe :ti -u with the unhappy in n we
u talking. You } oung gentlen, /Jmud Mr.
Fauntleroy, though lie sinned and su: d all
England
We answered i -ily heard of him as one of
the famous criminals of his dav. V- . had b-
partner in a great London banking-lion-
virtuou nat lu- had
of trust-miiiie\ - which
that he had been ha
hundred and twenty-four, \\hen the
226 THE QUEEN OF -HEARTS.
other crimes than murder, and when Jack Ketch was in fashion
as one of the hard- working reformers of the age.
" Very good," said Mr. Trowbridge. "You both of you know
quite enough of Fauntleroy to be interested in what I am going
to tell you. When the bottles have been round the table, I will
start with my story."
The bottles went round claret for the degenerate youngsters;
port for the sterling, steady- headed, middle-aged gentleman.
Mr. Trowbridge sipped his wine meditated a little sipped
again and started with the promised anecdote in these terms.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT I am going to tell you, gentlemen, happened when I
was a very young man, and when I was just setting up in
business on my own account.
My father had been well acquainted for many years with Mr.
Fauntleroy, of the famous London banking firm of Marsh,
Stracey, Fauntleroy, & Graham. Thinking it might be of
some future service to me to make my position known to a
great man in the commercial world, my father mentioned to his
highly-respected friend that 1 was about to start in business for
myself in a very small way, and with very little money. Mr.
Fauntleroy received the intimation with a kind appearance of
interest, and said that he would have his eye on me. I expected
from this that he would wait to see if I could keep on my legs
at starting, and that, if he found I succeeded pretty well, he
would then help me forward if it lay in his power. As events
turned out, he proved to be a far better friend than that, and
he soon showed me that I had very much underrated the hearty
and generous interest which he had felt in my welfare from
the first.
While I was still fighting with the difficulties of setting up my
office, and recommending myself to my connection, and so
forth, I got a message from Mr. Fauntleroy telling me to call on
him, at the banking-house, the first time I was passing that way.
As you may easily imagine, I contrived to be passing that way
on a particularly early occasion, and, on presenting myself at
the bank, I was shown at once into Mr. Fauntleroy's private
room.
He was as pleasant a man to speak to as ever I met with
bright and gay, and companionable in his manner with a sort
of easy, hearty, jovial bluntness about him that attracted every-
body. The clerks all liked him and that, is something to say of
a partner in a banking-house, I can tell you!
" Well, young Trowbridge," says he, giving his papers on the
table a brisk push away from him, " so you are going to set up
in business for yourself, are you ? I have a great regard for your
father, and a great wish to see you succeed. Have you started
yet? No? Just on the point of beginning, eh ? Very good.
you wilkhave your difficulties, my friend, and 1 mean to smooth
one of fpem away for you at the outset. A word of advice for
your private ear Bank with r.- "
7V
: ion. if I could.
hall have very little l.-'t to put by for tin- first year.
Meto niustcrmuch more tli;in thn-ehui.
shin tin- world alter pa\ing what I r
;liee. ;m<l I sliould b led to trouble
int for such a trifle as that."
I noiise ys Mr. Fountleroy. "Are you a
bank' :iat business have you to offer an opinion on the
matter V Do as 1 tell you leave it to me bank with us and
-u like. Stop! I haven't done vet. When you
ak to the head cashier. Perhaps you may
find he 1, omething to tell you. There! there! go away
don't interrupt i < lod bless you!"
That was Hs way ah! poor fellow, that was his way.
I went to the head eashier the next morning when I opened
my little modieiim of an account. He had received orders to
drafts without reference to my balance. My checks,
drawn, were to be privately shown to Mr. Faun-
tleroy. 1 >o many young men who start in business find their pros-
: iors ready to help them in that wa
Well. I -"i on got on very fairly and steadily, being careful
not to venture out of my depth, and not to forget that small be-
ginnings may lead in time to great ends. A prospect of one of
nds great, I mean, to such a small trader as I was
at thai p'-riod showed itself to me when I had been some little
time in business. In plain terms, I had a chance of joining in a
transaction, which would give me profit, and position,
and everything I wanted, provided I could qualify myself for
engaging in it by getting good security beforehand for a very
mount.
In thisemer-ency, I thought of my kind friend, Mr. Fauntl-
and went to the hank, and saw him once more in his pi-
room.
There he was at the same table, with the same heaps of papers
about him, and the same hearty, easy way of speaking his mind
D6, in the f'e \\est possible words. T explained the
business 1 came upon with some little hesitation and ner\
for 1 was afraid he mLht think 1 was taking an unfair
adva 1 his former kindnos to me. When I had done,
he just nodded his head, snatehe { uj a blank sh.
scribbled a few lines on it in his rapid way, handed the \\riting
to me, and pushed me out of the room by the t>
h"fore 1 could mule word. 1 looked at the
fice. It was my security from that
16 for the whole amount, and for mo
wan
uld not expre-s my gratitude then, and I don't know that
i now. 1 can only outlived the
crime, the d ind the auful death on the scaffold; I am
grieved i of that death at all: but 1 have no <>th',r alter-
native. The course of n
228 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
the later time, and to tbe terrible discovery which exposed
my benefactor and my friend to all England as the forger
Fauntleroy.
I must ask you to suppose a lapse of sometime after the occur-
rence of tbe events that I have just been relating. During this
interval, thanks to the kind assistance I had received at the out-
set, my position as a man of business had greatly improved.
Imagine me now, if you please, on the high road to prosperity,
with good large offices and a respectable staff of clerks, and pict-
ure me to yourselves sitting alone in my private room between
four and five o'clock on a certain Saturday afternoon.
All my letters had been written, all the people who had ap-
pointments with me had been received. I was looking carelessly
over the newspaper, and thinking about going home, when one
of my clerks came in, and said that a stranger wished to see me
immediately on very important business.
" Did he mention his name?" I inquired.
"No, sir."
" Did you not ask him for it ?"
" Yes, sir. And he said you would be none the wiser if he told
me what it was."
" Does he look like a begging-letter writer?"
" He looks a little shabby, sir, but he doesn't look at all like a
begging-letter writer. He spoke sharp and decided, sir, an J said
it was in your interests that he came, and that you would deeply
regret it afterward if you refused to see him."
" He said that, did he? Show him in at once, then."
He was shown in immediately; a middle-sized man, with a
sharp, unwholesome-looking face, and with a flippant, reckless
manner, dressed in a style of shabby smartness, eying me with
a bold look, and not*so overwhelming with politeness as to
trouble himself about taking off his hat when he came in. I
had never seen him before in my life, and I could not form the
slightest conjecture from his appearance to guide me toward
guessing his position in the world. He was not a gentleman, evi-
dently; but as to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite down-
ward gradations of vagabond existence in London, that was a
mystery which I was totally incompetent to solve.
" Is your name Trowbridge?" he began.
" Yes," I answered, dryly enough.
"Do you bank with March, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham?"
"Why do you ask?"
" Answer my question, and you will know."
" Very well, I do bank with March, Stracey, Fauntleroy &
Graham and what then?"
" Draw out every farthing of balance you have got before the
bank closes at five to-day."
I stared at "him with speechless amazement. The words, for
an instant, absolutely petrified me.
" Stare as much as you like," he proceeded coolly, " I mean
what I say. Look at your clock there. ID twenty minutes it
will strike five, and the bank will be shut. Draw out every
farthing, I tell you again, and look sharp about it."
Tli ///:. I /,. 229
" Draw out m\
in VOIP
i hank with
-you, who arc a total
takin iordinary ii If you
iiy don't you explain y<
"I have explained myself. Act on my a< -t as
you like. It don't matter to me. I have done what I promised,
and there's an end of it."
turned to the door. The minute-hand of the clock was
getting on from twenty minutes to the quarter.
" Done what you pron : ed, getting up to stop
him.
Yes," he said, with his hand on the lock. "I have given
my message. Whatever happe; aiber that. Good-after-
noon."
He was gone before I could speak again.
I tried to call after him, but m . suddenly failed me. It
very foolish, it was very "unaccountable, but there was
something in the man's last words which had more than half
frightened me.
1 looked at the clock. The minute-hand was on the quarter.
as ju^t t'ar enough from the bank to make it u>
sary for me to decide on the instant. If I had had tin
think, I am perfectly en-tain that 1 should not have profited by
the extraordinary warning that had ju.-t been addressed to
The suspicious appearance and manners of the stranger; the
outrageous improbability of the inferen st the credit of
the bank toward which his words pointed; the chance that some
underhand attempt was being made. by some enemy of mine, to
frighten me into embroiling myself with one of my best
Is. through showing an ignorant distrust of the tirm with
winch he \\ as partner all : lions
would unquestionably have < ! to me if 1 could have found
time for reflection: and. as a neo . not one
farthing of my balai U-eu taken from the keeping
of the hank on that memorahi
1 had just time enough to act, and :
moment for thinking. Some heavy payments made at th<
ginni he week had 80 far d my bala:
sum to in\ eivdit in the hank i; hard;,
hundred pound-. T snatehed up my el < draft
aount, and ordered one pf < m to
the haul, >'d before the d< . \\~ha;
pulse urged me on. except the blind impulse of hurry and be-
wilderment. 1 iy. I acted mechanically c the
influence of the vague inexpli< ir which the man's ex-
words had aroused in me. without
us aln.
about. In three minutes from the tim tnger
had clerk 1 for the md I
.done again in i i. with my 1
my head all in a whirl.
2BO THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
I did not recover my control over myself until the clerk came
back with the notes in his hand. He had just got to the bank
in the nick of time. As the cash for my draft was handed to
him over the counter, the clock struck five, and he heard the
order given to close the doors.
When I had counted the bank notes and had locked them up
in the safe, my better sense seemed to come back to me on a
sudden. Never have I reproached myself before or since as I
reproached myself at that moment. What sort of return had I
made for Mr. Fauntleroy's fatherly kindness to me? I had in-
sulted him by the meanest, the grossest distrust of the honor
and the credit of his house, and that on the word of an absolute
stranger, of a vagabond, if ever there was one yet. It was mad-
ness downright madness in any man to have acted as I had
done. I could not account for my ovn inconceivably thought-
less proceeding. I could hardly believe in it myself. I opened
the safe and looked at the bank-notes again. I locked it once
more, and flung tl e key down on the table in a fury of vexation
against myself. There the money was, upbraiding me with my
own inconceiveable folly, telling me in the plainest terms that I
had risked depriving myself of nay best and kindest friend hence-
forth and forever.
It was necessary to do sometning at once toward making all
the atonement that lay in my power, I felt that, as soon as I
began to cool down a little. There was one plain, straightfor-
ward way left now out of the scrape in which I had been
mad enough to involve myself. I took my hat, and without
stopping an instant to hesitate, hurried off to the bank to make
a clean breast of it to Mr. Fauntleroy.
When I knocked at the private door and nsked for him, I was
told that he had not been at the bank for the last two days.
One of the other partners was there, however, and was working
at that moment in his own room.
I sent in my name at once, and asked to see him. He and 1
were little better than strangers to each other, and the interview
was likely to be, on that account, unspeakably embarrassing
and humiliating on my side. Still, I could not go home. I
could not endure the inaction of the next day, the Sunday, with-
out having done my best on the spot to repair the error into
which my own folly had led me. Uncomfortable as I felt at the
prospect of the approaching interview, I should have been far
more uneasy in my mind if the partner had declined to see me.
To my relief, the bank porter returned with a message request-
ing me to walk in.
What particular form my explanations and apologies took
when I tried to offer them is more than I can tell now. I was
so confused and distressed that I hardly knew what I was talk-
ing about at the time. The one circumstance which I remember
clearly is that I was ashamed to refer to my interview with the
strange man, and that I tried to account for my sudden with-
drawal of my balance by referring it to some inexplicable panic,
caused by mischievous reports which I was unable to trace to
their source, and which, for anything I knew to the contrary,
Tli'
1 ter all, ha\
r did not seem to notice the
.UK! did not additiooally confuse K.
asking any questions. A weary, absent look, which I had ob-
hen I came in, remained on it while 1
speaking. 1. in effort to him even to keep up the
! listening to me; and when, at last. 1 fairly broke
! >\\ n in the middle nd gave up the hope ol
tint; any further, all the answer he gave me was comprised in
ii commonplace \vord>:
: mind. Mr. Trowbridge, pray don't think ol apol
We are all liable to make mistakes. Say nothing more
about it, and bring the money back on Monday if you still honor
us with your confidence."
He looked down at his papers as if he was anxious to be alone
. and I had no alternative, of course, but to take my leave
diately. 1 went home, feeling a little easier in my mind,
now that 1 had paved the way for making the l>ost pra<
atonement in my jM>wer by bringing my balance back the first
thin^ on Monday morning. Still, 1 passed a weary day on Sun-
ivtlecting, ^adly enough that I had not yet made my peace
with Mr. Fauntleroy. My anxiety to set .myself right with my
generous friend wa^ so intense tint I risked intruding myself on
his privacy by calling at his town residence on the Sunday. He
not (here, and his servant could tell me nothing of his
whereabouts. There was no help for it now but to wait till his
day duties brought him back to the bank.
I went to business on Monlay morning half an hour earlier
than usual, so great was my impatience to restore the amount
of that unlucky draft to my account as soon as possible after
.ink opened.
On entering my office, 1 stopped with a startled feeling just
inside the door. Semethiup serious had happened. The cl
id of being at their desks as usual, were all huddled to-
gether in a -Tun p. talking to each other with blank : 'A' hen
they saw me. they fell back behind my managing man, who
orward with a circular in his hand.
" Have you heard the news, sir?" he said.
0, What is it?"
lie handed me the circular. My h< ve one violent throb
the instant I looked at it. I felt m\>elf turn pale; I felt my
knees trembling under me.
iimtleroy, & Graham had stopped [
tie circular had not sued more than hai ur,"
continued my managing c! n the
. Thedoorg
;npany have stopped this morning."
I hardly heard him: I hardly knew who me.
isitor of the Saninluy had taken instant po-
of all my thoughts, and his words of warning seemed t
sounding once more in m\ nan had known the
true cc)uditi< bank when n soul on
iloors was aware of it! The last dr inter
232 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
of that ruined house, when the doors closed on Saturday, was
the draft that I had so bitterly reproached myself for drawing;
the one balance saved from the wreck was my balance. Where
had the stranger got the information that had saved me ? and
why had he brought it to my ears ?
I was still groping, like a man in the dark, for an answer to
those two questions I was still bewildered by the unfathomable
mystery of doubt into which they had plunged me when the
discovery of the stopping of the bank was followed almost im-
mediately by a second shock, far more dreadful, far heavier to
bear, so far as I was concerned, than the first.
While I and my clerks were still discussing the failure of the
firm, two mercantile men, who were friends of mine, ran into
the office, and overwhelmed us with the news that one of the
partners had been arrested for forgery. Never shall I forget
the terrible Monday morning when those tidings reached me,
and when I knew that the partner was Mr. Fauntleroy.
I was true to him I can honestly say I was true to my belief
in my generous friend when that fearful news reached me.
My fellow-merchants had got all the particulars of the arrest.
They told me that two of Mr. Fauntleroy's fellow-trustees had
come up to London to make arrangements about selling out
some stock. On inquiring for Mr. Fauntleroy at the banking-
house, they had been informed that he was not there; and, after
leaving a message for him, they had gone into the city to make
an appointment with their stock- broker for a future day, when
their fellow-trustee might be able to attend. The stock-broker
volunteered to make certain business inquiries on the spot, with a
view to saving as much time as possible, and left them at his
office to await his return. He came back, looking very much
amazed, with the information that the stock had been sold out
down to the last five hundred pounds. The affair was instantly
investigated; the document authorizing the selling out was pro-
duced; and the two trustees saw on it, side by side with Mr.
Fauntleroy's signature, the forged signatures of their own
names. This happened on the Friday; and the trustees, without
losing a moment, sent the officers of justice in pursuit of Mr,
Fauntleroy. He was arrested, brought up before the magistrate,
and remanded on the Saturday. On the Monday I heard from
my friends the particulars which I have just narrated.
But the events of that one morning were not destined to end
even yet. I had discovered the failure of the bank and the ar-
rest of Mr. Fauntleroy. I was next to be enlightened, in the
strangest and the saddest manner, on the difficult question of
his innocence or his guilt.
Before my friends had left my office before I had exhausted
the arguments which my gratitude rather than my reason sug-
gested to me in favor of the unhappy prisoner, a note, marked
immediate, was placed in my hands, which silenced me the in-
stant I looked at it. It was written from the prison by Mr.
Fauntleroy, and it contained two lines only, entreating me to
apply for th< -vry order, and to go and see him immedi-
ately,
77' V a I-' //AM A 1 .
itteinpt t> the till!
I and hope that :
li/.ed his handwriting, and red what it
:. t<> il.i. I obtained the .'pier, and w.-nt to tin- pi i
The authorities, knowing the dreadful situation in whin
t'l-aitl of his attempting t destroy himself, :un!
itch him. < >ne came out as tin-;.
cell door. The other, who was hound not to leave him.
tely and considerately all'ectcd to he lookin- out of the
window the moment I was shown in.
sitting on the side of his bed, with his head drooping
and his hands hanging listlessly over his knees when 1
caugi of him. At the sound of my approach h.
to liis feet, an<], without speaking a word, Hung l>oth his arms
round my neck.
Mv heart swelled up.
"Tell UK- it's not true, sir! For Cod's sake, tell me it's not
tni. ;dl I could say to him.
I Ie never answered oh, me! he never answered, and he tip
away his face.
There was one dreadful moment of silence. Be still held his
arms round my neck, and on a sudden he put his lips
"Did you get your money out r" he whispered. "Were
in time on Saturday afternoon'.'"
I broke free from him in the astonishment of hearing t
words.
" What!" I cried out loud, forgetting the third person at the
window. " That man who brought the e
"llush!" lie said, putting his hand on my lips. "T;
no better man to lie found, after the officers had taken me I
know no more about him than you do I paid him well.
chance in.' and ri*' heating me of his errand.''
him. t!
44 1 sent him."
M. There is no need for me to tell
you that Mr. Fauntlcroy was found guilty, and that he <li
the hangman's hand. It was in my p
moments in this world by taking on myself the an
which, while they :
I heavily on his mind. They had n<
with the crimes he bad commit:- 1 could do him th.
little pt at my hands wit
'ice.
v nothing in d' r not 1
of the 'oil' r which he sulTered. r>ut ! that
in th' !' his m inity, u
of the law had a' d him. he thought of th
irnble f iie had i iild; wl
'ly won: who-e -imple faith he
,-Uid liis -
234 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
sit here that one of Faimtleroy's last efforts in this world was the
effort he made to preserve me from being a loser by the trust I
had placed in him. There is the secret of my strange tenderness
for the memory of a felon; that is why the word villain does
somehow still grate on my heart when I hear it associated with-
the name the disgraced name, I grant you of the forger Faun-
tleroy. Pass the bottles, young gentlemen, and pardon a man
of the old school for having so long interrupted your conversa-
tion with a story of the old time.
THE TENTH DAY.
THE storm has burst on us in its full fury. Last night the
stout old tower rocked on its foundations.
I hardly ventured to hope that the messenger who brings us
our letters from the village the postman, as we call him
would make his appearance this morning, but he came bravely
through rain, hail, and wind. The old pony which he usually
rides had refused to face the storm, and, sooner than disappoint
us, our faithful postman had boldly started for the Glen Tower
on foot. All his early life had been spent on board ship, and, at
sixty years of age, he had battled his way that morning through
the storm on shore as steadily and as resolutely as ever he had
battled it in his youth through the storm at sea.
I opened the post-bag eagerly. There were two letters for
Jessie from young lady friends; a letter for Owen from a
charitable society; a letter to me upon business; and on this
last day, of all others no newspaper!
I sent directly to the kitchen (where the drenched and weary
postman was receiving the hospitable attentions of the servants)
to make inquiries. The disheartening Answer returned was that
the newspaper could not have arrived as usual by the morning
post, or it must have been put into the bag along with the letters.
No such accident as this had occurred, except on one former oc-
casion, since the-beginning of the year. And now, on the very
day when I might have looked confidently for news of George's
ship, when the state of the weather made the finding of that
news of the last importance to my peace of mind, the paper, by
some inconceivable fatality, had failed to reach me! If there
had been the slightest chance of borrowing a copy in the village,
I should have gone there myself through the tempest to get it.
If there had been the faintest possibility of communicating, in
that frightful weather, with the distant county town, I should
have sent there or gone there myself. I even went the length of
speaking to the groom, an old servant whom I knew I could
trust. The man stared at me in astonishment, and then pointed
through the window to the blinding hail and the writhing trees.
"No horse that ever was foaled, sir," he said, "would face
tJiat for long. It's a' most a miracle that the postman got here
alive. He says himself that he dursn't go back again. I'll try
it, sir, if you order me; but if an accident happens, please to
KEN (
mber, what
It was only too plain that tl'
<I him. What 1 sulfered I'roni 1
Newspaper 1 am ashamed to tfll.
ran ho\v little his acquired mental
linst his natural human inheritance of sup
rtain circumstances of fear and su until 1:
d in his own proper person. We IIP
; a knowledge of the extent of our strei
a lifetime and bo still ignorant of ti. at of our
Up to this time I had presi !t'-control enough to hit!
real state of my feelings from our guest; but the arrival of the
tenth day, and the unexpected trial it had brou h it,
found me at the end of my r<
soon showed her that something had j;-one
; ioned me on the subject direeth . My miud \\
state of confusion that no excuse occurred to me. I Jeti
pitately, and entreated Owen and Morgan to keep her in
their company, and out of mine, for tli
strength to preserve my son's secret had failed me, and my only
chance of resisting the betrayal of it lay in i
of keeping put of the way. I shut myself into my room till I
could bear it no longer. I watched my opportunity, and
stolen visits over and over again to the barometer in the hall.
I mounted to Morgan's room at the top of the tower, and 1<
out hopelessly through rain -mist and scud for si
on the flood wd valley-road below us. I stole
uts' hall, and questioned the old postman <i
this time with restorative mulled ale) about his
of storms at sea; drew him into telling lon^, ram'ilin.
some stories, not one tenth part of which 1 heard: and left him
with my nervous irritability increased tenfold by In
ipts to inteivst and inform me. Hour by hour, all tin-
that miserable day, I opened doors and \vindo\\
self the capricious changes of ti Q from
and from better to w tin. Now, I .-ent once more for the
n, when it looked lighter; and now I fo im bun
to the stables, to countermand my own rash My
thoughts seemed to drive over my mind as the rain 01
arth: the confusion within me was th.
mightier turmoil that raized oui>ide.
Before we assembled at the dinner-table,
me that he had made m
1 nothing more than a few friendly inquiri.
health when 1 saw her a^ain. The meal was d
and <|uietly. Tow-trd dusk
moment the idea j>I s.'ii 1;;
more. Hut, now that the obetacli
the obstacle of darkness was ael up in its pia
felt that a few more hours would decide thedoubt a'noir
SO far as thi oncerned, and I del
236 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
a little longer, having already waited so long. My resolution
was the more speedily taken in this matter, as I had now made
up my mind, in sheer despair, to tell my son's secret to Jessie if
he failed to return before she left iis. My reason warned me
that I should put myself and my guest in a false position by
taking this step, hut something stronger than my reason forbade
me to let her go back to the gay world and its temptations with-
out first speaking to her of George in the lamentable event of
George not being present to speak for himself.
We were a sad and silent little company when the clock struck
eight that night, and when we met for the last time to hear the
last story. The shadow of the approaching farewell itself the
shade of the long farewell rested heavily on our guest's spirits.
The gay dresses which she had hitherto put on to honor our lit-
tle ceremony were all packed up, and the plain gown she wore
kept the journey of the morrow cruelly be fore her eyes and ours.
A quiet melancholy shed its tenderness over her bright young
face as she drew the last number, for form's sake, out of the
bowl, and handed it to Owen with a faint smile. Even our po-
sitions at the table were altered now. Under the pretence that
the light hurt my eyes, I moved back into a dim corner, to keep
my anxious face out of view. Morgan, looking at me hard, and
muttering under his breath, " Thank Heaven, I never married!"
stole his chair by degrees, with rough, silent kindness, nearer
and nearer to mine. Jessie, after a moment's hesitation, vacated
her place next, and, saying that she wanted to sit close to one
of us on the farewell night, took a chair at Owen's side. Sad!
sad! we had instinctively broken up already, so far as our places
at the table were concerned, before the reading of the last story
had so much as begun.
It was a relief when Owen's quiet voice stole over the weary
silence, and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the
night.
"Number Six," he said, " is the number that chance has left
to remain till the last. The manuscript to which it refers is not,
as you may see, in my handwriting. It consists entirely of pas-
sages from the Diary of a poor, hard-working girl passages
which tell an artless story of love and friendship in humble life.
When that story has come to an end, I may inform you how I
became possessed of it. If I did so no\v, I should only forestall
one important part of the interest of the narrative. I have made
no attempt to find a striking title for it. It is called, simply and
plainly, after the name of the writer of the Diary the story of
Anne Eod way."
In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, I
listened anxiously for the sound of a traveler's approach out-
side. At short intervals, all through the story, I listened and
listened again. Still, nothing caught my ear but the trickle of
the rain and the rush of the sweeping wind through the valley,
sinking gradually lower and lower as the night advanced.
Til > Of III
BROTH STORY OF ANNE RODWAY.
['I' t-\
* * * M.\I:CII 3d letter to-day from
which surprisi-d me ami vexed me so that 1 ha\ e h< m -ad i
hindhand with my work ever since. He writes in
than last time, and absolutely d iliat lit
when li. America, and that he ha up his
mind to come li'inu' to London.
How happy I should he at this news, if he only returned t
a prosperous man! As it is, though I love him dearh
not look forward to the meeting him again, disappointed
broken down, and poorer than ever, without a f
:li of us. 1 was t\\ -t, birthday ami he
was thirty-three, and there seem am-e now than
our being married. It is all I can do to keep in
die; and his prospects, since lie failed in t
. are worse, if possible, than mi
that I mind so 'much for myself; women, in all
ily in ii -making way, I :hink, to
be more patient than men. What I dread i> i despond-
eucy, and the liard struggle he will have in this cruel city t<
1, let alone making money enough to marry
poor people want to set up in housekeeping and be
happy tog, -tlier. it seems hard that they can't get it when they
are 1; , nil hearty, and willing to work. The clergyman
said in his sermon last Sunday evening that all things were
d for the best, and we are all put into the stations in life
that arc | i for us. I suppose he was right, beii,
iitlernan who tills the church to crowding; but I think
"d him better if I ha< i
hungry at tin- time, in consequence of my own Nation in life
ut plain needlewoman.
1th. Mary Mallinson came down to my room t
cup of tea with inc. I read her bits of Robert's letter, to shou
!ie has her troubles, 1 have mine, too; hut 1 <
;iig her. rn to misfoi
and that, as long back a- i remember, she lias never had
the least morsel of luck to be thankful I
in my gla-s, and to say if she had nothing to !>
il, and would '.
ier if sin- could be i d and <
upliment did i: i im-
iitly in her tea-cup, and said. " If I was only as good a hand
'ine, I would ci with the
:irl in London. . laughi;
me for a moment, and shook h,-r ; ut of
up and stop her. She al\\ a\ s runs
otV in that way when she is goii, l>rid'
about letting other peoi
rch 5th. A fright about Mary. I i iier all
238 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
as she does not work at the same place where I do; and in the
evening she never came down to have tea with me, or sent me
word to go to her; so, just before I went to bed, I ran up-stairs
to say* good-night.
She did not answer when I knocked; and when I stepped soft-
ly in the room I saw her in bed, asleep, with her work not half
done, lying about the room in the untidiest way. There was
nothing remarkable in that, and I was just going away on tip-
toe, when a tiny bottle and wine-glass on the chair by her bed-
side caught my eye. I thought she was ill and had been taking
physic, and looked at the bottle. It was marked in large letters,
" Laudanum Poison."
My heart gave a jump as if it was going to fly out of me. I
laid hold of her with both hands, and shook her with all my
might. She was sleeping heavily, and woke slowly, as it seemed
to me but still she did wake. I tried to pull her out of bed,
having heard that people ought to be always walked up and
down when they have taken laudanum; but she resisted, and
pushed me away violently.
"Anne!" says she, in a fright. "For gracious sake, what's
come to you! Are you out of your senses?"
"Oh, Mary! Mary!'' says I, holding up the bottle before her,
" if I hadn't come in when I did " And I laid hold of her to
shake her again.
She looked puzzled at me for a moment then smiled (the first
time 1 had seen her do so for many a long day) then put her
arms round my neck.
" Don't be frightened about me, Anne," she says; " I am not
worth it, and there is no need."
" No need!" says I, out of breath " no need, when the bottle
has got poison marked on it!"
"Poison, dear, if you take it all," says Mary, looking at me
very tenderly, " and a night's rest if you only take a little."
I watched her for a moment, doubtful whether I ought to be-
lieve what she said or to alarm the house. But there was no
sleepiness now in her eyes, and nothing drowsy in her voice; and
she sat up in bed quite easily, without anything to support her.
" You have given me a dreadful fright, Mary," says I, sitting
down by her in the chair, and beginning by this time to feel
rather faint after being startled so.
She jumped out of bed to get me a drop of water, and kissed
me, and said how sorry she was, and how undeserving of so
much interest being taken in her. At the same time, she tried
to possess herself of the laudanum bottle, which I still kept
cuddled up tight in my own hands.
" No," says I. " You have got into a low-spirited, despairing
way. I won't trust you with it."
"I am afraid I can't do without it," sayw Mary, in her usual
quiet, hopeless voice. " What with work that I can't get
through as I ought, and troubles that I can't help thinking of,
sleep won't come to me unless I take a few drops out of that
bottle. Don't keep it away from me, Annie:- it's the only thing
in the world that makes me forget myself."
7V/
You base no i
icthing horribl.
girl of eighteen sleeping with a lM.nl,- of I;iu<l;muin
by li,-r I-. night. We all of us have our t
r mine?"
" Y an do 1 w ice tin' work I can, twice as \\ ,!! .-.
You an- never scolded and rated at for awk\
with your needle, and 1 always am. You can pay for your room
every week, and I am three weeks in debt for mine."
little more practice," B&JB I. " and a little more coin
and vou will soon do better. You have got all your lit
"
"1 wish I was at the end of it," says she. 1>; in. M 1
am alone in the world, and my life's no good to me."
' You ought to be ashamed of yourself foi
"Ha'. u got me for a friend'.-' Didn't I take a tail'
u left your Mep mother, and came to lodge in this
8? And haven't L been sisters with you < Sup-
sou are alone in the world, am 1 much better oil? I'm an
orphan like \ on. I've almo.-t as many things in pawn as
and, if your pockets are empty, mine have only got Dine)
in them, to la. -4 me for all ti
"Your lather and mother were honest people,"' says Mary, ob-
stinately. "My mother ran away from home. ai:d died in a
ital. My father was always drunk, and always beating
tep-mother is as good as dead, for all she cares a
nly brother is thousands of miles a\\a\ in f -.and
to me, and never helps me with a farthing. My
M
stopped, and the red flew into her face. I knew, it
went on that way. he would only get to th
sad story, and gi\e both herself and me unnecessary pain.
.I/// sweetheart is too j oor to marry me. Mary," 1 said.
I'm not so much to be envied even there. But let's }_
disputing which is worst oil". Lie down in bed. an<;
you up. I'll put a stitch or two into that work in while
go to sleep."
Instead of doing Avliat I told her, she bur
iiild in some of her ways), and hugged me so tight
round the neck that she (|uite hurt me. I let 1: till she
had worn berself out. and was obliged to lie down. Kven
her last few word-, I e dropp- 1> were such as I
ry, half frightened to hear.
1 won't p MI long. An; i. " 1 h
gau mvlife \ ily, and wretciiedh 1 am -
It was no use lecturing her again, for she closed h
I tucked her ii| <>uld. and put \:<
for the bedclothe- w. re scanty, and her hands
I delicai fell asleep that it ciuite
made m\
: her. 1 ju- * long enoug
240 THE QUEKN OF HEARTS.
was in the land of dreams, then emptied the horrible laudanum-
bottle into the grate, took up her half-done work, and, going out
ooftly, left her for that night.
March 6th. Sent off a long letter to Robert, begging and i-n-
treating him not to be so down-hearted, and not to leave Amer- ;
ica without making another effort. I told him I could bear any
trial except the wretchedness of seeing him come back a help-
less, broken-down man, trying uselessly to begin life again when
too old for a change.
It was not till after I had posted my own letter and read over
parts of Robert's again, that the suspicion suddenly floated across
me, for the first time, that he might have sailed for England
immediately after writing to me. There were expressions in
the letter which seemed to indicate that he had some such head-
long project in his mind. And yet surely, if it were so, I
ought to have noticed them at the first reading. I can only hope
I am wrong in my present interpretation of much of what he
has written to me hope it earnestly for both our sakes.
This has been a doleful clay for me. I have been uneasy
about Robert and uneasy about Mary. My mind is haunted by
those last words of hers: "I began my life wretchedly, and
wretchedly I am sentenced to end it." Her usual melancholy
way of talking never produced the same impression on me that
I feel now. Perhaps the discovery of the laudanum-bottle is
the cause of this. I would give many a hard day's work to
know what to do for Mary's good. My heart warmed to her
when we first met in the same lodging-house two years ago.
and, although I am not one of the over-affectionate sort myself,
I feel as if I could go to the world's end to serve that girl. Yet,
strange to say, if I was asked why I was so fond of her, I don't
think I should know how to answer the question.
March 7th. I am almost ashamed to write it down, even in
this journal, which no eyes but mine ever look on; yet I must
honestly confess to myself that here I am, at nearly one in
the morning, sitting up in a state of serious uneasiness, be-
cause Mary has not yet come home.
I walked with her this morning to the place where she works,
and tried to lead her into talking of the relations she has got
who are still alive. My motive in doing this was to see if she
dropped anything in the course of conversation which might
suggest a way of helping her interests with those who are bound
to give her all reasonable assistance. But the little I could get
her to say to me led to nothing. Instead of answering my
questions about her step-mother and her brother, she persisted at
first, in the strangest way, in talking of her father, who was
dead and gone, and of one Noah Truscott, who had been the
worst of all the bad friends he had, and had taught him to drink
and game. When 1 did get her to speak of her brother, she
only knew that he had gone out to a place called Assam, where
they grew tea. How he was doing, or whether he was there still,
she did not seem to know, never having heard a word from him
for years and years past.
As for her step- mother, Mary not unnaturally flew into a pas-
'I'll
:iith, arnl could have given
it ; l.in to have haled i,< r. :ii:
\ from home, and
a livinL'- for herself, I ! r husband
h:i badly : md, after his death, she (
if on her step-da u u r hter. I I
after this, tliat it was impossible Mary eoul<;
it \\a-thehard in -isition. as it i> of mi
she shoiil le on to mak. nt livelihood, with
i\ of her relations. I .-d as much
this to her: but I added that f would try to u;et In r emp'
with the per-ons for \\hom I work, who pay higher md
i little more indue to those under them than
people to whom she is now obliged to look for supj
much more confidently than I felt about being able t
this, and I M I thought, in Ix-tter spirits than usual. l
promised to be back tonight to tea at i
lv one in the morning, and she is not 1 . If it
any other j^irl I should not feel in r I should make up my
mind that there wa - extra work ' MC in a him
tin '.iu^ lier late, and I should <;'o to 1
so unfortunate in everything that happens to her. aul
own melanclioly talk abou't herself keeps ha n my mind
that I have fears on i >\m\ which would :
me about any one else. I inexcusably silly to think such
uc'h more to write it down: but I have a kind of n-
id upon me that some accident
"What does that loud knocking at the street (I
tli- 'id heavy 1< < 'ine lod-er who
lost bifi key, 1 sup; \nd yet, my heart \
1 have become all of a sudden!
and louder voices. I must nil:
what it is. Oh. Mary' Mary! 1 hope 1 am not goin.u to 1
'i her fi il you, but 1 feel sadly like it.
March 9th.
March 10th.
rcli llth. Oh me! all the troiibl. 1 in my
lif. nothing to tlie troubles 1 am in now. 1
ha !e line in ti
have 1.
though!
him
v l\[ary! ti.'
that nitrht \\ li up alone u
lamity tliat has really happened. 1
with : full o! iid my hat.
242 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
the grief and fear which seem to unfit me entirely for perform-
ing it.
The people of the house were asleep and lazy on that dreadful
night, and I was the first to open the door. Never, never could
I describe in writing, or even say in plain talk, though it is so
much easier, what I felt when I saw two policemen come in,
carrying between them what seemed to me to be a dead girl,
and that girl Mary! I caught hold of her, and gave a scream
that must have alarmed the whole house, for frightened people
came crowding down-stairs in their night-dresses. There was a
dreadful confusion and noise of loud talking, but I heard noth-
ing and saw nothing till I had got her into my room and laid on
my bed. I stooped down, frantic-like, to kiss her, and saw an
awful mark of a blow on the left temple, and felt, at the same
time, a feeble flutter of her breath on my cheek. The discovery
that she was not dead seemed to give me back my senses again.
I told one of the policemen where the nearest doctor was to be
found, and sat down by the bedside while he was gone, and
bathed her poor head with cold water. She never opened her
eyes, or moved, or spoke; but she breathed, and that was enough
for me, because it was enough for life.
The policeman left in the room was a big, thick- voiced pomp-
ous man with a horrible unfeeling pleasure in hearing himself
talk before an assemby of frightened, silent people. He told us
how he had found her, as if he had been telling a s'ory in a tap-
room, and began with saying, " I don't think the young woman
was drunk."
" Drunk! My Mary, who might have been a born lady for all
the spirits she ever touched drunk! I could have struck the
man for uttering the word, with her lying poor suffering angel
so white, and still, and helpless before him. As it was, I gave
him a look, but lie was too stupid to understand it, and went
droning on saying the same thing over and over again in the
same words. And yet the story of how they found her was,
like all the sad stories I have ever heard told in real life, so very
very short. They had just seen her lying along on the curb-
stone a few streets off, and had taken her to the station-house.
There she had been searched, and one of my cards, that I give
to ladies who promise me employment, had been found in her
pocket, and eo they had brought her to our house. This was all
the man really had to tell. There was nobody near her when
she was found, and no evidence to show how the blow on her
temple had been inflicted.
What a time it was before the doctor came, and how dreadful
to hear him say, after he had looked at her, that he was afraid
all the medical men in the world could be of no use here! He
could not get her to swallow anything, and the more he tried to
bring her back to her senses, the less chance there seemed of his
succeeding. He examined the blow on her temple, and said he
thought she must have fallen down in a fit of some sort, and
struck her head against the pavement, and so have given her
brain what he was afraid was a fatal shake. I asked what was
7V, 243
done if she showed any return to ; 'lit. lie
said: "Send l'<>r me directly;" and stopped for :i lit I le while
ward stroking her hcml gently with his hand, and \\lii
rl. so V' 1111 ^' :in 'l s<) pretty!" I had felt,
minute-; before, -is it' I could ha v< si n ick i h-
1 felt no\v as it I could have thrown my :irn
ieck and kissed him. 1 did put, out my hand
lookup his hat, and shook it. in the friendlie
hope, rny dear," he said, and went out.
The rest of the lodgers followed him. all silent and Chocked.
except the inhuman wretch who owns the house, and li\.
idleness on the high rents lie wrings from poor people like
"She's three weeks in my dt ith a frown and
an oath. " Where the devil is my money to come from now?"
Brute! brute!
I had a long cry alone with her that seemed 1
a little. She was not the least changed for the l>ett-r when I
had wiped away the tears and could see her clearly again. I
took up her right hand, which lay nearest to me. If ,
clinched. I tried to unclasp the lingers, and succeeded at'
little time. Something dark fell out of the palm of her hand as
I straightened it.
I picked the thing up, and smoothed it out, and saw that it
was the end of a man's cravat.
A very old, rotten, dingy strip of black silk, with thin lilac
lines, all blurred and deadened with dirt, runniiu and
across the stuff in a sortcf trellis-work pattern. The small end
of the cravat was hemmed in the usual way, hut the other end
was all jagged, as if the morsel then in my hands had hn-n torn
off violently from the re^t of the Stuff. A chill ran all
s I looked at it: for that poor, stained, crumpled end of a
cravat seemed so he sayinir to me. as though it had been in
plain words: " If she dies, she has come to her death In
MS. and 1 am the witness of it."
I had been frightened enough before, lest she should
denly and quietly without my knowing it. while \\ tione
together: but I got into a perfect agony now. for fear this last
i affliction should take me by i-urpn-e. 1 d.-n't MI-
:ninutes passed all that wot'ul night through without my
getting up and putting my cheek elo-e toiler month.
the faint breaths tluttered out of it. They came and \
the same as at tirst, though the fright 1 \\ as in often mad
v they were stilled forever.
Just as the church clock -triking four, I
5 the room door open. It
call her in the house), the maid-of-all work, s
up in the blanket otT her bed: her hair was all tuml
and her e\ : vy \vit ; me up to the
bedside where I was sitting.
"I've two hours good b fore 1 '
her hoarse. dn>v,
turn at watching her. Yon n the
244 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
rug. Hero's my blanket for you. I don't mind the cold it will
keep me awake."
"You are very kind -very, very kind and thoughtful.
Sally," says I, "but I am too wretched in my mind to want
sleep, or rest, or to do anything but wait where I am, and try
and hope for the best."
" Then I'll wait, too," says Sally. " I must do something; if
there's nothing to do but waiting, I'll wait."
And she sat down opposite me at the foot of the bed, and drew
the blanket close around her with a shiver.
" After working so hard as you do, I'm sure you mast want all
the little rest you can get," says I.
" Excepting only you," says Sally, putting her heavy arm very
clumsily, but very gently at the same time, around Mary's feet,
and looking hard at the pale, still face on the pillow. "Except-
ing you, she's the only soul in this house as never swore at me,
or gave me a hard word that I can remember. When you made
puddings on Sundays, and gave her half, she always give me a
bit. The rest of 'em calls me Dusty Sal. Excepting only you,
again, she always called me Sally, as if she knowed me "in a
friendly way. I ain't no good here, but I ain't no harm neither;
and I shall take my turn at the sitting up that's what I
shall do!"
She nestled her head down close at Mary's feet as she spoke
these words, and said no more. I once or twice thought she had
fallen asleep, but whenever I looked at her her heavy eyes were
always wide open. She never changed her position an "inch till
the church clocks struck six; then she gave one little squeeze to
Mary's feet with her arm, and shuffled out of the room without
a word. A minute or two after, I heard her down below, light-
ing the. kitchen fire just as usual.
A little later, the doctor stepped over before his breakfast-time
to see if there had been any change in the night. He only shook
his head when he looked at her as if there was no hope. Having
nobody else to consult that I could put trust in, I showed him
the end of the cravat, and told him of the dreadful suspicion
that had arisen in my mind when I found it in her hand.
" You must keep it carefully, and produce it at the inquest,"
he said. " I don't know, though, that it is likely to lead to any-
thing. The bit of stuff may have been lying on the pavement
near her, and her hand may have unconsciously clutched it when
she fell. Was she subject to fainting-fits ?"
"Not more so, sir, than other young girls who are hard-
worked and anxious, and weakly from poor living," I answered.
" I can't say that she may not have got that blow from a
fall," the doctor went on. looking at her temple again. " I can't
say that it presents any positive appearance of having been
inflicted by another person. It will be important, however, to
ascertain what state of health she was in last night. Have you
any idea where she was yesterday evening ?"
I told him where she was employed at work, and said I im-
agined she must have been kept there later than usual.
77 /
rounds among my patienK and I'll
inquiri
I thankiMl him, and we parted. .1
lie look' tin.
' Was., lie ; " he asked.
r, only my dear friend.''
He -.nd nothing more, hut I heard him 8\ hut the
door soft |y. 1'eHiap, lie once had 8 wn, and
her? I ' like Mary in the fa
The doctor was hours gone a way, I began to;
I'M and helples<. so mueh - n to \\ i hly that
rt might really have sailed from Am-
adou in tin me.
reature caiac into the room but Sally. T
time she brought me some tea: the second and third 1
looked in to 866 if then .y change, and i her
:rd the hed. Iliad Mown her so si;
'd almost as if this dreadful accident had struck her dumb.
I ought to have spoken to her. perhaps, hut the
in In iat daunted me: and, \
<\ to dry up my lips, as if they \voald i able
ipeaaywo: i. I was still tormented b\ i-ht-
ful apprehension of the pas< ni.^ht. that >!ie mould die without
my kiiowin-- it die without saying one word to clear u
t'ul n "f this blow, and set the, suspieioi,
which 1 still ieit whenever my il on the end of ti
at.
!a>t the doctor came back.
"I think y. ly clear your mind of any d
which that bit of smitV may h;r.
- on i-uppo-ed. d' late by her empliiN ! she
fainted in the work-room. They most un\\ nd unkindly
done, without giving her any -timulnni
is>he came to her
under these circumstances, than that she >hon!d faint
time on her wa\ here. A fall <>n the pavement, without
friendly arm to break it, might have prodti
jmy than the injury we see. I believe that the only ill i
to which the poor girl w.- with
in the u
!; very reasonably, 1 own. s 1. nt ;
ill. perl v '
" M irl. I told you not to h
rapt h . and lifted up '
\vhile h-
doabt ho\v si by that blow,
that any words of hers will e\ t r en!
im."
>t dead! ( )h, sir, don't
in and
nitioa. There is more animation in I
246 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
that flies than in the life that is left in her. When you look at
her now, try to think that she is in Heaven. That is the best com-
fort I can give you after telling the hard truth."
I did not believe him. I could not believe him. So long as
she breathed at all, so long I was resolved to hope. Soon after
the doctor was gone. Sally came in again, and found me listen-
ing (if I may call it so) at Mary's lips. She went to where my
little hand-glass hangs against the wall, took it down, and gave
it to me.
" See if her breath marks it," she said.
" Yes; her breath did mark it, but very faintly. Sally cleaned
the glass with her apron, and gave it back to me. As she did so,
she half stretched out her hand to Mary's face, but drew it in
again suddenly, as if she was afraid of soiling Mary's delicate
skin with her hard, horny fingers. Going out, she stopped at the
foot of the bed, and scraped away a little patch of mud that was
on one of Mary's shoes.
" I always used to clean 'em for her," said Sally, " to save her
hands from getting blacked. May I take 'em off now, and clean
'em again ?"
I nodded my head, for my heart was too heavy to speak.
Sally took the shoes off with a slow, awkward tenderness, and
went out.
An hour or more must have passed, when, putting the glass
over her lips again, I saw no mark on it. I held it closer and
closer. I dulled it accidentally with my own breath, and
cleaned it. I held it over her again. Oh, Mary, Mary, the
doctor was right! I ought to have only thought of you in
Heaven!
Dead, without a word, without a sign without even a look to
tell the true story of the blow that killed her! I could not call
to anybody, I could not cry, I could not so much as put the glass
down and give her a kiss for the last time. I don't know how
long I had sat there with my eyes burning, and my hands deadly
cold, when Sally came in with the slices cleaned, and carried
carefully in her apron for fear of a soil touching them. At the
sight of that
I can write no more. My tears drop so fast on the paper that
1 can see nothing.
March 12th She died on the afternoon of the eighth. On the
morning of the ninth. I wrote, as in duty bound, to her step-
mother at Hammersmith, There was DO answer. I wrote again;
my letter was returned to me this morning unopened. For all
that woman cares, Mary might be buried with a pauper's funeral;
but this shall never be, if I pawn everything about me, down to
the very gown that is on my back.
The bare thought of Mary being buried by the workhouse gave
me the spirit to dry my eyes, and go to the undertaker's, and tell
him how I was placed. I said, if he would get me an estimate
of all that would have to be paid, from first to last, for the
cheapest decent funeral that could be had, I would undertake to
Tl:
He g, i in
like a common
funeral coin}' . . . I'l
try ..... 044
lor ........ 014
Clerk ........ 010
Sexton ........ 010
Beadle ........ 010
Bell ........ 020
t of ground ...... 020
Total ..... 384
If I had the heart to give any thought to it. I should 1
dined to wish (hat (lie Churchj could afford to do witho
many small charges for burying poor people. to \\
even shillings an- of consequence. But it i omplain;
the money must be raised at once. The charitable doctor a
man "himself, <>r lu> would not be living in our neighboi
has subscribed ten shillings toward tin and the
when the inquest was over, added five nion-. Perhaps
others may assist me. If not, I have, fortunately.
furniture of my own to pawn. And I mu rting
with them without delay, for the funeral is to be to-morrow, the
thirteenth.
The funeral Mary's funeral! It is well that the straits and
difficulties I am in keep niy mind on the stretch. If I had
grieve, where should I find the courage to
morrow?
Thank God they did not want me at the inquest. The
diet given, with the doctor, the policeman, and two
from the place where she worked, for witnesses, was A -ciil
h. The end of the cravat was produce,!, an 1 th
said that it v- linly enough t< spicion: but the
jury, in the . of any positive evidence. held
notion that she had fainted and fallen down, a
the blow on her temple. They p-proved the people wh.
worked for letting her home alone, without so mu drop
of brand v to support her, after she had fallen iir from
.exhaustion before their eyes. The coroner added.
int. that In- thought the reproof was thoroughly d
that, the cravat-end was given back to me by m\
the police saying that they could ma ; .
with such a slight clew to guide them. They may thin;
ier, and the doctor, and jury may think' so; hut. in
spite of all that has p-issrd. lam now more firm!;.
than ever that the! il'ul im
with that blow on my poor or lo-t M;n> 'a temple which
to be revealed, and whi-h may red tin
this very fragment of a cravat that T found in li
1 reason for why 1 think BO, b:;
1 had f the jury at the in
induced me to consent to such a verdi 'h.
248 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
After I had pawned my things, and had begged a small ad-
vance of wages at the place where I work to make up what was
still wanting to pay for Mary's funeral, I thought I might have
had a little quiet time to prepare myself as I best could for to-
morrow. But this was not to be. When I got home the land-
lord met me in the passage. He was in liquor, and more brutal
and pitiless in his way of looking and speaking than ever I saw
him before.
" So you're going to be fool enough to pay for her funeral, are
you ?" were his first words to me.
I was too weary and heart- sick to answer; I only tried to get
by him to my own door.
" If you can pay for burying her," he went on, putting him-
self in front of me, " you can pay her lawful debts. She owes
me three weeks' rent. Suppose you raise the money for that
next, and hand it over to me ? I'm not joking, I can promise
you. I mean to have my rent; and, if somebody don't pay it, I'll
have her body seized and sent to the workhouse!"
Between terror and disgust, I thought I should have dropped
to the floor at his feet. But I determined not to let him see how
he had horrified me, if I could possibly control myself. So I
mustered resolution enough to answer that I did not believe the
law gave him any such wicked power over the dead.
"I'll teach you what the law is!" he broke in; " you'll raise
money to bury her like a born lady when she's died in my debt,
will you? And you think I'll let my rights be trampled upon
like that, do you? See if I do! I'll give you till to-night to
think about it. If I don't have the three weeks she owes me
before? to-morrow, dead or alive, she shall go to the workhouse!"
This time I managed to push by him, and get to my own room,
and lock the door in his face. As soon as I was alone I fell into
a breathless, suffocating fit of crying that seemed to be shaking
me to pieces. But there was no good and no help in tears; I did
my best to calm myself after a little while, and tried to think
who I should run to for help and protection.
The doctor was the first friend I thought of; but I knew be was
always out seeing his patients of an afternoon. The beadle was
the next person who came into my head. He had the look of
being a very dignified, unapproachable kind of man when he
came about the inquest; but he talked to me a little then, and
said I was a good girl, and seemed, I really thought, to pity me.*
So to him I determined to apply in my great danger and distress.
Most fortunately, I found him at home. When I told him of
the landlord's infamous threats, and of the misery I was suffer-
ing in consequence of them, he rose up with a stamp of his foot,
and sent for his gold-laced cocked hat that he wears on Sundays,
and his long cane with the ivory top to it.
" I'll give it to him," said the beadle. " Come along with me,
my dear. I think I told you you were a good girl at the inquest
if I didn't, I tell you so now. I'll give it to him! Come along
with me."
And he went out, striding on with his cocked hat and his
great cane, and I followed him.
7V/ 249
: ord!" 1: the moment In- getfl i
with a tlniinjt of his cam- on tin- lloor. landlord!" wi;
all around him as it' he was Kiu^ of England callin
lit !''
The moment the landlord came out ami saw who it
i hat, ami lie turned as pal.
"Mow ,i frighten this poor iriri:'
" Mow dare you hully her at this sorrowful time with thn
in;j; to do what you Unow you can't do?" jlow d;i
irdly. bullying, braggadocio of an unmanly landlord ? I )on't
talk to me: I won't hear you. I'll pull you up, sir. It
ier word to the young woman, I'll pull you up before the
authorities <>f this metropolitan parish. I've had my eye on
and the authorities have bad their eye on you. and ti
has had his eye on you. We don't like the look of your small
shop round the- corner; we don't like the look of some of the
iners who deal at it; we don't like disorderly ch
and we don't by any manner of means like >/on.
mix woman alone. Hold your toi I'll pull
you up. If he says another word, or ii; with you a
my d :ie and tell me: and, as sure as he's a bullying, un-
manly braggadocio of a landlord, I'll pull him up."
With those words the beadle j^ave a loud couj^h to clear his
throat, and another thump of his cane on the tloor. and
striding out In-fore I could open my lips to thank him. The
landlord slunk hack into his room without a word. 1
alone and unmolested at last, to Strenghten myself for the hard
trial of mv poor love's funeral to-morrow.
* * * * * * *
March 13th. It is all over. A week ago a, head rested on my
!i. It is laid in the churclixard now; the fresh earth lies
,. r iipj- <xrave. I and m i friend. f my
rted in this world forever.
ilowed her funeral alone through the cruel, hustlin.
Sally, I thought, mi^ht have otl'ered to ^o with me. hui
into my room. 1 did not like to think
badly of her for this, and 1 am ^lad I restrained myself: for,
i we <z;ot into the rhurchxard, amon^ the two or three
people who were standing by the open ^rave I saw Sail;
-hawl and her patched black bonnet. She did not
lotice me till the la-t wonls of the
and i in had ^one away: then she came up a
to l:
"I couldn't follow alon.u r witi
iawl, " for 1 haven't a decent .-uit of cloth,
h 1 could L-et vent in crying for her like\oii, but 1<
all the cr\ i- M dnul^ed ami
11 think about lighting your tire
I'll do that, and gel \ OU a drop < i tea to OOOli
She seemed on the point oi a kind \\ord or iv
Whci the beadle . ml me.
she \ i of him. and left the churchyard.
"Here's m;. i{)tion toward the funeral." -aid th.
250 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
giving me back his shilling fee. " Don't say anything about it,
for it mightn't be approved of in a business point of view, if it
came to some people's ears. Has the landlord said anything
more to you? no. I thought not. He's too polite a man to give
me the trouble of pulling him up. Don't stop crying here, my
dear. Take the advice of a man familiar with funerals, and go
home."
I tried to take his advice, but it seemed like deserting Mary to
go away when all the rest forsook her.
I waited about till the earth was thrown in and the man had
left the place, then I returned to the grave. Oh, how bare and
cruel it was, without so much as a bit of green turf to soften it!
Oh, how much harder it seemed to live than to die, when I stood
alone looking at the heavy-piled lumps of clay, and thinking of
what was hidden beneath them!
I was driven home by my own despairing thoughts. The sight
of Sally lighting the fire in my room eased my heart a little.
When she was gone, I took up Robert's letter again to keep my
mind employed on the only subject in the world that has any
interest for it now.
This fresh reading increased the doubts I had already felt rel-
ative to his having remained in America after writing to me.
My grief and forlornness have made a strange alteration in my
former feelings about his coming back. I seem to have lost all
my prudence and self-denial, and to care so little about his pov-
erty^ and so much about himself, that the prospect of his return
is really the only comforting thought I have now to support me.
I know this is weak in me, and that his coming back can lead
to no good result for either of us; but he is the only living being
left to me to love; and I can't explain it but I want to put
my arms round his neck and tell him about Mary.
March 14th. I locked up the end of the cravat in my writing-
desk. No change in the dreadful suspicions that the bare sight
of it rouses in me. I tremble if I so much as touch it.
March 15th, 16th, 17th. Work, work, work. If I don't knock
up, I shall be able to pay back the advance in another week;
and then, with a little more pinching in my daily expenses, I
may succeed in saving a shilling or two to get some turf to put
over Mary's grave, and perhaps even a few flowers besides to
grow round it.
March 18th. Thinking of Robert all day long. Does this mean
that he is really coming back ? If it does, reckoning the dis-
tance he is at from New York, and the time ships take to get to
England, I might see him by the end of April or the beginning
of May.
March 19th. I don't remember my mind running once on the
end of the cravat yesterday, and I am certain I never looked at it;
yet I had the strangest dream concerning it at night. I thought it
was lengthened into a long clew, like the silken thread that led to
Rosamond's Bower. I thought I took hold of it. and followed it
a little waj 1 -, and then got frightened and tried to go back, but
found that I was obliged, in spite of myself, to go an. It led me
through a place like the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in an
TH
Id print I remember in m
lollowin^ it \vitli-
brou^ht ii)'
were like Mar
to ni ill: the truth is at tin- (.-nil.
id it." I hurst out crying, fr t!
; woke with my In art throl
and i! il wet. What is the meaning of this? Is i
; wonder, to believe that di
true?
##***#*
April 30th. I have found it! God knows to what i
;-tain as thai 1 am sitting here bofori
al that 1 have found vat from which the end in
'Mary's hand was torn. I di d; hut the flut-
in, and the nervousness and uncertainty J felt, pre-
<>m noting down this in iinary a
wlien it happened. Let me try if i
the m<'mory of it in writing now.
I wa> ^oinsj: home rather late from where I work, when I. sud-
denly remembered that I had forgotten to buy myself any
candles the evening before, and that 1 should be left in the dark
if 1 did not manage to rectify this mistake in some way. The
shop close to me. at which 1 usually deal, would be shut up. 1
knew, before I foil Id ^ettoit: so I determined to &> into the
'lace I pa-^ed where candles were sold. This turned out to
-mall shop with two counters, which did business on one
side in the -eneral grocery way. and on the other in the ra^, and
bottle, and iron line.
\ ere several customers on the grocery side when I \
I waited on the empty i ! till I could 1"
Glancing about me here at 'the worthless looking things by
which T was surrounded, my eye was caught by a bund
Jyintf on the counter, as if they had just been brought in
and left there. From mere idle curio-ity. 1 looked t the
and saw amon^ tiiem something like an old cravat. 1
directly and held ii under a ^a>li^ht. The pattern was
blurred lilac lines, running across and across the din^y back-
ground in a trellis-work form. I looked at the end
mi off.
How 1 managed to hide the breathless surprise into which this
very threw me I cannot say. but I certainly contrived to
iv my voice .-mehow, and to a>k for my candlo- calmly
i the man and woman serving in the shop, having disposed
heir ot her cu-tomers. inijuired of me what I \\
the man took down i my brain was all in a
whirl with trying to think h
cravat without exciting any suspin m. ' la little
juickness on my part in taking ad\
within mv reach in a momvnt. Tl-.e man, ha\ .
asked the woman for some paper i ihemin.
need a piece much too small and tli. the pui
and d I, when hecalled ; iat tlie
THE QUEEN' OF HEARTS.
supply of stout paper was all exhausted. He flew into a rage
with "her for managing so badly. Just as they were beginning
to quarrel violently, I stepped back to the rag- counter, took the
old cravat carelessly out of the bundle, and said, in as light a
tone as I could possibly assume:
" Come, come, don't let ray candles be the cause of hard
words between you. Tie this ragged old thing round them with
a bit of string, and I shall carry them home quite comfortably/'
The man seemed disposed to insist on the stout paper being
produced; but the woman, as if she was glad of an opportunity
of spiting him, snatched the candles away, and tied them up in
a moment in the torn old cravat. I was afraid he would have
struck her before my face, he seemed in such a fury; but, fort-
unately, another customer came in, and obliged him to put his
hands to peaceable and proper uses.
" Quite a bundle of all- sorts on the opposite counter there," I
said to the woman, as I paid her for the candles.
" Yes, and all hoarded up for sale by a poor creature with a
lazy brut* of a husband, who lets his wife do all the work while
he spends all the money," answered the woman, with a ma-
licious look at the man by her side.
" He can't surely have much money to spend if his wife has
no better work to do than picking up rags," said I.
" It isn't her fault if she hasn't got no better," said the woman,
rather angrily. "She's ready to turn her hand to anything.
Charing, washing, laying out, keeping empty houses nothing
comes amiss to her. She's my half-sister, and I think I ought
to know."
' Did you say she went out charing ?" I asked, making believe
as if I knew of somebody who might employ her.
" Yes, of course I did," answered the woman; "and if you
can put a job into her hands, you'll be doing a good turn to a
poor hard-working creature as wants it. She lives down the
Mews here to the right name of Horlick, and as honest a
woman as ever stood in shoe-leather. Now, then, ma'am, what
for you ?"
Another customer came in just then, and occupied her atten-
tion. I left the shop, passed the turning that led down to the
Mews, looked up at the name of the street, so as to know how to
find it again, and then ran home as fast as I could. Perhaps it
was the remembrance of my strange dream striking me on a
sudden, or perhaps it was the shock of the discovery I had just
made, but I began to feel frightened without knowing why; and
anxious to be under shelter in my own room.
If Robert should come back! Oh, what a relief and help it
would be now if Robert should come back!
May 1st. On getting in-doors last night, the first thing I did,
after striking a light, was to take the ragged cravat off the can-
dles, and smooth it out on the table. I then took the end that
had been in poor Mary's hand out of my writing-desk, and
smoothed that out too. It matched the torn side of the cravat
exactly. I put them together, and satisfied myself that there
was not a doubt of it.
T8.
id T do-.
and find out i
. tn my in
thought I saw in my dream the clew that I wa
I determined to go to Mrs. Horlick this e\ ,iy re-
turn from work.
I found the Mews easily. A crook-backed dwarf of a man
was loungin ner of it smoking i iking
<>t inquire of him where Mrs. Horliek lived, but
went do\\n the Mews till I met with a woman, an
me to the right number. I knocked
Mrs. Horlick herself a lean, ill-tempered, miserable-looking
woman- : ed it. I told her at once that 1 had con
what her terms were for charing. She stared at me for a mo-
ment, then answered my question civilly enough.
ou look surprised at a stranger like me finding you o
1. "I first came to hear of you last night, from a rel
of yours, in rather an odd \\
i I told her all that had happened in the chandler's si
^ing in the bundle of rags, and the circumstance o:
home the candles in the old torn cravat, as often as
: ble.
" It's the first time I've heard of anything belonging to him
turning out any use." said Mrs. Horlick, bitterly.
"What! the spoiled old neck-handkerchief belonged to >
husband, did it ?" said I. at a venture.
" Yes: I pitched his rotten rag of a neck'andkercher into the
bundle along with the rest, and I wished I could have pi;
him in after it." said Mrs. Horlick. " I'd sell him cheap a
rag-shop. There he stands, smoking his pipe at tin t the
Mews, out of work for weeks past, the idlest humpbacked pig
TIT i
ID all London.
pointed to the man whom I had passed on enterim
My cheeks began to burn and my knees to tiembl>
I knew that in tracing the crav.i
a step toward a fresh discover diet! Mrs. Ilori.
and said T would write and mention t ; n which
anted h
f been told put a thought into my mind t!
id to follow out. I have heard p .Ik of !
led, and 1 I iiave heard them say the\ felt -
My he;i
; >llt the I
d man, still smoking hi> pipe in hi
Been. 'ait that: 1 e.nld think of nothing but rhe
the b T lost Mar\
ueaded. foi as 1 came <
. ithoiit ineanin- it. The HIM
had Keen m> idea ii. me of speaking to him. I did n<
in what way it would I
it h him. soi
'id to m
254 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
sidering beforehand, without thinking of consequences, without
knowing, I may almost say, what words I was uttering till the
instant when they rose to rny lips.
"When your old neck-tie was torn, did you know that one
end of it went to the rag-shop, and the other fell into my
hands?"
I said these bold words to him suddenly, and, as it seemed,
without my own will taking any part in them.
He started, stared, changed color. He was too much amazed
by my sudden speaking to find an answer for me. When he did
open his lips, it was to say, rather to himself than me:
" You're not the girl."
" No," I said, with a strange choking at my heart, " I'm her
friend."
By this time he had recovered his surprise, and he seemed to
be aware that he had let out more than he ought.
"You may be anybody's friend you like," he said, brutally,
" so long as you don't come jabbering nonsense here. I don't
know you, and T don't understand your jokes."
He turned quickly away from me when he had said the last
words. He had never once looked fairly at me since I first spoke
to him.
Was it his hand that had struck the blow ?
I had only sixpence in my pocket, but I took it out and fol-
lowed him. If it had been a five-pound note I should have
done the same in the state I was in then.
" Would a pot of beer help you to understand me ?" I said, and
offered him the sixpence.
" A pot ain't no great things," he answered, taking the six-
pence doubtfully.
" It may lead to something better," I said.
His eyes began to twinkle, and he came close to me. Oh, how
my legs trembled how my head swam!
" This is all in a friendly way, is it ?" he asked, in a whisper.
I nodded my head. At that moment I could not have spoken
for worlds.
" Friendly, of course," he went on to himself, " or there would
have been a policeman in it. She told you, I suppose, that I
wasn't the man ?"
I nodded my head again. It was all I could do to keep my-
self standing upright.
" I suppose it's a case of threatening to have him up, and make
him settle it quietly for a pound or two ? How much for me if
you lay hold of him ?"
" Half."
I began to be afraid that he would suspect something if I was
still silent. The wretch's eyes twinkled again, and he came yet
closer.
"I drove him to the Red Lion, corner of Dodd Street
Rudgely Street. The house was shut up, but he w;is let in at
the jug and bottle door, like a man who was known to the land-
lord. That's as much as I can tell you, and I'm certain I'm
right. He was the last fare I took up at night. The next morn-
T cribl and his
crook-)' nan had be*
11 Why don't you sj>< >ak ? ' he asked, suspiciously. " Has she
been telling you about me? What did she say
.me lioi.
A T hat ought she to have said ?"
" She ought to have said my fare was drunk, and she
the v oing to get in the cab. That's wha
it to have said to begin with."
" Well, after, my fare, by way of larking with her, puts out
<r to trip herup, and she stumbles and c
It', and tears off one of the limp ends of my r
What do you mean by that, you brute? says she, turn-
s soon as she was steady ou her legs, to my
my fare to her, 'I means to teach you to keep
>ur head.' And he ups with his tist, arnl
What are you looking at me like that for?
How do you think a man of my size take her par:
a man big enough to have eaten me up? Look as mud
in my place you would have done what I done dre
i lie shook his fist at you, and swore he'd be the death of
you if you did'nt start your horse in no time."
I sa\\ he was working himself up into a rage; but I could not,
if my life had depended on it, have stood near him or look*
him any longer. I just managed to stammer out that I had
walking a long way, and that, not being used to much
i faint and giddy with fatigue. He only changed from
sulky when I made that excuse. I got a little further
from him, and then added that if he would beat ;
ning I should have something more to say
and something more to give him. He grumbled a few sus-
- in answer about doubting wh. should
.' come hack. Fortunately, at that moment, a policeman
1 on the opposite side of" the way. He slunk down the
liately. -md 1 \\
pt that I think I ran the
he way. Sally opened the door, and
anything wag the matter the' moment she saw my
I, " Nothing nothing."
aid:
ih your hair u hit. and put \
iitli-man in there \vaiti>
mid: I knew who it VI
icd into the room like a mad woman.
nt went out to him in tho.-e two little
Anne. ha> anything h ill V
II Mary! my poor. \<\ . ami
: I con]. I fell 01
Lisfortunes and disai>i>ointm< him
256 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
a little, but toward rae lie is unaltered. He is as good, as kind,
as gently and truly affectionate as ever. I believe no other man
in the world could have listened to the story of Mary's death
with such tenderness and pity as he. Instead of cutting me
short anywhere, he drew me on to tell more than I had intended;
and his first generous words when I had done were to assure
me that he would see himself to the grass being laid and the
flowers planted on Mary's grave. I could almost have gone
on my knees and worshiped him when he made me that promise.
Surely this best and kindest, and noblest of men cannot always
be unfortunate! My cheeks burn when I think that be has come
back with only a few pounds in his pocket, after all bis bard and
honest struggles to do well in America. They must be bad
people there when such a man as Robert cannot get on among
them. He now talks calmly and resignedly of trying for any
one of the lowest employments by which a man can earn his
bread honestly in this great city he who knows French, who
can write so beautifully! Oh, if the people who have places to
give away only knew Robert as well as I do, what a salary he
would have, what a post he would be chosen to occupy!
I am writing these lines alone, while he has gone to the Mews
to treat with the dastardly, heartless wretch with whom I spoke
yesterday.
Robert says the creature I won't call him a man must be
humored and kept deceived about poor Mary's end, in order that
we may discover and bring to justice the monster whose drunken
blow was the death of her. I shall know no ease of mind till her
murderer is secured, and till I am certain that he will be made
to suffer for his crimes. I wanted to go with Robert to the
Mews, but he said it was best that he should carry out the rest of
the investigation alone, for my strength and resolution had been
too hardly taxed already. He said more words in praise of me
for what I have been able to do up to this time, which I am al-
most ashamed to write down with my own pen. Besides, there
is no need: praise from his lips is one of the things that I can
trust my memory to preserve to the latest day of my life.
May 3d. Robert was very long last night before he came back
to tell me what he had done. He easily recognized the hunch-
back at the corner of the Mews by my description of him; but
he found it a hard matter, even with the help of money, to over-
come the cowardly wretch's distrust of him as a stranger and a
man. However, when this had been accomplished, the main
difficulty was conquered. The hunchback, excited by the prom-
ise of more money, went at once to the Red Lion to inquire
about the person whom he had driven there in his cab. Robert
followed him, and waited at the corner of the street. The tid-
ings brought by the cabman were of the most unexpected kind.
The murderer I can write of him by no other name had fallen
ill on the very night when he was driven to the Red Lion, had
taken to his bed there and then, and was still confined to it at
that very moment. His disease was of a kind that is brought
on by excessive drinking, and that affects the mind as well as
the body. The people at the public house called it the Horrors.
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
Hearing these things, Robert determined to see if he could not
find . '.\% and inquiring at
iiiblie lions,', in the
man in bed ! h- made two important
In- found out Hie name and addre:-.s of the < i n at-
odly, he entrapped the barmaid into :
ing the murderous wretch by his name. Tin's last <i
adds an unspeakably fearful interest to the dreadful mi
of Mary's death. Noah Truscptt, as she told me herself in the
onversation I ever had with her, was the name of the man
run ken example ruined her father, and Noah Tru-
is also the name of the man whose drunken fury killed
There is something that makes one shudder, something super-
natural in this awful fact. Robert agrees with me that the hand
of Providence must have guided my steps to that shop from
which all the discoveries since made took their rise. He
he believes we are the instruments of effecting a righteous retri-
bution; and, if he spends his last farthing, he will have the
investigation brought to its full end in a court of justice.
May 4th. Robert went to-day to consult a lawyer whom he
knew in former times. The lawyer was much interested, though
not so seriously impressed as he ought to have been by the story
of Mary's death and of the events that have followed it. He
gave Robert a confidential letter to take to the doctor in attend-
ance on the double-dyed villain at the Red Lion. Robert
the letter, and called again and saw the doctor, who said his
patient was getting better, and would most likely be up again
in ten days or a fortnight. This statement Robert com mm.
ed to the lawyer, and The lawyer has undertaken to have the
public house properly watched", and the hunchback (who is the
most important witness) sharply looked after for the next fort-
night, or longer if necessary. 'Here, then, the progress of this
dreadful business stops for awhile.
May 5th. Robert has got a little temporary employment in
ing for his friend the lawyer. I am working harder than
at my needle, to make up for the time that has been lost
lately.
May 6th. To-day was Sunday, and Robert proposed that we
should go and look at Mary's grave. He, who forgets nothing
where a kindness is to be done, has found time to perform the
promise he made to me on the night when we first met. The
grave is already, by his order*, covered with turf, and planted
round with shni and a low 1
ided. to make the | >k worthier of my poor
ling who is beneath it. Oh, I hope I shall live lon.u 1 am
married to Robert! 1 want so much time him all my
gratitude!
y 20th. A hard trial to my courage to-day. I have \i
evidence at the police-office, and have seen the monster who
murdered her.
add only look at him once. I could just see that he was
a giant in size, and that he kept his dull, I
turned toward the witne-s-box. and hi-
258 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
staring on me. For an instant I tried to confront that look: for
an instant I kept my attention fixed on him on his blotched
face on the short, grizzled hair above it on his knotty, mur-
derous right hand, hanging loose over the bar in front of
him like the paw of a wild beast over the edge of its den.
Then the horror of him the double horror of confronting him,
in the first place, and afterward of seeing that he was an old
man, overcame me, and I turned away, faint, sick, and shudder-
ing. I never faced him again; and, at the end of my evidence
Robert considerately took me out.
When we met once more at the end of the examination, Rob-
ert told me that the prisoner never spoke and never changed
his position. He was either fortified by the cruel composure of
a savage, or his faculties had not yet thoroughly recovered from,
the disease that had so lately shaken them. " The magistrate
seemed to doubt if he was in his right mind; but the evidence
of the medical man relieved this uncertainty, and the prisoner
was committed for trial on a charge of manslaughter.
Why not on a charge of murder ? Robert explained the law
to me when I asked that question. I accepted the explanation,
but it did not satisfy me. Mary Mallinson was killed by a blow
from the hand of Noah Truscott. That is murder in the sight
of God; why not murder in the sight of the law also?
# * ; * * # # *
June 18th. To-morrow is the day appointed for the trial at
the Old Bailey.
Before sunset this evening I went to look at Mary's grave.
The turf has grown so green since I saw it last, and the flowers
are springing up so prettily. A bird was perched dressing his
feathers on the low white headstone that bears the inscription
of her name and age. I did not go near enough to disturb the
little creature. He looked innocent and pretty on the grave, as
Mary herself was in her lifetime. When he flew away I went
and sat for a little while by the headstone, and read the mourn-
ful lines on it. Oh, my love! my love! what harm or wrong
had you ever done in this world that you should die at eighteen,
by a blow from a drunkard's hand ?
June 19th. The trial. My experience of what happened at
it is limited, like my experience of the examination at the po-
lice-office, to the time occupied in giving my own evidence.
They made me say much more than I said before the magistrate.
Between examination and cross-examination I had to go into al-
most all the particulars about poor Mary and her funeral that I
have written in this journal, the jury listening to every word I
spoke with the most anxious attention. At the end the judge
said a few words to me approving of my conduct, and then
there was a clapping of hands among the people in court. I was
so agitated and excited that I trembled all over when they let
me go out into the air again.
I looked at the prisoner both when I entered the witness-box
and whewl left it. The lowering brutality of his face was un-
changed, but his faculties seemed to be more alive and observ-
ant than they were at the police office. A frightful blue change
THE
had to:
liands b< And \\ hen I }>;,
\ ay out
"e or to strike me I can't -
and upright again by the tu
i;n. WhiU- th<
us that 1
ror }> ;ntil at last, ju
r appointed to defend him ienly
out, in a voice that startled e\> up to the, very j
on the bench, "Stop!"
a pause, and all Iced at him. The persj
pouring over his face like water, and 1
utli signs with his liands to the judge opp
d out: " I've heen the ruin of th<
the child. Hang me before I do mm
s sake, out of the way!" As soon a< tl.
I by this extraordinary interruption had
. and there followi d a 1 ibout w!
of sound mind or not. The matter was lelt to the jury to
tlieir verdict. They found him guilty of the <
laughter, without the excuse of insani:
. and condemned to transportation for life. All h<
on h< t'til sentence. \\ :
. ig me before I do more harm! Hang me, for (
lit of the way!"
June 20th. I made y .-id ness of he
I have not been better in my spirits to-day. It is somethii
brought tile murderer to the punishment that h>
lint the knowledge that this most right
oniplisiied brin. insolation with it. Tli.
punish Noab Truscott tor hi- crime, but can it
Mullinsou from her last rest in-- place in the eh
While writing of the law, I ou-ht to record that tlie )
. ho allowed Marx to be stni'
without making an attempt to defend I;
with perfect impunity. man \vh.
the trial d
mitted ) for which the lau
him. and I
-Unite tlie moment he lefl tl:
I h; -\ ritten these l'e\\ line-;, am'
tl
i his wa;
260 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
asked for Anne Rodway. On hearing that I was the person in-
quired for, he requested five minutes' conversation with me. T
showed him into the little empty room at the back of the house,
and waited, rather surprised and fluttered, to hear what he had
to say.
He was a dark man, with a serious manner, and a short, stern
way of speaking. I was certain that he was a stranger, and yet
there seemed something in his face not unfamiliar to me. He
began by taking a newspaper from his pocket, and asking me if
I was the person who had given evidence at the trial of Noah
Truscott on a charge of manslaughter. I answered immediately
that I was.
" I have been for nearly two years in London seeking Mary
Mallinson, and always seeking her in vain," he said. " The first
and only news I have had of her I found in the newspaper report
of the trial yesterday."
He still spoke calmly, but there was something in the look of
his eyes which showed me that he was suffering in spirit. A
sudden nervousness overcame me. and I was obliged to sit
down.
"You knew Mary Mallinson, sir?" I asked, as quietly as I
could.
" I am her brother."
I clasped my hands and hid my face in despair. Oh, the bit-
terness of heart with which I heard him say those simple words.
" You were very kind to her," said the calm, tearless man.
" In her name and for her sake, I thank you."
" Oh, sir," I said, " why did you never write to her when you
were in foreign parts ?"
"I wrote often," he answered; "but each of my letters con-
tained a remittance of money. Did Mary tell you she had a
step-mother? If she did, you may guess why none of my let-
ters were allowed to reach her. I now know that this woman
robbed my sister. Has she lied in telling me that she was never
informed of Mary's place of abode ?"
I remembered that Mary had never communicated with her
step-mother after the separation, and could therefore assure him
that the woman had spoken the truth.
He paused for a moment after this, and sighed. Then he took
out a pocket-book, and said:
"I have already arranged for the payment of any legal ex-
penses that may have been incurred by the trial, but I have still
to reimburse you for the funeral charges which you so generously
defrayed. Excuse my speaking bluntly on this subject; I am
accustomed to look on all matters where money is concerned
purely as matters of business."
I saw that he was taking several bank-notes out of the pocket-
book, and stopped him.
" I will gratefully receive back the little money I actually
paid, sir, because I am not" well off, and it would be an ungra-
cious act of pride in me to refuse it from you," I said; "but I
see you handling bank-notes, any one of which is far beyond the
amount you have to repay me. Pray, put them back, sir. What
I tli.i .id for i:
1 hiinke.i ih;il. ai
had hit ; saw tli
ihe better of him.
1 and squeezed it hard.
' 1 !><- \i. ui pardon." he said; "I beg your pardon, with all
ilence between us, for. I was crying, and I lx>li
at In-art, he was crying too. At la^t he dropped my h
ack. by an ell'ort, to his former calmne
one helon^in.u to you to whom. I can be
he asked. ' I see among thw witnesses on the trial the
a young man who appears to have assisted you in the
inquiries which led to the prisoner's conviction. Ishearelati
ir at least, not now but I hope "
" I hope that he may, one day, be the nearest and dearest re-
lation to me that a \\oman can have." I said those words boldly.
because I was afraid of his otherwise taking some wrong view of
the connection between Robert and me.
"One day?" he repeated. "One day may be a long tiuie
hence."
" We are neither of us well off, sir," I said. " One day means
the day when we are a little richer than we are now."
4 1 s the young man educated? Can he produce testimonials
to his character? Oblige me by writing his name and address
on the back of that card."
When 1 had obeyed, in a handwriting which I am afraid did
me no credit, he took out another card, and gave it to i
"I shall leave I'.n-laiid tomorrow." he said. " Thei
nothing now to keep me in my own country. If you are ever in
any difficulty or distress (which I pray God you may never be),
my London agent, whose address you have th<
l>ed and looked at me attentively, then took i
iu.
" Where is she buried ?" he said, suddenly, in a quick whi
turning his head away. 1
I told him. and added that we had made the grave as beaut ii'u
e could with grass and 11o\\ >
iw his lips whiten and tremble.
:>le>>and reward you!" he said, and d>
him quickly and kissed ; ead. I wasqui:
sank down and hid my face on tin When I look*
again he was ^one.
June 35th, ls-ii. 1 write these lines on mj
when lie than a year has pa- t return
England.
ary was increased yesterday to one hundred and
pounds a year. If I only knew u
writ* 1 him of our present happm. - Bui
tion which his kindness procured !'<>;
been waiting vainly for the day that has iiu*.
I am to work at home for the future, and Sally is to help us in
our new abo-le. If Mary could have lived to^ee this day! T am
not ungrateful lor my blessings; but oh, how I miss that sweet
face on this morning of all others!
I got up to-day early enough to go alone to the grave, and to
gather the nosegay that now lies before rne from the flowers that
grow around it. I shall put it in my bosom when Robert comes
to fetch me to the church. Mary would have been my bride-
maid if she had lived; and I can't forget Mary, even on my wed-
ding day.
THE NIGHT.
THE last words of the last story fell low and trembling from
Owen's lips. He waited for a moment while Jessie dried the
tears which Anne Rodway's simple diary had drawn from her
warm young heart, then closed the manuscript, and taking her
hand, patted it in his gentle, fatherly way.
"You will be glad to hear, my love," he said, "that I can
speak from personal experience of Anne Rodway's happiness.
She came to live in my parish soon after the trial at which she
appeared as chief witness, and I was the clergyman who mar-
ried her. Mouths before that I knew her story, and had read
those portions of her diary which you have just heard. When
I made her my little present on her wedding-day, and when she
gratefully entreated me to tell her wliat she could do for me in
return, I asked her for a copy of her diary to keep among the
papers that I treasured most. ' The reading of it now and then,'
I said, ' will encourage that faith in the brighter and better part
of human nature which I hope, by God's help, to preserve pure
to my dying day.' In that way I became possessed of the manu-
script; it was Anne's husband who made the copy for me. You
have noticed a few withered leaves scattered here and there be-
tween the pages. They were put there years since, by the
bride's own hand: they are all that now remain of the flowers
that Anne Rodway gathered on her marriage morning from
Mary Mallinson's grave."
Jessie tried to answer, but the words failed on her lips. Be-
tween the effect of the story, and the anticipation of the parting
now so near at hand, the good, impulsive, affectionate creature
was fairly overcome. She laid her head on Owen's shoulder,
and kept tight hold of his hand, and let her heart speak simply
for itself, without attempting to help it by a single word.
The silence that followed was broken harshly by the tower
clock. The heavy hammer slowly rang out ten strokes through
the gloomy night-time and the dying storm.
I waited till the last humming echo of the clock fainted into
dead stillness. I listened once more attentively, and again
listened in vain. Then I rose, and proposed to my brothers that
we should leave our guest to compose herself for the night.
When Owen and Morgan were ready to quit the room, I took
her by the hand, and drew her a little aside.
>u in private. We shall b.
too much to beg you to corae and se
>e, in my study at half-past seve
i as her lips opened to answer rne, I hangej
her face. I had kept her hand in mine while I was spea
and I must have pressed it unc< > hard
her. She may even have uttered a few words of re:
strance; but they ne\ me; my whole hearing sense was
', absorbed, petrified. At the very instant when I had
ceased speaking, I, and I alone, heard a faint sound a s
new to me fly past the Glen Tower on the wings of
wind.
" Open the window, for God's sake!'' I cried.
hand mechanically held hers tighter and tight'
! to free it, looking hard at me with pale cheeks and
d eyes. Owen hastened up and released her, and put
round me.
ninth. Griffith!'' he whispered, "control yourself, for
George's sake."
Morgan hurried to the window, and threw it wide open.
The wind and rain rushed in fiercely. Weleon
! They all heard it now. " Oh, Father in heaver,
ciful to fathers on earth my son, my son!"
It came in, louder and louder with every gust of wind the
is, rapid gathering roll of wheels. MN n her
as if i to her heart, wh
;rned on me all pa'. rlded. 1 ti
r; 1 tried to break away from Owen's arms, to throw m\
own arms round her. to keep heron m ie to
:i me. But all my strength h: in the
nid the long suspense. My head sank on Owei
1 the wheels. Morgan i'
sprinkled water over my face I still heard l The
i ran into her room, and i ftch wit!
rd the carr;
round and round with me; but I h<
m the hall, and the opening of ;
rose c
d him. Ti
tone;- aired into my ear, and then, tli
it. hushed me suddenly to i
When 1 came to m lin my eyes opened u;
s lying on the sofa, still in t
ling at my pillow, and we
264 THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
THE MORNING.
THE wind is fainter, but there is still no calm. The rain is
ceasing, but there is still no sunshine. The view from my win-
dow shows me the mist heavy on the earth, and a dim gray veil
drawn darkly over the sky. Less than twelve hours since, such
a prospect would have saddened me for the day. I look out at
it this morning, through the bright medium of my own happi-
ness, and not the shadow of a shade falls across the steady
inner sunshine that is pouring over my heart.
The pen lingers fondly in my hand, and yet it is little, very
little, that I have left to say. The purple Volume lies open by
my side with the stories ranged together in it in the order in
which they were read. My son has learned to prize them already
as the faithful friends who served him at his utmost need. I
have only to wind off the little thread of narrative on which
they are all strung together before the volume is closed and our
anxious literary experiment fairly ended.
My son and I had a quiet hour together on that happy night
before we retired to rest. The little love-plot invented into
George's interest now required one last stroke of diplomacy to
complete it before we all threw off our masks and assumed our
true characters for the future. When my son and I parted for
the night, we had planned the necessary stratagem for taking
pur lovely guests by surprise as soon as she was out of her bed
in the morning.
Shortly after seven o'clock I sent a message to Jessie by her
maid, informing her that a good night's rest had done wonders
for me, and that I expected to see her in my study at half past
seven, as we had arranged the evening before. As soon as her
answer, promising to be punctual to the appointment, had
reached me, I took George into my study left him in my place
to plead his own cause and stole away, five minutes before the
half hour, to join my brothers in the breakfast-room.
Although the sense of my own happiness disposed me to take
the brightest view of my son's chances, I must nevertheless ac-
knowledge that some nervous anxieties still fluttered about my
heart while the slow minutes of suspense were, counting them-
selves out in the breakfast-room. I had as little attention to
spare for Owen's quiet prognostications of success as for Mor-
gan's pitiless sarcasms on love, courtship, and matrimony. A
quarter of an hour elapsed then twenty minutes. The hand
moved on, and the clock pointed to five minutes to eight, before
I heard the study door open, and before the sound of rapidly
advancing footsteps warned me that George was corning into
the room.
His beaming face told the good news before a word could be
spoken on either side. The excess of his happiness literally and
truly deprived him of speech. He stood eagerly looking at us
all three, with outstretched bands and glistening eyes.
" Have I folded up my surplice forever," asked Owen, " or am
I to wear it once again, George, in your service ?"
TB
don. George's feelings
had ; to allow him to return jest for
I thank you!" ho said. " And you.
led, looking at Owen and Morgan grateful
must thank Chance as well as than!
ightly as my heart would let nic, to encourage him.
"The advantage of numbers in our little love-plot was all 01
mlHT, (Joorge, wo wore three to 01
AVhile I .-aking the breakfast-room door opened n<
. and showed us Jessie standing on the threshold, uncertain
io join us or run back to her own room. II
complexion heightened to a deep glow; the tears just rising in
t yet falling from them; her delicate h
little, as if they were still shjly conscious of other lips
1 them but a few minute- li-r attitude
lutely graceful; her hair just disturbed enough ovei
cheeks to add to the charm of thet
before us, the loveliest living picture of youth, and tender
and virgin love that eyes ever looked on. C had-
ogether to meet her at the door. Hut the
irl had heard from my son the true story of all tl
. and hoped, and suffered for the last ten days, and sh
i mingly how she felt it by turning at once to ?/
I stop at the Glen Tower a little longer ?" she as
think you can get through your evenings, my \<r
>>d. "But surely you forget that the Purple Volume is
and that the stories have all conic to an er
d her arms round my neck, and laid h>
fond I -t mine.
" ! I have suffered y->ten!
l.v.
.d how hapny I am to-day!"
Tin ithered in 1, and dropped over 1
d lu-r head to look at m< match
< ntly unclasped her arms and ltd h
"ii really did U>\c liim then, after all." I w:
" tl ' sly to let me <!;
ut among the ;
11 with
ion of this kind was all that
ireu round tl
n of 1 1 the head o! ii . in I
6 ahca-l
[THE KM>. |
Baarks the women of our households when they undertake tc make their
and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary v
be as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove i
regard for decent homes by their indefati^ What a pity that
of them should add to their toil by ne{i use Sapolio. It redooe*
ihc labor of cleaning and scouring at least one-hall lOc. a uike. Sold by
ftttjroeers.
SOCIAL SOLUTIONS
By M. aODIM,
ly.
THAN- U BY
I vol., I2mo, illustrated, cloth gilt, SI.5O.
An ndmirnh''
i him tc
1 1 that .
;ent
chattrl .slavery.
JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers,
It and Ki I '< .-<?/ tUrcct, .\ / II YORK.
THE BEST
WASHING GOMPUliD
EVER INVENTED,
No Lady, Married ov
Single* Rich or Poor
Housekeeping or Board*
ing. will be without it
after testing its utility.
Sold by all first-cUo*
Grocers, but beware of
worthless imttatioa*
LOWELL'S LIBRARY.
tJiO Shane Fadfc'sWeddfcig.by Carleton.20
631 Larry McFarland's Wake, by Wil-
liam Carleton 10
833 The Party Fight and Funeral, by
William Carleton 10
893 The Midnight Mass, by Carleton... 10
824 Phil Parcel, by William Carleton. 10
825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10
826 Going to Maynooth, by Carleton. ..10
82T Phelim O'Toole's Courtship, by
William Carleton 10
d38 Dominick the Poor Scholar, by
William Carleton.. . 10
829 Neal Malone, by William Carleton.. 10
830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate.20
831 The Son of His Father,by Oliphant.20
832 SirPercival, by J. H. Shorthouse..lO
833 A Voyage to the Cape, by Ruseell. .20
834 Jack's Courtship, by Russell 20
835 A Sailor's Sweetheart, by Russell. .20
836 On the Fo'k'sle Head, by Russell. . .20
837 Marked "In Haste," by Roosevelt. . 20
838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20
839 The Guilty River, by Collins 10
840 By Woman's Wit, by Alexander. .. .20
841 Dr. Cupid, by Rhoda Broughton. ..20
842 The World Went Very Well Then,
by Walter Besant 20
43 My Lord and My Lady, by Mrs.
Forrester 20
844 Dolores, by Mrs. Forrester 20
845 I Have Lived and Loved, by Mrs.
Forrester 20
846 An Algonquin Maiden, by Adams. .'20
847 Tiie Ho'y Rose, by Walter Besant. 10
848 Sh% by H. Rider Haggard 20
849 Handy Andy, by Samuel Lover x'O
850 My Hero, by Mrs. Forrester 20
" 851 Lortia Doone, by Blackmore.P't I. . .20
851 Lorna Doone, by Blackmore, P't 11.20
852 Friendship, by Ouida .' 20
854 Signa, by Ouida 20
855 Pascarei, by Ouida 20
856 Golden Bolls, by B. L. Farjeon... .10
S57 A Willful Young Woman 20
858 A Modern Telemachus, by Yonge.20
859 Viva, by Mrs. Forrester 20
860 Omnia Valutas, by Mrs. Forrester.10
861 Diana Carew, by Mrs. Forr-^ter. 20
862 From Olympus to Hades, by Mrs.
Forrester 20
\S63 Rhona. by Mrs. Forrester 20
864 Roy and Viola, by Mrs. Forrester .. 20
865 June, by Mrs. Forrester 20
866 Mlgnon, Mrs. Forrester 20
867 A Young Man's Fancy, by Mrs.
Forrester 20
868 One Thing Needful, by Braddon .. 20
869 Barbara, by M 13. TJraddon 20
870 John ManUmi" ,, by M.
K. I'.raM.'
ISSUES.
73 Asphodel, by M. E. Braddon ft
74 Nine of Hearts, by B. L. Farjeon.. 80
75 Little Tu'penny, by Baring-Gould.10
76 The Witch's Head, by H. Rider
Haggard , . 20
77 The Doctor's Wife, by Braddon.... 20
78 Only a Clod, by M. E. Braddon. . . .20
i79 Sir Jasper's Tenant, by Braddon. .20
80 Lady's Mile, by M. E. Braddon .... 20
81 Birds of Prey, by M. E. Braddon.. 20
82 Charlotte's Inheritance, by M. E.
Braddon. 20
83 Rupert Godwin, by M. E. Braddon.20
84 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part I. . .20
84 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II... 20
:85 Monte Cristo and his Wife 20
86 Strangers and Pilgrims, by M. E.
Braddon 20
A Strange World, by M. E. Braddon.20
Mount Royal, by M. E. Braddon... 20
Just as I am, by M. E. Braddon 20
Dead Men's Shoes, by Braddon... 20
The Countess of Monte Cristo, Ft. 1.20
The Countess of Monte Cristc,
Ft. II 20
892 Hostages to Fortune, by M. E.
Braddon 20
893 Fenton's Quest, by M. E. Braddon.20
894 The Cloven Foot, by M. E. Braddon.20
SW Moonshine, by Frederic Allison
Tapper 20
896 Marjorie, by B. M. Clay 20
897 Shirley, by Charlotte Bronte, . . .20
898 Joan Wentworth by Katherino S.20
Macquoid
899 Love and Life, by Yonge 20
900 Jess, by H. Rider Haggard 20
901 Charles Auchester, by E. Berper. . . 20
902 The Mystery, by Mrs. Henry Wood. 20
903 The Master Passion, by Marryat. .20
904 A Lucky Disappointment, by Flor-
ence Marryat 1(1
905 Her Lord and Master, by Marry at. 20
906 My Own Child, by Marryat
907 No Intentions, by Florence Mnrr
908 Written in Fire, by Marryat MO
909 A Little Stepson, by Marry at. .. 10
910 With Cupid's Eyes, by Marryat. . .20
911 Not Like Other Girls, by ROFB
Nonchette Carey
912 Robert Ord's Atonement, by R
Nonchette Carey
913 Griffith Gaunt, by Charles Read
914 A Terrible Temptation, by Rea.
915 Very Hard Cash, by Charles Rratk-.'JO
916 It is Never Too Late to Mend, by
Charles Reade 20
917 The Knightsbridge Mystery, by
Charles Reade
!M8 A Woman Hater, by Cl.nr],-
'.!'!> H.'udhnia, by Charles Reade 10
9','0 John: A Love. Story, by Mn-. OJi-
...90
..20
Am r N> obtained from n- --rs and newsdealers, or will toft
urice, by the publishers,
JOHN W. LOYELL COMPANY.
NOB. 14 AND 16 YESEY STREET^ NEW YORK*
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THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY