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BEYOND THE DREAMS
OF AVARICE
HOVELS BY SIR WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE.
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READY-MONEY MORTIBOY.
MY LITTLE GIRL.
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THIS SON OF VULCAN.
THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY.
THE MONKS OF THELEMA.
BY CELIA'S ARBOUR.
THE CHAPLAIN OF THE
FLEET
THE SEAMY SIDE.
THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT,
&c.
'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY,
&c.
THE TEN YEARS' TENANT,
&c.
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ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. With 12 Illustrations
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THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. With 12 Illustrations
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HERR PAULUS : His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall.
THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S.
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THE REBEL QUEEN^
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AS WE ARE : AS WE MAY BE : Social Essays. Crown 8vo, linen, 6s.
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London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.
Frontispiece.
' Yott all have the same face.
BEYOND THE DREAMS
OF AVARICE
BY
SIR WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OF
*all sorts an'd conditions of men* 'children of gibeom*
'all in a garden fair' etc
A NEW EDITION
WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. H. HYDE
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1896
Pi. IN TED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET S^UAKE
LONDON
CONTENTS
CHAPTE31 TAOS
I. A Surprise and an Injtjnction • • • • . 1
n. A Packet of Papers ..•••••. 7
in. ' The Child is Dead ' 13
IV. An Inquest of Office 18
V. The Fortune and the House • • • • • 25
VI. The Nursery • • 31
VII. The Prodigal Son 89
VIII. The Portraits 4a
IX. The Press upon Windfalls .••••• 54
X. Are we Cousins? • • • 65
XI. A Variety Entertainment , • • • • .77
XII. The Same Name 90
XIII. The Vision of the Mothees 101
XIV. Unlooked-for Delays . • 112
XV. Hundreds of Claiiiants • . 123
XVI. The Missing Link , 129
XVII. The Beginning ••••••«. 185
XVm. A Search and a Find . • . • • . . 142
XIX. A Household Book. ••••••. 147
XX. A Commentary •••••••». 159
XXL The Other Lucinda ••••••• 162
\ 028
VI BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPxICE
CHAPTER PA<5S
XXII. The LoNa-Losr Family 173
XXIII. The First Patient 184
XXIV. The Curate's Choicb , . . . ... 194
XXV. Who is he ? 201
XXVI. A Shaky Partnership 206
XXVII. The Genealogist . • 219
XXVIII. The Miracle 232
XXIX. ' Confess ye your Sins ' 233
XXX. Impossible to be found out ...... 244
XXXI. The Shame of it I 252
XXXII. A Drea&i and a Discovery 25 G
XXXIII. The Condolence of the Motheus .... 267
XXXIV. Farewell! . « . 278
XXXV. Ella's Adyice . ; # 290
XXXVI. A Family Council . ; ; . . ... 292
XXXVII. What the Press said I ;. ... 303
XXXVm. Eabthqijakes and Showers or Fire , • . . 313
LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS
•You ALL HAVE THE SAME FACE* • • • • . Frontispiece
* Best, fathee,' said the son, touchino the sick man's
FT7LSE • . • •
' The housekeeper took us up to the first floob '
• He stands before you 1'
Margaret ran in with a light heart
She took her purse, and poup^d out the contents
In the old Cathedral •
kobodt laughed at all when be sang.
He had a DISCOVERY TO REVEAL
• I HAVE COME TO CARRY YOU AWAY ' ...
Ella took her hand and kissed it . • . i
A strange, weird picture she uade • • •
To face p. 3
„ 28
„ 65
„ 101
„ 113
„ 138
„ 207
„ 220
» 237
„ 254
- 275
W. FARNEY5
50. AMWELL STPF!:-!,
CliABBMONT SQUAKB.
PENTONYILLE. E.G.
BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
CHAPTER I
A SUPvPEISE AND AN INJUNCTION
* LuciAN 1 ' The sick man was propped up by pillows. His
hands lay folded outside the coverings. All that could be
seen of a face covered with an iron-grey beard was pale. His
deep-set eyes were bright. His square, strong brow, under a
mass of black hair touched with grey, was pale. * Lucian, I
Bay.* His voice was strong and firm, although the patient
repose of his head and hands showed that movement was
either difficult or impossible. * Lucian, it is no use trying to
deceive me.'
* I do not try to deceive you. There is always hope.*
* I have none. Sit down now and let us talk quietly. It
is the last chance, very likely, and I have a good deal to say.
Sit down, my son — there — so that I may see you.'
The son obeyed. He placed a chair by the bedside and
sat down. He was a young man about seven-and-twenty
years of age. He had the same square forehead as his father,
and the same deep- set bright black eyes ; the same straight
black eyebrows. His face was beardless ; the features were
strong and clearly cut ; it was a face of resolution : not what
girls call a handsome face, but a face of intellectual power :
a responsible face : a masterful face : his broad shoulders and
tall, strong figure increased the sense of personal force which
accompanied the presence of Lucian Calvert.
B
2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
'The weakest point about human knowledge,' said the
sick man, philosophising from habit, * is that we never seem
to make any real advance in keeping the machinery in order,
or in setting it right when it gets wrong.' He was a mechanical
engineer by calling, and of no mean reputation. * When the
machinery goes wrong, the works stop. Then we have to
throw away the engine. She can't be repaired. Y7hy don't
you learn how to tinker it up, you doctors ? '
The son, who was a physician, shook his head.
* We do our best,' he said. ' But we are only beginning.*
* Why don't you learn how to set the thing going again ?
Let the machine run down, and then take it to pieces and
mend it. Get up steam again, and then run her for another
spell. That's what you ought to do, Lucian.'
* You are talking like yourself again, father.'
* I suppose,' he went on, * that if men had by their own
wit themselves invented this machine of the body, if they had
built it up, bit by bit, as we fellows have done with our
engines, they would understand the thing better. As it is,
we must pay for ignorance. A man finds he has got to die
at fifty-five because the doctors know nothing but symptoms.
Fifty-five I In the very middle of one's work 1 It's disgusting.
Just beginning, so to speak, and all his knowledge wasted —
gone— dissipated — unless somehow there's the conservation
of intellectual energy.'
* Perhaps there is,' said his son. * As you say, we under-
stand little more than symptoms, which is the reason why
there is always hope.'
But he spoke without assurance.
* Never mind myself,' the father replied. * About you,
Lucian.'
* Don't think about me : I shall do very well.*
* I must think about you, my dear boy, because it is im-
possible to think about myself. Last night I had a dream.
I was floating in dark space, with nothing to think about.
And it was maddening. I don't suppose that death means that.
Well, I shall learn what it means in a day or two. There's
A SURPBISE AND AN INJUNCTION -?
^
the money question. I never tried to save money. I was set
dead against saving quite early in life. Had good reason to
hate and loathe saving. But I believe that Tom Nicholson
has got something of mine — something that rolled in— and
there's your mother's money. You won't starve. And you've
got your profession.*
* I shall do, sir.'
*I think you will. I've always thought you would.
You've got it written on your face. If you keep your eyes in
the right direction — in the direction of work — you'll do very
well. You will either go up steadily or you will go dovvTi
swiftly. It is the gutter or the topmost round for you.'
He paused. The exertion of talking was too great for his
strength.
* Rest, father,' said the son, touching the sick man's pulse.
*Ilest, and talk again to-morrow.'
* Who will talk with me to-morrow ? Wait a moment,
Lucian. Lift my head. So. That's better. I breathe
again. Now — as soon as I am buried, you must communicate
the news of my death — to my father.'
* To whom ? ' Lucian started. He thought his father
v^-as off his head.
* To my father, Lucian. I have never told you that I have
a father still living.'
Imagine, dear reader. This young man had lived seven-
and-tv^enty years in the world, and always in the belief that
his father was an only child, and that his grandfather was
dead, and that there were no cousins, or if any, then perhaps
cousins not desirable. Then you will understand the amaze-
ment of this young man. He sprang to his feet and bent
ever the sick man. No ; his eyes were steady. There was
no outward sign of wandering.
* My father, Lucian,' he repeated. * I am not delirious, I
assure you.'
* Your father ? Why ? Where is he ? What is he ? Is
he — perhaps — poor ? '
* He is a very old man ; he is over ninety years of age.
b2
k
4 BEYOND TIIE BUEAMS OF AVARICf! ^
And he is not poor at all. His poverty is not the reason why
you have never heard of him.*
* Oh I Then, why '
* Patience, my son. He is neither poor nor ohscure. He
is famous, in fact, so famous that I resolved to begin the world
for myself without his reputation on my back. A parent's
greatness may hamper a young man at the outset. Bo I left
him.'
* His reputation ? We are, then, connected with a man
of reputation.' But Lucian spoke dubiously.
* You are, as you will shortly, perhaps, discover. I sup-
pose he no longer follows his profession, being now so
old.'
* What profession ? '
* Destruction and Euin,' replied the old man, shortly.
' Oh r His son asked no further questions. Perhaps he
felt that to learn more would make him no happier. A
strange profession, however, * Destruction and Ruin.*
* I changed my name when I left the family home. So
that you have no ancestors, fortunately, except myself. You
are like Seth, the son of Adam.'
* No ancestors ? But we must have ancestors.'
*If you want to learn all about them, you can. Tom
Nicholson knows. Tom Nicholson, the lawyer — he knows.
He has got some papers of mine, that I drew up a long time
ago. It might be better for you to go on in ignorance. On
the other hand — well, choose for yourself. Read the papers,
if you like, and find out what manner of people your ancestors
were. Nicholson will give you your grandfather's address.
Tell him, without revealing yourself or the name that I have
borne — or your own relation to me — tell him simply that I
am dead.'
* Very well, sir. I will do what you desire.*
* One thing more. It is my earnest wish — I do not com-
mand : no man, not even a father, has the right to command
another — but it is my wish and hope that you may never be
invited or tempted to resume the name that I abandoned, to
^ A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 5
claim kin with any of the family which I have renounced, or
to take one single farthing of the fortune which your ancestors
have amassed. Our money has been the curse of us for two
hundred years. You may learn, if you please, from Tom
Nicholson the history of the family. From father to son —
from father to son. It was got by dishonour ; it has been
increased and multiplied by dishonour ; it has been attended
with dishonour, fraud and crime, madness, selfishness, hard-
ness of heart — pitiless hardness of heart has gone with it.
Lucian, when you have learned the history of your ancestors,
you will understand why I left the house full of wretched
memories and renounced them all. And if I judge you aright,
you will be ready to renounce them, too.*
* I shall remember your wish, sir,' said his son, gravely.
* But I do not understand how the question of money can
arise, since your father is in ignorance of my very existence.'
* Best so. Best so,' said the sick man. * Then you cannot
be tempted.'
For one so weak this long conversation was a great effort.
He closed his eyes and spoke no more.
The young man sat down again and watched. But he
was strangely agitated. What did his father mean ? What
kind of profession was that which could be described as
Destruction and Ruin ?
Nothing more was said upon the subject at all, for the
machinery proved so much out of gear that the engine suddenly
stopped. And as no one could possibly set it going again,
there was nothing left but to put away the engine in the place
w^here people put away all the broken engines.
When the funeral was over, the two principal mourners,
Lucian Calvert and a certain Mr. Nicholson, old friend and
legal adviser of his father, above referred to as Tom, drove
away together. They went back to the house.
* Now,' said Lucian, * tell me things. All I know is that
my name is not Calvert, and that my grandfather is still
living.*
* That is all you know, is it ? Well, Lucian, in my opinio©
6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICE
you know too much for your own happiness already. I
advised your father to keep you in ignorance. I saw that you
would get on, as he had done, without the help of money or
the hindrance of connections. But he thought you ought to
have the opportunity of knowing everything if you choose.'
* Certainly, I do choose.'
* Well, then, your father was my oldest friend. We were
boys together, at Westminster School. He was unhappy at
home, for reasons which you may learn if you like. At tho
age of seventeen or so he ran away from home and fought his
way up through the engineering shops. His name was not
John Calvert, but John Calvert Burley.'
* Burley ? My name is Burley. Go on.*
* Your grandfather lives in Great College Street, West-
minster. Your father never had any communication with
him after he left the house.* Mr. Nicholson lugged out of his
coat pocket a little roll of papers. * Here is a bundle of
papers which have long been in my keeping. They contain
an account of the Burley family, drawn up by your father for
you. There are also some letters and memorials of his
mother and others, taken from her desk after she died. And
that is all.'
* You have told me nothing at all about the Burley
people.'
* No. Read the papers which your father prepared for you,
and you will learn all you want to learn, and perhaps more.'
He took his hat. * And, Lucian, if you choose to resume
your true name and to join your own people, I will look
through the papers for you and communicate with your grand-
father. But I rather think, my dear boy, that you will prefer
to remam Lucian Calvert. Don't change your name. Far
better to be the son of John Calvert, civil engineer, than the
grandson of John Calvert Burley. Toss the papers in the fire
when you have read them, and think no more about the
matter.'
Lucian, left with the packet of papers, handled them
suspiciously, looked at the fireplace in which there was no
A SURPEISE AND AN INJUNCTION 7
fire, began to untie, but desisted. Finally he put the roll into
his pocket and sallied forth. He was engaged— not an
unusual thing for a young man — and what is the good of
being engaged if you cannot put a disagreeable task upon your
CHAPTEE II
A PACKET OF PAPErcS
The girl, Margaret by name, sat with her hands folded in her
lap, looking up at her lover as he stood over her.
It has never yet been decided whether those marriages
are the happier when the couple are alike or when they are
unlike in what we call essentials. For my own part, I think
that the latter marriage presents the greater chance of
happiness if only for the infinite possibilities of unexpected-
ness : also for the reproduction of the father in the daughter
and the mother in the son. These two were going to try love
in unlikeness. The girl was fair in complexion, with blue
eyes which could easily become dreamy and were always
luminous : there was at the moment the sweet seriousness in
them that so well becomes a beautiful woman : she was a tall
girl, as is demanded by the fashion of the time, dressed as
one who respects her own beauty and would become, in her
lover's eyes, as attractive as she could : a strong and healthy
girl ; able to hold her own yet, as one might conclude from
her attitude in the presence of her lover ; one who, when she
promised to give herself, meant to give everything, and
already had no thought but for him. As she sat under him ;
as he stood over her ; every one could understand here was
man masterful, the Lord of Creation ; and here was woman
obedient to the man she loved ; that here was man creative
and here was woman receptive ; that out of her submission
would spring up her authority. What more can the world
desire ? What more did Nature intend ?
8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAIIICE •
* Now that everything is over,' he said, ' it is time for U3
to talk and think about ourselves.'
* Already, Lucian ? '
* Already. The dead are dead ; we are the living. Hia
memory will live awhile — longer than most men's memories,
because he did good work. With us his memory will last all
our Hves. Now, Marjorie, I have got something wonderful to
tell you. Listen with both ears.'
He took a chair and sat down, and held one of her hands.
*Both ears I want. Two or three days before he died,
my father told me a thing which greatly amazed me. I said
nothing to you about it, but waited.'
* What was it, Lucian ? '
* After the funeral, this morning, I came away with Mr.
Nicholson, my father's old friend and his lawyer. He drove
home with me and we had a talk.'
Lucian told his tale and produced the packet of papers.
' I confess,' he said, * that I shrink from reading these
documents. If I were superstitious, I should think that the
reading of the documents would bring disaster. That's
absurd, of course. But it is certain that there must be
something disagreeable about them — perhaps, something
shameful— why, else, did my father run away from home ?
Why did he, as he said, renounce his ancestors ? Why did
he speak of a fortune created by dishonour ? Why did he say
that my grandfather's profession was "Destruction and Ruin " ? *
* " Destruction and Ruin I " Did he say that ? Destruc-
tion and Ruin ? What did he mean ? What kind of profes-
sion is that ? '
* I don't know. Now, Madge, this is the position. I have
never had any cousins at all, or any ancestors on my father's
side. His people don't know of my existence, even. But
there is in this packet the revelation of the family to which I
belong — to which you will belong. They may be disgraceful
people —probably they are.'
* Since they do not know of your existence, it ig evident
you »ee^ not tell them who you are,'
w A PACKET OF PAPEKS 9
' Tliey must be in somo way disreputable. " Destruction
and Ruin I " That was my grandfather's profession. Do you
think he is Napoleon the Great, not dead after all, but sur-
vivor of all his generation ? '' Destruction and Ruin," ' he
laughed. 'It would make an attractive advertisement, a
handbill for distribution on the kerb outside the shop door —
"Desteuction and Ruin!" There's your heading in big
letters. " By John Calvert Burley ! " There's your second
line. " Destruction and Ruin" — this is where your circular
begins — " Destruction and Ruin in all their branches under-
taken and performed with the utmost certainty, secrecy, and
despatch — and on reasonable terms. The Nobility and
Gentry waited on personally. Everybody destroyed com-
pletely. Ruin effected in the most thorough manner. De-
struction superintended from the office. Recovery hopeless.
Ruin moral, material, physical and mental, guaranteed and
executed as per order. Strictest confidence. Customers may
depend on being satisfied with same." They always say
" same," you know. " No connection with any other house.
Tackle of the newest and most destructive kind to be had on
the Three Years' Hire System. Painless Self Destruction
taught in six lessons. Terms — strictly cash." *
* Hush, hush, Lucian ! Not to make a jest of it.' But
she laughed gently.
' We need not cry over it. Hang it I What can it be :
*' Destruction and Ruin " ? '
* Do you think — do you think — he makes a quack medicine
that will cure everything ? '
* Perhaps. " The Perfect, Pleasant, and Peremptory Pill.
Children cry for it. The baby won't be happy till he gets it."
Very likely. Or he may be a Socialist.'
*Ye — yes— or— do you think he is a solicitor? Your
father always hated lawyers.'
* I don't know — or the proprietor of a paper on the other
side ? He was a great Liberal.'
* Perhaps— or a jerry builder ? He hated bad workmen of
all kinds,'
lO BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE ♦
* Perhaps— or a turncoat politician ? Or a critic ? Or a
cheap sausage maker ? Or the advertiser of soap ? Or *
When one is still young it is easy to turn everything into
material for smiles, if not laughter. These two guessed at
many things for a profession which could he fitly described
by these two words. But the real thing did not occur to
them.
•It was a fat profession,' the young man continued,
* because my father was so anxious that I should never be
tempted to take part in the fortune. Since my existence is
nnknov/n, it is not likely that the temptation will arise. I
wonder what it was.'
' You wish to know the contents of those papers ? '
* Very much.'
*You will never rest till you do know them. Well,
Lucian, let me read them for you. Perhaps you need not
inquire any further. Perhaps your curiosity v/ill be satisfied
with a single broad fact. It ' — * It ' meant the profession —
* it could not have been so very disgraceful, for your father
was a Westminster scholar, and has been a life -long friend of
Mr. Nicholson, a most respectable person.'
Lucian gave her the papers. * Take them, Madge. Read
them, and tell mo this evening as much as you please about
them.'
In the evening he called again. Margaret received him
with a responsible face and a manner as of one who has a
difiicult duty to perform.
* Well, Madge ? You have read the papers ? *
*They are written by your father. Your grandfather's
address is 77 Great College Street, Westminster, and his
name is John Calvert Burley.'
* Yes — so much I knew before. And the wonderful pro-
fession ? '
* Lucian, it is really disagreeable. Can't you let the
matter just rest where it is ? '
* Not now. I must know as well as you. What ? You
are to be burdened with disagreeable discoveries and I am not
p
A PACKET OF PAPERS II
to know ? Call this the Equality of Love ? What about
that profession ? What about Destruction and Euin ? *
* My dear Lucian, your father began a new family. You
may be contented with him.'
' So long as you carry it on with me,' said her lover, with
a lover-like illustration of the sentiment, * I shall be quite
contented. We will renounce our ancestors and all their
works and ways — their fortunes and their misfortunes. But
who they were, and who they are, I must know. Tell me,
then, first, what is that profession called Destruction and
Euin ? *
* Well, Lucian, your grandfather had several professions,
and all of them disgraceful. First of all — he must now be a
very old man — he began by keeping a gambling-house— a
most notorious gambling place.*
* Kind of Crockford's, I suppose ? '
* Burley's in Piccadilly. It was open all night long, and
the keeper was always present looking after the tables, lending
money to the gamesters, and encouraging them to play
Thousands w^ere ruined over his tables. He provided supper
and wine and everything. Well, that is the first part of it.*
* A very noble beginning. Pray go on.'
*Then he was the proprietor of a place where people —
detestable people — danced and drank all night long. It ap-
pears to have been a most horrible place.*
* Oh ! Do we get much lower ? '
* I don't know. In addition to all these things he was
the most fashionable money-lender in London — and that
8.ppears to have been, of late years, the profession by which
he was best known. And because he w^as such a by-word,
your father could not bear to remain at home and ran away,
changing his name. And that, Lucian, is all that you need
to know about your people. There is a lot about his fore-
fathers and his brothers. There is a great deal of wickedness
and of misfortune. The story is all told in these papers.*
She offered them, but he refused them.
* Keep them, Margaret. I think I have heard all I want
12 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAEICE
to know, at least, for the present. I will write to the old
man. I should like to gaze upon him, but that is out of the
question, I suppose.'
*He lives in the house that has been the family house
since the first Burley of whom anything is known built it.*
* I'll go and see the outside of the house. Don't be afraid,
my child. I will not reveal my existence. I will not try to
see this gentleman of so many good and pious memories.
But he is over ninety, surely he must have outlived his old
fame *
* His infamy, you mean,' she corrected him severely.
* Fame or infamy — it matters little after all these years.
If you were to talk about Burley's gambling-house of sixty or
seventy years ago, who would remember it ? Old history.
Old history. It is forty years and more since my father left
him. I suppose that, forty years ago, there might have been
some prejudice — but now ? '
* Some prejudice ? Only some, Lucian ? ' She spoke
with reproach. She expected much more moral indignation.
* The world quickly forgets the origin of wealth. My
father, had he pleased, might have defied the opinion of the
w^orld. Still, he was doubtless right. Well, Maggie, I am
glad to know the truth. It might have been worse.*
' What could be worse ? '
' You yourself suggested quack medicines. But we need
not make comparisons. Burley's Gambling Hell : Burley's
Dancing Crib : Burley's Money-lending Business. He must
have been a man of great powers. Wickedness on an exten-
sive scale requires genius. There are retail dealers in wicked-
ness by the thousand ; but the wholesale merchant in the
wicked line — the man who lives on the vices of his fellows —
all the vices he can encourage and manipulate — he is rare.
Looking at John Burley from the outside and not as a pre-
judiced descendant, I can see that he must have been a very
Btrong man. Now I will tell him that his sou is dead.*
CHAPTER III
• THE CHILD IS DEAD '
In his back parlour — since the building of the house in 1721
the house had always contained a front parlour, a back par-
lour, and a best parlour — the owner and tenant of the house
eat in his arm-chair beside the fire.
It was quite a warm day in early summer, yet there was
a fire : outside, a leafy branch of a vine swept windows
which had not been cleaned for a longer time than, to
most housewives, seems desirable : the same vine — a large
and generous vine — climbed over half the back of the house
and the whole of a side wall in the little garden ; there was
also a mulberry tree in the garden, and there were bumps,
lumps, and anfractuosities of the ground covered with a
weedy, seedy grass, which marked the site of former flower-
beds in the little inclosure.
The man in the arm-chair sat doubled up and limp — he
had once been a tall man. Pillows w^ere placed in the chair
beside and behind him, so that he was propped and comforted
on every side ; his feet rested on a footstool. His wrinkled
hands lay folded in his lap ; his head was protected by a black
silk skull cap ; his face as he lay back was covered with
multitudinous wrinkles — an old, old face — the face of a very
ancient man. The house was very quiet. To begin with, you
cannot find anywhere in London a quieter place than Great
College Street, Westminster. Then there were but two occu-
pants of this house — the old man in the chair, and an old
woman, his housekeeper, in the kitchen below — and they were
both asleep, for it was four o'clock in the afternoon. On the
table, beside this aged man, stood a decanter containing the
generous wine that kept him alive. There were also pens,
paper, and account-books, one of them lying open, his spec-
tacles on the page.
Literature to this man meant account-books — his own
14 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
account-books — the record of hig own investments. He read
nothing else, not the newspaper, not any printed books : all
his world was in the account-books. Of men and women he
took no thought : he was as dead to humanity as a Cistercian
monk ; he was, perhaps, the only living man who had com-
pletely achieved what he desired and lived to enjoy the fruit
of his labours : to sit rejoicing in his harvest.
How many of us enjoy our harvest? The rich man
generally dies before he has made enough ; the poet dies
before his fame is established ; but this man, who had all his
life desired nothing but money, had made so much that he
desired no more : his soul was satisfied. Perhaps in extreme
old age desire itself had died away. But he was satisfied.
No one knew except himself how much he had accumulated ;
he sat all day long in his old age reading, adding, counting,
enjoying his wealth, watching it grow, and spread, and bear
golden fruits. For this man was Burley of the gambling hell ;
Burley of the dancing cribs ; Burley the money-lender ; in
his extreme old age, in his last days.
The house was always quiet : no one knocked at the door
except his manager, the man who was the head of the great
house filled with clerks — some of them passed solicitors —
where his affairs were conducted, his rents collected, and his
vast income invested as it came in day by day. Otherwise
the house was perfectly quiet. No letters came ; no telegrams ;
the occupant v/as forgotten by the world ; nobody knew that
he w^as still living. The old money-lender sat at home, by
himself, and counted money which he lent no more : most of
those with whom he had formerly done business were dead
— they could curse him no more ; all those who had thrown
away their money at his gaming table were dead — they
could curse him no more. As for the nightly orgies, the
dancing cribs, the all-night finishes, if their memory survives,
that of their proprietor had long since been forgotten. And
the dancers themselves — merry, joyous, laughing, singing —
but their voices were hoarse ; careless, yet their eyes were
restless — the happy company of nymphs and swains of sixty
'THE CHILD IS DEAD' 1 5
years ago — not one was left to curse him for the madness of
the pace or to weep over the memory of a ruined youth.
He had outlived, as his grandson suggested, his infamy.
Nohody outside talked about him. In his ovm den he had
quite forgotten — wholly forgotten — that at any time there
had been any persons whom he had injured. He was serenely
forgetful ; he was in a haven of rest, where no curses could
reach him, and where no tempests could be raised by memories
of the past.
Those who study manners and customs of the nineteenth
century have read of Burley's Hell. It was a kind of club to
which every one who had money and wore the dress and as-
sumed the manners of society was freely admitted. The
scandalous memoirs of the time talk of Burley's chef and his
wines, and the table at which he was always present all night
long, always the same, calm, grave, unmoved ; whatever the
fortunes of the night, always ready to lend anybody — that is,
anybody he knew — any sum of money he wanted on his note
of hand. Great fortunes were lost at Burley's. Men walked
out of Burley's with despair in their hearts and self-murder in
their minds. Yet — old history ! old history ! as Lucian Calvert
said. Again : only those who are students of life in London,
when the Corinthian and his friends were enjoying it, still talk
about the Finish — Burley's crib — where the noble army of the
godless assembled night after night, young men and old men,
and ladies remarkable for their sprightliness as well as their
beauty, and danced and laughed and had supper and drank
pink champagne — too sweet — in long glasses. There was
generally some kind of fight or a row ; there was always some
kind of a gamble in some little room upstairs. But — old
history ! old history I Those who read it never thought of
Burley at all. Who cares, after fifty years, to inquire about
a man who once ran an all-night dancing crib ? Mr. Burley
had outlived his infamy.
And always, till past eighty years of age, the prince of
money-lenders. Everybody went to Burley. He found money
for everybody. His terms were hard, and you bad to keep
l6 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVAPJCE
your agreement. But the money was there if the security
was forthcoming. No tears, no entreaties, no prayers, no
distress would induce him to depart from his bond. It is,
indeed, impossible to carry on such a business successfully
without an adamantine heart. But it was nearly fifteen
years since he retired from practice, and the world spoke of
him no more. He had outlived his infamy.
He was startled out of his sleep by the postman's knock.
He sat up, looked about him, recovered his wandering wits,
and drank a little port, which strengthened him so that he
was able to understand that his housekeeper was bringing
him a letter.
* Give it to me,* he said, surprised, because letters came
no more to that house. He put on his spectacles and read
the address, 'John Calvert Burley.' *It is for me,' he said.
He then laid the letter on the table and looked at his house-
Jceeper. She knew what he meant and retired. The old man
at his time of life was not going to begin doing business in
the presence of a servant. When she was gone he took it up
again and opened it slowly.
It was short, and written in the third person.
* The writer begs to inform Mr. Burley that his son, John
Calvert Burley, died five days ago, on the IGth of May, of
rheumatic fever, and was buried yesterday. At the request
of the deceased this information is conveyed to Mr. Burley.'
There was no date, and there was no address. But, the
old man thought, there could be no reason to doubt the fact.
Why should it be invented ?
His memory, strong enough about the far-distant past
when he was young, was weak as regards matters that occurred
only forty or fifty years ago. It cost him an effort to recall — -
it was a subject of which he never liked to think — how hi3
son had left him after protesting against what he called the
infamy of the money-lending business. * Infamy I ' he said.
Infamy 1 Of a respectable and lucrative business 1 Infamy I
when the mcome was splendid I
*An undutiful son 1 ' murmured bis father. * A disrespect*
'THE CHILD IS DEAD' 1 7
ful son ! * lie read the letter again. * So : he is dead.' He
threw the letter and the envelope on the fire. * I have left
off thinking about hira. Why should I begin again ? I
won't. I will forget him. Dead, is he? I used to think
that perhaps he would come back and make submission for
the sake of the money. And even then I wouldn't have left
him any. I remember. That was when I made up my mind
what should be done with it. Ho ! ho 1 I thought how dis-
appointed he would be. Dead, is he? Then he won't be
disappointed. It's a pity. Now there's nobody left, nobody
left at all.'
This reflection seemed to please him, for he laughed a little
and rubbed his hands. At the age of ninety- four, or there-
abouts, it is dangerous to give way to any but the simplest
and most gentle emotions. It is quite wonderful what a little
thing may stop the pulse at ninety-four, and still the heart.
Even such a little thing as the announcement of the death
of a son one has not seen for nearly forty years, and the
revival of an old, angry, and revengeful spirit, may do it.
When the housekeeper brought in the tea at five o'clock, she
found that, to use the old man's last words, ' There was
nobody left at all.'
*Look, Marjorie.' Lucian showed her a newspaper.
* The old man, my grandfather, is dead. " On the 21st,
suddenly, at his residence. Great College Street, Westminster,
John Calvert Burley, aged ninety- four years." '
* On the 21st ? Two days ago ! That was when he
received your letter.'
* If he did receive it. Perhaps he died before it reached
the house. Here is a paragraph about him. He did not
quite outlive his infamy.'
The paragraph ran as follows : —
* The death, this day announced, of Mr. John Calvert
Burley, carries us back sixty years and more, to the time
when gambling-hells were openly kept, and when there were
all-night saloons ; to the days when the pace of the young
prodigal was far faster than in this degenerate generation.
1 8 BEYOND THE DBEAMS OF AVARICE
Mr. Burley was the firm friend of the young prodigal. He
gave him a gambling-table with free drinks ; he gave him
dancing cribs; he lent him money; he encouraged him to
keep the ball a-roUing. Sixty years ago Mr. Burley's name
was well known to all followers of Comus. For many years
he has Hved retired in his house at Westminster. The
present generation knows nothing of him. But it will be a
surprise to old men, if any survive, of the twenties or the
thirties, that John Burley lived to the age of ninety-four and
only died yesterday. He must have outlived all those
who drank his champagne and lost their money at his
tables ; he must have outlived most of the young prodigals
for whom he ran his dancing- saloon and to whom he lent
money at 50 per cent.'
Margaret read it aloud. ' Yes,' she said, ' some prejudices
linger, don't they, Lucian ? Better to be a Calvert without
any other ancestors than an honourable father, than a Burley
with this man behind you.*
* Perhaps,' said Lucian thoughtfully. ' But a man can
no more get rid of his ancestors than he can get rid of his
face and his hereditary tendencies. Well, my dear, the name
may go. And as for the money — I suppose there was a good
deal of money — that has been left to someone, and I hope he
will enjoy it. As for us, we have nothing to do vnth it.'
CHAPTEB IV
AN INQUEST OF OFFICE
The door of the house in Great College Street stood wide
open — a policeman was stationed on the door- step. Some-
thing of a public character was therefore going on : at private
family functions — as a wedding, a christening, a funeral —
there is no policeman. But there was no crowd or any public
curiosity — in fact, you could not raise a crowd in Great College
Street on any pretext whatever. Once a horse fell down in
AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 1 9
order to try. He had to get up, unnoticed. From time to
time a man stepped briskly up the street, spoke to the police-
man, and went in.
Presently there came along the street a young man — Mr.
Lucian Calvert, in fact — who walked more slowly, and looked
about him. He had come to see the outside of a certain
house. He arrived at the house, read the number, and saw
the open door and the policeman on the steps.
* What is going on ? ' he asked.
* Coroner's inquest.'
'An inquest? Is not this the house of the late Mr.
Burley ? '
* Yes, sir. That was the party's name. He's left no will,
and there's an inquest. You can go in, if you like. It's in
the ground-floor back.*
The young man hesitated. Then he accepted the invita-
tion and stepped in. He had come to see the outside of his
grandfather's house. Chance gave him an opportunity for
seeing the inside as well. Other men walked up the street
and spoke to the policeman and stepped in. Then there drove
up to the door a cab with two men. One had the unmis-
takable look of a man in office ; the other the equally un-
mistakable look of a middle-aged clerk. After a certain time
of life we all appear to be what we are. This is as it should
be : in early life we can make-up. I have known a young
duke look like a carpenter, and a young compositor like a
belted earl. When these two had entered, the policeman left
the door and followed the others into the ground-floor back —
more poetically, the back parlour.
The twelve men gathered there were the twelve good men
and true who had been summoned to form a jury. They
represented, after the manner of their forefathers, the wisdom
of the nation. The man of office represented the ancient and
honourable post of coroner. The policeman represented the
authority of the Court. A reporter, together with the young
gentleman who had been invited to assist, represented the
publicity of the Court— no Star Chamber business there, if
c2
20 BEYOND THE BIIEAMS OF AYAEICE
you please. All above-board and open. There were one or
two others — an elderly gentleman, well dressed, with the look
of ability and the air of business experience — this was Mr.
Burley's manager ; an old woman in black, who held a hand-
kerchief in her hand and patted her eyes with it at intervals
with a perfunctory moan — these were witnesses. There was
also a young man who might have been something in the
City. He was in reality a shorthand clerk employed at the
office where the Burley Estate was managed, and he came
with the manager to take down the proceedings. And stand-
ing in a corner Lucian observed, to his astonishment, Mr.
Nicholson, his father's friend and solicitor.
* You here, Lucian ? Who told you ? '
* I am here by accident. What does it mean ? *
* It means that they can't find any will. Good Lord I
What a windfall it will be for somebody I ' He remembered
that Lucian was the grandson. * That is, for anybody w^ho
would proclaim his relationship to such a man.'
Lucian looked about the room. It was wainscoted and
the panels were painted drab ; a good, useful colour, which
can absorb a good deal of dirt without showing it, and lasts
a long time. It was formerly a favourite colour for this if for
no other reason, all through the last century. In the panels
were hanging coloured prints, their frames once gilt, now
almost black. The low window looked out upon a small
garden, in which stood a mulberry tree, while on the wall
grew an immense vine. Curtains which had long lost their
virginal colour hung from a mahogany curtain-pole. On the
mantel-shelf was a tobacco-jar with two broken pipes, and two
wax candles in silver candlesticks. The floor was covered
with a worn carpet faded like the curtains : in front of the
fire it had gone into holes — there was no hearthrug. As for
the furniture, it consisted of a ponderous mahogany table
black with age, a mahogany sideboard of ancient fashion, wdth
a large punch-bowl upon it and a copper coal-scuttle below it ;
a tall book-case filled with books, all in the leather and sheepr
skin binding of the last century ; three or four chairs of tl^e
AN INQUEST OF OFFICII 21
straight-backed kind and a modern wooden arm-chair stood
against the wall. The fireplace was of the eighteenth century
pattern, with an open chimney and a hob : on the hob was a
copper kettle. The brass fender was one of the old-fashioned
high things, to match the grate and to keep as much heat aa
possible out of the room. Two benches had been placed in
the room for the accommodation of the jury.
The coroner bustled into the room, and took his seat at the
head of the table in the arm-chair. His clerk placed papers
before him and stood in readiness, the New Testament in his
hand. The reporter and the shorthand clerk took chairs at
the lower end of the table — the poHceman closed the door and
stood besi^ it on guard — the jury took their seats on the
wooden benches, the old lady renewed her sobs, the manager
took a chair behind the reporter, and the public, represented
by Mr. Nicholson and Lucian, shrank deeper into the comer.
' Gentlemen,* said the coroner, rising and looking slowly
round the room with importance, * I am about to open the
Court — this Court,' he repeated, 'for this inquest.*
The jury murmured and cleared their throats.
* Gentlemen,' said tho coroner, ' you will first be sworn.'
This was done by the coroner's clerk, who handed round
the New Testament with the customary form of words.
* And now, gentlemen,* the coroner began, absently, * we
will proceed to view the cor I mean, of course, we will
proceed to the business before us. This, gentlemen, as you
have heard, is not an ordinary inquest ; it is not, for once, an
inquiry into the cause of death of any person for which I
invite your intelligent assistance this morning. It is a more
formal duty that lies before us. Equally important — even,
in this case perhaps, more important. It is what lawyers call
an " Inquest of Office." ' He repeated these words with
greater solemnity, and every man of the jury sat upright and
cleared his throat again. * An Inquest of Office I * Not an
ordinary inquest, you see. This was an Inquest of Office.
* Gentlemen,' the coroner continued, after a pause, to
allow these words time to settle in the collective mind, * the
22 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE
facts are these. The owner and tenant of this house, who
died and was buried a month ago, was one John Calvert
Burley.'
* Known to all of us,' one of the jury interrupted.
* John Calvert Burley,' the magistrate repeated, with a
judicial frown, * upon whose estate — not hia body — we now
hold this inquiry. He has died, so far as has been discovered,
intestate. An announcement of his death has appeared in the
papers ; paragraphs concerning him have also gone the round
of the papers — for the deceased was, as most of us know, a
person formerly of considerable — of unenviable — notoriety.
But, so far, oddly enough, no heirs have appeared. This is
the more extraordinary as it is reported that the deceased
possessed very great wealth. In fact ' — the coroner assumed
a confidential manner — * the estate is reported to be enormous
— enormous I ' — he spread out his hands in order to assist the
jury to give play to their imaginations — he sat upright in his
chair in order to lift up the grovelling — *we must rise to
loftier levels. However,' he sank back again, * the magnitude
of the estate does not concern us. This Court has to do with
an estate, large or small. And now, gentlemen, I shall offer
you such evidence as we have to show that there is no will,
and that there has been, so far, no claimant. I call Rachel
Drage.*
The old lady in black answered to her name, wiped her
eyes, and stood up to give evidence.
She said that she had been housekeeper to Mr. John
Calvert Burley for forty years. Asked if he was a married
man, she said that she had always understood that he was a
widower ; but he had never spoken to her about his family.
She could not say what caused her to believe that he was a
widower. Asked if there were any children supposing there
had been a marriage, she said that there was a nursery which
had a child's crib and a chest of drawers with children's
clothing in it, but she knew nothing more. Her master never
spoke of his family affairs. Asked if there were any relations,
said that she never heard of any. If there were any, and if
AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 2
o
they ever called on the deceased gentleman, it must have been
at the oiBSce, not the house ; not a single visitor had ever
called at the house or been admitted to this room — Mr.
Burley's living room — during the forty years of her residence.
He had no friends, he never went out in the evenings ; he
never went to church or chapel ; he lived quite alone.
* Gentlemen,* said the president of the Court, * the im-
portant part of this evidence is the fact that for forty years
no one ever called upon the deceased — neither son, nor grand-
son, nor cousin, nor nephew. Yet his wealth was notorious.
Eich men, as most of you, I hope, know very well, are
generally surrounded by their relations.'
One of the jury asked a question which led to others.
They bore upon the deceased's way of living, and had nothing
to do with the business before the Court. But since we are
all curious as to the manners and customs of that interesting
people— the rich — the coroner allowed these questions. When
the jury had learned all about the conduct of an extremely
parsimonious household, and when the old lady had explained
that her master, though near as to his expenditure, was a
good man, who was surely in Abraham's bosom if ever any one
was, she was permitted to retire, though unwilling, into the
obscurity of a back seat.
The manager gave his evidence. He had been employed
by the deceased for thirty years. He was now the chief
manager of his estates. Everything connected with the
estates was managed at the house, where soUcitors, architects,
and other professional people were employed on salaries. He
was famihar with the details of the estate; there were
enormous masses of papers. He knew nothing of any will.
Had a will passed through his hands he should certainly have
remembered it. Naturally, he was curious to know what
would be done with so great a property. He supposed that
Mr. Burley had employed a solicitor outside his o"svn office for
the purpose of drawing up a will. He had never spoken to
Mr. Burley on the subject ; he knew nothing of Mr, Burley 'g
family or connections ; he understood that Mr. Burley had
24 BEYOND THE BREAMS OP AVARICJi!
once been married; he believed, but he did not know for
certain, that there had been a child or children. He had
himself sent the announcement of the death to the papers ;
he had seen one or two paragraphs concerning the early life
of the deceased, but could not say, from his own knowledge,
whether they were true or false.
He was asked by one of the jury whether the deceased
was as rich as was reported. He replied that he could not
tell until the report reached him. Other questions as to the
extent and value of the estate he fenced with. There was,
he said, a great deal of property, but he declined absolutely
to commit himself to any estimate at all. So that the
curiosity of the jury was baffled. They had learned, however,
that the estate was so large and important that it had to be
managed at a house specially used for the purpose, by a
manager and a large staff of accountants and clerks. This
was something — such an estate must be worth untold
thousands.
* Gentlemen,' said the coroner, * you have now heard all
the evidence that we have to offer. Here is an estate.
Where is the late owner's will ? There is none. Where
are the heirs ? They do not appear. For forty years no
member of the deceased's family has visited him. He might
have had sons, grandsons, great-grandsons. None have turned
up. But there must be, one would think, nephews — grand-
nephews — cousins. If he had brothers, they must have had
descendants ; if he had uncles, they must have had descend-
ants. NoWj in the lower classes nothing is more common
than for a man to change his place of residence so that his
children grow up in absolute ignorance of their ancestry and
cousins. But this man, whatever his origin, was at one time
before the world, notorious, or famous, whatever you please :
he was a public character ; he was owner of theatres, dancing
places, gambling hells — he was a well-known money-lender.
All the world knew the usurer, John Calvert Burley. He
stood on a kind of pinnacle — unenviable, perhaps ; but still,
on a pinnacle of publicity. His relations must have followed
AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 25
his course with interest — who would not watch with interest
the course of a childless cousin ? Yes, he is dead ; and where
are the cousins and the nephews ? It is a very remarkable
case. A poor man may have no one to claim kinship at his
death ; but for a rich man, and a notorious man, it is indeed
wonderful ! Gentlemen, you have only to declare the estate,
in default of heirs, escheated and vested in the Crown. You
all understand, however, that Her Majesty the Queen will not
be enriched by this windfall. The Treasury, and not the
Sovereign, receives all those estates for which an heir is
wanting.'
The jury thereupon returned their verdict : * That until,
or unless, the lawful heirs, or heir, shall substantiate a claim
to the estate of the late John Calvert Burley, the said estate
shall be, and is, escheated and become vested in the Crown.'
* Then, gentlemen,' said the coroner, ' nothing more
remains except for you to affix your signatures to this verdict,
and for me to thank you, one and all, for the intelligence
and care which you have brought to bear upon this important
case.'
In this manner and with such formalities the estate of the
deceased was transferred to the Treasury, to be by them held
and administered in the name of the Crown unless the
rightful claimant should be able to establish his right.
* That's done,' said Mr. Nicholson. * Now let us look over
the house. I haven't been here for forty years and more.
Come and see where your father was born, Lucian.'
CHAPTER V
THE FOETUNE AND THE HOUSE
* Maegaeet I ' She had never seen her lover so flushed and
excited. Mostly he preserved, whatever happened, the philo-
sophic calm that befits the scientific mind. ' Margaret ! I
have had the most wonderful morning! I have made dis-
coveries 1 I have heard revelations I '
26 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* What is it, Lucian ? *
* It is about my grandfather, I told you I should go to
SCO the house. Well, I had no time to go there till to-day.
I have been there — I walked over there this morning. And
I have been rewarded. A most remarkable coincidence I
The very moment when I arrived, there was opened an
inquest in the house itself. Not an ordinary inquest, you
Imow — the poor old man has been buried a month — but w^hat
they call an Inquest of Office. For since his death they have
been searching for his will, and they haven't found it. And
it really seems, my dear Margaret, as if the one thing most
unlikely of all to happen has happened : that this rich man
has actually died intestate, in which case I, even I myself,
am the sole heir to everything I *
' Oh, Lucian 1 Is it possible ? '
'It is almost certain. They have searched everywhere.
There are piles of papers : they have all been examined. No
will has been found. Now, if he had made a will, it is certain
that I could not have come into it, unless through my father,
and it is not probable that he would have had anything. But
there is, apparently, no will, and the estates are handed over
to the Treasury until — unless — they find the rightful heir —
me — whom they cannot find.'
* Oh, Lucian I It is Vv'onderful ! But, of course, you are
not going to claim this terrible money — the profits of
gambling saloons and wicked places and money lending ? '
* No, my dear, I am not. Yet ' — he laughed — * my dear
child, it is a thousand pities, for the pile is enormous. Y'ou
sit there as quiet as a nun : you don't understand what it
means. Why, my dear Margaret, simple as you look, you
should be when you marry me, if you had your rights, the
richest woman in the country-^the richest woman, perhaps,
in the world ! '
* Don't take away my breath ! Even to a nun such an
announcement would be interesting.'
* The richest woman in the world I That is all — wealth
beyond the dreams of avarice— only that. And we give it up I
THE FORTUNE ANB THE HOUSE 27
Now, I'll tell you — I can't sit down, I must walk about,
because the thought of this most wonderful thing won't let
me keep still. Very well, then. Now listen. Mr. Nicholson,
my father's old friend, you know, was there. He had heard
of the inquest from the manager. All the Burley estates are
managed at a house in Westminster — it is a great house filled
with clerks, accountants, solicitors, architects, builders, rent-
collectors— everything, all under a manager, who is a friend
of Mr. Nicholson. Nobody knows what the estate is worth,
but when this old man's father, who was a miser, died, he
left the son an income of €20,000 a year, which at 6 per
cent, is €400,000. That was what he began with at five-and-
twenty. There was no need for him to do any work at all.
But he did all those things that we know.'
* Yes ? ' — for Lucian paused.
* He lived quite simply. The whole of that income must
have accumulated at compound interest. Do you know what
that means ? '
*No. But these figures are beginning to frighten me.
What does it matter to us how much there is ? '
* Why, my dear, I am the heir — only in name, I know ;
still — well, Marjorie, money at 5 per cent, doubles itself every
thirteen years or so. That is to say, the sum of €100 in
seventy years would become, at 5 per cent., €3,200, and the
sum of €400,000 would become in the same period over
twelve millions. I don't suppose the old man always got his
5 per cent., but it is certain that the original principal has
grown and developed enormously — enormously 1 Without
counting the money-lending business and the other enter-
prises — there must be millions. Nicholson says there is no
doubt that the estate is worth many millions. My father
knew of this enormous wealth, but he kept silence.'
' Your father would not touch that dreadful and ill-gotten
money, Lucian. Tell me no more — I cannot think in millions.
I think in hundreds. So many hundreds — you have two or
three, I believe — will keep our modest household. Do not let
us talk or think about other people's milHona.'
2?^ BEYOND THE DHEAMS OF AVARICE
* They are mine, Margaret, mine, if I choose to put out
my hand. I only wish you to understand, dear, what it is—
this trifle we are throwing away in ohedience to my father's
wish.'
* Do not let us think about this horrid money, Lucian,
We should end by regretting that you did not claim it. Your
fatlier renounced his name and his inheritance.*
* Yes,' but he looked doubtful. * If that binds me '
' Of course it binds us. It must bind us, Lucian. Besides,
there is a curse — remember your father's words — a curse upon
the money. Got with dishonour *
* My dear child I A curse ! Do not, pray, let us talk
mediaeval superstitions. The money may be given to any-
body, for all I care. At the same time, to throw away such a
chance makes one a little — eh ? — agitated. You must allow,
pretty Puritan, for some natural weakness.'
* l''es, Lucian. But you are a man of science, not a money-
grubber. What would money do for you ? '
' Let me tell you about the house.'
* I do not want to hear about the house, or the occupants,
or the money, or anything. I want to forget all about it. I
am sorry we read those papers, since they have disturbed
your mind.'
' Listen a moment only, and I will have done. The house-
keeper took us up to the first floor — Nicholson and myself.
It is a wonderful place. The furniture is at least a hundred
years old. Neither the old man nor his father — who was a
miser : quite a famous miser : they talk of him still — would
ever buy anything new, or send away anything old.*
* I should like to see that part of it.'
* Of course you would. On the walls are portraits — my
ancestors — although my grandfather ran dancing cribs, they
have been a respectable stock for ever so long.'
* They have been disreputable since the time of Queen
Anne,' said Margaret. * I do not know what they were before
that time.'
* Very well. There they are, in Queen Anne wigs and
fir " ); ; ir:/^'?/ / ' r '/. ;imf/MfrM}//mkS
' The housekeeper- took us up to the first floor. '
THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 29
George II. wigs, and hair tied behind. And, I say, Margaret,
you know, whatever they were, it is pleasant to feel that one
has forefathers, like other men. Perhaps they were not
altogether stalwart Christians — but, yet *
* One would like, at least, honourable ancestors.'
'We must take what is helped. We can't choose our
ancestors for ourselves. This is their family house, in which
they have lived all these years. It is a lovely old house.
Three stories, and garrets in the red-tiled roof ; steps up to
the door like a Dutch stoop ; the whole front covered with a
thick hanging creeper, a green curtain ; the front window
looking out upon the old grey wall of the Abbey garden ; at
the back a little garden with a huge vine '
'Your father must have played in it,' said Margaret,
attracted against her will by the description.
* Then he played under a mulberry and beside a splendid
vine. The stairs are broad and low ; the whole house ia
wainscoted. Marjorie mine ! ' He sat down, stopping
suddenly, and took her hand.
* What is it, Lucian ? '
Now these two young people were not only engaged to
each other, but they were fully resolved to gather the roses
while they might, and not to wait for the sere and yellow leaf.
They would marry, as so many brave young people do now
marry, in these days of tightness, on a small income, hopeful
for the future. What that income was, you may guess from
the first chapter of this history.
* I have an idea. It is this. The house will suit u3
exactly. Let us take it and set up our tent there. Don't
jump up, my dear. I renounce my ancestors as much as you
like— their trades and callings — their httle iniquities — their
works and their ways. Their enormous fortune I renounce.
I go about with a name that does not belong to me, and I
won't take my own true name. All the same, they are my
ancestors. They are ; we cannot get clear of that fact.*
* But why go and live in their house and be always re-
minded of the fact ? *
30 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Can one ever forget the fact of one's own ancestry ?
They are an accident of the house ; they won't affect us. We
shall go in as strangers. As for that curse of the money —
which is an idle superstition — that cannot fall upon us,
because we shall have nothing to do with the money ; and it
is so quiet ; the street itself is like— well, it reminds one of
those old-fashioned riverside docks— quiet old places which
the noise of the river seems never to reach. Great College
Street is a peaceful little dock running up out of the broad
high river of the street for the repose of humans. And it is
close to the Abbey, which you would like. And at the back is
a Place — not a street — a Place which is more secluded than
any Cathedral Close anywhere. You would think you were in
a nunnery, and you would walk there, in the sunshine of a
winter morning, and meditate after your own heart. It is as
quiet as a nunnery and as peaceful. Now, child, let me say
right out what is in my mind. I want a place — don't I ? —
where I can put up my plate and make a bid for a practice —
Lucian Calvert, M.D. Well, I looked about. The position is
central : the street is quiet : there are lots of great people
about. The members of ParHament would only have to step
across Palace Yard : the Speaker can run over and speak to
me about his symptoms : noble lords can drop in to consult
me : the Dean and Canons of Westminster have only to open
the garden gate in order to find me.'
* Oh, Lucian ! I am so sorry that you have seen the house.
Oh I I am so sorry that you ever heard anything about this
great fortune.*
* Of course, I mean that we should take the house with all
that it contains.'
*A11 your ancestors* portraits?' she laughed, scornfully.
* Why, if you knew who and what they were '
*I do not expect virtue. Their private characters have
nothing to do with us. We have cut ourselves off. Only, it
will be pleasant to feel that they are there always with us. My
dear, after all these years, say that it is pleasant to find that
one has ancestors.'
THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 3 1
' And you want to go and live with thorn I You have
changed your name and refused your inheritance. Why,
Lucian, if you live among them, it will be like a return to the
family traditions — and — and — I don't know — misfortune and
disaster following on an inheritance — you have not read the
history of the family ; I have.'
' A family curse ! ' he repeated, with impatience. * Non-
sense I The place is most suitable ; the house is most con-
venient — and — besides — the house should be mine ; my own
people have always lived in it ; I belong to the house. The
portraits are mine, I ought to be with them. One would say
that they call me.'
CHAPTER VI
THE NURSERY
Lucian turned away and said no more that day. But the
next day — and the next — and every day he returned to the
subject. Sometimes openly, sometimes indirectly ; always by
something that he said, showing that his mind was dwelling
on his newly-recovered ancestors and on their house at West-
minster. She knew that he walked across the Park every day
to look at it. She perceived that his proposal to take the
house, so far from being abandoned or forgotten, was growing
in his mind and had taken root there. Her heart sank with
forebodings — those forebodings which have no foundation, yet
are warnings and prophecies.
* You are thinking still,' she said, * of those portraits.'
* There is reproach in your voice, my Marjorie,' he replied.
' Yes, I think of them still ; I have seen them again— several
times. They are the portraits of my own people. A man
cannot cut himself from his own psople, any more than he
can cut himself off from his own posterity.'
* If you will only read the history of your ancestors as
your father set it down, you will no longer desire to belong t<r
them.*
32 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Wrong, Marjorie, wrong. It is not a question of what I
should wish : it is the stubborn fact that I belong to them.
Their history may be tragic, or criminal, or sordid, or anything
you please ; but it is part of my history as well.'
* Then read those papers.'
*No, I will not read them. You shall tell me, if you
please, some time or other. Now, I have talked it over with
Nicholson. He quite thinks the house would suit us.'
* Does Mr. Nicholson, your father's old friend, approve ? *
' I have not asked for his approval.'
Lucian did not explain that Mr. Nicholson had expressed
a strong opinion on the other side, nor did he inform her of
Mr. Nicholson's last words, which were : * If you take this
house, Lucian, you will end by claiming the estates. I have
no right to say anything ; but, it is ill-gotten money.'
* I say,' Lucian repeated, * that I act on my own approval.
Well, Nicholson has found at the office — my grandfather's
office — that I can take the house — the Treasury will not
object— and that I can have the furniture and everything at a
valuation.'
* Oh ! Those portraits drag you to the house, Lucian ? '
* They do. I am not a superstitious man, my dear ; I
laugh at the alleged curse on the money ; yet I accede to my
•father's wish, and I will not claim that great fortune ; we
don't want to be rich — nor will I resume my proper name,
which would cause awkwardness. But I want to feel myself
a link in the chain.'
* Alas,' she sighed, ' what a chain I '
*And I want to return to my own people. They may
keep their fortune. But since they have transmitted to me
their qualities — such as they are— I would live among
them, Marjorie ! ' He held out his hands : * You know my
wish.'
She took them. She fell into his arms. * Oh I my dear,*
she cried, laughing and crying, *who can resist you? Since
you must, you must. Being so very wilful, you must. We
will go— those faces on the walls are stronger than I — we will
TIIE NURSERY 33
go there— since nothing else will please you. But, oh ! my
Lucian, what will happen to us when we get there ? '
This step once resolved upon, it was agreed that she
should first see the house. But she made one condition.
* If,' she said, * we take that house and buy those pictures,
I must tell you who and what were the people whose portraits
they are. At least, Lucian, you shall not be tempted to pay
them any reverence.'
* As you please, Margaret,' he repHed, carelessly. ' Of
course, I don't expect chronicles of virtue; they would be
monotonous. I am sure that the forefathers of the deceased
must, hke him, have had a rooted dishke to monotony or
virtue.*
And then occurred a very curious thing. The girl's mind
had been filled with terror, gloomy forebodings, presenti-
ments. She had read those papers, she knew the family
history, she was weighed down by the sins of all these
ancestors. But, when it was resolved to take the house,
when the possible became the actual, she found to her
astonishment that the ghosts vanished — as Lucian had said
the past was old history — old history — what did it matter to
them ?
It was, she found, a lovely old house. Steps, side steps,
with a good old iron railing, led to the stoop and to the front
door. There were three stories, each with three windows ;
there was a steep red-tiled roof with dormer windows. Over
the whole front hung a thick green curtain of Virginia
creeper. The shutters, indeed, were closed, which partly con-
cealed the uncleaned condition of the windows. On the other
side of the street was the old grey wall of the Cathedral
precincts— did Edward the Confessor build that wall, or was
it an earlier work still ? — the work of Dunstan, what time His
Majesty King Edgar endowed the Abbey ?
* Is it a lovely old place outside ? ' asked Lucian, eagerly.
* Is it a quiet, peaceful spot ? '
' It is all that you say, Lucian.'
* Now, my dear, you shall see the inside of it. Remember
P
34 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
that it has not been cleaned for ever so long. Don't judge of
it, quite, by its present aspect.'
"With his borrowed latch-key Lucian opened the door and
they stepped in. The place was quite empty : the old woman
was gone ; the shutters were closed ; the furniture, it is true,
was left ; but furniture without life makes a house feel more
deserted than even when the rooms are empty. Another
well-known point about an empty house is that, as soon as
people go out, it is instantly seized upon by echoes : if it
remains long empty it receives a large collection of echoes.
When Lucian shut the street door, the reverberation echoed
up the walls of the stairs from side to side; then it came
down again more slowly, and then more slov/ly still climbed
up the walls again, dying away v/ith obvious reluctance.
Lucian said something, a w^ord of welcome ; his voice rolled
about the stairs, and wag repeated from wall to wall; he
walked across the hall, his footsteps followed his voice, as his
voice had followed the shutting of the door.
* The house is all echoes,' said Margaret. Her voice was
not strong enough to be rolled up the stairs, but her sibilants
were caught, and echo returned a prolonged hiss.
* Only because it is empty. Echoes are odd things. They
never stay in an inhabited house. They like solitary places,
I suppose.' Lucian opened the door of the back parlour,
which, with the shutters closed, looked like a black cave in
which anything might be found. * This is the room,' he
lowered his voice, 'in which the old man lived and died.
Quite a happy old man he is said to have been. Serenely
happy in the memory of his little iniquities. He w^as no more
troubled with remorse in his age than he was with scruples in
his manhood. Curious ! Most very wicked people are happy,
I believe. Seems a kind of compensation — doesn't it ? ' He
pulled back the shutters and let in the sunlight.
* There I Now, Margaret, my dear, you behold the con-
sulting-room of Lucian Calvert, M.D. Here he will sit and
receive his patients. They will flock to him by crowds— the
lords from over the way ; the members of Parliament ; the
THE NURSERY 35
Canons of Westminster ; the engineers from George Street ;
the people from the Treasmy, the Colonial Office, the India
Office, the Board of Works, the Board of Trade, the Educa-
tion Department — they will all flock to me for consultation.
They will wait in the front room. Not a physician in Harley
Street will be better housed than I. We will breakfast and
dine in the waiting-room. Upstairs you shall have your own
rooms — drawing-room, boudoir, everything. This is to be the
patients' waiting-room.'
He opened the door of communication with the front room,
and strode across in the darkness to open the shutters. The
room was furnished with a dining-table, but no one had dined
in it for a hundred years. In the miser's time there was no
dinner at all ; in his successor's time the room at the back
was used as a living room. The place was inconceivably
dirty and neglected.
* Oh ! what dust and dirt ! ' cried the girl. * Shall we ever
get the room clean ? Look at the windows : when were they
cleaned last ? And the ceilings ! They are black ! '
' Dirt is only matter in the wrong place. Bring along a
mop and a bucket and transfer it to the right place. We will
transform these rooms. A little new paint — pearl-grey, do
you think ? With a touch of colour for the panels and the
dado, a new carpet, new curtains, white ceiling, clean
windows '
' What a lot of money it will take 1 '
'We v/ill make the money. Patients will flock in — I
shall finish my book. Courage, dear girl. And now, if you
please, we will go right up to the top floor first. How the
old house echoes ! ' He lifted his voice and sang a few bars
as they stepped back into the hall. Instantly there was
awakened a choir of voices— a hundred voices, at least, all
singing, ringing, repeating the notes backwards and forwards
and up and down.
* I beheve the house is full of ghosts,' said Margaret.
* Without you, Lucian, I should be afraid to go up the stairs.'
* I wish it was full of ghosts,' Lucian rephed. And up and
d2
36 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICOii
down the stairs the echoes repeated : * I wish— I wish — I
wish- -it was— was— was '
Margaret laughed.
* When I am the wife of a scientific person,* she said, * I
must leave off believing in ghosts. Just at present and in
this empty house I seem to feel the ghosts of your ancestors.
They are coming upstairs with us.'
The stairs were broad and ample, such as builders loved
when these were constructed.
* But they were made for hoops,* said Margaret.
The old carpet, worn into holes and shreds, its outHnea
gone, still stuck by force of habit in its place.
' There were two misers in succession,' said Margaret ;
' therefore this carpet must be a hundred years old at least.
I wonder it has lasted so long.*
*My grandfather stepped carefully upon the holes,* said
Lucian, * in order to preserve the rest. I think I see him
going up and down very carefully.'
* If we were to meet one of the ancestors stepping down the
stairs in a satin coat and a wig and lace ruffles, should you
be surprised, Lucian ? '
* Not a bit. First floor. Let us go on. It is a noble stair-
case, and when we've got through with the whitewasher and
the painter, and have the stair-window cleaned, it will look
very fine. Second floor— one more flight.'
They stood on the landing at the top of the stairs : two or
three dust-covered boxes lay scattered about carelessly, as if
no one had been up there for a very long time. Two closed
doors faced them. In one was a key ; Lucian unlocked it
and threw the door open.
* It's the nursery ! ' cried Margaret. * Why, it is the old,
old nursery ! ' She stepped in and threw open the windows — ■
they were the two picturesque dormers that had caught her
eyes in the street. * There I A little fresh air — and now *
She turned and looked again at the evidence of ancient history.
* Why I ' she said, sitting on the bed. * Here grew up the
innocent children who afterwards — they were innocent then,
THE NURSERY 37
I suppose — afterwards became — what they were. Here they
played with their innocent mothers. Oh ! Lucian, my history
says so Uttle about the wives and mothers. They had some
brief time of happiness, I hope, in this room while the babes
grew into little children, and the children grew tall— and my
history says nothing about the girls. There must have been
girls. Did they run away ? Did they disgrace their name
and themselves? Do you think they were girls as much
ashamed of their people as we can be, Lucian ?— because thy
people are my people, you know, and where thou goest, I go
too. And in this house I shall become a successor to these
mothers, whose sons were your grandfathers.' The tears
stood in her eyes.
* Nay, my Margaret, but not an unhappy successor. What
does it matter if these women were unhappy ? Old histories —
old histories I Let us trust, my dear, in ourselves, and fear
no bogies.'
* Yes, we will trust in ourselves, Lucian.' She got up and
examined the room more closely.
Against the wall there stood a cradle; not one of the
little, dainty baskets of modern custom, but a stout, solid,
wooden cradle, with strong wooden rollers, carved sides, and
a carved wooden head : a thing that might have been hundreds
of years old. The little blankets w^ere lying folded up ready
for use on the little feather bed, but both blankets and bed
were moth-eaten and covered with dust — for the room had
not been opened for fifty years. Beside the cradle w^as a low
washing arrangement, for children's use, a thing used before
the invention of the modern bath ; in one corner was a small
wooden bed, a four-poster, without head or hangings, but
with a feather bed also eaten in holes and gaps ; in another
corner the children's bed, a low truckle bed of the time when
children were put two and three together in one bed ; on the
mantel-shelf were basins and spoons, and a tinder-box, and
an old-fashioned night-light in its pierced iron frame. There
were two or three chairs, a chest of drawers, a small table, a
high brass fender and a cupboard.
;^S BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* The nursery,' Margaret repeated, with a kind of awe.
The discovery moved her strangely. The dust lay thick upon
the beds and the cradle and upon everything. When the last
child died, and the mother died, and the last son left the house,
the door of the nursery was shut, and for fifty years had re-
mained shut. Margaret pulled open the top drawer of the chest.
There were lying in it, carefully folded and put away, the
complete trousseau of a baby. Such beautiful clothes they
were, with such cunning and craft of embroidery and needle-
work as belonged to the time when things were made and not
bought. In those ancient days things, because they were
made, and excellently made with skill, and patience, and
pride, were much prized and were handed down from mother
to daughter-in-law, insomuch that this dainty frock in long
clothes might have served for generation after generation of
babies in this family of Burley. Margaret turned over the
things with the artistic curiosity of one who recognises
good work more than with the sympathetic interest of a
possible matron, who considers the use for which it was
designed.
The other drawers contained things belonging to children
a little older — frocks, socks, shoes, sashes, ribbons, petticoats,
and whatever is wanted to adorn and protect a child of three
or four.
* See,' she said, holding up a long baby-frock, ' the beauty
of the work. Ah ! In such a house as this, it relieves the
mind only to see such evidences of loving work. Love means
happiness, Lucian, for a woman at least. While the patient
fingers were embroidering this frock, the woman's heart must
have been at rest and in happiness. Yet they were going to
be so miserable from mother to daughter-in-law, all of them.
Oh I I am so glad we have seen this room. It is like a
gleam and glimpse of sunshine. Five generations of women
lived here — all of them, one after the other, doomed in the
end to misery. Five generations! And we, Lucian — we
begin afresh. If I thought otherwise — but these poor women
had unrighteous lords — and I '
THE NUESERY 39
He stooped and kissed her hand, ' We begin anew,' he
Baid. * Courage ! we begin anew.*
She threw open the cupboard. There were hanging up
within two or three dresses of ancient fashion.
* Strange,' said Margaret, 'that these things should be
left. See, they belong to the time of George II. The sleeves
are returning to that fashion. I suppose the last two tenants
would suffer nothing to be destroyed. Look — here are their
toys — even the children's toys kept I Here they are : broken
dolls, battledores, Noah's arks, cup-and-ball, wooden soldiers,
puzzles, picture-books. I must come up here again,* she
added ; * I must come up alone and turn out tiiis cupboard at
my leisure. Lucian, in such a place as this, in the old
nursery one feels the reahty of the family. There are women
and children, mothers, wives, daughters, in the family. You
can't understand it simply by reading about the wickedness of
the men. It is like a history which concerns itself only with
the campaigns of generals and the oppression of kings. Here
one feels the presence of the mothers and the children.* She
sighed again. * Poor unfortunate mothers I * she said.
* Lucian, I charge you, w^hen you send in your workmen,
leave this nursery untouched. This shall be mine.'
* Yes, dear, it shall be yours — your own.*
* The room is full of ghosts, Lucian. I am not afraid of
them : but I feel them. If I were to stay here long, I should
see them. Let us go into the next room.'
CHAPTER VII
THE PEODIGAL SOJ?
The other room, the back attic, was locked, and there was no
key in the door. Lucian turned the handle and pressed with
his shoulder. The lock broke off inside, and the door fell
open.
* Ouf I ' cried Lucian. ' What a dust I What an atmo-
40 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OV AVAr.lCE
sphere I ' The sun was shming through the single window
covered inside with cohweb, and outside with the unwashed
layers of many years' coal smoke. He tried to throw up the
window, but the cords were broken; he lifted it up and
propped it with a book which he took from a shelf hanging
beside the window. * So ! ' he said. * Why, what in the
world have we here ? '
The room was furnished Vv'ith a four-post bedstead, the
hangings, which had never been removed, in colourless
tatters ; everything was devoured by moth ; but the bed vras
still made, sheets, blankets, and coverlets. There was a single
chair in the room — a wooden chair ; there was a mahogany
table, small, but of good workmanship ; on the table were the
brushes and palette of a painter ; a violin-case lay half under
the bed ; the inkstand with the quill pens, the paper, and the
pouncet-box, still lay on the table as they had been left ; the
books on the shelf — Lucian looked at them — were chiefly
volumes of poetry.
* See, Lucian I The walls are covered with paintings ! '
So they w^ere ; the sloping walls of the attic, which had
been plastered white, were covered all over with paintings in
oil. They represented nymphs and satyrs, flowers and foun-
tains, woods and lakes, terraces and walks, gardens and alleys
of the Dutch kind, streets with signs hanging before the
houses, and ladies with hoops. The paintings were not
exactly executed by the hand of a master, the drawing was
weak and the colour faded. Each picture was signed in the
left-hand corner * J. C. B.,' with dates varying from 1725
to 1735.
* What is the history of these things ? '
* I think I know,' Margaret said softly. * Oh I * she shud-
dered, * I am sure the date corresponds. How shall I tell you,
Lucian ? '
Over the mantel-shelf hung a picture, but face to the wall.
Lucian turned it round. It represented a young man about
twenty-five years of age. He was gallantly dressed in the
fashion of the time — about 1740 ; he wore a purple coat with
THE PRODIGAL SON 4I
a flowered silk waistcoat and lace ruffles. His hat was
trimmed with gold lace ; his fingers, covered with rings, rest-
ing lightly on the gold hilt of his sword.
* The man was a gentleman,' observed Lucian.
His handsome face was filled with gallantry and pride.
One could see that he was a young man with a good deal cf
eighteenth century side and swagger : one recognised his
kind — always ready for love or for fighting : one could picture
him standing up in the pit of the theatre, sitting among the
rufflera and bullies of the tavern, the terror of the street, a
gallant in the Park.
Margaret said something to this effect, but not much,
because, in truth, her knowledge of the eighteenth century
was limited. * He is handsome,' she said, * but not in the
best way. It is a sensual face, though it is so young. See —
Lucian ! There are his initials, J. C. B., with the date 1735 ;
it is the painter of these pictures. I will tell you about him,
Lucian. This is clearly his own room, the place w4iere he
practised art when he was a boy — where he lived until he
left his father's house. His name was the same as they all
bore, John Calvert Burley, and he was son of the Calvert
Burley who began the fortunes of the family. When this
man v\^as young he was full of promise : he vras an artist —
these must be his paintings ; he was a musician. He was a
poet, or at least a writer of songs. The bookshelf was filled
with books of verse. He was a dramatist w^ho wrote a comedy
which was played at Drury Lane. All these facts are noted
in your father's papers.'
Lucian nodded to his ancestor. *I am glad,' he said,
* that I have a forefather of so much distinction. Permit me
to say so much, although I have renounced you.*
* Wait, Lucian. This room has been locked up since hig
death. That was in 1755. Your father mentions the room
that was always locked up. It was this man's room. Upon
him, your father writes, the vengeance first feU for his father's
ains.'
* Oh I ' Lucian interrupted, impatiently, * please don't talk
42 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
to me about vengeance for another man's sins. How can
such a thing be ? Besides, had this man none of his own ? '
* Unfortunately — yes. That was part of the vengeance.
He was all wickedness. Clever as he was, bright and clever,
and good-looking when he was young, he became a profligate
and — and everything that you can imagine in the way of
wickedness, after he grew up. People must have spoiled him
when he was a boy. There is a great deal about him in your
father's papers. His name should have been Absalom. I
have been thinking lately about this unhappy man — people
should not spoil clever boys. He was so good-looking — well
— look at the portrait. Handsome Jack Burley, they used to
call him. He quarrelled with his father — I do not know why
— and then he lived by his wits — lived on the town. How did
young men live on the town, Lucian, a hundred years ago ? '
* I don't very well know. Much as they do now, I sup-
pose. They played cards, and won : and games of chance,
and won : they borrowed money of their friends and did not
pay it back : they took presents from rich ladies — whose
hearts they moved : they ran away with heiresses : finally
they got into the Fleet Prison and starved, or they took to
the road and were hanged. Then my ancestor here was quite
a model profligate, I take it. Perhaps Tom Jones had this
man's career before him as a model.'
* You have stated his case exactly. He married an heiress
and he squandered her fortune. Then she left him and came
here with her child. He was brought up in the nursery we
have just left : I suppose that we have seen his baby clothes.
* Well, and what became of that prodigal ? Did he repent
and come home again ? Or was he presently brought to the
Fleet Prison ? '
* No, Lucian,* she replied, gravely. * This bright and
gallant gentleman ' — she pointed to the picture — * who looks
as if there were no laws of God to be feared, chose one of the
two lines you have indicated. But it was the road, and
not the Debtor's Prison. And it led to — the other kind of
prison.'
THE PRODIGAL SON 43
* Oh I * But Lucian's face flushed a little. * You mean,
Margaret, that this gay and gallant gentleman was — in point
of fact *
* Yes. A fitting end for him, but it was disgraceful to his
people. This ancestor was hanged at Tyburn for a highway
robbery. His father turned the portrait to the wall and locked
the door. That was in the year 1755. And the room has
never been opened since.'
' Humph 1 ' Lucian stroked his chin gravely. * Have you
any more such stories to tell me ? '
' Two or three more.*
'After all — old history — old history I Who would care
now if one's descent from a man who was hanged in the year
1755 was published from the housetop? No one. Old
history, Mag. And as to vengeance for his father's sins, why,
you've made it clear that he had enough of his own to justify
the suspension. Let us go downstairs.'
She shuddered. * Who could sleep here ? ' she said. * We
will turn it perhaps into a store-house of all the old things ;
the children's dresses and the dolls — perhaps out of the
nursery ; and the toys and the cradle and everything else that
belongs to the innocent life. If the ghost of this wicked man
still haunts the room he may profitably be reminded of the
days of innocence. Perhaps he has repented long since of
the days of prodigality. I don't think we could make a bed-
room here.*
' Call you that renouncing of my ancestors, Marjorie ? '
CHAPTEE VIII
THE P0ETEAIT3
They closed the door and went down to the next floor. Here
there were three bedrooms, all furnished alike and with
Bohdity. Each had a great mahogany four-poster, a
mahogany chest of drawers, a mahogany dressing-table, and
44 bf.yo:n^d the dreams of AVArjcE
two maliogany chairs ; there was a carpet in each ; and the
hangings were still round the beds, but in dusty, moth-eaten
tatters and rags. There were also shelves, and a cupboard
in each room. On the shelves were books, school-books of
the early part of this century. Latin grammars in Latin,
Greek grammars in Latin, Ovid and Cicero and Cornelius
Nepos, Gordon's Geography, the Greek Testament, and so
forth. There seemed no reason to linger in the room. But
Margaret opened the drawers. Strange I They were all filled
with things ; she looked into the cupboards, they also were
filled w^ith things — clothes, personal effects. * Why ! ' she
cried, ' they did not even take away their clothes ! Oh ! I
remember nov/. They left them here when they ran away,
and here they have remained ever since. I will tell you
directly all about them, Lucian. Look ! these silk gloves must
have belonged to Lucinda — your great-aunt. She ran away.
And in the other room, there are things with the initials
11. C. B. — your great-uncle Henry ; and others with the
initials of C. C. B. and of J. C. B. — your great-uncles Charles
and James. They, too, ran away. I will tell you why
presently.'
On the first floor there were two rooms only, at the front
and the back. They opened the door of the room at the back.
It was a bedroom, evidently the bedroom of the man just
dead.
* This is the room of the master,' said Margaret, * your
grandfather's room. For fifty years he vras alone in it. After
his wife died and his son, your father, left him he was quite
alone in the silent house. Fancy a house condemned to
silence for fifty years I It isn't used to noise. The echoes
take up your voice on the stairs, the walls whisper it, as
if they were afraid to speak out loud. All these years of
silence ! And all the time downstairs he sat and reckoned up
his money.'
She turned away and closed the door.
* Lucian I ' — she laid her hand upon his arm — * before we
go to see the portraits, think. In your father's papers is an
THE PORTRAITS 45
account of them all. Better have nothing to do with th'jm—
better know nothing about them.'
* Oh I nonsense. You need not soften the facts, Margaret,
I am not afraid. Besides, old histories I old histories 1 '
He opened the door of the drawing-room, which in the old
days when it was furnished was called the best parlour. This
was the State-room of the house, never used at all, except for
weddings, christenings, and funerals.
The furniture was stiff and rather quaint. The chairs
and sofa had been upholstered with stuff once green ; there
had also been gilt about the legs and backs ; there was a
round table in the middle ; there was a card table between
the windows ; there was a cabinet containing a few curiosities ;
there was a faded carpet, partly moth-eaten ; the fireplace and
fender were of the old fashion ; and there was nothing else in
the room.
' I wonder,' said Margaret, * if there has ever been any
festivity here. Certainly there can have been none for a
hundred years. Is there anywhere else in this city a house
with a drawing-room which for two hundred years has never
been used?'
But the walls ! Round the wainscoted walls there were
hung on every panel the portraits of tho family ; the men
were all there : the wives and the daughters were all there.
Two or three of the upper shutters of the windows were half
open, and the faces were just visible in the dim light. Lucian
threw open all the shutters.
It was the custom all through the last century in every
family of the least pretensions or importance to have the
portraits taken. In the time of great Queen Anne the limner
went about the country from house to house. He charged, I
beheve, a guinea for a portrait. You may see specimens of
his skill preserved in country houses to this day. Portraits,
in time, began to rise in price ; it became an outward sign of
prosperity to have your portrait taken. During this century
many most respectable families went without portraits
altogether till photographs began. In the Burley family the
46 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
cuslom prevailed during the ■whole of last century and well
into this.
* My ancestors I * Lucian bowed with a comprehensive
sweep of his arm. * Ancestors I I present to you your grand-
daughter-in-law that will be. We have renounced your works
and ways, but we recognise the relationship. Maggie, you
have something rather uncommon to tell me about the
ancestors ? '
'Yes, but what is it? Very oddl Most of them are
following me with their eyes wherever I go. What an
uncanny thing ! How came the painters to make all their
eyes like that ? It looks as if they were curious to see the
living representative.'
* Let them follow,' said Lucian. * Now, historiographer of
the ancient house of Burley, I listen — I sit at your feet — I
wait to learn.'
Margaret was w^alking round the room looking at the
names and dates on the frames. * Yes,' she said, * these are
your ancestors; all are here, except that unhappy man for
whose sake the room upstairs has been closed all these years.
Now, Lucian, if you are prepared — mind, I could tell you a
great deal about every one — but I will confine myself to the
principal facts. You will find them bad enough.'
* You ought to have a wiiite wand.' Lucian sat dovm.
* Now — it is odd how the eyes are staring at me — I am ready
to hear the worst.'
Over the mantel-shelf hung the effigy of a gentleman in a
large wig— a wig of the year 1720, or thereabouts. A certain
fatness of cheek with a satisfied smugness of expression
characterises most portraits of this period. Both were wanting
in this face : it was hard, the eyes were hard, the mouth was
hard, the face was determined, the forehead showed power,
the mouth and chin determination. Time, who is often an
excellent finisher of portraits, and occasionally brings out the
real character of the subject much more effectively than the
original limner (but he takes a good many years over the job),
had covered this face with a cloud of gloom and sadness.
THE PORTRAITS 47
* V/e begin with this man,' said Margarofc. * He is Calvert
Burley. He began, however, as a clerk, or servant of some
kind, to a City merchant. He must have been a young man
of ability, because he rapidly rose and became factor or con-
fidential clerk. What he did was this. He persuaded his
master, who entirely trusted him, to invest a great sum m
South Sea stock. With a part of the money he bought shares
in his own name, falsifying the figures to prevent being found
out. The shares, as he expected, went higher and higher till
they reached — I don't know what — and then he sold his own
shares to his own master at the highest price. Then the crash
came. He really looks, Lucian, as if he heard every word we
are saying.'
* Let him answer the charge, then.*
* Well, the unfortunate merchant was ruined ; his clerk,
who had made an immense profit upon every share he held —
I know not how many there were — stepped into his place.
This was the origin of the fortunes of the House.'
* And the confiding merchant ? '
* He died in the Fleet. His former clerk would not send
him so much as a guinea when he was starving. Well, Calvert
from a servant became a master ; from a factor he became a
merchant — I suppose that no one found out what he had
done.'
' How was it found out, then ? '
' I do not know. I read it in your father's papers. That
was what he meant when he said that the fortunes of the
House were founded on dishonour.'
' Yes.' Lucian looked at the portrait, who fixed upon him
from under black eyebrows a pair of keen, searching eyes. He
got up and looked more closely. * Yes,' he repeated, 'I should
like to hear your own account of the transaction, my ancestor.
Because you look as if you could put it differently.'
* Lucian, stand there a moment, beside the portrait.
So ; the light upon your face is the same. Oh ! you are so
like him. You have the same strong face, the same eyes and
the same mouth.'
48 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICE
Lnciaii laughed. ' At all events, my Marjorie, I shall not
invest my master's money in my own name.*
* You are exactly like him. But, of course, what does it
matter ? Well, you heard upstairs how vengeance fell upon
this man through his son.'
'Not at all. I heard upstairs how the son was rightly
punished for his own crimes.'
' Well, he had no happiness with his money. For his
eldest child ended as you have heard, and his only daughter
died of small-pox at the age of seventeen. I expect this
must be her portrait.' It was one of a very pretty girl ; dark-
eyed, animated, evidently a vivacious and pleasing girl. ' Poor
child ! to die so young : and his youngest, a boy of twelve,
disappeared. They thought he was kidnapped. It is all in
your father's papers.'
* How did he know ? * asked Lucian.
' I think I can tell you. Beside the men of a family, there
Bit the women. The men work — for good or evil. The women
watch : they watch, they observe, and they remember. Do
you think that the wife of Calvert Burley — the unhappy v/ife
of this man— did not know what her husband had done?
When her sons and her daughter were taken from her, do you
think she hid in her heart the things she knew — the money
got by fraud ; the starving prisoner in the Fleet ? Oh ! no —
she told her daughter-in-law— who in time told hers, and so
the story was handed down as far as your grandmother, who
told your father.'
* It is possible. I did not think of that.'
' Men never think of the women who watch. If they did,
how long would the wickedness of the world endure ? '
* You are bitter, my Margaret.'
' It is because my mind is full of the women of your own
House. Am I not going to become one ? See — the next
panel is empty. That is because the portrait is upstairs in
the room that you burst open. This one is his wife. My dear
Lucian, when her husband had spent all her money and
deserted her : when she came here with her infant : when the
THE POPvTHAlTS 49
lleWS atrived of her husband's shameful end — do you think
that the bereaved wife and the bereaved mother did not sit
and whisper to each other words of the Lord's vengeance ? '
' It is possible,' Lucian replied, gravely. * Old super-
stitions I '
Margaret went on to the next portrait. It had upon it
the date of 1764. The big wig had given place to a more
modest gear. The face was that of a young man. * He is the
son of the man upstairs,' said Margaret.
There was little of his father's swagger visible in this
young man's face. He was like all the men of the family,
endowed with black eyes and black hair : but there was no
force of character in his face : his mouth was weak : his eyes
looked upward, there was a strange expectant light in them
— while his forehead was marked with a straight vertical line.
The expression of this man's face seemed out of harmony
with those around him.
* The only son of his mother,' said Margaret. * He
married and had children, but I know not how many, nor
what became of any except the eldest. I beUeve they all died
young, except that one. And this poor man went mad '
* Mad 1 ' As Lucian looked closer, he saw the possibilities
of madness in those eyes.
* It was a time, you know, when people thought a great
deal about the safety of their souls. Many became mad from
religious terrors. It was in tliis way that he went mad. For
twelve years he was chained to the floor in one of the rooms
upstairs. After twelve years he died. This was his wife.'
* The history becomes more cheerful as wo go along.
Really,' said Lucian, * there never was such an unlucky
house.*
* There is more, Lucian. The next picture, this with the
hair tied behind, is the son of the madman. You see it is
dated 1794. He lived to the year 1820, when he died, at the
age of fiffcy-three. What should you say, from the look of the
man's face, was his character ? '
* Well, it is a dark and rather gloomy face : it has a look
E
50 BEYOND THE DHEAMS OF AVAEICE
of the original Calvert, but without his power ; this man was
small, he looks small and narrow ; somehow the painter has
left out the intellect. Perhaps he had none. What did he
do ? -To look at him he might have been a small retail
trader, counting up his little profits every day.
' Lucian, you are cleverer at character reading than I
thought. He was a little retail trader. That is to say, he
became a miser — quite a celebrated miser — one of the misers
you read of in books. He used to wander about the streets
picking up crusts and bones ; he would have no fire in the
coldest weather ; he would have no servant in the house — had
he not a wife and a daughter ? He went in rags himself ;
his sons should learn to do the same. It is said that at night
he would beg in the streets, or hold a horse or call a hackney
coach. He bought scraps of the butchers, and stale loaves of ^
the bakers. Nothing was too bad for him.'
* Oh ! This was my great-grandfather. Very pleasant,
indeed— a charming ancestor.'
* I suppose he had some family feeling, because he had
actually spent money on having his children painted.
Perhaps he got it done for nothing. But here they are — first
his wife : I suppose they are the family jewels which she
w^ears. She is a handsome woman, is she not, your great-
grandmother ? That is her daughter, Lucinda. Whenever
there is a daughter, the name is always Lucinda. You see,
she wears the same jewels as her mother ; she borrowed
them, no doubt.'
* Did she distinguish herself ? ' asked Lucian.
* She rebelled against the miserly rule at home and ran
away. It is also stated that she married, but her married name
is not recorded, and I know nothing more about her. These
are the four sons — there were five children altogether. They
are a good-looking lot of boys, are they not ? Do they look
like the sons of a miser ? '
Their portraits were not ill-painted. The young men
were from seventeen to two- or three-and-tv/enty ; their hair
Was curled for the occasion ; because a sitting for a portrait
THE PORTRAITS 51
was like going to a party. They wore high stocks and had a
watch-chain hanging from the fob.
* That,' said Margaret, ' is your grandfather. He is hke
Calvert, is he not ? Curious how the face reappears. First
in him and then in you. It is a much larger face than his
predecessor's — there is more intellect in it. As for the others
— tell me what you think of this one, the second.'
* He is exactly like the gallant highwayman. Did he also
take to the road ? "Was he, too, conducted in triumph to the
fatal tree ? '
* No. Like the highwayman, he had all kinds of clever-
nesses : he could make music on anything, and he could sing
and make verses. He ran away as soon as he was eighteen
years of age and became an actor. He succeeded, too. He
.became, at one time, lessee and manager of the York
Theatre.'
* His grandchildren will put in a claim to the estate, I
suppose ? '
* You will not mind if they do ? ' Margaret replied quickly.
' Let us go on to the next. Who is this fellow ? Has he
a history, too ? *
* That was Charles. I said that there were other tragedies.
This unlucky young man ran away from home, and I think
there is something said about an aunt who befriended him.
He was put into a place in the City, and — I hardly know
what he did — I think it was a forgery ' — Lucian groaned —
*and he was tried and sentenced to be hanged, but the
sentence was commuted to transportation for life. So he
went to Australia.'
* Australia is not so far off as it was. The convict's grand-
children are doubtless on their way home to get the estate.'
* Very likely.' Margaret went on to another : • This was
the youngest son, James.'
* How did he distinguish himself ? '
* Well, he ran away, of course. And he became a solicitor
— I don't know how — and then he — he took away his em-
ployer's young wife, and went to x\msrica.'
e2
52 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICll
Lucian sat down. * It is, indeed, a great — a glorioua
family. They vie with each other in greatness.*
' That is all, Lucian.'
* Thank you, dear cicerone. You have spun out a very
pretty history — one that could be told of very few families—
very few, indeed — I think I ought to be proud of such an
ancestry.
He lapsed into silence. As he sat there looking up at the
portrait of Calvert Burley, the resemblance became stronger.
His face assumed a gloomy look, which still more increased
the resemblance.
* After all, Margaret,' he said presently, * why should we
not take over this great inheritance ? We only know, in
general terms, how it was amassed. Old histories 1 Old
histories 1 What does the world care about the long string of
obscure money-grubbers and criminals ? '
* Is it any question as to what the world knows, Lucian ? '
He sprang to his feet and shook himself. ' I believe, with
that old fellow looking down upon me, I could persuade myself
into anything. Come, my dear, let us have done with them.
We have renounced their works and their ways.'
' Take down the portraits and burn them, Lucian. Put
an end to the memories of this house.'
' No ; I like feehng that I can sit among my forefathers.
But — Marjorie mine — you have seen the house. Do you
think that you can make your home here, in spite of all these
memories ? '
* I think, Lucian,' she replied, slowly and with hesitation,
' that when we have had the place cleaned and painted and
whitewashed, and these pictures regilt, and carpets laid down,
and modern things put in, and some of the old hangings
carted away — that it will be different. And there is the
nursery. And if the men who have sinned are here upon the
walls, so are the women, who have suffered and wept and
prayed. It seems as if they will protect us from sorrows like
their own.'
* Child of superstition ! You to become the wife of a
THE PORTE AITS 53
scientific man ! From sorrows, my dear ? I will protect you
from sorrows.'
He laid his arms — his strong arms — about her neck and
kissed her forehead.
' Now,' he said, ' claimants will turn up from the children
of these grand-uncles. Of one thing I am quite resolved, my
dear. If I am not to take this inheritance, I'm hanged if
anybody else shall. My ancestors ' — he waved his hand com-
prehensively — * you approve, I hope, of this resolution ? '
It was as if the portraits all with one accord bowed their
heads in affirmation. I say 'as if,* because neither would
have asserted positively that the portraits actually showed
this interest in things mundane ; but Margaret afterwards
declared that she had a feeling — a creepy, supernatural feel-
ing— as if something of the sort had happened.
' Oh I dear Lucian,' she said, * it is only by giving up
what they valued so much that we can escape the conse-
quences of belonging to this house. Do not scoff. In some
way or other the children must suffer from the father's sins.
They must 1 They must ! You are the grandchild of the
man who ruined thousands by his money-lending; of the
miser who ruined his whole family for the sake of his hoards ;
of the poor madman, chained to the floor upstairs be-
cause he thought his soul was lost ; of the highwayman
who was hanged ; of the man who grew rich by ruining the
master who trusted him. What a record I Oh ! my Lucian,
if I thought that you would resemble any of these men, I
would pray — since I learnt their history I have prayed — that
you might die suddenly and at once — that we might die
together — rather than that you should resemble them.*
' Margaret, dear I ' — his eyes and his voice softened — ' do
not be troubled. I make you a promise that I will never act
against my father's wish, unless with your approval. Are you
satisfied 7 '
51 BEYOND THE DREAMS OE AYARICE
CHAPTER IX
THE PEESS UPON WINDFALLS
It was about tliis time, viz. a month or six weeks after tlie
death of the old man, that the newspapers began.
First there appeared in all the journals a paragraph
reporting the Inquest of Office ; but, as the news editor was
not posted up in the difference between an ordinary coroner's
inquest and a coroner's Inquest of Office, and he had no time
to ask questions and to hunt up nice points of law, the report
appeared among those of the ordinary inquests. In most of
the papers it was jammed in between an inquiry into the
death of a man found drowned and that of a child run over by
a cab. Therefore, the thing attracted, at first, little attention.
Moreover, the reporter, a young man of small imaginative
power, was not in the least carried away by the coroner's
nights of fancy and poetical dream of half-millions. He went
by the evidence. Nothing in the evidence proved the extent
of the estate — in fact, as you have seen, little was said in the
evidence on this point. Therefore, with a moderation and
self-restraint unusual in his profession, he only said that the
coroner appeared to think that the estate might prove to be
of considerable value.
Nothing could be more guarded, or less likely to excite
any interest. ' Considerable value I ' One would use this
adjective, for instance, in speaking of an estate worth a thousand
pounds or even less. * Considerable ' means anything. Nobody
could possibly divine the truth, or anything like a fraction of
the truth. Such a colossal truth as this cannot be divined or
imagined or even realised. We realise great riches by one
simple rule or formula. Man says to man — with mouth wide
open and awe-struck eyes : * Sir, he might give me a thousand
pounds and never feel it 1 * That is the only way in which
we can arrive at anything like an understanding of the rich
man's mind and the rich man's fortune.
THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 55
As the present order continues, fortunes increase, so that
he who was a very rich man indeed a hundred years ago is
now reckoned to be no more than easy in his circumstances.
Our ancestors thought very highly of their success if they
found themselves worth a hundred thousand pounds, poetically
called a * plum I ' But what is a plum now ? The word itself
remains, of course, a comfortable, soft, self-satisfied word — a
plum ; but what is it ? A bare hundred thousand pounds —
no more than three thousand pounds a year. Call that great
v/ealth ? Why, a man with a modern fortune of ten millions
or thereabouts — which is, one admits, a large fortune, even in
America — gets three plums and a quarter every year at a httle
over 3 per cent. ; he gets more than a thousand pounds a day,
not counting Sundays. That is something like a fortune, and
since there are but one or two men in our country who possess
anything like this income, the possibility of so much belonging
to anyone man is by the general run of us quite unsuspected.
No one, then, outside Mr. Burley's office, where the estate
was administered, had the least suspicion of the truth, nor
was the whole truth known to anyone, not even excepting the
chief manager, so mixed up and spread about was the property.
At the office, however, they knew a good deal, and from that
centre, which the journalists speedily found out, the talk began.
At first it was nothing but the plain fact that another person
had died intestate, and apparently without heirs. The Crown
had, therefore, got something. Everybody supposed that the
Crown meant the Queen ; one or two papers waxed indignant
over this prerogative of the Crown ; people asked each other
how much fell into Her Majesty's lap every year by these
windfalls ; intelligent outsiders wrote letters to the papers
asking scathing questions about the Royal conscience. But
their letters did not appear.
Then those journalists who were barristers saw their
opportunity in the novelty of the court — an Inquest of Office.
Nobody knew anythhig about such a court ; they began to
hunt it up, they wrote paragraphs, short leaders, long leaders,
letters, communicating their information ; they contradicted
56 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
each other, they carried on a wordy war, they wrote sarcastic
things concerning each other.
Next, for the subject proved of unexpected interest, they
wrote about the history, the duties, and the attributes of the
ancient oJDQce of coroner.
This opened up a very lively discussion. For some main-
tained, and very learnedly argued, that the office, as shown by
the illustrious Verstegan, Leland, Ducarel, and Dryasdust,
was established by King Alfred himself, and that the first
court was held on the body of a Dane found just outside the
Eoyal waggon, with his brains beaten out at the back of his
head. The verdict was Felo de se, which the King, with an
arch smile, received as a very proper verdict and what he
expected of such a judge and such a jury, and that the office
should, therefore, be permanently established. Others — with
the late learned Dr. Freeman — rejected the legend of the
Dane, and would have it that the office was established in the
thirteenth century by King Henry III.
The next step was a discussion on the whole subject of
unclaimed property. Then followed a boom of letters on this
subject. Indeed, it interests the whole world. For what
could be more delightful than to learn suddenly that one had
inherited a noble fortune ? Everybody read these letters ;
the circulation of the paper advanced by leaps and bounds.
In train and in tram and in omnibus everybody was pensive,
dreaming that he had become heir to a vast fortune, which
lifted him far — very far — above the heads of his fellows, and
won him the respect and the affection of the whole world.
This was last year. No one, since the appearance of these
letters, has, so far as I have heard, unexpectedly stepped into
a vast estate, but the dream of * coming in ' for an immense
fortune still continues. It has its uses : it shows the young
man and the young girl what a very noble person he or she
would become if he or she were suddenly to * come in ' for
money. For in these dreams about it, they always picture
themselves as gods making crooked things straight, and cora-
pelling all to virtue.
THE PnESS UrON WINDFALLS 57
Lucian read all the letters and laughed over them. * They
haven't found out,' he said. * Presently they will — then from
Greenland's icy mountains and India's coral strand ; from
Australia's dingy scrub and Wisconsin's prairie land the
claimants will begin to flock in. If they only knew ! Be-
cause, my dear Maggie, as I said before, if I can't tackle this
almighty i^ile, no one else shall.'
* Don't think about them, Lucian,' she replied. * Let who
will fight over the fortune ; let who will enjoy it.'
The thing made him restless. He thought of it night and
day ; he talked of it continually. When he did not talk of it,
he was thinking about it ; he had long moods of silence.
* I must think about it, Maggie,' he said. * Why, I don't
believe there ever was a man in such a strange case. I have
been without a family and without ancestors for six-and-
twenty years. Then I find out my people — only to be told
that I must renounce them, because they are too disgraceful
for any decent descendant to acknowledge. And the next
moment I find myself the sole undisputed heir to wealth
colossal — and that I must not, on account of scruples as to
the way it was gotten, put in my claim. Isn't that worth
thinking about ? '
' It is worth forgetting, Lucian. What was your grand-
father's profession ? '
' Destruction and Ruin. The profession of the tornado.
Let me talk about it a little with you, dear girl. Let me
have my httle grumble, and then we will settle down con-
tentedly to poverty and pinch.'
She shook her head and sighed. He had never before
grumbled at his poverty, which, after all, was an independence,
and he had never before felt any pinch. Had he not four
hundred pounds a year ? It is a competence.
' I must think about it, Madge. I dare say I shall get
accustomed to the thought of it. Presently it will become —
what ? A tender regret ? A thing to be ashamed of ? '
Tkm the papers found out the truth— something like the
58 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
whole truth ; an approach to the colossal reality. The
manager told some one something about it ; the clerk stalked ;
representatives went to the office and interviewed the manager ;
some of the people at the Treasury got to know the facts.
Then — we know how to present things dramatically — there
was an announcement. Not a little paragraph in a corner —
but an announcement in large type, after the leading articles
which informed a gasping, gaping, wondering, admiring,
envying world, that the estate of the late John Calvert
Burley, v/hich was in the hands of the Treasury by reason of
intestacy and the failure of heirs, was ascertained to be
worth — if the property was to be reahsed — in lands, houses,
and investments of every kind, that is of every safe kind, over
eleven millions certainly ; perhaps over twelve milHons —
possibly more. And you could actually hear the national gasp
all over the islands of Great Britain and Ireland.
Of course, there was an article upon the subject. What
follows is a part of this remarkable commentary : —
' The Treasury seems to have received a windfall in the
estate of the late John Calvert Burley which surpasses all
previous experience. It beats the record of windfalls. One
or two there have been in which the estates have been valued
at several hundred thousands. The estate which has lately
been escheated to the Crown in failure of heirs — who may,
however, turn up — is now, it is said, proved to be worth
nothing less than the enormous sum of eleven or twelve mil-
lions sterling.
* So great a fortune, representing an annual income of at
least €400,000, places its possessor among the very few very
really rich men of his time. How many men, in fact, are
there in the world whose rent-roU, with all deductions made,
actually touches these figures ? How many men are there,
whose investments, scattered about in every kind of security,
actually produce the income of £400,000 sterling ? Are there
iive-and-twenty in the whole world ? Probably not so many.
* Great— very great — has been the increase of incomes
and the magnitude of fortunes during the last fifty years,
THE PRESS UrON WINDFALLS 59
especially in America ; but there have been few cases on
record of so large a fortune being amassed as that which has
now fallen in " to the Crown." It is so splendid a windfall
that the Chancellor of the Exchequer — unless, which is not
improbable, an heir presents himself — will have to reckon
with it as an asset of no inconsiderable importance. It would
pay the income-tax for a w^hole year : it would give us twenty
new warships : it would pay the whole expenses, for ever, at
British rate of pay and maintenance, of an army of 4,000
men : it would pay for education, science, art, law, and justice
for a whole year : it would be easy to enumerate the way in
which such a windfall of eleven millions might be spent.
Probably the importance of the amount may be realised when
we consider that, supposing others of corresponding wealth
were to give, or to lose, their fortunes to the country, it is
easy to perceive how the national burdens might be lightened.
* The questions which everybody will ask are, how this
immense sum was accumulated ? and who v/as the fortunate
man its last possessor ? John Calvert Burley was once as
well known a man in London as Crockford. Like him, he
ran a gambling-house, which was open to all comers ; like
him, he advanced money in large sums to young spendthrifts.
If any player had lost his money, he had but to ask, and there
was more — for John Burley knew the private history and
resources of every one who frequented his place. The gamester
was supplied with the means of continuing his play so long
as any means were left. He then had to go away. In
addition to his gaming-house, John Burley practised the
trade of money-lending, which he carried on with the relentless,
pitiless, hardness of heart by which alone this trade can be
made successful. There was no necessity for him to carry on
any trade, for he began hfe with such a fortune as should
have satisfied him. But to make money — more money —
always more money, was with him an instinct. As a usurer
he enjoyed a much better reputation than many of his brother
practitioners, for though he took great interest, and exacted
his bond to the letter, he advanced his money in full without
6o BEYOISD THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
maldng his victim take half in bad champagne or villainous
cigars. For this reason he enjoyed the reputation, such as it
^Yas, of being the prince of money-lenders. He acquired at
one time, so little did he care how his money was made,
some interest, if nob the whole, in an infamous all-night
dancing den.
' Theatrical speculations, newspaper speculations — even
racing speculations — were undertaken by him, with, it is
reported, an unvarying success. Fortune followed him.
Until a few years before his death, when he retired, he con-
tinued to carry on the trade of money-lender. Of late ho led
a perfectly retired life, quite alone, friendless and childless,
but not, it is said, unhappy, because he could contemplate the
great pyramid of gold which he had erected. He died at
a great age— over ninety — illustrating by his long life the
lesson that he who would live must avoid emotions and know
neither love, nor hatred, nor jealousy, nor envy, nor any other
passion whatever.
* It is certain that there have been many usurers, but none
have been so abundantly successful as this man, and that to
amass eleven millions of money even in a life of nearly a
hundred years is a task which might well be deemed im-
possible save by some exceptionally lucky accident, some dis-
covery of diamonds or emeralds, some purchase for next to
nothing of a silver mine when silver was worth digging up.
* Some explanation of the mystery is found in the history
of the family. This man's father was one of those mentally
diseased unfortunate persons who become misers. He was a
historical miser — in any of the books which treat of eccentric
characters and uncommon traits, the misers are always
portrayed — among these, next to John Elwes comes John
Burley. He was born to a good fortune, perhaps not an
enormous, but a respectable fortune. He lived for fifty years ;
for thirty he was in possession of this fortune. He developed
the disease in its most pronounced form. He would spend
nothing, he pursued his morbid parsimony to the utmost
limits, he would have no fire in cold weather, no light after
TTIE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 6 1
dark, no new clothes, the coarsest and simplest food. He
prowled the streets at night in search of crusts and remnants,
he bought the odds and ends of the butchers.
* This man was a perfectly well-known character in
Westminster; the memory of him still lingers, it is said,
though there are not, probably, any living m.en who remember
the ragged old miser who used to prowl about the streets in
the twihght : he died about the year 1825, of his self-inflicted
privations. He left his son the whole of the property thus
increased and multipHed. According to his biographer, the
fortune amounted to £400,000. His son proved to be as
eager to make money as his father, yet not contented with
the slow process of saving it. He appears also to have
inherited much of his father's parsimony without the extreme
developments of the miserly character. His eagerness to
make more money caused him to embark in business of the
kind which requires the greatest astuteness and the coldest
temperament. His desire to save caused him to live in so
simple a fashion that he may fairly be said to have saved the
whole of his income every year.
* In other words, besides the money which he made by his
profession and his investments, he saw for seventy years his
original capital multiplying at compound interest. Now, the
sum of £400,000 at compound interest and at 6 per cent.,
becomes £800,000 in fourteen years, and in seventy years it
has become more than twelve millions. Since, therefore,
Mr. Burley's estate is said to be no more than about eleven
milUons, it would seem as if the unfortunate gentleman must
have had losses. Or perhaps he did not of late years manage
to make so much as 5 per cent. Smaller men than he have
had to be contented with three.
* Who — what — where— are his heirs ? They must be some-
where. Any one who casts an eye on the line of descent as
set forth in a certain well-known law book, must understand
that it is almost impossible for a man to die without heirs.
For the property either descends or mounts up the main line.
First, the man Burley : had he children ? Presumably not.
62 BEYOND THE DIlEAMS OF AVARICE
Then, had he brothers and sisters ? Perhaps not. If ho
had, it is not credible that they, or their children, would
ignore their connection with this incredibly rich man. A
very wealthy man is the head of the family ; he is like the
man who enjoys the family title, and has inherited the family
estates ; he is the great man of the family. For this man,
we must remember, did not hide himself away until he grew
very old ; he lived, so to speak, openly. He personally con-
ducted his gaming-house ; his money-lending was openly
conducted in a public office with clerks and servants. It was
alv/ays in evidence.
' Again, he was not a self-made man : he began life so
rich that he needed not to work at all. He did work because
he had an active intellect, and he chose what is thought to
be disgraceful work because he saw that he could make money
by it, and because he was indifferent to the opinion of men.
Again, his father, the miser, inherited, and did not make his
fortune. How was it made ? That is not known ; but we
have certainly three generations of easy circumstances. If
the miser had one child only, had he any brothers and sisters?
Was he an only child ? This is very improbable. Then where
are the descendants of these brothers and sisters ? Or had
the miser's father any brothers and sisters ? If so, where are
they? It is perfectly certain that somewhere or other the
main stock must be struck by some branch which will thus
become the heirs to this vast property.
' Here we find a remarkable illustration of the strange
apathy displayed by the middle-class Englishman concerning
his own ancestry. He neither knows nor cares to inquire
into his origin and connections. Considering this family, it
seems almost impossible that its members should be so split
up as actually to lose in two generations the knowledge of
their own relationship to so rich a man. Yet it is not im-
possible. Mr. Galton has somewhere pointed out that it is
unusual for a middle-class family to know their own great-
grandfather. They do not investigate the question ; partly
they do not care ; partly they fear to find their ancestors in
THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 6^
the gutter, or, at least, upon the kerb. It is foolish fear,
because when one says middle-class one says everything : the
middle-class is perpetually going up or going down. It should
be most interesting for a family to Imow its own history,
whether that has been passed in obscurity or otherwise.
* Our people do not care for ancestry, unless they can
claim descent from a distinguished house ; in that case they
care very much for the connection, so that we see, side by
side vath the greatest neglect of ancestry, the greatest respect
for ancestors. This very neglect it is which cuts off so many
branches which have fallen into poverty and deprives them of
their forefathers. Probably that branch of the Burleys who,
at this moment, are the true and lawful heirs of all this
fortune are down in the gutter — or on the kerb ; behind a
counter or carrying a rifle ; absolutely unable, for want of
knowledge or want of papers, to connect themselves with the
money-lender, the prince of money-lenders — or his father the
miser of Westminster, or his unknown father who, perhaps,
first made the money by careful attention to business among
the nobility and gentry of Tothill Street and Petty France.*
' There's a leading article for you ! ' Lucian read it right
through to Margaret.
* It makes one burn with shame,' she replied, * only to
think of putting in a claim. The miser — the money-lender —
the money-lender— the miser — the contempt of it all ! '
* But they have found out — they have found out at last,
I knew they would, and now for the claimants. They will
come forward in shoals.'
First, however, everybody read the leading article, which,
as you have seen, was of a kind which goes straight to every-
body's heart. An immense fortune, with nobody to claim it !
Heard one ever the like ? Why, it might be — as the coroner
wisely said — you, or me, or both of us — Quick I Where is
the family genealogy? Who knows what our grandfather
was ? — mother's father ? Perhaps he was a Burley — Does
nobody know ? Cousin Maria knows : she knows everything,
good old girl — capital thing to have Cousin Maria. Who was
64 BEYOND THE DREAMS OE AVARICEl
he, then ? Not a Burley at all ; he was a Smithera, and a
journeyman. Oh 1 Cousin Maria knows nothing, stupid old
thing I Has she no pride of family, then ? And what about
the family coat-of-arms ?
There was a great searching into family records and
origins, and such secret humblings of family pride as the
world has never seen. But, then, the world did not see these
things, because they were kept in the family : the girls hid
away the papers or destroyed them, and went to church
next Sunday with their chins stuck out more than ever, and
the family arms displayed upon the covers of their prayer-
books.
Other papers, of course, took up the subject from other
points of view : they hunted up stories of great fortunes,
unlooked-for inheritances, men suddenly raised from the
deepest poverty to great wealth : a * Book of Successions ' was
drawn up in twenty-four hours by an eminent hand for an
enterprising publisher, who did well with it : people reminded
each other also, by letters to the papers, that there were other
estates unclaimed. Everybody bought the ' Gazette,' which
contains the official list. It was not the Burleys only that
were in demand, but all kinds of names. Surely in such a
long list it would not be hard to make out one's right to
something. Alas ! the lists are long, but after all they only
amount to a few hundreds, whereas the number of families in
Great Britain, Ireland, and the Colonies amounts to — I know
not how many ; but as there are five millions of families, of
whom a great many come from the same stock, perhaps we
may reckon as separate families those famiUes so far and so
long separated that they have forgotten their relationship,
and changed the spelling of the name. Very possibly there
are a million of separate families. The list is, therefore, a
lottery — an immoral, speculative, gambling, unsettling, cor-
rupting State lottery in which there are a million of tickets
(one for every family) and about two hundred prizes.
The ' Spectator ' had an article which very nearly guessed
the truth. The writer assumed for his pui-poses that family
He stands before yoii.''
"niE ITvESS UPON WINDFALLS 65
pride was the leading characteristic and the strongest passion
of the modern Englishman.
* Here,' the article said, ' we see one of the greatest estates
ever known ; an estate comparable with that of the famous
widow of the Peloponnese, or with that of the landlord of
New York, or with that of any American railway king, and it
fairly goes a-begging. The heirs will not come forward.
Why ? Most probably because they are ashamed — they dare
not face the shame of proclaiming themselves. The heirs of
the money-lender and the miser — they will not touch money
so made. At first one respects this dignity, this self-respect.
Then one asks whether a truer courage would not be shown
in accepting the whole — the awful — responsibility of so much
wealth as a trust, to be devoted to some form of good works
which shall not pauperise or demoralise. It is easy to think
of many ways in which such a trust would be usefully
employed, and, no doubt, a whole life might be nobly devoted
to the administration of such a trust. But perhaps the courage
is wanting — the courage of taking the first step — that . of
advancing to the front before all the world and saying aloud,
** The heir of the money-lender and the miser ? Behold him I
He stands before you l" '
* There I ' cried Lucian, reading this article aloud. * You
see, Madge, the " Spectator" has got the truth — not quite by
the right way ; but still the truth. The pride of family will not,
however, be strong enough to deter more than one possible
claimant from stepping forward. How devoutly do all the
v;orld wish that they could so step forward and declare
themselves 1 Claimants ? There will be claimants by the
thousand I *
CHAPTER X
AEE WE COUSINS?
Five fair daughters, running up like Pandean pipes from
fourteen to twenty-two, named respectively, though their
names matter little to us, Lucy, Cathie, Polly, Nelly, and Dot
66 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICE
— or in full, Lucinda, Catherine, Marian, Eleanor, and
Dorothy —composed the greater part of Sir John Burleigh's
family. Lady Burleigh y\^as, however, in herself a consider-
able part, and the Eev. Herbert Burleigh, B.A., formerly of
Eadley and Trinity, and now curate, or assistant priest, of
St. Lazarus, Bethnal Green, completed the family.
Sir John, ex-Premier of New Zealand, and K.C.M.G.,
arrived in this country in the month of June. It was fifty
years since he exchanged, being then of tender years, and
therefore not consulted in the matter. Great Britain for New
Zealand. His wife and daughters had never before visited
the mother country. Everything was new to them : it was
their first journey ; it was their first evening in England ;
they were all excited and happy ; and they had their brother
with them, the first time for ten long years.
On the hearthrug stood the father of this family, a gentle-
man of fifty-six or so, bearing his years cheerfully, his black
hair tinged with grey, his figure somewhat portly but erect
and strong, his face capable, his smile kindly, his appearance
prosperous ; his whole manner contented. He surveyed the
group before him with the satisfaction of one who is proud of
his daughters, able to leave them something substantial, and
willing to postpone that legacy as long as possible. Oh ! the
unspeakable cheerfulness of the man v/ho has got on, in ways
esteemed honourable, beyond his own expectations, and keeps
his teeth and his taste for claret, and * enjoys ' nothing nasty
in the v/ay of rheumatics or other blessings, and has daughters
pretty and loving and SYreet-tempcred ! Beside him in an
arm-chair sat his wife, comfortable and satisfied, well dressed
and happy.
Nothing could be prettier than the group before him.
There were the five girls, all animated, rosy, graceful, formed
in a hollow square or linked in a loving circle round their
brother. They took his hands and held them tight ; they
laid their own hands on his shoulders ; they kissed him in
turns ; they purred over him ; they discussed him openly.
* Oh ! ' cried one, * I like him so much better in his do-
ahe we cousins? 67
rlcal dress. It is much more becoming than the football
blazer.*
' So much more intellectual,' said another ; * but la it
quite so becoming as the undergraduate cap and gown?
Perhaps, however ' she laid her head on one side. * The
collar is sweet.'
The Reverend Herbert was a youth of striking appearance,
tall and strongly built. His smooth-shaven face, with the
high and narrow forehead under the arch of black hair, was
already, though he was still a deacon, distinctly ecclesiastical.
Even in ordinary tweeds, even in hunting scarlet, he would be
recognised as a cleric. He was very properly attired, as
becomes an ecclesiastic who respects himself. Whether in
the slums or at Court, the modern abbe is always dressed for
the part. In the Church there is no Piccadilly. What struck
one most in Herbert Burleigh were his keen, piercing black
eyes set deep under square eyebrows. They were not only
bright eyes, but they were restless ; they made one think of
the zealot ; they were the eyes of the Dominican eager for
the true doctrine ; they were the eyes of the martyr.
He suffered his sisters* caresses v/ith a patience which one
could see would be but short-lived. They had not seen him
for ten years : his youngest sister, Dot, could hardly recollect
him.
* He looks pale,' said another — it was quite true the young
man had the pallor of an ascetic. Perhaps he wore a hair shirt ;
perhaps he lived on lentils. * It is that nasty parish work.'
* Nelly,' he interrupted, * it is the work of the Church.'
* Yes, I know.' The girls had the colonial freedom from
respect to authority. * We shall have to take him away with
us when we go home. New Zealand sunshine is what he
v/ants. At present all he gets is New Zealand mutton, poor
dear ! '
The young clergyman smiled faintly. * As for my dress,'
he said, * we must remind ourselves daily and hourly of our
sacred profession. And in this outward and visible manner we
must remind the world of the priesthood. A clergyman going
v2
68 EEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICS
about the world should be a standing and silent sermon, or
catechism at least. What is he ? Why is he ? What power
has he ? How shall we use him ? '
* You make us afraid, Herbert,' said one. * Suppose you
change your coat for one of father's jackets. Then we could
all sit down and laugh and tell stories just as we used to do.'
The clergyman smiled sadly, * You remember, when we used
to make up and pretend ? Do you never laugh now ? '
* We have our idle moments. They are rare. But — per-
haps—sometime ' he sighed.
*Well,' said the sister who preferred the undergraduate,
' you can't be always taking services or tramping around the
slums. Then you will come to us and sit in your shirt -sleeves,
if you like.'
' My work,' said the young man, solemnly, * lies among
the slums, at present. But all the world is a slum — rightly
considered.'
* If that is the case,' the same girl answered, ' we are all
in the same boat, and we should try to make the best of the
slum.'
' Oh ! ' cried the eldest. * And we haven't asked him about
the most important thing of all. Herbert, what about the
long-lost family ? '
* Yes, yes ; what about the family ? ' they all cried in con-
cert.
At this question — which was by no means new — Sir John
winced and changed colour slightly. No one noticed the
emotion. He quickly recovered, and^ glancing at his wife,
laughed aloud.
* What about the family, Herbert ? ' he repeated. * You
were going to restore us to our family, remember.'
* I remember, but '
* It was resolved unanimously, Herbert,' said Lucy, the
eldest, * that you should undertake the search.'
* Yes. But I have no clue. Without something to connect
U3 '
' You have all the facts,' said bis father. ♦ Fifty- two years
ARE WE COUSINS? 69
ago, when I was five years of age, we landed in New Zealand,
my father, my mother, and I. Where we came from, who our
people were, I have never learned. And there is not a scrap
of paper, not a letter, or a book, not even a baptism or a mar-
riage certificate in my possession that will tell you anything
more. Nothing to show you the maiden name of my mother,
or the place where she was married.'
* Quite so,' said the son. * And I have long since given up
thinking about it.'
* Grandfather must have been a gentleman, to begin with,'
said the eldest girl.
' Of course ! ' — from all the other girls.
* A gentleman,' said Sir John, ' to end with, at any
rate.'
' And he never spoke of his own people. The inference is
that he had quarrelled with them.'
* That might be so,' said Sir John.
* It must be so,' said the girl. * Oh ! we've talked it over
and over, till we seem to know exactly what happened.'
* I have not forgotten,' Herbert explained. ' But I have
not been able to do anything. You see, it is pleasant when
fellows talk about their own people to remember that one's
father is a public man of position and respect. Nobody in
such a case as ours ever asks what the great-grandfather was.
And when you talk about New Zealand, nobody considers that
all the people there have gone out from this country within the
last sixty years. Still, one would like to have cousins at
home. There must be cousins somewhere. Why, there must
be two branches of cousins.'
* We thought you were looking for them all the time.'
* Not all the time. You see, a man cannot give out to the
whole v/orld that he is in search of cousins.'
* That you were, in fact,' said another sister, ' the Eeverend
Japhet in search of a grand-uncle.'
* A grand-uncle ! ' The eldest girl again took up the theme,
standing upright, and emphasising her points with her fore-
finger. * In search of a grand-unqle ! He can't be the Lord
70 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICE
Burleigh, or the Earl of Burleigh, for their people are Ceoila.
Could he, however, have been Lord Somebody Cecil, son of the
Marquis of Exeter, who changed his name to Burleigh when
he married the poor, but illustriously-descended, family gover-
ness ? There's a chance, Herbert I We must prosecute the
inquiry now we are come home, seriously and all together.
The search for the long-lost family. When you are not at
work, Herbert, you shall help us. I mean to begin at the
beginning — with the dukes and marquises. Next will come the
bishops. My great-grandfather the Archbishop of York would
sound nicely. My grandfather left home — the archiepiscopal
palace — in consequence of his father's anger at hearing that
he had been to a theatre. If not the bishops, then the earla
and the viscounts and the barons — the baronets and the City
knights. After them the professionals. We shall say, perhaps,
with mock humility: "We have always been middle-clas3
people. My great-grandfather. Sir John Burleigh, was
Attorney-General in the time of George II." '
* Very good,' said Sir John. * But suppose you have to go
lower down ? '
* In that case, it will be in order to satisfy our own, not
the public, curiosity, and we shall keep the melancholy secret
to ourselves and be quite satisfied ' — the girl laid her hand
upon her father's shoulder — * with the dear old dad that we
are so proud of.'
* Of course,' said one of her sisters, ' if we find the cousin,
grandson of the grand-uncle, on the kerb, so to speak, arrang-
ing his cheeses and his bacon in the shop window, we shall
not reveal the relationship, nor shall we fall into his arms and
marry his assistant in the white apron. And if he happens
to be in the gutter — which may be the case, for families in
this country, they say, do chmb up and fall down in the most
surprising manner — we shall pass him by like a family of
Levites, and we shall say nothing at all about blood being
thicker than water — no, not even if they are cottage folk in
smocks and scrupulously clean and doggedly virtuous.'
*you are a most unprincipled set,' said their father,
ARE WE COUSINS? 7 1
laughing, ' and I sincerely hope that you never will find your
people.'
* A change of name. That is what seems to me,' said the
eldest girl, * the most likely. But how to find the real name ?
Given the facts. Somewhere about the year 1841 there
arrived in New Zealand an immigrant with a wife and one
child. His name was So-and-so. He is believed to have
changed his name. What family in England had a^on who,
in 1841 or thereabouts, had a row with his old people and
took another name and went out to New Zealand ? Did he
do this openly or secretly ? Did his wife's people know what
he was doing and where he was going ? Did he break
altogether with his owti people ? Then, can we find out
a family whose son disappeared about that time, taking
with him a young v/ife — somebody's daughter — and an infant
son?'
* My dear,* said her father, * it is a w^ild-goose chase. For
there is nothing to connect him vvith anybody. And as for
disappearing sons, why — you've all known them for yourselves —
among my shepherds — men who never communicated to their
own people anything at all about themselves. Better enjoy
London, children, and leave unknown cousins alone.'
* What I think,' said another daughter, who had imagina-
tion, and will, perhaps, become a novelist, ' is that our grand-
father was another Adam, created especially for New Zealand,
and miraculously provided with an Eve, also specially created.
That explains everything.'
And no they all laughed and changed the subject, going
back to the worship of the brother, which shows what an un-
civilised, colonial, half-finished, unadvanced set of sisters they
were. For the girl who worships the brother will presently
worship the lover and even, such is the depth of this girl's
degradation, the husband.
Later in the evening the young man returned again to
the subject. * You know,' he said, * that my work takes all
my time. I cannot go about with you as I should wdsh. But
I will do what I can. Meantime, is there not another solu-
72 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICE
tion possible about these cousins of ours ? Perhaps our
grandfather preserved silence about his people because they
were quite humble. Our cousins may be low down — very low
down. I could wish it were so. I wish I could find them in
my own parish. It might help mo in my work if I could say
to them : *' I am a son of the gutter, like you. I am your
cousin— one of yourselves, my great-grandfather, a labouring
man — perhaps, even, a criminal." *
' Oh ! ' cried Sir John, * you'd like that, would you ? ' He
did not laugh, but spoke fiercely.
' Dear Herbert ! ' cried his sisters. * Let us, above all
things, believe, until the contrary is proved, that we come
from an honourable stock at least.'
*I was thinking of my work,' said the assistant priest.
* For the sake of my work, I would willingly be the grandson
of '
* Thank you, Herbert 1 ' his father interrupted. * And now
we will have no more said about it. Our first evening in
England must not be disturbed by foolish speculation into
remote possibilities which would only humiliate us.'
But the harmony of the evening was broken. A discord-
ant note had been struck. Presently the son went away,
promising to return for breakfast at half-past nine, after early
service. Then the mother and the girls talked about him,
and about the nobility of his character and his deep sense
of religion, and thought humbly of themselves as walking — and
actually feeling quite comfortable — on levels so far below his.
But Sir John took no part in this discussion. He did not
even listen. Something had put him out.
The next morning was that on which a certain leading
article, which you have seen, came out in a certain morning
paper.
Sir John appeared, clad in his usual cheerfulness — his
face serene, his brow unclouded. He sat down to breakfast
with a colonial appetite ; he worked his way through the
vivers with his accustomed energy. When he had laid the
foundation for a day of activity, he took a fresh cup of tea,
ARE WE COUSINS? "J^
and, half turning his chair so as to get the light, he opened
the morning paper and began to read.
He read on with the ordinary show of interest until he lighted
on that leading article, which was the third. Then he started ;
he changed colour ; he laid down the paper and looked about
him, seeing nothing. At this point the girls became aware
that something had happened, and left off chattering. He
then began to read the article again, and read it right through
a second time.
* What is it, dear ? ' asked his wife, who perceived those
signs of interest.
* An article in the paper,' he said, ' concerning a certain
person of my name — our name — one Burley, name spelled
differently — who has died enormously rich without any heirs.
So rich that it seems incredible. They say that his estate is
worth about twelve millions sterling — twelve millions ! With-
out heirs, so that the estate will be seized by the Crown.
Twelve millions I Is it possible ? And we call that man rich
who can save a poor hundred thousand or so.'
* And of our name ? ' said his son. * Was he a gentleman ?
What was his profession ? '
* Among other things ' — Sir John hesitated — ' he was — he
was — a money-lender.'
* Then,' said his son, with decision, *I suppose he is no
relation of ours ? '
' Yet, yesterday, Herbert, you expressed yourself anxious to
be connected with the criminal classes,' said his father.
* Well, I said so, for the sake of my work. But to be the
nephew of a rich money-lender would not help me at all, un-
less I could pour the whole of his misgotten gains into the lap
of the Church. Then, indeed, I would confess and acknow-
ledge the relationship.*
* Twelve millions ! ' said one of the girls. * It seems almost
enough to gild any trade. Why should not a man lend
money ? '
'It is the most ignoble of all callings. What was his
name, father— Burley ? Is it spelt our way ? '
74 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Sir John handed his son the paper and buried his nose in
his teacup. Because, you see, his son's full name was Herbert
John Calvert Burleigh, which contained the name of the
deceased Dives.
The young clergyman observed this fact, and read the
article with flushed cheeks.
* Do you know, sir ' he began.
* My dear boy,' said the ex-Premier gravely, * we had a
little playful talk, which very nearly became a serious talk,
over this matter last night. I confess to grave misgivings
about any attempt at investigating the family history. That
my father told me nothing concerning the social position of
his family is a conclusive proof, it seems to me, that he had
reasons for wishing a complete severance with his own people.
For this reason I have never attempted any inquiry into the
matter: nor do I intend to attempt any. If you, however,
choose to undertake such an inquiry, you are, of course, free
to do so. Here, then, is a man who appears, according to hig
Christian names, which are the same as yours and mine, to be
some kind of connection. His name is ours, with a httle dif-
ference in the spelling.'
'Give me the paper, Bertie' — from the five daughters,
simultaneously.
* I think that, most likely, vre are cousins of a sort to this
man. That fact, however, if we could prove it, would not
necessarily make us his heirs. Very well, then. He was not,
apparently, a man whose kinship could raise us in the eyes of
the world. Are we prepared, before we embark upon a serious
inquiry, to be labelled as the cousins of a man infamous for
the way in which he made his fortune, or are we prepared to
be advertised as the cousins, and perhaps unsuccessful
claimants, of such a man ? My father's name was Charles
Calvert Burleigh — perhaps he altered the surname from Bur-
ley — 1 — e — y. I do not know. My own name is John Calvert
Burleigh. Your name is Herbert John Calvert Burleigh. The
Christian names of the deceased were John Calvert.'
* Such names cannot be mere coincidence,' said his son.
ARE WE oousms? 75
* Perhaps not. I think certainly not. We must be of the
Bame family. Are we prepared to dig up old scandals — old
quarrels— and to publish them for all the world to laugh at
them ? '
' No, my dear,' said Lady Burleigh, decidedly, ' unless the
money is clearly yours. In that case, perhaps — an old scandal
is not generally a very important thing.'
* Why should there be scandals ? ' asked the son. * I con-
fess the connection with a money-lender and a keeper of
dancing saloons is not ideal ; but if we could pour this money
into the coffers of the Church '
* You forget, my son, that it would first have to be poured
into my coffers.'
* Well ; but suppose the widest publicity. There cannot
possibly be anything in our branch that we should be ashamed
to parade before all the world.'
* Nothing ? Humph ! Well — I have known a good many
families, and I do not remember one in which there were not
some black sheep — some scandals best forgotten. I remem-
ber sitting one night over the fire with an old fellow who gave
me the history of his family. It was a good family, old, with
honourable men in it, and fools in it, and criminals in it.
My dear Herbert, the whole of the Decalogue had been broken
by various members of that family. Very well, then. If by
opening up the old stories you could establish a claim upon
this vast property — I do not say — though I doubt — it is more
than doubt — I am sure * Here Sir John grew obscure
and hesitated. * I mean, Herbert, that I think we had better
let things alone.'
Herbert made no answer. The girls were reading the
article.
* My dear,' said Lady Burleigh, ' if it is question of obscure
origin only, I think that would not matter.'
* No ; not much. We are too strongly placed to dread
any discovery about obscure grandfathers. But there may be
scandals. Why did my father keep silence on the subject of
his own people ? '
76 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
* Father,' said the girls, * it is such an enormous fortune.
Fancy ! If we were really the heirs to all that ! If you wore
the heir — the only heir. Why, they would have to make you
a duke. It is enough to develop the whole possibilities of the
colony.'
* Here is another thing, however,' said the father, persis-
tent. * Suppose you found that a certain Charles Calvert Bur-
ley and his descendants were the heirs — how would you connect
this man with your grandfather? Without documentary
proof it would be impossible. To begin with, how to prove
the change of name ? '
* There are no proofs, as yet,' said the son. * But proofs
may be found. The man was married. There must be the
register somewhere. There must be relations — cousins — •
somewhere in the world ; there must be someone living who
can remember that young married pair. For my own part, I
care very little about old scandals. Let us take steps, at least,
to prove the relationship if we can. I hope I am not greedy ;
if I had all those millions in my own hands I should not
wish to live differently. But the Church — the Church wants
so much.'
* The colony wants it a great deal more than the Church,'
said one of the New Zealand maidens.
* It is a very big estate,' said Sir John, * a bigger property
than ever yet started a noble family. Take the other side —
at present we do very well ; we are rich after our humble way.
You, Bertie, are the son of a man who has, to a certain extent,
distinguished himself : you are the grandson of a man who
' here he stopped for a moment — * who, however he
began, ended in a good position. If we go into court wdth our
claim we may, I repeat, have to publish for the whole world
all kinds of things best forgotten — family scandals, perhaps — ■
even— even — disgraces — who knows? Children, it is for you
to decide. Shall we go on as we are, or will you rake up the
past in the hope of succeeding to all this money ? '
The girls all looked at their brother.
' I think/ said Herbert, * tho-t we should prove th^ connec*
Akl^ WU COUSINS p 77
tlon, if possible, for our own satisfaction, and then decide what
to do next.'
* You are not afraid of — these family scandals, then ? '
* One may discover them. One need not disclose them to
the world.'
His father regarded him gravely. * As you will,' he said.
* I advise you rather to let sleeping things remain undisturbed.
But, as you will.'
*I have no fear,' replied the son. 'Let us, at least, have
the choice, if it prove to be our lawful choice.'
* Japhet,* cried the girls, with one consent. • Japhet is, at
last, in seach of a grand-uncle with millions and millions and
millions. Oh ! Japhet ! '
Later on, the father and son were alone.
* You meant something, sir, when you hinted at family
Bcandals and disgraces. Can you tell me anything definite ? *
'No, Herbert. If there are scandals — I don't say so— you
may find them out for yourself. My father, I repeat, never
spoke about his people, nor did I ever ask him. His name
you know — Charles Calvert Burleigh. He died twenty years
ago, when you were a child of five or six — you remember him,
I dare say. He was then seventy-three years of age. He was
born in the year 1801, and he went to New Zealand in the
year 1841. There are no books : no papers : nothing what-
ever to help you, but these facts — and such other facts as you
may discover for yourself. If they are disagreeable facts, you
need not, of course, tell your mother or the girls.*
CHAPTER XI
A VAEIETY ENTEETAINMENl!
Youth, who formerly lived in a garret with lean-to walls and
low ceilmg, where the only furniture was a truckle bed and a
crazy table, a three-legged chair, and a toasting-fork for the
toolhsome bloater, now takes on lease an scsthetically de-
yS BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
corated flat at the top wliero the garret used to be. Youth
now furnishes his flat according to the latest lights. Youth,
who formerly wasted his treasure of the golden years in
vain regrets, in miserable poverty, and in beating the air with
angry hands, an operation which never produces anything but
a harvest of wind, now occupies himself profitably, and rakes
in an income by a thousand different ways : and he spends that
income on those objects which are naturally dear to his time
of life. Youth has a very, very much better time than ever he
had before, and all because there are now so many different
ways, to him who is clever, of making money. Formerly,
Bohemia meant the dingy tavern, and the cheap chop-house ;
now, Bohemia means the flat, the club, the stalls, the studio,
the green room, the editor's room — with frequent champagne.
The chop and the pewter and the sanded floor have disappeared
with the short pipe of clay and the shabby great-coat. The
young man of the New Bohemia closely resembles the Gilded
Youth. He dresses so like him that you cannot tell them
apart ; he dines at the same places and as expensively ; he
enjoys the same pleasures ; he is seen at the same haunts ; he
has the same friends. The only difference is that the latter is
living on his inheritance and that the former lives on his wits.
If he spends every penny that his wits bring him in, that is
his affair, not ours.
Mr. Clarence Burghley, a young gentleman very well
knovm in certain circles, occupied a set of upper chambers
v/ith his friend, Mr. James Pinker, in a mansion between
Piccadilly and Oxford Street ; one of those great barracks in
red brick which are transforming the West-end. The situation
is in the exact centre, or hub of the universe. Therefore, it
suited Clarence Burghley. For the profession of this young
man demanded a central position. His profession was the
Making of Amusement. He was not an amusing man, but an
Amuser. Other people go about and throng together seeking
to be amused ; he went about seeking to amuse. He could
play the piano vrith a light and dexterous touch — and sing to
iti with a light and flexible tenor, The songs he sang were
A VARIETY ENTERTAINMENT 79
light and bright, little songs of society — songs about smart
people — songs about flirtation — songs of the ball-room, the
racecourse, the yacht — songs of the surface — they were so
light and so actual that they seemed to be improvised. You
could not buy these songs, and nobody else had them to sing.
Then he could play the violin and make it do tricks like a
trained dog, and he could touch the banjo with a master's
hand. He gave, at private houses, little entertainments, con-
sisting of songs and burlesques, parodies and talk. He also
had a collection of original comediettas, little dramas, and
proverbs, unprinted, unpublished, and not to be procured any-
where, with which he furnished the private theatricals, he
himself being stage manager and actor. Clarence was the son
and the grandson of an actor, and therefore to the manner
born. All that he did was dexterously done : all that he sang
or acted or played was light and frothy, without reality, with-
out emotion, vrithout passion. He lived by these performances,
but he was not accepted as a professional. If he went to a
great house, either on a visit or for the evening, he went as a
guest — he was treated as a guest, but he was paid as a pro-
fessional. A professional amuser. It is a most difficult
profession — one that demands many and varied qualities, and
therefore one that should command the highest respect.
In appearance Clarence Burghley was slight and even
delicate : nothing of the athlete in him ; his limbs were not
those of a football player ; his face was smooth except for a
shght moustache ; it was fine in features and in expression ;
his black eyes were keen, bright, and swift, under straight
and strongly-marked eyebrows ; his black hair, parted at the
side, rose in a natural arch which helped to give him a look of
distinction. In such a profession a look of distinction is in-
valuable.
For a youth in this profession it was natural that he should
wear, in his own rooms, a brown velvet coat, no waistcoat, a
crimson silk belt, and a white silk tie. It v/as also natural
that the rooms should be decorated and adorned up to the
latest note of eDsthetics. In a word, this young man looked
So BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
exactly wliat he was, a young man of Piccadilly ; the flower,
or fruit, whatever you please, of the London pavement; a
young man horn in the town, brought up in the town, and
unable to live out of the town.
His friend, Mr. James Pinker, who shared the chambers
with him, shared also, though the fact was not proclaimed
abroad, the profits and proceeds of the business. The division
of work was simple. James, not Clarence, was the poet and
dramatist. He it was who wrote the songs and comediettas
and the musical entertainments. Clarence sang and acted
them. James arranged the engagements and accepted the
invitations, modestly signing himself * Private Secretary.' A
very promising partnership it v/as ; one that promised to
become more lucrative every day. At ten guineas a night, if
you can arrange for five nights a week for nine months in the
year, the returns of the business mount up to 2,0001. a year.
And there are no expenses at all except cabs. Nothing was
said in public about the partner. Not that Clarence went
about pretending to be the author of the songs and things.
Not at all. Nobody ever asked him who was the author.
People think that an entertainment grows spontaneously out
of the brain of the singer : they regard the author no more
than they regard the service which provides the dinner.
Mr. Pinker was not brought up to the profession of enter-
tainment poet ; quite the opposite. He was destined by his
parents, vv^ho did not belong quite to the highest levels, to
advance the family one step by becoming a solicitor. He was
duly admitted. But he there found, v/hat no one could have
expected, that there was no room for him anywhere. Not
even as a clerk could he obtain a living. It was the stimulus
of necessity which caused him to become a poet. In fact, he
had always written verses for his own amusement. His old
schoolfellow, Clarence, used to sing them, also for amusement.
At a certain crisis in their fortunes, both being stone broke,
and with no prospect of any further supplies from any quarter,
James hit upon the private party plan and the evening enter-
tainment of funny society songs. For his own part he had
A VARIETY ENTERTAINMEI^T 8i
never gone into society. He had no experience of smart
people ; he had no occasion for a dress-coat ; he loved a steak
and a pint of Bass in a tavern far better than the company of
countesses ; he was satisfied with what his partner told him
as to the manners and customs of smart society, and he wrote
accordingly.
In appearance the poet was * homely ' — a good old word fast
dying out ; his features, that is, were undistinguished, even
plebeian ; his hair was of a warm hue, approaching to red ;
his figure was short ; his very fingers were short and broad.
He sat with his short legs curled under his chair ; his grey
eyes were bright ; his face was habitually serious, as belongs
to one who is always meditating responsible, i.e., money-
gettmg, work ; he seldom smiled — still more rarely laughed.
The profession of entertainment poet — writer of topical
songs — is not quite the highest branch of the poet's art. It
is not, however, within everybody's reach. There must be
the genius or natural aptitude required to carry it on success-
fully. It must be studied and practised. After a time, in the
case of one to the manner born, it becomes easy — the easiest
thing in the world ; that is, after the time when the poet has
not only cultivated his own powers, but has gauged and grasped
exactly the requirements of his audience. The jokes and quips
and turns, for instance, need not be too original; people,
especially after dinner, like their old and expected friends ; new
work — unexpected work — makes them uncomfortable ; they
expect old jokes and old situations; novel jokes interfere with
digestion. This limitation Mr. Pinker thoroughly appreciated.
And it made his work easy ; in fact, no young man in London,
working for his daily bread, had a more easy life. He had no
misgivings about the dignity or value of his work ; he liked it.
He made rhymes upon everything, and noted them in a
pocket-book ; he thought in rhyme, and he talked in rhyme
sometimes, just to keep his hand always in. It is a perfectly
grave and serious business — that of providing metrical and
musical amusement.
82 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVATvICE
'Courage, Clary,' said the poet, finishing his breakfast.
* The season is ahuost over.*
' Thank goodness ! — yes.'
* Only two more engagements. To-night at the Baroness
Potosi's. To-morrow at Lady Newbegin's. The Baroness
expected you to go up the back stairs, but I explained.*
Clary was a little jumpy this morning. He cursed the
Baroness. At the end of a fatiguing season, with champagne
every day, one is apt to be jumpy.
' What is it, old man ? Come — things couldn't look rosier.
We've had an excellent season, and you are booked for half
September and the whole of October and November — good
houses — pleasant houses — all of them.'
' It's the fag end of the work, I suppose. And sometimes I
begin to worry about what we shall do when they get tired of me.'
* Look here. Clary.' His partner got up and slowly filled
his pipe. * They never do get tired of anybody so long as he
can make *em laugh. When he can't make 'em laugh any
longer, he may go and hide himself. You go on singing and
I'll go on making *em laugh for you. Next year w^e'll make
a clear thousand apiece out of it — see if we don't.' He lit his
pipe and sat down again, tucking his feet under the chair.
* Make 'em laugh. Something in that idea, isn't there ? '
He pulled out a pocket-book. * Mouth gaping, cheeks aglow,
Laughlit eyes — is " laughlit " right ? — in mirthful row, When
fun and farce begin. He that pleases — not you. Clary — he
may try Tears and groans to make 'em cry. Let me sing —
that's you. Clary — to make 'em grin.' He bit the point of his
pencil. ' Let me sing,* he repeated, * to make 'em grin. I
think there may be something in this, old man.' He looked at
these beautiful and suggestive words critically, and shut up
the pocket-book.
* As for you,' grumbled the other, * it's ahvays the same.
You are always satisfied.'
' Generally. I have reason to be. I have a partner, by
whose help my verses are a small gold mine. Quite satisfied.
Give me my pipe and my beer, and my Chloe— there's no really
A VARIETY ENTERTAINMENT 83
good rhyme to Chloe, though it's badly wanted — my Chloe,
and I ask no more.'
* As for me,' said Clarence, 'I've got to go out and do the
work. You only sit at home. Oh ! I'm not grumbling ; only,
you see, you are the poet and I belong to the service. I ought
to wear woollen epaulettes and white thread gloves.'
* Eubbish ! People don't know that you are paid, or if they
do, it doesn't matter. They think your father left you money.'
Clarence laughed. * If they think that,' he said, ' they
will think anything. My father leave me any money ? My
dear James, you don't understand my father's ocean-like
capacity for absorbing all the money there is. He left me
nothing but debts, which of course I didn't pay. Why should
I ? On account of his good name ? The dear man had none.'
* Ah ! No name ! The nameless one ! — nameless '
But no idea followed, and he shook his head.
* They carried on, he and my grand-dad, as if there was no
such thing as money at all, or as if they had millions. Won-
derful men both, but especially the grand-dad. They got
whatever they wanted ; they wanted everything ; they paid
for nothing. How ? I don't know.'
* Unspeakable are the gifts of the gods.*
* Of course, they led the Joyous Life all the time. It's an
awfully expensive life. Never anything but Joyousness in the
house as long as I can remember. Joyousness, with troops
of topers, girls and merry-makers, and men in possession
looking on with a grin.'
' I would I had known your sainted ancestor. Clary. We
want, in fact, more Joyousness — a great deal more Joyous-
ness. Let us start a Joyous Club. I am sure it would succeed
with troops, as you say, of topers, girls, and merry-makers.
Couldn't we have a lament over past Joyousness ? ' He took
out his pocket-book again, and improvised : — ■
Where are they gone — the merry, merry men ?
Where are they gone — the merry, merry days ?
Why did they leave us, who were so merry then ?
Why did they take with thejn their merry, merry ways ?
02
84 BEYOND TIIE DREAMS OF AVAllICE
* I'm afraid that's pitched just one note too high for our
people, Clary. They don't care for real sentiment. Yet it
looks as if it might work up. '* Merry, merry days " — even our
people are not always young.'
'Why, man, sometimes I dream of millions, just from
habit, because they were such excellent actors that I really
thought they did have millions. Wouldn't it be glorious to
have a million or two ? If you were offered your choice of
things, wouldn't you choose a million down in hard cash ? '
* Perhaps I would.
Some Johnnies march in glory's ranks,
Some toy with Daphne's locks ;
I'd find my joy in City banks,
And, if I could, in stocks.
The millionaire, you see, could buy up the locks of all the
Daphnes and a fair slice of glory too.'
Clarence laughed. He sat down, took the morning paper,
unfolded it, then he went on talking.
*I wish you had known the grand-dad,' he went on.
' Good old man 1 He only died ten years ago, having been
born about the beginning of the century. He acted and told
stories and made love to the very end. I think he always
believed that he was only thirty.'
He threw himself back in his chair and opened the paper.
Then he jumped up and screamed aloud : * Oh ! Lord ! Oh I
Lord ! Here's a wonderful thing ! '
* What is it ? '
* What were we saying ? • Milhons we talked about. Good
Lord ! ' He stared at his friend as one too much amazed for
speech.
'Well, but what is it?'
* There's an estate said to be worth twelve millions waiting
for an heir to turn up.'
* Does it concern either of us ? *
* I don't know. We were talking about millions,' Clarence
said, breathlessly. * About millions I You shall hear. Here
is the article. Kead it I '
- A VARIETY ENTEETAINMEIsT 85
The poet read it through, taking five minutes. * Well, it
doesn't matter to us, does it ? '
* To you ? No — to me ? I don't know. Look here,
Jemmy. This is a most wonderful coincidence — if it is a
coincidence. The dead man's name was John Calvert Burley.
My grandfather's name was Henry Calvert Burghley, spelt
with a " gh ; " my father's name was Elliston John Calvert
Burghley ; and my name is Clarence John Calvert Burghley.
Is that coincidence ? '
' But, Clary, my boy, your surname is different.'
* My grandfather may very well have altered his name —
put in the ** gh " for pretty. It's quite the theatrical way, and
what one would expect. The proper spelling, I expect, was
Burley, without the *' gh ; " the way this Dives— this master
of millions — spelt it. Well, now — if I am right, what relation
was Dives to my grandfather, to whose generation he
belonged ? *
* What do you know about your own people outside your
grandfather ? '
* You see before you, my friend, a man who has no people
except the limited number of progenitors I have already
mentioned.'
* But you must know something. Have you no cousins ? *
* I've got nobody. I don't even know who my mother was.
She died when I was quite young. I never once asked my
father about her, nor did he ever tell me anything about her.
I suppose she must have had relations, but they never came
near me. And my grandfather must have had cousins, but I
never heard of them. I know nothing about anybody but
these two. Nothing separates relations more than the habit
of borrowing. Now, my two predecessors borrowed from
everybody. If you lead the Joyous Life, you must borrow.
Now, if you had known my father, James, you would under-
stand that he was not the kind of man to talk about the
domestic affections. The affections that are not domestic
might — and did — engage his serious attention, but not — no — •
not those of the home kind.*
S6 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICB
* Well — there was your grandmother.'
* I don't know anything about her. She is prehistoric.
The old man resembled his son in that respect that the home
affections were insipid to him. They lacked flavour : he liked
his food spiced and seasoned and curried— devilled, in fact.
We never talked about such things as wives and cousins and
so forth in that pagan tabernacle which we called home. The
old man, I say, led the Joyous Life. He was never serious :
I believe he dreamed jokes and made love songs in his sleep.
" Life to the end enjoyed, here Eoscius Ues,"is written on his
tombstone. Not original, but it served. His life was one
long, continual banquet for which somebody — I know not
who— footed the bill. Well, the fact is—I don't know any-
thing.'
* After all,' said his partner, reflectively, ' a man cannot be
without any relations at all in the world. And here we have
a clue to the family. Clary, let us have a shy at those twelve
millions.'
' What are w^e to do ? We can't ask a dead man any-
thing.*
* No. But there are registers and wills and letters and
documents of all kinds. Have you got your grandfather's
will ? — your father's will ? '
Clarence laughed. ' You might as w^cll ask me if I have
his landed estates. Even your poetic brain, my partner, can-
not realise the existence of a butterfly. Make a will ? That
is providing for the future from the past ! These two had no
past and had no future. They had nothing but the present.
And in the present they spent all they could get or borrow.
There was no will, bless you.'
* Have you got no papers at all ? '
Clarence sprang to his feet. ' There's a desk. It was the
old man's. Since he never opened it, there is probably some-
thing in it that other people would call useful. I once opened
it to see if there was any money in it. There wasn't. Only
papers. I will go and get it.'
He brought back not only a small rosewood desk, but also
A VARIETY ENTERTAINMENT 87
a bundle of papers tied up with string. * Here's the desk,' he
said, * and here are some papers that I found after my father's
death, all piled in a drawer. I tied them up, but I have never
looked at them.'
' Now, then ' — the poet -solicitor looked immensely im-
portant — * what we've got to do is this. I know. I have not
served five years in a solicitor's chambers for nothing. We
must first prove that you are the lawful son of Elliston John
Calvert Burghley ; then, that he was the lawful son of Henry
Calvert Burghley, then that he was something pretty close to
the late John Calvert Burley. After that ... I say, Clary,
if this should come off ! What a thing it will be for both
of us 1 '
* Don't, Jemmy, don't. I can't bear it. My throat swells.
I can't speak. Twelve millions ! '
' Go away now, Clary. It's lucky you have got a man of
business for your partner. Go and walk somewhere ; get out
among fields and daisies and skylarks and the little cockyoUy
birds ; sit by the babble of the brook ; catch the fragrance of
the briar-rose ; listen to the voice of Nature.'
* I hate the voice of Nature,' said the young man of the
town. * The daisies and the skylarks would just now drive
me mad. I feel as if I shall go mad with the mere thought
of the thing. I don't want silence : I want noise and action.
I will go and play bilhards with the windows open, so as to
get all the noise there is. That will steady the nerves, if any-
thing can. And, I say, Jemmy, how long, do you think,
before '
* Come back to lunch at half-past one. Now go away.*
He went away. He put on his boots and his hat. On his
way out he put his head in at the door. ' Found anything
yet ? I say, twelve miUions ! Oh I if the old man could
have had that almighty pile I Get it for me, and I'll show
you how to spend it I '
He came back about one o'clock.
Ilia partner looked up from his papers. His face was
88 BEYOND THE DllEAMS OF AVARICE
serious. * Clary,' he said, ' this is no laughing matter. Sit
down. Now, then, are we to continue partners ? If so, you
shall have all my business energies as a solicitor. Mind ; it's
an awful big thing. If I pull it off for you I shall be content
with ten — a simple ten per cent. A million and a quarter I
It isn't much, but with thrift I could make it do. Oh ! yes :
with thrift and care and scraping I could make it do.*
' I agree. Only get it for me.'
They shook hands upon the bargain.
* I will put our agreement in black and white pj'esently ;
meantime, I have discovered one thing. Your grandfather.
Clary, was certainly a brother of the deceased Dives. I am
quite sure he was. So that you are a grand-nephew, and,
therefore, one of the heirs. Of course we don't know how
many other heirs there may be.'
Clarence turned perfectly pale ; he staggered. He sat
doY/n, and for a moment he heard his partner talking, but
could not understand what he was saying. He revived and
listened.
' . . . will take jolly good care not to part with it until we
have established the case beyond any doubt. They will want
a case complete at every point. Don't wriggle about in your
chair like that. Clary. Sit quiet, man ! '
* I can't. Things are too real. Go on — get on quicker,
man. One would think it was a ten-pound note — not twelve
millions — millions — millions — Oh I ' He threw himself back
into his chair, and leaned his head upon his hand and groaned.
' Oh 1 I feel like a woman. I could cry. Millions I Millions I
Oh ! Do you think — do you think — we may '
* Pull yourself together, old man. Now listen. This is
our case, so far. Your father and grandfather had some sense.
Their marriage certificates are among the papers. I confess,
Clary, when you talked about the butterfly and the domestic
affections, that I began to fear — but that's all right. These
certificates are the first essentials, at any rate. Well — most
of the papers are notes quite unconnected with the home
affections. There are verses of a jocund and amatory kind —
A VAPJETY ENTERTAINMENT 89
even I, the modern Anacreon, couldn't write better lines —
there are play-bills — there are papers connected with this and
that event. Your grandfather was lessee of the TheaLie
Eoyal, York, for many years. His son was born there ; he
came to London and played here ; his son grew up and went
on the boards; his son married a lady in the company in
which he played. All these things are plain to make out.
But who was Henry Calvert Burghley, to begin with ? Now,
here is a letter which gives us a clue.'
The sohcitor-poet handed over a letter written on the
old-fashioned letter paper, folded with a wafer on it. * Dear
Harry,' it began. ' We are all glad to hear that you have
made a start. You can't be more pinched for money than
when you were in Westminster, which may console you. Father
said nothing when you did not come home, except that there
was one mouth less. I shall run away too, as soon as I can.
Jack says that if you v/ant money he will buy out your chance
of getting anything out of father's will for a pound or two if
you like. But Jack says that father is only forty-five, and if
he was eighty-five he wouldn't leave you anything because
you ran away. So I remain your affectionate brother,
Charles.*
* You see, this is not proof, but it puts us on the track.
Your grandfather came out of Westminster ; his father was a
miser. The intestate John Calvert Burley lived in Westmin-
ster. We must prove that there was a brother Henry and
another brother Charles — Jack seems the eldest brother, who
v/as John Calvert Burley, and Charles is clearly younger than
Henry. I must say that the case looks promising. We
should have to prove the change of name, and — and — and
there may be other things to prove.'
Clarence gazed stupidly on the letter. He gasped.
* Mind,' said the poet, * I'm quite sure, perfectly sure, in
my own mind, that you are the deceased's grand-nephew.
But we shall have to make the lawyers sure. And, Clary, my
boy, the material is very far from enough.'
< Oh I ' Clarence murmured. * Oh ! It would be too much,
90 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICE
this wonderful stroke of luck ! too much ! too much ! If I
were to get it I would— I would turn respectable. And as for
going out to sing — old man ! ' He turned away. His heart
was full. The Joyous Life seemed within his grasp — not like
his grandfather's, impecunious, loaded with debts, troubled
with duns ; but free, with a capital of twelve millions fully
paid up. His partner looked at him curiously. And he mur-
mured, making a note of it : —
Eich and respectable. Oh, what a change it is !
Once a poor vagabond singing his verse 1
Solemn and smug he is — Look at him 1 Strange it is
Eich and respectable : guineas in purse.
But he was wrong. Clary's ideas of respectability went no
further than the respect which attaches to one who pays his
way along the Primrose Path.
CHAPTER XII
the same name
* Aunt Lu-cin-da ! '
The girl laid down the paper she was reading and squalled
—it is a rough and rude word, but it is the only word which
expresses the excitement and amazement shown in this cry.
* Aunt Lu-cin-da I ' she repeated.
The elderly lady, v/ho was engaged in some needlework,
looked up quietly.
* Well, my dear I Another dreadful murder ? '
* Not nearer than Buffalo, and that only an Italian family.
But, Auntie, listen to this.' She took up her paper. * No,'
she put it down again, ' tell me first what was the full name of
grandfather — your father ? '
* Why do you wish me to tell you ? Surely you know
already. He was named James Calvert Burley.'
* Yes ; I wanted to make quite sure. And father's full
name was John Calvert Burley. John C. Burley he wrote it.
THE SAME NAME QI
Yes — yes. Oh ! it's the same name.* She jumped up and
clapped her hands. * Auntie, where'd they come from— our
people — your people ? *
* Well, my dear, you seem very much excited about something.
They came from a place in London — called Westminster. I
believe the Queen lives there. Your grandfather often told
me about the family house. It stood in a street called College
Street, looking over the gardens of Westminster Abbey.'
* Oh ! It's the same— it's the same.' She clapped her
hands again. * Oh I go on, Auntie. What were they— by
trade and calling I mean ? *
* I don't know that they were anything. Father always
allowed that there was considerable money in the family. He
got none, because he ran away and never went back to ask for
his share, or learned anything at aU about them.'
* Oh ! He ran away. What did he do that for ? '
* They all ran away. He had four or five brothers, and
they all ran away because, you see, my dear, their father was
a miser, and made the home too miserable to be borne.'
* Oh ! There were brothers. But they couldn't have had
children, or there would be heirs.'
* What are you talking about, dear ? What heirs ? Your
great-grandfather was a most dreadful miser,' Aunt Lucinda
continued. * Father used to tell how he would go out with a
basket and bring it home filled with bones and crusts and
broken vegetables — everything he could pick up. The boys
were half- starved and went in rags — so they ran away.
Your father was helped by his mother's people, who made him
a lawyer, and then — then — ho— came over ' — she hesitated a
moment and changed colour — * and settled here, you knov/.'
The girl nodded and clapped her hands again. * Why,'
she cried, * there can't be any doubt. The miser only died the
other day — at least — I suppose it was the miser — and — Aunt
Lucy — Aunt Lucy* — she fell upon her aunt's neck, and
laughed and cried — •* Oh 1 our fortune is made. Oh ! we are
the luckiest people in the whole wide, v/ide world. Oh I you
poor thing 1 Never was anyone so lucky. It isn't too late
92 BEYOND THE BEEAMS OF AVAKICE
to enjoy yourself, thougli father was so unlucky with the
money. "We must begin to consider at once what is best to
do. There is no time to lose. Perhaps we can get a lawyer
in London to do the thing ; but Enghsh lawyers are dreadful,
I believe. Perhaps we shall even have to go over ourselves.'
' My dear, I do not understand one single word that you
are saying.'
' We could borrow some money, we shouldn't want much ;
I suppose they'll give up at once when they see the proofs.
Oh 1 Auntie — you shall be the richest woman in the whole
world ; you shall have new frocks by the dozen '
'Dear child! What is it?' she repeated, with some
trouble gathering in her eyes.
* Listen, Auntie I Only listen ! Oh I Listen. It takes
my breath away only to think of it. Listen I listen ! listen I
Oh I It's the most wonderful thing that ever happened to
anybody. All the good things— the lucky things— are coming
to America. This is the new land for fairy stories. All the
fairies are coming here. I am Cinderella — I am Cap o'
Eushes — I am Belle Belle— Oyez I Oyez 1 Oyez I '
' Dear Ella.' The elder lady began to grow alarmed.
* Are you in your senses ? '
* No, Auntie. I am out of them. But listen ! ' She had
been jumping about and waving the paper in her hand. At
last she stood still and read : ' " Heies Wanted I — An Im-
mense FoETUNE. Twelve Millions Steeling. Sixty
Million Dollaes. All DEOPPiNa into Queen Victoel^'s
Lap. Heies Wanted Name of Bueley."
* These are only the head lines, Auntie, just to wake you
up. There, sit up now. Open your mouth and shut your eyes
and see what I will send you. I am Titania, Queen of the
Fairies. I am the Lady Good Luck. Listen ! listen ! listen !
* " People named Burley are invited to read the following
with attention. People whose mother's name was Burley may
also find it to their advantage to read it with attention.
People whose grandfathers or grandmothers were named Bur-
ley may read it with singular advantage and profit. Till one
THE SAME NAME 93
fatal day four or five weeks ago, there lived in a little street,
called Great College Street, Westminster, an old man, by name
John Calvert Burley " — John Calvert Burley, Auntie. Think
of that ! — father's name ! — John Calvert Burley,' she repeated.
* " He was so old that he had apparently outlived all his
friends : at all events, for forty years, as his housekeeper bore
witness, no one ever called at the house except his manager.
He was ninety-four years of age. Those few people who knew
of his existence knew also that he was very wealthy. He was
so very wealthy that his affairs were managed for him at an
office where he had formerly transacted business as a money-
lender by a large staff of employes — lawyers, builders, account-
ants, and clerks. The old man, who died suddenly, has, it
appears, left no will. The estate, therefore, in default of heirs,
falls to the Crown, and it is the biggest windfall of the kind
that has ever happened. For the property left by this obscure
old man is now estimated to be worth more than sixty millions
of dollars. As yet no claimants have appeared, though it is
extremely improbable that so great a fortune will not give
birth to endless claimants. It is most certain, moreover, that
the British Treasury will require the most rigid proof before
admitting any claim. Meantime we advise everybody named
Burley to investigate their line of descent. If the deceased
left brothers (which is not likely) or nephews and nieces, these
will bo the heirs to the whole estate. If there are neither
nephews nor nieces the inheritance passes upwards to the chil-
dren, or their descendants, of the deceased grandfather. This
opens up a wide vista of possible claims. For suppose the de-
ceased's grandfather was born, say, in 1740, and had six children
— of whom five are concerned in this inheritance. These five
children, born, say, between 1765 and 1775, may have had five
children each ; these in their turn five each, and so on — until
we arrive at a grand total in the present year of grace of 3,125,
all with claims to this estate. This gives to each the sum of
£3,520 or ^17,600, a painful illustration of the reducing power
of common division." '
' There, Auntie, what do you say to that ? '
94 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICS
This conversation took place in a small house — a wooden
house, painted a light yellowish brown, vdih. a green porch
and green jalousies, and at the side a small orchard. The
house stood in the main street of a little New England town
which had a special industry in chair-legs. It was quite a
small house, containing only one sitting-room, a verandah, a
kitchen, and two or three bedrooms. Of the two ladies who
lived in this house, one, the elder, was a lady of a certain
age, who had a little — a very little money. The other, her
niece, a girl of twenty- one or two, was engaged as cashier in
the most considerable factory of chair-legs in the place.
The appearance of the elder lady, formal in her manner, pre-
cise in her dress, indicated the great respectability of the
family. Nobody, in fact, could be more respectable.
Woodbury, Mass., is a to"wn in which the feminine element
largely predominates. The girls, you see, take all the places,
berths, appointments, and do all the work at half the pay that
should be given to the men for the same work. Therefore, the
men — the few men who are born in this town — go away
West, and the women, thus achieving their independence, are
happy. The future of Woodbury, Mass., is uncertain, but as
the greater part of a chair-leg can be made by women just as
well as by men, it is calculated that another fifty years will
see the end of the town. This will be a pity, because it is a
very pretty place, and in the summer most umbrageous with
shade trees. Yet who would not rather be a cashier to a
chair-leg factory than a mere wife and a meek mother, slaving
for a husband and for children ? Woodbury stands for many
other places — we ourselves, if we live long enough, may
witness the destruction of our own towns, when women have
fully resolved on their independence and have driven the men
out of the country.
In the town of Woodbury, not only do women predominate,
but women rule. Theirs is the literary society ; theirs is the
circulating library ; they form the committee for the lecture
programme ; they get up the school and church feasts and
treats and social teas and summer picnics. It is a Ladies'
THE SAME NAME 95
Paradise, with as little as possible of the other sex, and, in
fact, there are very few husbands and no marriageable
bachelors, and the boys have to sit on the same benches as
the girls, and are not only taught to behave pretty, but to
acknowledge the superiority of women's intellect, being ad-
monished thereon by the result of every examination.
The Woodbury Paradise is an Eden of culture with the
disturbing element left out. Also needless to say that it has
its commonplaces or maxims generally admitted — of which
the one about the insufficiency of money to satisfy the soul
naturally commends itself to a community of v/omen living
on a very few dollars a week. Yet, you see how philosophy
may break down. What power had this maxim over the
soul of Ella Burley when she read this intelligence and was
tempted by the prospect of these millions ? Alas ! Poor
Philosophy I Whither wilt thou fly ?
* Auntie ! ' cried the girl again. * Don't look like that !
Say something I Get up I Get up ! '
Miss Luciuda Burley took off her spectacles and gazed
into space.
* Sure enough,' she said, slowly. ' Father came out of
that street — and I suppose the man just dead must have been
his brother. Sure enough ! One brother, I know — the eldest
brother — remained at home — ninety-four. Yes, he must have
been my uncle — ninety-four 1 It's like a dream.'
* Sure enough, then, that great fortune is ours — isn't it ?
Unless the other brothers — but that isn't likely, or they would
have come forward. It is ours. Auntie — ours.'
To the girl's amazement her aunt at this juncture turned
perfectly white, and began to tremble and to shake.
* Oh, my dear,' she cried, * put it out of your head — we
mustn't claim it. We mustn't think of it. Oh, it cannot be
ours. Don't so much as think of it.'
* Not claim it ? Not think of it ? But, Auntie, it is ours
by right. What is the matter, dear ? ' For now Aunt Lucinda
appeared to be nigh unto fainting. ' It is the sudden shock
that is too much for you, Dear Auntie, lie dowa — so. Oh I
9.6 BEYOND THE DREAJMS OF AVARICE
and I thought you were sitting so calm and quiet over it — and
I was so excited. Lie down — so — and let me talk. What was 1
saying ? Oh ! Yes, you are the niece and I am the grand-
niece of the rich man's brother. There were other brothers,
but their descendants have not put in a claim. Now all that
is wanted will be to establish the relationship. Well ! here
we are. Grandfather settled here. He was a lawyer here.
He lived here and died here. People remember him well ;
everybody remembers James C. Burley. I remember him ; an
old man who walked with a stiff knee and a stick. He died
fifteen years ago ; he was about seventy-five when he died.
Then everybody remembers father — John C. Burley — who
was only forty-five when he died. We shall have nothing to
do but just to connect grandfather with the house in West-
minster.'
* Is that all, Ella ? ' The elder lady sat up. She wag
still pale and agitated. * Is that really all that we shall have
to do ? Shall we not have to go into court and swear all sorts
of things ? '
i Why — of course — what more can there be ? If we can
prove that James 0. Burley was the dead man's brother, and
that we are his descendants, what more can they want ? Did
you think you would have to stand up to be bullied by a brutal
British lawyer ? Or were you afraid there would be heavy law
expenses, Auntie ? Was that what frightened you ? '
* Yes, dear, yes. Oh ! that was what I meant. I was
afraid. It occurred to me — but since that is all '
* Why, dear, what nonsense ! Of course that is all. It
will be as plain as possible. We shall simply have to show
that grandfather was this dead man's brother.'
Aunt Lucinda sat up and took the paper. But her eyea
swam — she could not read it ; she lay down again, murmur-
ing : ' After all these years — all these years— no — no ! '
* After all these years. Auntie — yes — yes ; after all these
years 1 Oh ! To think that we shall be so rich — so rich — oh !
so rich. Let us sit down and make out what we will do when
we are so rich.'
THE SAME NAME 97
The girl was a slight and slender creature, bright eyed,
rather sharp of feature : her hair nearly black, her black eyes
deep set ; she spoke and moved with animation. She was
thoroughly alert and alive : she was a well-educated American
girl who knew her mind and had her opinions. On one table
lay the library books she was reading : in the book-case were
her own books ; on the writing table lay the sheets of an un-
finished paper on the Parleyings of Browning which she was
writing for the Literary Society. This was a flourishing
literary society, including all the ladies in the town — two
hundred and fifty-five. Most of them wrote critical papers for
the Society ; the rest wrote poems ; one or two had written
for New York magazines. Fiction was, very properly,
excluded from the work of the Society. It was, you see, a
profoundly critical town. Many of the ladies, including Ella
Burley, believed that the verdict of their Society on the merits
of an author made or marred that author.
Ella sat down beside the sofa on which her aunt lay, still
agitated, and began to talk. She enjoyed the pleasures of
imagination for half an hour. Then she remembered that
supper had to be prepared, and she ran out into the kitchen
which adjoined in order to make it ready. And at intervals
she ran back again to add another detail.
But the elder lady sitting upon the sofa looked about the
room with troubled eyes. * She can find nothing,' she mur-
mured. * Oh ! I burned all the letters and papers. Oh !
Nobody knows except me — nobody else in the whole wide world.
If it were discovered now — after I've hidden it away all these
years ! After all these years I '
* Auntie ! ' the girl ran in again. * I'm real sorry for Queen
Victoria. She little thinks that over here in the Land of
Freedom there lives the heiress who is going to make her
disgorge those millions. Of course, she reckons they are hers
already. Fancy ! At Buckingham Palace — I see them quite
plainly — they are aU sitting in a circle round the table, the
Queen in the middle and the Prince of Wales on her right
hand, contriving how to divide and to spend the money — and
H
98 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAHICE
now they won't have any of it. Oh ! what an awful blow for
them it will be ! '
She disappeared again.
When they sat down to supper neither could eat anything
for excitement.
* I have made up my mind, Auntie,' she said, as if the elder
lady's mind was of no account whatever. ' I mean to carry
this business through with a rush. I will give up my post
in the factory to-morrov/. We must get some money — an
advance — a loan — a mortgage on this house will do — it won't
cost much — we will go second class to Liverpool ; then I sup-
pose a week or two .will be all we want to get the business
settled. Why, it's as plain as can be— we must get certificates
or something that we are the persons we claim to be, and
you must get whatever proofs you have to connect grandfather
with the — what is it, dear ? ' For Aunt Lucinda was begin-
ning to tremble again.
* Oh I Are you quite sure — quite sure, dear — that there
will be nothing more wanted ? Only these certificates ? I've
got old letters upstairs — letters from his mother to my
father '
* Why — of course. What should be wanted more than
what we have ? Get out every scrap of paper you can find,
and, Aimtie, dear, don't look as if we were going to be hanged.
You shall be crowned, not hanged, my dear, mth a coronet —
a countess's coronet. Oh ! I feel so happy — so happy.'
Three weeks later they were sitting in a London lodging-
it was in Westminster, so as to be on the spot, close to Great
College Street ; in fact, it was in Smith Square, where stands
the huge mass of stone called the Church of St. John the
Evangelist. And it was a cheap lodging of two rooms that
they took.
'Now, Auntie' — it was the day of their arrival; their
boxes were unpacked ; they had taken tea ; they had tried the
chairs and the sofa ; and they were preparing to settle down —
* let us bring out our papers. Oh, how I used to wake up at
THE SAME NAME 99
night on board the horrid ship, dreaming that we were in London
and that we had lost the things ! Here they are.' She opened
a brown leather hand-bag and took out a bundle of papers.
* Here are the certificates of baptism ; yours, father's, and
mine. They're all right. John Calvert Burley, son of James
Calvert Burley, lawyer, and Alice his wife. Yours, too,
Lucinda Calvert Burley; and mine, Ella Calvert Burley.
They're all right. Next, here is the certificate to show that
the late James Calvert Burley, an Englishman by birth, lived
in Woodbury, Mass., and practised as a solicitor until his death
in 1875. Here is the certificate of his death, with his age.
That, of course, will correspond with his birth certificate at
Westminster — in this great ugly church, I dare say. Here is
my poor father's death certificate. Also the certificate about
his residence and practice. Then, here are the letters which
you have kept — the letters of his mother (my great-grand-
mother) — only five of them, but two are enough. " My
dear James,"' — she took up one of the letters; it was
folded in the old fashion, without an envelope, and fastened
with a wafer — * " I am rejoyced to hear that you are Well and
Safe, and that your Uncle Jackman has been able to find you
Employment. Your Father remains Obstinately Set against
Forgiveness. And you must expect nothing from him but
Eesentment, unless you quickly return, which I fear you will
not do. Write to me often. You can bring or send the Let-
ters to save Postage. Push them under the Door. Be Good,
my son, and you will be Happy. Your Loving Mother—
Lucinda Burley." The letter is dated,' the girl went on,
' December 20th, 1823.*
* That was about seven years before he crossed to America,*
said Aunt Lucinda. * The other letter is very much like it —
written a year later.'
*My grandmother died about the year 1878, I believe.
Auntie, the evidence is crushing.*
* Are you quite sure— quite — that they can ask no other
questions ? * Aunt Lucinda asked, anxiously.
*Why, of course not. What other questions can they
h2
ICO BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
ask? There may be other nieces and nephews. But the
property could be divided, I suppose. Come, Auntie, the way
Ues plain and easy before us. We have nothing to do but to
send in our claims. We will find out the way somehow. We
will not have any lawyers to send in bills. A lawyer's
daughter ought to know better. We will just draw up our
statement, make copies of the letters and papers, and send
them in — the copies of course. Why, Aunt, I wouldn't trust
even Queen Victoria's lawyers with the originals. There, we
will put them all back for to-night, and to-morrow — ah ! ' —
she drew a long breath — * we will spend in drawing up our
case. I suppose it will be examined at once, and as there can
be no doubt about it, we shall have the property by the end of
the week. Poor Queen I She's a good woman, everybody says.
I'm sorry she will suffer through us. But, of course, we can't
help it. Perhaps a little present — a silver teapot, say — would
partly console her. We'll find out how such a trifle, as a
mark of respect from an American girl, would be received.
I don't mind the disappointment of the Princesses a bit. And
now, my dear, you are tired with the day's journey, though it's
nothing — really — to get across this little bit of an island.
You ought to go to bed and rest. Otherwise there will be a
headache in the morning, and — mind — lie down with a joy-
ful heart. There's no more doubt, mind — no more doubt
than there is about the Stars and Stripes.'
Aunt Lucinda obeyed. But she did not immediately go
to bed. She sat in the bed and she trembled. Then she
locked the door, and, falling on her knees, she prayed with
all the fervour of a faithful Christian, while the tears ran
down her cheeks. * God ! ' she murmured, * Grant that it
may never be found out or suspected. After all these years.
And no one knows except myself. After all these years!
And he a Deacon I And our folks respected in the town !
Oh! keep the sin a secret. Let it burn in my heart and
shame me and torture me. Kill me with it and I will never
murmur. Let mine be the suffering and the secret shame.
But keep it — oh ! keep it from the innocent girl. Lord,
Margaret ran in with a light heart.
THE SAME NAME 10 1
if the fortune cannot come to us by reason of that sin, let me
alone know that it is the sin which stands in the way.'
In the other room the heiress sat at the open window
watching the Hghts of the House and Hstening to the clocks.
She was not ignorant of the long history which the Palace
Yard and the buildings around it illustrate and commemorate,
but her thoughts were not with English history. She was think-
ing of the house, close by, where her great-grandfather, the
miser, had lived, from which her grandfather had fled. She
must contrive to see that house somehow, as soon as the case
was presented, but not before. She would present herself as
the heiress — it would be her own house — as soon as the
property was handed over to her, that is to say, in a week or
two at the outside.
CHAPTER XIII
THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS
It was in the evening, in the first glow of an early autumn
sunset, that Lucian brought his bride to her new home in
Great College Street.
He had accomplished, you see, that strange desire to live
in the house of his forefathers. He had obtained a lease from
the administrators of the property : he had bought the whole
of the furniture and fittings, books, pictures — everything as it
stood, and he had cleaned, painted, decorated and whitewashed
the house. It was his for seven years on the customary
conditions.
The street was peaceful as the cab rolled into it : the house,
clothed with its Virginian creeper, just putting on its September
splendours, looked truly and wonderfully beautiful ; the door,
opened by Margaret's two maids with smiling faces, showed a
light and cheerful hall. The stairs were carpeted ; the walls
newly painted ; the echoes were gone. Margaret ran in with
a light heart.
102 BEYOND THE DHEAMS OF AVARICE
* Oh ! how changed I ' she cried. She opened the dming-
room door. The table, laid for dinner and decorated with
flowers, was in itself a welcome : the dingy old walls had dis-
appeared, and in their place were dainty panels of grey and
green. * The house looks young again ! Lucian, the past is
gone and forgotten. It is your house; the old house, but
transformed. Lucian, I am glad we came here.'
• It is your home, my Margaret.' He kissed her. ' May it
prove a happy and a fortunate home '
Then they talked of their plans. The brass plate was on
the door, * Lucian Calvert, M.D.,' as an invitation to enter
and be healed. The book which this young physician was
preparing was nearly ready ; his reputation would be made by
that book. Formerly, a young man could not take his degree
till he had maintained, before all comers, a thesis ; in these
days, he takes his degree first and advances his thesis after-
wards. Oh ! he would get on, he had confidence in himself.
And not a word was said about the ancestors upstairs, or the
millions waiting for him at the Treasury.
Next day, breakfast over, her husband gone to the hospital,
which occupied his mornings, Margaret began anew exploration
of the house. First, she went into Lucian's study — the con-
sulting-room of the future — the back parlour where the old
man spent the last fourteen years of his long life. No sign of
him was left ; that is, no outward and visible sign in this
room or in any other room. Since his profession had been,
as his son called it, ' Destruction and Euin,' I dare say there
were evidences of his industry to be found outside the house
in poverty-stricken ladies, sons gone shepherding, and broad
lands that had changed owners. However, here the signs and
marks of him were all swept and carried away ; windows were
bright and clean ; the sun shone upon the panes through a
frame or fringe of vine leaves ; the old bookcase now contained
her husband's scientific books — the old books, which were
chiefly theological dialogues, essays, and sermons, were gone
^packed off to the twopenny boxes of the second-hand book-
sellers ; the old table was covered with her husband's papera
THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS IO3
and writings ; the coloured engravings still hung in the panels,
but their frames were newly gilt ; as for the walls themselves,
they were newly painted a pearl grey, with a little warmer
colour for the dado and the cornice. Window curtains were
put up ; there were new photographs, new knick-knacks on the
mantelshelf, and the portrait of Lucian's father was placed
in this room, apart from the ancestors whom he had re-
nounced. Could this be the dingy room of only six weeks ago ?
That represented age, squalid, low-minded, without dignity ;
this meant youth and manhood, with noble aims and lofty
studies.
The young wife had nothing to do in her husband's rooms.
She looked in simply because it was his room ; it made her
feel closer to him only to stand in his room. She was perfectly
happy in that foolish satisfaction wdth the present which
newly married people ought to feel. There are periods and
seasons when time ought to move so very, very slowly. During
the first three months of marriage, for instance, so as to pro-
long the happiness of it ; during the last three years of an old
man's life, so as to prolong the time of reminiscence, or —
perhaps, repentance ; when one is engaged upon a work of art,
so as to prolong the delight and the joy of the work. That
time will not move any slower to accommodate anybody is part
of the curious lack of sympathy between Nature and the
indi\ddual.
Margaret, for her part, living in the present, had forgotten
those forebodings. How should forebodings linger in the
mind of a happy bride of twenty-one ? Besides, the house, so
lovely within and without, so quiet and peaceful — what had
it to do with the dingy, dirty, memory- stricken place that she
had seen six weeks ago ?
Yet she was to be reminded that very morning of these
forebodings.
She sighed — for very happiness. She smoothed the
papers and arranged the pens, just in order to touch some-
thing of her husband's. Then she looked out of the window
into the little garden with the mulberry tree and the vine, and
I04 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
then, as if reluctantly, stie left the room and softly shut the
door.
Heavens ! "What a change that magician, the house
painter, had effected 1 Nothing could look brighter than the
stairs, broad, covered with a soft carpet, running up between
walls newly painted and hung with framed engravings, lit by
a spacious window, glorified by a broad mahogany balustrade.
When she lifted her fresh young voice and began to sing as
she climbed the stairs there was no echo. All the echoes had
gone. Why ? Because, as Lucian suggested, they love the
empty places of the earth ? It is one of the many scientific
questions which cannot be answered. All the echoes had
gone. Margaret opened the door of the drawing-room.
Similar changes had transformed this room. The old fur-
niture was there, but it was supplemented by modern things,
imported by Margaret herself. New tables, new chairs, new
blinds and curtains, new carpets. The walls were painted in
a soft delicate shade. The frames of the portraits were regilt.
There were new books and a bookcase full of them ; and there
were fresh flowers on the table.
Margaret looked at the ancestors. She began to examine
the pictures again. Once more she felt those curious eyes —
deep-set, searching, under straight black lashes, like Lucian's,
which followed her about the room — and once more she re-
membered their history, as related by Lucian's father in those
pages which she had read. Since she saw them last they
had somehow, but that was nonsense, changed their expression.
How can pictures change ? Perhaps it was the new gilding
of the frames ; perhaps it was the general brightening of the
room. Whatever the reason, the ancestors did certainly look
more cheerful. The original Calvert no longer brooded over
past misdeeds and impending punishment — he now meditated
deeply some great, if not noble, enterprise. The highwayman,
his son, whose picture had been brought down from the
garret and restored to its panel, had put aside the swagger
which formerly distinguished his portrait, and now appeared
with something of the modesty of a gallant soldier to whom
TIIE VISION OF THE MOTIIEKS I05
deathisno evilcompared with dishonour. Even the miser looked
as if he was satisfied with the result of his last counting, and
could reward himself for his success with a few extra priva-
tions.
The ladies, for their part, appeared to smile upon her. A
strange fancy : yet Margaret could not shake it off. They
were smiling. No doubt these changes were entirely due to
the cleaning of the pictures and the brightening of their
frames. But still it was surprising. These ladies smiled upon
her. Why ? Because she was now one of the house ? You
may live under a false name, you may renounce your ancestors,
but you do belong to them ; there is only one set of ancestors
possible for a man : one set of ancestors, one cast, or mould,
or type of face, with two or three hereditary tendencies for
choice. Therefore, when Margaret appeared in the drawing-
room as the new mistress of the house, and the vrife of the
heir, these ladies naturally smiled a welcome.
A little of the former terror fell upon Margaret. Not
much; but some. She remembered their evil lives, their
misdeeds, and their misfortunes. A family specially marked
out for misfortune, pursued by crime, dishonour, and sorrow.
Lucian, like his father, had renounced his forefathers. No
harm would happen to him therefore. Yet Margaret trembled,
only to think of the long inheritance of sorrow. Her piano
stood in one corner of the room. She sat down and began to
play — idly at first. Then the feeling came over her that the
ancestors were all listening. She lifted her head and looked
round — all were looking at her ; the women she now thought
with compassion rather than welcome — the men with curiosity.
She changed the music — it became a grave and serious
meditation : it became sacred music ; she played pieces of a Mass
she knew ; finally she played a hymn — one of the solemn
hymns which we never sing now — an eighteenth-century hymn
— with a beautiful melody — a hymn in which the soul feels
her helplessness, and cries out for help to the place whence
only help can come. AU her soul went heavenward
with the music. As she bent her head over the keys she
I06 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE
became dreamily conscious tliat the men were listening
unmoved, but curious, and that the women were weeping in
their frames. And the house was so silent — so silent — and
she was alone in it with her ghostly company. But she was
not afraid. Only she felt excited and restless.
She arose — pale, with set face and eyes dilated : her limpid
eyes, which could so easily become dreamy. Then, as in a
dream, not knowing what she was doing, or why, she left the
room, closing the door after her, and climbed the stair, up —
up — up, until she reached the highest floor, and then she
walked into the nursery and sat upon the bed.
Why was she there ? She knew not, save that her head
was filled with the thoughts of the mothers and the children.
Here, in this nursery, generation after generation, the wives
and mothers had their brief time of happiness while the
children were yet little. This room was theirs ; it was sacred
to them ; she was one of them now ; she was the wife of the
heir ; it was right that she should make this room her own.
In all * communications,' appearances, conversations, and
correspondences with the other world, it has been remarked
over and over again that we never learn anything which we
did not know before. Human knowledge has never been ad-
vanced a single step. If any revelation is made as to the
kind of existence led in the other world, we are told that it is
exactly the kind of life led at the present moment by ourselves
in this generation. This makes certain scoffers ask the use
of interrogating the spirits, or of expecting any help from
them. In what followed, for instance, Margaret heard and
saw nothing but what she had already imagined. The vision
that came to her was already in her own brain. In what had
gone before, the threatening faces of the portraits, she saw what
was in her own brain. Nothing supernatural in it at all ?
Nothing at all. Quite a natural phenomenon.
She sat on the old moth-eaten bed. Presently she closed
her eyes and fell back upon the mattress. How long did she
lie there unconscious ? I know not. As for what follows, it
is exactly what she told her husband that evening. One can
THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS lO?
only write down what one is told. History is often mystery.
We see what is not there to be seen : we hear voices where
there is silence : our ghosts are all created in the brain ;
which, again, is the real reason why ghosts never tell any-
thing that we did not know before.
Margaret opened her eyes. It did not surprise her that
Bhe was lying on the bed in the nursery. Nor was she in the
least surprised to see standing round the bed all the women
of the house ; the wives, the mothers, the daughters. She
knew them by their portraits. In fact, they stepped straight
out of the frames and came upstairs dressed in the things they
wore in the pictures, in order to greet the newly-arrived wife
of the heir. But their faces were all alike, pale and sad.
Their hands were clasped. And when they smiled their sad-
ness only seemed the stronger.
And another thing. Behind the mothers were all the
children, all the little children that ever played in this
nursery — twenty httle children, every one three years of age,
all running about and tumbling down and, without making
the least noise, going through the forms of laughing and
crying : some played together and some played apart :
children of the last century and children of this. And they
were so lovely, all these children : the gift of beauty wag
theirs from generation to generation.
But Margaret turned from the children to their mothers,
for they spoke to her. At first they spoke altogether with
the same faint smile, and with the same sad, soft voice.
' Welcome,' they cried, * welcome, daughter of the House.
Now art thou one of us ; one with us.'
* One of us, and one with us,' they repeated, all with the
same sad smile ; ' to suffer and to weep with us — with all who
marry into this House.'
Then they spoke in turns, each telling the new-comer her
story of sadness.
* I,' said the first, who had on her head the Queen Anne
commode, * I married the man who committed the crime for
■V^hich you have all since suffered in your turn. Would to
Io8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
God I had died first ! How should I know that he had ruined
his master and starved him to death in prison and made his chil-
dren beggars ? I knew nothing till, in the agony of bereave-
ment, he confessed all. My daughter, my lovely girl, died in
her very spring ! My lovely boy was kidnapped and carried
away I know not whither or to what hard fate ; my eldest, as
brave and as beautiful as David's own son Absalom, was
carried to Tyburn Tree and hanged upon the shameful gallows.
Oh ! my son — my son I Oh ! my daughter ! Oh ! wretched
mother! Thus began the expiation. Listen, thou newly
made one of us ! *
* As for me,' spoke the second, * I lived to so great an age
that I thought I should never die ; and I had sorrow and
shame for my companions night and day. I had to look on
helpless, while my husband squandered my fortune among
v/antons — till love was turned to hate, and hate v/as changed
to shame when he was taken out to die. Thus have we
women wept for the wickedness of men.'
* And I,' said the third, * married one who lost his reason
and raved for twelve long years. And so my life was ruined,
save that my children were left to me.'
* Whose lot was worse than mine ? ' said a fourth. ' For
my husband became a miser. He was mad for saving money.
I had to pray and threaten before I could get money even for
my children ; as for clothes, I had to make them myself.
When the boys grew up they ran away and left the miser's
home ; all but one, who found means of his own to live and
clothe himself until his father died. My only daughter left
me. No one would stay in the house. Oh, wretched house !
Oh, loveless house ! Oh, house of evil fortune ! ' She wept
and wrung her hands.
* And I,' said the last, ' married the miser's son. Like his
great-great-grandfather, he cared nothing how he made money
so that he could make it. Like his father, he could not bear
to spend it. I had children, six, but five of them died, and
when I lay a-dying, my son whispered that he could not en-
dure to live in the house without me, and that he could no
THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 109
longer endure being called the money-lender's son, and so, I
think, he too ran away.'
' One of us,' said the first, *one of us ! With all these
memories to fill thy mind and these our sorrows to share —
fair, new daughter of the House ! '
* The money was gained with dishonour,' said the last,
* and has grown with dishonour. How should this couple
who inherit the money escape the curse ? They cannot take
one without the other.*
* Shame and dishonour. Shame and dishonour. These
things go with the fortune that Calvert Burley founded and the
miser and money-lender increased.'
You will observe in the report of this vision, first of all,
that Margaret was alone in the house save for the two maids
in the kitchen below ; next, that she knew the history attach-
ing to every portrait ; then, that the vision told her nothing
new ; and, lastly, that she had been from the first strangely
moved by the nursery and its associations. One would not
willingly explain away, or suppress, anything supernatural —
things really and undoubtedly supernatural are, despite the
researches of the Psychical Society, only too rare. At the
same time, we must remark the predisposition of this young
wife to such a vision. It was a warm, autumnal morning, her
imagination was excited by the sight of the portraits ; she sat
on the bed ; she either fainted or she fell asleep ; and she
dreamed this vision of the mothers. It ceased ; the unhappy
mothers vanished. Margaret sat up, looking around her,
listening to the voices which died away slowly in the chambers
of her brain.
She was married to a scientific husband ; she was accus-
tomed to hear derision poured upon aU spiritual pretensions
and manifestations and revelations. * It was a dream,' she
said. * A dream caused by what I had been thmking about.'
Yet she arose with a sense of consolation. ' Shame and dis-
honour,' said one of the women, * go with Calvert Burley's
money.' Therefore, no harm would fall upon those who refused
part or share in that money. It was the belief of Lucian's
no BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AYARICE
father. No harm would come to her or hers, so long as they
continued that great refusal. ' It is a dream,' she said, won-
dering why she came to the nursery, and remembering no more
after she had played that sacred music which prepared her soul
for the dream of the mothers. ' A dream,' she repeated. Yet
•^strange that one should in open daylight walk in sleep.
She descended the stairs, feeling a little dizzy and still
confused about this dream. When she reached the first floor
she stopped, hesitated a moment, then turned the handle and
went into the drawing-room. Why, there was nothing at all
in the pictures out of the common : poor paintings for the
most part ; still in drawing, and conventional : very probably
good likenesses. But, as for that feeling of being watched by
them, or of any intelligence in them, or of listening by them,
or anything in the least unusual — it was absurd. * I have
been dreaming,' said Margaret.
She took a chair in one of the windows and sat down,
taking a book of verse to read. The poetry did not appeal to
her this morning ; she laid the book aside ; she closed her
eyes and dropped off to sleep.
At one o'clock she awoke ; she sat up with a start ; she
looked round, expecting the mothers to be surrounding her
chair. There was nothing ; the mothers were on the wall,
and they were evidently thinking of themselves. * It was a
dream,' she said. * But how clear and vivid ! And, now, I
know them every one. " One of us — one with us — to share
our sorrows ! " hapless House ! There may be sorrows
for me, and will be, but not the shame and dishonour that go
with all this money.'
* Lucian,' she said in the evening, • I must tell you what
a strange thing happened to me this morning.'
• You have something on your mind, dear. Tell me if it
will relieve you.'
' I will not tell you quite all. I must keep something
back, because even to you, dear, I feel as if I could not tell
everything— just yet.'
THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS III
* Tell me just what you please.'
She was ashamed to tell him of the strange terror which
seized her in the drawing-room ; she was ashamed to tell him
of the hymn she played for strength against these airy terrors ;
she was ashamed to tell him that she could not remember how
she got upstairs to the nursery.
* I went there,' she said, * and I sat upon the bed, and
began to think of the children and the poor mothers. And —
I don't know — perhaps it was rather a close morning— and
the window was shut. I am afraid I fainted, for I fell back,
and when I recovered I was lying on the bed.'
* Famted ? My dear child ! '
* And I had a most curious dream. Well, the dream was
in my head before I went off. I dreamed that round the bed
stood all the mothers of the house — those unhappy women
whose portraits are upstairs, and they welcomed me as one of
themselves and lamented their unhappy fate, and they said
that shame and dishonour go with the money that Calvert
Burley began to save.'
* A strange dream, my dear,' said her husband. * Truly a
strange dream.'
' Oh ! It was only a dream, Lucian,' she concluded. * Oh !
I do not need to be told that. But it liasbrought home to
me so vividly the sorrows of these poor women. Oh, how
they suffered, one after the other ! If men only knew the
sufferings their vices bring upon women, I think half the
wickedness of the world would cease. One after the other
— yes — I know what you would say — their husbands sinned
and caused their sorrows. Yet your father thought so —
as I think. Dishonour and shame go with Calvert Burley 's
money.'
Lucian laughed, but with grave eyes. * My dear,' he said,
' it is strange for you to have visions. But you are too much
alone. We must get your sister to come here for a spell when
she returns home. It is a very quiet house, and you are not
accustomed to be so much alone. One easily gets nervous in
such a house. If I were you, dear, I would not spend too
112 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
much time in that nm^sery — let me clear it all out and make it
a lumber-room.'
* No, no. It is my room, Lucian. I will not have it
touched. Besides, I haven't half explored the cupboard yet.'
All that evening Lucian watched her furtively. She sat
with him in his study. And when she said it was time to go
upstairs, he did not remain for a pipe by himself, but rose and
went up with her. For it was not Margaret's custom to grow
faint and to see visions.
CHAPTER XIV
UNLOOKED-FOK DELAYS
* I SUPPOSE we are not forwarded, Ella, dear ? ' Aunt Lucinda
looked up with a forced smile as her niece came in.
' Not a bit.' Ella threw her hat upon the table and pulled
off her jacket. The girl was changed already. The face,
which was so bright and eager when first she resolved on
bringing over her claim in person, was now pale and set as
with endurance and resolution. It was a fighting face. You
may often see this face among the women of the good old
stock, which is said to be fast dying out in New England ; it
means the iron resolution which they inherit from the Puritan
Pilgrims. I should be rather afraid to confront such a face if
I had a weak cause or a wrong cause. This face meant perse-
verance to the end. It also meant anxiety.
* We are not advanced a bit,' she repeated.
* Were they civil ? '
* Oh, they are civil enough, now. Quite polite, in fact. I
don't think they will ask me any more to sit on the doorstep
and wait. But it's no use being polite, as I told them, if we
don't get on. It's always will I wait ? Will I have patience ?
Will I consider that this is a very important business ? The
lawyers have all the claims sent in as yet. All must be con-
sidered. Well, these may be considered ; but how many are
.^ mMrn^
^^dM.
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h^
;^'
^^'
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:^^^[m^s^>
from nephews and nieces ? Then they say that there may be
other nephews and nieces — why don't they come forward, then?
Then they say that there was a son. They must get proof
that the son is dead, and further proof that he left no children,
or that these children are dead. How long do they expect to
keep me waiting ? They don't know. It is impossible to say.
A great deal depends upon the proof about the son. It may
be a long time.'
' Oh, Ella, what do they call long ? Is it weeks or
months ? *
*I don't know. Auntie; I don't know.* She sat down
wearily.
' My dear, the suspense is killing me.*
* Auntie, you look frightened always. Why does the claim
frighten you ? Is it that the fortune is so huge ? '
* Don't ask me, dear. I try not to think about the money ;
but I must. The gracious Lord knows, Ella, that I do not
desire it. I desire only that the thing may be settled one way
or the other. I wish we were back in Woodbury again, and
all was as it used to be— and I was arranging for the reading
of the Literary Society's papers.'
' Things can't ever go back, Auntie. We've got, somehow,
to see this through.*
' And how are we to live, dear, until things are settled ? '
* I don't know, Auntie. I'm thinking all day and all night.
I don't know what we are to do.' She sat down and folded
her hands. ' Let us see — we say the same thing every day.
. . . Let us see again.' She took her purse from her pocket
and poured out the contents. * We've spent all the money we
brought for our expenses here ; and we've spent most of the
money for our passage home. Auntie, we've got exactly two
pounds ten and sixpence, about twelve dollars and a half.
Our rent is ten shillings a week ; say that we have four weeks'
rent in hand, that leaves us one pound two shillings and six-
pence, about five dollars and a half, for washing and for food.
Can we make it last for three weeks ? Three weeks more —
and then ? My dear Auntie, I don't believe that they mean to
I
114 BEYOND THE BREAMS OF AVARICE
settle this case in three weeks, or in three months— or, perhaps,
in three years.'
* And after three weeks, dear ? '
* We must wait in patience if it's thirty years. For, what-
ever happens, we shall not withdraw our claim. They may
try to drive us back to our own country ; but no — we will
wait.'
* But how to live, dear ? *
* I don't know yet. They must give in sooner or later,
Auntie ; it is a certainty.'
' Suppose we were to go home again, dear, and wait there,*
said Aunt Lucinda, timidly. * I should Uke to see the old
street again.'
* We can't, my dear. We've got no money to take us
back, not even if we went as steerage passengers. We must
stay here somehow. Besides, if we went back, how should we
ever pay back the money you borrowed ? We should have to
sell the old house, and how long should I have to wait before
I got another situation ? There are tv^enty girls in V/oodbury
wanting places to every place there is for them.'
' But, my child, how are we to live ? '
* I don't know yet. We've got three weeks to find out.
Well ' — she jumped up — ' I must find out something. Don't
bo afraid, Auntie. There's the American Minister here; I
vrill go and ask him to get me some work. Perhaps they
want a girl clerk at his place ; or, there's the American Con-
sul. I will go there and ask for advice. We don't vrant to
borrow money : we want a little work that will keep us going
in ever so poor a way. They say it is so hard for a woman to
get work in this city. But we shall see. I will write to the
Queen herself and tell her our case. Perhaps she wants a
shorthand girl clerk; or a cashier; or a typewriter — who
knows ? I suppose she wouldn't bear malice because we want
to take this money ? They say at the Treasury that she
v>^on't have it, in any case. I don't know w^hy they say so.
The papers all declared that the estate would go to the Crown,
You shall see, Auntie ; I will get something somehow.*
UNLOOKED-rOPv DELAYS I15
* Well, my dear,' said Aunt Lucinda, feebly, * you are very
brave, but you can't make people find you work or lend you
money. Oh I my dear, you are young and clever, but I know
more than you. Money it is that makes people hard, and
cruel, and unjust. They will be hard and unjust to you here
just as much as at home. This dreadful money. We were
happier when we wanted none. At Woodbury we taught
ourselves to despise money. Eemember that we put up a
petition and a thanksgiving every morning against the preva-
lent and sinful greed of money.'
* Yes, dear, we did. But you must remember that we
have not sought this fortune nor asked for it. The gift came
to us. You are this dead man's niece ; I am his grandniece :
it is our bounden duty to take what is given, and to show the
world how such a gift may be used aright. That is what it is
meant for. If we'd prayed for it night and day we should
not have got it. A millionaire is put upon a pillar, like a
king, for the world to watch. Everythmg that he does is
watched and recorded. In a few weeks or months, you and I,
simple as we are, will be the two vfomen in the world the
most talked about — and it is laid upon us to show the
world how so great a gift should be administered.*
* Well, dear, it will be a most awful responsibility — I dare
not think of it. The mere thought of millions makes my
head dizzy.*
' As for that, you must not let yourself think of the figures.
They are bewildering : and you will gradually, v>^ithout hurt-
ing yourself at all, come to understand that whatever you
want to have, you can have. Don't be afraid, Auntie — you
will want and do nothing but what is good.'
'I will try, my dear. Meantime — after the next three
weeks— how shall we live ? '
* I don't know — I am thinking and thinking— and, so far,
nothing has come of it. I'm not afraid, but I am a little
anxious. We are so much alone : we knov/ nobody : if wo
go to a lawyer we shall have to pay him. If we could go and
consult a minister. There is the great stony church out there
I2
Ii6 BEYONB THE DBEAMS OP AVARICE
in the square ; I have thought of going to see the pastor, but
then he's Episcopal, and we are Methodists. I wrote to Mr.
Gladstone — I didn't tell you. Auntie, because you might think
it was mixing ourselves up in politics, and an American girl
out here oughtn't to take a side. He answered very kindly —
says he can't help. Well — he's too busy, I suppose. As for
his not being able to help, I wonder if there's any single thing
in the world that old man can't make the people here believe
and do.*
* I don't know, dear, I am beginning to feel '
*No, don't say that. Auntie dear,' the girl interrupted
quickly, 'anything but that. It's only waiting for a little
while — a week or two — a year or two. Only patience for a
bit. These solicitors ! I asked for their names, meaning to
go and sit upon their doorsteps until they attend to me, as I
threatened to do at the Treasury.'
* But, Ella, we must remember the other claimants. There
may be some with quite as good case, until they come to ours.
We must take our turn after all.'
* I'm so restless about it ; I can't sleep for thinking of it ;
I can't sit stiU. Yesterday, in church, I was obliged to get
up and go out, because my thoughts wouldn't let me sit still.
I can't sit here in this room ; it is too small. I am choked.
Auntie, put on your bonnet, and for goodness' sake let us go
out and walk up and down.'
Aunt Lucinda obeyed : she always obeyed. She belonged
to that class of women who are born to obey. She meekly
rose, and went to her room for her bonnet.
The girl's face lost all courage when she was alone. She
waved her arms in a kind of agony. ' Oh I ' she cried,
* hundreds of claimants ! Hundreds ! and some coming in
every day I They will not decide until they have received
and considered all. And it may be years, they told me~
long years of expectation. Oh I What shall we do ? What
shall we do ? '
Then her aunt returned with red eyes. The two hypo-
crites smiled at each other and went down the stairs, and so
UNLOOKED-FOR DELAYS II7
into tlie S(iuare, called after an unknown Smith — perhaps
allegorically as connecting the church, which covers three-
fourths of the space, with the work of men's hands. The
whole of the square was formerly the burial ground of the
church, so that these ladies were unconsciously walking over
the dust of their forefathers — parishioners since the parish
was first begun.
They walked nearly round the square, their thoughts far
away. Then Ella turned into a street, for no reason, her
aunt following her ; and in two or three minutes they found
themselves in an unexpected place — a Continental place —
which brought their thoughts back to Westminster. So long
as you walk along streets and houses that you expect, and see
the sights and hear the sounds to which you are accustomed,
you can think as well, and let your thoughts go roaming as
far as if you were alone in the fields. When you see and hear
the unexpected you must leave off thinking. Ella looked
round her, awakened by the unexpected. For she stood
suddenly in the most quiet and peaceful spot of all London.
Houses of the early eighteenth century, with porches, and
pillars, and flat faQades stand round this place, houses built
for the comfort that our grandfathers placed so far above
artistic show and aesthetic display. Many generations of
peace and home lent to this place the very atmosphere of
seclusion. No one was walking in it ; the houses and the
street lay in sunshine — each home a heritage. Perhaps in
the month of September the people are away, but even in
merry May there can never be the noise of the street.
* There's a street in Albany,' said Aunt Lucinda, * which
looks like this. Ah ! if only we were once more safe '
'Don't, Auntie. Oh, we shall pull through, somehow.
I've got my watch still, and you've got your ring. We will
go to a money-lender and borrow. Auntie,' struck with a
sudden thought, ' your uncle, the rich man who died, he was
a money-lender he lived somewhere here — I suppose the
business is still carried on. Let us go there. His successor
might lend us some money on the security of our claim — we
Il8 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAEICE
will give him any interest he wants. It is a chance — an inspi-
ration, perhaps.' It was ; but not in the sense she meant.
* Where was the house ? '
' It was a place called Great College Street, Westminster.
The number was 77, 1 think.'
They asked a postman. The street was close by — first
turn to the right and straight on. They followed the direc-
tions, and speedily stood in the street beside the old grey wall
and before the door numbered 77.
*It can't be the house,' said Aunt Lucinda. *A miser
and a money-lender couldn't live in such a lovely house, and
see — "Lucian Calverfc, M.D.," on the plate. It is a doctor's
house ; Ella, you mustn't.'
^ I must. I am desperate. I suppose the house has been
done up fresh, painted and everything, since the old man
died. It doesn't look like a miser's house. But I don't care,
I will ask.' She rang the bell. The question she wanted to
put was delicate. Was Dr. Calvert the successor of the lata
Mr. Burley, in the money-lending business ? When the door
was opened by the neat and well-dressed housemaid, the girl
found herself unable to put that question. She had expected
the physician himself. She hesitated therefore, and stam-
mered, and finally asked if ' Dr. Calvert was vnthin.'
He was not. If the ladies v^^ished to consult him he
would be at home in the afternoon.
* We do not wish to consult him professionally,' said the
claimant. * That is '
* Mrs. Calvert is at home,' the maid suggested.
* That will be very much better. Would Mrs. Calvert see
us ? No ; she does not know our names.'
Mrs. Calvert would see them. They were shown into the
dining-room, where they found a lady quite young, apparently
newly married.
* You do not know us at all,* said Ella, stepping to the
front. * My aunt's name is Lucinda Burley, and I am Ella
Burley, and we are Americans and claimants for the Burley
estate.*
UNLOOKED-FOR DELAYS II9
* And you wish to see the house where Mr. Burley lived
and died ? '
* N— no— that is, we should Hke to see the house, but we
came on other business.'
' You had better tell this lady the whole truth, my dear,*
said Aunt Lucinda, with the sagacity of age.
* Then it is this w^ay. My great-uncle '
* You are the grand-daughter of James Calvert Burley ? '
*You know about the family, then? Your name is
Calvert ? You are a cousin ? '
* We are not claimants,' said Margaret. * I know that
James Burley went to America. That is all.*
' We thought that the claim would be acknowledged in a
day or two. We have spent most of our money, and it
occurred to me that the money-lending business might be still
carried on somewhere — perhaps here — but I see I was
mistaken ; and that, if v»^e could learn where the office is, we
might try to borrow money on the security of our claim.'
* The money-lending was discontinued long before Mr,
Burley died. My husband is a physician.'
*0h! then that idea has fallen through. Well, Mrs.
Calvert, v/e are sorry to disturb you, and very much obliged
to you. I hop3 you won't be o£fended because we asked.'
She got up to go.
' I am not offended at all ; I am interested in your case.
Would you like to see the house where your grandfather was
born ? '
* If it will not trouble you too much,* said Aunt Lucinda.
* My father often spoke to me about this house and the old
days. His father was a dreadful miser.'
*I perceive that you know something of the family
history. I suppose you have brought over proofs of your
descent, and — and — everything that will be required ? '
* Plenty of proof,' said Ella, stoutly, ' all the proofs that
can be asked for.'
Margaret looked doubtful. For a moment she hesitated.
Then she rose, and without further question led the way.
120 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Come with me,' she said, ' and I will show you the house.
My husband is connected with the family. We are cousins,
in fact — distant cousins. We took it over with all the furni-
ture, only we have painted and decorated the place. James,
through whom you claim, was the youngest son. He was
born in 1804.'
'We do not know much about our relations — not even
how many brothers he had.'
* Two brothers came between John, the man who died the
other day, and your grandfather. So far as I know, neither
of these two brothers, through heirs, has yet put in a claim.
You are the first claimants who have called here. Come
upstairs, and you shall see the family portraits.'
She led them into the drawing-room, where the heads of
this remarkable family adorned the walls.
'Father came over to America in the year 1830, with
mother,' Aunt Lucinda explained, her pale cheeks turning rosy
red, no doubt with excitement. * My brother was born in
1831, and I was born in 1832. I am sixty-one years of age.
This child was born in 1873, and my brother died in 1886.
Father and son were lawyers. We've got the certificates of
baptism and everything, and they've gone into the Treasury.'
* They will try to cheat us out of our rights, if they can,'
said Ella, with determination. ' But they've got an American
girl to deal with.'
She looked round the room. * That's like father,' she
said, pointing to the original Calvert. * He could look j ust
as determined as that — you remember, Amitie ? *
* Yes, my brother had that look sometimes, though ho was
unlucky in money.*
* And you are like this lady ; who was this, Mrs.
Calvert ? '
* That is Lucinda — wife of John Burley, the celebrated
miser. She is your grandmother. Miss Burley. There is a
strong likeness, but I hope you will be more happy than this
poor creature.'
They looked ftbout them with curiosity. * Oh ! * cried Ellq;.
UNLOOKED-FOR DELAYS 12l
* To think that we are gazing upon our own people. Don't tell
us, Mrs. Calvert, which is grandfather ; Auntie, find him on
the wall. What lovely pictures I What wigs and what
head-dresses I I always thought that we belonged to a grand
family.'
*I will tell you directly something about the family
grandeur. Miss Burley, do you think you can find your
father's portrait among them ? '
The historian is naturally gratified at being able to state
that Aunt Lucinda behaved exactly like Joan of Arc in a
somewhat similar historical situation. She looked once round
the room, and placed her hand upon a picture. * This is my
father,' she said, * though I remember him only as a middle-
aged and elderly man.'
'You are quite right. That is James Calvert Burley.
His granddaughter is like him — and like all the Burleys.
Theirs is a strong type, which repeats itself every generation ;
and now, if you will sit down, I will tell you something about
your family history.'
They spent an hour and more in that portrait gallery,
listening breathlessly to the story of the family grandeur.
Margaret, with intention, emphasized the misfortunes that
followed them all, from father to son. She said nothing
about the curse which her husband's father believed to cling to
the possessing of the fortune. She left them to make out for
themselves, if they chose, a theory on that subject. They did
not choose ; in fact, they did not connect the misfortunes
with the money, but with the extraordinary wickedness of tho
men. They were like Lucian in this respect. You see, a
family curse is not a thing that can be tolerated in a demo-
cratic form of government.
They were impressed. For the first time they realized
the meaning of a family. It is a dreadful loss, which we of
the English-speaking race inflict upon ourselves, that we do
not preserve the family history. Through the gutter, in the
mire, among criminals, in degradations even, the family
history ought to be followed and preserved. We should guard
122 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
the records of the past : we should preserve the traditions.
Ella, the American, who had never thought of the past in
connection with herself, listened with rapt eyes while Margaret
unfolded the history of the eighteenth century in its relations
to herself.
* Oh ! ' she cried, at last. * It is terrible. Yet — Auntie —
don't you feel taller for belonging to such a family ? '
* The extreme wickedness of man,' sighed Aunt Lucinda,
* in the effete European States, is awful to contemplate. In
Woodbury there couldn't ever be such a record. The ladies
wouldn't allow it.'
* Come upstairs,' said Margaret. * I have still something
else to show you. This is the portrait gallery of them all —
and here you have heard the history of the men. Upstairs
you shall see the rooms of the women — the unfortunate
women — your great-grandmothers, who had to endure the
consequences of the men's wickedness.' She showed them
the nursery, which had been left just as she found it : the
wooden cradle, the bed, the cupboard, the infants' clothes, the
dolls, and toys. She gave them each a doll from the family
treasures. ' Do these things,' she asked, * make you feel that
you really do belong to the House 7 Here are the very dolls
that the little girls of the family played with. It must have
been before the miser's time, because he would certainly never
aUow such a waste of money as the purchasing of dolls.'
They went downstairs again.
' Oh I ' cried Ella, in the hall, * how can we thank you
enough ? '
She held out her hand ; Margaret took it and held it.
* You have no friends in England,' she said, * make me, if
you will, your friend. Let me call upon you. I have plenty
of time on my hands, and I may, perhaps, be able to advise
and help.' The American girl hesitated. She was proud,
and she was going to become destitute. ' I believe that I
know all about you,' said Margaret. ' l^'ou have betrayed
yourself. You seem to me to want advice.'
* We certainly do,'
UNLOOKED-FOR DELAYS 1 23
* Then— if you think you can trust me — make me your
friend.'
* But you must know more about us/ cried Ella, persuaded
into confidence. * We are desperately poor ; we live in quite
cheap lodgings close by ; we have spent nearly all our money ;
we want all the advice we can get.'
* I will call upon you,' said Margaret, with a grave smile.
* Oh ! you are so kind — and you have got such a good face,
but you mustn't think we are at all grand people. At home,
Auntie has got the house we live in for her own ; and I've got
— that is — I had — a situation as cashier in a store, at five dol-
lars a week. And so we got along somehow, and we were
quite contented until the papers began to ring with this fortune
wanting an heir — and we've given up everything, of course,
for this claim — and — now — now — we want advice badly.'
CHAPTER XV
HUNDEEDS OP CLAIMANTS
* HuNDKEDS of claimants,' said the people at the Treasury.
There were hundreds. New claims were sent in every
day. The name of Burley is not one of the most common,
but a good many people rejoice in it. Everybody who
answered to that name, or had a Burley among his ancestors,
made haste to send in his claim. One man wrote that his
grandmother's name was Burley, and invited the Treasury to
send him the estates by return post : another wrote that from
information received privately he knew that, early in the
century, his great-grandfather had married a Burley — the
Treasury could easily prove the fact : a lady wrote to say
that she had married a Burley, now dead, and he had always
assured her that he was of good family — the fortune could be
sent to her lodgings: another lady sent up a certificate of
good character from the vicar of the parish, and explained
that her father's name was Burley — she would call for the
124 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE
money on the following Monday, and would be glad of an
advance for her railway fare : solicitors by the hundred wrote
that they were instructed by their clients to forward their
names as claimants — the case would follow as soon as com-
pleted: another wrote from his estabhshment in the City
Eoad to say that his name, which was Burley, proved his
right to the estates, and that * speedy settlement of same '
would oblige: another, who had an imagination, sent up a
carefully prepared work of fiction, containing the history of
his connection with the Westminster branch, hoping that his
allegations would be accepted : another Burley, who under-
stood more about the necessities of the case, sent up a his-
torical essay on the family with a genealogy, whch looked
very pretty. He hoped that the weak point— the connection
' — would not be too closely investigated.
Letters came from every part of Europe, from America,
from India, from China, from Australia, from every part of the
kno"svn and habitable world. For w^e never know — nor can
we know, until we die intestate, leaving large possessions —
how many cousins w^e have in the world. Cousins poured in.
Next, for the law of descent is but imperfectly understood,
owing to the prejudice which prevails, and the favouritism
shown, in the making of wills, the families, and descendants
of the families which intermarried with the Burleys, began
also to send in their names and their descents.
The Burley millions became the stock subject for the
paragraphist ; when all other material failed, he would always
invent something about them. * Sixty-five more claimants
sent in their papers last Saturday ; the total number is now
said to be nine hundred and eighty-nine.' Or, again : * It is
reported on good authority that a granddaughter of the de-
ceased gentleman has been discovered in a laundry not a
hundred miles from Latimer Road Station.' Or : * A surprise
awaits the literary world. A well-known novehst is said to
have discovered, by a series of surprises, that he himself is
the sole heir to the Burley estates.' Or — a paragraph which
W3-S repeated ill several papers ; ' The son of a well-knowo
SUNDHEDS OP CLAIMANTS I25
actor and grandson of another is completing the papers which
estabUsh his claim to the Burley estates.' In certain circles
men showed this to each other and asked if it was really pos-
sible that Clary Burghley was the lucky beggar pointed at in
these lines.
And then, somehow, it became known to all the papers at
once that the family of Burley belonged, and had always
belonged, since the creation of the parish in the year 1716, to
the Church of St. John the Evangelist, in Smith Square,
Westminster. If you come to think of it, all the really inter-
esting and remarkable things that happen in the world are
sure to become known at the same moment over the whole
world. By the remarkable things I mean, of course, the per-
sonal things. The superiority of the American press, for
instance, is proved by its recognition of this fact and by the
prominence it gives to the personal items. How comes this
simultaneous knowledge of all the interesting things? No
one knows. There are unseen electric wires which connect
every thing and all the world : it is a mark of civilisation to
be connected with this electric machinery. The lower forms
of man are outside it. The negro, for instance, knows and
cares nothing about the personal items : like the poet of the
hymn : one step is enough for him, that, namely, to the
nearest melon patch.
When all the world understood that the registers of the
Burley family were preserved in the vestry of St. John the
Evangelist, they wrote for copies, they called for copies, they
went to the church — which they then saw for the first time —
and demanded copies. One of the evening papers, with more
enterprise than its brethren, actually procured copies and
made a splendid coujy by forming a genealogical table out of
the registers of the Burley family, from one Calvert Burley
who was the first person of that name on the books.
The document, which is not without interest to the reader
of this narrative, is here reproduced. He will understand
that a parish register cannot fill up the history of a family,
though it may give with accuracy the three leading dates of
126 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
birtli, marriage, and departure. This genealogy, therefore,
does not contain the histories of those members who were
born in the parish but married and died outside it ; — •
Calvert Barley
b. — d. 1753
J
John Calvert = Agnes Sacotell Margaret George Calvert
b. 1720 m. 1744 d. 17G0 b. 1722 d. 1739 b. 172G (kidnapped)
1 \ i
John Calvert = Susan Pellant Henry Calvert Agnes
b. 1745 d. 1796 m. 1770. b. 1747 b. 1748
_J
I I III
John Calvert Henry Calvert Joshua Calvert Mary Margaret
b. 1772 d. 1825 b. 177G b. 1778 b. 1779 b. 1782
= Lucinda
m. 1797
J
John Calvert Henry Calvert Charles Calvert Jaraes Calvert Lucinda
b. 1798 d. 1893 1799 ISO! 1304 1802
= Emilia Weldon
m. 1835 d. 1853
_l
John Calvert Isabella Emily Jane Lucinda James Calvert
b. 1836 b. 1839 b. 1811 b. 1843 b. 1845 b. 1846
d. 1840 d. 1842 d. 1844 d. 1850 d. 1852
This pedigree shov/ed the deaths of some among these
children in infancy — especially was this observed in the lasfc
family, of whom five out of six died quite young. The papers
pointed out that the John Calvert Burley, born 1888, was tho
first and sole heir ; and, in the event of his death, his sons
and daughters. But where v/as he ? Where were they ? Tho
whole world was ringing with his name, * John Calvert Burley,
born in 1836.' Where was he ? Nobody knew. Now, if you
come to think of it, it was a very remarkable circumstance for
a man to disappear so completely. Did he die young ? Not,
at least, in the parish. Therefore ho grew up, presumably.
HUNDREDS OF CLAIMANTS 1 27
Where were his mother's relations ? Did they know ? Then
a man wrote to the papers : he said that he was the younger
brother of EmiHa Weldon, who was married in 1835 to the
recently deceased John Calvert Burley ; that his sister had
five or six children, all of Vv^hom, except the eldest, died in
infancy ; that she died in the year 1853 ; that there had
never been any cordial relations between his family and his
sister's husband ; that after her death no pretence of friend-
ship or even acquaintance was kept up ; and that he could
not tell what had become of the surviving son, whom he had
last seen at his mother's funeral in the said year 1853, the
boy being then about seventeen years of age. It was wonder-
ful that a young man should disappear so completely. Had
he no friends ? His father was a miserly and morose recluse
— that was evident. The boy, perhaps, had gone away. But
whither — and why? Had he any schoolfellows who re-
membered him ? Two men wrote to say that they had been
at school with him in the years 1814 to 1852 or thereabouts ;
that he was known to be the son of the notorious money-
lender ; that he was an ingenious boy, v/ho made and con-
trived things and rejoiced in mathematics ; that he left school
suddenly somewhere about the latter year; and that they
had never since m^et him cr heard vfhat became of him.
Lastly, another old schoolfellow wrote to say that he had met
John Calvert Burley, looking prosperous, in or about the year
1870, in Cheapside ; that he addressed him by name, shook
hands with him, and made an appointment to meet him again,
which the latter never kept. All this was very curious and
interesting, and fired the imagination a great deal more than
the Irish Question. It was a subject which invites all the
world to write about it. The whole wbrld rose to the occasion.
The letters sent to the papers were legion. For the moment
there was but one topic of discussion : Where was John
Calvert Burley the younger, born in 1830, left school in 1852,
and last seen in 1870 ?
* We have only to keep silence, Lucian/ said Margaret,
'Until such time as they think sufficient to prove the
128 BEYOND GPHE DEI^AMS OF AYARICE
death of tlie heir has elapsed. Then, before they give th6
estates to any claimant, I shall step in '
* And then ? ' asked his wife, anxiously.
* Then we shall see. Perhaps the occasion may not arise
for years.'
It is an age of great imagination. Almost as many guesses
were made as there were writers. Emigration, said one.
Emigration, an up-country station beyond the reach of papers.
Cut, it was objected, there are now few, if any, such places
left. Death in some obscure place : but with all this racket
and inquiry, some one would recollect that death. It must
have been within the last twenty-three years. A lunatic
asylum under some adopted name : there was a man in
Melbourne some time ago who actually forgot his own name
and his history. Might not John Burlcy be suffering some-
Vv'here from this strange disease ? A prison : was he a
criminal, undergoing a sentence ? Or was he a criminal who
had accomplished his term and was afraid to return ? Or,
perhaps, he might be in a monastery. But, in that case, oh !
how joyfully would the brethren seize upon the estates I Was
he in one of the few places where news and letters never
arrive — in Patagonia perhaps ?— or in Stanley's mighty forest
among the Pygmies ?
Then came old stories of miraculous disappearance.
Everybody remembered the disappearance of the Englishman
in Germany about the year 1812, as he stepped from one
carriage to another. And there was the disappearance of
Grimaldi's brother between the last scene but one and the last
scene of the pantomime.
Next : how long would the Treasury wait before they con-
sidered this last heir to be dead ? And upon this a journal
of common-sense spoke words of wisdom. * We offer this
advice,' said the paper, * to all those persons who have sent in
claims and have come up to London in order to look after
them on the spot. It is that they leave their papers in the
hands of the Treasury, and go home again and betake them-
selves to their ordinary pursuits, without thinking about their
HUNDPtEDS OF CLAIMANTS I29
claims more than tliey can help. The chances will probably
prove a disturbing element as long as they live, for only to be
able to think that one has a chance of so great a property is a
thing calculated to disturb the most philosophic soul. Let
them, however, go home, and take up their daily task again
with what calm and patience they may find.'
And from Pole to Pole, unto the uttermost ends of the
earth, was raised that cry : ' Where is John Burley the younger,
born in the year 183G, last seen in the year 1870 ? ' And to
all their calling, no answer. Silence — as deep as the silence
of the heavens. No answer came at all.
CHAPTER XVI
THE MISSING LINK
* Have you seen this ? * Clarence held up a paper — that
which pubHshed the pedigree as taken from the parish registers.
* Have you seen this ? *
It was about five in the afternoon when his partner, who
had been out all day, returned.
* I saw it before you got up this morning. I've been all
day engaged in verifying the thing.'
*WeU!' ^.
* It's all right ; and now it's clear that your grandfather,
Clary, was the second son, Henry Calvert Burley. There he is.'
The poet's broad forefinger covered the name — * second son.
You couldn't be closer, unless you were virtually a grandson.'
* Yes — yes — the second son. Why — then I — then 1 — man
alive I What more do you want ? '
* Softly, Clarence. Let us sit down quietly and talk the
thing over. We have to prove our claim. You and I know
very well that there is no doubt possible. Everybody who
reads our case must feel that there is no doubt possible. Yet,
you see, it isn't proved.'
* What on earth do you want more ? '
130 BEYOND THE BEEAMS OF AVABICE
* We want to prove, not to assert, things. I'm a lawyer
now, Clary, not a poet. Sit down, man — don't jump about so.
His eyes had that look of expectancy which belongs to an
inventor or to a claimant. The look speaks of a thought
which never leaves one, day or night — of hope deferred, of
doubt, of rage because of the stupidity or the malignity of
people.
* For God's sake, finish this job soon,' said Clarence. ' I
don't think I can bear it much longer.'
* Why, man, we've only just begun. I am afraid that it
will prove a waiting job, unless you can establish the death of
the son and his heirs.'
' All I know is that the thing haunts me day and night.'
' It does, my boy. Your eyes are ringed with black, and
your forehead is wrinkled.*
* Lucky it has been summer. But work will begin again
soon, and — I say — the thought of work makes me shudder.
I am heir to all that property, and I have to go out and be
paid for singing comic songs.'
* Humph I You are paid pretty well— come, now — but
about the inheritance — where's that son ? '
*He must be dead. After all the fuss made about— he
would hear it at the South Pole — oh ! he must be dead.'
* Very likely — most likely ; only somebody must prove it,
or you will have to wait. When did he die ? Where did he
die ? Has he left any heirs ? Those are the questions, you
zee. So we may just go back to our old work, and make nev/
engagements, and write new songs. It's a horrid nuisance.
Clary, for you are certainly the grandson of the next brother.
But, so far, we haven't got evidence enough to prove the con-
nection. And we may have to wait for years. If the son and
his heirs were out of the way I should begin ' — he became a
poet again : —
Begin to hear the rustling of the notes —
Oh I crisp and soft and sweet upon the ear I
No softer, sweeter music rolls and floats —
And none, my brother, rarer and more dear.
THE MISSING LINK I3I
* And I should begin to hear the footsteps '—-he added, going
back to prose — * the footsteps of those who humbly bring
pieces of silver — I don't think there is any rhyme to silver —
meantime, old man, it is going to be a long job. Therefore '—
he laid a friendly hand upon Clarence's shoulder — ' don't think
too much about it. Go back to your old thoughts. Let us
get to real business. My new songs are nearly ready, and I've
got a capital little entertainment for you '
* I can't ' The young man turned away impatiently.
' I am sick and ashamed of it.'
* Nonsense. If it's all you've got to live upon '
* I can't. It's all so small. What's a thousand a year, or
two thousand ? It's such a trifle compared vv^ith this immense
mountain of money. It's the comparison. Think of it that
way.'
* Well, Clary, I can't think of it that way. The figures
are too big — my limitations as regards money are narrow.
They allow me with difficulty to include a thousand a year.
But, Clary, you were not wont to do sums in long division to
please yourself. Doing sums isn't in your blood, I should say.' .
* No, it isn't,' Clarence replied slowly. * Show folk don't,
as a rule, care for money. You see, it's easily made and easily
spent. They live from week to week. But, now — do you
know what it is to think and crave and yearn for drink ? '
' Kumour, report, has reached me concerning a thirst
insatiable. What says the old song : " We cannot drink an
hour too soon — Nor drink a drop too much." '
* Well, with that same cra\^ng I yearn for this money. It
is my great-grandfather, the Westminster Miser, coming out
again in me. I dream of it — I feel as if I shall have no rest
or peace until I have got it.'
* No heroics. Clary. You mean it ? '
* I mean it all ; I am like that drunkard with the craving
in his throat. I want this inheritance ; all of it. Oh ! it is
so close to me, and yet I cannot lay my hand upon it.'
* After all, what could you do with it if you had it ? The
thing is far too big for any one man to handle.'
e2
132 BEYOND THE DHEAMS OF AVAPJCE
* Too big ? ' Clarence turned upon him fiercely. * What
could I do with it ? Your limitations are indeed narrow.
Well, you haven't thought of it so much as I have. What
could I not do with it ? First of all, I would have my ovrn
theatre for my friends. Then I should want my own news-
paper. I know exactly what I should want : no politics : no
money market : no beastly reviews : nothing but art and
literature and music, and things artistic and aesthetic, and a
free hand as to subjects. Then there must be a yacht. If
one must go out of town some time in the year, a cruise in a
yacht is the best way. Of course, there would be a town
house and open house : no beastly charity or philanthropy or
stuff: no pretending to care about anybody else : pure selfish-
ness ; that's what I want, my friend. All the people about
me shall be hired to make my life run smoothly. I shall be
an Eastern king, with art and culture added, l^ou shall see :
I v/ill show you, as soon as the business is settled, how a rich
man ought to live ! '
* You'd get rather fat in the cheeks after a bit, vrouldn't
you 7 and a little puffy in the neck. Philanthropy is hum-
bug, and man's brotherhood is rot '— rhe dropped, as usual,
into verse — * and my only pal, my only friend, is ME. Eather
a good tag, the last line. Don't you think ? ' he stopped
and made a note. * Meanwhile, Clary, it will be better for
you if you descend to fact and consider how we stand.'
* There is nothing new, is there ? '
* This. We are now in August. Work begins in Septem-
ber, and you are not fit for work— and you've got to make
yourself fit. Clary — you've got to mend.'
The poet spoke like the master rather than the partner.
But there are some occasions when mastery in speech is useful.
* Well ?
' As for the case, I tell you that it may be years perhaps
before it is decided, and if it were decided now, your case
could not be proved. Come out of your dreams, man. Shake
yourself, face the facts.'
Clarence shook himself, but he did not face the facts.
THE MISSING LINK 1 33
* Consider,' his partner went on, * the attitude of the
Treasury. They say there is a man named Henry Calvert
Burghley, an actor. Where is the proof that this Henry
Calvert Burghley was the second son of Burley the Miser ?
Where is it ? That's what they say.'
Clarence made no answer.
* We want proof that the boy who ran away became an
actor. We want to know when he changed his name ; in fact,
we want to recover the early history of an obscure country
actor — and we have as much hope of finding it as we have of
any name taken at random from a London cemetery.'
' We have a letter.'
* Yes ; that is something. It is signed " Your affectionate
brother, Charles." And it comes from Westminster. Well,
there was a younger brother, Charles, as well as a second
brother, Henry. But there is nothing to prove that the letter
was written by this younger brother to the elder brother. If
we had other letters to prove the handwriting — but we haven't.
No, Clary, our best chance is delay. Time may give us some-
thing. Let us see,' he went on, after a pause. 'He ran
away : he had very little money : he joined a strolling com-
pany : he began at the very bottom of the ladder, and worked
his way up. Men very seldom talk of the first start. The
lessee of the York Theatre, the favourite London actor,
wouldn't talk much about the early days. It must be eighty
years ago. How on earth are we to trace the beginnings of a
lad who ran away from home eighty years ago ? And he
never talked about his people, and you never inquired. I
suppose you were satisfied with having a grandfather. To be
third in a succession of frock-coats and top-hats is enough to
make anybody a gentleman. And, besides, when your grand-
father had arrived at his pinnacle, he wouldn't be proud of the
Burley brother. Burley the Money-lender ; Burley the
owner of the Dancing Crib ; Burley of the Gambling Hell ;
not a 3haracter likely to attract the light comedian — the
squanderer — the Pere Prodigue. Wo can understand the
situation, but it's unfortunate. What are we to do ? '
134 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Clarence shook his shoulders.
'Perhaps the Treasury have got papers that prove the
connection. Hang it 1 A single letter would do.'
Clarence got up and leaned on the mantelshelf, gazing
into the empty fireplace.
* I remember,' he said, speaking slowly, * a little play that
my grandfather cribbed from the French. It was a comedy,
in which he played the principal part. That was easy, because
it was himself. In it he did everything, without the least
reference to morality, that would help him to what he wanted.
He sold secrets, forged signatures, opened private letters, and
all with such a delightful simplicity that nobody blamed him.
I have often wondered, if the chance came, whether one could
rise to that level.'
* Speaking as a lawyer, Clary, I should say that it was
dangerous. As a poet, I think the situation capable of treat-
ment. Have you got any portraits of your grandfather ? '
* In character ? '
' In character. That might be something. If we could
get hold of an early portrait and could find some old friend —
but that is impossible, I fear — or if we could find any more
descendants at all, or if we could advertise for anyone who
might remember him as a young man — Wanted : a Methu-
selah I ' He stopped — * Well, Clary, dear boy. That's where
we are. It is not encouraging, but one need not despair.
Meanwhile, it may be years before the claimants are even con-
sidered. We've got to work and live. Cut your Joyous Life
out of your head. Don't dream any more — for the present at
least — about the golden possibilities. Forget them — and set
to work again. You must.'
' I can't forget them,' groaned the Heir-expectant.
* Well, unless I am to starve — ^which afflicts me much more
than seeing you starve — you will just sit down, get rid of that
hang-dog face of yours, which would damn the funniest song
ever made, and get something hke sunshine in your face — and
then try this new song of mine : —
THE MISSING LINK 1 35
Wanted, a Metliusalem 1 To tell us how they kept it up —
Our fathers in the bygones Nvhen they made the guineas spin ;
How they wasted time and drank it up, and anything but slept it up —
And always ere the old love died a new love would begin,'
CHAPTER XVII
THE BEGINNING
Does anyone ever remember the first beginning of an evil
thing ? Does anyone remember the first observation of the
dark spot, which grows darker, broader, deeper, till it covers
over and hides the summer sky and darkens the summer sun ?
The young married pair of Great College Street were
much alone ; they had few friends in London ; they led the
most quiet and regular life possible. In the morning the
husband went to his hospital ; in the afternoon he worked
in his study, ready for the patient who did not come. In the
morning the young wife looked after her house, walked in the
Park or about the quiet courts of the Abbey ; in the evening
after dinner, she sat in the study while her husband carried
on his work till half-past ten or so, when he turned his chair
round, filled his pipe, and they talked till midnight.
There was nothing to disturb the happiness of this honey-
moon prolonged, unless it was that strange dream of the
mourning mothers, which came back to Margaret continually
— in the night, in the daytime— a vision unbidden, that
would suddenly float before her eyes — the company of sad-
eyed, pale-faced, sorrow- stricken women, who held out hands
and cried, * She is one with us — she is one of us ! * It was a
persistent dream — perhaps the very strangeness of it caused
Margaret to return to it again and again. How could she
belong to these hapless ladies when they were separated by
Lucian's change of name and his refusal to claim the great
inheritance ? The dream troubled her, but not much, though
it persistently remained with her.
136 BEYOND TIIE DREAMS OF AVARICE
How long was it ? — a week ? — a montli ? — after tlioy went
into their house that the anxiety began ? When was it that
the young wife, reading her husband's thoughts, saw in his
mind doubt and disturbance ; heard a temptation continually
whispered ; saw an ear ever readier to listen ? The discovery
of the temptation — the knowledge that he was listening-
filled her soul with dismay. In the afternoon, when he
should have been at work, she heard him pacing the narrow
limits of his study. Like most young scientific men, he wrote
for medical papers and scientific magazines ; he reviewed
scientific books ; he wrote papers on such of his subjects as
could be made popular in the weekly reviews ; and he had a
book of his own on the stocks, a work by which he hoped to
gain a place as a specialist : an advanced book with all the
recent medical lights : a work psychological, biological, and
everything else that was new and true and uncomfortable.
He read a great deal in the medical journals of Germany,
France, and Italy : in short, he was without any practice ex-
cept that in his hospital. Lucian Calvert led a very busy life,
and, Hke most men who are fully occupied, he was a perfectly
cheerful creature. The maiden expectant of a lover should
pray above all things that he may turn out to be a man with
an active brain, and belonging to an intellectual profession,
for of such is the kingdom of cheerfulness. Margaret loved
to see him absorbed in thought : she sat perfectly still so long
as he was working, contented to wait till he should turn his
chair, take his pipe, and say : ' Now, Madge ! '
But, when Lucian was walking up and down the floor of
his study, he was not working. He was disturbed in his
mind : his thoughts were diverted. By what ? At dinner,
at breakfast, when they took their walks abroad, he would
become distrait, silent, thoughtful — he who had been able to
convert even a stalled ox into a feast of contentment and
cheerfulness. Why ?
In his study, after dinner, his wife saw that he sat with
his eyes gazing into space, and his pen lying idle, What was
he thinking of ? ^
THE BEGINNING 1^7
Alas! Sho knew. Women who love are all tliought-
rcaders. She saw that before his eyes there was floatmg
contmually the temptation that she feared. Her heart grew
sick within her — more sick and sorry day by day — as she saw
that the strength of the temptation was daily growing. And
the light died out in his eyes and the ready smile left his lips,
and Lucian, while he listened to the voice of the Tempter,
was transformed and became as black-avised and as dour and as
resolute of aspect as his ancestor the first great Calvert Burley.
One night when he turned his chair and mechanically
took his pipe, she spoke : ' Where have your thoughts been
all this evening, Lucian ? You have done no work, unless,
perhaps, you were devising some. Your gaze has been fixed.'
* I have been upstairs,' he replied, with a little laugh. ' I
have been among the grandfathers and the grandmothers.'
* Is it good to live among them, Lucian ? Does it make
you taller or stronger to live amongst these poor people ?
They crept and crawled through life — did they not? But
you — oh ! Lucian, you walk erect.'
*I go among them sometimes ' he began.
* Sometimes ? You were among them this afternoon, and
at dinner and all the evening. And yesterday the same. I
begin to think, Lucian, that we made a dreadful mistake
when we came to this house.'
' It is not exactly a house which preaches contentment to
the disinherited, is it ? '
' If we cannot get contentment, dear Lucian, for Heaven's
sake let us go elsewhere and leave these memories behind.
ILy dear, what will our life become if we are not contented ? '
' Do not fear, Marjorie ' — he roused himself with an effort
and laughed — * I only pay occasional visits to the portraits.
The family, as you say, did mostly creep and crawl. They
have had their divagations : they have trodden the Primrose
Way : still, they are our ancestors — and perhaps a little show
of respect occasionally — from time to time — not often, you
know — may be considered due to them. They are all the
ancestors I am likely to get, you know.'
1 33 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE
Margaret shrank back, chilled. She was afraid of saying
more.
Again — it was Sunday afternoon. They took their early
dinner in cheerfulness — the disinheritance for the time for-
gotten — and they repaired — young husbands, even scientific
husbands, frequently accede to their wives' wishes in small
matters — to the Abbey for afternoon service. During the
sermon, which was not perfectly audible in every part of the
Cathedral, Lucian occupied himself in turning over the pages
of his wife's Bible. The world, perhaps, in prejudice, does
not generally look upon young physicians as zealous students
of the Bible, and Margaret observed Lucian' s curiosity with
some wonder. For her own part, though she did not hear
one word of the sermon, it was quite enough to sit in the old
Cathedral, to look up into the lofty roof, to gaze upon the
marvellous window of the transept, and to breathe the air of
the venerable place, which is full of consolation to those v/ho
can open out their souls and receive its influence.
After service they walked to the Park close by ; in the
south part of it, which is the less frequented. They walked
in silence for awhile. Lucian was a man of long silence at
all times. It was by his face that he showed where his
thoughts had led him.
* About that hereditary theory,' he began. * There is
heredity in disease ; there is heredity in health. Drunken-
ness is sometimes inherited ; it is perhaps a nervous disease,
like asthma and the rest of the tribe. Any man can vitiate
his blood, and can transmit that vitiation to following gene-
rations. In this sense there is always present with all of us
hereditary disease, because none of us are perfectly strong and
healthy.'
* Go on, Lucian.'
^ Yes. But you say, Margaret, that a mental twist, such
as makes a man a miser or a money-lender, is the child of
one mental twist or the father of another.'
* I think that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the
children for the third and fourth generation. And in your
In the old cathedral.
THE BEGINNING 1 39
people, Lucian, the sins of the fathers have heen followed by
the sins of the sons, so that every generation has suffered
for its predecessor and brought more suffering upon its
successor.'
* That is your view. Yes, my father, very oddly, because
he was not a superstitious man, thought in much the same
thing.'
' Why should not a man's sins be punished in his children
as well as his diseases ? '
' I don't know why they should not. The other question
is why they should ? '
* Oh ! Lucian ! Because — but you do not think as
I do.'
* Perhaps not. I will refer you, however, to an authority
which you respect. While you were pretending to listen —
pretty hypocrite ! — to what you could not hear, I occupied
myself profitably in looking up a rather important statement
of the case from another point of view. I had seen it quoted,
and I knew where to look. It is a passage in the vrorks of
the Prophet Ezekiel. Says the Prophet — or words to this
effect : " There is a common proverb that the fathers have
eaten sour grapes and the teeth of the children are set on
edge. It is a foolish proverb, because every man has got to
live out his own life to his own honour or his own dishonour."
Read the passage, my child. It is put so plain that it is
impossible to misunderstand it. Nay, he is so much in earnest
about it — Joshua ben Johanan, the great money-lender,
having recently died, and his children being taunted with the
proverb — that he returns to the subject again and repeats his
arguments. I am very glad I went to church with you this
afternoon. Will you read this prophet and discard these
superstitions ? '
' He meant something else, I suppose. But, Lucian, how
can you say that the children do not suffer for their father's
sins ? '
* Physically they often do.'
* But if a man disgraces himself and loses caste cr falls
I40 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
into poverty, his children sink into a lower place : they
cannot get up again out of their poverty or their shame :
they are kept down for life : their children have got to begin
all over again. Oh ! it is so clear that it cannot be doubted
or denied.'
* In social matters, and m the middle class, I dare say.
Most middle-class people hang on to their social position,
such as it may be, with their own hands and with no help
from cousins. When they fall, their fall is complete. In the
case of people well connected, with some generations of
affluence behind them, and with cousins all over the country,
when a man comes to grief it may be grievous for his
children, but it does not necessarily mean a lower level.
Why, the simple annals of the rich are full of the most
tremendous croppers taken by the fathers, and the sons are
never a whit the worse.'
Margaret shook her head.
* In the case of my people, now, their misfortunes were
always due to their own folly or their crimes.'
* Lucian, dear, do not talk any more about it. Those who
inherited that dreadful estate endured things that went with
it. I have studied the faces of the mothers, and I read upon
them all the martyrdom they suffered.'
'You are a superstitious woman, Madge,' said her
husband.
He returned to the subject the next evening.
* About your view, dear — about the forefathers — you
know ? '
* Oh 1 don't think about them so much.'
* There is something to be said in favour of it, so far as
the mental twist can be gathered. Take the first of them
— Grandfather Calvert the First, the original Burley — what
do we know about him ? A tradition mentioned in my
father's memorandum that he acquired money by dishonest
practices. Perhaps he did. At the same time, remember
that we know nothing certain. There is no proof. For all
we know, he may have been the most upright man in the
THE BEGINNING I41
world. Then there is the unlucky Shepherd ^^'ho was
suspended : he paid fcr his own diversions ; when he had
paid, nothing more vras owing. His son went mad. So did
a good many other poor wretches. Eeligious mad, he went.
So did Cowper, the poet. But Cowpsr, so far as I know,
never laid the blame on his grandfather. A family tendency
to some unsoundness of mind— some inability to recognise
the true proportions of things — may be observed perhaps in
all of them. There was, for example, the miser. It isn't
absolutely disgraceful to be a miser — most people who save
money have to be miserly, but it denotes their inability to
see proportions. I can discerii no signs of your famous curse
in the cheese-paring life of great-grandfather miser. Then
comes his son, the money-lender and money-grubber. He
did not grub for money in quite a noble way — so much must
be confessed. But he was not a criminal, nor was he dis-
graced '
* Not disgraced ? Oh, Lucian ! '
* Not disgraced by the world. And he lived to a great age,
amassing money all the time. It is the unbalanced mind
which puts money in the front. As for other things, we
might parade them all, except one, as quite a respectable set
of ancestors, and manifestly blessed by Providence, which
made them rich on account of their many virtues.'
' Those were singular blessings, indeed, which fell upon
your grandfather's brothers.'
* Who, I remember, had none of the inheritance, my
dear.'
Thus he talked, returning to the subject perpetually as a
moth flies round a candle until it falls at last into the flame.
This was the cloud that Margaret watched as it spread
around the horizon, and grew day by day deeper and broader
and blacker, till it covered all the summer sky and blotted cut
the summer sun.
142 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVABICE
CHAPTEB XVIII
A SEARCH AND A FIND
One morning Margaret sat again in the nursery at the top of
the house. The visitation of the mothers was never repeated.
She sat on the bed and remembered the faintness, and then,
when she opened her eyes, the company of sorrowful women
gathered round her bed. She recalled this company often.
The recollection of their faces came to her at odd times, by
day and by night ; but in this room they came no more. She
had received, as in a vision, their welcome and their pity once
for all.
Sometimes she saw, in fancy, the same look of welcome
and pity in the sorrowful eyes of the portraits. Was there
really any look at all of sorrow in those faces ? Had the
limner caught the characteristic look, the habitual expression,
Vv^hich the daily life casts upon a face ? Had he been inspired
to foretell, by the expression of the eyes, the sadness of the
future? I know not. They were stiff and conventional
paintings, of little merit : a mechanical likeness was all that
the artist desired to produce — he wanted people to say— they
still say it at every Eoyal Academy — ' How like I How exactly
like it is ! ' Whether, therefore, the unknown painters who
executed these works of art between the years 1720 and 1830
or thereabouts had put into the faces all that Margaret saw,
I know not.
The morning was fine : the sun streamed through the
windows, now clean ; upon the floor, now swept. No other
change had been made in the room : the cradle and the chest
of drawers, the chairs and the bedstead, were all as they had
been handed over. When the burden of her anxiety became
almost more than she could bear, Margaret came up here in
the morning, to find consolation in the room of the little
children. * While they played here,' she thought, * there was
a time of hope and happiness. When they left the nursery
and went forth into the world, then began again the punish-
A SEARCH AND A FIND I43
ment of the father's sin.' For, you see, despite that chapter
in the book of the Prophet Ezekiel, this superstitious person
could never shake off the conviction that from father to son,
he who possessed the v/ealth first gotten by Calvert Burley,
received with it something that poisoned his whole life. And
now she saw her husband daily assailed with the temptation
that bade him take his own, and enjoy whatsoever hia soul
desired.
A morbid habit — to sit here among the rags and tatters of
the past. Better, perhaps, had she put on her hat and sallied
forth into the streets and the cross-ways. In Westminster, how-
ever, there are no streets to walk in. There are squalid old
streets and ugly new streets. The absence of streets for
walking is more than made up by the solitudes and places for
meditation which abound in this old city. For instance, there
are Dean's Yard, the Cloisters, the Abbey itself ; there is the
quiet and secluded close, or Place, or retreat called Cowley
Street ; there is the south side of St. James's Park ; there are,
however, no streets. There is no Bond Street, no Regent
Street, no Cheapside, no Thames Street. Abingdon Street,
formerly Dirty Lane, presents few attractions ; nor does Vic-
toria Street. Better, perhaps to meditate in the Cloisters
than to sit on the old bed among the baby clothes and broken
toys.
Again, some young wives make work for themselves : they
love housewifery : they enjoy directing and arranging and
managing : they embroider and sew, and make things lovely
for the house : they pay many calls : they read and study
diligently : they write novels : they go out and look at the
shops : they practise music : they lie down and bask by the
fire. Margaret, in ordinary times, did all these things ; she
was possessed of many accomplishments. Now, so great was
the fear that possessed her, she could do nothing ; she was
fain to chmb up to this old dismantled nursery, with the
remnants and remains and relics of the past about her, and to
think of the mothers and the children.
We cannot get rid of our forefathers ; now, she understood
144 BFA^ONI) Tim BFiEAMS OF AVARICE
so much. We cannot shake them off even if we would ; it is
impossible to sever the past ; the chain cannot be cut. The
forefathers still live; they still try to make us act as they
themselves would have acted; they work upon us by the
temper and the disposition, the inclinations and the limitations,
the quick or the sluggish brain, the courage or the cowardice
the quick sight or the short sight, which we have inherited
from them. These are the forces of the past acting in the
present. Thus are all the ages one long, unbroken chain.
Whither would Lucian's ancestors lead him ?
She opened the drawers where lay the children's clothes.
She took them out and unfolded them. Heavens ! How
beautiful they w^ere, with their delicate embroideries and the
patient, skilful, fine work 1 For whom v/ere they made ? For
the baby destined for Tyburn tree ? For the baby destined
for madness ? For the baby who was to be the Westminster
miser ? For the baby who was to become the money-lender ?
Sweet children — innocent children once — all of them. And
now these baby clothes belonged to her — to her — and this
nursery was hers. She laid back the things with a deep sigh.
Her eyes fell upon the half-opened door of the cupboard, and
she remembered that she had never examined the contents of
the cupboard completely. In front there stood a box with
half a lid, filled with the broken dolls and toys which she had
seen on her first visit. In other houses this rubbish would
have been swept away long ago. In this house nothing was
ever destroyed or given away or swept away. To a miser even
a child's doll with a broken leg means the equivalent of some-
thing in money.
She opened the door and looked in. The cupboard was a
big place formed by the sloping roof and a party wall : such a
place as, in many houses, is set apart for a box-room. Behind
the door were hanging three or four women's dresses of cheap
material, but moth-eaten. Margaret took them down. There
was no use in keeping them. Behind the box of dolls there
was a heavy box, which she dragged out with some difficulty ;
it was not locked, and it contained boys' school books. Thera
A SEARCH AND A FIND 1 45
was another box of school books : there was a box containmg
clothes of some kmds : there was a bundle of clothes tied up.
There were other bundles and boxes : lastly, when Margaret
thought she had turned out the whole contents of the cupboard
as a railway porter clears out a luggage van, she saw by the
dim light at the lower end of the cupboard a smaller box
covered with a lid. It was quite light to hf t : she took it out,
placed it on the bed and lifted the lid, which was not locked.
Within the box was a heap of old papers, with a few parchment-
covered books, which w^ere household account books. All the
papers in the house had been collected and taken over by the soli-
citor of the Treasury, but this cupboard had either been over-
looked or had been imperfectly searched. Probably it had been
overlooked altogether, because the dust lay thick on everything.
Moreover, as the school books showed, and these account books
presently proved, the cupboard had not been touched for more
than seventy years. The miser, who could not bring himself
to destroy anything, put away these things when his children
had run away from home and when his wife was dead. Then
he left the garret and the cupboard and shut the door — and so
it had remained shut for seventy years and more, until Lucian
opened the door and Margaret entered.
She sat down on the bed and began to examine the contents
of the box with a languid curiosity.
She first took up a household account book, dated 1817.
It contained a kind of occasional diary — not from day to day,
but as things happened — together with the current expenditure.
These details are dry reading, except to one who tries to revive
the bygone life : to him there is not an entry of any kind
which is not full of suggestion and meaning. This young
liousekeeper was at first struck with the extraordinary cheap-
ness of living when the expenditure is ruled by a miser. In
the marginal notes recording events of the day, the boys gave
trouble. They spoke rebelliously of their father. John, the
eldest, was employed in keeping his father's books. Appa-
rently he was somewhat in his father's confidence, for he was
asked to plead for the others. Henry, especially, was a cause
ii
146 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
of anxiety. Ho spoke mutinong v/ords as regards the food : ho
called it fit only for pigs ; he wanted money to spend as other
young men could do ; he wanted new and better clothes, such
as other young men are allowed to wear ; he wanted to be put
into some profession : he wanted to enter the army : he
was always wanting something that would cost money :
his father always refused ; the mother interceded and
was repulsed. John was asked to do Vv^hat he could, and
said he could do nothing, because what Henry wanted would
cost money. Then came the significant words : * Henry ran
away from home in the night. God help the boy I His
father only said there was one mouth the less.' The
house went on meanwhile; whether she was bereft of her
children or not, the wife must keep the house going, and the
expenses grew daily less and less, as the miser grew more
miserly. There were notes about the other boys. * James
must have new school books. He cannot get the money from
his father ; nor can I ; nor can John. He says he shall do as
Henry did.' * Lucinda crying over her old frock.' * Charles
refused, to-day, even the outward forms of respect to his
father. A sad scene I * * Letter from Harry. He has become
an actor. I cannot approve it; but his father drove him
away.'
The entries showed a household managed by farthings.
They revealed the unhappiness of the family ; the hard
father, growing narrower and harder ; the brothers kept
v/ithout pocket money ; dressed shabbily ; debarred even the
common and innocent pleasures of their age ; the daughter
grown out of her shabby frock ; the mother striving to miti-
gate the unhappy lot of her children ; and the eldest brother
keeping his father's books, learning how rich he was, resolving
to become the owner and disposer of so much wealth, and
learning from his father those lessons of pitiless hardness
which he was afterwards to practise with eminent success on
his own account. As Margaret read in the book she reaUsed
it all ; the past returned. In the quiet house she could hear
the crying of the girl over her frock, and the voice of the
A SEARCH AND A FIND 1 47
mother trying to soothe and to console, and the growling of
the miser over his pence like the growling of a tiger over a
bone.
She shut up the book with a sigh. She belonged to these
people ; they were her people ; whither her husband should
go she must go ; where he should lodge she must lodge ; and
his people must be her people. And, as Lucian continually
repeated, a man may call himself what he pleases, but his
ancestors remain to him; he cannot shake them off; he
belongs to them, and they to him. Wherefore we do well to
envy those of honourable descent ; and for this reason we
should go cautiously lest we pollute the fountain of Heaven,
and make the water, which our children must drink, a spring
of shame. All these things, and more, crowded into Margaret's
mind. And because it was the nursery, the room of the dead
mothers, if she suffered her mind to wander, she heard whis-
pers in the air — murmuring, singing, admonishing. 'You
belong to us, you and yours : you cannot separate yourself, or
your children that may come, from us. Your children will be
ours. You pretend not to belong to us : yet you think about
us day and night : you are one of us and one with us.'
CHAPTER XIX
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK
Maegaeet carried her box of household books downstairs,
and resumed her study of a household carried on under the
eye of a miser a hundred years ago. Lucian refused to be
interested. He said that the figures had a hungry and a
starveling look, and that he was not desirous of learning more
details about his great-grandfather. Margaret, however, read
and pondered over these books until she realised, not only the
pinched and starved existence of the mother bereft of her
children, one after the other, but also the daily life of the
eighteenth century, which stretched without change into a
L 2
1 43 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
third part of the nineteenth, until railways and steamboats
altered the whole of the habitable globe. Can we understand
a time so close, so far away ? Consider : everything then
was done at home, everything was made at home. There is an
enormous difference to begin with. The bread, the beer, the
jam, the wine, the biscuits, the cakes, the preserving, the strong
waters — all were made at home ; the washing, the mending, and
repairing were done at home. A housewife, then, was mistress
of a learned profession ; she followed one of the fine arts.
What is the chief difference, however, between our daily
life and that of our grandfathers ? There are small differences
in manners, deportment, social forms, dress, eating, and
drinking. There is a difference in the standard of living,
which is now for the mass of the people very greatly raised.
There is a difference in our knowledge of the world, and there
are differences due to our habit of reading. We have grown
so much richer, and the things that make for comfort have
become so much cheaper, that this is natural. We are now
all growing poorer, but the higher standard of comfort will
remain. There are differences in our religious ideas ; there
are differences in our morals ; there are differences in our
ideas on things of State. But these things do not constitute
the principal difference. That, I think, lies in the altered
value of all possessions.
This was Margaret's discovery from the account books and
the marginal notes. We of this degenerate age make nothing :
therefore we value nothing. We have no possessions : the
thmgs that we want, we buy ; they are machine-made things,
mostly. Who cares for a machine-made watch ? When we
had to make what we wanted to have, or to buy it, with
money laboriously accumulated, of the man who made it with
his own hands — a watch, a chain, a table, a fender — then we
valued it and treated it tenderly, and handed it down to our
successors, and called it a possession. I once read in a novel
— I was compelled to read it because I had to write it— of a
girl named Francesca, who had a magic knob given her by a
fairy godmother. This she pressed whenever she wanted
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK I49
anything— and, lo I a miracle I what she wanted was instantly
brought.
All of us possess a magic knob of sorts ; but its powers
vary to an incredible extent. A pauper lady, for instance,
may press her knob as hard as she likes : it commands nothing
but the daily allowance and the annual shawl. Others, on
the other hand, are amazingly powerful. And I hope that
every young lady who reads these lines owns a magic knob,
the pressure of which will bring her a new evening dress, new
gloves, new shoes, or anything that she wants. The magic
knob applied to the whole of the middle class, to which most
of us belong— the class beloved and admired by Matthew
Arnold — can command a glass of beer, a pot of jam, a loaf of
bread, and many other useful articles. These things come to
us ready made, turned out to order by unseen workpeople.
We take them, pay for them, and give no heed to them.
When they wear out we buy more. Now, in the eighteenth
century all these things were made at home ; there was a
certain uncertainty as to the result — would the beer be good '?
Last brew was sour, if you remember. Would the jam last
through the winter ? Last year's developed mildew, if you
remember. Would the socks, the shirt, the collar fit? If
the result was satisfactory there was pride. In any case, the
thing which cost time, exercised judgment, showed skill, was
invaluable and valued. This dignified housewifery. The
modern matron need know nothing, need keep nothing, need
lay down nothing ; she wants neither wine-cellar, nor beer-
cellar, nor larder, nor still-room, nor stores. She buys as she
wants, and replaces as she uses. It saves trouble, which is a
gain ; but there are losses.
Her predecessor, Margaret learned, provided beforehand.
If anything was omitted, the household had to go without.
The amount of knowledge expected of the ancient housewife
was colossal. One can only compare it with the knowledge
at present expected of the oilman and his assistant. She
was expected to know how to make cakes, puddings, biscuits,
and to understand carving ; not the miserable hacking of the
150 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAmCE
present day, but scientific carving, which had its language.
She must know pickling and conserving, in an age when they
pickled everything, even nasturtium leaves. She must know
how to distil scents and strong waters. She could make wine
and brew beer. She could make washes for the complexion.
She must know all the secrets of the laundry, the larder, the
poultry yard, the dairy, the kitchen garden, the orchard, the
hot-houses ; the making and repairing of dresses, childish and
feminine ; she had to understand music, dancing, embroidery,
genealogies, education, alms-giving, medicine, domestic
surgery, and nursing. Finally, the housewife of the past
was expected to take, or to pretend, an intelligent interest in
her husband's occupation. Truly, the housewife of a hundred
years ago was a most wonderful product of the age.
Margaret laid down the books with a profound respect,
and pity, for the writer who knew so much, worked so hard,
and was so wretchedly mated. The diurnal broke off abruptly
on a certain day. It was then carried on by another hand,
a younger hand, for a short time. Then that, too, broke off.
The reason of the change, Margaret guessed, was the illness
and death of the mother. The second hand must be that of
the daughter, Lucinda. And she, like her brothers, had run
away. What had become of Lucinda? Lucian's father
knew nothing about her. What, again, was the end of that
brother who became an actor ? What had become of Charles,
the third son of this remarkable family, who incurred the
displeasure of the law ? Of James she had, as we know,
been recently reminded. But of the other three no word had
yet been received. Had all three perished without having
children or a trace of their memory ?
There were other papers in the box. You would expect,
perhaps, in such a big house, a bag of guineas, or the direc-
tions where to find a secret hoard. You remember how the
miser of old hid away his gold in odd corners. But the West-
minster miser was a modern miser. Hoarded gold, to him,
meant investments. The old miser gloated over his chests
full of red gold, chests of wood with iron cl9-mps ; he used to
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK I51
lift the lid and run his fingers through the coins. The
modern miser pulls out his book in which are recorded his
investments ; and he gloats over the columns. Margaret
found no secret hoard of gold, nor any allusion to hidden gold.
"What she did find, however, was sufficiently interesting, as
you shall learn.
There were, to begin with, certain letters, written to the
miser's wife ; some from her own mother, stiff and formal,
exhorting her what to do in time of trouble ; some from a
friend who wrote to her from the country on religious topics
— it was a time when religious conversation was an art
greatly practised and carefully studied. This friend gave her
advice of a most beautiful kind as regards patience under
trial; some of the letters were from her brother; these
letters also turned upon the necessity of resignation in trial
and trouble. All proved that the poor woman lived in
constant trial and trouble. All were the work of people to
whom letter-writing was not a thing of daily use : they were
written on paper of the same size, filled up carefully, so as to
show a genuine desire of communicating as much news as the
limits of the paper allowed, and of spending as long a time as
possible over the composition of the letter. The correspon-
dence was not, in fact, remarkable, except as an evidence of
the style and fashion of the letter-writer at that period ; the
style stilted and formal ; the fashion ceremonious. There
was one letter, however, which interested her. It was from
the second son, Henry, the one who began the running
away.
* Dear and Hon'd Mother,' it ran : —
* I write to inform you that I have been receiv'd in a Com-
pany of Strolling Players. We play in a Barn at night — my
Part, Mercutio, and some others. The Work is Hard and the
Pay is Uncertain. I hope, however, to Advance both in one
and the other. No Efforts of mine shall be wanting for Suc-
cess, which, as has been written, if I cannot Achieve I will at
Least Deserve. On the play-bill I am described as Mr. Henry
Burghley, I have not presum'd to drag my Father's Name —
152 BEYOND THE DREAiAIS OF AVARICE
and My Own — upon the Stage with a Strolling Company. I
do not Regret the Step I have taken, except that I would not
give my Mother Pain. The miserly Habits of my Father
made it Impossible for a lad of Spirit to remain in the House
any Longer. I hope that your tedious Cough is better, and
that you can now mount the Stairs without Distress, and that
you will continue in good Health and Spirits, and that when
I see you next I may receive your Approbation of my Conduct,
' I remain, dear and Hon'd Mother,
* Your most dutiful and affectionate Son,
' Henry.'
This was the only communication from any of her chil-
dren.
The rest of the papers seemed to be recipes of all kinds,
chiefly for puddings and highly seasoned sauces which this
housewife would never be allowed to use as being expensive.
There were also written charms against warts, against quinsy,
against fits — pity that the old faith in charms has gone ; pity
that most of the old charms have perished hopelessly. Against
how many mischiefs could not a housewife formerly protect
her house, her children, and herself ? And there were notes
on the treatment of children's disorders, and especially as to
chilblains, colds, ear-aches, feverish chills, and the like.
At the bottom of the box, however, she found a small
packet of papers folded up and tied with a silk ribbon. Out-
side was written in a handwriting difficult at first to read.
For not only was it small, but the letters were pointed instead
of being round, and the * e's ' were like * o's ' with a loop at
the top. It ran thus : —
* The enclosed was writ by my grandfather, Calvert Burley,
in the year of grace, 1756, being twelve months after the
melancholy event which deprived him of a son and me of a
father, in the most lamentable manner possible. I found it
among his papers on the 9th day of March, in the present
year of our Lord, 1768. The wrath of the Lord is as a con-
suming fire, from which nothing can escape ; it wastes not,
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK 1 53
nor is spent, until its work of woe is completed to the last
letter. On account of the transgressions of one man follow all
these woes. Therefore, my father suffered a shameful death :
for this cause my father's sister was cut off in the flower of
her beauty : and my father's brother was kidnapped or de-
stroyed. What is reserved for me ? I am in the Lord's
hands. Let the Lord deal with me for that transgression as
He will upon this earth. The things that happen to us here
soon pass away and are forgotten ; but let me save my soul
alive according to the promise made unto the Prophet Ezekiel.
*J. C. B.
* Nota Bene. — My grandfather died impenitent. He said
that he had sinned, as all flesh must sin, but not more than
other men. He also, with his latest breath, solemnly thanked
the Lord for the gifts which had made him rich — God is not
mocked. ' J. 0. B.'
Having made out this cheerful preface, Margaret, with
some curiosity, opened the packet and read. The handwrit-
ing was large and bold, and as assured as the words which
followed. Handwriting is supposed, by some, to be a test of
character ; this, in soma unexplained way, it seems to be —
perhaps because the way in which a man speaks, stands,
walks, writes, looks, or does anything at all, betrays his cha-
racter to those who can read the language of gesture and look.
If the theory is true, then Calvert Barley was a man with a
huge, an enormous belief in himself. Sach a man — he is
more common than one would think — can do nothing wrong.
If his actions appear to others always dictated by self-interest,
to him they are never without the excuse of the highest and
holiest of motives. The meanest thing that a man can do is
described by him as the holy act of a Christian. The greatest
crime he explams by the noblest and most conscientious
scruples.
The document was written on coarse white paper, and the
ink was brown. It ran thus : —
154 BEYOND THE DllEAMS OF AVARICE
* I have been assured by some Meddlers and Busybodies,
that God's Wrath has been poured out upon me on account of
certain former Passages in my Life. I have endured Keproach
on this Account, by Men pretending to be Godly and also
from my Deceased "Wife whose tender Spirit was unable to
endure the Disasters which have affected us. In them she
saw Manifest the Eevenge taken by the Almighty on account
of my past Life. I say not that these repeated Shocks were
not Ordered by a Wise Providence for Purposes which I
cannot Understand, but as my Life has been beyond Eeproach,
I cannot regard them as Expressions of God's Wrath. There-
fore it is my Design to lay bare for the Instruction of all who
may come after Me, the Facts of the Case on which my De-
parted Wife and others have ignorantly pronounced a Judge-
ment. But let me Rehearse these so-called Judgements, and
let me also set against them the Manifest Mercies and Blessings
which have been Poured upon my unworthy Head. And
first as for the Judgements. It is true that I who had once
three Fair Children, have now none. First my younger
Boy a Child of Twelve went out to School — the said School
lying no more than two Streets distance, and never reached
that School and was never seen again by us. He was
therefore tempted away and either Kidnapped or Mur-
dered. This Y/as, I own, a Dreadful Blow. But it was shown,
I am quite certain, that this affliction was not a Special
Judgement, not did it indicate the Special Displeasure of the
Lord, over and above that which falls upon the General
Sinner, because at the same time I bought of the Widow
Plumer that land in Marylebone (for a Song) which is now
covered with Houses.
' Next, there was my Daughter, a blooming Girl of Seven-
teen, whose Charms were designed (I thought) for the happi-
ness of some young Man of Quality (as I ventured to hope)
who would be tempted not only by the beauty of her Person
but also by the Portion which I was ready to bestow upon
her. Thus I hoped to raise my Family which was of humble
Origin, Alas ! She caught Small Pox and died in a fortnight.
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK 1 55
With her these Hopes were Buried. At the same time (which
forbids the suspicion or Fear of a Judgement), by a lucky-
Stroke I acquired (a Special Blessing) the first of those Navy
Contracts by which my Fortune has been more than doubled.
' Lastly, there was my Elder Son, who had from Childhood
given Trouble, for he would never apply his Mmd to Study,
nor would he learn under me, how to get the better of Weak
or Credulous Persons so as to transfer their Money to his own
Pockets, but would continually Sing, make idle Music, Feast,
Paint, and Spend. After a course of Profligacy in which I
did my best to Warn and Dissuade him he madly went out to
rob a noble Lord, and being Captured and Laid by the Heels
was presently Hanged — a Disgraceful Event and one that
Dashed all our rising Cheerfulness. At the same time a
Signal Favor was bestowed upon me by the Lord in the fact
that a violent Tempest blowing over the Channel on the very
Day when that unhappy Boy suffered, wrecked a large number
of Ships belonging to the Port of London, while tvro of my
richest Bottoms found Shelter in the Scilly Roads. Thus was
I singled out for Marks of Approbation at the Very Time of
my greatest Affliction.
* Of these three Events, the first and second were Accidents
which clearly belong to the Changes and Chances of this mor-
tal Life — " in the midst of life we are in death." We know not,
even for the Youngest and Strongest, what may happen. As
for the third Event, the Parents of this unhappy Young Man
may reproach themselves with a too lenient and easy Up-
Bringing. So far I Bow the Head and acknowledge my Fault.
But the whole course of that young Man seems like a Resolve
in mad Haste to reach the Gallows. And I have shown that
each so-called Judgement was accompanied by a Blessing
much more manifest — and, I make Bold to Declare, much
more Deserved.
* Why should the Hand of the Lord be Heavier upon me
than upon any other Sinner ?
* I have said, above, that was whispered, nay, spoken aloud,
on 'Change, that this or that Misfortune haa happened to me
156 BFAOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE
as a Punishment for my Treatment or Conduct towards my
late Master, Mr. Scudamore.
* I was a poor Lad, son of a mere Fellowship Porter, my
Mother's Brothers being Watermen and my own Fate, ap-
parently, to be of no better Station in the World than they.
But, being noticed by Mr. Scudamore, then a Gentleman of
Reputation and having a good Business in the City and sup-
posed to be worth Thirty Thousand Pounds at least, I was by
him taken into his Office where I was first a Boy at his Call to
run Arrants and to carry Messages. I then became a Clerk in
his Counting-house. By the time I had reached five-and-tw^enty
I was entirely in his Confidence and managed all his Business
of every kind, and he, being an Easy Man, and pleased to be
saved Trouble, and growing fonder of the Coffee-house than
'Change, suffered me to go on unquestioned and to do what I
pleased and what I thought best in his Interests. This was
so well known that Merchants treated me with the same
Openness as if I was my Master — a lucky Circumstance for
me, inasmuch as it taught me much concerning Trade and
made Acquaintances for me who became afterwards useful.
* I can boast truthfully that during the time that I thus
managed my Master's Business it prospered and increased.
Naturally I became Discontented — who would not ? — seeing
that I did all the Work and my Master reaped the whole
Harvest. Many Factors and Clerks and Servants do not con-
sider this Hardship and continue to work zealously to the end
of their lives, being Pinched and living Hardly, so that their
Masters may increase and grow fat. I was not so disposed.
As soon as I had gained one Step I desired to take another. I
w^ould still be Rising — I desired ardently to become a Master.
* The opportunity came in the Way I shall relate. At this
time there broke out the Madness known as the South Sea
Bubble. Now I have ever possessed to a singular Degree the
Power of Discerning the Future as regards the Rise and Fall
of Stocks and Shares. And at the Outset of this Affair I
clearly Perceived that there would surely follow a Vast Increase
in the Price of this and other Stocks; and I longed to be
A HOUSEHOLD DOOK 1 57
Trading in them — at first I thought in a Small Way in order
to better my Humble Fortune. But in order to begin one must
have either Money or Credit. Of these had I Neither. There-
fore, I perceived that, in order to attain my Object, I must
Secretly make Use of some of the Money belonging to my
Master, as it passed through my Hands. This was difficult,
because he had a Eunning Credit with a Goldsmith of Lom-
bard Street. However, I devised a Plan which was Ingenious
and Honest. I would but borrow the Sum of £400 to begin
with. Therefore I persuaded (very Easily) my Master to
consent to purchase South Sea Stock. He agreed to buy at 180
about £12,000 worth of Stock, i.e. about £9,230 in Shares.
As at this moment it was advancing Rapidly, I bought £10,000
one day, of which £400 worth or £390 of Stock I bought in my
own name. By this means I was Enabled to Obtain a small
Sum for myself and to secure for him the Stock which he
desired to buy. In the end, as you shall see, I faithfully repaid
that advance of £100.
* How, then, did we stand ? I had three Shares at 130
each — my Master held 9ii Shares. On my Advice he sold
them out at 200. He therefore made a Profit of £70 a Share
or £6,440 in all. Ought not this Man to have been Satisfied
with me his faithful Steward ? At the same time I sold mine
at the same Profit, and replaced the Loan and was £210 in
Pocket. Then, as I Pointed out, which was quite true, the
Stock was still going up — he agreed to Buy in again. This
time he would Buy about £18,000 worth, the Stock then
standing at 250. I did the same Thing as before. That is, I
bought six Shares for myself and 6Q for him. A week later
the Shares having gone up to 500 I sold all out and he made
a Profit of cent, per cent. As for me, I did very well. For I
Replaced my Second Loan of £1,500, and found myself the
possessor of £1,710 — far more than ever I thought to own.
This was all in the Early Spring. But as the Year advanced,
the Stock went Leaping up. I Played the same Game,
always Borrowing and always Repaying and Growing, for
one of such Small Origin, every Week Richer.
158 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
' Then came the Time when I perceived very clearly that
the Price must Fall and that Suddenly and Deeply : now, by
this time my Master was Maddened, like many others, with
the Business, and looked for Nothing Less than to see the
Shares rise to Thousands. Their highest Price was 990.
My Master was eager to buy more. Next day they Fell. He
was persuaded — not by me — to Hold on. They Fell lower
and lower. They Fell from 990 to 150. And my Master,
who had Bought in at 600 (or thereabouts) Lost his All. I,
for my part, who had been Buying in and Selling out (so as
to replace the various Loans) and always making my Profit on
each Transaction, Finally Sold out at 990. I believe my
Master bought my Shares, but he knew it not till afterwards.
And the end (to me) was a Modest Fortune or competence,
or Capital Stock for embarkation in Trade of about £22,500.
This is the history of the whole Business. My Master went
Mad like the rest of the Gamblers. I kept my Wits about
me. He continued in his Madness, I sold out. Remember
that each Loan as I made it was paid back the next day by the
diiierences which I had the sense to foretell. Who can Blame
me ? Was not the good success —the wonderful success — of
my Venture a mark of Special Blessing ? But this my dear
Wife could never understand.
* Having Lost his All, my Master w^as ruined. It has been
Objected to that I should have Come to his Assistance. But
in the City of London Gratitude is never suffered to interfere
with Business. I Plainly Told him that I must look after
^Myself. When shortly after this he went into the Fleet, his
V/ife and Children asked my Help. I gave it : on many
occasions I have given them Sums of Money — a Half-crown
here and another there. I am not to Blame if the Woman
Y/ent Mad and the Man died of Rage and 111 Fortune (Foolishly
Cursing Me) as if I was the Cause of his Sufferings, nor can I
be Blamed if his Children (through their Father's Folly)
Became I know not What — Thieves and the Companions of
Thieves.
* This is the Plain History of the Events which, according
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK 1 59
to my Detractors, have Brought upon me the Judgements of
the Lord.
f On the other Hand, have not His Blessings been
abundantly Showered upon me ? Have I not Eisen from a
plain poor Boy to be a great City Merchant, and Adventurer
in Foreign Ports, one whose Word is powerful on 'Change,
the Owner at this moment, when I am Sixty Years of age, of
a Hundred Thousand Pounds and More? Are not these
things Plain Mercies ? Would they have been bestowed
upon One who, as has been Falsely alleged, rose by robbing
his Master and drove him to Bankruptcy, and Suffered him to
Die in the Fleet ? '
*Calveet Bueley.*
CHAPTER XX
A COMMENTAEY
Margaret made haste to place this document in Lucian's
hands. He read it with great interest ; he read it twice. He
then folded it and returned it to his wife.
' Well, Lucian, what do you say ? '
He made answer slowly : —
* Calvert Burley's commentary on himself possesses several
points of interest. It is the revelation of an eighteenth
century soul. First we have the poor boy — clever, sharp, and
resolved to get on if he could— to climb out of the servitude and
obscurity of his people. I fancy there was very httle climb-
ing in those days. Where the child was born, there he grew
up, and there ho remained. Well, this boy had the good
luck to get into favour with a master who v/as clearly a man
of weak nature ; for he gave this sharp lad gradually the
management of all his affairs. The lad looked about him,
watching the markets and the stocks. I suppose that he
grew extremely keen to foresee the probable rise and fall.
Some men have a kind of prophetic instinct in such things.
l6o BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
At last came the opportunity. In order to seize it, he had to
be a villain — about this I don't imagine there was much diffi-
culty. The finer shades of honour were not likely to be
regarded by such a young man as this. The rest followed
naturally. He ruined his master and enriched himself— he
tells us how. Nothing is to be gained by helping the fallen,
and he, therefore, allowed his master to die in gaol. A very
complete villain ! '
* A horrible villain ! '
*Wait a little. Having become rich, he must become
respectable. He marries a wife from the ranks of the City
madams ; in order to become respectable, he goes to church.
No — that is wrong, he had always been to church ; it used
to be part of the City discipline — honest lads or villains, all
Trent to church. Formerly, however, he sat in the least
eligible seats. Now he occupies a pew under the pulpit, and
his boy carries his prayer-book after him up the aisle. His
wife talks the language of religion, such as it was, the religion
of the Queen Anne time.'
* Was it unlike our own ? *
* I think so. Calvert shows us himself that it was a time
when blessings and the approval of the Lord meant success
in trade; and when afflictions were regarded as indicating
the displeasure of the Lord. Very good. He prospered
exceedingly. Being already rich he could afford to be honest.
Yet, we see, there were murmurs about the beginnings.
Presently the troubles fell upon him, one after the other.
Then the murmurs became whispers, and the whispers voices
of accusation, w^hich he heard. And in the end, to set his
conscience at rest by a kind of balance-sheet famihar to the
commercial soul, he wrote this narrative. Of course, it stands
to reason, if Heaven's displeasure is shown in some calamity.
Heaven's approval is marked by long- continued success.
Thus, his eldest son becomes a profligate ; marries an heiress ;
spends her money ; goes on the road ; is hanged. Very sad,
indeed. But, on the other hand, during that young man's
career how many cargoes safely landed I How many glorious
A COMMENTARY l6l
successes on 'Change ! Then his daughter dies of small-pox.
What for ? Why ask, since on that same day his ship alone,
of all the fleet, rode out the storm ? His younger boy is kid-
napped. Horrible ! In punishment for what crime ? What
indeed, when another large slice was added on that same day
to his great fortune ? Therefore, as the years ran on, he
grows more satisfied with himself. For some unknown sins,
perhaps of his wife, perhaps of the last generation of Fellow-
ship porters — these things have been allotted to him. But
for himself it is one unbroken career of Heaven's approval
and manifest blessing. There, Margaret, is my reading of
this history.'
He sat down, thinking. * There are people, I believe,
even now, who think in the same way. A dangerous way to
look for guidance from without instead of within. Well, I
said that I should like to hear Calvert Burley's account of
himself, and I have had my desire. My dear, it used to be
considered unlucky to speak ill of ancestors. But this Calvert
Burley really was a detestable person.'
* And the misfortunes fell, if not on him — for he could
not feel them— on his children and on his grandchildren.'
* They did. Very great misfortunes, too. Tyburn Tree
and madness — a miser and a money-lender. Everybody got
what everybody deserved ; sometimes what everybody desired.'
Margaret shook her head.
* Once more. Eemember what the Prophet Ezekiel says :
" The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father." You
will listen to that authority, I believe, my child.'
* Well, Lucian, if the son — or the grandson — takes over
and enjoys the harvest of iniquity he becomes a sharer in the
guilt.'
* The harvest — the stored-up granaries — the result of
iniquities— you see, Madge, that you beg the whole question.
Take this Burley estate. How much of it is the harvest of
iniquity ? '
' All of it.'
* Nay. The Westminster miser saved ; he did not commit
1 62 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AYAPJCE
any iniquities. He saved, and he left nearly half a million.
That alone at compound interest would mount up to many
millions. How much of the rest is due to the dancing cribs —
to the gambling hell— to the money-lending ? Perhaps the
old man lost money on all three.
* The heir to this estate, Margaret,' he added, after a
pause, 'takes over his inheritance perfectly free from any
liability on account of this man's, or any of his successors',
misdeeds. That, at least, is certain.'
Margaret looked up. She would have answered, but on
Lucian's face there lay that look of masterful resolution
which made the portrait of Calvert Burley so remarkable.
Lucian, at times, was strangely like the builder and founder
of the House — the son of the Fellowship porter.
CHAPTER XXI
THE OTHER LUCINDA
* An old woman ? * Margaret looked up from her work. * What
old woman ? And what does she want ? '
* She won't say her business,' replied the maid. * Says
she wants to see the lady of the house. She's an old woman
out of a workhouse.'
Margaret went out. She found an old woman in workhouse
costume standing on the door-mat. She was a thin, frail-
looking old woman ; she had been tall, but now walked with
stooping shoulders. Her face was pinched and pale : not a
face made coarse with drink and vice : a face made for pride,
but spoiled by humility. She curtsied humbly when the lady
of the house appeared. And she stood with her arms folded
under her shawl, as one who waits to be ordered. She looked
meek even beyond the assumed meekness of the most accom-
plished pretender in a whole workhouse, and yet she was
picturesque, with a great mass of iron-grey hair that had once
been black, and eyes that were still black.
THE OTHER LUCINDA 1 63
* What can I do for you ?' Margaret asked her.
* I've read something in a paper/ said the old woman. * A
lady in the house had it and lent it to me.' She unfolded her
arms and produced from somewhere a newspaper. ' I read it
a week ago, and I thought — if I was to call '
' Let me read the paragraph,' said Margaret.
It was one of the thousand paragraphs on the Burley
estate, and it ran as follows : —
' The house where the great Burley property was amassed
is situated in Great College Street. It is now No. 77. It is
reported to have been built by the same Calvert Burley who
heads the genealogy compiled and pubUshed by us the other
day. It is now occupied by a physician whose surname, by a
curious comcidence, is the same as the Christian name of its
builder. Dr. Lucian Calvert took the house with the furniture
as it stood. Among the things preserved are the portraits of
nearly all those persons who are mentioned in the genealogy.'
Margaret stopped and looked up. Something in the
woman's face struck her. She read no more of the article,
which was written in the usual strain of v/onder that, out of
so many claimants, the heir, as yet, seemed missing.
' Those portraits ? ' she asked.
* Yes, ma'am. I came here hoping that perhaps you
wouldn't mind showing me those pictures.' She spoke with
the greatest humility, but her manner of speech was better
than one generally associates with a workhouse dress.
' Yes ; but will you tell me why you want to see them ? '
'It's because some of them may be mother's brothers.*
Margaret showed some natural surprise. 'It's quite true,
lady. My name is Avery — Lucinda Avery — and my mother's
name before she married was Lucinda Burley. And she was
born in this house.'
' You say you are the daughter of Lucinda Burley ? Can
you prove what you say ? '
' Oh I yes, lady, I've got proofs.'
* This is very strange. But come in.* Margaret shut the
street door. ' Now sit down and tell me more about it.'
u 2
1 64 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAllICE
The old woman sat down on one of the hall chairs.
* What am I to tell you ? ' she asked, simply. * Mother's
name was Lucinda Burley.'
* Yes ; there was a Lucinda Burley. Can you tell me
something more ? '
* Mother ran away from her home — this was the house.
She's often and often talked to me about the house. She
ran away from home because she was unhappy. Her father
was a dreadful miser, and wanted them all to be as miserly
as himself. They could hardly get enough to eat. She had
brothers, and they ran away, too, one by one, all but the eldest.
So, when her mother died, she ran away, too, and married
father.'
^ Yes — what was your father ? *
* Father was a gentleman.' The old woman held up her
head with the least possible approach to the gesture called
bridling. Not every resident, if you please, in her college
could boast of a gentleman for a father. * He was a gentle-
man,' she repeated.
'Yes. A good many men are gentlemen, nowadays.
What was his business ? *
* He hadn't got any. He was called Captain Avery. And
he was once in the army. Mother always called him the
Captain. He was a very handsome man. Mother loved him,
though he threw away her money — and he wasn't a good
man.'
* He was Captain Avery,' Margaret repeated. ' And he
threw away her money. And then ? '
* When he had no more left, they took him to prison—
the Fleet Prison — I remember it very well, and father in it.
He died in the prison.'
* Oh I And this was the way that you became poor ? '
' Yes. Mother was poor. Don't you believe me, lady ? '
She looked up with some anxiety. * Indeed, it is the truth
and nothing else.'
* Why should it not be the truth ? I am not disbelieving
you.'
THE OTHER LUCINDA 1 65
•I've got the proofs, lady.' The old woman produced
from miseen recesses a little parcel wrapped in a pocket-
handkerchief. * This is a picture of mother, made when she
first married ; when she was young — poor mother I ' — her
voice faltered. *I never remember her like this— not so
young and beautiful.'
Margaret took the miniature, 'Yes,' she said. * I know
the face. They all have it ; you have the face.'
It was a charming little picture, representing a beautiful
girl, with something of a Spanish air, dark-eyed, dark-haired.
And it was like her husband.
* You all have the same face,' Margaret repeated.
*I never saw her so.' The old woman wrapped it up
again in her handkerchief and put it back. * But I like to
look at it sometimes ; just to think of her as I never saw her.
She looks happy in her picture — I never saw her happy.
The picture was done by a friend of father's He died in the
Fleet, too. I remember him very well, because he had a
bottle-nose — mother said it was rum. But a lovely painter,
mother said, and sang a good song.'
' It is the portrait of Lucinda Burley,' said Margaret. * I
will show you the portraits, if you please to come upstairs
with me.'
The old woman's breath was bad ; she mounted the stairs
with difficulty ; when she reached the drawing-room she was
fain to sit down and gasp. Margaret sat her down before the
fire, and waited : she looked timid and humble ; with the
timidity and the humility that come of life-long obedience
to the man with the badge : of never having exercised any
power or authority at all — a woman who had been a mother
could not have that air. But she was not common or
rough ; there w^as even a certain refinement in her face ;
she looked like a gentlewoman out of practice. Her black
eyes were fine still, but they were sad. Her face, her manner,
her carriage, her voice altogether spoke of shadow and sad-
ness.
Margaret took off her bonnet and shawl — was she not a
1 66 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
cousin ? * You sliall have some tea,' she said, * before you
say another word.' She went downstairs and brought up the
tea with her own hands.
* Now,' she said, * if you are recovered, we will talk again.
Y^our mother was bom about the year 1802. When did she
die?'
' She died ten years ago. The parish gave her outdoor
relief. She was bedridden for three years.*
* The parish I the parish ! good heavens ! And her brother
ten times a millionaire I What a man 1 Had your father no
friends to feel any sense of shame ? '
' I think he had cousins. But they wouldn't help, and
mother wouldn't ask them any more. Mother was too proud.
She would rather work her fingers to the bone than go begging.
She said she was a Burley.' The old woman looked up to the
lion-hearted founder of the family for approval.
' She was proud of being a Burley,' Margaret repeated,
not scornfully, but with a kind of v/onder.
'When father died she wrote to her brother, and he
wouldn't help her. But she kept his letter.'
She produced again the parcel, wrapped in a handkerchief,
and extracted a paper, which Margaret took. It was as
follows : —
* SiSTEE, — I am in receipt of your communication. I v/ill
not see you if you call. I will give you nothing. You have
made your bed, and you may lie upon it. You deserted your
own family and disgraced yourself when you ran away with
your lover ' — * but I've got her marriage lines,' interrupted
the daughter. — * You had better apply to your brothers who
also ran away. Your father is dead and has left me his
property — such as it is.' — * Such as it is I ' Margaret repeated.
' What a man ! ' — ' Go your own way and let me go mine. —
Your brother John.*
* A cruel letter I A hard and cruel letter ! ' Margaret gave
it back. ' The letter of a hard and cruel man. But his pro-
fession was Destruction and Ruin.'
* Mother tried to see him, but he wouldn't let her come
THE OTHER LUCIXDA 1 67
in. Mother kept the letter. She said that she looked to see
him cut off suddenly for his hardness. But he wasn't.'
* No/ said Margaret ; * a worse thing happened to him.
To be cut off suddenly would have meant reward, not punish-
ment. He lived. He grew harder every day, till he did not
know what mercy meant. A worse thing than death is to
grow harder and more merciless and more insensible every
day — and to live for ninety years. Go on, you poor thing.'
It must not be supposed that the old woman went on quite
in the connected form which follows. She was weak in the
construction of sentences. What she said was extracted by
questions and suggestions : if we were to put them all in, the
length of this chapter would extend to a volume. She
answered timidly, and only warmed, so to speak, when she
began to speak of the house, and what she knew about it.
* So mother took in needlework.' The whole tragedy of a
lifetime in those words — she took in needlework.
* When I was old enough I began to help her. We sat
and sewed all day long.*
* Where were her brothers ? ' Margaret knew very well,
but she put the question.
' One of them did something and was transported for life.
But he came back, secret — and saw mother. Then he went
out to New Zealand.'
' Oh 1 And the others ? '
* One went to America, and one was an actor. Mother was
so poor when she found out the actor-brother, that she was
ashamed to go and see him. Mother was proud of her family,
but there were dreadful misfortunes in it. Even when we
were at our worst mother used to say she was glad she ran
away from the misfortunes.'
' There were misfortunes enough for her, I think,' said
Margaret. * But it is strange, however. Always the same
feeling : the same dread of misfortune.'
' Yes ; she was proud to be a Burley ; but they were all
unfortunate.*
* And you, did you ever marry ? ^
l68 BEYOND THE i)rtEA:\[3 01^ AVAPtlCl^.
* Marry ? ' The old woman laughed a poor little shadow
of a laugh. * Marry ? Do men look for wives in a two -pair
back ? Young men don't keep company with a girl too poor
to buy a brush for her hair or a skirt to hide her rags. Ah !
— no, lady, I had no time to think about keeping company and
marriage. What I had to think about all my life long was
how to get rid of the hunger. Always that — and nothing
more— unless it was to keep a bit of fire in the grate.'
* Poor creatures ! '
' It's over now, and thank God for it.' The poor old woman
put on a little show of dignity and self-respect at the prospect
of death. ' I'm in the house for the rest of my time — till the
Lord calls me. Yes— yes, it's been a long time coming, but
the end of it has come. Sometimes I wake at night, and fancy
the hunger is on me again, and me so tired and my arm so
heavy and the stuff so thick. It's a blessed thing when we do
get old and past our work.'
* Yes.' Margaret was looking at her thoughtfully. Had
one, ever before, heard of a woman who never had any pleasure
at all for the whole of a long life ? ' And so at last you gave
up work and went into the house ? '
* Yes. Some of them grumble all the time — I don't. It
was the happiest day of my life when my forefinger got
cramped and bent — look at it— and I found that I couldn't sew
any longer. Then they took me in, and I've had a good din-
ner and a good tea every day since I went in.'
' You didn't work on Sundays : what did you do then ? '
* On Sunday morning v/e went to church. Mother never
would give up going to church. She said she always had gone
and always would go. After church we lay down and went to
sleep. In the evenings we sat in the dark and mother talked
about her family and this house. Oh I I know all the rooms in
it.* She looked round the room. * This is the drawing-room.
Downstairs there's the front parlour and the back parlour.
They used to live in the back parlour. There is a garden at
the back, with a grape vine and a mulberry tree. Upstairs,
over this room, was mother's bedroom. At the top of the
THE OTHER LUCINDA 1 09
house was tlie nursery, where the children used to play. And
there was another room which was kept locked, and the chil-
dren believed there was a ghost in it, and if the door was
opened the ghost would come out and walk about the house.'
' Yes — it is quite clear that you know the house. Now
get up and look at the pictures on the wall, and find your
mother's portrait if you can.'
It Y/as not difficult. * Here's mother.' The old woman
stood before the portrait of a girl in her early bloom, beautiful
—dressed in silk — dark, black-eyed, proud, who looked down
upon her pauper daughter with a kind of condescension.
There was more pride in the old portrait than in the minia-
ture.
* It's my mother — young— oh 1 How lovely I Oh I I never
Baw her like this. Oh I with a gold chain and a silk dress —
and she gave it all up to run away to marry and work on star-
vation wages for the rest of her life — oh, my poor mother !—
and said she was happier so.*
She burst into tears. The old weep so seldom that
it touches one to see them. Age dries up the fountain or
sacred source of tears. Or, perhaps, it is that the old have
known so many sorrows and survived them all that they think
little of another and a new sorrow. As the negro said of his
imprisonments, they did not count in the record of his life.
The old know that there are not really many thmgs to weep
about : they have apprehended this great truth.
Death ? It will happen to themselves very soon. It is
the cessation of pain. One would welcome death if we were
only certain that the rest and the cessation would be con-
sciously enjoyed. Bereavement ? Soon or late we are bereave
of all we love unless they are first bereaved of us. Poverty ?
It is the average lot. Injustice ? Wrong ? It is the universal
lot of mankind to suffer injustice or wrong. The world is full
of wrong. Dependence ? Most of us are slaves, and must
jump when the man with the bag cracks his whip. But this
old woman wept as if she was young again. She wept, you
see, for her mother's sake.
170 BEYOND THE BREAMS OF AVAPJCE
* Oh 1 ' she cried. ♦ And I never knew what she meant
when she told me about the old house and her mother and her
brothers — and all. She was thin and starved all the time I
knew her and worked beside her. I didn't understand. And
now I know. She was once like this. She lived here — in
this beautiful house— she was.dressed like that. Oh I the dread-
ful life to her — the dreadful place to live in — I never knew it
till now ! *
* Poor creature ! ' said Margaret, her own eyes charged
with tears.
* She used to lament of a Sunday night that she could do
nothing for me — we had no books to read, you see — she used
to teach me a little. Oh ! nothing to speak of. All I craved
for ever in my life was new boots and a new frock, and
something more to eat. I never saw anything like this
before— mother lived here— mother was like this ! ' she kept
on repeating.
* A sad story — a miserable story,' said Margaret. ' We
must see now what can be done. You ought not to remain
where you are. Have you heard anything about the — the
estate ? '
'There's an old gentleman in the house w^ho was a
lawyer once — I believe he got into trouble. He says there's
a lot of money waiting for somebody. He says I ought to
send in my claim. But I don't know.'
* Shall I advise you ? *
* The man told me not to show the papers to anybody.
He said that if anybody saw them he would go and pretend
to be me — I don't know what he said.'
* Hardly that. Well, I will tell you how the case stands.
Try to follow and to understand.' She explained the situation.
The old woman listened, but with little understanding. Then
Margaret explained it again. It was no use speaking to the
old woman of millions, or of hundreds ; she thought of money
as shillings ; she could no more realise a hundred pounds than
she could realise the distance of the earth from the nearest
fixed sun. * Well, there is this money,' she concluded, ' which
THE OTHER LUCINUA 171
will be given to the proper persons when they appear. If the
dead man's grandson does not appear, it will be given to the
nearest in succession : and you are certainly one of them.'
* When will it be given ? '
* I cannot tell you. The people who order such things
may think it necessary to wait for a certain number of years.
If you send in your claim, you must find a lawyer to draw it
up for you and to take the business in hand. That will cost
you a great deal of money.'
* I have got no money.'
' No ? Someone must do it for you. I dare say my husband
would help you. And then you must sit down and wait — for
ten years, perhaps.'
* I am over sixty-five now. I don't think it will be any
good to wait.'
* Not much, I am sure. Still, who knows what may hap-
pen ? You may be the nearest to the succession — after that
grandson. At any rate, you make your existence known.
You are a cousin when the other cousins turn up. And per-
haps your cousins will take off this dress of yours and give you
one of a — another colour. It is not seemly, you know, to have
cousins in the workhouse.'
The old woman shook her head.
* No,' she said, * I think I will stay where I am. I have
never been so comfortable before. I don't want the money.
I am contented and thankful. I don't mind being a pauper.
Why should I ? I live better than ever I did in my life before ;
I am clothed better ; I sleep softer and warmer. And there's
no more work to do. It isn't a shame to me ; and if it is a
shame to my cousins, I can't help it.'
' No. It is no shame to you.'
Said this model of a contented old pauper — poor and not
ashamed — * If I were to ask for the money they might turn
me out of the house ! * She shuddered. • They might say that
if I am to going get money of my own, I had better go away
and make room for those that had none.* She pursed her lips
and shook her head. * That would be the worst misfortune of
/
BKYOND THE Br.EAMS OF AVAniCE
all. Besides — if I got tlie money — I might spend it like
father spent his, in riotous living and bad companions.*
Margaret smiled. * And then I should get into prison for
debt like they sent him. I'd rather be a pauper than a
prisoner. And now, lady, thanking you for being so kind *
She took up her shawl. But Margaret laid it over her
shoulders with her own hands. And then — before she tied on
the bonnet — poor old Lucinda had never experienced such
attentions before — this astonishing young lady actually kissed
her on the forehead ; kissed a pauper I kissed a broken-down
old needlewoman ! Such a thing was unknown to her ex-
perience. In the house, to be sure, the chaplain shakes hands
with the old ladies, but he does not kiss them : the matron
•vvouldn't allow it ; the guardians would not approve of it.
Therefore the old lady gasped and fell into a shake, which
brought on a cough and made her sit down to recover. She
had not been kissed for more years than she could remember.
And no one but her mother had ever kissed her before. Her
brow was virginal. It knew nothing but the kiss maternal.
* We are cousins,' whispered Margaret with the kiss. But
Lucinda did not understand. The chaplain certainly said that
the inmates of the house were his sisters. Cousins or sisters
■ — it meant, probably, the same thing.
* Come again,' said Margaret, * come and tell me more
about your mother and yourself.'
Margaret told her husband of this unexpected visitor.
* Ought we to let her stay in that place, Lucian ? Re-
member, she is our cousin.'
'And the money-lender is my grandfather. We must
acknowledge all or none. If we take this v/oman out of the
workhouse, it must be because she is my cousin.'
Margaret made no reply. His words and his looks showed
what w^as in his mind.
* All — all — ^pursued by the same ill-fortune/ she said pre-
sently.
' Ill-fortune caused by their own follies. The woman
married a spendthrift and fell into poverty. What had Calvert
THE OTHER LUCINDA 1 73
Burley to do "^'ith that ? And now Madge, my Marjorie,' — he
stooped and kissed her forehead — ' remember, if I cannot taka
this inheritance, nobody else shall. That, at any rate, is cer-
tain.'
* I care nothing who has it, Lucian, so long as we do not
have it ; so long as I am never asked to take a crust of bread
bought with the vile money of that — that — woem — ' — she
could think of no worse name at the moment — * who con-
demned his own sister to a life of starvation.'
CHAPTER XXII
THE LONG-LOST FAMILY
* Patee ! * The five girls — they were gathered together about
the teacups, their heads together, their tongues talking with
animation extraordinary — all jumped up and clapped their
hands, and cried out simultaneously, or with one consent,
when Sir John opened the door and quietly came in to take
his afternoon tea. * Pater! Come and listen! We have
had an adventure ! We have made a discovery ! We have
found the long-lost family ! We are heiresses ! You are an
heir ! Herbert — an heir I We are going to get the most
enormous inheritance ever known I We are going to have
the Burley estates ! '
Sir John stopped short and shivered as one who has
received a sudden and unexpected shock. ' What have you
found out ? Don't all cry out at once,' he said, with roughness
unknown to this flock of fair daughters. * Well, what is the
wonderful thing you have found out ? Let one speak for the
rest.'
*You speak, Lucy.' They chose the eldest. * Tell him
everything just as it happened.'
He began drumming the arm of his chair with his fingers.
He was evidently ill at ease. He looked frightened.
* Don't be anxious, dear Pater/ said this eldest. • Nothing
174 BEYOND THE DIIEAMS OF AVARICE
very dreadful has happened. What could happen to make
you look like that ? Only — but you shall hear, and then we
shall see what you will say.'
* Go on.' His face was averted and his voice was husky.
* Tell me what you have discovered, and where and how you
found it.'
* First, then, we saw in the paper that the house where
this rich man — this Mr. Burley — used to live still contained
some of the portraits of the family.'
* Well ? How did that concern us ? ' he asked roughly.
* You shall hear. If we knew for certain that our grand-
father came from some other family — the Burley portraits
would not concern us. But as we don't know — do we ? *
* We don't know — we certainly do not know, and we shall
never know,' he said, dogmatically. * It is now impossible to
find out.'
' You shall hear. Meantime, as it is naturally an interest-
ing question with us. . . .'
* The name is spelt quite differently,' Sir John objected in
initio.
* But pronounced the same. And the Christian name is
your own. Pater dear, and Herbert's as well, which certainly
means something. As for the spelling, there may have been
some reason for changing it. There may, perhaps, have been
a return to an older way — ^just as the Seymours became again
St. Maurs— and our Burleigh is certainly a prettier name
than his Burley.'
* Go on, then. Let us hear your fine discovery.' Sir John
stretched out his feet and leaned back in his chair. But his
lips twitched, for some reason or other he was ill at ease.
' Well, we thought we would go to the house and ask per-
mission to see the portraits. We thought it would be at least
interesting if the people in the house would let us in. We
could but try. They could but say no. So we went — all five
of us — we went together.'
* Well — well. You went together. You asked permission
to see the portraits.'
THE LONG-LOST FAMILY 17
* First we had to find out the house. It is close to West-
minster Abbey. To think that while we were visiting the
Abbey we were close to grandfather's old house.'
' Don't jump at conclusions.'
* Oh ! There can be no doubt — not the least doubt.*
*Not the least doubt,' echoed all the gMs together in
chorus.
* Only wait a little ; and it is close to the Houses of Par-
liament. It is a most lovely old house in a quiet street. Oh !
BO old — so old — and quiet and homeUke, one would like to
live in such a street all one's life. The houses are only on
one side : on the other is a grey stone wall — the garden wall
of the Abbey ; a wall as old as the Abbey itself. Edward the
Confessor built it, I expect. The front of the house is covered
all over with a magnificent creeper, the leaves crimson and
purple and golden — it is like a glorified house. There is a
red-tiled roof, there is a raised door and steps and old-fashioned
iron railings — that's the house where he was born — the dear
old grand-dad. But, of course, you'll go to see it yourself,
and at once.'
* We shall see.'
' The street is called Great College Street. There is a
brass plate on the door, with the name of the doctor who lives
and practises there.'
' Shall we get on a little faster ? ' Sir John asked, im-
patiently. * What was the matter with him ? '
* Oh ! my dear Pater, it is all so interesting. Have
patience for a few moments.'
* Such a beautiful story ! ' cried the other sisters in
chorus. ' Oh ! Do have patience. Let us hear the story
told properly.'
Sir John spread his hands. It is a gesture which means
anything. Gestures are like interjections.
' Well,' the eldest daughter continued, * I must tell you
the whole story— it's a most wonderful adventure. We rang
the bell — it was rather formidable calling at a strange house,
and we were a large party — but in such a cause we dared
176 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
greatly. Five female Japhets in search of a grandfather. We
mounted the steps and we rang the bell.'
* You rang the bell,* Sir John repeated, with an effort at
patience.
'And we sent in mamma's card with our names — the
Misses Burleigh — in the corner.'
* And they let you in ? '
* Yes — we were received in the dining-room by the lady of
the house. Her name is Calvert '
'Calvert? Calvert?'
' Yes. I suppose her husband is connected somehow with
the people who used to live here, but she did not say so. The
name on the brass plate is Lucian Calvert, M.D. One can
hardly ask a strange person on the first day of meeting about
her husband's family, but I suppose — oh, yes, you will see —
they must be connected in some way v/ith the Burleys.'
* I am listening, my dear,' said her father. * We shall get
to the point, I suppose, presently.'
* Well, Mrs. Calvert received us. She is quite young, only
a girl still — not married many months, I should say. Such a
pretty girl, too — tall and fair-haired and blue-eyed. But her
eyes wandered while she talked. She looks melancholy.
Perhaps they are poor, but everything in the house was very
nice.'
* Oh, very nice ! ' cried the chorus of damsels.
* I was speaker. So I showed her the extract from the
paper, and said that we ventured — and so forth. And she
smiled gravely, and was gracious, and asked me if we were
claimants. I told her that we were New Zealanders, and
certainly not claimants, so far, because we were doubtful
whether we really belonged to any branch of the Burley
family, which must have changed its name in the hands of
our ancestors. So she smiled again, and said that she would
be very pleased to show us the family portraits. So she took
us upstairs. Pater I We can't make such a house in New
Zealand if we tried ever so much. It's all wainscotted from
roof to cellar. You never saw such a lovely house. The room
THE LONG-LOST FAMILY 1 77
is hot big, you know, but big enough. " I suppose," said
Mrs. Calvert, when she saw us looking about curiously, " that
people in the Colonies may easily drop out of recollection of
their people at home. I mil treat you as if you were cousins
of the late Mr. Burley, and you shall see the house and what-
ever there is of interest in it." *
' That was pleasant. And you saw the portraits ? *
' Yes, we saw the portraits. And here comes the really
interesting part of the story, as you shall learn. She took us
upstairs, I said, and so into the drawing-room where these
portraits are hanging. It is such a pretty old room, newly
painted — low, with three windows, and the light falling
through the creepers curtain outside. There is an old-
fashioned fireplace — with a fender to correspond.'
* And you saw the portraits ? ' asked Sir John, a second
time.
'Dear Pater, you are too impatient. Yes — v/e saw the
portraits. There are about twenty of them ; they begin with
the full wig of Queen Anne's time and go right down to the
curled short locks of — well — George IV.'s time, I suppose, or
perhaps — Dot, you're the youngest — you are the latest from
school : who reigned about the year 1818 ? '
' George 11.,' said Dot.
* Well, it doesn't matter ; there they are, and the women
in every kind of head-dress from the high commodes to the
curls of — you ignorant Dot, it wasn't George II. The pictures
take us back nearly two hundred years. Many a noble lord
cannot boast of respectability for two hundred years.'
* To end in money-lending and dancing cribs.'
* There are the sons and daughters and the wives of the
House. Well, all the men are dark, though some of the
mothers are fair. All with dark hair and dark eyes.'
* And the eyes follow you all round the room,' said Polly,
or perhaps NeUy.
, * Yes ; they all follow you wherever you go. It's ghostly.'
* Go on with the facts, Lucy,' said her father. * We'll deal
with the ghosts afterwards.*
lyS BEYOND THE BREAMS OF AVAKICE
* On every frame is written the name of the portrait, with
the date of his birth and death.'
* What did the name tell you ? '
* Pater, dear, do you remember grandfather before his
head became white ? Would you recognise him if you saw a
portrait of him at the age of sixteen or so, a lad only ? '
* I think it is unlikely. He was born I know in 1801, 1
was born in 1837. When I begin to remember him well, so
as to recall his features, he was already a good way on towards
fifty. Between the man of fifty and the lad of sixteen there
must be a great difference. I remember him altogether, and
always as a grey-headed man, which he was, I believe, for
more than thirty years.'
* Well, there he is on the walls. I am certain, we are all
certain — that he is there. You can go and see for yourself.
There is the grandfather.'
* We are all certain,' cried the chorus. * We are all quite
sure, there can't be a doubt about it.'
* By what marks do you recognise your grandfather ? How
can you tell that the portrait of a boy of sixteen is that of
your grandfather ? '
* Because Herbert is exactly like him. That was what
called our attention first to the picture.'
* Exactly — exactly — exactly like him,' echoed the chorus.
' Dot first saw it. She jumped up and clapped her hands
and cried "Herbert!" And we all ran and looked. It is
Herbert. When you come to look into the face you see there
are differences in expression. As grandfather — I must call
him grandfather — was not in Holy Orders there is wanting
the spiritual look in Herbert's face. One cannot expect that ;
but, for the rest, the same forehead, the same nose, the same
mouth, the same shape of head — everything.'
* Everything like Herbert's,' echoed the chorus.
' Let us examine the argument. Here is the portrait of a
young man or a boy who closely resembled your brother
Herbert. Therefore he is your grandfather.'
* Wait a minute, vve haven't half done,' said Lucy.
THE LONG-LOST FAMILY 1 79
* Not half done, not half done,' from the chorus.
* Courts of law, or heralds and genealogists, want stronger
evidence than a mere resemblance, my dear children. But I
own that the story is interesting, Is there more ? '
* A great deal more. On the frames are written the names
as I told you. The name on this frame is — Charles — Calvert
— Burley — spelt their way — born in the year— 1801 1 What
do you say to that ? '
* Oh I You found that name on the wall ? * Sir John sat
up quickly and he became like unto himself — Premier in the
House, meeting new facts and having unexpected arguments to
face. * That name, too — and that date. It is curious — very
curious. As yet, however, we have not got beyond the region
of coincidence. For, my children, the papers have been pub-
lishing an imperfect genealogy of the family, and I find : first,
that they are all called Calvert ; and secondly, that there was
a Charles Calvert Burley, whose birth was of the same date
as my father's. I would not show you the thing, because we
have already had our thoughts disturbed enough. And the
name proved nothing.'
* But the likeness — oh I Pater, you must go yourself and
see it. The likeness is most wonderful ! '
' I will go, certainly. I must go after all you have told
me.'
' Well— and there is another portrait also, which is exactly
like Herbert, though in a different way. It is of a man who
v/as born in 1745 ' — she was speaking, though she knew not
the history of the man who went mad. * The features are
not so strikingly the same as in the other portrait, but there
is Herbert's look — his straight upright wrinkle — his very eyes
— bright and impatient with that queer expression vrhich he
has when he wants to be a martyr, or when he gets excited
over somebody's opinions. My dearest Pater, you will never,
never, never — get me to believe that these resemblances are
within what you call the region of coincidence.'
* Never,' cried the chorus. * Never — never — never I *
* Do you want more likenesses ? Well, then/ Lucy went
n2
I So BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVAPJCll
on, ' I told you of one of the ladies, my great grandmother, 1
believe, which they say is like me.'
* Not so much like Lucy as that other portrait is like
Herbert.*
* And if you "want still more, Pater, there is the fact that
your eyes are their eyes — the eyes of all the men — the same
eyes. Look in the glass.' He got up and obeyed. 'The
same eyes, as you will see when you go and look at them.'
Sir John sat down with a sigh. There was nothing to say.
* This lady — this Mrs. Calvert— acknowledged that these
resemblances — what you call coincidence— were most won-
derful.'
' I suppose she knows nothing about — how does she come
to have the portraits ? '
* They bought all the furniture of the house when they
took it. But she does know about the family — she seemed to
know a good deal.'
* What did she tell you ? ' he asked, sharply.
* Oh 1 That this one was the man who had just died, and
that this other was his father, a celebrated miser — only I
never heard of him — and this and that. I asked if she knew
why Charles went to New Zealand.'
* Well ? * Sir John interrupted sharply.
* She said " No. He went " ' and then she stopped
short.
Sir John groaned. He actually groaned as one in deep
distress. * Oh 1 * he said. * She knows — she knows — she
knows the family history. Did she — did she — tell you any-
thing else ? '
* She took us upstah's to a room at the top of the house —
in the roof. She said, " You are all gMs, and so I will show
you the nursery where the mothers played with their children
for generation after generation." There it was just as it has
always been. Mrs. Calvert will not have anything touched :
the old-fashioned cradle with carved sides and a carved
wooden head to it ; the babies' things in the drawers — the
things worn by grandfather, I dare say, and the dolls and toys
THE LONG-LOST FAmLY l8l
that tliG children played with, all a hundred years old. Then,
while we looked at them and wondered, she sat on the bed
and folded her hands, and she said, talking like a woman in a
dream : *• In this room I always feel the presence of the dead
wives and mothers. They seem to be telling me things.
You belong to the House, somehow. Of that there can be
no doubt whatever. I could wish you a better fortune, for it
is an unhappy house. Disaster follows those who belong to
it." So we asked her what kind of misfortunes. But she
shook her head. " There will be no disaster for you," she
said, " so long as you do not seek to inherit the fortune. Best
to forget it. Be content with knowing you are Burleys —
somehow." She said no more, and we came downstairs rather
saddened. What kind of misfortune ? None ever fell upon
grandfather ; or upon you, dear Pater.'
*I have been singularly successful so far,' Sir John
replied. * There is still time for trouble.'
' I wonder who she is and how she know^s about the family.
Some kind of cousin, I suppose.'
Sir John made no reply for a while. He sat with his
head upon his hand gazing into the empty fireplace. * Full
of disaster — and of — what did she say ? — of crime ? Children,
do we want to be connected with a family whose history is
filled with disaster and with crime ? '
* No. Certainly not. But it is interesting, and, Pater,
dear, won't you take steps ? '
' What steps ? What to do ? *
' To prove that we belong to this family — perhaps, if you
are not afraid of disaster, to take this estate.*
Sir John rose and walked about the room. * Steps I ' he
repeated. * Steps I What steps ? What for ? To give you
an inheritance of shame ? Crime and shame go together —
go together — unless crime remains undiscovered. That is the
only chance for crime. What steps ? We might easily, per-
haps, find out what became of this Charles. Perhaps he went
abroad — went to America, or somewhere. That, however, is
Ijot the samp thing as to find out about our Charles — your
1 82 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
grandfather, la tlie year 1842 or so, he sailed for New
Zealand from the Port of London. There our Ime begins.
Yon know nothing at all before that date. Connect your
grandfather, if you can, with this or some other family over
here. Not a scrap of paper remains ; not a shred of tradition
or anything. Coincidences, likenesses, mean nothing.
Suppose you find all about him — say — up to that very date
— suppose the history of him stops short there, suppose that
the history of our Charles begins at the point where the
other history ends — what is the use of all your investigations
if you cannot, after all, connect the two ? Likenesses won't
do.'
The girls were silent. * Oh ! but,' said the youngest, * he
is exactly like Herbert,' as if that settled the matter.
* And — we are sure and certain — sure and certain,* cried
the chorus.
'Very good,* Sir John continued. * You have also to
account for the fact that the name is changed. Why should
our Charles change his name? Was he ashamed — out in
New Zealand — where there were as yet not a hundred settlers
and no public opinion to consider at all about such things,
of his name and his parentage ? Why, his father, supposing
that he belonged— of which we have no proof — to this
family, was at least a gentleman even if he was a miser.
Gentlemen don't want to change their names. They are
proud of them.'
* Yes — but — all the same — there is the likeness. Go and
see the portraits. Pater dear. You can't get over the likeness.
Oh I It is too striking — it is too remarkable.'
* Another thing. This genealogy, of which I have spoken,
his imperfect genealogy, gives the names of a dozen and
more, younger sons of whom nothing is stated. I suppose
some of them married and had children. I suppose that
hereditary resemblance may go through the younger sons as
well as the elder. It is not the exclusive privilege of the elder
son to be like his grandfather. Considering all that you have
told me — the Christian name — these resemblances — I am
strongly of opinion that we do belong to this family ; but, con-
THE LONG-LOST FAMILY 1 83
sidering other reasons, I am of opinion that we may search —
yes, we had better search among some of the earher younger
sons. If we establish such a connection you will have what
you have been wanting so long, an English family without
too close a connection with the money-lender and the miser,
and the disaster and the crime.'
The words, as we read them, have a show of authority.
The speaker, who was a tall and, as we have said before, a
portly person, stood up while he spoke, which should have
lent more authority to his words. But there was something
lacking. What was it ? A little hesitation : a doubtful ring
as if he were making excuses. When he had finished, he
turned abruptly and walked out of the room, but not in his
customary manner. It was hke a retreat.
The girls looked after him with astonishment.
* What ails the Pater ? ' asked one.
* I feel,' said another, softly, ' as if he had been boxing my
ears — all our ears — all round. Did one ever see him like that
before ? '
' It seems,' said a third, ' as if he was by no means anxioua
to establish the connection. Well, we don't actually v/ant
money. But it would be nice to have millions, wouldn't it ?
And I don't believe the world would much care how they were
made after all. Money-lending '
* And gambling places.'
*And dancing places. Everything disreputable: though
why a man should not own a place where people dance I do
not know. It is not wicked to dance, I believe. If it is, we
are the chief of sinners.'
* I believe,' said the eldest, * that it was formerly con-
sidered wicked for the working people and lower orders to
dance. Well — you see the Pater is a K.C.M.G., and perhaps
he would rather have no uncle at all than an uncle who made
his money disreputably. Perhaps it isn't nice when a man
has arrived at honours like these, to have to own an uncle
who was — well — what they say this man was.'
* All the same,' said the youngest, * the two men in the
two pictures are exactly like Herbert.'
184 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVARICE
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIEST PATIENT
Sm John fled from the house. He could not remain in it.
He fled because of the terror and the shame and the sickness
that filled his soul. He was like one who heard from a
physician the news that he has an incurable disease which
will fill his future with a perpetual pain, and will lay upon him
a burden impossible to be shaken off. Such a one must
needs get up and walk about ; he must be alone. For he
had no doubt— none whatever — that the girls had really dis-
covered their English relations ; and he had no doubt, none
whatever, he divined the fact — he felt it — that this woman,
this Mrs. Calvert, knew the whole of the family histvry,
including a certain lamentable and terrible episode in the life
of his father, Charles Calvert Burley. The name, the date,
the resemblance, all these things together proved too strong a
chain of evidence.
As for himself, he knew no more than his daughters to what
family his father belonged. It was a question he had never
put. But he knew certain things, and he remembered certain
things : and he had learned little by little to understand that
concerning these things there must be silence. He remem-
bered, for instance, a midnight embarkation in some far
country ; he remembered a long voyage on board a small sail-
ing vessel, in which his father, mother, and himself were the
only passengers; he remembered crowded streets, and then
another vessel, and another voyage. And he knew — how?
He could not answer that question. He knew — he had
gathered — there had been hints from his mother about
silence ; that the place of the midnight embarkation was
Sydney ; that his father, if not his mother as well, a dreadful
possibility which he never dared to put into words, was a
convict escaping from transportation : that they were landed
THE FIRST PATIENT 1 85
in Louden ; and that after as brief a delay as possible, they
re -embarked for New Zealand, a colony then so thinly popu-
lated that no one would look for the escaped convict, even if
any search at all was made, or any notice taken of his escape,
in a place so far from British law. He knew, also, why his
father kept on the fringe or edge of the EngUsh settlement
and avoided the haunts of men. Even after years have
turned the black hair white, one may be recognised. But no
one ever recognised in the peaceful, successful, and retiring
settler, Mr. Burleigh, the ex-convict, Charles Burley, trans-
ported for life, in commutation of the capital offence, to the
penal settlement of New South Wales.
This shameful story then was a secret known, first, to his
mother and to himself; when his mother died, to himself
alone. No one suspected it. The old man died in silence,
believing that his son knew nothing, and the son had this
secret all to himself.
A secret, he said to himself whenever he thought of it — in
these later days seldom — which would never be discovered ;
it could not ; there was not a possibility of discovery. The
crew of the brig which brought them home knew nothing ;
they were all long since dispersed or dead. No one could by
any possibility connect the prosperous settler with the forger.
The crime itself might be remembered. You may read it in
the * Annual Register ' for 1825 ; but the criminal— he dis-
appeared for ever when he went on board that brig. The
settler's purpose, in which he succeeded, was to escape, to
begin again, unsuspected, and without the stigma of his
crime. He had one son only to inherit that stigma, and he
succeeded so far that no one except that son knew or sus-
pected the truth.
As for the boy, the possession of the secret made him
reserved, like his father. But it was his own secret to him-
self. He married without the smallest dread of discovery ; as
his children grew up around him, he began to forget his
secret ; when they speculated about their English origin he
listened and laughed. There was not the slightest fear of
1 86 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
discovery. It was impossible ; and now, after all these years,
the thing he had quite ceased to fear was upon him. In his
own heart, despite his words of doubt, there was no doubt.
The girls had found their grandfather ; one step more and
they would learn that their grandfather was a forger who had
been sentenced to be hanged, and a convict who had been
transported for Ufe. What had the woman said — * Disaster
— misfortune — crime ? * What could she mean but the crime
of Charles Calvert Burley, born in the year 1801, whose face
was like his grandson's, and he had brought his wife and
daughters all the way to England in order that they might
hear this shameful story.
There was no man in the whole world more miserable than
Sir John Burleigh when he fled from his house, and walked
quickly away with hanging head and rounded shoulders. Sir
John Burleigh, K.C.M.G., who usually faced the world with a
frank smile and a confident carriage, as behoves one who has
done nothing to be ashamed of, walked along with the out-
ward signs of one who had been kicked into the street.
No connection could be proved ; no— that was certain —
no, but the suspicion would remain ; a suspicion amounting
to a certainty.
Of course, his footsteps took him straight to Westminster ;
in the midst of these very painful meditations he was dragged
by the silent spirit within him, which makes us do such won-
derful things, to Great College Street itself. He was startled
out of his terrors by finding himself actually opposite the
very door of the house. He knew it by the great curtain of
gorgeous leaves and the name on the brass plate — ' Lucian
Calvert, M.D.'
He hesitated a moment. Then he mounted the steps and
rang the bell.
He asked for Dr. Calvert. He was shown into the con-
sulting room. The time was a little after six, when the
September sun is close upon setting, and the light in a small
back room, looking south through a frame of vine leaves, drops
into twilight, and in the twilight men see ghosts. Therefore,
THE FIRST PATIENT loj
Sir John reeled and gasped and became faint, and would have
fallen but for the doctor, who caught him. 'Why,' cried
Lucian, gently, ' what is this ? '
The ghost that Sir John had seen was the ghost of his
own father. This ghost rose from his chair when he entered
the room and looked at him inquiringly. All the men of the
Burley family had this strong common resemblance, and in
this young man the common resemblance was stronger than
in any other son of the house. But Sir John knew not that
Dr. Calvert was his cousin.
The doctor put his patient in an arm-chair and stood over
him. Sir John began to recover. His nerves had already
received a great shock by the discovery of the day, and the
aspect of this young man with the black hair, the regular
features, the square chin, the black, strong eyes deeply set,
recalled to him in this unexpected manner his own father in
the very house where he was born. Picture to yourself, dear
reader, a visit from your o^m father as he was at five-and-
twenty. Think how it might be to meet once more yourself,
as you were at five-and-twenty ! What becomes of a man's
old self ? Last year's leaves are dust and garden mould, but
where is last year's man ? What had the girls told him ?
That men of the family were all alike ; and here was one pre-
sumably some kind of cousin who was what his father had
been before his hair turned grey.
* Will you take a glass of water ? ' asked the doctor, ' or a
glass of wine ? *
' A sudden giddiness,' Sir John replied ; * I am better
already.'
' Was it on account of the giddiness that you called ? ' He
looked at the card : * You are Sir John Burleigh of New
Zealand ? We have heard of you, Sir John.'
* I heard — somebody told me — that a physician was living
— in this house— and I thought — I thought — I would call and
state my symptoms.'
Lucian inclined his head gravely. What was the matter
with this gentleman that he should faint on entering the room,
1 88 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
that he should hesitate in his talk, and look so anxious and
troubled ?
He went on to describe his symptoms. There are a great
many diseases in the bag, but hitherto this fortunate colonial
had enjoyed none of them. He had no experiences, therefore ;
and as he was a very poor actor he mixed up imaginary
symptoms in a way which carried no conviction at all with
them. It is rare, indeed, to find a man who suffers from
insomnia, nervous apprehensions, neuralgia, giddiness, want
of appetite, asthma, indigestion, headache, heaviness in the
limbs, and other incidental maladies all at the same time.
Lucian listened, wondering whether the man was deranged for
the moment.
At last he stopped. ' I think I have told you all, doctor.'
* In fact,' said the physician, * you have fallen into a hypo-
chondriac condition. You hardly look it. I should say that
your normal condition was one of great mental and physical
strength. You look as if you were suffering under somo
shock. Your parents, now, were they hypochondriac ? No ?
Well, I will write you a prescription, and you will call again
in a day or so.'
Sir John received the prescription with a little verbal
admonition, meekly. He also deposited two guineas with the
meekness of the unaccustomed patient.
* I hear. Dr. Calvert,' he said, timidly, ' that you have in
this house certain portraits of the Burley family, the people
about whom there is now so much fuss and talk. I believe
that I belong to — ahem ! — a very distant branch of the
family. We spell our names difi'erently. Certainly wo
are not claimants ; my daughters have already been privileged
to see them. May I venture to ask your permission ? *
Lucian laughed. He understood the sham symptoms ; but
why did the man faint ? And why was he so nervous and
agitated ?
* My dear sir,' he said, ' why didn't you say at the outset
that you wanted to see the portraits ? I will show them to
you with the greatest pleasure. I think, however, that my
THE Fir.ST TATIEXT 1S9
^vife is in the drawing-room. You will find her abetter show-
man than I *
In fact, it irritated him to talk about his ancestors.
Margaret could relate their histories if she chose. But he
could not. They w^ere his ancestors, you see.
There vras just enough light left for seeing the pictures.
The faces show^ed in shadow, w^hich suited their expression
better than a stronger hght.
Sir John looked round him. The Burley faced stared at
him from every panel.
A young lady rose and greeted him. * Sir John Burleigh ? '
she said. * I am not surprised to see you. Your daughters
have told you, probably, that they called here this morning.
I suppose you have learned that they discovered a very strik-
ing resemblance to their brother and to you ? '
* Yes, they told me — they told me ' he began to look
about the room curiously. * Frankly, I know nothing at all
about my own people — of what rank or station they w^ere.
For some reason or other my father never told me, and I never
inquired. I have been an active man building up my own for-
tune, and endeavouring the best for my country, and I never
felt any curiosity on the subject. One need not be ashamed,
Mrs. Calvert, of being the architect of one's own fortune.'
* Certainly not.'
* With my children it is dilTerent. They begin with the
work done for them. Naturally they would like, if they could,
to be connected wdth some good English stock.'
* The portrait,' said Margaret, quietly, * w^hich most
attracted your daughters was this — Charles Calvert Burley,
born 1801.'
* Good God 1 It is my father I '
The words escaped him. He gave away his secret at
once in this fooUsh fashion, and then, the blackness of despair
falling upon him, he sat dow^n in a chair and gazed helplessly
at Margaret.
* Is it your father ? Did you not know, then, that you
belonged to this family ? *
IQO BF.YONB THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* No. I did not know. It is my father's portrait.*
* Sir John, do you know the history of your father ? '
Sir John made no reply. 'Your daughters do not. They
have no suspicion. But you — do you know the story ? '
In such a case silence is confession, Neyer did a man
look more guilty than this man.
* You do know it, then/ said Margaret.
He groaned.
* In that case I need not recall it.*
' There is no other person in the world — not my wife, not
my girls, not my son — who knows or suspects this thing,
except myself — and you — and anybody else whom you may
tell.'
* I tell these things to no one. Why should I ? My
husband, I believe, may know. That is, he may have heard
it ; but he does not talk about the misfortunes of this
family.'
* Your husband, he is one of them ; he is exactly like
myself as I was thirty years ago. He is exactly like my
father. Who is he ? '
Margaret evaded the question.
* The men are all alike, Sir John. Well, I shall not tell
your daughters, nor shall I tell anyone. My knowledge of
Charles Burley does not extend beyond his — his — exile. He
went out to Australia, and there he disappeared.*
* It is everything to me — my position in the world ; my
children's pride and self-respect ; my wife's faith in me —
everything — every thin g. '
'If they persist in hunting up the past,' Margaret went
on, * they may, perhaps, somehow — one does not know — come
across this story. Because, to begin with, it is all printed in
the " Annual Register," where I read it.*
* They are so certain about it ; they are so excited about it ;
they are sure to come again. Promise that — you will not tell
them — I implore you. If I could buy your silence— if you
are poor — I will give you £10,000 on the day when I put my
girls on board again in happy ignorance.' His olTer of a
THE FIRST PATIENT I9I
bribe did not offend Margaret, because his terrible distress
filled her with pity.
' Indeed, you must not buy my silence — I give it to you.
Only remember, this is an open secret. They will discover it
if they examine or cause other people to examine the case ;
after all, there is no absolute certainty in a resemblance or a
date. I suppose that without your help they could not con-
nect your father with this portrait ? *
' I cannot deny the family. I suppose that we are Burleys
— we are exactly like these people : I do not think I could
possibly repudiate the family.'
* Find another ancestor then.'
* Eh ? ' Sir John looked up quickly.
* Find another ancestor. Here they are — all the younger
sons ; a family likeness may descend through younger as
well as elder sons. If I were you. Sir John, I would choose
another ancestor for them out of this collection.'
A counsel of deception — and offered to the man of the
greatest integrity in the whole of New Zealand; the man
v/hose whole career had been absolutely honest, truthful, and
above-board, and he adopted it instantly, and without hesi-
tation.
* Yes, yes,' he replied, hastily. * It is the only thing open
to me. Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Calvert. Will you
kindly suggest — or recommend me — someone ? '
Margaret smiled. * How would this young man do ? He
is Henry Calvert Burley, born in 1747. His father was
hanged for highway robbery.'
* I don't care whether they find that out or not. Hanging
a hundred and fifty years ago doesn't matter. Besides, one
would say, it was for killing a nobleman in a duel, or for trai-
torous correspondence with the Pretender. Joshua, born in
1778. What did he do ? '
^I believe he died quite young, in childhood. But I am
not certain, and no one will take the trouble to hunt up the
matter.'
' I shall remember. Joshua Calvert Burley, born in 1778.
195 BEYOND Till: DREAMS OF AVAPJCJ^]
He changed his name to Burleigh, I suppose, and became *—
Sir John looked guiltily cunning — * what do you think, now,
that he would become ? '
* An eminent— sugar baker ? ' Margaret suggested gravely.
The two conspirators were too serious to think of smiling over
their deception.
* Why not '? Sugar baker — made his fortune — baked
sugar at — Bristol, perhaps. My father, Charles, was born —
a younger son — in 1801 : lost his money when he was forty
years of age, and went out to New Zealand. How shall I
prove all these lies ? '
* That, Sir John, I leave to your advisers. I have always
understood that genealogists will prove anything.'
*It must be done; there is no other way out of it.
Heavens I I am going to embark on a whole sea of false-
hoods ; but all I ask of you is silence. You have never seen
me before, but your husband is my cousin. I don't know
how, and you look as if you could be true as steel — true, if
you give a promise even to a stranger — and a cousin whom
you have never seen before.'
' I have promised. It is all I can do.'
* Promise again,' he repeated. * Promise to forget what I
said at first sight of this picture, and tell no one the story of
Charles Burley's crime.'
' Would it not be better, even now, to tell them ? Y^ou
are not to blame. And — and — I had forgotten that — you
stand very near to the succession — there is this enormous
fortune waiting. If you send in your claim *
* What ! Sir John Burleigh, K.C.M.G., to claim a fortune
by confessing that he is the son of a convicted criminal, and
that he knew it all his life ? Not all the wealth of all the
Indies would induce me to send in that claim ! '
* But your children — they will force your hand.*
* Not if I give them another grandfather. My dear young
lady, hitherto, believe me, I have been an honest man. At
the present crisis there is not a trick, or a falsehood, or an
invention, w^hieh I would not practise in order to keep my
•THE FIRST PATIENT 1 93
girls from this discovery/ He pulled out his handkerchief
and wiped his brow.
It was true. Not a trick, or a falsehood, from which he
would shrink in order to save his girls from this shame.
*I am very sorry for you, Sir John. I am very sorry
indeed. I will keep your secret, believe me. That such a
thing should be rediscovered after all these years in such a
strange manner is most wonderful. But if the knowledge of
it is limited by you and me no harm can be done.*
He groaned again.
* I think that the plan I have suggested will be the best.
Go to some genealogist and have your family tree made out
with this Joshua Calvert Burley.'
< I will— I will.'
' Sir John, you belong to a very unhappy family. Come
here again, and I will show you how disaster and unhappiness
have pursued them from father to son. They prosper only
when they separate themselves from the parent stock. You
have prospered — you are a great man — you are a rich man, I
believe ; but the moment you return to your own people you
are struck with misfortune, in the shape of this threatened
discovery. Good-night, Sir John. Come to see me when you
have got your genealogy complete— and don't be anxious
about things, because, you see, unless you own that Charles
for your grandfather no one can possibly charge you with
being his son.*
Sir John went home a little lightened. If only this young
lady would keep her promise ! He would get out of London
as soon as possible : he would take his girls home again, to
New Zealand, six months earlier than he had intended ; and
he would nail that other ancestor to his pedigree.
* My dears/ he said at dinner, * I have been to see those
pictures.*
*WeU?'
* The resemblance is, as you say, very striking. But I
observed that the resemblance was through all the men's
faces, though the expression varies. For instance, there is an
194 BEYOND THE DUEAjMS OF AVAPJC2
earlier one still more like Herbert, and Mrs. Calvert declares
that I am myself like every one of tliem. Well, as you say —
the resemblance is too strong to be mere coincidence.'
' There I ' They all clapped their hands. * He has given
in.'
*I have certainly given in. We belong, I am convinced,
to that family. But as regards that portrait of Charles
Calvert Burley, whose name is the same, and whose age
would now be the same as my father's— there I do not give
in, although the resemblance of Herbert to that portrait is so
striking.'
* Well, but who else—'
* That we shall see. Perhaps I have a clue * he ended
mysteriously. * Perhaps the clue may be followed up.
Perhaps in a little while there may be something definite
discovered. Only, my dear girls, give up thinking of the
great inheritance. For if my clue proves correct you will
have between yourselves and the estate all the sons and
daughters of the miser and all their sons and daughters — and
you wdll inherit no more of the Burley Estates than the Queen
herself 1 *
CHAPTEE XXIV
THE CUEATE'S choice
The girls came again— the very next day— to see the por-
traits. This time they brought with them their brother, the
Reverend Herbert, and begged permission to show him— in
one of the old pictures hanging on the wall — himself.
*I knew you would come again, soon,' said Margaret,
welcoming them with her sweet, serious smile.
* Oh ! but only think ! If you had been brought up in
ignorance of your own people ! And then if you suddenly
found out who they were, you v/ould naturally feel curious
THE CURATE'S CHOICE I95
and interested. And this is the only place where we can hear
anything about them.'
* I am very pleased to show you the portraits.*
* Here, Herbert ' — they led him to the portrait of Charles
Burley, bom 1801 — * this is the picture we pounced upon
for grandfather's, because it is so exactly like you. Is it not,
Mrs. Calvert ? Look at him — Charles Calvert— the same
Christian name, and born the same year. It must be he.'
* It is like him, certainly,' said Margaret. * But perhaps
this earlier one resembles your brother still more.*
She pointed to the portrait of the madman. Herbert
resembled him still more closely than the other. For in
his eyes this morning there lay a strange light as of expectancy.
They looked upwards as if waiting for a fuller faith. It is
the light of religious exaltation : only one who can believe
greatly has such eyes. A man with that look becomes a
prophet, the founder of a new creed, a maniac, or a martyr.
A monastery should be full of such eyes ; I believe it is not,
as a rule. But I am told there are nuns in plenty who have
these eyes. You may also find them, here and there, in the
Salvation Army. ' y^*
Herbert looked at both pictures, one after the other.
* What was this man ? ' he asked, pointing to the later por-
trait.
* His name was Charles Calvert Burley ' — Margaret evaded
the real question.
* What was he ? and what became of the man ? ' Herbert
affected the brusque and direct manner of the young clerics
who go so far in self-mortification as to pretend not to like
the society and the talk of young ladies.
Margaret coloured and looked a little annoyed. These
blue-eyed, fair girls, who seem so meek to outward view, can
show annoyance and can ansvrer back at times.
*I do not know,* she replied, shortly. If the question
referred to the completion of that exile's life, she did not
know — she could only guess. If it referred to the earlier
part of his life, it was give her the benefit of the doubt.
o2
196 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICE
Schoolmen would allow the answer, considering the ques-
tion.
* We seem to resemble all the men's faces/ said Herbert,
looking about him.
* See, Herbert — there is the Pater, too — and there — and
there — and there — you are both in all the portraits.'
* It is impossible not to be convinced that this must be
our family,' he stated, dogmatically.
The girls clapped their hands. * He gives in, too. And
the Pater has given in. We are sure — we are quite sure.
It must — it must — it must be our family.*
* Things are strangely and wonderfully ordered,' said the
clergyman. * We come to England on a visit — that is, you
do. We have no clue to our own people. We arrive just
at the moment when publicity throws a strong and sudden
light upon an obscure family ; we hear of these portraits : we
come here to see them, and we recover our ancestors. Per-
haps, in addition, we shall step into a colossal fortune. If
that is ordered, as well as this discovery of the family, it
will be a great thing ; a great thing to pour all these
treasures — ill-gotten — into the lap of the Church.*
* You forget, Herbert,' said the sisters, * that they will be
poured into the Pater's lap, and when it comes to pouring out
again, the Colony will certainly come before the Church.'
* And,' said Margaret, * allow me to point out that a resem-
blance does not constitute proof. You would have to establish
your connection with this Charles, and it may prove difficult.'
* Since I cannot give the estates to the Church,' said
Herbert, coldly, * anyone may have them that likes.'
* Well, Mr. Burleigh, are you satisfied with these newly-
found ancestors ? *
* No,' he replied with candour, * I am not. I should have
liked either the higher or the lower class — even the lowesfc.
These people are of the middle class — the smug, respectable,
grovelling middle class ; incapable of aims or desires save to
be rich and comfortable ; incapable of sacrifice, or generosity,
or things spiritual— the outcome, the prop, and the pride of
THE CURATE'S CHOICE 1 97
protestantism. Except that man'— he pointed to the mad-
man — * they all grovel.*
* My dear Herbert,' cried his sisters, * what do you ki^ow
about them ? All this from a portrait ? '
* What I hoped to find, if not a noble family, was one
steeped in crime — black with crime ; my grandfather a
criminal — all of us under the curse of the forefathers — our-
selves awaiting the doom, yet rising spiritually above it,
making our very punishments steps unto higher things I '
His voice rose shrill and high ; his eyes flashed : it was a
curious outburst of fanaticism.
* Herbert I ' cried the girls aU together.
* So that I could go about among our poor sinners, who
commit a new sin every time they speak or act, and say to
them : " Brothers, I am one with you. We have the same
forefathers — criminals, drunkards, profligates. We are all
alike, up to the neck in sin and the consequences of sin." '
* How would that knowledge help your sinful brothers ? '
asked Margaret.
* It would make them feel me near them — one with them.
They would understand me. With sympathy much may be
done. With sympathy and confession — all may be done.'
* It would be better for them, I should think, that they
should feel that you were far above them.*
He shook his head. * The Franciscans were the most
successful of any preachers or teachers among the people.
They lived among them — on their fare — in their cottages.'
* Did they desire that their fathers should be criminals ? '
asked Margaret, whom the manner of this young clergyman
ofifended. 'Had they no respect, pray, for the Fifth Com-
mandment ? '
The Eev. Herbert turned his bright eyes upon her, but
answered not. Young as he was, he would not allow a woman
to enter into argument with him— a deacon. Then he waved
his hand, contemptuously, at the pictures. * Middle-class
respectability,' he repeated ; * I would rather have no ancestors
at all than such smug, middle-class respectability,*
198 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* If you want wickedness/ said Margaret, * perhaps I can
find enough among your people here — if they are your people
— to satisfy even you. There is this man, for instance '
She pointed to the deceased money-lender. * To be sure, he
is not your grandfather — he lived for ninety and odd years ;
he ruined multitudes by his gaming tables. He ruined other
multitudes by keeping houses for profligate and abandoned
persons. And he ruined other multitudes, again, by usury
and exorbitant interest. "What more do you want? Go
among the worst sinners of your parish, sir, and tell them that
you can now sit down with them, proudly, because you are
closely related to a man whose profession, hke their own, was
Destruction and Ruin.*
Margaret had never before spoken with such plainness.
The young man winced — plain speech disconcerted liim. But
he recovered,
* I don't think Herbert quite means what he says,'
the eldest sister explained, while the others behind her mur-
mured.
* On the contrary, I mean all that I say. I should like,
for the sake of the Church, to be sprung from the meanest
and lowest and basest *
* At all events, Herbert, you would not like your sisters,
also, to belong to the meanest and the lowest and the basest ?
Oh 1 no, you cannot ! '
* You cannot, Herbert I ' murmured the chorus. * Oh 1
you cannot I *
* Perhaps,' Margaret added, ' when you learn more of the
history of these portraits, you may be satisfied.'
* You know their history ? '
* I know some of it. Since it is not Hkely that you will
get exactly what you want, why do you not commit a crime
of your own and go to prison for it ? Then you will be really
on the same level as those poor creatures, and you will
spare the memory of your ancestors, and inflict on your sisters
only the shame of their brother.'
* You do not understand,' said Herbert, coldly.
THE CUKATE'S CHOICE 1 99
* Well, Herbert,' said his sister, * look around you ; choose
your ancestor among them all.'
* He is here.' The young clergyman pointed to the mad-
man. * This is the ancestor that I want. His eyes have a
look of expectancy and of faith. I should say that he had
been spiritually blessed, according to the light of his time —
which was not our time, but the darkest age of black Protes-
tantism. I have nothing more to say. Madam,' he bowed
with more pohteness than one might have expected, ' I thank
you for showing me these pictures, which I verily believe are
those of our people. As for what you said — you do not under-
stand me at all. For the sake of the Church we must resign
all ; even the honour of our name ; even our pride in being
the children of good men.' He went away without taking
leave of his sisters.
* He is not often like that,* said Lucy. ' But sometimes
he is in the skies, and sometimes in the depths. He has got a
craze that he ought to be like the wretched creatures among
whom he works — if not a criminal himself, at least connected
with criminals. It is not the first time that he has flamed up
in this way.*
Then they sat and talked about these dead-and-gone
people whose history was so sad. Margaret told them some-
thing, but not all — the things that saddened but did not
shame. She told about the miser, and hoAV his children ran
away from home one after the other ; and about the money-
lender, his successor, who suffered his sister to Hve in the most
abject poverty. She hid from them the story of the forger
who was sent to Australia, and that of the man who went mad
from rehgious terrors, and that of the man who was hanged.
She told them enough. The possession of an English family,
they discovered, would not necessarily make them more joy-
ful.
When they went downstairs they found, standing at the
door just opened for her, a tall, thin old woman, dressed in a
blue frock and a check shawl.
< Stop a moment,' said Margaret. * You want to know
200 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
your own people? Let me introduce you to your cousin,
Lucinda Avery, daughter of Lucinda Burley — who was the
sister of the rich man recently deceased. Lucinda Avery is
now in Marylebone Workhouse — a pauper. We are going to
take her out soon — in a few days. Meantime she is, I
believe, your cousin. My dear ' — she addressed the old woman
— ' these young ladies are the daughters of Sir John Burleigh,
from New Zealand, and they believe themselves to belong to
your family.'
*New Zealand? From New Zealand? Then, so '
She hesitated, looking in wonder at these girls, so beautiful
and so richly dressed.
* We are not certain that Mr. Burley was not our great-
grandfather,' said one of the girls. *Our grandfather was
named Charles.'
The old woman shook her head. * There was never any
other Charles in the family,' she said. * Oh ! I know — I know
my own. Mother told me all she could. I don't forget — no,
no— about mother's family I can talk.'
Lucy took her hand. * You poor thing ! ' she said. * My
name is Lucinda, too — I don't think a cousin of ours ought to
be in the workhouse. I will speak to my father about you.*
The old woman looked at her wonderingly.
' Sir John I ' she repeated. * Sir John 1 Oh I It's wonder-
ful.'
* Mrs. Calvert will tell us how we can help you,' Lucy
continued. * You will let us help you ? '
* Sir John 1 Sir John ! ' the old woman repeated, staring.
The girls nodded and ran down the steps. The old woman
looked after them.
'And their grandfather — my uncle — Charles — he was a
common convict,' she murmured, * from New Zealand I And
their father is Sir John ! Sir John ! Mother said she
couldn't never get over the disgrace of her brother being a
common convict ; and look at them. And their grandfather
a common convict I *
201
CHAPTER XXV
WHO IS HE?
*CoMB,* said Margaret, taking the old woman's hand. 'I
think my husband is in his study. Let me take you to have
a Httle talk with him.*
But she continued gazing after the girls as they walked
down College Street.
* They're the daughters of Sir John/ she repeated. * Sir
— John — Oh ! and their grandfather was Charles, who was
transported and came back and went out to New Zealand. I
saw him before he went.'
* Hush I Do not speak of that. They know nothing
about it. And remember — those who know most speak least,
Lucinda.'
* Mother told me all about it, long afterwards. Oh I And
I am the cousin of those young ladies. Ain't they dressed
lovely ? And such lovely manners ! They want to call at
the house to see me : they'd be taken to the matron. Such
sweet young ladies I And their grandfather — was a '
* Lucinda ! ' said Margaret, sharply, * keep silence about
what you know. It is quite enough to think that you and I
know.'
The possession of this knowledge made the old lady smilo
and bend her head sideways, and even amble a little — but one
may be mistaken. The pride of sharing such a possession
with the * lady of the house,' fell upon her and gave her great
comfort. How elevating and sustaining a thing is personal
pride — the pride of some personal distinction, if it is only a
projecting tooth or a glass eye. Never before had this old
woman had any possession of her own at all except the sticks
and duds of her miserable room.
Margaret looked into the study. * If we do not disturb
you, Lucian, here is our cousin Lucinda Ayery*, of whom I
gpok^f Come, JJucinda,*
202 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Lucian rose and welcomed the pauper cousin, who
received his hand with a bob and a curtsy humiliating for a
cousin to witness.
* Our cousin remains in the union, dear, onl}^ until I have
concluded the arrangements for getting her comfortably cared
for, outside. You are not going back to your old quarters,
Lucinda ; you shall have your own room, and pleasant people
to cocker you up and keep you warm.'
The prospect did not seem very attractive to the old lady.
She pulled her shawl more tightly round her and said, with
meaning, that the union was kept nice and warm, and she'd
never had such good meals.
*But not so warm as the nest we shall find for you.
Lucian, our cousin has not been in a position to acquire much
book learning ; but she knows the whole history of this house,
down to the miser and his five children.*
* Mother told me,' she repeated. * On a Sunday night she
used to talk about them. I know a great deal — you are a
Burley, too,* she added, staring at Lucian. * They are all
alike, the Burleys. A reg'lar Burley, you are, just exactly
like the pictures upstairs.'
'Didn't you read the name on the door-plate?' asked
Margaret. * Lucian Calvert.*
' I read print — almost any kind of print,' Lucinda replied.
* But not door-plates. Lucian Calvert Burley, is it? They
are all Calvert Burleys. Every one.'
* Oh I ' said Lucian. * Then, pray, who am I ? '
She turned her head sideways. Every gesture that this
poor woman used seemed not to fit her ; tall, thin, dark, with
strongly-marked and clear-cut features, she should have been
full of dignity and authority — a Queen of Tragedy. Instead
of which there was no part in the humblest Comedy that she
could fill. She was timid ; she had never before met such
people as these who neither bullied her nor Avanted to sweat
her ; and she had a secret shared with * the lady of the house.'
She knew aU about the Burleys. The mixture of pride and
timidity produced a remarkable phenomenon. She turned
WHO IS HE? 203
her head on one side ; she smiled feebly ; she advanced one
foot and withdrew it ; she took her hands from mider her
apron and folded them in front, which meant self-assertion.
'I've seen all the pictm.*es upstairs,' she said, 'everyone of
them. And my mother's among them — with a gold chain.
And the men are all alike. That's what mother used to say.
" See one," she said, " and you've seen aU." '
' And now the old lady, who had been answering in mono-
syllables, began to be as garrulous as an old crow, proud to
show her knowledge.
'Well?'
* You can't be the grandson of Charles, who was — I hum-
bly beg pardon ' (to Margaret) ; ' those who know most speak
least. He went abroad and his young ladies are at homo,
and I've seen them. Nor you can't be the grandson of James,
who ran away with his master's wife to America and never
came back again. P'r'aps you're the son of Henery ? ' She
said Henery. ' He was an actor, and so was his son. Once
— a long time ago — mother and me went to see a play in a
theatre where they both acted. We sat in the front row of
the gallery and saw beautiful. Oh I It was lovely ! Mother's
own brother and her nephew acting — dressed up fine — on the
stage. It was grand. She inquired about them— about all
her relations. There was only one child, and he was a boy
named Clarence. Mother liked to find out everything. Then
there's only Uncle John left — him that died the other day.
He married, and he had six children. Five of them died
young. Served him right, said mother, for his hard lieart.
Then there was one son left. When his mother died, the boy
ran away. Mother found out so much. Oh 1 she used to
come round here — it wasn't very far — and ask the postman,
and the potboys, and the bakers' boys. She never wrote to
her brother any more, nor wanted to see him, but she wanted
to find out everything that happened in the family.*
* And what became of that son ? '
* I don't know. Mother didn't know. But as for you^
why— you are his son, for suje '
204 BEYOND TIIE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Oh ! you think '
* You are his son, for sure and certain. You are a Burley,
and you're exactly like the picture of Uncle John, upstairs.
Yes — you are his son. You can't be nobody else.*
Margaret said nothing. Lucian gazed at the old woman
with surprise.
* She has said it/ he replied. * This convinces me, if I
wanted any convincing, that all old women — and especially
all illiterate old women ' — he murmured these words — * are
witches. They read thoughts : they know the past : they
foretell the future.'
*You are his grandson,' she repeated. Then she partly
straightened a long, lean, bony, and rheumatic forefinger,
attached to her poor old hand. It was the forefinger which
had been cramped and bent from overwork, and to shake it in
its cramped shape in a man's face was something like shaking
the nightmare of a door-key. But she did shake it, and she
became on the spot a witch, a sorceress, and a prophetess.
* Take care, you I Take care ! From father to son, from
man to man — mother always said so — nothing but sin and
misery — sin and misery, for all the men from father to son.
Your father ran away from it ! Take care, you ! Bun away
from it ! Leave this house ! Run away I Did he escape —
your father — did he escape ? '
* Yes, he, as you say, escaped,* said Lucian, impatiently.
* That dear old thing,* he said later in the evening, * your
interesting pauper, Margaret, carries on the family supersti-
tion, I observe. Strange, that my father himself — well, never
mind. Here is a letter signed Clarence Burghley —
B-u-r-g-h-1-e-y, another variant of the name. Clarence John
Calvert Burghley says that he is a grandson of the second son
— the one who ran away and went on the stage. I dare say ;
I don't mind if he is twenty grandsons — and that he is about
to forward to the Treasury papers, &c., &c., &c., and may he
see the family portraits ? Certainly, if you like to show them.
Did the second son murder anybody, or forge anything?
How did he distinguish himself ? '
WHO IS HE P 205
*He became, as the pauper cousin has just told us, a
popular actor. That is all I know about him.*
*Not much of the family curse upon him, anyhow. 1
don't think that was fair upon the others.'
* There is the other claimant — the little American girl,
Lucian ; you like her ? Yes, I thought you did. She is
proud, and she is poor, and she is independent, and if we don't
help her she will starve, she and her tearful aunt.'
* Well, my dear, why shouldn't she starve ? That is the
question.*
* No, she must not. I want to help her, Lucian.*
* Get her to go back to her own people. That is the best
way to help her.*
' Let me ask them to stay here a little. It won't cost us
much, Lucian — and to them it may mean everything — and
you like her talk.*
' Have your own way, my dear ; you always do. Ask all
the cousins — New Zealanders and all.'
Then Lucian lapsed into silent brooding.
* It is too ridiculous ! * he said at last. * Here am I, a man
of science, actually debarred from taking my own by super-
stitious folly, worthy of the ignorant old pauper who believes
in it ! *
Margaret looked up reproachfully.
' My father wanted me to make a promise. You wanted
me to make a promise.*
* You did make a promise, Lucian. Is it only the super-
stition ? Is there not something to be said for the infamy
attaching to the money ? '
* The world cares very little how the money has been made.
The world would not ask, my dear. There would be no infamy
at all. Very great fortunes cast out reproach : just as successful
revolutions are no longer rebellions. Everybody would know
the past — old history — old history — and no one would care
twopence about it. Put the infamy theory out of your mind.*
* I cannot. It would be always in my mind, but for the
thought that we have separated ourselves from them.*
206 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Marjorie — be reasonable. Now listen, without thinking
of infamy and misfortune and family curses. Do. you suppose
that I am thinking of this estate as a means of living with
more magnificence ? Do I want to eat and drink more ? Do I
want to buy you diamonds ? You know that I cannot desire
these things.'
* No, Lucian, you cannot.'
' Suppose that I saw a way to advance science— my
science — the science of life — the most important of all the
sciences, by using the vast funds which this estate would
give me. Suppose that I had formulated a project— such a
project as had never before been possible for the world — and
that I could bring it into existence if I had this great for-
tune *
* Y'our dream, Lucian, would turn to Dead Sea fruit.*
' Again this bogey ! Always this bogey. My dear, I am
talking of things scientific, not of old wives' fables. I am
dreaming of a world-wide service — Madge — wife ! ' — he laid
his hand upon her shoulders and kissed her brow — * release
me from that promise — set me free. Let me give this great
thing to humanity.'
* Release you ? ' She sprang to her feet and roughly pushed
away his hands. * Release you, Lucian ? Yes, if you first
release me from my marriage vows ; if you will promise that
I shall never, never, never join that band of weeping mothers.
If you will send me away, I will release you ; and not till
then.'
CHAPTER XXVI
A SHAKY PABTNEESHIP
The partnership was doing badly. Failure, bankruptcy,
separation looked imminent. The relations w ere strained ;
accusations and recriminations were of daily occurrence.
There was no more easy dropping into rhyme ; no more dis-
cussion of likely tags and possible busmess. Anxiety gnawed
A SIIAliY PABTNEKSinP 207
the vitals of the poet, who, in return, gnav/ed his finger-nails,
unless he was gnawing the mouth-piece of his brier-root.
Clarence sat in blackness and in gloom. Was this the light-
hearted butterfly, the Cigale, the sweet singer and the mirth
compeller ?
For the September country houses had proved a frost.
There are no people so easy to amuse as the men tired with
the day's shooting. Yet Clarence did not amuse them. Ha
took down with him a portfolio full of his partner's new songs
— all light and bright and sparkUng, together with a new and
very promising little entertainment. Nobody laughed at all
when he sang them ; the shadow of a forced smile ; a look of
mingled surprise, pity, and contempt ; a hardly concealed
yawn was all the recognition that the unfortunate comic man
could get. And he seemed to overhear the people whispering :
* Is this the most amusing man in London ? Is this the fellow
they make such a fuss about ? Is this the man they were all
raving about ? — the man we were asked to meet ? This little
cad? * You see that if a man invited to amuse, expected to
amuse, and professing to amuse, fails to amuse, he becomes a
cad. If he does amuse and makes the people laugh, there is
nobody better bred. * Why, he is as solemn as an undertaker.'
Just so — he was as solemn as an underpaid undertaker ; he sat
at dinner with the face of a croquemortj the aspect of one sent
down to conduct a funeral. He made no little jokes, he told
no stories, and when he took his place at the piano and
assumed with difficulty a mechanical smile, it was hke that
croquemorVs face suddenly lit up by a jet of gas. From
every house the unfortunate mime came away with the
conviction that he had failed, and that this would be his last
visit.
* I knew how it would be,' he said, naturally laying the
blame on the partner. * I knew when I took the infernal
things with me that your beastly vulgarity would damn
them.'
* Vulgarity,* the poet repeated. ' Look here, Clary, I don't
mind your calling the things vulgar, They were meant to be
J08 BEYOND THE BUEAMS OF AVARICE
vulgar. For that class of people you can't be too vulgar. I'm
not in the circles, but I know that they like vulgarity, and
I've given them vulgarity. The vulgarity of the stage is
meant for the stalls. If anything they were not half vulgar
enough. But in poetry, one who respects his future fame
must draw the line somewhere.'
* Why did they go as flat as ditch-water, then ? *
* Because of the singer, Clarence, my boy. Because they
were badly sung.'
* They were not badly sung.'
* They were badly sang. The songs are as good as any-
thing I ever did. Went as flat as ditch-water, did they?
Well, I should think they would, considering. Flat as ditch-
water I Why ? Because ' here he interposed some of
those words which relieve the feeHngs and heighten the
picturesque effect of the truth. 'Because you're losing
everything — everything — your art — your memory — your
imagination— hang it, your very face is changed. You, with
the happy-go-lucky laugh, with the light touch, the twinkling
eye, the musical voice — good heavens I you look as if you
couldn't laugh if you tried. You hang your head ; you
scowl ; your eyes have gone in and your forehead has come
out. It bulges. I say it bulges. To think that I should
live to see your forehead bulge I You've gone back to your
great-grandfather, the Westminster miser. I'm sure his eyes
went in and his forehead stuck out.'
* I can't help it.' Clarence sat down and hid the projecting
brow with his hand. * It's the thought of the thing that's
with me always '
* Don't tell me. As if I didn't know 1 Now, look here,
Clary. Let us understand each other. Ours has been a
very successful business, so far, hasn't it? I invent the
pieces and write the songs. All you've got to do is to sing
them. You've sung them very well up till now, and I don't
think I could find a better interpreter anywhere. All the
same, clearly, I can't afford to go on unless business is
attended to.'
A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 209
* What do you want me to do, then ? *
* Do ? I want you to be yourself again. That isn't much
to ask, is it ? Look here, my boy. The thing presses. I
can't afford to let you go on murdering my songs and ruining
the connection. It'll get about like wildfire that you can't
make 'em laugh any longer. Then you're a ruined Johnnie,
because if you can't do that, you see, you can't do anything.*
* "What do you want, then ? ' Clarence repeated, gloomily.
* I shall find it difficult to replace you. Clary, but there
are lots of other fellows who could do the thing. I've been
talking it over with one — a man who's been on at the Oxford.
He isn't a gentleman, and he'd have to go up the back stairs ;
and it wouldn't be quite the same thing. Still, one cannot
sit still and starve. What you will do, my dear boy, with
your face as glum as an undertaker's, I don't know.'
* It's my claim that I think of, all the time. If we could
only connect my grandfather with the family. Because the
missing son is dead long ago ; I am sure he must be dead.*
The poet groaned. * That's all you think about. I talk
of the business, and you reply with this accursed claim of
yours.'
Clarence looked all that his partner had described him — •
haggard, anxious, hollow- cheeked. The fever of the claimant
was upon him. His face was full of anxiety. It was easy to
see that, as his partner said, he had lost his art : at least for
the time. The ready laugh, the hght of the eye, the quick
smile, the easy carriage — all had vanished. You could not
believe that this young man had ever been able to compel
laughter.
* Must we dissolve partnership. Clary ? '
* I can think of nothing but the claim. You must do
what you like. Until this suspense is over, I can think of
nothing else.'
' Look here, dear boy, pull yourself together. At the best,
the very best, it will prove a waiting business. They'll give
the missing son or his heirs ten years' law, before they
consider the claimants — and when they do, I tell you plainly,
p
2IO BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
your casG is not established. Give over the dreaming and
come back to basiness. Even if you succeed at last, you've
got to keep yourself for ten years to come. If you don't
succeed, you've got to go on working all your life. Attend to
business, I say. Come back to your right mind. Begin at
once. Sit down at the piano and try to sing as you used
to do.'
* Stop a minute,* Clarence replied, in the depths of gloom.
* I've got something to show you first. It's about that con-
nection. Suppose I had found another document ' — he pulled
out a pocket-book and opened it — ' an important document,'
he glanced shiftily at his partner ; ' nothing less than a letter
to my grandfather from his elder brother.'
* Letter to your grandfather from his elder brother?
Why — how came I to miss that among the papers ? Why,
such a letter might complete the chain.'
* So I thought. And — in fact — here is the letter. It was
not among the letters that I showed you. I only found it
yesterday.* He spoke with hesitation, and he drew from his
pocket a piece of paper a little browned by age. It was the
size of a royal octavo page. It was written in ink, now pale,
but was still legible.
Dick opened it — looked up sharply and curiously — and
then read the contents aloud.
' Dear Harry, — Yours of the 15th to hand. I can do
nothing for you with father. He is mad with you for running
avray and for going on the stage. Says that you've disgraced
the family. He grows more miserly every day. I hope that
your prospects will improve before long. They don't seem
at present very rosy. I quite approve of your changing your
name. The pronunciation, I take it, remains the same in
spite of the two letters stuck in the middle. My mother sends
her love. * Your affectionate brother,
' John Calvert Burjjey.
* Great College Street, Westminster,
* June 20th, 1825.'
A SHAKY PAKTNERSniP 211
When the partner had read this valuable letter he held
the paper up to the light. He examined the writing, he
looked at the edges, and he laughed lightly.
* Most convincing,' he said. * This letter establishes the
connection beyond the shadow of a doubt. And this being
so, Clary, you may rest at ease, and can give your mind to
business.*
He threw the letter on the floor carelessly, and walked
over to the piano, which he opened. Then he sat down, ran
his fingers over the keys, and struck into an air — one of his
own light and unsubstantial tunes. * Now, then. Clary,' he
Baid, encouragingly, * you are the heir, so that's all right. I
congratulate you. Give up thinking about the thing for ten
years. Now come back to business. This is the song that
ought to have fetched 'em, but didn't. Come along, and give
it with your old spirit. Think of your grand-dad.
Wanted, a Methuselam ! To tell us how they kept it up ;
Our fathers in the bygones, when they made the guineas run.
How they wasted time and drank it up, and everything but slept it up.
And always had a new love on before the old was done.
Wanted, a Methuselam I Old man, bring out the sack again ;
The port and punch, the song and laugh, the good old nights revive
again ;
The gallop with the runaway to Gretna Green and back again ;
The Mollys and the Dollys wake and make alive again I
Come, Clary, in your liveliest manner. It wants a laughing
face all through.'
But Clary paid no attention. Then his partner shut the
piano with a bang and used a swear word.
Clarence went on as if there had been no interruption.
• You think, then, that the letter establishes the connection 7 '
* Undoubtedly, my dear boy. I congratulate you. The
connection is established, and, 1 repeat, now that your mind
is at rest, you can go back to your work. In ten years' time,
or thereabouts, we will consider the case again.'
* The letter is — is — all right, you think ? *
p2
212 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAEICE
* Oh I Quite — quite,* the partner replied, airily. * We
need not consider the thing seriously for ten years to come —
otherwise '
' Well ? Otherwise ? '
* Otherwise there would be one or two points requiring
explanation. For instance, letters seventy years ago were
written on letter-paper — square — size of a quarter-sheet of
foolscap. Take a half-sheet of foolscap, there is your letter-
paper of that period. This is written on a blank page cut or
torn out of an old book. One edge, I remark, is freshly cut.
Letters used always to be folded in one way — not this way.
And there was always a postmark of some kind on a letter
which had travelled through the post.
Clarence groaned.
* Moreover, the Treasury must have heaps of documents in
John Burley's handwriting. I wonder whether the hand-
writing corresponds ? *
Clarence made no reply.
* It looks to me like a modern hand ; not unlike your own,
Clary. Then I observe certain locutions which were not
commonly used seventy years ago ; they didn't, for instance,
say " mad " with a man, but " angry " with a man ; and the
modern poetical use of the adjective "rosy" was then, I
believe, unknown in common parlance. Furthermore, at the
date of that letter your grandmother, who sends her love, had
been dead, according to the register of St. John the Evange-
list, for nearly two years. These are points which in ten
years' time may not appear of any importance.*
He laid the letter on the table. * Shall we get to business,
my partner ? * he asked.
* I told you ' — Clarence picked up the letter and looked at
it gloomily — ' that I should go mad or something. I haven't
even wits enough left to forge a letter creditably.*
* Eather a good thing, isn't it ? '
Clarence laughed. * What would my grandfather say ?
All he cared for was that the business — whatever it was —
should be well done. It was all sta^e business with him.
A SHAKY pahtnershi:? ±t^
Businosg of forging letters? Good business sometimes.
Pleases people. But must be well done. To think that I
should expect a clumsy, self-evident, ignorant piece of work
like this to deceive anybody.' He threw the thing into the
fire. 'Look here, I told you about the old man's comedy.
Everything was justified by the cause. So he opened letters,
told bare-faced lies, acknowledged them blandly when they
were found out ; borrowed money under false pretences ;
forged a deed, and all to save from dishonour the son of a
dead friend. He would quite approve — I know he would — of
my writing such a letter. I would write it, too, I would, if I
knew the handwriting, in order to complete that claim. And
I should never feel ashamed, or sorry, or repentant if I
got the estates by it. I should not feel ashamed if I were
found out.'
' The moralist sighs,' said the poet, * the friend sympa-
thises, the law condemns.'
* If I can't prove my case one way I will another. I am
the rightful heir to millions I Millions I Millions I * He
screamed the words and threw up his arms. It was like the
screech of an hysterical girl. * Millions I And all that ia
wanted is a little letter connecting my grandfather with his
own people. That is all. You may talk about honour as
much as you like. I want my rights I I want my rights I
I will have my rights I '
His voice broke, his hands shook, his face was drawn and
convulsed. The other sprang to his feet, and caught him as
he reeled.
* Sit down, old man,* he said, * sit down and be quiet.
Good heavens ! This cursed claim will kill you, if you do not
take care.'
Clarence lay back — white — with closed eyes. Presently
he opened them and sat up. * Don't mind me. I get
carried away, sometimes. Last night, in the middle of the
night, I woke up and went mad over this business, and I
think I had some kind of a fit. I found myself lying on the
floor.'
214 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICE
* This fortune, Clary, seems likely to prove an extra-
ordinary blessing to you. Already it has robbed you of your
powers ; robbed you of your face ; robbed you of your ready
laugh and your cheerful voice. Good heavens I What a
blessing it vsrill be in the long run 1 It has filled your mind
with anxiety and gloom, made you commit a forgery, makes
you regret only that it was a clumsy forgery, and tempts you
to commit another and a more careful one. It throws you
into fits at night and makes you hysterical by day. Clarence
Eurghley, there must be a devil in this fortune of yours —
there really must. * The Devil in a Fortune * — one might
turn it into a patter kind of song — recitation — old-fashioned
—adventures, and such. Catchy air in it. Eh I ' He took
out his pocket-book.
I tell of a mountain of gold —
A monstrous, incredible hill ;
With a devil to guard it and hold,
A devil of wonderful will.
That's the idea. Eh ?
And every sinner that dared
To carry a nugget away
With whackery, thwackery clawing of claws,
Pawing of paws
Something like that. Eh ? What do you think ?— when you
get better ? '
Clarence paid no attention. * It's the wretched uncertainty,*
he said, * that is killing me.'
* And all for nothing. Because you'll never get it— never,
I am convinced. You will never get it— never— never. Now,
Clary, I am going to see that other fellow, the man from the
music-hall. But I would rather keep you, and I'll give you
time. As for existing engagements, you won't keep them.
You are indisposed — ^you have got influenza. I'll give you
time — never fear— to pull yourself together,'
* Why should I not succeed ? '
* Lots of reasons. The malignity of fortune or fate— that's
one reason. Fate dangles this wonderful prize before your
A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 215
eyes — puts it just, not quite, within your reach : because you
can't prove that you belong to the people at all. It is certain
to you and to me. But you can't prove it.*
* Any more reasons ? '
* Lots. The missing son or his heir will turn up and take
everything.'
* No. That is impossible, after all this time.*
* They'll find a will.'
* They have searched everywhere and there is no will.'
* There are more reasons — but I refrain. The long and
short of it is that they will give the son ten years at least
before they consider the claims. And when they do, you will
have no chance *
Clarence groaned.
* The question therefore between us is, shall the partner-
ship be dissolved ? '
Clarence groaned again.
* You can't get it out of your mind. Then put it in the
background. Don't brood over it, something may turn up.
The Treasury people, even, may find letters that will actually
prove your claims. Take a cheerful view of the thing — and
meantime go back to your work.*
*I don't feel as if I could ever sing another song. Do
without me. Get another partner.*
The poet used a strong expression, and slapped his partner
cheerily on the shoulder.
* Not just yet, Clary. I understand now how a man may
be possessed by the devil. You are possessed by some devil
or other. You are possessed by this fortune devil, and it's
only the devil you'll ever get and not the fortune. I'll wait a
bit, dear Demoniac. And now,' he said, * here is an idea.
You have heard of the family portraits ? The papers are full
of them. Go and see them. There may be tips and revela-
tions even from a family picture gallery.*
Clarence considered. Why not? Then he wrote the
letter already mentioned, and followed it up next day with a
call.
2l6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Lucian received him — somewhat coldly. The theatrical
manner and appearance of this cousin awakened a certain
hostility in the scientific mind. However, he took him to the
drawing-room and showed him the portraits.
* These are your ancestors,' he said. * Can you spot your
grandfather ? '
Clarence walked round the room slowly. Presently he
stopped before a picture representing a dark, Spanish-looking
young man — little more than a lad of eighteen or so.
* That is my grandfather,' he said. ' When I first remem-
ber he was an old man with white hair. I should not have
known him here, but we have a sketch of him in character as
Mercutio, which is exactly like this picture. The eyes are
the same, and the face — oh ! There cannot be the least
doubt ! I will swear to my grandfather.*
* The fact should help your case, Mr. Burghley, because it
is the portrait of the second son, Henry. You are welcome
to have this portrait copied if you like, or used in any other
way. That is to say, unless your case is already complete.'
* Complete ? ' Clarence replied, bravely. * In every detail,
in every link.'
* Well. Then this resemblance illustrates your case.
There is another point, Mr. Burghley. You are, yourself,
unmistakably like your grandfather. You are thinner in the
face and you have not so much colour. Otherwise, you are
exactly like him.'
* I wonder if such a resemblance would be taken as evi-
dence ? '
* I don't think it would, except that it shows you to belong
somehow to the family. But you are like other members of
the family — especially you are like this ancestor.* He pointed
to the unfortunate prodigal.
* A good-looking fellow^' said Clarence, * dare-devil, rakish
sort. Do you think I am like him ? Who was he ? '
* This man, unfortunately, came to the worst kind of grief;
he did a little highway robbery, and was hanged for it.'
* Hanged ? Oh I you think I am Uke him ? *
A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 21?
* Very much indeed. I mention it as another illustratioii
of your case.*
* The best thing I could do, I suppose, would be to get
hanged as well. Then my case would be proved complete to
everybody's satisfaction.*
' Perhaps, but your claim, you say, is complete at every
point already.'
* Quite complete. The only thing is, how long shall I
have to wait ? *
* You will have, I suppose, to wait until the Treasury are
satisfied that the missing son has died without heirs and that
you are the heir — or this missing son may turn up, or his
children may turn up.*
* Not likely. If you have any personal rehcs — autographs,
letters, or anything of the kind belonging to my great-uncle,
John Calvert Burley — I should be greatly obliged by being
allowed to make a copy or a photograph of it, or to buy it.
A thing of sentiment, of course.'
' A thing of sentiment,' Lucian replied. * Quite so.* The
visitor's eyes were shifty and his voice uncertain. * A thing
of sentiment,* he repeated. * Very well, sir, I think I have
something that may assist you — a letter, in fact, written by
your grandfather to his mother after he ran away — I will get
it for you.'
He went in search of it. You have seen the letter already :
one of those found by Margaret. * Here it is. You can
make any use of it that you please. Your lawyers may copy
it. I will lend it — I will give it to you.*
Clarence read it with a joy almost too great to bear. It
was really the one thing wanted to make his claim complete.
He sat down, a little overcome. The joyous life was within
his grasp at last — no doubt now. The connection was esta-
bUshed.
* Mr. Clarence Burghley ' — he heard Lucian*s voice as in
a dream — * I perceive by your manner and your behaviour,*
the physician spoke with authority, * that you are greatly —
dangerously excited by your anxiety about this claim of yours.
2l8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVADJCE
This kind of anxiety is absorbing/ Could he be speaking
from personal experience ? ' It sometimes fills the mind to
the exclusion of any form of work. I can see in your eyes
that you live in a perpetual fever of anxious thought : you
build up schemes of what you will do when you come into
your fortune : and your castles of Spain are always destroyed
as fast as they are built by your terror that your case is not
sufficiently strong. If I were to take your temperature at this
moment, I should certainly find it much too high. I perceive,
farther, other symptoms : the trembhng of your hands, the
nervous twitcliing of your face, the black rings round your
eyes : that you have no appetite, but that you can drink, and
that you pass sleepless and restless nights. Is all this true ? '
* You are a physician. I suppose you can read symptoms.*
* Sometimes we can read the things that are more obvious.
Now, Mr. Clarence Burghley, I have a little prophecy and a
little serious advice. Will you allow me to offer both for
your consideration ? '
* Since you are so good as to give me this letter, I will
listen gratefully to both.'
* My advice is to send in your claim, and then to think no
more about it — no more at all about it. My prophecy is this :
If you neglect it — and any other warnings — if you go on
letting your mind dwell on what may happen when you come
into your inheritance, hope deferred will make your heart sick
unto death— or worse, unto madness. I tell you plainly, Mr.
Burghley, that you will never succeed iu your claim.*
* Why not ? Who is before me ? '
* Accident — chance — the unexpected — are before you.*
Yet this man, so wise for others, was at the very moment
passing through the same experience himself. * Take care, 1
say, Mr. Burghley. Take care.*
He opened the door, Clarence walked down the stairs
and out of the house without replying. The warnings affected
him but little. He had strengthened his case with the portrait
and the letter. His claim was now completely made out. He
went home with dancing steps : he threw himself into a chair
A SHAKY PAr.TNERSmP 219
and dreamed away the afternoon in visions of the joyous life
when three miUions should be his. And when his partner
came home he welcomed him with a shout and a laugh,
brandishing the letter that established his parentage beyond
the possibihty of doubt.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE GENEALOGIST
Sib John went about for some days with an air of great
reserve. Questioned about the clue, he smiled v\'ith impor-
tance and demanded patience. * But, of course,' said the girls,
separately and in a quire, * we understand. We are going to
estabhsh our connection with this mysterious, misrepresented,
misfortunate, misled, misspelt family.' Calamities, many,
had fallen upon the family — yet it was an interesting family,
and , distinguished in a way. There are not many families
which can boast of a fortune made, not lost, out of the South
Sea Bubble ; nor are there many who can show a real gentle-
man highwayman. And a real miser— one of the good old
candle-end, cheese-paring sort— is an ornament to every
family ; he may, and has occurred quite high up on the social
ladder.
The girls looked on ; they chattered among themselves
and v/atched the paternal countenance. It was grave, it was
preoccupied, but it was cheerful. They comforted themselves
the clue was being followed ; the clue would end in a key,
the key would open a box, or a door, or a cupboard : and
that the fair maid Truth would be found most beautifully
dressed within. They called at the ancestral house : they
filled the house with the laughter and the chatter of girUsh
voices.
In point of fact, Sir John Burleigh, genealogy in hand,
and those ascertained facts connected with the Bristol sugar
bakery, had called in the assistance of an experienced and
220 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
obliging person who made it his business to ennoble the
world, or at least to enlarge the too narrow limits of gentility
— for a consideration. Provided with a clue this benevolent
person was getting on as rapidly as could be desired.
The artist in pedigrees, an old man now, presented the
appearance and simulated the manners of a duke or an earl at
least. He was a handsome man still, who knew the value of
good appearance and good dress : he is what is called a * clean '
old man. Many old men who take a tub every day cannot
achieve the appearance conveyed by this adjective. His face
was shaven except for a heavy white moustache ; he was tall ;
his large hands, as white as his snowy linen, were covered
with signet-rings. He sat in a room massively furnished ; one
wall was filled with a bookcase containing those county
histories and genealogies which are so costly and such good
reading, containing as they do the simple annals of the great.
There were all the visitations which have been pubhshed : with
books of all sorts on descents, ascents, heraldry, the nobles and
the gentles. Over the mantel hung his own pedigree, a very
beautiful thing, one branch connecting with Royalty in the
person of Edward I. For one should always pi-actise what
one preaches. Also, one should live up to one's profession.
And to be always in the midst of noble ancestors and find
none for yourself, would be a clear proof of professional in-
capacity.
The Professor of Family Ascents — who would not climb ?
received Sir John with encouraging attention,
* You want to connect yourself, Sir John,* he said, * with
an English family ? A natural ambition, especially when one
has risen to the proud distinction of Knight Commander of
the Order of St. Michael and St. George.' He rolled out the
title as if the mere sound of it was an enjoyment. * Now, Sir
John, place me in full possession of all the facts — all the facts,
if you please — and the papers — all the papers. Then I will
do my best to assist you.'
Sir John related the history as he wished the world to
possess it. There was nothing false in his statement, only a
THE GENEALOGIST 221
supp'cssio veri. "Well — you quite understand how he put it.
"We need not dwell upon the little suppression.
*I have noted your facts, sir. Father, named Charles
Calvert Burleigh, bom 1801, married somewhere about the
year 1834, to a lady whose Christian name was Marian Welford,
Emigrated to New Zealand in the year 1842, being one of the
earliest settlers. Succeeded with his farm and acquired
property. Died in 1873. And never told you '
* I never questioned him.*
* Never told you who he was, and your mother observed
the same silence. Any more facts ? '
< None.*
* Perhaps he had quarrelled with his people. Well, Sir
John, we need not speculate as to causes. We are here con-
nected with the facts. Where are the papers ? *
* There are none. Not even my mother's marriage certifi-
cate. But we claim nothing, so it does not matter.'
* Oh ! ' The genealogist placed his chin in his left hand
and fell into meditation.
* There is, however, a presumption, based on what may be
a coincidence.'
* My dear sir,' the professional discoverer lifted his head,
* in our work we want all the presumption we can get * — he
did not mean a double use of the word — * and all the
coincidences we can find. Coincidence is the guiding star of
genealogy.'
* This coincidence is nothing less than an extraordinary
resemblance between ourselves — my son, my daughters, and
myself — with a certain group of family pictures '
* Yes. Of course you are aware. Sir John, that such a
resemblance may throw the door open to a fine field of scandal.
The first Duke of But you understand.'
* I think that we need not fear that kind of scandal,'
* Is it a noble family ? *
* Very much the contrary.'
* In — that case, I should say — do not let us trouble our-
Belves about the resemblance, unless there are other reasons.*
222 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* This family is named Burley ; their great wealth has
brought them very much before the public of late.'
' You mean the great Burley fortune ? My dear sir, if you
can connect yourself with that family — your name is spelled
differently — l3ut — ' — he shook his head — * it is one thing to
connect a colonial or an American family with an English
house — even a noble house — and quite another to prove things
as lawyers require proof. Quite another thing, sir, I assure
you. Quite another thing. And without papers, letters, or
any kind of evidence — almost impossible.*
* I think that you do not quite understand.*
* What I mean, Sir John, is this. You come to me with-
out any papers, and two or three facts. If you say, connect
me with this or that noble house, I am not hampered by any
nasty facts. It is a mere question where to hitch you on—
and matter of the expense you care to undertake. To make a
man cousin to a coronet naturally costs more than to mako
him cousin to a baronet, and this again naturally costs more
than a connection with mere tradespeople.'
•Naturally. If it is only a question of inventing a
genealogy '
' My dear sir, we do not invent ; we connect — we connect
It is always perfectly easy to connect any family with gentle-
folk of sorts, and almost any real gentlefolk with nobility of
some kind. If you like, I dare say I could connect you with
Royalty. Mere time; mere search; neverwrong— in order to
find where to hitch on — that is all. But, of course, it is a
great advantage to start practically unhampered, as you do.
Now, you don't know your father's family. And you have no
traditions about it. He never told you— what must we there-
fore conclude? That he was ashamed of his family or
ashamed of himself.'
Sir John changed colour. * I do not agree,' he said ; * other
reasons might be found.'
* Illegitimacy, perhaps. Humble origin^— early escapadesL
One or other must be the cause.*
Sir John said nothing.
THE GENEALOGIST 22$
*K we investigate with the sole desire to ascertain the
truth, we must expect humiliation. That is all. Let us go
on. You wish to he connected with the Burley family — quite
a middle-class bourgeois family — and you do not desire to
claim their monstrous estate. As you have no papers you
would have no chance. If I were you I would soar higher,
much higher — we might connect you with the Cecils or the
Howards in some way — an illegitimate way would be the
easiest ; but as you Tvdll. Let us return to the Burley family.
For my own purposes, I have been hunting for the sons of the
famous Westminster miser — brothers of the money-lender,
I cannot find any trace of them '
* You must go further back to find my ancestor.'
* Very well ; you stick to your plebeian lot ? Very well — •
I will investigate for you. Well, now, about the spindle line.
On your father's side you will be plain Burley ; but you had a
mother. On her side, now, what can we do for you ? On
your grandmother's side— v/hat ? On your great-grand-
mother's ? See what a vista opens before you. Why, only to
go back as far as the accession of Queen Ehzabeth, you had
then 4,096 living ancestors ; to go back to Edward III., you
had 131,072 ancestors. Do you think I cannot find you a
noble family or two among so many ? You want ancestors ?
Let me find you some that you can be proud of. Why, you
are fomiding a family. You will become a baronet. If you
like, you may become a peer. How will it be in years to come
fco read : " This branch of a noble house, which traces its
ancestry back to— shall we say Cardinal Pole's father ?— in
the female Hne, was first distinguished by Sir John Burleigh,
K.O.M.G., the well-known statesman of New Zealand ? " What
do you think of that, Sir John ? '
Even a statesman is not above the softening influence ol
flattery. Sir John heard. Sir John smiled.
* You see ; but if my hands are tied '
* I do not wish to tie your hands. Connect me with any
noble house you like. But you must connect me with these
Burley people. Mind, I say again, I won't lay claim to the
2 24 BEYOND 'HIE DEEAMS OF AVAEIOE
estate. I liave the Bmiey genealogy with me. Here it ig.
I must belong to them. My girls, in fact, have seen the
portraits, and there can be no doubt possible.'
He took the pedigree and examined it. * And with which
of these branches would you wish to be connected ? Not too
close to the money-lender, or you may have to be a claimant
whether you like it or not : and then the absence of papers
may clash with my work. An undistinguished lot, not one
armigerj I should say — no coat of arms.'
* I have mine. The College of Heralds found mine when
I was knighted.*
* You can give me that ; it may be of use.'
* I am morally certain ' — Sir John winced a little at the
utterance of this tremendous fib — 'morally certain, 'he repeated,
* that we come from this Joshua Calvert Burley, born in 1778.'
* Morally ! morally ! — we don't recognise morals in gene-
alogies, Sir John. But still, what is known about him ? '
* He is said to have become a sugar-baker at Bristol.'
* Sugar-baker. Oh ! Sir John, why not a distinguished
olficer in the Austrian service ? '
* Sugar-baker at Bristol,' Sir John repeated, firmly. * He
altered the spelling of his name to Burleigh — 1-e-i-g-h.'
* Oh ! No documents, I suppose ? *
* None. My father, Charles Calvert Burley, born in 1801,
succeeded to his father's business, was unfortunate, lost his
money, and, in 1842, when I was six or seven years of age,
went to New Zealand.*
* Ah ! Well, Sir John, you must leave it with me. Very
unpromising materials — very unpromising, indeed. Still, I
will do my best. About the terms, now ? '
The terms, when imparted and grasped, carried with them
a wide extension of knowledge. If it takes time to build up a
family, it costs money to buy one ready built. To which
nobody ought to object.
* Very well. Sir John,' the genealogist concluded. * Your
instructions shall be followed out. Look in whenever you
like, and find out how we are getting on. We shall certainly
THE GENEALOGIST 225
hitch you on to some good family somehow or other. It's
unfortunate ahout these pictures and their likeness to you —
because, you see, when a man has all the noble houses in the
country to choose from, there's no reason whatever — unless it's
the money — why you should even begin with a middle-class
lot like this. And your features, Sir John, if you will allow
me to say so, possess a cut so aristocratic. A thousand
pities ! You remind me of the portraits of His Koyal
Highness the late Duke of Sussex. How should you like a
Eoyal grandfather ? *
• I belong, you see, to the Calvert Burleys,' Sir John
replied.
*Good. After all, is there anything after all more
ennobling than family pride, even if it leads to a milk-walk ?
Leave it to me, and call again, say in a week.'
And thus you see the clue, once found, was followed up.
Great indeed are the resources of science — especially the
science of genealogy. After a surprisingly short interval,
considering the extent of the necessary researches, Sir John
was enabled to exhibit to his delighted family a genealogy
complete in every branch. It appeared that his opinion was
quite right, as the new genealogy conclusively proved. This
branch of the family was descended from Joshua Calvert
Burley, 1778, who was Sir John's grandfather, and the brother
of the Westminster miser. The pedigree was most beautifully
written on parchment and illustrated with shields properly
coloured. Its appearance alone carried conviction to every
candid mind. Leaving out the intermediate stages and the
unnecessary names, the document ran as follows : —
»ry ^^
bhe^fl
226 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
^^^
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P4
Ha
a
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S I
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£.-"
-1
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THE GENEALOGIST 227
This, it mus}} be acknowledged, was a genealogy worth
paying for.
' It works out, Sir John,' said the man of science, * better
than we expected. Of course, when we do find a family
connection of any pretensions the rest is easy, because it has
been done over and over again.'
* This document, I suppose,' said Sir John, thoughtfully,
* will do very well for family purposes, but for a court of
law '
* As I warned you, a court of law requires papers. You
would cling to the plebeian side, and there you are, you see.
Don't blame me. Look at their vulgar names, spoiling the
beautiful shields and titles above them ! Sugar-maker ! And
he marries the descendants of kings ! '
* Did you, in the course of your investigations, find out
anything about my connections on this side ? *
* I found out a good deal. Oh ! yes, yes — a good deal,'
he looked hard at his client, v/ho seemed entirely absorbed in
his pedigree.
* About this Joshua, now ? *
* Well, you told me about him, didn't you ? Well, as you
said — ^just as you said — he was born, as your genealogy states,
in the year 1778, and he was baptised, as the books show, in
the Church of St. John the Evangelist, Westminster. He
was educated at Westminster School, and he became eventu-
ally—as you told me — a sugar-baker — a sugar-baker ' — he
yawned slightly, such was his contempt of trade — * in the
City of Bristol. Here he married Penelope Maiden, daughter
of Henry Maiden, J.P., a man also engaged in trade. Through
the Maidens in the female Hne you descend from the Earls of
Derby on one hand and the Barons Clifford on the other.
His son, your father, married Marian '
* Yes ! ' Sir John looked as if he wanted no discussion
about his mother.
' Marian, daughter of General Sir Thomas Welford, K.C.B.,
through whom you are descended — not, of course, legitimately
—from Charles II. in one Hne ; and from John of Gaunt—
q2
228 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVAEICE
legitimately — in another. Eeally, sir, for the son of an early
New Zealand settler, who knows nothing of his own people at
all, I think you have come out of this arduous and dangerous —
very dangerous — investigation admirably. Your connection
with trade is — ahem! — unavoidable, hut we have minimised
it ; whereas two descents from Royalty and three earls and
barons in your genealogy make it, on one side, more than re-
spectable.'
* I think I ought to be much obliged to you ' — Sir John
rolled up the parchment and put it into its lovely morocco
case — * very much obliged to you, sir. My children will be
pleased, and my grandchildren, if I ever have any, will be
placed on pedestals. I don't think I could have come to a
cleverer man.'
*You are quite right. Sir John,' the other replied with
professional modesty. ' It would be impossible.'
* Or to a man who more readily understood exactly what I
wanted.'
* Exactly, Sir John.'
So they parted. Sir John has never told anyone how
much this important document cost him. But he has been
heard to express his astonishment that the profession of
genealogist remains in the hands of so few, seeing that its
possibilities are so great. In these days of doubt as to a choice
of profession, it seems odd, he sometimes says, that there is
not a run upon it.
* Now, I wonder,' said the man of science when his client
left him, * how much he really knows. He carries it o£f very
well if he does. For his father was a convict. It's all in the
"Annual Register" — a convict transported for life — most
likely married another convict. Escaped. No one knew
what became of him. Went to New Zealand. Well — I
shan't tell. I wonder if he really believes all the truck.'
* I wonder,' said Sir John, * whether the fellow really
expects me to believe his lying rubbish. Sugar-baker —
bankrupt — Baron Clifford — John of Gaunt. But, thank
God ! he does not know, and can never learn, the truth.'
THE GENEALOGIST 229
In the evening, after dinner, he announced that he had a
discovery to reveal.
' Is it about the family ? ' they all asked.
* It is. In point of fact, children, you will he glad to hear
that I have cleared up the difficulties — which I confess, at first
sight, seemed insuperable. But they have vanished, and I am
now going to lay before you ' — he produced a leather case and
pulled off the top — * the complete and veritable history of your
family so far as it has yet been traced.*
*0h! And that portrait, the later one — is that grand-
father?*
* You shall hear. Meantime, I must tell you that, like
yourselves, I was convinced that these resemblances meant a
great deal more than coincidence. It seemed to me, as to
you, impossible that we should all be so much like these
people without some cousinship.' Sir John spoke in hia
ministerial manner, w^hich was, of course, that of one whose
words carry weight.
* Certainly not,' they chimed. * Oh ! Impossible ! "
*So I considered. And it seemed to me that the best
thing I could do was to put the matter into the hands of an
expert — a professed genealogist, you know, one of those whose
business it is to hunt up ancestors and prove claims. This I
did. I said, " I am the son of So-and-so, who was born in
1801 — and went to New Zealand in 1842, when I was about
six years of age. I do not know where my father came from,
or to what condition or rank his people belonged. I can only
tell you that there is a group of family portraits in a certain
house at Westminster which bear a most remarkable likeness
first to each other, so that they are all unmistakable, and
secondly to me and my children — so remarkable as to make
it absolutely certain that we must be certainly related to
I them. Their name is the same as ours, spelled with a very
I slight difference." Those were all the facts that I could give
him, and after a little talk over them, I left him to his work.
He has now, after careful investigation, furnished me with
exactly the information I desired. And here is the genealogy.'
230 BEYOND THE BREAMS OF AVARICE
He spread it out and began to point out the wonderful
acquisitions and the great increase of family pride caused
by this research.
* Your great-grandfather,' he said, * is, you observe, not
the owner of the first face so like Herbert's, but the son of
the man who, some of us thought, was even more like Herbert :
his name was Joshua Calvert Burley. He was educated at
Westminster School : on leaving school he was placed in some
mercantile office, perhaps as an apprentice. This matters
nothing. You must be prepared for a somewhat humble
connection on your grandfather's side. He became a partner
or proprietor of a sugar-baking firm.'
Their faces all lengthened.
* Sugar-baking ! Oh ! He was a baker.'
* Sugar-baking is not exactly bread-baking. He was a
sugar-baker. And why not ? It is possible, or was possible,
to become enormously rich by sugar-baking. Well, for some
reason not apparent, probably because he thought it looked
better, my grandfather changed the spelUng of his name.'
' It was done then — at Bristol ? ' asked Lady Burleigh ; * I
have been thinking since this business of the portraits that
your father, my dear, may have got into some scrape —
debt — or something, and so thought it wiser to change his
name.'
* A scrape there was, but according to my table it was my
grandfather who changed the spelling of his name. Well, my
father ' — he hesitated a little, because it is really embarrassing
at fifty-eight to start a new father — * was made a partner in
the concern.'
' The concern ! ' echoed the girls. ' Have we discovered
the long-lost great-grandfather only to learn that he was a
sugar-baker and had a concern ? Yv^hat romance can we get
out of a concern, however great ? '
* And then something happened. The business fell into
difficulties ; your grandfather lost most of his fortune and
emigrated. And that, my children, is all I have to say.
The rest you can learn yourself from this document.'
THE GENEALOGIST 23 1
* Oh ! ' — the girls bent over the genealogy, their heads
altogether. * It might have been worse. Herbert might have
had the criminal ancestor that he wants so badly. Poor
Herbert ! He wants either a criminal or an aristocrat, and
he will have to put up with a sugar-baker — a bankrupt sugar-
baker.*
* A sugar-baker,* Sir John repeated, with emphasis.
* I suppose, my dear,' said his wife, * that all this is quite
clearly proved ? *
* He has consulted the only authorities where there are no
better — the parish registers, I think. We never need trouble
to go over the ground again. Certainly I am convinced that
it would be foolish and needless to do so.*
* And as to the great estate ? '
* There we must abandon all hopes. You will see that we
are only the heirs failing the intermediate heirs— all the song
of the miser Burley first, and the money-lender Burley second.
You will not be millionaires, my dears. You will go back to
New Zealand, and you will live in comfort and plenty, thank
God — and that is all.'
But then the girls found out the magnificent connections
on the spindle side, and pounced upon them. Heavens I A
General and a K.C.B. 1 Splendid ! And look — higher up —
a long way higher up— Oh ! Grandeurs ! Heights I Soarings !
Sky-scraping I Lord Clifford — Lord — Lord Clifford I That
fine old title. And here the De Veres — De Veres — Earls of
Oxford. Oh ! actually the De Veres I That great and noble
family. History is therefore full of the ancestors of these
happy Burlcys. And look! More grandeur I Eoyalty —
Charles II. ! But he had no children. Go on. Things
tacenda : yet not without more pride. And oh I oh ! oh I
Look ! Look— everybody I John of Gaunt I I TIME-
HONOURED LANCASTER I 1 1
^32 BilYONB THE DKEAMS OF AVAEICE
CHAPTER XXVni
THE MIBAOLB
* I CAME here yesterday, Margaret,' said Ella, ' and I am here
to-day. I can't keep away from you because you are the only
person that I know in this country ; we used to laugh and
call it Little England. But it's Great England, Broad Britain,
Big England, Thirsty Sandy Desert England, when you're all
alone in it — with no .' She checked herself.
* Well, dear, you are always welcome.'
* I can't sit still, or rest, or settle to work, or anything —
I'm so miserable. I feel like jumping off Westminster
Bridge.'
* Sit still here, then, and rest.*
* No ; I must walk about or I shall go mad.' The girl's
cheeks were flushed, her eyes were too bright, her hands were
hot. * Come out and walk with me. I want to feel the cool
air.'
Margaret led her into the large, quiet square called Dean's
Yard. * This is where I sometimes walk,' she said, * when I
wish to be quiet. But there are places here quieter than this
— I will take you to the most quiet, the most hushed, still,
and peaceful spot in all London.'
Under an archway, across an open court, through a broad
arched corridor she led the girl into a little square court, sur-
rounded by a stone cloister : in the midst was a square of
grass, with a fountain which ought to have been playing but
was not: tablets on the walls commemorated dead men's
names and lives. These tablets were all that remained of
their memory. There were ancient doors and ancient windows
of crumbling, worn stone, and above the corridor were houses
which looked as if they were built what time great Oliver
ruled the realm.
* This is the old Infirmary Cloister/ said Margaret. * It is
THE mihacle 233
the quietest place in the world. You hear nothing in these
cloisters of the outside world — nothing but the striking of the
great clock : you see nothing but the Victoria Tower. There
is never any footfall here ; the people who occupy the houses
are in a conspiracy of silence. I come here often when I am
troubled. Ella, dear, you are not the only woman in trouble ;
we are all troubled in these days. But the trouble will pass
— oh ! I think — I feel — that for all of us it will pass.' Her
eyes filled with tears. * Only to linger among these grey old
stones soothes and comforts one.'
The stones did not at first bring comfort to Ella, perhaps
because she was too full of her trouble to notice them. She
threw up her arms. She gasped — ' Margaret ! ' she cried, * I
am going mad. I am gone mad, I think, with the disappoint-
ment and the misery of it. Don't speak. Let me tell you
first. I don't dare to tell Auntie. But she knows, poor thing.
Ever since I began to think about the inheritance I have
thought of nothing else — morning, noon, and night I have
imagined and dreamed and built up castles about this dreadful
money and myself. My very dreams are yellow with gold. I
pictured myself the very greatest woman in all America —
greater than the Vanderbilts — greater than the Astors — my
name on everybody's lips, in every paper. Oh ! the dreadful
vainglory of it. And I was to be— oh ! yes, nothing but that,
if you please — yes, the best, the most generous, the most
charitable of women I Oh ! of course. The pride and vanity
and self-seeking of it I That has been my dream, day and
night — day and night. And now it is quite certain that it can
never be anything but a dream.'
* What has happened, dear ? *
* Everything, I believe. You know that Auntie was
always agamst it from the beginning. She's a prophetess for
sure and certain. She was for sending in her name and mine
and nothing more. But nothing would do for me but to come
over here and claim the estate. I was so ignorant that I
thought we only had to send in our names for the whole of
the money to be handed over to us across a bank counter —
234 BEYOND THE DREAMS 0? AVARICE
sixty million dollars ! I thought we should be able to go
home in a fortnight or so with a whole ship-load of dollars —
millions and millions and millions of dollars — all in bags —
and leave the Queen and the whole of the Royal family in
tears.' She laughed through her own tears.
*Well?'
* They say that the Treasury must have proofs that the
missing son is dead — or that he has left no heirs. Why, the
whole world has been ringing with his name. If he was in
the uttermost parts of the earth he must have heard that cry.
Without proof, they say, they will probably wait for years.
They tell me that when your general, Hicks Pasha, was killed
in Egypt, they waited ten years for proof because his body
was never recovered, and not a soul returned from the battle
to say he had fallen. Ten years I When I heard that my
heart was as heavy as lead, for I saw that we might just as
well go home again.'
* Indeed, I think so.'
' But that isn't all. Oh ! I must go mad over it. I thought
our claim was so clear and simple. Grandfather was Mr.
Burley's brother. There's no doubt of that — and they say
now that I must produce the proofs of his marriage. As if
there could be any doubt of it ! Why, I remember both of
them. Proofs ? It's an insult to speak of such a thing.'
* But indeed, Ella, there are wicked people in the world. I
fear they will insist upon the production of the proofs.'
* I say it's an insult to suspect. Oh ! It's impossible I *
* Yes, dear ; but lawyers always want proofs of everything.
It is not meant as an insult. And remember, we all — we all
suffer from the — the follies of men — their follies and their
wickedness. Lawyers will not take it for granted that there
ever is a completely good man upon this earth.'
*He wasn't married at Woodbury. Grandmother — I
recollect the dear old thing, lovely white hair she had — was an
Englishwoman. She used to talk about her own people.
They lived in a place called Bloomsbury, and they were
lawyers. Her first husband was a lawyer, but a great deal
THE MIEACLE 235
older than herself, and he died, and then she came out to
America with grandfather. I was only a little girl, and I
never asked her name, else I might find out her people. And
how in the name of wonder are we to find where a man was
married sixty years ago and more ? '
* It is not so difficult. There were only so many churches
in London sixty years ago— perhaps not more than two hundred
and fifty. The registers are preserved. An advertisement
would procure you the proof — if it exists.'
' An advertisement ! ' Ella laughed scornfully. * How
are we to pay for the advertisement ? *
Margaret took her hand.
* I have seen that coming, too, Ella. We are cousins, you
know. Only I was afraid to speak. You are so independent
and so proud.'
* My pride is gone, then. Pride can't outlast want. And
there's nothing left — nothing — nothing.' She buried her head
in her hands and burst into sobs that echoed strangely round
the quiet cloister.
' My dear ' — Margaret soothed her, ' My dear — tell me
all.'
* "We first spent the money we brought over with us, think-
ing it would be enough, and that we should only want it for a
V\'eek or two. It is all gone— all but the rent, that must be
paid to-morrow, and then there mil be nothing left — nothing
at all. Margaret, we are nearly starved. You would not
believe on how little we have lived for the last three weeks. I
am sick and giddy with continual hunger.'
* My dear, patience for a few minutes ; only while you tell
me.'
* We have spent everything. We have pawned our watches
— our dresses — everything that we could part with. We have
nothing but what we stand in. And more trouble. Auntie
had a Httle money — not much. It brought her 200 dols. a
year. I had none because father wasn't lucky. Auntie's
money was put v/ith a trustee, and he has just run away,
bankrupt, and we hear that he has lost or stolen it all. Then
2^6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
we had our house — only a little yellow cottage with a slip of
garden— but it was our own. We mortgaged it to get the
money for coming over. And now we are told that the mort-
gage is the full value. Oh ! its roguery, its treachery and
roguery. So we're quite ruined, Margaret, and to-morrow we
go out into the streets and w — w — walk about till we d — d —
d— d— die.'
* My dear child. This is most dreadful. "Why did you
not tell me of all this before ? I only knew that you were
pinched.*
* Oh ! you are a stranger, you are an Englishwoman.
They used to teach us that Englishwomen were cold and
proud. How could I ? '
' Well, you have told me now, and so — we are your cousins
you know — something must be done at once, and — and '
She stopped short, for the trouble in the girl's face was
terrible.
* I left Auntie praying.* She burst into hysterical laughter.
* She is always praying. She gets up in the night and prays.
She asks a miracle. Poor thing I As if miracles come for the
asking. There are none left. In these days, without money
or work we starve. If I talk about searching the registers she
shakes and trembles, and begs me to give it up and go home
again. To-day finishes everything. We eat up the last scrap
of bread and meat, and drink the last cup of tea. To-morrow
we go out into the streets. And Auntie says we ought to go
home. Is it better to starve in the streets of London among
strangers or in the streets of Woodbury, Mass., among
friends ? '
* My dear, you shall not starve. It is all arranged. Only
I did not know the necessity was so close at hand.'
She took Ella's hand. Without thinking whither they
were going, Margaret led the way into the great cloister and
through the little postern into the Abbey itself.
Afternoon service was just beginning. They took a seat
in a retired corner, and then, while the silvery voices rose and
fell, and rang, and echoed from pillar to pillar, and along the
THE MIRACLE 237
loffcy roof, and the organ rolled, and tlie voice of the reader
was like a single flute seeking to be heard through all this
great building, the American girl wept and sobbed without
restraint. It was a time for the opening of the flood
gates.
When the service was over Ella dried her tears.
' Oh ! ' she said, * this place is full of consolation. I am
better now. It's a lovely place. If I were to get that great
fortune I would buy it and take it over to Woodbury, cho-
risters and all. Thank you for bringing me. I almost believe
that Aunt Lucinda will get her miracle. And I will not go
mad.'
' Well, then, dear, you once promise not to go mad, I'll
take you home and leave you there while I go to fetch your
aunt. And then we will have tea and talk — and you must be
prepared for developments.'
Aunt Lucindd. was indeed in a pitiable condition. Half
starved, penniless, with the prospect before her of destitution,
in dire terror lest a certain family secret should be discovered,
she sat beside the black fireplace in that cold, autumnal after-
noon with clasped hands and eyes that were bhnd with helpless
tears.
* Aunt Lucinda,' said Margaret, bursting in. * I have come
to carry you away.'
* Carry me away ? '
' You are to come and stay with us, you and Ella. My
husband is your cousin, you know. We invite you — Ella and
you — to make our house your home for a while ; till we have
looked round and found some way out of the trouble. Oh I I
know all about it, you need not tell me anything. Now let me
pack up your things for you. Where are your boxes ? I will
do it all for you.' She bustled about into the other room and
back ; she crammed what ' things ' were left into the two boxes;
she talked cheerfully all the time ; she gave the poor lady no
time for thought or protest. When all was done — it took ten
minutes or so, no more — she brought out Aunt Lucinda's hat
and jacket and rang the bell for a cab.
238 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Then Aunt Lucinda's face began to twitcli ominously.
'Come, the cab will be down below,' said Margaret. * Let
me help you with the things.'
* Stay with you ? ' asked Aunt Lucinda. * Yv^e are
strangers in a strange land, and you take us in. Oh ! Ella
said I prayed for a miracle, and there are no more miracles
she said — and Lo ! it is a miracle. The Lord shall still fulfil
the desire of them that fear Him. He will hear their cry, and
help them.'
She stood for a moment with bowed head and clasped
hands. Then she meekly followed this woman of Samaria.
CHAPTER XXIX
* CONFESS YE YOUR SINS*
When two troubles assail the soul it is not together —
troubles very rarely fight in company — but separately. The
stronger and the fiercer trouble overpowers the soul, enters,
and takes possession. Then the lesser trouble goes away.
He does not go far ; he lurks in ambush till the present occu-
pier withdraws. Then he sees his chance and rushes once
more to assault the citadel of Mansoul. One might write
a new allegory showing that fortress continually besieged by
one trouble after the other — never at rest, never at peace.
The biggest trouble of all, as the vrorld has always been ready
to confess, is the want of money. Not the want of plentiful
money, but the want of needful money.
When this trouble vras driven away for a time. Aunt
Lucinda's soul was left open to the other and the lesser
trouble ; that, namely, connected with the claim, to which
Ella now returned, but with somewhat mitigated persistency.
* As soon as we have found out how to make a little money,
Auntie, we will advertise for grandfather's certificate of marri-
age. I have thought it all out. Father was jborn in 1827.
'CONFESS YE YOUR SINS' 239
The old people arrived at Woodbury in 1826. Therefore they
must have been married before they left London. Therefore
the register will be easily found. And then our claim v/ill
rest on sure foundations.'
' Oh ! my dear,' cried Aunt Lucinda, eagerly, * let us think
no more about the claim. This fortune brings disaster upon
everybody — even upon those who think about it and hope to
get it, as well as those who have it. Margaret has shown and
proved it to me. Think what misfortunes it has brought upon
us ! Do not let us think of it any more. There will be fresh
sorrow if we do.'
* I don't desire it any more, Auntie, for the vainglory of it.
I don't want to be the richest woman in the world. But I
should like — I should like — well — not to feel that we have come
on a wild goose chase. I should like our friends in Woodbury
to hear that we were really what we believed ourselves to be.
And as soon as we have any money I will advertise.'
This was the trouble that now vexed the poor lady's soul.
To be sure, she knew that there could be no certificate in any
church. But it is ill-work to stir muddy waters. Things done
may be remembered — may be handed down. The wife who
left her husband in 1828, or thereabouts, and went off with
young James Burley, had belongings and the husband had
belongings. The memory of the thing might survive. There-
fore Aunt Lucinda trembled. She sat in terror all day
long. She showed terror in her face — in her eyes — in her
attitude.
' Ask her,' said Lucian, * what is the matter with her. She
is torn by some secret anxiety. She looks as if it might drive
her mad. Ask her, Marjorie. I suppose you can't hint that
an Egyptian mummy at the Feast would be quite as cheerful
as a Face m Affright. It will be a kindness to me if you bring
her to a more resigned frame. There ought not to be spectres
at the dinner table.'
Margaret obeyed.
* I can't tell you, my dear,' the poor lady replied. * I
can't tell anyone. It is a thing that I know and nobody else
240" BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
knows. And I live in terror day and night for fear of her
finding it out/
' If nobody knows it but you '
* Oh ! But long ago, when it happened, many people
knew. And some may remember, or they may have been
told. Oh ! If she were to find out ! *
*I suppose it is a secret which affects — the — honour of
someone whom you both know.'
The poor lady nodded her head violently.
* My dear Aunt Lucinda, give your anxious mind a rest.
A thing so old must surely be forgotten long since. All
you have to do is to hold your tongue. Come, if we all think
what might happen, where would be the cheerfulness of the
world ? '
* If she would only give up this dreadful claim, I should be
happy. But she won't. And she is walking right straight
into the place where she will find the horrible, hateful, shame-
ful secret.'
* She can do no more than she can do. Everything is
clearly proved, except her grandfather's marriage.' Aunt
Lucinda clasped her hands and rocked to and fro, and her
face turned red and white. Margaret pretended not to observe
these signs. * The place and date of that marriage she has
yet to ascertain. Perhaps she never will. Then she wiU
never be able to establish her claim. I will tell you a secret
which should console you. Ella will never, under any circum-
stances, get any portion of this estate.'
* Oh ! thank God ! * She lifted her clasped hands.
* There has been nothing but terror and distraction since we
thought of it.'
* Euin and Destruction ! ' said Margaret. * Ruin and
Destruction for all who make or meddle with this horrible
estate.'
* Will she give up looking for that certificate of marriage ? *
* I think I can promise you that before many days she
will definitely abandon all hope of the inheritance.' This
Bhe said, thinking that Lucian would establish his own rightj
*dOOT:fess YE vouit Slips' 24!
at least, whatever else he might do. * Tell me, Aunt Lucinda,
do you want to be enormously rich ? *
' No, I never did. I was quite happy at home when we
were poor. We are nearly all of us women at Woodbury,
and we've got everything that the heart can desire — books,
and a beautiful Literary Society, and courses of lectures, and
churches, and meetings of every kind ; nearly all of us are
poor, and nobody minds. We aim at the Cultivated Life, my
dear, and the Spiritual Life, and, oh ! if you could hear Ella
read her papers on Browning I I've got some here — would
you like to read one ? '
' Very much,' Margaret replied, politely, not feeling greatly
tempted by the writing of an American girl who, she could
not forget, was only — even English people say — only a clerk
or cashier in a store. In this country we do not expect
literature of the highest kind from a shop girl. * Meantime,
rest quite easy. What you fear cannot happen. It is impos-
sible, since you alone know it. And as for this certificate of
marriage, it might be found if one were to institute a search
in all the parish registers — by offering a reward for its
recovery. But you have no money, and, in a few days — how
long, I do not know — ^the necessity of finding it will be past
and gone.*
* I am so thankful — oh I so thankful. I have prayed
night and morning, that this danger might be averted. Oh !
Margaret, you don't know — you can't guess — what it is I fear
— what would be the consequences to Ella — the blight upon
her life — the ruin of her pride— the abuse and disgrace of
it *
* Hush, dear — don't tell me any more, unless it would
relieve your soul.'
* I will tell you, then, because I must. You are the first per-
son to whom I have told it. I've known it for twelve long years
— my brother never knew it, or suspected it. And Ella
doesn't know or suspect. And when I learned it, for a time
the sun went out of the sky — and I lost my faith in God — for
I lost my faith in my mother— in my mother. Think of that I
B
242 BEYOND THE BREAMS OP AVAHICE
I have got back my faith, but my old happiness — that is gone
— and oh ! let me spare my child — my Ella — the shame that
I have to suffer daily ! ' She clasped her hands and bowed
her head and her lips moved.
* My mother was a pious v/oman,' she continued, 'one of
those who go to chapel every Sabbath, and read the Bible at
home. When father died, she read her Bible more and more.
But she was not a cheerful Christian ; her faith did not give
her courage ; her spirits were always sad and low. Some-
times she sat weeping for hours together. I thought it was
because she'd lost father. But she never said anything to me
until, twelve years ago, she fell ill. Oh ! she spoke — and her
words were like the scourge of an offended God.'
Margaret took her hand. * Be comforted,' she murmured.
* If she told you of some great sin, it was a sign of repentance.
Think of what a mother must suffer when she has to confess
her sins to her own daughter. Think of her shame and of
her repentance ! '
* Yes — yes — I do — I do. It is my only comfort, to think
of her repentance,' she whispered. * Oh I I remember every
word she whispered. " Lucinda, my dear ; St. Paul says :
' Confess your sins to one another.' There is no one here to
whom I can confess my sins, except to you — no one, because
my son must never knov/, nor his child. You must be scape-
goat, to bear this secret. Women have to bear everything.
You shall hear my secret : " and so she told me all.'
* She told you all ? ' Margaret repeated.
* The dreadful truth. Nobody would ever find it out ;
yet she could not die with that secret in her mind untold. I
have thought of it, over and over again. Was it necessary to
tell me ? Why was I singled out for the secret ? She told
me, however ' She stopped again — she could not bring
herself to repeat it. Yet, like her mother, she could not bear
upon her soul any longer the weight of that secret. At last
she strengthened herself. * She told me that she— she had
never been my father's wife — she was the wife of another
man — she had left him for my father — they came out together
'CONFESS YE YOUR SINS' 243
to America, and when they settled in a quiet respectable
town, it would have been ruin to confess. So they lived and
so he died in sin. That is what she had to tell me. That
was the dreadful burden on her soul.*
* A dreadful burden, surely. Yet — to tell her own daugh-
ter, oh I Think of the repentance and the pain I *
* She did not die. But she lost her speech and lived so
for three years more. And all the time her eyes followed ma
about, and they said, "Keep the secret — keep the secret.
Don't let my son know, nor the child." And every now and
then I used to whisper that the secret was safe. But oh I tho
suffering! — to go among the people, to sit in church with
them, to work with them, and feel that, if they knew the truth,
they would shrink from me as from a leper ! '
*But no one did know — and if you do not tell any-
one—your secret is safe with me — how should Ella ever
find it out ? ' Margaret did not tell her that close at Aunt
Lucinda's elbow in the fire-proof safe was the whole of the
family history carefully drawn out by her husband's father,
in which the circumstances of their flight were fully nar-
rated.
* And then, Ella read in the papers about this inheritance
— and she knew something about the Burleys, for father liked
talkhig over the old days, and it seemed to her, naturally, that
she was one of the heirs, and so nothing would do but she
must come over here to claim her '* rights," as she called them
— and then — think— then — oh ! what was I to do ? For she
has no rights — I knew enough of law for that. I am ille-
gitimate, so was Ella's father. Therefore, Ella has no rights.
Then, if she was to succeed I should be a wicked and deceiving
woman hiding the truth, and all the rest of my life daily and
hourly — all day and all night — so long as the consequences of
the sin should endure, a breaker of the eighth commandment.
I have turned that over in my mind. No one knows who
hasn*t thought it out — the consequences of sin. Think!
Ella might, through me, get possession of all this money
wrongfully— through me, generation after generation might
b2
244 BEYO^^B THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE
be wronged — long after I was dead would arise the accusers
against me.*
^ Do not fear, Ella will not inherit. If you had only told
yourself that without that certificate of marriage the thing
was impossible, you would have been quite tranquil.'
* And then, in the researches and the opening up of old
stories, who knows what might be discovered ? I have never
been so wretched, except in the first week after my mother's
revelation, since I learned the truth.* She sighed heavily.
* It mattered nothing we were put off and made to wait. I
cared nothing at all about spending all our money. I
wouldn't mind lying down to die and have done with it — only
a Christian woman must wait to be called — if only Ella should
never find it out — never find it out I '
This was the burden of her song — that Ella should never
find it out. But she had relieved her soul. And straightway
she began to mend ; her pale cheeks put on a little colour ;
her lips assumed the semblance of a smile ; and her eyes lost
the terror. * Thank Heaven! ' said Lucian, *you have laid
the ghost, Margaret. You are a witch.'
CHAPTER XXX
IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT
* Impossible to be found out I '
Is there anything impossible to be found out ? Is there
any man so old as to feel assured that the thing he did sixty,
seventy years ago will not be found out before he dies ? Is
there any man who can be certain that the history of his
grandfather will never be revealed to the world ? Why, an
old letter, an old note-book, an old picture, a certificate of
marriage — anything may be discovered — or the thing is
certainly known to someone else, and will, by someone else,
be discovered and whispered abroad. Sometimes the thing
is not found out till after death, which is merciful.
IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT 245
The other day they found a letter addressed by the captam-
governor of a fortress to His Egyptian Majesty three thousand
years ago ! Shall they not, therefore, much more be likely to
find letters written by you, most respectable Senex — love-
letters — written to one AmarylUs, the Lady Light 0' Love —
only fifty years ago? *I have always taught my younger
clients,' said one of those practical morahsts, the true father
confessors of the age, the family solicitor, ' always to act in
the full belief that the thing you are doing will certainly come
to light.'
An excellent rule. Young readers will please to make a
note of it.
* Impossible to be found out,' said Sir John.
* Impossible to be found out,' said Margaret, who knew ifc
all the time.
You shall see.
After the romantic recovery of their long-lost ancestors, the
Burleigh girls were naturally anxious to visit again and again
the gallery of family portraits, and to keep Margaret informed
concerning their great good luck and the uplifting of the
Burleighs.
* It is true,' said the girls, * that John of Gaunt and
Charles II. and the noble lords, our ancestors, are aU on what
they call the Spindle side : but there they are. One day we
may pride ourselves on the Eed Eose of Lancaster and another
on the Stuart Tartan, and another on the ancient Barons. It's
prettier to say " on the Spindle side," than ** in the female
line." We are going to take out the genealogy to New
Zealand, but it won't do to flourish it there. The New
Zealanders would turn up their noses at such a magnificent
display of ancestors. For them we shall keep the other side
■ — the spear side — fancy the Pater with a spear! — this re-
spectable family of the Burleys. It will be quite a distinction
for us to be connected even indirectly with this mountain of
gold— all the world has heard of the Burley miUions — and
nobody will be envious or jealous because grand-dad was only
a bankrupt sugar baker aad our cousin the rich — very ric^
246 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICE
—incalculably rich man — was only a money-lender. Perliapg
you will let us copy one or two of the portraits just to show
them in New Zealand/
Now, one day when they called, Margaret was out, but she
was expected home shortly, and they went in.
Sitting in the hall they found, also waiting for Margaret,
the old woman, their cousin, Lucinda Avery, whom they had
met on the occasion of their second visit. She was then in
the workhouse dress, but this had now been changed for the
ordinary civilian garb. Lucinda was no longer an * inmate '
of the workhouse. Why do we reserve the word ' inmate ' for
the workhouse and the lunatic asylum ? She had been taken
out by Margaret and intrusted to the care of certain respect-
able persons, who w^ere instructed to keep her well fed, well
warmed, and well dressed. To be warm within and without ;
to feel the physical ease which belongs to abundant food ; to
liave nothing to do — it was all this poor old soul asked of life
— rest and warmth. It is, if you come to think of it, all that
working people of every kind ask of life. When one is dead —
* Eequiescat in pace I ' says the priest. ' Let him rest from his
labours.' * He sleeps,' say the people.
The needlewoman sat humbly on the hardest chair, her
hands folded in her lap, her spare form bent, quite patient,
ready to wait as long as anyone pleased to make her wait.
* Why,' cried the girls ; * it's our cousm — Lucinda Avery ! '
The old woman stood up meekly and curtsied. * Sir John's
daughters,' she said. * Sir John's beautiful young daughters.
Yes, young ladies, Sir John is my cousin.'
* And you are — you are — in the '
* I was in the House. My fingers bent and got stiff, and I
could work no longer. So I was glad to go in. But Mrs.
Calvert took me out. She said that she'd found a cousin, and
she wasn't going to leave her in the workhouse. I'm quite as
comfortable, where she has put me.'
* Oh I But we are your cousins, too. Why should not we
help ? Won't you come upstairs with us and talk about your-
self ? We are waiting for Mrs. Calvert.*
IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT 247
The old ^Yoman followed submissively. She obe^^ed any-
one who ordered her, as behoves one who knows nothing of
the outer world, but that it is strong and masterful and must
be obeyed. She follovred, sheep like.
In the drawing-room, at the writing table, sat a girl, who
looked up from her vv^ork and rose.
' Our name is Burleigh,' said the eldest. * We know Mrs.
Calvert, and we have come to look at the family portraits again.
They are the portraits of our ancestors.'
' Why,' said the girl, smiling, ^ I am named Burley, too.
And they are my ancestors as well.'
* Good gracious ! and this old lady's mother was a Burley !
Then we are all cousins together. But as for us, we cannot
claim the big fortune, because we are descended from an elder
branch. Perhaps you can put in a claim ? '
* I came over from the States with my Aunt Lucinda to
claim our share — if we could get it. But there are delays :
they Vr'ant more proofs than we can find. And they say they
must wait for proof of the death of the man who should be the
heir. So we must go back again — or find something to do
here.'
She looked clever — this bright-eyed, sharp-faced American
girl — and capable of self-assertion, should the necessity
arise.
' Let us shake hands and be friends,' said the New Zealan-
ders, through the eldest, * since wo are not rivals. And let
us hope that you will get the fortune all to yourself.'
Then they looked round the room and talked about the
pictures, and found likenesses and common ancestors, and
lamented such of the family disasters as they knew, and won-
dered about this person and sighed over that, and agreed that
the American cousin was partly like her great-grandmother — •
only prettier — but more hke her great-great-grandfather. And
it was all very pleasant. And they pressed the American
cousin to bring the cousinship closer together, and to call upon
the New Zealand kin at South Kensington. And it was all
delightful, until the earthquake came.
248 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
It happened in tins way. The old woman, whom they had
placed in the most comfortable chair beside the fire — for it
was a chilly November day — sat placid and patient, her hands
in her lap, her form bent, just as if she was still waiting in
the hall. She did not know pictures ; she did not like walking
about when she could sit ; and she did not understand the
chatter of girls among each other.
*And now,' cried one of the New Zealanders, * let us heaif
— you poor old thing— all about yourself.'
They sat and stood and grouped themselves about the old
lady. Ella rang for tea, and they asked her questions and made
her talk.
She told, what the old novels used to call her simple and
affecting narrative ; that is to say, she answered questions.
' Oh I ' they cried. * What a life I What a dreadful story I
What a cruel wretch the eldest brother must have been 1
How happy to have done with such a Ufa ! What do you do
now ? Do you read much ? '
She shook her head. * No,' she said. * I don't care about
reading. We never had any books, and I never did read
except on Sunday at Church. I'd sooner stitch than read.
But I Hke to have nothing to do. It's having Sunday evening
all the week and all day long.*
* What did you do on Sunday evenings? '
* We used to sit together, mother and me, in the dark, with
the street lamp outside, and she told me about her family.
Every Sunday evening she talked about them. So, you see,
it's this way. Because it's all Sunday evening with me now
— 1 think about nothing but mother's family all the time.'
They gazed upon this wonderful old lady with amazement.
Was there anywhere else in the world an old woman who
never read, except in her prayer book ; knew nothing —
absolutely nothing ; and had no food for her mind except the
recollections of her mother concerning her family ? Ancestral
worship can go no farther. To spend the evening of one's
days in remembering the history of an undistinguished — or
perhaps an undesirably notorious — naiddje-clg-ss family I
BIPOSSLBLE TO BE FOUND OUT 249
* Tell us,' said one of the girls, inspired of the Devil — * tell
us something about them.'
It was half-past six ; outside, twilight had fallen ; the fire-
light fell upon the faces of the girls gathered round the fire,
and warmed up the thin cheeks of the old woman with a ro3y
flush.
' Mostly, I think about my mother's brother. But there
was her father — she used to talk about him a gccd deal. He
was a dreadful miser.'
Here followed a chapter on the miser, containing many
illustrations of the miser's miserly misery.
* The elder brother was John — my uncle John — who has
left, they tell me, such a lot of money.'
Then followed the history of the money-lender, so far as
she knew. We have heard it already.
* And then came the next brother,' suggested another of
them, also inspired by the Devil.
* The second son was Henry. He became an actor after
he ran away. Mother lost sight of him, and never knew
what he did nor how he got on. When he was a boy he used
to make them all laugh by mimicking everything, especially
his father. But he ran away, and his younger brother ran
away, and when mother was left alone with her father and
eldest brother, she had to run away too. And so she did,
and married Captain Avery, my father.'
Here followed the history of that unhappy marriage, with
its sequel in the Fleet.
* Then there was the third son. He was named Charles.'
* That's the one who is exactly like Herbert — our only
brother,' one of the sisters explained. * He is so like that
we all thought he must be our grandfather. But he
wasn't.'
* Charles was a wild young man : I don't know what he
did for his living. But he committed a forgery *
* Oh r They all drew breath together. * A forgery ! '
*Yes. He wrote somebody else's name on a paper and
got money for it. They caught him and tried him and he
250 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
was sentenced to death, but they let him off, and ho vras
transported for life. They sent him to Australia.'
' Where he died, I suppose ? Well, it's a long time ago
now. We need not feel very much shame over him.'
'No — he didn't die in Australia. He escaped somehov/,
after a good many years, and came home. He would havo
been hanged if he had been caught. He found out mother — •
I remember him — it was when v/o were living in the Rules of
the Fleet, and he came to see her and brought his wife— her
name was Marion, I remember — and their little baby— I
remember the baby — and he changed his name, spelt it
different ; but it sounded the same ; and went away in a ship
to New Zealand. And there mother heard he got on, and
got on, and got rich ; and no one ever knew who he was nor
v/hat he'd done, nor where he came from. He told mother
what he was going to do. His son was never to know, else
he'd be ashamed. Got rich and prospered, mother heard.
And it v/as never found out what he'd done,' she concluded.
She had forgotten that she was speaking to Charles's grand-
children. She was just repeating what her mother had told
her.
There was dead silence. As five tall lilies for want of
water hang their sv/eet heads and droop declining, so these
five maidens drooped and bowed their heads in shamerul
silence. For the story could not be mistaken : the man Vv^ho
had forged that paper ; the man who had been transported
for life, and escaped ; the man who changed his name — ' but it
sounded the same ' — the man who had a wife — * her name was
Marion ' — and a son ; the man who prospered and grew rich
— * and no one never knew what he was nor what he'd done *
— this man must be none other than their grandfather, and
the beautiful genealogy was a long lie from beginning to end.
Presently one of the girls sobbed and choked. The others
choked as well — repressing soba.
The old woman went on :
' Then there was the youngest brother, James.'
The American girl, who was filled with pity for her cousins
IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT 25 1
• — because she, too, read the story and saw their shame un-
speakable—shivered. Would there be anything terrible for
herself ?
' James was always thought a very steady young man —
not Hke Charles or Henry — and not a money-grubber like his
eldest brother — mother said she was never so astonished in
her life. He had an aunt who helped him — and he became a
lawyer — and he was going to be a partner with his master,
who was an old man vdth a very young wife — and then — it's
shameful to say it before young ladies — but the truth is — he
ran away with his master's wife — and he took her out to
America and pretended she was his wife.'
Then the sixth head bowed down.
And there was silence for a space.
Then the old vv^oman got up. * I must be going,' she said,
ehcerfully, after doing all this mischief. * Good night, young
ladies. I should like to tell you more some day. The family
has had dreadful misfortunes. There was the one who was
hanged and the one who went mad. Oh ! There's a deal to
think about m the Burley family. I'll come and tell you all
the troubles over again.'
When she was gone they remained in silence. Presently
the eldest of the New Zealand branch rose and touched her
sisters' shoulder, and they all rose and went out, leaving Ella
alone in the room. And she sat there in the firehght. For
the worst thing that could possibly happen, in her mind, Vvas
this thing : the worst crime that can be committed by any
man, according to her Puritanic views, had been committed
by her grandfather — and her grandmother — she remembered
them both — the grave and reverend grandfather, the wisest
man in the to"RTi, the friend and adviser of all — and her
grandmother, white-haired, reverend, dignified, pious, severe.
Oh ! was it true ? Could it be true ?
Margaret came home about seven. Ella had gone to
her own room. She had a headache : she would be better
alone.
The others went home by the underground railway.
252 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
They had a carriage to themselves, and they all wept and
cried without reserve. When they reached home they gathered
together in Lucy's room.
* Mind I ' said the eldest. * Not a word — not a look —
not a syllable— above all things, the dear old Pater must
never know — never — never — never 1 Oh 1 it would ruin his
life ' She broke down and sobbed. * And mother must
never know — it would kill her. The shame of it— the dis-
grace of it *
* Not a word ! Not a look I Not a syllable 1 ' they all
echoed.
* Cathie ' — Cathie was the youngest — * if you feel you can't
sit down to dinner without crying, stay here and say you've
got a sore throat or something. After dinner, somebody
must play — I'll get out the cribbage-board and play with him.
We'll go to bed early. We can't trust ourselves to talk.
Mind I Again — No talking about it — even among ourselves.
Never a word for the rest of our lives. If we marry, never
a word to our husbands. And as for that wretched, lying,
miserable genealogy with its John o' Gaunt, and its Joshua
Calvert Burley, and the sugar-baker, and Charles the Second :
let the Pater believe in it still. And we'll pretend : and let us
forget. Oh, let us try to forget. If we never speak about it !
If we go home soon, away from this unfortunate family, we
shall be able to forget.'
'We will forget,' they cried — *we will try, at least, to
forget ; but *
CHAPTER XXXI
THE SHAME OP IT !
If you come to think of it, almost the most deadly blow that
you can strike at a girl is one which forbids the honour due
to those who are nearest and dearest to her. Ella remembered
THE SHAME OF IT I 253
this ancient lady, her grandmother, as austerely religious, con-
stantly reading the Bible, always serious. Could the story be
possible ? Was it an invention of the old woman's ?
That old lady, her grandmother, was in the white widow's
cap and black dress who sat beside the stove, knitting in her
hands for occupation, the Bible on her knees, her lips moving,
but seldom speaking all day long — was she the wife of another
man ? To think of this terrible secret locked up in her heart
all to herself ! Oh I why was it suffered to be made known
after all these years ?
This dreadful story seemed for the moment to make self-
respect henceforth impossible. We recover from some things.
Not from such a thing as this, which can never be shaken off.
It has to be accepted, like a hump-back. To be sure, it can
be hidden away, which the hump-back cannot. Very many
people, I believe, have got some such secret hump upon their
backs ; the skeleton hangs in unsuspected cupboards ; the
young men and the maidens of a family grow up with the
knowledge of what is behind the door. Learned in this way,
and gradually, the story becomes a secret burden borne without
much pain. But to have a skeleton suddenly presented to
you — cupboard and all ; door wide open — door never seen
before ; cupboard invisible till then ; skeleton never even heard
of ; a new and unexpected skeleton — this may be very terrible.
One has to bear it as one can. No use whatever in crying
over it. The thing must be endured, and one must go about
as if there was nothing w^rong at all — no pain anywhere.
No one could have told that this American girl had been
robbed of so much. She became more silent, perhaps, and
rather pale. But she made no other sign.
She kept it up for a week. Then she broke down.
It was in the evening, after ten o'clock. Aunt Lucinda
had gone to bed. The lamps Avere lowered : the firelight fell
on the portraits. Margaret sat improvising soft, sad music —
letting her fingers ramble over the keys in harmony with the
sadness of her thoughts. Ella sat in a low chair by the
fireside. Lucian was downstairs in his study. Presently,
254 BEYOND THE DrtEAMS OF AVARICE
Margaret closed tlio piano with a deep sigh and came to the
fireside — gazing silently and sadly mto the red coal.
Ella took her hand and kissed it. * Margaret, you are
l^nhappy — you sigh, and your face is always sad. Are we all
to be unhappy ? '
* You, at least, need not, Ella. Yet you are. Why ? Not
because of your horrid claim ? If that is the cause, I can tell
you something that will set your mind at rest. I have seen
trouble in your face for a week and more.'
Then it was that Ella broke down, and, in her weakness,
confessed the whole : the shameful story told by Lucinda
Avery.
* Margaret — that cousin — that old woman — does she know
all the family history ? Is what she says about our people true ? *
* I believe that her mother taught her nothing else.'
*We w^ere in the drawing-room, the New Zealand girls
and I — and she was there, and we asked her about our people
— and she told us. Margaret, for God's sake do not let
Auntie know ! It would kill her. The shame of the thing
would kill her.'
' What did she say, dear ? That is, if it would not pain
you too much to tell me.'
' It pains me more to keep the thing a secret,' she said.
* She told the New Zealand girls — who have got a genealogy a
mile long — that their grandfather was a convict transported
to Austraha and escaped ; and is that true, Margaret ? You
w^ho know everything : is that true ? '
* Unhappily, Ella, it is true.'
' And that my grandfather — my grandfather — ran away
wdth his master's wife, w^ho w^as my grandmother — my grand-
mother, Margaret. Since they never married in Woodbury,
they never married at all. Is that true, Margaret ?'
* Give me both hands, Ella — both.' Margaret took her
hands, held them, kissed her forehead. * My poor child, it is
true '
'And you knew all along? Oh! How is it you know
everything ? And you never told me 1 *
I **:
THE SHAME OF IT I 255
*I knew that secret. Do you blame me for not telling
you ? I hoped that you would never find it out.'
* And now I have found it out. Oh ! Margaret — dear
Margaret — don't tell Auntie — don't let her ever know.*
* There is no necessity for telling her. You had better not
talk with her about your grand-parents at all. And now,
Ella, my dear, don't think about this matter any more.'
* Margaret' — Ella sat up in her chair — 'what did you tell
me — you, who know all about us ? That disaster followed
with that fortune — even on the mere endeavour after it. It
has fallen upon me. I came over in search of it — I thought
of nothing else. And now the punishment has fallen upon
me. My father was the son of sin and shame.'
' K you had stayed at home you would have escaped this
evil. Yes, dear ; it is true. Disaster falls surely and cer-
tainly upon all who touch that accursed pile of gold. God
forbid that the smallest piece of it should come to you or
yours — or to me and mine I * Margaret spoke wuth an earnest-
ness that sank deep into her companion's heart.
* Ella, dear, I have seen them in a vision, in broad day-
light, all the wives and daughters that you see upon these
walls, and more. I have seen them, and I tremble, lest their
lot may be mine. Thank God, dear, daily, that you have
escaped with nothing worse than the knowledge of a bygone
sin.*
*You, Margaret? Are you, too, concerned about this
haheritance ? I thought you were a far-off cousin. See, Mar-
garet, when I first thought that w^e must give it up — because
we could not find the marriage certificate — it seemed a most
dreadful blow ; now I don't mind it. I have come to see that
both of us, Auntie and I, are most unfit for the burden of
great wealth. If that was all ! — but I have got this awful
secret to endure. I have lost my reverence for that dear old
lady, so full of dignity — the memory of whom has ahvays been
a perpetual admonition of the Christian life. She is gone.
What am I to put in her place — a shameful adulteress? I
cannot, Margaret, I cannot/
256 BEYOND THE BBEAMS OF AVAPtlCK
*A repentant woman. The past forgotten and forgiven.
The Christian "woman that you remember. All that is left of
her : pure and most womanly. It seems as if the most difficult
lesson we can ever learn is that of the purifying fire of repent-
ance. Let the old memory survive, Ella. So you will bear
your burden better.'
' I am glad that I told you. I feel happier again. And,
oh, to think that you, too, are troubled about this dreadful
inheritance ! Margaret, you have done so much for me : can
1 not do something for you ? '
* No, you can do nothing for me. There is but one person
who can do anything for me. I am in a ship and he is
Btcering, and I see the rocks ahead, and he sees nothing but
smooth water beyond. And in a day or two — a week or two
— I know not when — the ship will be on the rocks, and we
shall be wrecked and ruined. That is the reason why I am
unhappy, Ella.'
* In America, if we have religion, we mean it, and believe
it. Sometimes I think that here in England you do not mean
it. Perhaps that is only because you are reserved. I mean
it, Margaret, and I believe it ; and I shall pray for you. Aunt
Lucinda says that we prayed for a miracle, and the Lord sent
— Margaret. If I pray, what will the Lord send you ? Oh !
something, dear, something to turn your sorrow into joy.*
CHAPTEE XXXII
A DEEAM AND A DISCOVEr.Y
The only thing which makes a person incurious about some-
body else's secret is having a secret of his own. A good many
people have a secret of their own ; they keep it in a cupboard ;
they lock the door ; they put the key in the recesses of a safe ;
they never take out that key ; they go in continual terror all
their hves lest the key be found, the lock opened, the cupboard
exposed to the light, and the secret discovered. Generally the
A DREAM AND A DISCOVERY 257
secret is already known to all the world — that is, to that very
small part of the world which cares to know it. Now, when
Ella had got rid of her secret — that heavy burden of a secret
—she was able to look around and to discover the existence
of other people's secrets. For instance, she discovered that
Margaret and Lucian had a secret between them, and she
perceived that it was a secret which made Lucian irritable
and distrait, while it made Margaret unhappy, and she further
perceived that the secret was connected with the Burley
inheritance.
Ella was not more curious than other girls ; not so curious
as many ; her reading and studies made her less curious than
most ; but her affection for Margaret caused her to think a
great deal about this secret. And when one thinks a great
deal about a thing, one sometimes discovers what it means at a
very unexpected time and in a very unexpected manner. For
instance, we need not believe that it was the pale, cold trans-
parent Spirit of Truth — that lovely nymph — which came to
the bedside at night. But it seemed so. It was in the dead
of night, when the body is asleep, and the brain is ready for
messages, dreams, visions, and other trifles.
The Nymph came to Ella, and sitting by her bedside began
to whisper, * Ella, my dear, Margaret is unhappy. What
makes her unhappy? The conduct of her husband. In what
way? You do not know; cannot you guess? Think of
Lucian; think of his black hair arched over his forehead;
think of his dark eyes ; think of his resolute face. You have
got these in your mind. Very well. Now, my dear, go into
the drawing-room and look at the portraits. What ? You do
not yet understand ? And you an American girl I I am
ashamed of you, Ella, my dear. Look again. Now remember
the son who vanished, and who would be the heir if he was
alive ; if, as is likely, he is dead, he might have left a son.
Suppose this son was passing under an assumed name.
Suppose that he had at first resolved not to put in his
claim; suppose that he was being tempted more and more
every day ; suppose that his wife read the temptation in his
I' ". g
258 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
eyes and in his troubled loot. Ella, you are generally as quick
and as bright as any of your charming compatriots.' Truth
cannot flatter, mind ; therefore they must be charming — Ella's
compatriots. * Can you not guess ? '
Then Ella sat up in bed and replied aloud : * Lucian is his
son.'
But the transparent Spirit had gone.
Then, finding that it was still dark, she lay down again and
went back to sleep, with the serenity of one who has satisfied
a great curiosity. In the morning the discovery appeal in
its true proportions — a discovery that explained everything.
She turned it over in her mind. It explained everything :
Margaret's profound knowledge of the family history and all
its branches, including the secret of her own branch : Mar-
garet's anxiety : Lucian's silence.
* I have found out your secret,' she told Margaret, being a
loyal girl and not given to work underground. * It came to
me in a dream last night — I know now who you are and why
you are so anxious — we will not talk about it, but it is some-
thing for me only to understand your trouble and to look on,
though I am helpless.'
Margaret pressed her hand. * The ship,' she said, * is on
the breakers. It is very near the rocks. Another day or two,
perhaps — and then . It is life or death to me— and to
another — perhaps. But we will not talk about it.'
In this unexpected way the American girl discovered the
secret. Strange, that she should not have found it out before.
Why, his face, his eyes, his hair, all cried aloud that this was
no descendant of a daughter, but a direct son of the house.
And what was he thinking about alv/ays, this strong man who
sat so silent, his face exactly like that of the first Calvert,
resolute and masterful? What but the immense fortune
that awaited him if he only chose to put out his hand and
take it ? A great and terrible temptation. For such a man
would not desire this vast wealth for its own sake — not for
the life of pleasure — but for some worthier objects. She
thought of her own castles when first she dreamed of getting
A DUE AM AND A DISCOVERY 259
it all for herself. As her dreams were, so would his be, but
nobler, wiser, perhaps more generous. An American girl is
not too ready to admit of the superiority of a man. Ella
watched him at breakfast and at dinner. She saw that the
temptation was always in his mind. She saw his face grow
more resolute, and she knew that the end was drawing near.
It is venturesome to interfere between husband and wife.
Ella ventured.
*Lucian' — she first attempted the thing in his study—
* I've got something to say. Are you too busy ? May I come
in? Thank you. Then — ^what is the matter with Mar-
garet ? '
* With Margaret?'
* Yes ; she is nervous. She is anxious about something.'
* I think that Margaret is quite well. But I will talk to
her.'
* Think she is well ? Why, Lucian, what's the good of
being a physician and a husband, and a lover, too, not to see
that she is ill, without being told ? '
*I will talk to her,' he replied. How could he? He
knew that she was ill with anxiety, but how could he possibly
explain to this girl the real cause ? How could he tell her
that between them stood a Figure which to one showed like
Dame Fortune at her best, her most smiling mood ; and to
the other looked like Siva the Destroyer ? How could he
guess that this girl saw the Figure as plainly as either he or
Margaret ?
* You've got to talk to her, then, as soon as you can, and
to look after her as much as you can, and to let her have
whatever she wants — else she'll fall into a nervous condition.
You've got to think more about her and less about your
science and your profession, Lucian. If you were a different
kind of man, I should say you've got to think less about
yourself.'
* I will talk to Margaret as seriously as ever you can desure,
Ella. She has looked nervous lately. I will see to it at once.
I've had a good deal to think of.'
02
26o BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* Lucian * — Ella took his arm-chair and sat down in it---' I
often wonder why you are always thinking— thinking — think-
ing. Have you got some mighty discovery on your mind ?
Are you going to invent a bacillus that will inoculate the
whole world into perfect health ? That is the kind of bacillus
we want — a ravenous bacillus that will eat up all the other
bacilli like Moses's serpent, and then spread itself out com-
fortably and expire. Is that what makes you so silent— I
suppose I must not say moody ? '
* Am I silent, Ella ? There is something perhaps on your
mind. You know one has to think of many things, and I —
well — perhaps I have reason to think more than usual.'
* I hope it will be successful thinking, and, oh ! Doctor
— Doctor Lucian — I hope it will be something that will make
Margaret happy again. Cure her — cure her, cure her first,
physician — before you cure the rest of the world.'
Even the thought of Margaret was powerless against the
temptation.
His face hardened. He made no reply. Ella left him.
She had fired her shot. Perhaps it would be useless. Perhaps
it might recall him to a sense of what he was throwing away.
For the shipwreck that Margaret foresaw would be the wreck
of her married life, his love, happiness — everything. She
would never, Ella understood, join her husband in any part,
or share, of this estate. * The ship,' said Ella, * is very near
the rocks.'
At dinner the same day she made another attempt to
combat the temptation. It was a silent dinner, but Ella forced
the talk.
' Lucian,' she said. He looked up abstractedly. * I want
to tell you something. You have not spoken for at least ten
minutes, which shows that you are now in a good mood for
listening. Now, attention 1 ' she rapped the table with the
handle of a knife.
* Well, Ella?'
* I want to talk to you— and Margaret— about our claim,
and all about it.*
A DnEAM AND A DISCOVERY 26 1
* Yes, we shall be very much interested in it.*
* You know the Grand Triumphal March of the American
Claimants and the huge lump of solid happiness we've got out
of our march, don't you ? '
* I suppose we know something of this.'
* Very well — we have withdrawn our claim. Auntie has
tied up all the papers, and it has come to an end.*
* Perhaps it was wise, considering the difficulties in your
way.*
* Perhaps — but consider — all the way from Woodbury
here, and all the time we have been here, I have had the most
gorgeous dream that ever came to any girl — a dream of
Boundless Wealth. I have been like Tennyson, building for
my soul a Palace of Art. I have been dispensing with both
hands unheard-of blessings — and now it is all over.*
* You feel, I dare say, a little lonely without it.*
* Just a little,* she interrupted. * Lucian, do you know
what it is like ? ' She spoke simply, without the least sus-
picion of double meaning in her voice or in her eyes. * Did
you ever have — you — a Dream of Untold Gold ? '
Margaret started and bowed her head. Lucian started and
dropped his fork. Why, at that very moment he was longing
to wander away in such a dream — a vision in which he stood
forth as the greatest benefactor that science ever knew. He
dropped his fork— a thing no one ever does except at moments
of sudden shock. In the last century when a man was startled
his mouth opened and his jaws stuck. That was the recog-
nised and highly poetical manner of receiving the unexpected.
In these days a man drops what at other times he never drops
at all — his fork, his umbrella, his pen. The ancestral manner
is the more striking. Lucian dropped his fork : he changed
colour: he looked up quickly and suspiciously. The girl's
face expressed perfect, unsuspecting ignorance and innocence.
' I don't mean, you know, the ordinary wealth that makes
a rich man such as we call rich — a man with a million or two
— just independent of work — having to think before he spends
ten thousand dollars— I mean Boundless Wealth — such wealth
262 BF.YOND TIIE DREAMS OF AVARICE
as I once hoped to inherit. The wealth that I came over in
order to get — and haven't got.*
Lucian picked up the fork and fenced, not with it, but with
the question.
* I suppose,' he said, * that we all have some such dream,
at odd times. It does no harm to dream of things possible
only for one man in a dozen centuries.'
* Mine was a lovely dream. Would you like me to tell
you about it ? I know you won't laugh, Margaret, over the
foolishness of my dream.*
* Nobody will laugh, Ella.'
* Then, I'll tell you all about it. It began as soon as I was
able to understand what it meant to be the heir of the Burley
property. You can't rise to it all at once, especially if you are
an American girl working in a store at five dollars a week.
You understand ten dollars perhaps, or even twenty, but it
vrants great imagination for such a girl to get beyond. I
suppose it was a fortnight or three weeks before I even began
to understand. I used to set down the figures, all in a row,
and look at them till they got lengthened out ; you know what
eyes will do with things if you look long enough and let them
have their own way. They stretched out so ' — she followed an
imaginary line with her hand — * to miles and miles and miles
of millions, till I used to think I was going oif my head. The
figures got the better of me for a time. If ever I shut my
eyes, I saw a long procession of them — round noughts without
units — rolling wheels one after the other, never ending.
V/ell, I got the better of them at last, and then the dream
began. I had first to conquer the figures, you see, and make
them feel that I was going to rule them. Did you ever feel
that way, Cousin Lucian ? *
' Not altogether.'
* So the dream began, and I was the Queen of all the
Treasure, and was doing with it— oh I— the most inconceivable
amount of good to the whole world. I j ust scattered blessings.
I was the most benevolent fairy that you ever saw. That was
how it began— just with blessings in the abstract— vague, you
A DREAM AND A DISCOVERY 263
know — shadowy blessings. I think I enjoyed that phase of
the dream best. Then it changed. Have you felt that way,
Cousin Lucian ? '
* Not altogether. But go on.'
'Then I began to settle down — we were on board the
steamer by this time, and the weather was awful, and as for
poor Auntie — but I was too busy with my dream to notice
things. I began to settle down, I say. I asked myself
definitely what I was going to do. You see that I had made
up my mind that I was going to get the whole estate — I had
no manner of doubt about that. Well — where was I to live ?
Not in effete Europe, not in a corrupt European capital — that
was the way I used to think six weeks ago. It must be in
America — the Land of the Free. So I chose Boston, and I
thought I would have one of the houses looking over the
common. And as for Woodbury, which I then discovered
for the first time to be quite a little place, I couldn't live
there — that wasn't at all a fit place for the Queen of all that
Treasure — but I would do something for it — What ? *
She paused for anyone to make a suggestion. No
answer.
* I thought I would build a great and splendid college.'
Lucian started, and looked at the speaker with swift sus-
picion. No — innocence itself was in her eyes. Indeed,
though I believe that her first question was artful and design-
ing, and based upon her discovery, the rest was pure
coincidence.
* A college — yes — a college for girls only, where they
should learn everything that men learn — they do that already,
almost. In my college they should do it quite. There are
some things still left for men — mechanical engineering, ship-
building, machines and engines, electricity — everything,
everything I would have taught in my college besides the
usual history and languages and art and science.'
Lucian ncdled his head. * You would make them also
navvies, ploughboys, hodmen, sawyers, carters, draymen ? '
*Why not? There is no reason why they should not
264 r,F.YOND TUB BREAjSIS OF AVAPJCF.
learn. Anyway, I tell you I was just going to make the finest
college in the world and to plank it down at Woodbury, and
to leave them to work it out. Can anyone say that I was
unmindful of my native town ? Wasn't that a noble dream ? '
* Very noble, indeed,' said Lucian, with a little restraint.
* I was afraid you wouldn't think so. Because, here in
England, you won't acknowledge — what an American under-
stands quite well — that women are fast becoming the leaders
of the world. '
' No. I think we have hardly '
' Not yet. But you will. The men will go on working :
they will have to do the work that the w^omen leave them.
They will make things — all the men in Woodbury will make
chair-legs, for instance : they will plough and reap : and they
wall do the buying and the selling — they will do the money-
making. That is essentially a branch for the coarser wit of
men. Of course, it will not be considered in the future a
noble branch of work.'
' This is all part of your dream ? '
*0f course. ]\Iy college w^as intended to advance the
Rupremacy of women. Oh ! I know what you are thinking.
No woman yet the equal of the greatest men. Why, you have
never given us the opportunity, and you can't deny that even
with our limited chances the average woman is far better than
the average man. Woman is essentially the administrator.
Why, it's the hardest thing in the world to get a man who
can administrate : he must be a soldier or a teacher. But you
may find a woman who is a good administrator in every other
house.'
* Your woman of the future — will she also fight ? '
* Why not ? The old fighting — the club and knife and fist
— is gone. You fight from a distance. Your rifles are too
heavy, but when you have substituted electricity for powder,
you will have a light weapon that we can carry as well as you.
And as for endurance in a campaign, the average woman will
endure far better than the average man.'
* I understand,' said Lucian, coldly.
A DREAM AND A DISCOVERY 26$
Yes — and the most beautiful point about it was that I
did not want the fortune for my own use. I wanted it — all
of it — for the advancement of the world. Oh 1 It was grand !
There was I— just I by myself— on a pinnacle, a spectacle
for all the world, 5 ft. 8 in. in my boots — Ella Burley by name
— native of Woodbury, Mass.— a girl clerk in a store — who
knew nothing outside my books — standing behind the great
round world and rolling it uphill all by myself.'
* Why not,' asked Lucian, * if you have the money ? — that
is the power.'
VAh! but, you see, that is the mistake. It is not the
money that rolls the world — it is the man. I don't know
whether my college would have taught the girls any better
than any other college. But I do see now that it wouldn't
have quickened or diverted the current one bit unless it was
connected with a strong person — a man, if you like. Well,
it's all over now,' she laughed. * All over, and I am so glad
— so glad — and so is Auntie.'
* Since you are pleased, Ella,' said Lucian, feebly, * so are
we.'
' Well, at first I was disappointed. It seemed a thousand
pities to give up such a dream. Presently I remembered
something in Browning. I can't quote the lines. He shows
how everybody, who desires anything strongly, especially if
he desires good things, feels like the Greek mathematician,
that, if he only had a standpoint for his lever, he could move
the world. But he can't — and he's got to be content to stand
where he is placed, and to move if he can the little bit of the
world. So we must be content with our little bit — all that
about women leading — it was the kind of stuff we talked
— some of us ; and my college, which was to teach them
everything, what was it all but empty vanity and conceit ? '
Margaret at this point looked at her husband. He lifted
his eyes and met hers.
After a little pause he spoke. But he made no reply to
the last little speech about the empty vanity.
* We are all of us moving the world,' he said, * if we are
266 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
working at science. I see no other way of moving or advan-
cing the world. If your college had been founded, it might
have been an excellent college, and a real centre for scientific
discovery : on the other hand, it might have failed. There
is no reason that I can see why women should not advance
science. They have not done so as yet ; but, then, very few
have attempted in that direction. As for women leading the
world, either in any high line or as administrators — there,
fair dreamer of dreams, I venture to differ.'
* Very well, but what would you do, Lucian,' she asked,
still with a look of open innocence, ' if you — but, of course,
you are too sensible — could entertain such a dream ? *
* If I ever entertained such a dream as you say, it would
be to advance science in some way.'
*Just like me, then. But you would advance science
only ? '
' Yes ; because I see no hope for the advancement of the
v/orld except by science.*
* I have always been taught,' she replied softly, * that there
is a larger hope. However, what do you mean to do for
the world, especially by your science ? '
' The possibilities of science are such that we can no more
understand them than we can limit them. At the present we
are still on the threshold. Future ages will ridicule us when
they read that we thought only of prolonging life, destroying
disease, alleviating pain, arresting decay. It will seem to them
child's play when we proposed to lessen labour by the half —
by three-quarters ; to multiply food products indefinitely, to
destroy poverty, to raise the standard, to lift up the poor to
the level of the rich, and to make the world a garden for men
and women as long as they like to live in it. Of life in the
long run there would be, I take it, satiety in the end.'
* A world with nothing to do but to enjoy itself ! Why,
Lucian, your people would have to alter a good deal first.
Only to think of pleasure ! What a world it would be I Why,
if you come to think of it, your science would produce a uni-
versal pig-sty. Fancy taking all this trouble to produce a
A DREAM AND A DISCOVERY 267
world with nothing to do but to enjoy itself ! You are a very
clever man, Lucian, but I do hope you will not get your
college. If you do, I shall go and live on a desert island.'
Ella laughed, but Margaret did not. She looked at her
husband, who rephed, gravely, * You do not understand, EUa.
These things will not arrive all at once. The world w^ill be
prepared by gradual achievements. And in such a world, the
pig-sty will not be permitted.'
* People don't want much preparation for less work and
more pay. But it's a curious thing,' Lucian, isn't it ? — that your
dream — a scientific man's dream — should be no better than
mine. You are a biologist, a physician, and I know not what,
and I am only a girl clerk from Woodbury, Mass., and we
dream the same dream. And both the dreams are foolishness.
Only think I Both foolishness I '
CHAPTER XXXIII
ffHE CONDOLENCE OF THE MOTHERS
After this little discussion of the impossible dream there
was silence for a space, three out of the four feeling guilty.
Then Margaret rose ; Lucian remained behind, shaken out of
the even tenor of the dream which now held him day and
night. In the drawing-room the three ladies sat without the
exchange of many words. As for the coincidence, what could
be more natural than that Ella should speak of her dream ?
Everybody knew she had entertained such a dream, and had
been living in it, and clinging to it, until it became impossible,
in the way that you have seen. But something was going to
happen. Everybody knows the feeling that something is
going to happen. The two women were expectant.
Something was going to happen. Anybody may say so
much at any time. Something is always going to happen ;
something happens every day ; but not something that may
change the whole current of a life ; may poison its stream ;
2GS BEYOND THE BREAMS OF AVARICE
may turn sweet water into bitter ; something that may choke
the spring of happiness, that kind of something we do not
expect, else were life intolerable.
Presently the clock struck ten. Margaret rose.
* Good night, dear,' she said. ' I must go down to Lucian,
I think. We have to talk together to-night. Good night,
Ella : your eyes follow me about. You are like your grand-
father's portrait. My dear — I know not what may happen.
Perhaps, to-night, all my future ' She checked herself ;
she had said already more than she should have said.
She went down the stairs with trembling steps and beating
heart. She stood before the study door for a moment, hesi-
tating. Then she opened it and stood in the doorway.
* Come in, Margaret,' said her husband ; * come in. You
so seldom show up here since the American cousins came.
Come in and shut the door. Let us be alone.*
*What are you doing, Lucian?* He held before him a
sheet of paper covered with figures and calculations. ' Is it
still the dream of unbounded wealth ? '
'Always that dream, my dear,' he replied, with forced
cheerfulness. ' It never leaves me. I confess that for the
time I can think of nothing else. That is not surprising,
when you consider the importance of it.*
* And your dream after all is exactly the same as that of
a girl, ignorant of the world, from an obscure village in the
State of Massachusetts.' Margaret had never before in all
her life attempted to be sarcastic.
* Her dream I ' he laughed, scornfully. * Her dream com-
pared with mine ? My dear Margaret, you have not attempted
even to grasp the greatness of my scheme. Every day it
grows upon me — it throws out new branches in all directions :
it brings forth unexpected fruit : it is going to be the most
noble college of philosophy that the world has ever seen.
Don't talk to me of that thing she called a college.*
* Yet it is the same. And, hke that girl, you want none
of the fortune for yourself.'
* None. I vf ould not stir an inch, Margaret, believe me,
THE CONDOLENCE OF THE MOTHERS 269
to get this money for myself. So far, I respect my father's
wish and my promise to you.'
* But, Lucian, remember what that girl said. Though
you say you want nothing for yourself, you see yourself every-
where. It is your owti glory that you desire for yourself :
glory as lasting as the monument you would raise.'
He interrupted her impatiently. ' You invent motives.
"What business has the world with motives ? We want deeds ;
we need not ask the motive.'
* In my husband I look for noble motives. Well— say that
you desire to do some great thing for science. Well, Lucian,
you are young ; you have begun well ; go on in your line and
do this great thing. It will be far greater for you if you do
ifc— you yourself — than if you build a palace and hire labourers
to do it for you.'
* I have seen Nicholson,' Lucian replied, evasively. * He
tried to dissuade me from my purpose, but finding that to be
impossible, he undertook the case and has taken my papers
to the Treasury to-day — aU the papers. He has, in fact,
already put in my claim ; and, of course, there can be no doubt
and no delay. Well, Margaret, the thing is done.'
Margaret dropped into a chair. * Oh ! ' she moaned, * he
has done it after all.'
* It was necessary, if only that the unfortunate claimants,
who are hanging on and hoping on, might be put out of their
pain. I told you at the outset, Margaret, that if I could not
have this fortune nobody else should.'
' You have sent in the papers ! You have put in your
claim — and after your promise to me — a promise as binding
as your marriage vows ! '
* Can you not see, Margaret, that a woman's superstitious
whim cannot stand against interests so gigantic as these ? I
warned you. It has been evident to you what was coming.
Besides, the claim is not for me — it it for the Thing I am
going to do.'
She said nothing, but she clasped her hands and swung
herself backwards and forwards as one who is in grievous pain.
2;o BEYOInD the DUExUIS oe ayaiiice
Lucian went on justifying his own action to himself. *Ag
for my father's wishes, I promised him that I would consider
them, and I have considered them fully. Having regard to
his natural dislike to the methods by which his father made
the money, and his own schoolboy humihations in being
reminded of the money-lending and the other notorious things,
I can quite understand his wish to be separated from the past
altogether : taking all these things into account, I can quite
understand why he should attribute the various well-deserved
shames and disasters of his family — which were clearly due to
their o^vn misdeeds — to the crooked ways of those who built
up the fortune of the house, and to the third and fourth
generation theory. But as a person not given over to super-
stition, and not in the least afraid of being taunted with things
now pretty well forgotten, I am not disposed to accept his
views, and I am disposed to take what is ready to be placed
in my hands. You understand me, Margaret ? \
* It is impossible to misunderstand you.'
* Then '
* You have not waited for my consent. You promised you
would do nothing without my consent, and you have not even
taken the trouble to ask a release of that promise.'
' The promise was nothing. It was made without under-
standing the facts of the case. But I do want your approval
and your agreement with me. I do want your acknowledg-
ment, my dear Margaret, that I am acting wisely and rightly.'
* You have condemned your wife to life-long misery. Oh !
Lucian, if any misery of my own — only my own — would
make you happier, but '
'Misery, child! I don't want your misery. Margaret,
Ma-ijorie— mine ! '^-he caught her hand, but she drew it back.
— 'I want your happiness. See — consider — we are poor.
Between us we have no more than 400?. a year. There may
ba other claims as time goes on. I may never get any practice
at all, most likely I never shall. I am not of the kind out of
which successful physicians are made. And I don't want
practice. I want to work all my life — research — work in a
THE COiN^DULElNCE OF THE MOTHERS 27 I
laboratory. Tliat is my dream for myself. For yon, ease
and material well-being and no anxiety. That is all I want.
But, oh I the superstitious madness and folly of it. That you,
you, should feel such mediasval, antiquated, ridiculous scruples !'
' It is not superstition. What but misery has followed all
the members of the family from generation to generation ?
Lucian, shake off the temptation. It is not yet too late.
You to inherit this dreadful pile of gold heaped up and
gathered by pandering to the worst vices that can degrade
and disgrace man I It was made by the ruin of gamblers ; by
the profits of infamous dens where wretched men and lost
women held their orgies; by lending money to profligate
young men — oh ! Lucian — how can you, an honourable man
in an honourable profession, the son of an honourable man —
how can you, I ask, think for one moment of claiming this
vast Monument of Shame ? *
* I have considered all these things,' he replied, coldly.
* And I have told you that the use to which I design this
wealth will be better, far better, than the abandonment
of it.*
* You will actually aclmowledge yourself to be this man's
grandson ? '
Lucian laughed, but not wiih merriment. * I care nothing
at all about the character or the history of my grandfather,
lie lived his life — a grovelling kind of life it was — and I live
mine. As for the people he wronged, they are dead and their
wrongs are buried with them. Good heavens ! If we were to
remember all the wrongs committed a hundred years ago !
And as for the opinion of the world, I own to you, Margaret,
first, that I care nothing at all about it ; and secondly, that
the world cares nothing at all about me. The world is not
greatly curious about any man's grandfather. Very often the
world's grandfather, like mine, was of the reptile order. There
must be crocodiles and alligators, I suppose. As soon as the
facts are announced and the world hears that the case is
decided, and that the great Burley estates have been handed
over to the legal heir, there will be a day or two of talk : the
2 72 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
illustrated papers will have my portrait, witli a brief account
of my education and work ; interviewers will flock here.
There will be a speculative paper in the " Spectator" on the
emotions natural to the sudden possession of great wealth ; a
good many stories will be raked up about Burley's hell and
Burley's dancing cribs, and the old orgies, and the rest of it.
What then ? Silence will follow about the past. Everybody
will know the worst that there is to know. Expectancy and
conjecture will begin about the future. "What is the rich man
— the very rich man — the richest man in all the world —
going to do with his wealth ? And the first thing, of course,
will be to make him a peer. This country could not go on
unless the richest man in the country was made a peer. How
should you like to be a countess ? '
* Oh ! Lucian ! You can even jest about it.'
' Not at all. And then I shall found my college of science ;
that will be the serious work of my life. Come,' he changed
his tone and spoke sharply, even roughly, * you have heard
my dream, let us fence with the thing no longer. It is not a
dream : it is a settled purpose. I see before me a plain duty ;
an opportunity such as has never before been offered to any
living man. If I threw away such a chance, it would be a
blasphemy against science which could never be forgiven,
neither in this world nor in the world to come. There are
other rich men in the world, but their wealth lies in lands,
houses, shares, and investments : if they attempted to realise
their property they would lose two- thirds of it. I shall be the
only rich man in the world who can lay his hand upon all
these millions and millions of money, and say, ' This is mine,
to spend, to invest, to use, as I please.' And you would
prevent me from taking this magnificent, this unrivalled
chance by a superstitious terror or by some foolish objection
as to the way in which the money was made 1 *
Margaret sank into a chair and buried her face in her
hands. It was no use to say anything.
* We cannot undo the past, my dear. Let us be reasonable.
The money was not stolen : if it were, it could be restored.
TH13 CONDOLENCE OF THE MOtHEHS ^73
The fortune was first begun, as my ancestor has artlessly
informed us, by robbing the till : it was afterwards increased
by the savings of a miser : and it was multiplied twenty-fold
by tradmg on the vices of the town. What can be done with
it better than to devote it all to science ? '
*No,' said Margaret, *we must not touch the accursed
thing. Why did your father leave it ? *
* Again, remember that I want nothing for myself, except
to be the founder of this great college. Margaret, have you
no feeling for science ? You are the wife of a man of science
— do you not understand something of what might be done
by such a college ? Think. Science is the only thing in the
world that is real and tangible and certain. It is the only
hope of the world.*
* No ; it is not the only hope of the world.'
* Yes. The only hope. Y^'ou heard, at dinner, something
of this. My college shall be the chief home of science;
the chief servant of humanity ; the teacher of that highest
morality under which every man shall feel that he best
protects himself by protecting all other men. That is my
case, Margaret.*
She sighed. She rose.
* Then you agree with me, Margaret ? You are in consent
with me ? You release me from that promise ? *
*No.*
* Then, Margaret, once for all, I release myself.*
She looked him full in the face. His eyes were hard,
dogged, unrelenting — the determined eyes of his ancestor,
Calvert Burley.
* The accursed thing is working in your soul already,
Lucian. It has brought wretchedness, somehow or other, to
all who hope to get possession of it — to Sir John — to his
daughters — to Ella — to Lucinda — to that poor butterfly the
singer — to you. As for me, I am one of the wives. I can
sit and wait and weep with them. Your mind is quite made
up. I see it is. I read it in your eyes.*
' It is quite made up, Margaret. There is no more to say
T
274 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICK
except— just at present, I fear, a useless thing to say— 1)9
reasonable, and trust in your husband's reason.'
* I must go, then. I must think. I must find out, if I
can, what i" best to be done.'
Margaret turned away sadly and climbed the stairs.
The house was silent. The lights were out. As Margaret
went up to her room, the air was filled with whispers — they
were women's voices — for her alone to hear. They said:
* You are one of us ; soon you shall be one with us — one with
us — one with us ; you and *
An hour later Lucian came up, stepping softly lest he
should awaken his wife. He turned up the shaded gas-jet a
little and where was Margaret ? The tumbled pillow, the
blanket thrown back, showed that she had been there. Where
was she now ? He looked round the room. He turned up
the light higher. She was not there. Then he thought of
the drawing-room. He opened the door. The curtains were
drawn, the room was in black darkness. He lit a candle.
The portraits all stared at him curiously, but no one was there.
He returned to the bedroom; he thought she might be in
Ella's room. He stepped softly upstairs ; he would be able
to see the light under the door if there was any light burning
in the room. He would hear their voices if they were talking.
No ; there was no gleam of light, there was no talking.
Then, while he stood on the stair in doubt, he heard
Margaret's voice. She was talldng quite softly, but, as to her
voice, there could be no doubt. And the voice came from one
of the garrets above.
Lucian was by no means a superstitious man, as we have
seen. He regarded not omens, lucky or unlucky days, warn-
ings or encouragements ; he would have spent a night alone
in a haunted house with unshaken nerves and the firmest
resolution neither to hear nor to see anything : he had an
unbounded contempt for all the ghosts of Borderland. These
ghosts know the scientific attitude ; they recognise the folly
of showing themselves to a man who refuses to see them ;.
therefore, when the man of science steps in, the ghost stepa
THE CONDOLENCE OF THE MOTHERS 275
out. They only show themselves to the fearful. No argu-
ment, therefore, against the existence of ghosts can be founded
on the fact that the scientific man never sees any. He never
will — and now you know the reason.
Lucian was, then, the least credulous of men. But to hear
your wife's voice in the dead of the night, talking to non-
existent persons in an empty garret, is a shock to the most
profoundly scientific of men. Archimedes himself. Bacon,
Darwin, Huxley, would be shaken by such a singular experi-
ence. Lucian felt his heart beat and his pulse quicken as he
ran up the topmost stair. What did it mean ?
The door of the front garret was wide open : a flood of
moonlight fell through the windows, partly on the floor and
partly on the dismantled bed, and partly on Margaret herself,
sitting on the mattress. A strange, weird picture she made,
bathed in the moonlight, clad in a white dressing-gown, her
bare feet on the floor, her long fair hair hanging over her
shoulders, her eyes wide open, her hands moving in harmony
with her words, her head carried as one who is eagerly
listening and eagerly talking — her whole attitude that of one
who takes part in a conversation on some subject of import-
ance and interest. She was, in fact, in the midst of the wives
and mothers: she was in her dream. Was this, then, a
nightly practice with her, to steal away, and thus sleep-
walking enact the dream? Lucian understood. He knew
of this vision or this dream. To look on filled him with
admiration of the case : it was a psychological study, the per-
sistence of the dream was curious ; in order to destroy it, his
Vv^ife would probably require a change of thought, and place,
and talk; this business of the succession once settled, he
would take her away himself. As for any change in his own
purpose, that was of course absurd.
He waited at the door — he knew she would not see him ;
he watched and listened.
* Yes — yes,* she cried. ^ Oh 1 all you prophesied has come
to pass. Even the desire for the inheritance — nothing but
that— has brought shame and disappointment upon all, and
x2
now the time has come for me to feel what you have felt, and
to suifer as you have suffered.'
She paused and listened, as if to one who stood at her
right. Even Lucian could not avoid the wish that he also
could see this company.
* The time has come at last. The temptation was too
great. The desire has become a madness. He, too, will
become openly your grandson and your great-grandson. He
is exactly Hke your husband, madam, the Calvert Burley who
brought upon us all this misery and the beginning of this
wealth — perhaps he will end like him, in stony hardness of
heart— and he is Hke your husband.' She turned to another
person. Lucian almost thought he saw that other person,
with such reality did she turn from one to the other. But,
no— nothing was there but the moonlight, falling on his
sleeping and dreaming wife. * He is like your husband, too,
like the miser who drove all your children from the house,
one after the other, so that some starved and some committed
wicked tilings. Perhaps Lucian will in time become a miser.
I thmk that already he begins to love money. He dreams all
day about the money; he cannot think of his work — he will
do no more scientific work. His gold will presently weigh
him down and crush him.'
She was silent for a few moments, but she turned her face
from one to the other as if she listened to what each in turn
was saying.
* You bring me no comfort. You give me no advice. It
doesn't help me to hear from each of you, one after the other,
the sadness of your lives. What am I to do ? Oh I tell me,
what am I to do ? *
Again there was silence. Lucian shivered, for, against his
reason, he imagined that he heard voices in reply.
' No, no, no I ' Margaret clasped her hands. * I will do
anything for him— anything in the world except one thing.
If it were for myself only, he should have my company in all
the misery which he will bring upon himself. But mine alone.
He shall not bring misery upon * Here she was silent—
THE CONDOLENCE OF TIIE MOTIIEES 277
while the others interrupted her, speaking apparently all
together.
* It had been better,' Margaret went on, ' if you had left
your husbands before your children were born. And that is
the sum of what you say. You all think so. Better — better
for you — better for the world had you left your husbands
before your babies were born.'
She paused. Was it the murmur of assent that Lucian
heard ?
Then she rosa and looked around. * It is very good of
you,' she said. * We will cry together often in the time to
come. Only a day or two more and J shall be one with you —
to share in all your sufferings, and to feel all that you have
felt. Good night ; good night. Oh ! sad-faced mothers !
Good night.'
The tears rolled from her cheeks, her voice broke, and
then — a strange action when one of the two who embrace is
impalpable and invisible — she raised her arms and made as if
she threw them round the neck of one person after another,
and as if she kissed the cheek of one after the other. Then
she looked round her — she was alone — her visitors were gone.
She pulled open the chest of drawers, and took out some of
the things that lay there, things Lucian knew appertaining
to infants. She unfolded them and held them up one by one
in the moonHght. Then she carefully folded and laid them
back again.
And then, still with eyes that looked straight before her
and saw nothing, she walked past Lucian and slowly, without
touching the stair-rail, went downstairs, her husband following
her. She did not hear his step, she walked on quite uncon-
scious ; she stopped at her bedroom door, hesitated a moment,
and then went in and lay down upon the bed.
Lucian bent over her. She was fast asleep. Her eyes
were closed. She was peacefully sleeping. He lay awake
watching her. She slept on, her breathing calm, undisturbed
by any more dreams— exhausted. In the morning she would
be recovered ; she would be reasonable. Of course she would
278 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
see the thing as she always had before, with his eyes, from his
point of view. She had always been that kind of wife who
submits to everything which would make her husband happy.
Presently he, too, fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning she was gone. Not into
the garret this time, but in a quiet prosaic manner gone —
down to breakfast.
CHAPTER XXXI7
FAEEWELL I
Lucian's heart was softened. Remembering that acted dream
— that strange drama of one visible performer with a whole
company, invisible and inaudible — his heart became very soft.
All the irritation caused by his wife's contumacy vanished in
thinking of that sleep-walking. Clearly, he must take or send
her away — to Freshwater, say, or Hastings, for a change.
She had been dwelling too much on this foolish superstition :
as soon as she understood the foolish unreason of the thing
she would shake off her fears. Superstition, however, as this
physician very well knew, is a hard thing to kill. Nothing
but the most resolute defiance of the bogey is effective. There
have been found men strong enough to beat down and destroy
with hammers Odin, Dagon, Kaloo, and the most venerable
old idols : are there found men or women strong enough in
these days to break looking-glasses, begin new work on a
Friday, sit down thirteen to table, or cease to beUeve that
money gotten in certain ways must carry a curse with it ?
Lucian considered these things with himself while ha
dressed.
He became charitable, even ; there was, after all, some-
thing to be said for the superstition, especially by those who
did not clearly perceive that all the disasters which fell upon
the house were caused by wrong-doing. Certainly there were
many horrid things in the family record : they had been pre-
FAREWELL! 279
sented to Margaret en bloc and suddenly ; and, v/itli them, liia
father's prejudices as regards the hereditary curse ; and,
really, if you come to think of it, the like of these disasters
had seldom, if ever, been recorded in any middle-class family.
In this middle way one is generally supposed to be tolerably
safe. Down below, an appearance at the Criminal Court, with
a pew in the very front — a stall in the first row — is common.
Up above there are family histories, including losses at the
gaming-tables, plunging on the turf, duels over ladies of the
ballet, revelations in the Divorce Courts, and other scandals.
Either up above or down below, such a family history as that
of the Burleys, one supposes, might be equalled or surpassed.
Not in the middle class, where there still lingers, we have been
taught to believe, some regard to character.
Lucian's softening of heart did not include the least
weakening of purpose ; he was going to carry out that pur-
pose — with or without his wife's consent. But, of course, she
would consent. He never remembered any occasion, great or
small, on v/hich his wish was not her law. Naturally, he
supposed that his wish would under all circumstances always
remain law. Therefore he dressed and went downstairs in a
perfectly cheerful frame of mind. He was late : he had over-
slept himself, the breakfast of the others was finished :
Margaret was alone ; waiting for him.
Either by accident or design a chair stood before the fire
and between herself and her husband. Lucian did not
observe that she was pale, except for a red spot in her cheeks,
and that she was trembhng with some hidden excitement. Ho
was only thinking of himself and his own intended mag-
nanimity.
He stepped in, holding out both hands.
* My dear,' he said, * I am shamefully late. You ought to
have awakened me.'
* Will you take your breakfast, or will you talk with me
first ? * She would not take his hands. ' I have a Httle to say I
it will not take long.'
* Talk away, dear ' — he lifted the lid of the hot-water dish,
280 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVARICE
and observed that there were kidneys — ' go on talking, dear.
I will take breakfast the while.' He sat down, cut bread,
poured out tea, and took a kidney. * ' How did you sleep, my
dear ? '
* As usual. I always sleep well.'
* A dreamless, peaceful sleep ? *
* I have one dream always. That is, hitherto I have had
one dream. That will be changed now.'
* What is the dream, dear ? *
* It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more.'
Something— a little break — in her voice struck him. He
looked up, sprang to his feet, and tried to take her hand. She
drew it away. He stooped to kiss her — she repelled him
roughly.
* No,* she said, with decision, * that is ended.*
'What is ended?'
She turned upon him a face so resolute, so stern and hard,
£0 utterly changed from the fair face of smiles and love and
submission to which he was accustomed, that he was amazed.
He did not recognise his wife. For awhile he could not speak.
Then his masterfulness returned.
He laughed. ' What has got into your head now, Margaret ?
I don't know you this morning.'
* You forget what I told you last night. Yet I thought I
made my meaning plain.'
' You talked considerable nonsense last night, and I had to
let you understand — more plainly than was pleasant — that a
woman's superstition must not stand in the way of the world's
interests.'
* I told you that I would face any miseries that you might
bring upon our heads if I were sharing them with you alone.
But^ •
* Well ? ' for here she stopped.
* I will not bring these miseries upon another. My child
shall not inherit the curse of those millions.*
' What ? ' he cried. ' Your child ? Your child, Mar-
0aret 7 \
FAKE WELL I 28 1
* Did you not understand ? Well — what your father did
when he was grown up, I shall do before that child is born.
I shall go away. The child shall never know its own
people.'
* Margaret — ^you do not mean this. Your child ? Your
child ? •
* I mean it most solemnly and seriously. You have chosen
your part — you have sent in your claim. It must be granted.
I go away before it is granted, because I will not, for one single
hour, be a sharer in this wicked wealth.'
* You will leave me, Margaret ? But this — this child ! *
* I am going away this morning, immediately. I have
told your cousins, Lucinda and Ella. They will go with
me.'
* You will leave me ? ' He hardly understood the meaning
of the words. And this was the girl who had seemed to have
no life or joy except in doing things that would bring pleasure
to him.
* It is too late, I suppose,' Margaret went on, coldly, * to
say anything more. You may, however, still keep me if you
v/ill agree to abandon everything — all your rights.'
* Never.* His face became as the nether millstone. * What
is mine I will take.'
* Then, Lucian, I go.'
* Stop. Stop a moment. Your own people — your mother
and sister — what will you tell them 7 '
* The truth. If they disapprove, which is very possible, I
shall go my own way.*
*But tell me again. Your child — your child — my
child '
*I will never consent to join that wretched company of
wives and mothers who are waiting for me upstairs.'
' Superstition I Come, Margaret, I will take you out of
this house. It is too quiet a place, too ghostly for a young
wife with few friends. We did wrong in coming here. Come
•^you will forget, in new and brighter places, this company of
wretched wives and mothers — the people who come to you in
282 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
your dreams. And — my dear — you have told me — you will
have new hopes.'
* Therefore I must leave you, or my hopes will turn to
terrors. Oh ! Lucian, when you first heard of this shame-
ful family you shrank with horror at the thought of claiming
what you now call your own. Little hy little you accustomed
yourself to thinking of it till the thing became possible. Then
it became attractive. Then it overpowered you. You have
been tempted, and you have fallen. Yes — fallen. You are
not the man I loved — your mind has gone down to a lower
level — ^you no longer think of your profession, and your own
work ; you think of the great power you are going to wield and
the great man you are going to be, by means of the vast for-
tune you have inherited — a fortune made out of men's vices
by the coldest and most heartless villain that ever existed.
This loathsome mass of ill-gotten gold will bring ruin and
destruction upon your head, upon mine, and upon the child
unborn unless I escape and flee — anywhere — anywhere away
from this place. It is like being in a doomed city before the
flames of Heaven descend upon it and destroy the city and the
people in it. That is all I have to say, Lucian.'
Without more words she left him alone.
He did not follow her. He stood still, thinking. Pre-
sently — the rebellion of a wife so submissive was inexplicable —
his obstinacy returned.
* Wonderful is the power of superstition,' he murmured.
* She mil come back. I will give her a day or two. Then
she will come back, and I will make more concessions. Poor
Margaret ! As if I w^as going to give v/ay to a woman's
superstitious fad. Great heavens ! To give up millions because
the old man was a money-lender ! Why shouldn't he be a
money-lender ? She will come back, and,' he laughed, * if she is
right we must make suitable provision for the heir.'
He sat down and took breakfast, his interest in the meal
in no way diminished by the recent conversation.
After breakfast he should have gone to the hospital, but he
did not. He went into his study and sat down before some
FAREWELL! 283
calculations as to the endowment of his students in the various
branches of his college of science — a college which seemed
about to cover half a county in extent — a — but what cannot
be done with twelve millions of money ? This morning, how-
ever, the figures seemed to run about of their own accord :
they wouldn't stand still to be added up. And he kept listen-
ing. There were feet overhead, and the bumping of boxes.
Margaret was packing up : she meant it, then.
Then the young husband, still the lover, experienced a
pain such as he had never before thought possible. For he
was drav/n two ways, by two ropes — two forces — two invisible
arms. One arm pulled him towards the door, while a voice
inside his brain — it was the voice of his father — cried aloud —
* Fool I Madman ! Go to your wife and stop her. Give her
what she asks. Stop her before a worse thing happens to you.'
And the other arm held him in his chair, while another voice
inside him whispered : ' Don't give up the money. Think of
the power. Think of the position. Millions upon millions !
The richest man — the greatest man — the most beneficent man
in the whole country ! '
The latter force prevailed. Lucian sat still.
Presently, there was a knock at the door. It was Ella,
dressed to go out. She had been crying, for her eyes were
red.
* Cousin Lucian,* she said, ' I've come to say good-bye.*
* If you must go, Ella. I suppose that Margaret has told
you '
* Yes— she has told us— I'm vurry sorry — ' she was- so
moved that she forgot the London fashion which she had
recently acquired and called it * vurry.* *I'm vm-ry sorry
indeed — I can't tell you how sorry I am.*
* Indeed, Ella, you cannot be so sorry as I am — not only
to lose you, but also — if you could bring Margaret to
reason.'
She shook her head. * Margaret is always reasonable —
and you are wrong— oh ! so wrong 1 ' She sat down and
began in her frank and direct way, * You are horribly wrong.
284 BEYOND THE DEEAxMS OF AVAEICE
Lucian. Don't tell me you want the money for your scientific
college. So did I. But it was all rubbish. I wanted it for
vainglory. The Lord wouldn't let me have it. He wouldn't
let a simple girl like me, ignorant of the ways of the world,
get the chance of doing mischief with that money. And what
a relief it is to me, now, to think that I have done with this
dreadful great fortune — and for ever I Don't call me a hypo-
crite, Lucian. I do really feel that it would be too much for
my strength— I should have been a lost soul. And it will be
too much for you. Don't delude yourself : already I see a
change in you. The weight of it will drag you down. Already
you think all day long about your money instead of your work.
But, there ! It's no use talking — and if you won't listen to
Margaret, you won't listen to me : and you wouldn't listen to the
angel Gabriel.'
He remained silent.
* Then, good-bye. Aunt Lucinda is crying outside. When
we get a lodging I will let you know, in case of repentance. It's
always possible. The man must be far gone indeed when a
door isn't left open for him to escape. Good-bye, then.*
He took her hand coldly : the tears rose to her eyes : she
ran out of the room and he heard her sobbing as she banged
the door — not with temper, but with grief.
When the wheels of the cab turned the corner of Great
College Street Lucian rose, put on his hat, and went forth to
Lis morning's work at the hospital.
'What's the matter with Dr. Calvert?' asked Nurse
Agatha of Sister Anne.
* What has been the matter with him for ever so long ? '
replied Sister Anne to Nurse Agatha.
'It's since his marriage,' said Nurse Agatha, who was
young and good-looking, and took an interest in holy wedlock.
♦ Yet they say his wife is charming.'
Sister Anne tossed her head. * They say I What do they
know? He is always distrait, whatever the cause. As for
FAREWELL! ^85
the patients, lie doesn't seem to care any more what becomes
of them.'
* Can anyone tell me what has happened to Calvert ? * It
was the editor of the * Scalpel ' who spoke, and it was at the
club that he said it. * I ran against him just now — ^he was
passing without noticing me ; I stopped him and asked about
a paper he promised me. He seemed to have forgotten me
tnd the paper and everything. Very odd. Must have had
iBome kind of blow.'
* Never the same man since his marriage,' said another ;
*yet they say '
* Hang what they say 1 We want our man back again ! *
This morning, especially, Lucian acknowledged to him-
self that he could bring his attention to bear upon nothing.
To be on the point of stepping straight out of poverty, or, at
least, slender means, into the possession of millions — many
millions — that alone is enough to exclude from the strongest
mind any subject whatever. When you add to this that the
man had seen his wife — the wife of scarcely a year — deliber-
ately leave him, it is clear that there was abundant material
for meditation.
He left the hospital as quickly as he could, conscious that
the nurses were looking at him and wondering about him. He
went into the streets, where he met his editor, and entirely
forgot who the man was and what had been promised to
him.
Then he made his way to St. James's Park, and paced up
and down that lonely southern walk. Here, at any rate, he
could think.
For a scientific man his case was lamentable. To one
who resolutely believed nothing except what he saw, felt, and
could experiment upon, the case was almost insulting. For
those two voices within him — actually two voices, two non-
existent voices within the brain of a physician and a Fellow
of the Eoyal Society— were continually crying out : the one
286 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICK
that called him over and over again, ' Fool, madman, dolt : '
the other that bade him rejoice over the great wealth that he
had acquired, bidding him gloat over it, count it, plunge his
hands into the mountain of gold, bathe in it, admire the
yellow glow of it, consider the power of it, climb to the top of
it, and stand there, a monument for the world to envy — the
great, the good, the illustrious, the fortunate, the dispenser of
good, a modern saviour of the world.
Then a doubt seized him, a doubt as to the papers.
Were they, after all, complete ? Was there no flaw in them ?
He hurried as hard as he could walk to Lincoln's Inn
Fields.
Thank Heaven I All was complete — Mr. Nicholson
reassured him. The Treasury would certainly make as little
delay as possible ; he might reckon upon possession in a very
short time. He would then be able to sit down, ascertain
exactly what he possessed, and frame for himself his future
course.
* Frame his future course.' These w^ere the lawyer's words.
* Frame his future course * Why, he now remembered
that he had not laid down any future course for himself — nona
at all ; he was going to found his college. And then ? Work
in it all his life ? Perhaps. But then, there would be all this
money. He would want a house to correspond with his
income; there would be the management of the estates.
With so vast a property there would be an immense number
of things to be looked after ; and the interest of the coming
child to be considered. Perhaps he would not be able to do
much more research work.
He left Lincoln's Lin Fields and walked home.
Strange ! The echoes had returned to the house — the
echoes which he found when he visited it with Margaret : the
echoes which rang from side to side up the staircase. They
came back when Margaret left. Once more the house was
empty. For a while there had been love in it : youth and
love : youth and love and laughter and the music of woman's
voice. Now it was empty again : it was as empty as when the
PAREWELLl 2S7
oM, old man sat alone all day long with never a whisper to break
the silence, and the echoes ringing like funeral bells if one
set foot within the hall or upon the stairs.
There was not a sound in the house ; the two servants
below went about their work as quiet as mice. The door at
the top of the kitchen stairs was closed, and their voices could
not be heard above.
Lucian shivered involuntarily. Margaret, he thought,
would come back. She could not live without him. Mean-
time the house was horribly empty.
He hung up his hat and went into his study. He remem-
bered the meeting with the editor ; there was that paper he
had promised. He found the pamphlet — a light and poetical
brochure in German on the bacillus of some obscure disease —
indolence, I think — and began to read where he had left off,
pen in hand.
After half an hour he found that what he read with hi3
eyes was producing no effect of any kind upon his brain — a
disease requiring another bacillus. He pushed his paper from
him as a rustic pushes his plate from him when he has
finished dinner. Then his pen began of its own accord to
draw figures — dazzling figures connected with the great
inheritance. Thus — £12,000,000 for principal — what a
glorious array of captive oughts or naughts ! How many
years of saving and success went for each oblong ought or
naught— each golden ecUpse ? At only 3 per cent., £360,000
a year was the income from this capital sum.
Or, £80,000 a month — something like a monthly cheque !
Or, £1,000 a day.
Or, £41 an hour — sleeping or wakhig.
Or, 14s. a minute— every time the second hand goes
round.
Suppose he were just to leave it invested, as his grandfather
had done, and to live on a little fraction of it — just to see what
would happen. Well, to begin with, it would double in
twenty-three years, and double again in twenty-three years
more. He would then have £48,000,000 sterling. He would
283 BF.YOND TH^ DREAMS OF AVAraCE
then be a little over seventy. Think of itl Forty-eiglit
millions !
He went on calculating — estimating, pleasing himself — it
was a new sense — with the mere imagination — figures are the
most imaginative things possible — of these great possessions.
By the time he had learned to understand a little the peculi-
arities and the enjoyment of his grandfather, the money-lender,
and his great-grandfather, the miser, he no longer regarded
them with shame or with disgust. As Margaret told him, he
was changed indeed.
When he turned to the consideration of his college, he per-
ceived for the first time that the sums he had originally pro-
posed for it were much too big. It would only defeat his own
purpose, he now understood, to make it so rich. Besides,
there were other things which had to be done. He must not
surrender all his powers. Little by little : one endowment at
a time. With an income of £360,000 a year one can do an
enormous quantity of good. With such an income one is a
demi-god for power of scientific endowments. Perhaps without
touching the principal at all he might carry out all his designs.
Two years' income — or three at least — would be an ample
endowment for a college. He might endow it with a million
sterHng : which meant an income of £30,000 : many colleges
of Oxford and Cambridge are not endowed with so much.
And so on. For the first thought of the very rich man is
how he can make himself still richer. With moderate wealth
— say, the possession of a hundred thousand pounds — what
our ancestors feelingly called a ' plum * ; with a plum in our
pocket — a ripe, sweet, fragrant, delicately-coloured plum, an
Orleans plum, or an egg plum, with its dewy bloom upon it —
the average man is satisfied. He can sit down to enjoyment :
he can give cheques in charity and so feel good all over ; he
can belong in imagination to Samaria and die comfortably,
relying on certain texts. When the plum is a million, or two
millions, or ten millions, one wants to make it more. It was
quite natural that the last Burley but three should become a
miser, and equally natural that the last but two should become
FAREWELL I 289
a money-lender. They were so rich that they wanted more.
And if you ask why this is so, you are referred to the German
philosopher, who will diagnose for you the diseases peculiar
to Vv^ealth.
Lucian had dinner served in his study. He reflected with
the customary satisfaction of the rich man on this subject,
that his household expenses would now become very modest ;
he thought that he might comfortably live on two hundred a
year — so long as Margaret stayed away — but that would not
be long ; he would then have 5^360,000, less £200 a year, for
his income. With this he could carry out the most precious
designs — one year's income, perhaps, would do — and save the
rest. Heaven I How the money would go rolling up I
He spent the evening in the same manner — over his
figures. At midnight he went upstairs.
Even the room awakened no memory of Margaret. Only
twelve hours or so since she went away, yet he had already
forgotten her. A young wife on the one side : twelve millions
on the other. Of course he had forgotten her. His brain was
full of the millions. If he remembered her it was with a little
feeling of disgust. She would cost so much.
One of the voices was silent. The other dropped into
a murmur of encouragement and congratulation : —
* Oh, you are so rich ! Oh, you are so powerful ! Oh, you
are so generous 1 And you will grow richer — richer — richer !
More powerful, more generous.'
Dives sank into slumber, careless that the house wag
empty. So, you see, the work of the fortune was done.
Love was driven out, and the loveless man felt not his loss.
What more dreadful curse could have fallen upon him ?
290 BEYOND THE DREAMS OP AVARICIJ
CHAPTER XXXY
ELLA*S ADVICE
The next day Lucian sent out letters inviting all the cousins
to meet at his house in Great College Street. He proposed,
in fact, at this meeting to announce his name and parentage
and his recognition by the Treasury.
The first to arrive was Ella. She, however, instead of
going upstairs to the drawing-room, ventured into the study,
where she found Lucian at his table. Before him were papers
covered with figures.
* You are going to proclaim yourself, I suppose ? ' she said.
* I thought to plead with you for the sake of your wife. But
I won't. Your face is harder than ever. Well, we say in
America, which is a very religious country, that the Lord
sometimes breaks up hearts of stone. Perhaps He will break
up yours.'
Lucian laughed scornfully. The girl placed the tips of her
fingers on the table and leaned over him. * You laugh,' she
said. ' You will not always laugh. Oh ! Lucian ! * — she
drew her slender finger to its full height, which was not
much, but her dark eyes — the Burley eyes — flashed, and she
looked tall, as every woman does who is deeply moved —
' Cousin Lucian,' she burst out, * I look at you and I wonder.
I think of you and I wonder. You are a young man, your
life before you.' What grey-beard counsellor could be wiser
than this girl ? * All before you,' she repeated. * You've got
a larger brain and a clearer eye than most : you might have
become a man known even with us— even across the Atlantic
— known to us ; you have got enough money to live upon :
you have got a truly lovely wife, whom you treat with your
English arrogant condescension — American women won't be
treated that way— and you throw it all away, everything,
name and fame, gifts and talents, the calling to which the
E1LA*S ABVICE 29 1
Lord called you, and your sweet and loving wife — you exchange
these things — Oh I Good gracious 1 What could the Lord
give you more precious ? What is there, out of Heaven itself,
more precious ? Nothing — nothing — nothing 1 You have
bartered everything away for a senseless, useless, mischievous
pile of papers that they value at millions of dollars. Your
life is done — finished — your course is run— because, masterful
as you are. Cousin Lucian, without sympathy you can do
nothing, and, except from your wife, you will get no sympathy.
A common man, a small-brained man, might do such a thing.
Eut you — you — you — a man of science 1 '
* It is because I am a man of science ' Lucian began.
* It isn't. Don't deceive yourself. It is because you have
wickedly received into your mind, and nursed and cherished,
a Devil of Greed and Lust for Gold. You pretend that you
want the money for science — to make the world move faster.
You can't ; no man can make the world go faster. When the
world is ready the man is sent — not before. You are sent into
the world to be an officer in the army ; a corporal or a lieutenant
at most, and you want to make yourself commander in chief.*
* I think I hear the people going upstairs,' said Lucian,
feebly.
* Let them go upstairs. I mean to say what I came to
pay — you will fail, Lucian. Your fine college may get built —
I don't think it will, because you will grow more and more
avaricious as the time goes on. But it may, and then — then
the real work will go on being done by the outsiders who've
got no money. Get your men and pay them for research —
the more you pay them the less they wiU work. Oh ! I have
thought this out.
' It is necessity which makes men work. Nothing great has
ever come from a rich man — nothing — and nothing ever will.
Your college is no better than mine, Lucian — Vanity and Self-
Conceit.'
* Thank you, Ella.*
* Poor Lucian I We all thought so much of you — and now,
unless that break up comes quick, you are already a mined
U2
293 BT^YOi^ THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE
man. Dives can't work — he can't — ^you can't make a man
more useless than by making him rich. Oh I "When will the
churches recognise this ? Well * — she sighed, paused, and sat
down — * I have nearly done — I have nearly said what was put
into my head to say. You have been tempted: you have
fallen : you are blinded, so that you cannot see the sin and
the shame of it. You are deaf, so that you cannot hear the
warnings of it : and you are stupid, so that you cannot under-
stand how much happier is the life you are throwing away than
tlie life you desire. It is the way of all temptation,' added
this woman of vast experience. * Those who fall are blinded
and deafened, and stupefied so that they only see one side of
it, the side which attracts and not all the other sides which
threaten.'
* Have you nearly finished ? *
* How shall a rich man enter the kingdom of Heaven ? *
she asked. * Oh ! I mean what ought to be your kingdom
— not the kingdom with silver spoons and a carriage in it. He
cannot, Lucian. You have thrown away the kingdom of
Heaven I What a thing — oh ! what a thing — to throw away I
And Margaret thrown away with it ! What a thing — oh —
what a thing — to throw away I '
So she left him — and went upstairs.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A FAMILY COUNCIL
The cousins were already assembled when Ella entered the
drawing-room. The New Zealand branch, consisting of Sir
John, the Rev. Herbert, and the five girls, were all gathered
together at one of the windows. Lady Burleigh was not
present. She was one of those philosophers who would rather
begin a brand new family, than be connected with the finest
old family possible, on the condition of wading back to it
through generations of mud in the gutter. Therefore, she
A FAMILY COUInCIL 293
put the famous genealogy in a dra-^-er, being persuaded, in
her own mind, that poverty, and nothing else, had drawn
her father-in-law, as it had drawn her own father, to New
Zealand as an early settler. And she cared nothmg about
the early or aboriginal Burleys, and felt no manner of interest
in the illustrious progenitors, and took no pride even in John
of Gaunt. Therefore, she refused to attend at this family
gathering. Their branch was represented by seven instead of
eight, and out of seven six came full of anxiety and even terror.
For the House of Burley was like an ancient museum, full of
secrets, any of which might be revealed at any moment.
However, they came prepared — the father for the sake of the
daughters, and the daughters for the sake of the father, to
rally round the genealogy and to stand firm by the sugar-
baker if anything should be said concerning Charles, the
convict.
Sitting by the fireside was the old woman, Lucinda Avery.
But it was afternoon, and the chair was comfortable and she
had fallen fast asleep. * Hush — sh ! ' whispered the girls.
* Do not wake her up. Let the poor thing rest.'
They ran to shake hands with Ella. But their smiles
were anxious. * She is asleep,' they whispered. * Goodness
keep her asleep ! ' was the prayer that Ella breathed.
Clarence, vrith his friend and legal adviser, stood at another
window. The completed claim had been sent in. There
could be no dispute upon the facts. What did this gathering
mean ? The assembled company, he surmised, were cousins
■ — claimants, like himself. But they were not descendants of
the second son. * It means compromise,' his partner whispered.
* I don't know why or how : but that's what I think it means.
We'll wait a bit. Clary, and listen.'
They all waited in silent expectancy for two or three
minutes, when Lucian entered the room, accompanied by an
elderly gentleman, bearing papers.
* That's Mr. Nicholson,* whispered the poet, surprised.
* Firm of Nicholson, Revett, & Finch, Lincoln's Inn Fields ;
most respectable firm. I knew them when I was in my articles.
294 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
They mean compromise, I'm certain of it. We will hear
what they propose ; don't let us accept too readily. I Vv^onder
who Dr. Calvert is — I wish I knew.'
Mr. Nicholson drew a chair to the table. The audience all
sat down. Lucian stood beside his lawyer.
' I have invited you here this afternoon,' he began,
* because you are all interested as actual or possible claimants
to the Burley estates in the announcement I have to make.
It is better that you should learn the truth in this way than
from the papers, which will certainly publish the fact as soon
as it gets abroad.'
* I don't like the look of this,' the partner whispered. * It's
a bad beginning.' He rose and addressed the house.
* Before we go any farther,' he said, ' I should like to ask,
as Mr. Clarence Burghley's legal adviser — Mr. Nicholson may
perhaps remember me when I was articled to his neighbours' —
Mr. Nicholson bowed. ' I should like to ask, if I may —
it is a very simple question — by what authority Dr. Calvert
calls together the representatives of the Burley family, what
locics standi he has in the business, and what right he has to
interfere at all ? '
* It is a perfectly legitimate question,' Mr. Nicholson replied.
' You all have a right to be satisfied on this point. Now, if
you will let us go on our own w^ay, I promise that the question
shall be answered in two or three minutes. WiU you, please,
meanwhile accept my assurance that Dr. Calvert has the best
right possible to call you together ? '
* I don't like it,' the partner whispered. * I don't like it
at all.'
Sir John got up, looking responsible and dignified.
* On that assurance,' he said, ' I think we may safely
proceed. But as far as I am concerned, we are here— although
invited by Dr. Calvert — on what may be considered false
pretences. Because we cannot claim the estates or any portion
of them unless the whole of the branch, represented by the
man commonly called the Westminster Miser, with his descen-
dants, is extinct, and I believe that some present are his
A FAMILY COUNCIL 295
grandchildren. My connection with the family goes back to
a brother of the Westmmster Miser.*
The girls breathed hard and looked round at the old woman
in the chair. Thank Heaven, she was stiU asleep, her head
comfortably settled down upon her chest.
' I understood, Sir John, when you saw me ' Lucian
began.
* Yes ; that is true. It then seemed likely — even almost
certain — from a remarkable coincidence of names and dates,
and the resemblance of my children and myself to the portraits
in that room, that my father was Charles Calvert Burley,
third son of the Westminster Miser. It has now been ascer-
tained, however, without a doubt, that we are descended from
his uncle, one Joshua Calvert Burley. His son, also called
Charles, was born in the same year as the other Charles, who
appears — ahem ! — to have borne an indifferent character ;
some of you know, I dare say, the principal incident in his
deplorable career. In losing him as a parent, however, we
lose our claim to this estate. So that if the announcement
we are about to hear refers to the succession, we are only
interested as far-off cousins; that is to say, we are not
claimants.'
* I think,* said Clarence, * that we ought to be told at once,
what my legal adviser asked — who and what is Dr. Calvert.
If anybody has a right to take the lead in matters concerning
the Burley family it is myself, the grandson of the second son,
Henry.*
* You shall know, sir,* said Mr. Nicholson. * Have patience
for two minutes. The announcement that will be made will
satisfy you in every particular.'
Sir John sat, wiping his forehead, unable to repress an
unaccountable anxiety. The girls whispered to each other
and then to their father, who nodded his head and got up again.
*I think,* he said, *that as this announcement clearly
concerns the succession, we had better withdraw. To stay
longer would be to invade the confidences of a — a — a closer
family circle,'
296 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
* No, Sir John/ said Lucian ; * please do not go. Nothing
is going to be said that will affect you at all — nothing. Your
name will not be mentioned, I assure you ; or the names of
anyone connected with you.' Did he mean anything ? Did
he know — this terrible and mysterious physician who seemed
to know the whole history of the family ? * Pray, Sir John,
oblige me by waiting this out.'
Sir John sat down. The girls looked round again to see
if the old lady was still asleep.
Lucian continued.
* The heirs of the Burley Estates would be, first the
descendants of John Burley's brothers and sisters. There
were four brothers and one sister. I will show you who these
descendants are, beginning with the youngest, James '
* My grandfather,' said Ella, as calmly as if she had the
marriage certificate in her pocket, but with a red spot on either
cheek. The Burleigh girls lowered their eyes, a sign of
sympathy as well as of knowledge.
* Yes, your grandfather. James became an attorney. He
emigrated to America, and settled in a town called Wood-
bury.'
* Mass.,' said Ella.
* In Massachusetts. There he married ■*
* No,' Ella interrupted, * he did not marry in America.*
* Then he married here. He had two children, namely, a
Bon whose only child. Miss Ella Burley, is here with us, and
a daughter, Lucmda, unmarried, who is now iu England.
The ladies came over to claim the estates.'
* We are no longer claimants,' Ella explained. ' We have
not been able to find the register of my grandfather's marriage,
and without that we have no case, it appears.'
* You will find in a few moments that il would not help
you.*
* Clary — I don't Hke it,' whispered the partner. * It looks
worse and worse. He's too cool and methodical by half.
There's something up his sleeve.'
* The next son, Charles, came to grief. I believe you all
A FAMILY COUNCIL 297
know wliat became of him. He lias left no descendants — at
least — none are claimants. We then come to the daughter —
Lucinda — who, like her brothers, ran away from home. She
married a certain Frederick Avery, at one time captain in an
infantry regiment. The man appears to have been a prodigal.
He fell into debt and ended his days in the Fleet prison,
leaving his wife destitute. Her history is sad, and extremely
discreditable to the memory of the late John Burley. The
man of millions refused to give his sister a farthing — or to
render her any assistance. This unfortunate woman had to
make a wretched livelihood by doing the roughest and most
poorly paid kinds of needlework. We found this lady's only
daughter, now herself an old woman, in the Marylebone Work-
house. Her case is quite clearly established by the letters and
papers which she has preserved. So far, therefore, this poor
old pauper, ignorant and humble, is the only claimant to all
these millions. Lucinda Avery, your cousin, is sitting with
us. She seems to be asleep, and does not know that we are
talking of her.'
A shiver and a rapid drawing of the breath from the five
New Zealand girls followed this speech, because Lucinda at
that moment lifted her head, straightened her back, opened
her eyes, and looked round. Then she made as if she would
rise, and her lips parted, and the girls caught each other by
the hand and blanched with terror.
But Lucian motioned her to sit down — and the old woman
obeyed ; and she closed her eyes again, and to all appearances
went to sleep.
* The next branch,' Lucian continued, * is that of Henry —
the second son. His grandson, Mr. Clarence Burghley, is here
to-day. The connection, I understand, has been fully made
out.'
* Point by point. Fully established,' said the partner.
* I do not dispute the connection. I am perfectly willing
to acknowledge that our cousin is the undoubted grandson of
Henry Calvert Burghley.'
* Our cousin ? * asked Clarence. * Your cousin ? '
298 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICB
Mr. Nicholson raised his hand as one who prays for
patience.
* This connection established, there remain, therefore, only
Mr. Clarence Burghley and that poor old lady asleep in the
chair.'
* Don't wake her,' murmured all the girls.
* I will not. Let her sleep and rest. But 'there is the
eldest branch — the son of John Burley, the money-lender, and
since the announcement about to be made to you is the real
purpose for which you have been called together, I will ask
Mr. Nicholson, of the house of Nicholson, Eevett, & Finch,
to make that announcement for me.'
He sat down and Mr. Nicholson rose. ' Last May, five
days before Mr. John Burley died, there diecl, at the age of fifty-
five, my life-long friend, my old schoolfellow, John Calvert,
as he was known to the world, civil engineer. I had in my
possession all his papers — I had been in his confidence ever
since the day when — we were boys at the time — he refused to
remain with his father any longer, and ran away from home.
He had nothing but a watch and chain that his mother had
given him, with a little hoard of a few pounds which she placed
in his hands on her death-bed. I had, I say, all the papers.
Those which were necessary for our purposes I have placed in
the hands of the Treasury. For John Calvert's real name was
John Calvert Burley, and this gentleman ' — he laid his hand
upon Lvcian's shoulder — * is the only son. Therefore he is
the sole heir to the whole of the Burley Estates ! '
Ella groaned aloud, thinking of Margaret. Up to the last
moment she hoped that he would not do it. He had done it
— he had sent away his wife.
Sir John laughed pleasantly : * I congratulate Doctor
Calvert — or Dr. Burley, whichever you may prefer to be
called.'
* We must all rejoice,' said Herbert, ' that the right man
has been found. Speaking for myself, I confess that I have
had dreams — for the sake of the Church. But it is ordered
otherwise.'
A FAMILY COUNCIL 299
* Take ifc quiet, Clary,' whispered the partner. * Take it
quiet.'
* Sir,* cried Clarence, with flaming cheek, * this must be
proved. I shall dispute every point of the assertion. It shall
be proved in a court of law.'
*The Treasury,' Mr. Nicholson said, quietly, *have admitted
the proofs. The rest is only a matter of necessary delay. Not
only is Dr. Calvert the heir, but he is the acknowledged heir.
Of course, it is open to anyone to bring an action, if he is so
minded and so advised.'
* How is it, I should like to know, that you have only just
found out the fact ? '
* Dr. Calvert has known the fact since the death of his
father. The reasons why he did not immediately come forward
are doubtless satisfactory to himself.'
* That, my cousins,' Lucian concluded, * is all that I have
to say. I am myself the sole heir. Still, if any of you think
that you are in any way entitled to any part of the estate, you
v.'ill advance your claim in the proper way. Sir John, may I
ask if you think yourself '
•No, no, certainly not. We descend from the higher
branch.'
Again the girls looked at the woman who slumbered. No
sleep was ever more opportune or more gratefully received.
* Very well, then. Your daughters, Sir John ? '
They all shook their heads.
* Cousm Ella, I look to you.*
* Lucian, I would not touch a farthing, even if I ha^ my
grandfather's marriage certificate in my hand.'
* Then, Mr. Clarence Burghley, what do you think ? *
* Let me speak for him ; ' the partner rose and spoke with
some dignity. * My friend and client,' he said, * is naturally
much astonished, not only at this unexpected news, but at the
treatment he has received. You remember. Dr. Calvert, that
he called upon you ; that he explained who he was and why
he came. You received him, showed him these portraits, and
gave him a letter which was valuable in completing our chain
300 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
of evidence. You did not tell him, as you should have done,
that you were yourself the grandson and heir. Y'ou allowed
him to go away, his brain fired with the thought that this vast
inheritance would be his. Can anyone wonder that the anxiety
has prevented him from doing anything at all ? He has lost,
not only months of work, but has suffered detriment — great
injury— to his professional reputation as an actor and enter-
tainer. Cruel suspense, anxious nights, laborious research for
months, and all caused by your silence, Dr. Calvert. Under
these circumstances, I submit — in the presence of Mr. Nicholson,
a gentleman of the highest standing in the profession — that
compensation — substantial compensation — is due to Mr.
Clarence Burghley.'
* You may leave your case in Mr. Nicholson's hands,' said
Lucian, coldly. He looked round the room. ' My cousins,
he said, *let us part, if we can, amicably. There are the
portraits of your ancestors. If you wish, I will present to each
the portrait of his grandfather. Sir John, behind you is a
portrait of — of — it is said to be — your great-grandfather Joshua*
— but he knew very well that Joshua had died at the age of
two and that this was some other cousin. * Will you accept
him and take him away ? '
' Oh I * cried the girls, ' that will be delightful I * They
clapped their hands with simulated joy, but gently so as not
to awaken the family historiographer. But their eyes rested
on the portrait of Charles the convict, Charles of Australia,
Charles the early settler, the handsome Charles — so like their
brother Herbert, and both so like the religious maniac, their
great-great-grandfather.
Lucian took the picture from its nail, and gave it to Sir
John, who placed it beside his chair.
* I hear,' Lucian addressed Herbert, * that you have pro-
fessed a desire to be descended from a criminal.* The girls
dropped their heads and blushed. * It is a strange taste in
ancestors '
* I would be as one of the lowest and meanest of my people,'
said Herbert, hotly.
A FAMILY COUNCIL 30I
* Quite so. Your sisters, 1 believe, have no such ambition.
However, I can gratify you in even this respect. Here ' — he
pointed to the man who was transported beyond seas — *is your
grandfather's first cousin, who was a forger and a convict.
He is, therefore, your first cousin twice removed. You can
boast about this noble connection among your people. The
more they can drag you down to their own level, the better
they will be pleased, no doubt. If you are not satisfied,
I can give you another criminal — the family is happily rich
in malefactors. The man whose portrait is here was actu-
ally hanged at Tyburn Tree. You are connected with quite
a gi'oup of criminals. It ought to make you proud and
happy.'
At the moment, Herbert found nothing to say by way of
repartee or proper rejoinder. An hour or two afterwards — a
thing which often happens — he remembered what, as a faith-
ful assistant priest, he ought to have said.
Then Lucian turned to Ella. * Would you like the portrait
of your grandfather, Ella ? '
* No, cousin Lucian. Aunt Lucinda has a miniature of
him. I am quite satisfied with his American face. You may
keep this.'
He turned to Clarence. * And you ? ' he asked, * would you
like to take this portrait of your grandfather ? '
* No,* said Clarence, sullenly. ' I only wanted to use the
portrait for the sake of the connection. It's a vile daub, and
I've got his picture in character. Keep it — if you like. It's
no worse as a painting than all the rest. Keep it. The
thing is only fit to decorate a room like this.'
He left the room without dignity or any attempt to
conceal the crushing nature of the disappointment. He was
bent under it — his head hung down : he was pitiable to look
upon.
* Well,' said Sir John, ' since we expect nothing, we are
not disappointed. Herbert, are you going my way ? *
* We are going to stay a few minutes,' said the girls.
They stayed to talk with Ella.
302 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
Lucian went downstairs with Mr. Nicholson. The council
was concluded.
* Cousin,' said Lucy, the eldest — 'cousin in misfortune,
are you going back to America ? *
*No, we cannot, because we have no money for our
passage, and nothing to live upon when we get there. Mar-
garet is trying to get me something to do in England.'
* Come out to New Zealand with us. We are going back
very soon now — the sooner the better. We are the richer for
our visit home by — that history which you have heard ; you are
richer by your history. Come out with us. We will find you
something — a lover, perhaps, if you want one — or a place,
perhaps — you look clever '
* I will go out to you, cousins, if I cannot find anything
here. But I shall stay with Margaret, if I can. Poor Mar-
garet 1 Oh ! There is a curse upon this horrible, hateful,
dreadful inheritance. Euin and destruction that old man
brought with him to whomsoever he approached '
At this moment, the old woman in the easy chair opened
her eyes. She looked carefully round the room, then stood
up, meekly folding her hands.
' The gentlemen are gone,' she said. * Sir John and my
uncle Henry's grandson and the others — only us left by our-
selves. Mrs. Calvert says that those talk least who know
most. Deary me ! I knew everything all the time. But,
no; I wouldn't speak. I pretended to be asleep. Oh I I
could have told everybody '
* We are very much obliged to you for keeping asleep.'
* Oh 1 1 know my duty,' she replied. * I'm a Burley, too,
by mother's side. Do you think I would say a word to bring
down the Burley pride or spoil a joyful day when aU the
Burleys met together? With ua women left behind, it
doesn't matter what we say.'
*Not — so much — not quite— so much,' replied Lucy, the
eldest.
* Daughters of Sir John Burleigh ! ' she said. * Grand-
daughters of Charles— my mother's brother — who waa
A FAMILY COUNCIL 303
unfortunate, and was transported to Australia and escaped
and came back again, and went out to New Zealand. And
grand-daughter of James, too — my mother's youngest brother
— who ran away with his master's wife. Oh 1 yes. It's
beautiful to see you, and to be asked to sit down "with you, and
to remember all about you. I wish my mother had lived to
see you — such fine young ladies. And I hope, I do, that you
will find good husbands, that you'll be more fortunate than
your grandfathers. They were too high-spirited, mother
always said. We have been an unfortunate family, she used
to say, but never anything mean about us. Always high-
minded, and always money in the family.*
Ella heaved a profound sigh. * Now that one hears it for
the second time,' she said, addressing her cousins, * it doesn't
hurt quite so much, does it ? Perhaps, not quite so dreadful
as at first ? '
*It hurts enough to make us feel it all our lives,* said
Lucy, the eldest. * But, there — it matters nothing so long as
the pater doesn't know it. Oh ! my dears, so long as that
dear old man never finds it out or suspects it, what does it
matter if we suffer under this knowledge ? We will go home
and carry with us the humbugging genealogy and talk about
it as if we beheved it and even pride ourselves, and stick out
our chins on account of that grand Qld fraud, John of Gaunt —
time-houQured Lancaster.'
CHAPTEE XXXYII
WHAT THE PEESS SAID
* It is amiounced in another column that the missing heir to
the Burley Estates has at last been found. In other words,
he has thought proper, after a long silence, to come forward
and to disclose himself. The facts of the case, if we may
assume them to be established, possess a certain amount of
romance not commonly met with. As regards the late John
304 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE
Calvert Burley the world already knows his history. The son
of a man afflicted with the disease — it is nothing less — of the
miserly disposition, he saw his brothers and sisters fly one
after the other from their wretched home and disappear,
Search has been made after these brothers and sisters. There
are descendants Hving in various parts of the world, but it
would appear that by some accident or other, a missing Unk
in the evidence, a marriage not established, the absence of
documentary proof connecting the possible claimant with the
deceased, none of those descendants have yet been able to
make good their claim. It is said that an old woman was
found in a workhouse who was the daughter of John
Burley's sister. And it appeared likely, in the continued
absence of the son or grandchildren, that the estate would
devolve upon a higher branch still, that represented by
the generation of the Westminster Miser. Had this hap-
pened, we beUeve that a well-known Colonial statesman, a
K.C.M.G., would have carried off the millions. As for the
other claimants, who are numbered, it is said, by the
thousand, they have not, and never had, the least chance of
inheriting anything. In any case, their dreams are now
rudely dispelled. For the grandson has turned up, and ho
will take all.
* This grandson appears to be a young man worthy of the
great fortune v/hich awaits him. He has hitherto been
known as Lucian Calvert. He is a Physician attached to the
Children's Hospital, Buckingham Palace Road ; he has
also, by his biological researches, arrived already at the
distinction of Fellow of the Royal Society. He has
always been brought up under the name of Calvert, and
in ignorance of his real name and family. John Calvert
Burley, his father, the son of the money-lender, being
a sensitive youth and unable to stand the reflections
passed upon his father's various trades of gamester, pro-
prietor of night houses, and money-lender ; and being
also reminded continually of his relationship to the
Westminster Miser, whose memory still lingered in the
WHAT THE PRESS SAID 305
locality, was disgusted with the pursuit of wealth as he saw
it conducted, and resolved to leave his home, abandon his
name, and to work his own way in the world without any
assistance whatever. This project was actually carried into
effect, one knows not how, by the son of the richest man
in the country. He became an engineer — in the Forties and
Fifties, it was a profession which gave work to a great many
and wealth to more than a few. John Calvert found work,
but did not make a fortune. It is said, by those who
remember him, but did not know his real name and history,
that he always seemed to have a horror of saving or making
money ; a natural reaction, had his friends known it, from
the money-making atmosphere in which he had been brought
up. He died four months ago, a few days before his father.
On his death-bed he first communicated to his only son the
truth about his parentage. It is also said that he begged his
son to take no steps whatever to make himself known to his
aged grandfather, who knew nothing of his existence, nor to
make any endeavour to secure any part of the estates for
himself. The young man obeyed these wishes. But when
the grandfather died, a day or two after his son, it was found
that he was actually intestate. The Treasury, as we all
know, stepped in ; the whole of the papers were seized, and
an advertisement called upon the heirs to come forward.
* The grandson, at this intelligence, was placed in a
strange position. First of all, the thing which no one
could have expected actually happened. The man who,
above all men, one would think, would have been careful
of his succession, actually forgot, or purposely neglected, to
make his will. Therefore, in the most unexpected manner,
this young man found himself sole heir. On the other hand,
his father who loathed the thought of the money which had
been a curse and a shame to his childhood, would probably
have wished him not to claim his right, but to go on carving
out his own way as brilliantly as he had begun — without the
help of money. It is, indeed, the chief glory of our modern
men of science that they do not use their knowledge, as they
X
306 BEYOND THE DIIEAMS OF AYxlRICE
might, as a means of making money. But it is one thing
to use science for the sake of making a fortune and another
thing to inherit a fortune already made. Dr. Lucian
Calvert, F.R.S., may very well think that he can go on with
the pursuit of knowledge, whether he is rich or poor. In the
nostrils of his father this fortune stank. He remembered
hearing of the Miser creeping out after dark in his ragged old
gaberdine, picked up on the foreshore of the Thames,
carrying a basket in which he put the odds and ends which he
looked for — crusts, bones, bottles, bits of coal, nails, bits of
wood — everything. That was how the family fortune was
increased. He remembered hearing of the gambling hell in
St. James' Street, in which the holder of the bank sat all
night long, raking in the money, lending more money to
the gamblers and raking that in as well ; the dancing cribs
v/hich his father kept, making large moneys out of the
vice and profligacy of the town: and the office in Cork
Street where the money-lender sat, exacting his cent for
cent with a relentless purpose to which Shylock never
reached. To him the fortune stank. But for the son there
were no such memories. Old histories do not shame those
who come after. Time purifies everything — even such a for-
tune so made. By the second generation the curses of
the gamblers, the loud laughter of the miserable women in
the dancing places, the groans of the ruined borrowers are
silent and buried in the grave with the short-lived profligates
on whom this human shark preyed. They are silent and
forgotten. The years have flowed like a fresh stream over
the pile of golden guineas ; they are sweetened and cleaned ;
no one will scoff at the way in which that pile was accumu-
lated ; no one, indeed, ever inquires too closely into the histoiy
of inherited wealth — although in general terms we may
know its origin. Therefore, we cannot wonder if Dr. Lucian
Calvert has come to the conclusion that his duty, as well as
his right, requires him to take his own.'
That was the view taken, more or less, by all the papers.
Of course, the amount involved being so enormous, there was
WILIT THE PRESS SAID 307
an article on the subject in every paper of every city through-
out the habitable world. The London letter writers had a
topic such as seldom indeed occurs. The Interviewers stood
fifty deep cstside the house in Great College Street. But
none got in. The evening papers produced letters. * From
one who knows him.' * From a Fellow Student.* * From a
School Fellow.* No need to say who was meant : there was
only one man for the moment in the whole world. Kings and
Presidents were neglected : revolutions were unheeded : and
though the British Empire was enlarged by a cantle of the
earth as big as France, no one cared. The only person
thought of, spoken of, was Lucian Calvert, M.D., F.E.S., more
rightly named Lucian Calvert Burley.
* We now imderstand,' said Sister Agatha to Nurse Anne,
* what has been the matter with the Doctor. No wonder he
was absent and absorbed. We thought him moody, and he
was only wondering whether he should take his own or
not.*
* And now he has got it,' Nurse Anne repUed, * I shall ask
him to endow the Nurses* " Pension Fund." *
* Everybody will ask him to give to everything. He will
have to keep a staff of clerks with nothing to do except to say
No.*
Everybody did begin to ask. Wonderful it was to see the
postman, with his extra hands put on for the occasion,
reehng and staggering to the door with letters. The Secre-
taries of all the hospitals : the Clergymen of all the churches
and chapels : the Committees of all the charities and chari-
table societies : the Secretaries of all the philanthropic
associations: all the societies for befriending people of all
kinds : and above all, the people in distress — widows, wives,
and daughters : gentlewomen in distress : girls looking for
places : men out of work : men too old to work : men pre-
maturely struck down by disease : children bereft of parents
— one would think that every other person ui this Island of
Great Britain, to say nothing of the adjacent islands of
Ireland, Man, Scilly, and Lindisfarn, was a destitute pauper
x2
3o8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AYARICE
reduced to beg for succour. Whether Lucian opened any of
these letters, I know not. Later on, Margaret found most of
them m the dining-room. They were piled on the table and
they had run over: they were thrown under the table and
they ran over and outside : they were turned out of the bag
into the corners of the room, and they ran over : they were
piled in the drawers and on the sideboard and on the sofa, and
they ran over. In such a case one fears to tell the simple
truth, for fear of being charged with exaggeration. Otherwise,
one wo aid briefly report that the begging letters rose in a heap
as high as the pictures on the wall.
Some of these letters were threatening. Unless a certain
sum was sent to a certain address a dreadful revenge would
be taken. Dynamite would be employed : six-shooters would
h\i exhibited : the immense fortune should not be enjoyed for
long : the writer was a desperate man. Some were sarcastic.
Would the owner of miUions consider that a miserable
hundred would put the writer beyond the reach of want ?
Would the very, very rich man condescend to listen to a tale
of distress which could be reheved by a sum so small as to be
absolutely unfelt? Some were reUgious. The owner of
miUions must consider himself a trustee. He held his pro-
perty in trust : not to be lavished unworthily : not to be saved
up. Now here was a case in which real good — good of such
a kind as would certainly soften things for his soul hereafter
— even if he was as wicked as the despiser of Lazarus — was
in his power. The enclosed papers would show — perhaps
they did — for this very, very rich man got no farther. There
were the letters of the professional beggar — the professional
whine to be detected at once. There was the ardent inventor
— who really did believe in himself and who only wanted a
little capital in order to make a great success with his improved
tea kettle ; there w^as the airy projector who wanted nothing
but a few hundreds to make his scheme the joy and wonder of
the whole earth. And, lastly, there were the letters, famihar
to every one, from those who were really in dire straits, letters
madly passionate, praying and imploring, so that a heart of
WHAT fflE PKESS SAID JOQ
jjtond would melt at reading their terrible tales. What
becomes of all these cases of suffering and woe ? If all the
rich men in all the world were to answer these letters with
five-pound notes, when these were spent the tale of distress
would be renewed. * Let me tide over the misery of to-day,*
cries the widow, * my children want clothes and food.' And
what of to-morrow, madam? What, indeed? But of to-
morrow we hear nothing.
As Lucian had as yet received no money, it was useless
to open or to answer these letters. Therefore, as we have
seen, he threw them all into the dining-room — which in those
days of solitude he did not use— and left them there.
These were days of solitude. He was quite alone. He felt
a kind of fierce exultation in being alone. Perhaps it was
fitting, somehow, that the richest man in the world should be
alone. Margaret would return, presently, when the super-
stition left her, and she found that the lightning had not
struck the inheritor of the Burley estates. Alone, he would
meditate on his schemes. Alone, he would best bear the
great shock of receiving all this wealth.
It was the * Spectator,' which first asked in public what
everybody was asking in private — * What will he do with it ? '
That indeed was the title of the paper.
* Here is a young man,' said the writer of this article,
* who is suddenly lifted from the apparently modest income
of a young physician and man of science, the scholar and
student who has never had any thought or expectancy whatever
of "enjoying," as it is called, a large fortune; perhaps, as
happens to most professional men, hoping only for an income
large enough to admit of the generous life — the hfe which
enables a man to have whatever he wants in reason : in the
case of a scientific student, he would want a properly fitted
laboratory and instruments ; assistants and leisure for re-
search. This young man, whose record is already so credit-
able, suddenly finds himself in the possession of an income, the
greater part of which, though there are said to be whole streets
of houses, is reported to be safely invested in Consols. In other
3IO BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
words, he has none of the responsibilities of a great landlord.
It is also said, though these figures appear to be quite un-
certain, that the income of the estate from all sources is little
short of half a million. If, therefore, this modern Dives
should resolve upon leaving his principal intact, he has every
year, to play "with, half a million. What "will he do with it ?
* He is said, by those who know him, to be a young man
of simple habits. He will certainly neither eat nor drink
more than he has been accustomed to eat and drink. Per-
haps, in the course of time, he may arrive at a more carefully
critical taste ; he may want his claret finer, and his food
more artistic. This, however, will not make a serious inroad
upon his income. If he marries and has a family they may,
and probably will, demand a certain style in living ; he may
accept a title. He may purchase a country seat. His ex-
penses might rise gradually to £60,000 a year. That will
still leave him the greater part of his half million. What
will he do with it ?
* He might save it. This would be ignoble treatment.
We will not consider the possibility of a man with a dozen
milHons desiring to add more. If, however, he were to save
£300,000 a year in five and twenty years he would be worth
about £18,000,000 more. And then ? No: we will not con-
sider any further the possibility of saving. He must do
something. What will he do with it ?
* He might give freely all his life. There are many things
which want donors and donations continually. In this way
he would help to maintain a great many institutions of an
admirable kind. There are hospitals, for instance ; with so
much money he might maintain, single-handed, half a dozen
hospitals. But are there not too many already ? Are not
the hospitals used by persons who have no right to demand
or to accept their charities? There are certain benevolent
foundations, of which the Charity Organisation Society has
sometimes spoken harshly. It might widen the powers of
these associations, and so enable them to pauperise the people
much more effectually. In fact, the first danger that faces
WHAT THE PRESS SAID 3TI
the rich man is that the more money he gives, the more he
weakens the self-reliance of the people. Therefore we hope
that this young man will not give money for the relief of
poverty. He will do better to leave people, on the whole, to
learn those wholesome lessons that suffering alone seems able
to teach. Yet, since we are human, and the sight of suffering
that seems unmerited— -as that of children — is always distress-
ing, this rich man will, one thinks, give money to a judicious
almoner. What else can he do? Formerly, he might reclaim
swamps and moors for agriculture. But who wants more
land when so many thousands of acres are lying uncultivated ?
Or he might found scholarships and fellowships — there are
enough of both ; every young man who deserves assistance
can get a scholarship. Or he might build almshouses. That
is, it is true, the least mischievous form of preventing thrift.
Or, in these days he may create and endow technical schools
and polytechnics. These are very excellent things, but our
County Councils will very shortly take over these colleges or
create others to be supported by the rates— or better still,
by all the people — for the people. Better to have National
schools for Arts and Crafts than to depend on the possible
foundations of rich men. Then, what will he do with it ?
*He might present to the nation an ironclad every two
years ; he might undertake the support of four regiments of
the Line ; he might acquire an ugly street and make it a street
Beautiful — say Drury Lane ; but a great nation does not
want gifts from private persons. He might give his attention
to the breed of horses, or of cattle : to the improvement of
machinery : to the advancement of inventions : but in all
these things the ground is already occupied by those to whom
these things are a profession or a trade. Again, therefore,
what will he do with it ?
* The more one thinks of it, the more one finds that the
difficulties increase. What shall the rich man do with his
money ? He might conduct a newspaper or a magazine, or a
review, as he thinks such things should be conducted, and
without reference to popular opinion or to pecuniary success.
3T2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
But then one of two things would happen. Either his paper
would be deadly dull, in which case it would neither have a
circulation, nor be looked on as an example, or it would become
popular (and so make him richer), and beget a host of imitators.
And suppose, after all, that his idea of a newspaper wa3
wrong. Nothing more mischievous than a newspaper con-
ducted on mistaken principles. To sum up ; we fear that we
can find no work for the rich man to do. When he has spent
all he wants to spend ; when he has given a3 much to dis-
tressful folk as he thinks safe and prudent, there will still
remain an immense sum every year which this man will have
to save if he does not wish to do mischief. There seems no
help for him. His children will be cursed from the outset
with boundless wealth, and with no stimulus to work, and
every temptation to luxury and vice. For them we entertain
the pity and the curiosity that we reserve for those born with
the silver spoon. Having expressed our opinion as to what
cannot be done, we repeat the question, " What will he do
with it?'"
' Yes,' said Lucian, * but they have not thought of my great
College of Science.'
This amusement lasted for a fortnight. The popular ima-
gination was touched. It is not every day that a man of no
family, so far as he had ever discovered, finds himself the heir
— and the immediate possessor of millions. In the old lot-
teries a man fancied a number, saved, or sometimes stole, the
money with which to buy a whole ticket, and won the great
prize ; when the prize was declared, the papers, then in an
elementary stage of existence, always had a brief paragraph
calling attention to the sudden accession of wealth, and there
the matter ended ; but deep in the popular breast lay the hope
—the thought, the prayer, even that a similar fortune might
attend them. Even now it lingers, that hope — when there
are no lotteries ; when the ordinary man has no rich cousins ;
when the old Nabob exists no longer. He used to come home
with a liver like a bit of coral, but bearing sheaves, golden
sheaves— lakhs of rupees, just at the nick of time, in the hour
WHAT TEE PRESS SAID 313
when our need was the sorest. The Nabob uncle exists no
longer, and the sudden, the unexpected, the nick-of-time for-
tune, comes no more. What we cannot get for ourselves, we
cannot get at all. What we have not saved, we cannot use,
at a time of tightness. What we have not sown, we cannot
reap. It is hard to lose the element of chance ; there was
always hope for the sanguine. Now Hope, which chiefly
means the looking- out for luck, has fled to Heaven, and the
world is face to face with reality and fate, and the consequences
of extravagance. Better so, says the moralist. Perhaps, but
still — Suppose, dear friend, some one were to present you,
suddenly and unexpectedly, with a hundred thousand pounds.
How would you feel about it ? He would be robbing some one
else, says the moraUst again. Perhaps — but still — and this
man, this Lucian Calvert, this thrice lucky young man, who
deserved no better than his neighbours, and expected no more,
was standing up there for all eyes to see, on his pyramid of
Twelve MiUions— or Fifty Millions — to demonstrate to the
world that there may be still some kind of Treasure Trove,
some unexpected turn of Fortune's wheel.
For a whole fortnight, as everybody will remember, Lucian
Calvert was the subject of talk— the subject of the journals,
over the whole habitable world. Nothing so romantic as the
sudden elevation to riches and power of a young man known
only to his little circle.
A fortnight— a short fortnight. Did the Darling of For-
tune read what was said of him ? He must have read some-
thing, but, for the most part, he stayed at home perfecting the
plans for his College of Science.
For a fortnight— and then
CHAPTER XXXVm
EAETHQUAKES AND SHOWEBS OP PIEB
Then it was as if the broad earth trembled and all the
foundations were swept : as if the stars fell from the heavens ;
as if the moon was darkened and the planets became invisible.
314 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
A certain newspaper got the intelligence before any of its
rivals. How ? No one ever knew ; but as a writer at tenpence
an hour happened to be in a certain room in a certain Govern-
ment office at the moment of a certain discovery, it was not
difficult to conjecture. The secrets of the Treasury cannot
be safely guarded at tenpence an hour. When a secret comes
into the possession of tenpence an hour, it finds its way to a
newspaper office and becomes the property of the whole
world. This newspaper, four- and- twenty hours in advance of
all its rivals, naturally spread itself over the fact and made
the most of it, with the news in leaded type and the front
page and longest leading article wholly devoted to the subject.
The following is the paragraph : —
* A dramatic discovery, reported in our columns, has just
been made concerning the now famous Burley estates. It is
a discovery which changes at a stroke the whole situation. A
v/ill has been found, dated thirty or forty years ago, by
which the testator, John Calvert Burley, leaves his whole
estate, real and personal, in trust, to the Council of the Royal
Society, for the foundation and endowment of a College of
Science. It is not to be a teaching college, but a college of
research. The endowments of the professors, the nature and
extent of the buildings, and all other details are left to the
Royal Society. Such, briefly, is the will, v/hich does not
recognise the son at all, and was drawn up and signed before
the grandson was born. If the will proves genuine, which
there seems no reason to doubt, the grandson is absolutely
disinherited.'
And the following is a portion of the leading article,
v/hich, of course, was written on the same subject : —
* The Burley estates have produced another surprise, and
that of the most unexpected kind. The will of John Calvert
Burley, deceased, has been discovered. The fortunate young
gentleman, Mr. Lucian Calvert, M.D., F.R.S., whom all the
world has been congratulating for the last fortnight, whose
name has been on everybody's lips, has to lay down everything
— to be sure, he had actually received nothing — and to retire
EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 315
upon his old profession. As he had the strength of will to
wait for four months before sending in his claim, it is hoped
that he will have the philosophy to resign, with nothing more
than a natural sigh, the power and authority which belong to
Buch great riches. We commend him to the reflection that
the abilities -which have made him, at so early an age, an
F.R.S. will continue to advance him in the honourable path he
has laid down for himself. He wants no fortune to follow in
the footsteps of the great men before him. As regards the
v/ill, it appears that when the Treasury seized upon the estate
they found a vast quantity of papers, some in the house or
office where Mr. Hurley's managers, secretaries, solicitors, and
clerks carried on his business of looking after the estate, some
lying at Mr. Hurley's own residence. These papers were, it
was thought, all carefully examined and indexed. There was
found, however, yesterday, a tin box which had been over-
looked. Among the papers in this box was the will of
John Calvert Hurley. It was in duplicate, with the original
draft in the solicitor's own handwriting. The solicitor has
been dead for twenty years. His son, however, who succeeded
him, remembers that at his father's death Mr. Hurley ordered
such of his papers as had been in his hands to be sent to him.
He remembers this box very well ; and he is ready to swear
to his father's waiting, and to the signature of the witnesses,
who were two of his father's clerks. Under these circum-
stances there can be little doubt that we have here the will
of this rich man.
* It is a curious document, especially when we consider the
manner of man who drew it up and the kind of life he led.
He leaves nothing whatever to his son : of his grandson, of
course, he knows nothing. And he leaves the whole of his
estate, now producing an income variously estimated at a
quarter or half a milhon, for the foundation of a vast College
of Science, with endowments for research m every branch.
Did miser ever before grub and heap up money — did money-
lender ever before accumulate thousands — for the purpose of
advancing a branch of knowledge of which he himself Imew
3l6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
nothing and cared nothing? As a psychological problem
the question how this man, who raked in the mud all his Ufe,
ever came to think of science, will remain for ever un-
answered.'
This intelligence was the first thing that met Lucian*a
eyes when he opened his paper at breakfast.
Soon after eleven, his solicitor, Mr. Nicholson, arrived. He
found Lucian still at his untouched breakfast ; the newspaper
lay on the hearthrug : Lucian sat upright, his hands on the
arms of his chair, looking straight before him.
'Lucian,' the old lawyer shook him roughly by the
shoulder. * Wake up, man. What ? You have read the
news? So have I. More than that, I have been to the
Treasury people *
Lucian turned with haggard face. * Is it true ? * he asked
hoarsely.
* Quite true,' the lawyer replied shortly, as if it mattered
nothing. * True beyond any doubt, I should say. Well, then ?
V/e are once more just as we were. Eh? We have enjoyed
an immense fortune, in imagination — eh ? Something to
remember. Once you had millions — eh? Rather stunned
for the moment — eh ? You'll soon get over that — ^put a bold
face on it — make 'em laugh if you begin to cry — eh ? — Let
'em see that you don't care much — laugh at it — go to your
club — make calls with your wife — eh ? '
* Is it — all — quite true ? *
* Oh ! yes — it is very simple. Your father left his home
forty years ago. Your grandfather disinherited him. That
is simple. When the lawyer died, he had his papers sent to
his own office, where he employed solicitors at a salary to
conduct the work. The papers accumulated, and this box
seems to have been overlooked in the search. Somebody
ought to be sacked.*
* In the search,' Lucian repeated, not attaching the least
meaning to the words.
* Very well, then. That explains how the papers got
EAETHQUAKES AND SHOT^'ERS OF FIRE 317
there. Of course it does not explain how the Treasury
people overlooked them. I think there is no manner of doubt
possible. Perhaps the Treasury would get something done
for you.'
He stopped. His words made no impression. The look
of Lucian's face alarmed him. ' Is your wife at home ? I
should like to see her.'
* Margaret has left me. She left me because I claimed
my own.*
* Is it possible ? Good Heavens, Lucian ! You have lost
your wife and your vast inheritance as well. What was it
your father said — that Ruin and Destruction would follow
those who held any portion of that money ? Lucian — don't
sit staring. Pull yourself together, man ! '
But he made no impression, and presently withdrew.
A black rage held Lucian's soul. It was chiefly directed
against his grandfather. How unscientific a man can become
on occasion is shown by this example. For he actually saw,
as clearly as one can see anything, that old man tempting
him, urging him to advance his claim ; lilling his mind with
the splendours of possession, suggesting the great college —
allowing him to be proclaimed the Prince of the Golden Ash-
heaps — the Head — the young Lord ; and then, with a malig-
nant laugh, producing his old will, becoming himself the
founder of the great college, and tumbling his grandson into
dust-holes and ash-heaps which are not golden.
His face was dark ; the room was dark, though outside it
was high noon ; his soul within him was like unto the soul
of Job, when, after seven days and seven nights, he lifted up
his voice and cursed his day, even the day of his birth : ' Let
the day wherein I was born : let that day be darkness ; let not
the light shine upon it ; let darkness and the shadow of death
stain it. Let a cloud dwell upon it. Let the blackness of
the day terrify it.'
The ruin and destruction of which his father spoke had
fallen upon him. Whether it was the curse of the house in
which his father believed — in terror of which his wife had
31 8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
left liim — whether this superstition was real or not — ruin and
destruction had fallen upon him — by the hand of his grand-
father. Misery and disaster were the work of that old man's
hands, even out of the grave— misery and disaster on every-
body. So much he saw plainly.
On his innocent wife, driven from her home and from her
husband. On these unfortunate New Zealanders, who came
in search of an honourable ancestry and discovered an
escaped convict. On that unfortunate American girl, who
dreamed of boundless wealth, and discovered the shameful
secret of her father's birth. On the child of Piccadilly, who
substantiated his case, and already held out his hand to clutch
the estate when another stepped in to take it. And on
himself, set up on high to be dragged down again in the face
of the assembled multitude. All the telescopes in the world
were pointed at this unhappy young man as he sat bent down
by this mighty blow — and behind the telescope he could see
the Grin Universal. Who would be laughed at by the whole
world ? He was Job, without even the pious admonitions of
the three candid friends. He was Job in darkness as Blake
drew him. His spirit looked out upon the world, but could
see nothing except universal contempt, shame, and derision.
He got up at last, fired with a sudden thought. Murder,
revenge, retribution, were in his eye. First he took from his
study table a dagger-shaped knife — you will never find a man
of science very far from a knife — and with this in his hand,
ho swiftly mounted the stairs. He might have been going
upstairs in order to put his dagger into that part of the frame
where he could most comfortably and most painlessly stop
the machinery. But Lucian was not so minded. A fuller,
deeper, more satisfying revenge was in his mind.
He opened the drawing-room and looked round the walls :
it was the look of one who counts his victims before the
slaughter. He felt the edge of the knife with his finger. It
was sharp enough. Then — how many f jaes before this had
he gone round the room and looked at the portraits of his
ancestors ? — he began again as if he had never seen any of
EAnillQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIEE 319
them before. ' Calvert,' he said, numbering them off with
his finger, * the rogue who robbed his master and laid the
foundation — the Master Builder — roguery and robbery make
good foundations — honesty is but sand. Calvert's son — John
the highway robber and spendthrift and hangman's job.
John Calvert the Third — the religious maniac — poor wretch !
John the miser — the creature who picked up bones and crusts
and drove out his children. John the money-lender — the
owner of the dancing crib and the gaming hell. The man who
disinherited his son and made me dream of the great college.*
The faces of the men scowled at him : Because this disaster
bad fallen upon him ? But they had plenty of disasters among
themselves. The women looked at him coldly and carelessly,
as if wondering for a brief moment who this poor wretch
might be, and what he was doing among them all. Both men
and women rejected him : if silent looks mean anything, then
they would have none of him. Where, at this juncture, one
asks with bevalderment, was Divine Philosophy ? Where cold
Reason ? For this man of science, this physician, learned
and sapient, this student of the mysteries and phenomena of
life, became, for the moment, like a superstitious girl. The
curse of the house had descended upon him. He owned it in
his soul ; he felt it. His father had done rightly to escape by
flight ; he had returned, and this was his reward. Shame and
disgrace of some kind or other must needs fall upon all who
possessed, or desired to possess, the fortune acquired in dis-
honour, maintained in dishonour, and increased in dishonour.
As" everyone knows, in moments of great emotion the brain
sometimes refuses the control of the master ; it works inde-
pendently ; it goes off roaming in long-forgotten places. Thus,
Luoian's brain, at this crisis, spontaneously presented him
with a page of a printed book spread out before his eyes so
that he could read it. Not a book in which he often cared
to read, or a book which he regarded as necessary to be read :
not a book of science, a book into which, as a rule, he never
even looked. The page presented from this book, however,
was one wiich he had himself found in Westminster Abbey
320 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
for the speedier confusion of Margaret's superstitions. And
now lie saw it clearly spread out before him — on the wall —
Hke the inscription which affrighted the King of Babylon. It
was, in fact, none other than the page entitled : * The Unjust
Parable of the Sour Grapes.'
He read the whole page through — that is to say, he re-
membered the whole page, which is the same thing— indeed,
he thought he was reading it.
The last admonition in the long chain of explanation and
assurance is not, it must be acknowledged, conveyed in words,
such as those now used by scientific men, nor does it take the
form most likely to appeal to the scientific mind. Yet, because
he was able to detach the central thought of the passage from
the words in which it was clothed, the admonitions fell upon
his darkened spirit like a ray of sunlight.
* Cast away from you all your transgressions. Make you
a new heart and a new spirit. For why will you die, House
of Israel ? '
Like a blaze of sunshine and light that printed page with
its burning words fell upon his soul. Margaret once said that
no one could help her. * Not even the Prophet Ezekiel.' But
the Prophet did bring help. No curse at all, said the Prophet.
Every man stands or falls by himself. Why had this disaster
fallen upon him ? Because his grandfather was a money-
lender ? Not at all. The thing fell upon him quite naturally.
The will was certain to be found, some time or other. Had
he not deserted his own work — the work for which he was in-
tended and equipped, on which he was already fully engaged
— in order to change it for the administration of a vast and
unwieldy mass of wealth for which he was in no way fitted —
this thing would not have fallen upon him.
* Cast away from you .... *
Was ever man of science so convinced before ? He ac-
knowledged no authority in the prophetic office : but he re-
cognised the lucidity of the argument, the justice of the argu-
ment. * Transgressions ! * Why not use the word ? A very
good word it is. He had transgressed : he had stepped beyond
EAKTIIQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 32 1
Lig limits : he had bartered science for gold. Therefore—
quite naturally — he had suffered. He had returned, in spirit,
to the ancestors. Therefore ....
* At least,' he said, * there will be no more returning to
my own people. They may be anybody's people henceforth.
No Burley will I be. Calvert was I born— Calvert will I
remain. My house shall no longer be decorated with tho
twopenny daubs of their portraits.' He raised his knife. He
cut the cord by which his original ancestor was hanging to
the wainscot. He took down the picture and then— it was
like an act of cruel and deliberate revenge — it was an act
which made every face on the wall turn pale and every lip
tremble — speech they had none — he cut and hacked tho
canvas face out of the frame and threw frame and picture on
either side. ' Down with you ! ' he cried, vindictively. * Bovra
with you all I Out you go ! *
He was something like that hero who, in the ecstasy of
his rage, fell upon the cattle thinking them to be Princes.
Lucian in his great wrath destroyed the portraits, intending*
to consign to oblivion the whole folk whose memory they
preserved. * Not one shall remain,* he said. Then he carried
the frames and the canvases downstairs into the back garden
and piled them up. But there was more that should be added
to the pile. He climbed up to the garret — Margaret's room — -
the old nursery. He brought out the boxes of broken toys
and trumpery ; he kicked open the door of the highwayman';?
room and seized his musical instruments and his easel and
paints. He carried all these things into the back garden
with his own hands.'
Then he made in the garden a small but complete funeral
pyre. The frames of the pictures formed the foundation:
the wooden cradle and the toys lay on the frames : the pictures
themselves were piled on the cradle, and above all lay certain
bundles of papers. Among them were Mr. Calvert Burley'3
Apology: the letters and household books found in the cup-
board : the genealogy of the house : the history of the hou?3
written by his father : the drawings, plans, and calculations
32 2 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVARICE
concerning the great College of Science. Everything com-
pleted, he applied a light. After all, it was only a little bonfire,
but you must never measure the importance of a bonfire by
its dimensions. Otherwise the Fifth of November Bonfire on
Hampstead Heath, which is a magnificent blaze, might be con-
sidered more important than this little bonfire behind a house
in Great College Street, Westminster. For Lucian's bonfire
was the cremation of a whole family. Nobody will ever talk
about them again, nobody will ever learn their history ; the
record of them is lost : only the great fortune will survive for
good or evil. No one will ever speak of them any more.
Certainly not the New Zealander, who cannot think of the
family without burning blushes : certainly not the American
girl for the like reason: nor the disappointed man about
town : nor the poor old pauper because her memory now fails
her and she sits silent by the fireside : nor Margaret, to whom
they have brought so much sorrow : nor Lucian himself, who
owes them nothing but this humiliation and disappointment.
They will all be forgotten : they are cremated ; they and their
acts and their power — if they had any.
A good deal more was burned in that bonfire. Our
ancestors used to make bonfires at the corners of the streets,
in order to clear the air. This bonfire cleared the air. When
Lucian fired it, he thought he was only destroying, once for
all, everything that could in future remind him of his own
people from whom his father ran away : to whom he had
returned, with consequences such as these. In that bonfire,
though he knew it not, were destroyed the temptations that
well-nigh wrecked his life : the unholy craving for the high
place that seems to mean power and promises authority, and
pretends to command respect. And in this bonfire were
cremated the seven devils of the house of Burley — Devil Drive
All, Devil Sweat All, Devil Scrape All, Devil Grasp All, Devil
Hard Heart, Devil Loveless, Devil Euthless. These devils
had been with the family so long that they supposed they
were going to stay : they looked already upon Lucian as their
natural host and home. And finding no admission at this
EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 323
supreme moment, they too fell shrieking into this astonishing
bonfire.
The thirsty flames ran and rushed, hissing and crackling
— what in the world is so eager, so thirsty, as the flame ? — in
and out among the frames : they caught the wooden cradle :
they licked up the toys in a moment : they made but one long
spire pointing heavenwards, quick to vanish, of the papers and
documents. There was no wind in the little back garden, and
the flames mounted straight and steady — a pretty sight. The
bonfire lasted, in all, no more than ten minutes or a quarter of
an hour.
It was interesting, though certainly not unexpected, to
observe how, when the flames reached the canvases, when
they were at their highest and brightest, there became ap-
parent in the very heart of the fire, floating in the midst of
the flames, the face and head of Calvert Burley himself,
founder of this most distinguished house, separated from the
picture, and hovering like a wingless cherub. Only for a
moment. The eyes which were turned upon Lucian were
full of reproach. His own descendant had done this. Other
descendants had experienced the luck of the house in one or
other misfortunes; none, until this man came, had visited
the family disasters upon his ancestors. Now — now — now —
be was losing for ever the light of day : now — now — now —
he was sinking for ever into an eternity of oblivion. Only f®r
a moment. The face sank back into the flames ; there was a
roaring and a hissing, and the portraits were all burned up.
Farewell for ever to the men of sin and the women of sorrow 1
Afterwards, when Science resumed her sway, Lucian re-
membered that this reproachful face — this detaching of the
head from the canvas — must have been a mere trick of the
imagination. But he recognised the fact that on this eventful
morning his brain had not been wholly under control, and that
the things which he saw and remembered and did were not
things in any sense scientific.
The flames fell lower, their fiercer thirst assuaged. Lucian
kicked into the embers outlying bits, and they rose again.
t2
324 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAEICE
Finally they died out, and there was left of this bonfire and
all that it contained nothing but a heap of red ashes, rapidly
turning grey. Lucian stood watching it. Then he stamped
his heel into the ashes, and sent them flying in all directions.
The day was over ; in the twilight lay here and there about
the narrow garden the red embers rapidly turning black. In
a few moments nothing at all was left of that most lovely
bonfire.
Then Lucian left the garden and returned to his study.
* That is done with,* said Lucian, looking down upon the
white ashes. * I've now to go back to the old life.'
He returned to his study. It seemed to have grown sud-
denly small — absurdly small.
Lucian looked round and shuddered — but not with super-
stitious fear. His wrath was over ; the madness which ended
in the massacre of the forefathers had quite left him. * The
old life,' he murmured. And that Httle shivering fit was
caused by the sudden fear that, perhaps, he had spoiled him-
self for the old life by this long dream of boundless wealth.
Instead of standing magnificently outside the world, driving,
urging, -persuading, pulling, pushing, shoving mankind to that
higher level which mankind shows so little willingness to
achieve, he was going to become once more a member of that
company which works in the twilight, clearing away the
tangled underwood and jungle, and draining the pestilential
marshes whiich surround the circle of human knowledge.
He sat down in his wooden chair and took up his long-
neglected papers. There were the pages of the unfinished paper
written to explain and popularise the latest learned German's
latest theory about the meaning ef life. He turned over the
leaves. Strange to say, he felt no disgust whatever. The old
interest came back to him : he was eager to be at work upon
it once more. There was a note lying unopened. It was
from the hospital. He opened it, expecting a renewal of the
disgust which had recently filled his mind concerning the
daily drudgery of hospital work. Quite the contrary. The
note interested him strangely. He must go over to the hos-
EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 325
pital as soon as possible. Splendid work, that of hospitals,
for a physician !
He looked up from the table. Before him on the wall
hung his father's portrait. Every day, every time he entered
the study, he saw this portrait. For the first time he saw in
it the Burley face — the strong type which came out in every
one of the sons — the resolute face, the steady eyes, the firm,
set lips, the face of Calvert the Robber — of Calvert the
Murderer — of Calvert the Maniac— of Calvert the Miser — of
Calvert the Money-Grubber — the face of every one — hut
transformed. There are two ways in which any one of the
gifts which the gods give to man may be used. These had
chosen one way — the mean, the low, the sordid, the profligate,
the selfish way. His father had chosen the other, the nobler,
way — and it was so stamped upon his face. * Remember,*
that face spoke to him, ' that I loved labour and hated money-
getting. Remember that I warned you, four months ago,
against touching this accursed pile.*
Then this strong man, this masterful man, this obstinate
man, bowed his head, and for very shame his heart became as
the heart of a little child.
This shame will never leave him. For whatever a man
does, or says, or thinks in the course of his earthly pilgrimage
shall stick to him, whether he is alive or dead — dball never
leave him — never. It will be his companion for ever ; it shall
be Uke his shadow. Heavens I What companions do some of
us hourly create I
This masterful man was ashamed. This was a sign, if
you think of it, that the dream of boundless wealth was gone.
Only the memory of it left, and with the memory the shame.
They brought him a letter. It was from 8ir John
Burleigh.
* My dear cousin,* he said, kindly. * We are deeply grieved
to hear of this discovery, and of its consequences to yourself.
You will, I am sure, bear it with the fortitude that belongs to
your profession. Should you think of leaving England, let
me remind you that you have cousins in New Zealand, who
326 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
will always welcome you and your wife. My daughters desire
to convey to her their truest sympathy with her, and their
more sincere thanks for all the kindness she has shown them.
'lam sorry to say that my son, Herbert, of whom we
hoped so much, has informed us that he is to be very shortly
received into the Roman Catholic Church, and that he intends
to withdraw wholly from the world and to retire to a monas-
tery — the strictest that he can find. It is curious that
the member of our family whom he most resembles, his
great-grandfather, was also a fanatic, or even a maniac, in
religion.
* Public business calls me back to New Zealand. We
return with an English connection, and a family which, at all
events, has given rise to a great deal of talk. I hope that
further discussion into our family history will never again arise.
As for us, we have got along, and we shall continue to get
along, without any knowledge of that family or any help from
them.
* Again, I hope and trust that the loss of this great wealth
will be treated as a thing of no real importance, since the loss
of it ought not in any way to injure your scientific career.
* I remain, my dear cousin,
* Yours very faithfully,
* John Burleigh.*
* The man,' said Lucian, * who wanted to be the grandson
of a criminal I And he was ; and of all his family, the
only one who did not know it. A monk of the strictest kind.
Heavens ! what a race we are.*
While he was reading this note a second time, a card was
brought in — ' Mr. James Pinker.'
The visitor followed the card. * Dr. Calvert,' he said, * or
Dr. Burley — whichever you wish to be called '
' My name is Calvert.'
* Very well. I saw the dreadful news in the evening paper.
It came out — perhaps you saw it '
* I saw it this morning.'
EAETIIQUAKES AND SHOWEKS OF FIRE 327
* I tried to keep the paper from Clary, but he snatched it
and read it, and then — then '
* What happened then ? '
* I've had the most awful night with him. I shall never
forget it — never. " Now," he said, ** there's an end of every-
thing. And I've lost my voice, and my ear, and my powers."
So he sat and gasped with a white face. And I certainly did
feel low, too — because, you see, we'd been arguing it out —
about the compensation — we were undecided whether to make
it a million, or a million and a half — and, to tell the truth,
Dr. Calvert, neither of us had tried to do anything for the
last fortnight except to pile up the case for compensation.'
' Well, Mr. Pinker ? '
* Presently, he got up, saying nothing, and went into hig
bedroom. I waited and listened — but I heard nothing. So I
got up, frightened, and went in after him. He was sitting
with his collar off and his neck unbuttoned, with a razor in
his hand. I made for him, and got him to drop the beastly
thing. '*I couldn't do it, Jemmy," he said. "It hurts too
much." Clary never did like things that hurt. " And the hor-
rid mess it would make ! " he said. Clary can't bear messes.
" But I must kill myself," he said. ** I can't live any longer —
I can't starve — I must die." So I dragged him back, and made
him sit down. But he wouldn't listen. I fell asleep about
two in the morning, and I was awakened by a noise. He had
got a rope round his neck, and was hauling at it. Lord!
what a night it was ! I got him down, and he owned that it
hurt horrid, and I dragged him into the sitting-room again.
Then he began to cry.'
'Well?'
' He dropped off asleep in his chair at last, and slept till
nine o'clock this morning, and then he woke up, and then — it's
the most wonderful thing possible — he actually got up and
laughed. "Jemmy," he said, " since there's no more chance of
anything, let us go back to the old work." So he sat down to
the piano and rattled off one of the songs — my new song,
*' Wanted, a Methusalem ! To tell us how they kept it up ! " —
328 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
T/ith all liis spirit and fun come back to him. I declare I could
have cried to see Clary himself again. I believe I did cry.'
Certainly tears stood in his honest eyes.
*He has come back to his right mind. I am glad to
hear it. So have I, Mr. Pinker. We have all been off our
heads *
' I came round, Dr. Calvert, just to ask if you were going
to set aside the will? I believe you might, if you chose.
Then the compensation question will begin all over again.'
* Man I Bo you want to drive us all mad once more ? Set
the will aside ? I would not move a little finger to set the
will aside.*
* Thank goodness I Then I can go back to Clary. I shall
make a song about it. You won't mind, I hope. It'll be sung
in the highest circles only, so it will be rather vulgar. We
move in nothmg outside the highest circles. That is, Clary
does. My sphere is down below.'
So the partner went away.
Lucian set himself again to his work. But his thoughts
turned to Margaret, and he lay back in his chair thinking what
he should do and whether he should go to her, or first write
to her — or wait for her. But another visitor came to him.
This time, EUa, who had spoken her mind with so much fi-ee-
dom : Ella, who had rebuked his counsels, and derided his
schemes, and exposed his selfishness. Now she came, laugh-
ing and running, and holding out both her hands.
* Cousin Lucian,' she cried. * I congratulate you. Let
me look at you. Oh 1 what a change I ' She became sud-
denly serious. *You have lost the gloom of your selfish
dream — the gloom that you thought was firmness, and was
only horrible persistence in evil-doing — it has gone ! Tell me,
Lucian — tell me that you are not regretting the loss of the
dreadful thing.'
* Just at the present moment, I do not. But, Ella, I can't
answer for what I shall think about it to-morrow. Just go on
Baying that it is a dreadful thing.'
* Horrible, hateful, shameful, sinful, polluted *
EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 329
* Thank you, Ella. Adjectives, like alcohol, sometimes
strengthen a patient/
* Isn't it romantic ? There you were, only yesterday, on
the top of a great — great — gallows— yes — gallows— and you
thought it was a pinnacle— all of gold— with the sun shining
on your face and making it as yellow as the gold— and your
chin stuck out — so— and the Devil heside you — and the people
down below crying out, like boys, to begin the scramble. And
now here you are, just on a level with the rest of us, and the
gallows is surmounted by the crown of Great Britain and
Ireland I '
* I have been in the clouds, Ella, and it is rathez difBculfc,
you see, to begin the simple life again.'
* The simple life, he calls it.' No one could be more con-
temptuous than this young person, so straight and direct of
speech. ' The simple life ! "What is the man talking about ?
Why, the simple life is the life with no work to do— simple
and contemptible. That is what you were desiring — you — yon
— you miserable sinner I It is the complex life that you have
returned to, filled with every good thing that can keep your
brain at work. Simple life, he calls it I This it is to have
been rich — only for a week or two.*
*Yes,* Lucian replied, meekly, *I shall get right again
presently, perhaps.'
' Of course,' Ella continued, critically. ' I am different
from the rest of the world. I've been through it all myself.
We understand each other, don't we ? Lucian t What I ain
going to say is not the language you talk — but you understand
it — I said the Lord would break you up. The Lord has
broken you up. Your madness is driven out of you. You
ought — but you won't— to go down on your knees and thank
the Lord.*
* Ella,' he laughed, * I have taken a very serious step. I
have burned the portraits, frames and all.*
' Burned the portraits ? Why ? '
' I want every record — everything connected with the
family history— to be destroyed, I have burned all the papers
330 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE
that were in my hands. Who knows, now, besides ourselves^
the history of these people ? '
Ella shivered. Oh I you have really burned the history —
my history ? And no one else will ever know ? '
* I have done more. I went upstairs and brought down
all the toys and dolls and children's things that haunted
Margaret. They are burned, too. I would have burned the
clothes in the bedrooms, but there wasn't time. So I gave
everything to the servants on condition of the things leaving
the house within an hour. I don't believe there is a scrap of
anything except some of the furniture that can remind us of
the people called Burley who once lived in this house. I
believe their name was Burley. Someone told me so. There
was some talk about money. My own name, you know, is
Calvert.'
*My name is Burley — I think,' said Ella, thoughtfully,
* that I am in some distant way connected with a family which
once Uved in this house. But I don't want to hear anything
more about them. I have understood that they were a dis-
reputable set. One of them actually ran away with his
master's young wife — Ohl a dreadful family. But high-
spirited, that poor old pauper said. Well, Lucian, I am glad
that all the things are burned ; and now, I hope, everything
is to go on as usual.'
* Everything ? '
' Everything. Without explanations, because we all under-
stand each other. Margaret will have no more visions of
mournful mothers and weeping wives and doleful daughters,
and you will have no more dead ancestors calling and tempting
and suggesting. Oh 1 It is ridiculous, that dead people
should be allowed to go on as they have been going on in this
house.'
* Everything as it was — everything, Ella ? You are
charged to tell me that.'
* Everything. Aunt Lucinda and I are coming back to
stay wdth you for a bit, if you will have us. I've found work —
I'm going to lecture in a ladies' college, first on English and
EARTHQUAKES A1<D SHOWERS OF EIRE 33 1
American literature, and afterwards in halls and places on
American institutions. Margaret has found out that I have
read things and know a little. I shall make, this way, a great
fortune, that I will join with the great fortune that you will
make — and then — then— w^e will — what shall we do? For
yours will be new stories of science : and mine — what will be
mine ? I know not — but this I know — that a woman wha
works must needs become a rich woman.*
* Yes, Ella,' he said, with meekness.
' Oh I ' she gave him her hand. * Brother Commander-in-
Chief 1 Brother Only Substitute for Providence! Brother
Dreamer I Brother Archangel 1 Brother Miser I We have
sinned and suffered. Now you shall go to work again vnth £u
new heart.*
She looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. * Margaret,*"
she said, changing her voice and dropping into prose again,.
' told me she would have tea ready by five— and that she-
would ring the bell when it was ready. There is the bell —
let us go upstairs, Lucian.'
TUB END,
W. FAKN^'^5
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All Sbrts and Condi
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All in a Garden Fair.
Dorothy Forster.
Uncle Jack.
The World Went Very
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Herr Paulus.
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For Faith and Freedom.
To CaU Her Mine.
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Armorel of Lyonesse.
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Matt. I Rachel Dene.
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Love Me for Ever.
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Foxglove Manor.
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The Minor Chord.
By
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HALL CAINE.
I The Deemster.
A Son of Hagar. |
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Transmigration. I From Midnight to Mid-
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The Frozen Deep.
The Two Destinies.
The Law and the Lady.
The Haunted Hotel.
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Jezebel s Daughter.
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Heart and Science.
' I Say No.'
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A Rogue's Life.
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Armadale.
After Dark.
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The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
My Miscellanies.
The Woman in White
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
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Paul Foster s Daughter.
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Geoflfory Hamilton.
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Two Girls on a Barge.
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His Vanished Star.
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The Adventures of a Fair Rebel.
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Proper Pride.
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Pretty Miss Neville.
A Bird of Passage.
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Mr. Jervis.
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The Real Lady Hilda.
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Hearts of Gold.
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The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation.
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Mr. Sadler's DaughterH.
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The Fountain of Youth.
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A Castle in Spain.
28
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
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Our Lady of Teara. | Circe's Lovers.
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Tracked to Loom. | Man from Manchester.
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The Firm of Girdlestone.
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Fatal Zero.
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One by One. I King or Knave 7
A Dog and his Shadow. Ropes of Sand.
A Real Queen. | Jack Doyle's Daughter.
Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE.
Fandurang Hari.
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The Capel Girls.
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The Red Shirts.
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Robin Gray. 1 The Golden Shaft.
Loving a Dream. |
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A Fair Colonist. j
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The Fate ot Herbert Wayne.
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Corintbia Marazion.
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Clarence.
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Garth.
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Dust.
Fortune's Fool.
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Ivan de Biron.
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Honour of Thieves.
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A Drawn Game.
• I'htt Wearing of the Green."
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Madame Sans-Gcne.
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Rhoda Roberts.
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Patricia Kemball.
Under which Lord?
' My Love 1 '
lone.
Fasten Carew.
Sowing the Wind.
The Atonement of Loam
Dundas.
The World Well Lost.
The One Too Many.
By H. W. LUCY.
Gideon Fleyce.
By JUSTIN McCarthy.
Miss Misanthrope.
Donna Quixote.
Red Diamonds.
Maid of Athens.
The Dictator.
The Comet of a Season.
A Fair Saxon.
Linley Rochford.
Dear Lady Disdain.
Camiola.
Waterdale Neighbours.
My Enemy's Daughter.
By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY.
A London Legend.
By GEORGE MACDONALD.
Heather and Snow. | Phantastes.
By L. T. MEADE.
A Soldier of Fortune. | In an Iron Grip.
By BERTRAM MITFORD.
The Gun Runner. I The King's Assegai.
Tlie Luck of Gerard Renshaw Fanning'!
Ridgeley. j Quest.
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Maid Marian and Robin Hood.
Basile the Jester.
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
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Cynic Fortune.
The Way of the World.
BobMartin s Little GirL
Time's Revenges.
A Wasted Crime.
In Direst Peril.
Mount Despair.
A Life's Atonement.
Joseph's Coat.
Coals of Fire.
Old Blazer's Hero.
Val Strange. | Hearts.
A Model Father.
By the Gate of the Sea.
A Bit of Human Nature.
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One Traveller Returns. |
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' Bail Up I •
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Saint Ann's. | Billy Belle w. 1
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A Weird Gift.
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Chandos.
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Tricotrin.
Puck.
FoUe Farine.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel.
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Princess Napraxine.
Ariadne.
Two Little Woodea
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Friendship.
Moths.
Ruf&no.
Pipistrello.
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Bimbi.
Wanda.
Frescoes. | Othmar.
In Maremma.
tjyrlm. | Gullderoy.
Santa Barbara.
Two Offenders.
By MARGARET A. PAUL.
Gentle and Simple.
By JAMES PAYN.
Lost Sir Massingberd. High Spirits.
Less Black than We're Under One Roof
Painted.
A Confidential Agent.
A Grape from a Thorn.
In Peril and Privation.
The Mystery of Mir
By Proxy. [bridge,
The Canon's Ward.
Walter s Word.
Glow-worm Tales.
The Talk of the Town.
Holiday Tasks.
For Cash Orly.
The Burnt Million.
The Word and tne Will.
Sunny Stories.
A Tiying Patient.
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
39
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Christie Johnstone.
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A Woman-Hater.
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Readiana.
The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— continued^
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Outlaw and Lawmaker. | Christina Chard.
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Valentina. I Mrs. Lancaster's Kival.
The Foreigners. |
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Miss Maxwell's Affections.
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It Is Never Too Late to ~
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Love Me Little, Love
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The Coarse of True
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The Autobiography of
a Thief.
Put Yourself in His
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The Jilt.
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Weird Stories.
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Barbara Denng.
By F. W. ROBINSON.
The Hands of Justice.
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A Country Sweetheart. | The Drift of Fate.
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My Shipmate Louise.
Alone on Wide Wide Sea
The Phantom Death.
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Guy Waterman. I The Two Dreamers.
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Margaret and Elizabeth I Heart Salvage.
Gideon's Kock. Sebastian.
The High Mills. |
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Dr. Endicott's Experiment.
Is He the Man ?
The Good Ship
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The Convict Ship.
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Without Love or Licence.
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A Secret of the Sea. | The Grey Monk.
By ALAN ST. AUBYN.
In Face of the World.
Orchard Damerel
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A Fellow of Trinity.
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Master of St.Benedict's.
To his Own Master.
By R. A. STERNDALE.
The Afghan Knife.
By BERTHA THOMAS.
Proud Maisie. | The Violin-Player.
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The Way we Live Now. | Scarborough s FamUy.
Frau Frohmann. | The Land-Leaguers.
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Like Ships upon the I Anne Furness.
Sea. I Mabel s Progress.
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c.
Stories from Foreign Novelists.
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The American Claimant. I Pudd'nhead Wilson.
The£l,OCO,OOOBank-note. Tom Sawyer .Detective.
Tom Sawyer Abroad. |
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Mistress Judith.
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Lady Bell. 1 The Blackball Ghosts.
Buried Diamonds. | The Macdonald Lass.
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The Prince of Balkistan.
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The Scorpion : A Romance of Spain.
By J. S. WINTER.
A Soldier's Children.
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My Flii-tationa.
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The Downfall. | Money. | Lonrdes.
The Dream. The Fat and the Thin.
Dr. Pascal. I Rome.
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Phillstla.
Strange Stories.
Bab V Ion
For Malmie's Sake.
In all Shades.
The Beckoning Hand
The Devil's Die.
The Tents of Shem.
Blood Royal.
Ivan Greet's Master-
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This Mortal Coil.
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Phra the Phoenician.
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Hed Spide^. f Eve.
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Fettered for Life.
Little Lady Linton.
Between Life & Death.
She Sin of Olga Zassou-
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Folly Morrison.
Lie at. Barnabas.
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A Prodigal s Progress.
Found Guilty.
A Recoiling Vengeance.
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John Ford; and Hli
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Grantley Grange.
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Ready- Money Mortiboy | By Celia's Arbour
My Little Girl. Chaplain of the Fleet.
With Harp and Crown. The Seamy Side.
This Son of Vulcan. The Case of Mr. Lucraft.
The Golden Butterfly. | In Trafalgar s Bay.
The Monks of Thelema. I The Ten Years' Tenant.
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All Sorts and Condi-
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The Captains' Room.
All in a Garden Fair.
Dorothy Forster,
Uncle Jack.
The World Went Very
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Children of Gibcon.
Herr Faulus.
For Faitti andFrecdom.
To Call Her Mine.
The Bell of St. Paul's.
The Holy Rpse.
Armorel of Lyonesse.
S . Katherine s by Tower.
Verbena Camellia Ste-
phanotis.
The Ivory Gate.
The Rebel Queen.
30
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
Two-Shilling Novei^s— continued.
By AMBROSE BIERCE.
In'.the Midst of Life.
By FREDERICK BOYLE.
Camp Notes,
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BY BRET HARTE.
Califomian Stories.
Gabriel Conroy.
rtie Luck of Roaring
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An Heiress of Red Dog.
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Uncle Bam at Home.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Flip. I Maruja.
A Phyllis of the Sierras.
A Waif of the Plains.
A Ward of the Golden
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Bhadow of the Sword,
A Child of Nature.
God and the Man.
Love Me for Ever.
Foxglove Manor.
The Master of the Mine
The Martyrdom of Ma-
deline.
Annan Water.
The New Abelard.
Matt.
The Heir of Linne.
By HALL CAINE.
The Shadow of a Crime. I The Deemster.
A Son of Hagar. 1
By Commander CAMERON.
The Cruise of the ' Black Prince."
By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON.
Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian.
By HAYDEN CARRUTH.
The Adventures of Jones.
By AUSTIN CLARE.
For fhe Love of a Lass.
By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE.
Paul FerroU.
Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.
By MACLAREN COBBAN.
The Cure of Souls. | The Red Sultan.
By C. ALLSTON COLLINS.
The Bar Sinister.
By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS.
Sweet Anne Page. I Sweet and Twenty.
Transmigration. ] The Village Comedy.
From Midnight to Mid- You Play me False.
night. Blacksmith and Scholar
A Fight with Fortune. I Frances.
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Armadale
After Dark.
No Name.
Antonina.
Basil.
Hide and Seek.
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
Miss or Mrs. ?
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The Frozen Deep.
The Law and the Lady
The Two Destinies.
The Haunted Hotel.
A Rogue's Life.
By M. J. COLQUHOUN.
Every Inch a Soldier.
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Leo. I Paul Foster's Daughter.
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The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
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The Adventures of a Fair Rebel.
By B. M. CROKER.
I My Miscellanies.
The Woman in White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
The Fallen Leaves.
Jezebel's Daughter.
The Black Kobe.
Heart and Science.
' I Say No ! •
The Evil Genius.
Little Novels.
Legacy of Cain.
Blind Love.
.^e^
A Bird of Passage.
Proper Pride.
A Family Likeness.
CYPLES.
Pretty Miss Neville.
Diana Barrington.
•To Let.'
By W
Hearts of Gold.
By ALPHONSE DAUDET
The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation,
By ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth.
By JAMES DE MILLE.
A Castle in Spain.
By J. LEITH DERWENT.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers.
By CHARLES DICKENS.
Sketches by Boz. I Nicholas Nickleby.
Oliver Twist. |
By DICK DONOVAN.
The Man-Hunter. From Information E«>
Tracked and Taken. ceived.
Caught at Last I Tracked to Doom.
Wanted ! Link by Link
Who Poisoned Hetty Suspicion Aroused.
Duncan ? Dark Deeds.
Man from Manchester. The Long Arm of th«
A Detective's Triumphs Law.
In the Grip of the Law.
By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES.
A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell.
By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.
Felicia. | Kitty.
By EDWARD EQQLESTON.
Roxy.
By G. MANVILLE FENN.
The New Mistress. | Witness to the Deed.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.
Bella Donna. j Second Mrs. Tillotson.
Never Forgotten. Seventy - five Brooke
Polly. Street.
Fatal Zero- | The Lady of Brantome.
By P. FITZGERALD and others.
Strange Secrets.
By ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE.
Ithy Lucre.
FRANCILLON.
I' King or Knave ?
Romances of the Law.
Ropes of Sand.
A Dog and his Shadow.
By HAROLD FREDERIC.
Beth's Brother's Wife. | The Lawton Girl.
Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE.
Pandurang Hari.
By HAIN FRISWELL.
One of Two.
By EDWARD GARRETT.
The Capel Girls.
By GILBERT GAUL.
A Strange Manuscript.
By CHARLES GIBBON.
Robin Gray. i In Honour Bound.
Fancy Free. Flower of the Forest.
For Lack of Gold. The Braes of Yarrow.
What wUl the World The Golden Shaft.
FUthy
By R.
Ol3rmpia.
One by One.
A Real Queen.
Queen Cophetna,
Of High Degree.
By Mead ana Stream.
Loving a Dream.
A Hard Knot.
Heart's Delight.
Blood-Money.
Say?
In Love and War.
For the King.
In Pastures Green.
Queen of the Meadow.
A Heart's Problem.
The Dead Heart.
By WILLIAM GILBERT.
Dr. Austin's Guests. 1 The Wizard of
James Duke. | Mountain.
By ERNEST GLANVILLE.
The Lost Heiress. | The Fossicker.
A Fair Colonist.
By HENRY GREVILLE.
A Noble Woman. | Nikanor.
By CECIL GRIFFITH.
Corinthia Marazion.
By SYDNEY GRUNDY.
The Days of his Vanity.
By JOHN HABBERTON.
Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck.
By ANDREW HALLIDAY.
Everyday Papers.
By Lady DUFFUS HARDY.
Paul Wynter'g SacriUce.
CHAtfO & WiSfbUS, PlJBLiSHERS, PJCC^ADlLLV.
a
Two-Shilling "^ove-ls— continued.
By THOMAS HARDY.
Under the Greenwood Tree.
_ By J. BERWICK HARWOOD.
The Tenth Earl.
By JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
Oarth. Beatrix Rardolph.
Ellice Quentln. Love— or a Name.
Fortune s Fool. David Poindexter's DIs-
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Sebastian Stroma. The Spectre of the
Dust. Camera.
By Sir ARTHUR HELPS.
Ivan de Biron.
By HENRY HERMAN.
A Leading Lady.
By HEADON HILL.
Zamhra the Detective.
By JOHN HILL.
Treason Felony.
By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY.
The Lover's Creed.
By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER.
The House of Kahy.
By TIGHE HOPKINS.
Twist Love and Duty.
By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.
A Maiden all Forlorn. I A Mental Struggle.
In Durance Vile. A Modern Circe.
Marvel. | Lady Verners Flight.
By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT.
Thornicroft's Model. I Self-Condemned.
That Other Person. | The Leaden Casket.
By JEAN INGELOW.
Fated to be Free.
By WM. JAMESON.
My Dead Self.
By HARRIETT JAY.
The Dark Colleen. | Queen of Connaught.
By MARK KERSHAW.
Colonial Facts and Fictions.
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slave,
• The Wearing of the Bell Barry.
Green.' |
By JOHN LEYS.
The Lindsays.
By E. LYNN LINTON.
Patricia Kemball.
The World Well Lost.
Under which Lord 7
Paston Carew.
' My Love I '
lone.
The Atonement of Learn
Dundas.
With a Silken Thread.
The Rebel of the
Family.
I Sowing the Wind.
By HENRY W. LUCY.
Gideon Fleyce.
By JUSTIN McCarthy.
Dear Lady Disdain.
Waterdale Neighbours
Mv Enemy's Daughter
A Fair Saxon,
liinley Rochford.
MissMlsi
Camiola.
Donna Quixote.
Maid of Athens.
The Comet of a Season,
The Dictator.
Red Diamonds.
lanthrope.
By HUGH MACCOLL.
Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet.
By AGNES MACDONELL.
Quaker Cousins.
By KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.
»he Evil Eye. | Lost Rose.
By W. H. MALLOCK.
By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
Open ! Sesame I | A Harvest of Wild Oata.
Fighting the Air. | Written in Fire.
By J. MASTERMAN.
Half-a-dozen Daughters,
By BRANDER MATTHEWS.
A Secret of the Sea.
By LEONARD MERRICK*
The Man who was Good.
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS*
Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion.
By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.
Hathercourt Rectory.
By J. E. MUDDOCK.
Stories Weird and Won- 1 From the Bosom of the
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The Dead Man's Secret. 1
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
A Model Father.
Joseph's Coat.
Coals of Fire.
Val Strange.
Old Blazer s Hero.
Hearts.
The Way of the World
Cynic Fortune.
A Life's Atonement.
By the Gate of the Sea.
A Bit of Human Nature.
First Person Singular.
Bob Martin's Little
Girl.
Time's Revenges.
A Wasted Crime.
By MURRAY and HERMAN.
One Traveller Returns. I The Bishops' Bible.
Paul Jones's Alias. |
By HENRY MURRAY.
I A Game of Bluff. | A Song of Sixpence.
By HUME NISBET.
' BaU Up I ' I Dr.Bernard St. Vincent.
By ALICE O'HANLON.
The Unforeseen. | Chance 7 or Fate T
By GEORGES OHNET.
Dr. Rameau. I A Weird Gift.
A Last Love. |
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
Whiteladies. I The Greatest Heiress la
The Primrose Path. | England.
By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY.
Phoebe's Fortunes.
A Romance of the Nine-
teenth Century.
The New Republic.
By OUIDA.
Wooden
Two Little
Shoes.
Moths.
Bimbi.
Pipistrello.
A Village Commune.
Wanda.
Othmar.
Frescoes.
In Maremma,
Guilderoy.
Ruffino. ,
Syrlin.
Santa Barbara.
Ouida's Wisdom,
and Pathos.
Wit,
Held in Bondage.
Strathmore.
Chandos.
Idalia.
Under Two Flags.
Cecil Castlemalne'sQage
Tricotrin.
Puck.
FoUe Farine.
A Dog of Flandera.
Pascarel.
Signa.
Princess Napraxlne.
In a Winter City.
Ariadne.
Friendship,
B
Gent
By C. L. PIRKIS.
Lady Lovelace.
By EDGAR A. POE.
The Mystery of Marie Roget.
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
The Romance of a Station.
The Soul of Countess Adrian.
Outlaw and Lawmaker.
By E. C. PRICE.
Valentlna. i Mrs. Lancaster's RivaU
The Foreigners. | Gerald. »»"•«•
By RICHARD PRYCE.
Mils Maxwell's Affections.
y MARGARET AGNES PAUL.
le and Simple.
3i
CHATTO & VVINbtJS, i>UBLiSHERS, PrccAOlLLV.
Two-Shilling Nove'ls— continued.
By JAMES PAYN
Bentinck's Tutor,
Murphy's Master.
A County Family.
At Her Mercy.
Cecil's Tryst.
The Clyffards of Clyfle,
The Foster Brothers.
Found Dead.
The Best of Hus'bands.
Walter's Word.
Halves.
Fallen Fortunes.
Humorous Stories.
£200 Reward.
A Marine Kesidence.
Mirk Abbey.
By Proxy.
Under One Roof.
High Spirits.
Carlyon's Year.
From Exile.
For Cash Only.
Kit.
The Canon's Ward.
The Talk of the Town.
Holiday Tasks.
A Perfect Treasure.
What He Cost Her.
A Confidential Agent.
Glow worm Tales.
The Burnt Million.
Sunny Stories.
Lost Sir Massingberd.
A Woman's Vengeance.
The Family Scapegrace.
Gwendoline's Harvest.
Like Father, Like Son.
Married Beneath Him.
Not Wooed, but Won.
Less Black than Were
Painted.
Some Private Views.
A Grape from a Thorn.
The Mystery of Mir-
bridge.
The Word and the WUl.
A Prince of the Blood.
A Trying Patient.
By CHARLES READE.
It is Never Too Late to
Mend.
Christie Johnstone.
The Double Marriage.
Put Yourself in His
Place
Love Me Little, Love
Me Long.
The Cloister and the
Hearth.
The Course of True
Love.
The Jilt.
The Autobiography of,
a Thief. I
By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.
A TerribleTemptation.
Foul Play.
The Wandering Heir.
Hard Cash.
Bingleheai-t and Double-
face.
Good Stories of Men and
other Animals.
Peg Wofangton.
Griffith Gaunt.
A Perilous Secret.
A Simpleton.
Keadiana.
A Woman-Hater.
Weird Stories.
Fairy Water.
Her Mother's Darling.
The Prince of Wales's
Garden Party.
The Uninhabited House.
The Mystery in Palace.
Gardens.
The Nun's Curse.
Idle Tales.
Barbara Bering.
By P. W. ROBINSON.
Women are Strange. | The Hands of Justice.
By JAMES RUNCIMAN.
Skippers and Shellbacks.
Grace Balmaiga's Sweetheart.
{Schools and Scholars.
By W. CLARK RUSSELL.
Round the Galley Fire. The Romance of Jenny
On the Fo'k'sle Head.
In the Middle Watch.
A Voyage to the Cape.
A Book for the Ham-
mock.
The Mystery of the
' Ocean Star.'
By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
GasUght and Daylight.
By JOHN SAUNDERS.
Guy Waterman. I The Lion in the Path.
The Two Dreamers. |
By KATHARINE SAUNDERS.
Joan Merry weather. I Sebastian.
The High Mills. Margaiet and Eliza-
Heart Salvage. I beth.
By GEORGE R. SIMS.
r.ogues and Vagabonds. Tinkletop's Crime.
Harlowe.
An Ocean Tragedy.
My Shipmate Louise.
Alone on a Wide Wide
Sea.
The Ring o' Bells
Wary Jane's Memoirs
Mary Jane Married.
Tales of To day.
Dramas of Life.
By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY
A Match in the Dark.
Zeph.
My Two Wives.
Memoirs of a Landlady.
Scenes from the Show.
Ten Commandments.
By HAWLEY, SMART.
Without Love or Licence.
By T. W. SPEIGHT.
Back to Life.
The LoudwaterTragedy
Burgos Romance.
Quittance in Full.
The Mysteries of Heron
Dyke.
The Golden Hoop.
Hoodwinked.
By Devious Ways.
By ALAN ST. AUBYN.
A Fellow of Trinity. [ Master of St.Bsnedicf •
The Junior Dean. | To His Own Master.
By R. A. STERNDALE. .
The Afghan Enife.
By R. LOUIS STEVENSON.
New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto.
By BERTHA THOMAS.
Cressida. 1 The Violin- Player.
Proud Maisle. |
By WALTER THORNBURY.
Tales for the Marines. | Old Stories Retold.
By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
Diamond Cut Diamond.
By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE.
Like Ships upon the I Anne Furness.
Sea. I Mabel's Progress.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
Frau Frohmann. The American Senator.
Mr. Scarborough's
Family.
The Golden Uoa of
Granpere.
Marion Fay.
Kept in the Dark.
John Caldigate.
The Way We Live Now.
The Land-Leaguers.
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Famell's Folly.
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c.
Stories from Foreign Novelists.
By MARK TWAIN.
A Pleasure Trip on the
Continent.
The Gilded Age.
Huckleberry Finn.
MarkTwain's Sketches,
Tom Sawyer.
A Tramp Abroad.
Stolen White Elephant,
By C. C. ERASE R-TYTLER,
Mistress Judith.
By SARAH TYTLER.
Life on the Mississippi.
The Prince and the
Pauper.
A Yankee at the Court
of King Arthur.
The £1,000,000 Bank*
Note.
The Huguenot Family.
The Blackball Ghosts.
What SheCameThrough
Beauty and the Beast.
Citoyenne Jaqueline.
The Bride's Pass
Buried Diamonds,
St. Mungo's City.
Lady Beil.
Noblesse Oblige.
Disappeared.
By ALLEN UPWARD.
The Que on against Owen.
By AARON WATSON and LILLIAS
WASSERMANN.
The Marquis of Caracas.
By WILLIAM WESTALL.
Trust-Money.
By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON.
A Child Widow.
By J. S. WINTER.
Cavalry Life. | Re£;imental Legtndi.
By H. F. WOOD.
The Passenger from Scotland Yard.
The Englishman of the Rue Cain.
By Lady WOOD.
Babina.
By CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY.
Rachel Armstrong ; or. Love and Theology,
By EDMUND YATES.
The Forlorn Hope. I Castaway.
Land at Last. |
OGDEN, SMALE AND CO, LIMITED, PKINTERS, GREAT SAFFRON HILL, B.O*
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