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THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_


                        EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
                          Vol VII., Issue 40.
                              April, 1894

[Illustration: "THERE WAS A FRIGHTFUL PANIC AND FLIGHT."

(_See page 347._)]

[Illustration:




AN ANARCHIST.]


                    FROM THE FRENCH OF EUGÈNE MORET.


I.--THE END OF THE DAY.

All Saints' Day was near. It was very cold. At five o'clock, night
came. Marianne has risen slowly from her seat and gone to close the
window, which she had opened for a few minutes to let some fresh air
into the room. Ah! how dark and cheerless is the weather! On the
pavements it must be difficult to walk, so thickly coated are they with
slippery mud--mud that is everywhere, mud and standing puddles. A hard
winter is commencing. The charcoal seller will want a great deal of
money.

Ah, well--that is an expense that has been foreseen. The charcoal man
and the baker have to be paid; and with courage and health it can be
done.

In spite of the hissing wind and the biting cold, Marianne rested on
her elbows at the open window for a moment; it refreshed her head.
She was so tired. Since the morning she had hardly quitted her work,
and sewing is so wearisome. Four children, the two eldest at school,
the third at the asylum; the fourth, still quite young, in its
white-curtained cradle.

The needle must be kept stitching, stitching, there must be no going
to sleep over the work; but both ends could be made to meet, and that
is the chief thing. Jacques Houdaille is a good workman, thirty-seven
years of age, with a solid backbone, as he says. He works his full
time; skulking is not in his way, he leaves that to fellows with hay in
their sabots; he has youngsters, and they must be fed--that's all he
knows. Besides, the missis has her notions: she is proud of herself,
she'd not have any debts in the neighbourhood.

Poor Jacques! he had not always been so reasonable, and there was a
time when his life had not been so well led.

Marianne, feeling the cold, which raised the handkerchief covering her
shoulders and pierced beneath her dress, shut the window and moved
about the room, putting things in order, then, after lighting her lamp,
resumed her place near the stove.

The work she was doing was wanted speedily, and she wished to finish
it. It was Saturday, and there is so much to be done on Sunday, where
there is a workman's clothes to be mended and a family of young
children to be tended.

But while plying the needle she reflected.

[Illustration: "MARIANNE SHUT THE WINDOW."]

No, it was a fact, her Jacques had not always reasoned so justly. It
was not that he was naturally fickle; he was an honest, hard-working
man, a good workman at his trade, open-hearted, devoted to his
wife, whom he had married for love, and adoring his children. But
he was feeble-minded, ignorant, fond of listening to glib talkers,
phrasemongers, and unable to refuse the offer of a glass; and, one
glass drunk, a second followed, and at the third he lost his head, and
gave himself up to a drinking bout.

Ah! Marianne had not laughed every day at that time, and that had
not been all. In those days Jacques sometimes only brought home from
five-and-twenty to thirty francs a week: that was not a sum on which
they could live; lodgings cost dear, and Marianne, who was still young,
liked to dress as well as other people.

Then poverty came, the man was out of heart, and, during several
months, did no work. That was anything but a gay time.

But all that was over. Marianne, as well as seeing to the home and
attending to the children, made her fifty sous a-day. It was no great
thing, but with Jacques's wages, they were not badly off; for the
blacksmith now earned from sixty to seventy francs a week--nine and
ten francs a day and overtime, for which he was paid double. It was
not much to talk of, but the workmen had had nothing to complain about
for some length of time. Certainly, as Jacques said, there was still a
good deal to be done; there was still wanting insurance against want of
employment, accidents, and the infirmities of age. But everything could
not be done at once, and Jacques did not grumble; he hoped it would all
come right in time. He was a philosopher.

They were living then in a very small town, where the population was
not large. But the proprietors of the factory where he worked were good
men, who understood that men must be enabled to live by their labour,
and that the price of everything was high. They even talked of one day
giving the factory hands a share in the profits of the enterprise.

"That's only a dream," said Jacques Houdaille. "There's amongst us a
pack of idlers and incompetents, who don't earn even the wages they
get now; and then the workman knows nothing about account-keeping, and
likes to see his way clearly; I only know what I am paid."

Marianne laughed as she thought of her husband's rough way of speaking.

What more could be expected of him? He hammered iron all day, swinging
heavy sledge-hammers, bare-armed, in the red light of the forge.
That kind of work did not give him polite manners, but he was so
kind-hearted, and could express himself so tenderly when he chose: so
long as he kept from drink; and he had refrained already for several
months.

And Marianne, as she cast her eyes about her, felt a thrill of
happiness. She was in her own home, and everything in it had been
gained without owing a sou to anybody: the neat furniture, a handsome,
brightly polished commode with its marble top, and on the mantelpiece
a large gilt clock, "warranted for two years." It was comfort, almost
ease! Oh, if it would only last for ever! And why should it not?

Seven o'clock struck.

"Heavens! I must see to my dinner!"


II.--THE EVENING MEAL.

She sprang up from her seat, hurried to the kitchen, stirred up the
fire, then returned to the little sitting-room, cleared the table, and
set out the dinner things.

[Illustration: "HE HAMMERED IRON ALL DAY."]

In the street below heavy clattering steps were heard upon the
pavement: it was the work-people going home. Some slouched along, with
their hands in their pockets, scenting the wide-open cabaret; others
quickened their pace, eager to get back to their firesides, to the kind
faces of their housewives and their shock-headed children.

The door opened abruptly; it was he, tall, strong, all black--a
handsome man under his rough skin and bushy beard. The children, who
had waited for his coming out of the factory, were with him. They
seated themselves at table and Marianne brought in the soup.

The blacksmith was fond of soup, fond of the good odour which escaped
from the brown tureen; and he proved it by having his plate filled
three times to the brim.

Yet he did not look in a good temper. His clear blue eyes flashed under
his knit brows, and it was with rough gesture he emptied the glass of
wine Marianne had taken pleasure in pouring out for him.

"This state of things can't go on much longer," he said, as if speaking
to himself.

"What has happened?" asked Marianne, anxiously. "Haven't you been paid
your wages?"

"Thunder! It only wants to come to that. If ever they don't pay me,
I'll burn down the whole shop!"

"How strange you are to-night! What is the matter with you?"

"What's the matter? Well, never you mind; women have nothing to do with
such things."

"Give me your money, Jacques," said Marianne, speaking softly, thinking
that he had forgotten himself a little on leaving the factory, and that
it was well to take precautions.

"My money--what for?"

"For one reason, because you have no need to keep it in your
pocket--you may lose it."

"Or drink it away, you mean?"

"Well! then you know what I have to pay, that I owe for my last
confinement to the doctor, and the tailor has called----"

"The tailor! You are tricking me out nicely! Monsieur must have his
tailor, now, like a fund-holder. And a doctor is to be paid by a
workman--there's another good-for-nothing to be put down!"

The blacksmith seized the bottle of wine that was within his reach and
refilled his glass.

"Jacques," said Marianne, now become slightly pale, "what is the matter
with you to-day? I have never seen you like this before."

"I have had enough of this sort of life; it is time to end it, and that
we should know a little whether it is not the man who makes the harvest
that is to eat the corn."

"Oh!" cried Marianne, "I was sure you had been drinking."

"Yes, I have, but that's neither here nor there. I tell you that at the
factory we've had enough of sweating, and have revolted at last."

"Jacques," cried Marianne, trembling, "has any injustice been done to
you?"

"There's nothing else but injustice in this world. For whom do we
slave? For whom do we toil the life out of us? For the rich and idle! I
tell you, you are not going to pay for anything more with my money; I
shall want it for myself, for I am not going back to work again."

He rose, snatched up his cap and planted it on his head.

"Where are you going, Jacques?"

[Illustration: "WHERE ARE YOU GOING, JACQUES?"]

"To join the comrades who are waiting for me. If I don't come back
to-night, you'll know."

Marianne brushed away a tear which was running down her cheek, and
tried to put a cheerful face on the matter. The children were there,
and she did not want them to comprehend that anything serious was
occurring. Perhaps, too--who could tell?--there might really be nothing
in it; men are so foolish when they have been drinking.

"He has been put out in some way," she said to herself; "it has mounted
to his head, and he is going to give way a little this evening, to
drown his irritation, which will be gone to-morrow."

She put her children to bed, cleared away the dinner things, and
resumed her sewing. But, in spite of herself, she could not help
recalling what her husband had said. Why this hatred against the
classes above him? What had they done to him? M. Hennetier, the
principal proprietor of the factory, was a moderately rich man;
but, down to the present time, the workmen in his employ had always
regarded him as both good and just in his dealings with them. To make
everybody as well off as himself was impossible. The position he held
had been won by hard work; for he had once been a foreman only in the
establishment of which he was now at the head.


III.--THE STRIKE.

Jacques returned late in the night. He was not drunk, as Marianne
feared he would be; but he was highly excited and talked of nothing
less than setting fire to the factory they had quitted the evening
before.

Next day he was no calmer. He was hardly at home all day. In the
evening, Marianne, looking out of window, saw that something was in the
air. The workmen were gathered in knots in the street, or walking about
and talking together excitedly. On the following day Jacques did what
he had never before done, made "Saint Monday." On Tuesday he returned
to the factory, but it was with all the pains in the world and with
prayers and tears that Marianne was able to induce him to do so.

"We are going to keep on till the end of the week," he said, when he
returned home at night. And, sure enough, on Friday night he came back
with a triumphant air, and threw his bag of tools into a corner of the
room.

"It's done!" he said.

"What is done?" cried Marianne, in alarm.

"The factory, from to-night, is picketed."

"Picketed!"

"Yes, every hand forbidden to enter it: the first of ours who enters
the gates will be a dead man!"

"By what right?"

"Because we've come out on strike!"

"On strike!" repeated Marianne, shuddering at that terrific word. "Then
you are not going to work--will have no more wages to receive; but what
is to become of us, then? How are we to live?"

"Oh! don't worry yourself about that," replied the blacksmith, feeling
a little uneasy in spite of his words; "we have funds, we shall all get
two francs a day."

"Two francs--and four children!"

"You have some savings?"

"And when they are gone?"

"Oh, don't bother me!--so long as the workman gets his rights. We've
had enough of this miserable existence."

"Miserable on what you have been earning?" said Marianne. "Look about
you. In this very house, on the first floor, there is a family: the
husband alone works, and has a salary of only eighteen hundred francs a
year."

"_Only_ eighteen hundred!"

"That's five francs a day, and you earn double that."

"I suppose that is so--when you count it up."

"Well, these people have three children, and when they go out they are
dressed like princes."

"Yes, but they don't eat."

"You mean they don't _drink_. Well, they find the means for going out
on Sundays, for going once or twice a year to the theatre, to receive
friends--in short, they appear to be at ease, and make no complaint as
to their condition."

"What!" cried the blacksmith, bringing down his clenched fist
heavily on the table, "do you compare me with a paper-scratcher?
Are such things as him men at all? He has not even a trade! A
paper-scratcher!--a pack of useless idlers the whole lot of them--as
bad as tradesmen and the rest of the bloodsuckers!"

[Illustration: "AT THE CABARET."]

Marianne saw that he had no other answer to give. For some time he was
no longer himself. He did not get exactly drunk, but he was constantly
in a state that was half-way towards intoxication, and a mere nothing
roused his anger. It was still worse some days later, and if the wife
was resigned, the mother asked herself in terror, whether it was
possible for her to continue to live with him. He did no work, and
his days were spent at the cabaret, sometimes part of his nights. He,
formerly so kind and tender to his wife, regarded her with nothing but
savage looks; and as to his children, of whom he had been so fond, he
ceased to notice them even.

Marianne cried when she was alone, for it was the future which, more
than all, terrified her. There was no more money coming in, and her
little savings, so painfully amassed, were, day by day, dwindling.
She had been obliged to sell a railway share, a tiny piece of paper
of which she had been so proud. Linen, clothes, all took the same
road; the handsome gilt clock had to be sold, the commode--even the
children's playthings and books, one day, when they were hungry.

It must be told, too, that she herself earned nothing. Not only had
work been brought to a standstill since the outset of that detestable
strike: people who had, before that, employed her, now shut their doors
in her face.

"We don't give work to the wife of a striker," they said.

She had swallowed her tears and had felt a movement of anger. Was it
her fault that it had happened? More than all, was it the fault of her
poor little ones, who, if the present state of things continued, would
become destitute? No; but it was a contest--war between classes. What
a frightful misfortune that men could not come to an understanding and
help, rather than hate and fight, each other!


IV.--SEDITIOUS PLACARDS.

One evening Jacques slunk like a thief up the stairs of his house and
entered his room furtively. He was pale, his face contorted, his eyes
haggard; and it was with a panting voice he called Marianne.

"I am pursued," he said; "I have come to let you know and to share what
money you have--for I must escape."

She threw herself upon his neck.

"What is it you have done?"

"Oh! a mere nothing: posted up some bills on the walls; they say these
placards are seditious."

"And you are being pursued?"

"Yes, they are trying to arrest me. I'm not afraid of a prison, but I
don't fancy being made to pay for others."

"Yet that is all you will do, Jacques; for you are weak-minded, and
allow yourself to be led away."

"They say it is revolutionary."

"Yes, and they will make an insurgent of you. They will push you on
to fight behind a barricade; they will get themselves made Deputies
or Ministers, and leave you to be put in irons and sent to die five
thousand leagues away, if you are not shot against a wall. It is wrong
of you, Jacques, to have allowed yourself to be led into this position;
women see further than you--because they are mothers."

All the while she was weeping and talking she was hurriedly making
up a bundle of clothes. Then kissing Jacques--holding him in a long
embrace--she placed two five-franc pieces in his hand, perhaps the only
two left in the house.

"Don't go yet," she said; "I want you to see the children."

But sounds were heard on the stairs--the whisperings of men stealthily
ascending.

"The police!" cried Houdaille. "Oh, the brutes!--Adieu! I have no time
to lose. Don't be afraid--they won't take me!"

[Illustration: "STRIKING OUT WITH HIS FISTS,"]

He opened the door suddenly and darted down the stairs, striking out
with his fists, and with such whirling rapidity, that the poor fellows
in pursuit of him had nothing but their pains for their labour in the
long and fruitless chase which followed.

Marianne breathed again--he was saved. Saved, yes--but what was to
become of him?

During the greater part of the night she stood with her face pressing
the windowpane, shuddering at the slightest sound made without,
expecting every moment to see him re-appear. For an instant a cold
perspiration burst out upon her forehead; it was a troop of soldiers, a
whole battalion of infantry, the commander at its head, passing under
her windows, and when the sound of their feet had died away into the
icy silence of the night, it was the turn of cavalry, the iron hoofs of
the horses clattering upon the frosted pavement in the moonlight. It
was part of a regiment of dragoons, with down-bent heads, enveloped in
their grey cloaks and sabre in hand.


V.--A GLEAM OF GAIETY.

Three weeks passed after that, and the strike still continued--the
strike--that is to say, the ruin of the country, discomfort to the
rich, misery to the poor, excitement amongst the masses, alarm
everywhere.

Jacques Houdaille had not reappeared. He knew that a warrant for his
arrest was out against him, and he was not so stupid as to come and
throw himself into the wolf's jaws.

Several of his comrades had been arrested and were awaiting their
trial. What would become of them? Poor fellows! They still held up
their heads behind the bars of their prison.

Their counsel, a tall, thin man, who wished to fatten himself and
become a somebody at the Bar, excited them in their bravado. He quite
well knew what he was about, that glib speaker; in any case, it was
they, poor creatures, who would pay for the broken pottery.

Jacques Houdaille, more fortunate, was still at liberty. But where was
he? How would he escape? Marianne had heard no news of him, and while
awaiting the end of all those misfortunes, she had to live, and that
was hard to do--nothing left, and four mouths to feed.

At last--for a fortnight past, at least--she had obtained work. Some
persons had had pity on her, and had promised to do something for her
children. It had come to be recognised that neither she nor her little
ones were responsible for the faults of the wretched husband.

On the morning of the 24th December some of these charitably-disposed
persons had gone to see her. The next day was a day of rest, and, on
the occasion of the Christmas holidays, had brought for her children
new and warm winter clothing.

For a moment she hesitated to accept these presents, for all her life
she had been able to buy for herself all she needed, and had never
held out her hand. But she was made to see that it was not on her own
account this assistance was being offered to her--that, in any case,
she was in an exceptional position--that her husband had left her and
was not likely soon to return to her; and that it would be, on her
part, an act of unjustifiable pride to condemn her children to suffer,
when it was impossible for her to provide for their needs. She gave in
to those good reasons, and her children were loud in the expression of
their delight.

"That is not all," said one of her visitors. "At Madame Hennetier's,
this evening, there is to be an assemblage of thirty children belonging
to our town; they are to keep Christmas, and you must promise us to
bring your little ones."

Marianne became very pale.

"Madame Hennetier!" she said; "but she is the wife of the principal
manager of the factory where my husband worked!"

"Madame Hennetier knows that, and wishes to give you a proof of her
esteem. Efforts are, at this moment, being made to bring the workmen
back from the misguided step they have taken; there is no concession
which the masters are not prepared to grant, in the hope of putting an
end to this horrible strike, for everybody plainly sees that if the
situation is continued it will result in a great disaster. But, in
this matter of the children's Christmas treat, there is no question of
politics. Christmas begins to-night; there is, we know only too well,
much poverty in the country; in more than one garret to-night there
will be no supper, and to-morrow will find many empty stomachs and many
little shoes unvisited in the night by Santa Claus.

"Madame Hennetier and her sister have both been poor; they know what it
is to want bread, and do not blush to have it known. They have remained
good in their relative prosperity, and they have resolved to give, this
evening, some hours of happy forgetfulness to the poor innocent little
ones about them."

Marianne still shrank from making the surrender asked of her, for many
thoughts had crowded upon her mind while her visitor was speaking.
She said to herself: "My husband would refuse; to him these people
are enemies. Yet--why enemies?" she reflected; "they appear, on the
contrary, to be animated by the best feelings towards him, and to have
but one purpose--to bring him back to calmness and reason."

Then the children were present, listening anxiously; there would be
a beautiful supper, sweetmeats, cakes, a profusion of playthings.
For days past, nothing else had been talked of in the place but this
entertainment. They had been thinking of it, not dreaming that they
would be invited to it.

At last Marianne made up her mind.

"What can I give them instead?--nothing. I have no right to deprive
them of this happiness." And aloud she replied: "I will come, madame."

The children clapped their hands.


VI.--PITY!

The little fête was brilliant and tumultuous. More than forty children
were gathered about an immense table laden with flowers and food of all
kinds: smoking puddings; geese, stuffed with chestnuts, and roasted to
the hue of gold; pastry and ornamented sweets; and hillocks of comfits
and lozenges. But what were more beautiful still, were ten Christmas
trees, in all their wealth of green, hung with a thousand playthings of
all forms and colours.

Marianne and her four children arrived rather late; but as soon as
she appeared a place was made for her. A quarter of an hour later she
would have found it difficult to single out the elder ones, they were
so completely mixed with the joyous crowd. A little before midnight,
Marianne rose and her eyes searched for her truants. She was instantly
surrounded.

"You are not going to take them away from us?"

"It is getting late, and to-morrow----"

"To-morrow is a holiday, and to-night you belong to us; besides, the
playthings will not be distributed before one o'clock, and you would
not like your children not to have their share."

"Well, then," replied Marianne, "I will let the two elder ones stay and
leave the third in your charge while I go home and put the youngest to
bed. You see he is already asleep, and my neighbour has promised to
wait for me."

On this engagement she was allowed to go, and the supper, which was
drawing to a close, was continued with redoubled gaiety, with bravos
and peals of laughter.

In the street Marianne was surprised at the silence and deep darkness
all about her. She felt at first cold, then afraid, and hurried on
with rapid steps. But she had not gone many yards before she came to
a sudden standstill: a cloud seemed to pass before her eyes and a
suppressed scream rent her bosom. She fell back a pace.

"You!"

"Yes, it is I!"

[Illustration: "YOU!"]

"What are you doing here? You have, no doubt, been to the house? My
God, if you have been seen!"

"They may see me now, when they like--I care not! The blow is struck."

"The blow--what do you mean? I don't understand you--you terrify me.
What brings you here? You are not a bad-hearted man, you do not seek
anybody's life?"

"Don't I? What I want to do is to blow up everybody here!--this kind of
thing has lasted too long. The reign of masters and people of fortune
is over!"

"Unhappy man, what are you saying? Have you lost your senses?"

"What am I saying?--this! Look at that house blazing with light, where
they are feasting--the house of our exploiter, isn't it--where he is
regaling his well-to-do friends? Well, in ten minutes, they will all be
blown up."

"Blown up!--blown up!" repeated Marianne, almost mad with terror.

"Yes, it is there I have just come from; the dynamite is placed, the
fuse lit; at midnight--the explosion!"

Marianne comprehended. Out of herself, she sprang upon Jacques
Houdaille.

"Wretch!" she shrieked. "Wretch!--all the children in the country are
there--ours--yours--monster!"

"What!--my children?" cried the man, passing the back of his hand
across his brow and nearly sinking to the ground, but instantly
recovering himself and disappearing into the darkness in the direction
of the house.

Marianne was already there. She sprang across the threshold and,
flinging the door wide open, cried:--

"The house is mined! Save yourselves! Save yourselves, all of you!"

At any other time, those who heard her might have thought her mad, and
hesitated before taking flight; but, in the threatening circumstances
of the hour, she had scarcely opened her lips before her appearance had
told of danger.

The stronger carried out the weaker and the youngest of the party,
while their elders threw open all the doors and drove the little ones
out before them. By good fortune, the feast had been given on the
ground floor, a few steps only from the street. In a few moments the
house was emptied, the outer gates passed.

The twelfth stroke of midnight was sounding on the factory clock when
a terrible explosion was heard, and the house, full of light and the
odours of the entertainment so rudely interrupted, was blown into the
air and fell in a heap of ruins.

There was a frightful panic and flight. The street, but a few moments
before so full of cheerful sounds, became suddenly silent, as if death
had taken the place of life there.

At a short distance, one woman alone remained--a woman with an infant
in her arms and three other children clinging to her skirt.

This woman, followed by her children, advanced.

One gaslight only was burning in the street, lighting the immense
hecatomb and casting its trembling rays upon the body of a man.

She wished to reach this body, to see whether she recognised
it--praying to God that it might be _him_, preferring rather to know
that he was dead than a living assassin.

A glance sufficed, and, hiding her face, forcing back the tears that
were swelling her bosom to bursting, she drew her children to her and
fell upon her knees.

Through its windows the little workmen's church of the quarter seemed
to be on fire, and the bells pealed out with their utmost power of
sound, calling the faithful to the midnight service. But in the higher
part of the town the news of the explosion had spread with immense
rapidity, and presently an ever-growing crowd gathered from all points,
manifesting terror and indignation.

The body of the man was examined and identified.

"Jacques Houdaille, the Anarchist!" was cried on all sides.

"Yes," said Marianne, facing the exasperated crowd and protecting her
children with her trembling hands; "the Anarchist--but who did not
hesitate to rush on to death to save us, and accepted that fate as an
expiation."




_Illustrated Interviews._

XXXII.--THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS.


BY MARY SPENCER-WARREN.

[Illustration: MR. BURDETT-COUTTS AND THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

A name that is a household word; a personage that occupies a position
unique; one who is deservedly respected and honoured by all classes;
to whom individuals and bodies of people have turned for sympathy and
help, and in whose hearts is built a monument of gratitude, such as
surely has seldom been accorded to any human being--such is the truly
noble woman who has been for upwards of half a century the pioneer
of the majority of benevolent movements and the ready helper of the
helpless.

Here is a long life of good deeds, of which yet no record exists:
nothing beyond paragraphic accounts--which, spread out over so great
a lapse of time, are lost to sight and memory. Interviews, too, have
never been granted; and when I am told an exception is to be made in my
favour, I am not only sincerely gratified, but am also impressed with
the magnitude of my task, and the honour conferred upon me by being
enabled to give to the world some account of the life and work of one
of the most remarkable women of the age.

Miss Burdett was the youngest daughter of Sir Francis Burdett, Bart.,
one of the chief political characters of the early part of the century;
who married one of the daughters of Mr. Coutts, the banker, and of
whom I shall have more to say later on. On the death of the banker's
widow, who had, after the death of Mr. Coutts, married the Duke of St.
Albans, the subject of this article found the enormous fortune was
bequeathed to her. She, at the age of twenty-three, was the head of
a banking-house second only to the Bank of England, and veritably the
richest woman in the land.

What would she do with it?--was the question that would occur to many,
and all sorts of surmises would be promulgated, and various schemes of
disbursement planned by many well-intentioned, but too busy, people. We
may readily conjecture that, in many hands, this vast wealth would have
fulfilled a very different mission; would have contributed rather to
the selfish pleasure of its possessor than to the wants of the many. As
it is--but as you read you will gather some idea, though necessarily a
limited one, of what _has_ been done.

[Illustration: HOLLY LODGE.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

To look back upon the life of the Baroness is an historical education.
One recalls the good and the great with whom she has been associated,
reads the history of the labouring classes, watches the education of
the young, and reviews events which have stirred nations: and in each
and every case, where money could help, the Baroness has led the way
with munificent benevolence, and what is more, has brought the effect
of her example, and so used her enormous influence, that others have
thereby been induced likewise to afford valuable assistance.

Every grade of life, from the man of culture, high in his
profession, to the mechanic or even the "coster" of the streets,
has representatives who owe much to her practical help; financial
assistance for those who needed it; with encouragement and kindly
patronage, combined with the opportunity of meeting the first in the
ranks of the world's genius--to those who, standing alone, would have
been lost in the crowd.

Her doors have ever been open. Kings, statesmen, churchmen, writers,
artists, travellers, and scholars--all have been proud to call her
friend; and to each and all has she proved herself worthy of their
confidence and esteem.

My interview was accorded at Holly Lodge, a charming retreat on the
Northern Heights of London, approached by a steep hill, and standing
back in its own grounds in perfect seclusion.

We sat chatting together under the trees: the "we" being the Baroness,
Mr. Burdett-Coutts, M.P., Colonel Saunderson, M.P., Mr. Edmund
Caldwell, artist, and myself. A very pleasant spot it was; a natural
group of immense trees, under whose branches it was possible to feel
cool in almost tropical heat, and to enjoy to the full comfortable
basket chairs, with bamboo tables, on which are scattered flowers,
fruit, and books. Particularly kind had been my reception, and I had
been at once struck with the charming grace of manner and courtesy
of the old school evidenced by the Baroness. Tall, slender, with a
carriage that would credit a woman of half her age, and a remarkable
personality that at once makes itself apparent, you have before you one
gifted with talents of no mean order, with strong power of penetration,
and, above all, with a kindly and generous nature, a sympathetic heart,
and a sincere Christian feeling that finds happiness in the happiness
of others.

Mr. Burdett-Coutts, a man of distinguished appearance, pleasing
manners, an active and willing coadjutor in the charitable works of
his wife, an excellent speaker, an earnest politician, and regular
attendant at the House--where he has piloted one or two Bills
successfully--a cultured, scholarly man, the writer of more than one
clever work, and possessor of one of the finest studs--Brookfield--in
the country.

Everyone knows Colonel Saunderson by reputation. He is often heard in
the House, where his keen wit and satire create the strongest interest
when he is about to speak, and make him at the same time a veritable
"thorn in the flesh" to his opponents. Every inch a soldier, and also
the most entertaining of hosts and desirable of guests, you can fancy
him leading his men into action with flashing eye and stentorian tones,
or keeping the whole table alive with witty speech and keen repartee.

Of Edmund Caldwell's work you will note evidences in the illustrations
of this article. Perhaps you have seen some at the Academy, where he
has several times made notable exhibits; chiefly of hounds, puppies,
and kittens. The one hung in 1887 will be, perhaps, best remembered.
"For the Safety of the Public" is its title. It gained immense
popularity, and the etching by Hester still commands a large sale. Mr.
Caldwell--who is spoken of in art circles as the coming Landseer--is
one of the most modest, unassuming men I have ever met; yet if once
drawn into conversation, he speaks with earnestness and ability.

So much for the personages with whom I am conversing; now, as minor
characters, I dismiss them, and resume with the Baroness.

Holly Lodge has much the appearance of a bungalow--it is quite small,
surrounded by a veranda, with its trellis-work covered with hops,
Virginia and other creepers; about fifty-two acres of garden and park
surround it, so well wooded that, from the house, all one gets of the
exterior world is a glimpse of a church spire. The place is old, and
was purchased by Mr. Coutts as a residence for himself and second wife.
Small as it is, it is most extremely interesting, for it is full of
associations of the many friends of the Baroness--of all sorts and
conditions of people, and from all parts of the globe.

Stepping over the threshold (where, by-the-bye, I notice a horse-shoe
nailed--a reminiscence of Mrs. Coutts), you are at once in a cool
entrance-hall, hung with some rare old prints and portraits, amongst
them being the Queen, the Prince Consort, and a print of Sir Francis
Burdett riding triumphantly on a car of curious construction to the
"Crown and Anchor." Everybody knows--who knows anything of political
history at all--how fiercely Sir Francis fought for the rights of the
people and the Reform Bill. Poor old gentleman! His career was by no
means smooth. Do you remember how he was committed to the Tower for
breach of privilege? I thought of it when I looked at this queer print,
and called to mind a room in the Stratton Street residence of the
Baroness, which was pointed out to me as the one where the military had
broken in the windows in order to capture him, he having barricaded his
house. How, when at last he surrendered, the Guards were pelted with
stones, the people shouting: "Burdett for ever!"

A little farther on in the hall is Bassano's "Spoiling the Egyptians";
then a print of a vessel that made one of the first Arctic voyages,
the back of it being fitted with a glass case containing small
trophies given by the commander to the Baroness; then I note a picture
denoting a reception of Volunteers on the lawn of Holly Lodge more
than a quarter of a century ago. And here I must remark on the great
patriotism always displayed by the Baroness. When the Volunteer
movement was quite in its infancy, she was one of its most ardent
supporters, as indeed she ever has been of anything for the benefit of
a country she holds dear. Now we pause before a print of Mr. Coutts,
and I listen to a funny story about him which I must tell you.

It seems he was a very eccentric man, and, despite his great wealth,
was often very shabbily dressed. Tall, of singularly refined and
stately bearing, he was one day walking out in his favourite
attitude--hands behind his back. As he thus walked, he attracted the
attention of another gentleman, who was also taking a constitutional;
and who was immediately moved with sympathy for the evident poverty
of the shabby-genteel individual in front of him. Being himself in
fairly affluent circumstances, he determined to afford some slight
relief to the decayed gentleman who seemed to need it so much, and
who, doubtless, would not disclose his position in order to obtain
assistance. Accordingly, he slipped quietly and quickly up behind him,
and putting a couple of guineas into the outstretched hands, he as
suddenly withdrew; before the astonished recipient was sufficiently
aroused from his reverie to remonstrate. You can well imagine the
surprise of the benevolent old gentleman on the next evening, when,
on attending a select dinner-party given in honour of Mr. Coutts, the
banker, he recognised in him the "decayed gentleman" on whom he had
bestowed his well-meant charity the day before!

Were I to particularize the reminiscences of good and great who are
departed that I saw at Holly Lodge, it would be an almost endless
task. In different parts of the house I came across memories of
Dickens, Wellington, Garrick, Gordon, and many others. Wellington
was the firmest of friends, taking a fatherly interest in the career
of the young girl with her millions of money and her large heart;
Dickens and she together visited some of the vilest dens of London,
when "slumming" was not fashionable, and even philanthropists were
not safe in venturing over the border from West to crime-polluted and
poverty-stricken East. If the inimitable writer had never opened the
eyes of the many wilful blind to behold the sorrows and sufferings
of their plague-stricken fellow creatures, he would not have been
unrewarded, for he it was who interested the one of all others who was
both able and willing to afford timely help, and to turn sorrow into
joy, darkness into light.

[Illustration: HOLLY LODGE--UNDER THE TREES.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

Nova Scotia Gardens, a resort of murderers, thieves, disreputable
and abandoned, where rubbish and refuse were shot in heaps, a place
which had long been a trap for fevers and loathsome diseases: this was
the spot where Miss Coutts introduced wholesale and sweeping reform.
Struck with the horror and misery, she bought it all up, pulled down
the wretched buildings, and put up four blocks of model dwellings,
each block containing between forty and fifty tenements, with every
accommodation in the shape of laundry, baths, etc., and the luxury
of a good library and reading-room. This, for a people who had been
surrounded by abominations of every description, whose every breath
had sucked in foul stench, and whose every footstep had been in slimy
pools and decaying matter shot from dust-carts. These buildings, I
may add, not only hold their own with those of much later date, but
are actually in advance of some for such general requirements as
drainage, ventilation, and light. Columbia Square it was named, and
from then till now it has continued to be a much-to-be-desired place of
habitation for the class for whom it was intended.

Now, glance at "Brown's Lane," another place brightened and blessed
by the practical benevolence of Miss Coutts. Go back between thirty
and forty years, to a time when the community known as "Hand Weavers"
were almost starving in consequence of loss of trade following on
importation of foreign silks; when, despite of an association which
had been formed for the amelioration of the sufferers, distress was
so prevalent that nothing short of a miracle could stem it. Then Miss
Coutts came forward and became the mainstay and almost the entire
support of the association. Some of the people were sent out of the
country as emigrants, others were given the means of starting in little
businesses; girls were suitably trained for respectable situations,
and work was found for the women in a sort of sewing-room, where,
after 1.30 in the day, they could earn from 8s. to 15s. per week, thus
helping very materially to keep things going. The work consisted of
shirt-making for the police and soldiers, and one very good feature
of the plan was, that each woman as she came in was given a good,
hearty meal to commence with. Some, who on account of their families
could not leave home, were allowed to have their work out; thus large
numbers were benefited. It must also be added that many had actually to
be taught the proper use of their needle, and I am very much inclined
to think that the same training is just as necessary now amongst our
East-end factory hands.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE-HALL.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

Nor did the work of this true charity stop there: the people were
especially visited in their homes on an organized plan, and help
afforded them on the report furnished by the visitors. Such visitors,
being clergymen and qualified lay people, were fully competent to judge
of the cases with which they came in contact. Clothing, blankets,
provisions, and wine were freely distributed; half-day jobs were given
to unemployed men, outfits were provided for boys and girls starting
for new situations, and nothing that money or care could do was left
undone.

Then distress broke out amidst the tanners, and again Miss Coutts
found a way of helping. In a practical manner, she appointed a trusty
agent to attend the police-courts of the distressed districts, where
applications for relief were received. By this means funds for present
wants were disbursed, and also the means of saving their homes to them
until better times.

Some of you may remember the cholera epidemic in the East-end of London
in 1867. Then was Miss Coutts again the active benefactor, and her's
was the hand that gave freely, and her's the judicious relief that can
never be adequately known or appreciated. Under the superintendence
of a qualified medical man, she employed eight trained nurses, two
sanitary inspectors, and, under their orders, four men to distribute
disinfectants. Let me give you a summary of _one_ week's absolute
_gifts_ during the course of this fearful disease: 1,850 tickets for
meat, value 1s., 250lb. of arrowroot, 500lb. of rice, 50lb. each of
sago and tapioca, 30lb. black currant jelly, 50 gallons of port wine,
25 gallons of brandy, 20 gallons of beef tea, 560 quarts of milk, 100
blankets, 400yds. of flannel, and 400 garments: all this in addition to
doctor, nurse, and money!

A Shoe Black Brigade, a Boys' Club, and a Relief Committee for
discriminate charity may be briefly referred to, as well as the more
recent Flower Girls' Brigade; the members of the latter being not
only helped and befriended in their present occupation, but also
taught the duties of domestic service, or initiated into the art of
artificial flower making in the factory specially opened for them. It
is satisfactory to hear that this one society has put upwards of 800
girls into a more desirable way of earning their own living.

[Illustration: HOLLY LODGE--THE TENNIS LAWN.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

The portrait of Charles Dickens gave rise to these reminders of work
accomplished in this direction; and now I take up another, that of an
aged <DW52> man, who, the Baroness tells me, was the first convert
of one of the Colonial churches, in which she has ever been much
interested. She does not, however, tell me what I subsequently learn of
these churches, for she is not given to talking of her good deeds.

Now, what are the facts? Briefly these: In her warm admiration of our
own Church, and her anxiety for its extension, she actually founded
the Bishoprics of Adelaide, British Columbia, and Cape Town. I will
give you the cost of one; you will then see somewhat of the magnitude
of this branch of her benevolence. For the endowment of the church,
£25,000; for the bishopric, £15,000; and for the partial cost for
clergy, £10,000.

So much for the Church in foreign lands. Now glance at what has been
done for the Church at home. Here we find that almost the first
use Miss Coutts made of her wealth was to distribute it largely in
assisting to build churches in London and elsewhere.

At Carlisle she erected a handsome edifice, seating about 700 people,
to accommodate a congregation formerly worshipping in a disused
warehouse; and at Westminster the Church of St. Stephen's, with all
its adjuncts of schools and institute, was put up entirely at her own
cost, and stands as a lasting monument, not only of her generosity,
but also of her practical forethought for all the needs of the
congregation, young and old. It was in the year 1847 when the buildings
were commenced, the consecration taking place in 1850. The actual cost
was close upon £100,000. From then till now, the Baroness has entirely
supplied the working expenses, no small item when one considers the
manifold branches emanating from this centre of active Christianity. No
wants are overlooked: from the tiniest toddler in the infant class to
the grey-haired worshipper at the beautiful services, some organization
embraces their needs. Clubs, guilds, classes, friendly societies,
district visiting, etc., are all in active operation, and, in addition,
a self-help club, which deserves more than passing mention. Established
at a comparatively recent date on cooperative principles, it can now
show a working capital of upwards of £2,000. Of the success of the
schools I can give you no adequate idea, for facts and figures fail to
convey a thorough grasp of the real benefit conferred upon, literally,
thousands of a rising generation. When I tell you that upwards of
fifteen thousand boys and girls have in these schools been properly
trained for their future position in the world, I tell you but little.

It was not only with these schools, however, that Miss Coutts spent
both time and money: Stepney, Highgate, and many outlying places have
to thank her for substantial aid in this direction. And what one must
admire is the very clear perception of all requirements, as well as the
prompt manner of carrying out.

Of the Townshend Schools, at Westminster, I must give you some slight
particulars. The schools were, in the first place, the outcome of
a fund of which Miss Coutts was left a trustee, and which was also
immediately under her superintendence. They were literally crowded
with the children of people residing in various districts of that part
of London, who, unable to pay the requisite School Board fees, yet
compelled to educate their children, were thankful to avail themselves
of either the free admission or the nominal charge of one penny, where
it could be afforded.

The Free Education Bill becoming law in 1890, made a re-organization of
these schools requisite, it being no longer necessary to do what any
School Board is compelled to do by the Act. So now the whole of the
schools, St. Stephen's and Townshend, run side by side, stepping-stones
from each other. Thus, the Townshend are now the "St. Stephen's
Elementary"--and entirely free; while the "St. Stephen's Higher Grade,"
for a charge of from twopence to sixpence per week, are imparting
sciences and 'ologies, languages, and many other useful acquirements
to the deserving and persevering from the "Elementary Schools"; the
transition being made the more easy by a large number of scholarships
open to students in the last-named.

The next step is to the "Technical Institute," at which place scholars
attending the "Higher Grade" are received for evening study, as are
those who have formerly attended them. The Institute is also open to
others who may be disposed to join, with this proviso--that every
student must be either actually earning his or her living, or purposing
to do so, by the arts and crafts here taught.

At the Westminster Institute some hundreds of students are receiving
instruction likely to benefit their entire future. That they are
deriving immense profit to themselves was strongly evidenced at the
last annual meeting, which meeting I had the pleasure of attending.
Here were youths and adults, many of them with horny hands of toil,
coming forward to receive well-earned prizes and certificates as
a result of technical work of no mean order; the Baroness herself
bestowing them with kind, encouraging words, and in addition made a
capital speech. And, by the way, I thought we never _should_ get that
speech, for when her ladyship stood up to commence, the ovation was
simply tremendous; cheer upon cheer broke forth again and again. When
at length it did subside, the immense audience (and hundreds had been
turned away), although the hour was late, sat and stood in perfect
silence, eager to catch every word that fell from her lips. The entire
affair, in fact, had resolved itself into an unmistakable tribute of
affectionate regard; for when the Baroness had entered the hall at the
commencement of the evening, everyone present had sprung to his feet
and continued standing until she herself was seated. No greater respect
could have been paid to Majesty itself; and who better deserves it than
one who has made herself acquainted with the wants and sorrows of her
poorer brethren?

[Illustration: HOLLY LODGE--THE GARDEN.

_From a Painting by Sir Edmund Henderson._]

A new building for the students has just been erected by the Baroness,
as complete in every way as skill and money can make it: a series
of workshops containing all requisite tools, a first-rate library
of technical works, and everything one can think of. Here boys and
youths can become masters of carpentry and joinery, bricklayers' and
plumbers' work, building construction and builders' quantities, metal
plate work, technical and mechanical drawing, and applied art. Girls
can become practical cooks and dressmakers; while either sex can go
into the Civil Service classes, and acquire book-keeping, shorthand,
languages, algebra, mathematics, and a variety of the like useful
subjects. I may just add that more than the usual percentage of medals
and certificates offered by the City and Guilds of London, the Society
of Arts, and the Science and Art and Educational Department were this
last year carried off by these students. _Free admission_ is given
to fifty scholars from the lower school, by means of that number of
scholarships founded by the Baroness, other scholarships being awarded
annually to deserving children of poor parents.

I may not linger on these educational details, but will just mention
the Whitelands Training College and an Art Students' Home, both of them
owing their origin to the Baroness, though the latter has since become
self-supporting. Then it must also be remembered that some of the
really useful things now taught in our schools were first taught there,
owing to her persistent efforts; as must also the fact that before
education was compulsory, she was a persistent advocate for evening
schools, herself entirely supporting a large one in the East of London.

For children the Baroness has always had a large corner in her heart,
likewise a large corner in her pocket, for no effort has been too
great, if such effort could help the little ones. Cruelty to children
to her is one of the greatest of iniquities, and it is mainly due to
her unceasing devotion that the Bill of 1889--which has so materially
improved the condition of these poor little ones--passed into law. That
Bill made it lawful to remove them from the custody of cruel parents,
and also to make such parents contribute towards their support. Many
of you may not know that the formation of the National Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children was chiefly due to her ladyship, the
first committee meeting taking place in her own drawing-room. Great
things have sprung from it: for now there is an average of ten thousand
cases to deal with annually.

[Illustration: THE BOUDOIR.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

The "Destitute Children's Dinner Society" is also dear to her heart;
she has, in fact, been its hard-working president since the death of
the good Earl of Shaftesbury. This Society gives each season about
three hundred thousand substantial dinners, at a charge of one penny or
one halfpenny each.

After the children and the poor may be mentioned the love of animals,
ever shown by Lady Coutts; she is, indeed, well known everywhere
for her good work in connection with the Society for Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals, often attending meetings in its furtherance, and
identifying herself with the annual cart-horse parades at London,
Newcastle, etc.; and what a number of animals, of all sorts and
sizes, one sees at Holly Lodge! Here is a white donkey, the gift of
a number of costermongers; and this reminds me that the Baroness has
been in the habit of giving prizes to those men who at the periodical
shows could produce animals well fed and well kept. And one of her
cherished possessions is a silver model of a donkey presented to her by
a costermongers' club. These clubs, I may tell you, she has promoted,
with the object of assisting street vendors to purchase their own
barrows. The requisite amount was advanced to the men, which was repaid
by a small weekly instalment. There is no need to recall her valuable
help to the costers in the somewhat recent crisis in their trade. Many
of you watched the struggle from one court to another; but the donkey
and barrow came off triumphant, and the men still ply their calling in
our poorer neighbourhoods.

At one time the Baroness kept llamas, but found the climate hardly
suitable for such delicate animals, so gave it up. Two of the pretty
creatures are now stuffed, and kept indoors in a handsome glass home
of their own. She has also some very fine goats, to which special
attention is paid. She calls them the "poor man's cow," and believes
they might be made highly productive. I go through the goat stables,
first looking at the champion, "Sir Garnet," the finest I have ever
seen; in fact, his keeper tells me "he has never been beat"; then on
to see some "Nubians"--pretty, timid creatures--from a few weeks old
upwards. Then I inspect some fine cows, beautiful horses, pigs, fowls,
and creatures of all sorts.

[Illustration: "SIR GARNET."

_From a Painting by Edmond Caldwell._]

We did no stereotyped inspection, but just wandered here and there
before and after luncheon, chatting pleasantly, and stopping now and
again for anything with which the Baroness was specially interested, or
anything that struck me in particular. Ever and anon we sat and rested
under the trees, enjoying the welcome shade (for this was in the hot
days of last summer), and here we had afternoon tea, surrounded by the
sweet smelling flowers, the singing of the birds, and the hum of the
bees: for the Baroness is an enthusiastic bee-keeper, and is, indeed,
the president of the Bee Society. Privately, I begin to wonder what
society she is _not_ connected with.

In one of our wanderings we find ourselves on a site known as
"Traitors' Hill," actually in the grounds, though right on the other
side. This was the spot where the conspirators stood to watch what
never came off--the blowing up of the Houses of Parliament. A clear
view right over London, as it lays like a huge panoramic picture
that has paused for the explanatory guide. Then we return _viâ_ long
archways of flowers, gaily arranged beds, and acres of kitchen garden.
I notice that the men employed in the grounds are by no means young,
and am told that unless they have been there quite a number of years
the others look upon them altogether as interlopers. Many are really
past actual work, but there they stay until such time as the Baroness
pensions them off.

I have told you Mr. Burdett-Coutts has a fine stud near: near enough,
in fact, to send to for some of the horses. I have no time to visit
the place, and when I hear a clattering and whinnying, and find myself
confronted with a splendidly-matched pair called "The Ladies," I am
glad to have seen some specimens of the fine English breed for which
their master has made himself famous. This is indeed a pretty pair;
full of fire, yet easily controlled into the most gentle action. They
put me in mind of twin sisters, for I have to walk round them two or
three times in my endeavours to tell "t'other from which." This is the
pair with which Mr. Coutts is wont to drive the Baroness round the
park; generally accompanied by one or two pet dogs. The dogs, they are
of great importance at Holly Lodge: "Peter" and "Prince" being the
favourites, the former generally accompanying his mistress wherever
she goes; he has a decided taste for geological survey; and indoors
there is quite a collection made by him, borrowed from all parts, the
Continent and at home. Another valuable canine had for its father a
favourite of the Emperor Charles Frederick; and still others possess
histories of their own, for which I have not space. One thing I _can_
give, though, and that is a good photographic reproduction of a group,
specially taken for this Magazine, and given at the head of this
article; there you will observe the Baroness, Mr. Burdett-Coutts, and
the dogs, grouped on the summit of the "Lodge" steps. Also, you have
a portrait of "Cocky," a self-asserting cockatoo, one of a tribe of
feathered creatures, happy and well fed, who live in and around the
house. At one time, the Baroness tells me, she made efforts to induce
nightingales to build in the surrounding trees, but ultimately had to
give it up, as they were just a prize for the bird-fanciers.

[Illustration: "COCKY."

_From a Painting by Edmond Caldwell._]

At Haydn Hall, a former residence, large numbers of robins were daily
fed, and it was quite a usual thing on a winter's morning to hear
their little beaks tapping the windows of the sleeping apartments of
the Baroness, as a reminder that they were ready for their breakfast.
She is a firm friend of the sweet singing bird, and whether it has
been in indefatigably promoting an Act for their protection during the
breeding season, or whether it has consisted in earnest remonstrances
against the reprehensible practice, followed by so many ladies, of
wearing wings and even small birds, they have found in her a zealous
and powerful advocate.

We are strolling across the lawn, and are suddenly confronted with an
Oriental structure in the grounds, named "Candilia," erected in memory
of the Turkish Compassionate Fund. Do you remember the horrors which
thrilled all Europe when recounted? Filled with sorrowing pity for the
sufferings of the thirty thousand families--passive victims--who had
fled for refuge to the villages of the Danube, the Baroness took the
matter up warmly, and wrote a letter to the _Daily Telegraph_, which
quickly found sympathetic response throughout the country. I cannot do
better than give you an extract from this letter:

"I would pray one and all to bear in mind the unhappy sufferers in a
far-away country, of another creed, whose lives are ebbing fast away,
uncheered, desolate, and abandoned. We cannot, perhaps, stanch their
lifeblood; we can wash our hands, though, free of its stain, by binding
up their wounds, if not by our money, by our sympathy. If silver and
gold there is none, we have prayers still; and He to whom all flesh
comes, hears the cry of the poor for His creatures suffering from the
sword, as He also accepts the gifts of the rich.... When your vast
public reads these few lines, I trust much bodily or mental anguish
will begin to be soothed, through that real Christianity which is
still, in God's providence, the appointed means by which hunger and
thirst are assuaged, sickness alleviated, and consolation given."

This letter was eminently characteristic of her whole manner and
conversation: kindly, gentle, mindful of her "duty to her neighbour,"
and anxious to do that duty. How much better and happier the world
would be for more of such!

Well, the "Compassionate Fund" was at once formed, the Baroness
starting it with a subscription of £1,000--which sum she afterwards
doubled. Collections were made in all parts, and in a few days £30,000
and a prodigious amount of clothing and food were ready for dispatch.
Mr. Burdett-Coutts went out as "Special Commissioner," Sir Francis de
Winton and other officers affording valuable assistance. What they
had to contend with was simply appalling: famine, pestilence, bitter
weather, roads crowded with destitute masses of people--many being
literally frozen to death; women actually throwing their children
into the rivers to save them further sufferings. Driven from place to
place, they at length reached Constantinople, where some found refuge
in mosques, some in the houses of the rich, and a large number in the
Royal Palace itself, which the Sultan at once threw open for them.

Nearer the house the Baroness shows me the tent dressing-rooms for
gentlemen visitors, which she has had put up on account of the extreme
smallness of the house, rendering further accommodation necessary
when guests are invited to dinner. From there we go to view the
kitchens--models of neatness, and bright with tiled walls and polished
steel.

Then up into the house again, through a long, roomy apartment, that
seems wholly intended for a conservatory, and, indeed, communicates
with it actually: an apartment that contains all sorts of curios and
precious things; that is cool, comfortable, and home-like, and has,
moreover, a beautiful view of the grounds. Here we stop to inspect what
is the finest--because most perfect--collection of minerals extant.
This mineral museum was formerly the property of Professor Tennant: it
is a study in itself. Then there is quite a collection of china, all
fashioned in imitation of vegetables, a Chinese dragon, a clock tower
carved by Russian prisoners, and many other objects of interest.

In the other rooms I note some fine paintings by Wilkie, Brenghel,
Harrison Weir, Frith, Teniers, and Hogarth; in addition to several by
the before-mentioned Edmund Caldwell. One of his, a comic Christmas
card, is here reproduced; it shows the pets of the Baroness. The
Baroness is essentially English in her tastes; and at her residence
shows her preference for English workmanship--even the piano in her
boudoir is from the old English firm of Broadwood and Son; and other
articles in unison.

[Illustration: THE PETS OF THE BARONESS.

_A Christmas Card by Edmund Caldwell._]

I am not done with portraits yet: here is one of Sir James Brook, an
old friend of the Baroness, and another living instance of one who has
been materially assisted by her. An ordinary English gentleman in the
first place, he became King of Borneo, and founded a sovereignty! Then
there is Dr. Moffat, Dr. Livingstone, and other illustrious men; and
last, but not least, the brave Christian General and martyr, Gordon.
In quiet tones and with saddened mien, the Baroness tells me how
much she valued his friendship, and how he often came to see her; how
his almost, if not quite, last visit was paid to her; and how, during
that visit, he took up a small letter-case lying handy, asking, "Might
he have it for a keepsake?" and how she had since had proof of this
keepsake being carried with him in his breast-pocket until his death.

[Illustration: HOLLY LODGE--THE CONSERVATORY.

_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Warne Browne._]

How much his captivity must have grieved his friend can only be faintly
surmised by her scheme, in conjunction with a few friends, for opening
up communication with Khartoum by means of a Morocco merchant, who,
disguising himself, managed to convey to poor Gordon the last letters
and papers he ever received from England.

No efforts were made by us to rescue him; and well and nobly did the
Baroness publicly plead on behalf of her friend. The shame and the
disgrace made men and women blush for their country; and when Lady
Coutts's letter found its way into the _Times_, it awoke a universal
thrill from all classes. We mourn still the loss of his noble life; and
some of us wonder at the necessity of the public appeal for funds by
the late Lord Tennyson in order that the Boys' Home, a work dear to the
brave General, could be carried on. Is it that we forget?

I might keep on indefinitely telling you of the different things taken
up by the Baroness, for everywhere I turn I have something to remind me
of such. Now it is the portrait of a most handsome bouquet which had
been presented to her by a deputation of Irish women. Everybody knows
how again and again the Baroness has spent immense sums in relieving
this unfortunate people: in famine and sickness she has come forward
for years past and tendered timely help, always seeking, as she herself
said, "to improve their moral as well as their material condition." Of
the amount of money, food, fuel, clothing, etc., disbursed I cannot
give you any correct total, spreading as the work has over so long
a period; but I _can_ tell you how, thirteen years ago, she offered
the munificent sum of £250,000 to the Government for them to use
beneficially in aid of the Irish destitute.

Some of this great work was carried on in the fishing villages,
where dire famine had made such havoc, that craft had either gone
or was in such a battered condition for want of repair that fishing
was practically impossible. Scots were actually fishing in the Irish
waters, and selling the same fish to those of the Irish who had money
to buy with. Then the Baroness made loans to the deserving men of sums
of £300, in order that they might purchase new boats, the loans to be
repaid by small yearly instalments. Later on, her ladyship established
a Fishing School, in which four hundred boys from all parts of Ireland
could be thoroughly initiated into boat-building, net-making and
mending, etc., carpentering, coopering, and fish-curing. This school
the Baroness opened herself in the year 1887, and can it be wondered at
that when their well-tried friend came among them, arriving at night
by yacht, flags, table-cloths, and pocket-handkerchiefs bedecked the
place, the people came together in huge crowds, and large bonfires
gave ruddy lights on all the surrounding hills? When the actual
opening took place on the next day, the scene of enthusiasm was almost
unexampled--not in any degree lessened by the presence of a large
number of deputations to present addresses.

When I come to the question of her private and individual charities, I
must honestly confess that this is a subject upon which I can give you
no information. As you may imagine, begging letters arrive in batches,
and few that are really deserving apply altogether in vain. Of this
the public learns nothing, neither did I, beyond the actual fact above
stated.

Everyone was glad when the honour of a peerage was conferred upon Miss
Coutts in 1871. This is an instance unique when connected with a woman
for her own worthy deeds. The bestowal, to my mind, conferred as much
honour upon the Queen who gave it as upon the subject who received it.
The Baroness also wears the Orders of the Medjidieh and the Shafakat,
given by the Sultan in token of his gratitude for her services to the
unfortunate refugees. In addition to this she has had the freedom of
several cities conferred upon her.

The last undertaking I shall mention is a literary one; this, by the
way, not the first. The Chicago Exhibition is now a thing of the past;
but Lady Coutts has given us a work in connection with it that deserves
a place on the shelves of every library in the land. I refer to the
book, "Woman's Mission," undertaken by the Baroness at the express wish
of H.R.H. the Princess Christian. Certainly the Princess could not have
placed the commission in more able hands; and the result confirms her
judgment. The Baroness set about it in the very best possible manner,
and instead of collecting reports, statistics, etc., which would only
have proved dull and uninteresting, she put herself in communication
with a large number of such well-known ladies as Florence Nightingale,
Miss Agnes Weston, etc., and from them obtained accounts of the
different works in which they were engaged as women _for_ women--each
and every paper being stamped with an individual personality which
gives life and interest as well as facts and truisms. No fewer than
thirty-five of such papers are here presented to the readers of
the book, two of them written by the Baroness herself, who has, in
addition, also written a lengthy appendix touching upon each; and a
preface of remarkable power and earnestness, treating, as it does, of
the progressive education of women during the last sixty years.

[Illustration: TOM MOORE'S INKSTAND.

_In the possession of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts._

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

This, to even a casual observer, is a marvellous production for anyone
who has spent the best years of so long a life; and was, as the
Baroness herself told me, only undertaken at earnest solicitation, and
with the hope that good might be done by its publication, not only by
bringing our American sisters more closely in touch with us, but also
as a useful review of work accomplished by the women of our country,
from the richest to the poorest.

I feel I have far exceeded the limits of a magazine article, but could
have continued interminably, so vast has been the goodness and the
magnitude of true charity and loving sympathy of the subject of this
interview. Not only England, but the world has been better for such a
life in our midst: and from many a thousand homes scattered in every
part of the globe the name of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts is blessed
and honoured.

As I drive to the station in her comfortable carriage, laden with
some of her fairest flowers, I feel that this day's interview will be
memorable to me for all time to come.

We are indebted to the courtesy of the Baroness for the loan of some
valuable water-colours by Sir Edmund Henderson and Mr. Warne Browne,
from which some of the accompanying illustrations are taken.




_Martin Hewitt, Investigator._

II.--THE LOSS OF SAMMY CROCKETT.


It was, of course, always a part of Martin Hewitt's business to be
thoroughly at home among any and every class of people, and to be able
to interest himself intelligently, or to appear to do so, in their
various pursuits. In one of the most important cases ever placed in his
hands, he could have gone but a short way toward success had he not
displayed some knowledge of the more sordid aspects of professional
sport, and a great interest in the undertakings of a certain dealer
therein. The great case itself had nothing to do with sport, and,
indeed, from a narrative point of view, was somewhat uninteresting,
but the man who alone held the one piece of information wanted was a
keeper, backer, or "gaffer" of professional pedestrians, and it was
through the medium of his pecuniary interest in such matters that
Hewitt was enabled to strike a bargain with him.

[Illustration: "I'VE GOT THE WINNER IN THIS HOUSE."]

The man was a publican on the outskirts of Padfield, a northern town
pretty famous for its sporting tastes, and to Padfield, therefore,
Hewitt betook himself, and, arrayed in a way to indicate some
inclination of his own toward sport, he began to frequent the bar of
the "Hare and Hounds." Kentish, the landlord, was a stout, bull-necked
man, of no great communicativeness at first: but after a little
acquaintance he opened out wonderfully, became quite a jolly (and
rather intelligent) companion, and came out with innumerable anecdotes
of his sporting adventures. He could put a very decent dinner on the
table, too, at the "Hare and Hounds," and Hewitt's frequent invitation
to him to join therein and divide a bottle of the best in the cellar
soon put the two on the very best of terms. Good terms with Mr. Kentish
was Hewitt's great desire, for the information he wanted was of a sort
that could never be extracted by casual questioning, but must be a
matter of open communication by the publican, extracted in what way it
might be.

"Look here," said Kentish one day, "I'll put you on to a good thing, my
boy--a real good thing. Of course, you know all about the Padfield 135
Yards Handicap being run off now?"

"Well, I haven't looked into it much," Hewitt replied. "Ran the first
round of heats last Saturday and Monday, didn't they?"

"They did. Well"--Kentish spoke in a stage whisper as he leaned over
and rapped the table--"I've got the final winner in this house." He
nodded his head, took a puff at his cigar, and added, in his ordinary
voice, "Don't say nothing."

"No, of course not. Got something on, of course?"

"Rather--what do _you_ think? Got any price I liked. Been saving him
up for this. Why, he's got twenty-one yards, and he can do even time
all the way! Fact! Why, he could win runnin' back'ards. He won his heat
on Monday like--like--like that!" The gaffer snapped his fingers, in
default of a better illustration, and went on. "He might ha' took it
a little easier, _I_ think--it's shortened his price, of course, him
jumpin' in by two yards. But you can get decent odds now, if you go
about it right. You take my tip--back him for his heat next Saturday,
in the second round, and for the final. You'll get a good price for the
final, if you pop it down at once. But don't go makin' a song of it,
will you, now? I'm givin' you a tip I wouldn't give anybody else."

"Thanks very much--it's awfully good of you. I'll do what you advise.
But isn't there a dark horse anywhere else?"

"Not dark to me, my boy, not dark to me. I know every man runnin'
like a book. Old Taylor--him over at the Cop--he's got a very good
lad--eighteen yards, and a very good lad indeed; and he's a tryer this
time, I know. But, bless you, my lad could give him ten, instead o'
taking three, and beat him then! When I'm runnin' a real tryer, I'm
generally runnin' something very near a winner, you bet; and this time,
mind, _this_ time, I'm runnin' the certainest winner I _ever_ run--and
I don't often make a mistake. You back him."

"I shall, if you're as sure as that. But who is he?"

"Oh, Crockett's his name--Sammy Crockett. He's quite a new lad. I've
got young Steggles looking after him--sticks to him like wax. Takes
his little breathers in my bit o' ground at the back here. I've got a
cinder sprint path there, over behind the trees. I don't let him out
o' sight much, I can tell you. He's a straight lad, and he knows it'll
be worth his while to stick to me: but there's some 'ud poison him, if
they thought he'd spoil their books."

Soon afterward the two strolled toward the tap-room. "I expect Sammy'll
be there," the landlord said, "with Steggles. I don't hide him too
much--they'd think I'd got something extra on, if I did."

In the tap-room sat a lean, wire-drawn-looking youth, with sloping
shoulders and a thin face, and by his side was a rather short,
thick-set man, who had an odd air, no matter what he did, of
proprietorship and surveillance of the lean youth. Several other men
sat about, and there was loud laughter, under which the lean youth
looked sheepishly angry.

[Illustration: "IN THE TAP-ROOM."]

"'Tarn't no good, Sammy lad," someone was saying. "You a makin' after
Nancy Webb--she'll ha' nowt to do with 'ee."

"Don' like 'em so thread-papery," added another. "No, Sammy, you aren't
the lad for she. I see her----"

"What about Nancy Webb?" asked Kentish, pushing open the door. "Sammy's
all right, anyway. You keep fit, my lad, an' go on improving, and some
day you'll have as good a house as me. Never mind the lasses. Had his
glass o' beer, has he?" This to Raggy Steggles, who, answering in the
affirmative, viewed his charge as though he were a post, and the beer a
recent coat of paint.

"Has two glasses of mild a-day," the landlord said to Hewitt. "Never
puts on flesh, so he can stand it. Come out now." He nodded to
Steggles, who rose, and marched Sammy Crockett away for exercise.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the following afternoon (it was Thursday), as Hewitt and Kentish
chatted in the landlord's own snuggery, Steggles burst into the room in
a great state of agitation and spluttered out: "He--he's bolted; gone
away!"

"What?"

"Sammy--gone. Hooked it. _I_ can't find him."

The landlord stared blankly at the trainer, who stood with a sweater
dangling from his hand, and stared blankly back. "What d'ye mean?"
Kentish said, at last. "Don't be a fool. He's in the place somewhere;
find him."

But this Steggles defied anybody to do. He had looked already. He had
left Crockett at the cinder-path behind the trees, in his running-gear,
with the addition of the long overcoat and cap he used in going between
the path and the house, to guard against chill. "I was goin' to give
him a bust or two with the pistol," the trainer explained, "but when we
got over t'other side, 'Raggy,' ses he, 'it's blawin' a bit chilly. I
think I'll ha' a sweater--there's one on my box, ain't there?' So in I
coomes for the sweater, and it weren't on his box, and when I found it
and got back--he weren't there. They'd seen nowt o' him in t' house,
and he weren't nowhere."

Hewitt and the landlord, now thoroughly startled, searched everywhere,
but to no purpose. "What should he go off the place for?" asked
Kentish, in a sweat of apprehension. "'Tain't chilly a bit--it's
warm--he didn't want no sweater; never wore one before. It was a piece
of kid to be able to clear out. Nice thing, this is. I stand to win two
years' takings over him. Here--you'll have to find him."

"Ah--but how?" exclaimed the disconcerted trainer, dancing about
distractedly. "I've got all I could scrape on him myself; where can I
look?"

Here was Hewitt's opportunity. He took Kentish aside and whispered.
What he said startled the landlord considerably. "Yes, I'll tell you
all about that," he said, "if that's all you want. It's no good or harm
to me, whether I tell or no. But can you find him?"

"That I can't promise, of course. But you know who I am now, and what
I'm here for. If you like to give me the information I want, I'll go
into the case for you, and, of course, I sha'n't charge any fee. I may
have luck, you know, but I can't promise, of course."

The landlord looked in Hewitt's face for a moment. Then he said, "Done!
It's a deal."

"Very good," Hewitt replied; "get together the one or two papers you
have, and we'll go into my business in the evening. As to Crockett,
don't say a word to anybody. I'm afraid it must get out, since
they all know about it in the house, but there's no use in making
any unnecessary noise. Don't make hedging bets or do anything that
will attract notice. Now we'll go over to the hack and look at this
cinder-path of yours."

Here Steggles, who was still standing near, was struck with an idea.
"How about old Taylor, at the Cop, guv'nor, eh?" he said, meaningly.
"His lad's good enough to win, with Sammy out, and Taylor is backing
him plenty. Think he knows anything o' this?"

"That's likely," Hewitt observed, before Kentish could reply. "Yes.
Look here--suppose Steggles goes and keeps his eye on the Cop for
an hour or two, in case there's anything to be heard of? Don't show
yourself, of course."

Kentish agreed, and the trainer went. When Hewitt and Kentish arrived
at the path behind the trees, Hewitt at once began examining the
ground. One or two rather large holes in the cinders were made, as the
publican explained, by Crockett, in practising getting off his mark.
Behind these were several fresh tracks of spiked shoes. The tracks led
up to within a couple of yards of the high fence bounding the ground,
and there stopped abruptly and entirely. In the fence, a little to the
right of where the tracks stopped, there was a stout door. This Hewitt
tried, and found ajar.

"That's always kept bolted," Kentish said; "he's gone out that way--he
couldn't have gone any other without comin' through the house."

"But he isn't in the habit of making a step three yards long, is he?"
Hewitt asked, pointing at the last footmark and then at the door, which
was quite that distance away from it. "Besides," he added, opening the
door, "there's no footprint here nor outside."

The door opened on a lane, with another fence and a thick plantation of
trees at the other side. Kentish looked at the footmarks, then at the
door, then down the lane, and finally back towards the house. "That's a
licker," he said.

[Illustration: "THAT'S A LICKER!"]

"This is a quiet sort of lane," was Hewitt's next remark. "No houses in
sight. Where does it lead?"

"That way it goes to the Old Kilns--disused. This way down to a turning
off the Padfield and Catton Road."

Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined
the footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house.
"Certainly," he said, "he hasn't gone back to the house. Here is
the double line of tracks, side by side, from the house--Steggles's
ordinary boots with iron tips and Crockett's running pumps--thus they
came out. Here is Steggles's track in the opposite direction alone,
made when he went back for the sweater. Crockett remained--you see
various prints in those loose cinders at the end of the path where
he moved this way and that, and then two or three paces toward the
fence--not directly toward the door, you notice--and there they stop
dead, and there are no more, either back or forward. Now, if he had
wings, I should be tempted to the opinion that he flew straight away in
the air from that spot--unless the earth swallowed him and closed again
without leaving a wrinkle on its face."

Kentish stared gloomily at the tracks, and said nothing.

"However," Hewitt resumed, "I think I'll take a little walk now, and
think over it. You go into the house and show yourself at the bar. If
anybody wants to know how Crockett is, he's pretty well, thank you.
By-the-bye, can I get to the Cop--this place of Taylor's--by this back
lane?"

"Yes, down to the end leading to the Catton Road, turn to the left, and
then first on the right. Anyone'll show you the Cop," and Kentish shut
the door behind the detective, who straightway walked--toward the Old
Kilns.

In little more than an hour he was back. It was now becoming dusk,
and the landlord looked out papers from a box near the side window of
his snuggery, for the sake of the extra light. "I've got these papers
together for you," he said, as Hewitt entered. "Any news?"

"Nothing very great. Here's a bit of handwriting I want you to
recognise, if you can. Get a light."

Kentish lit a lamp, and Hewitt laid upon the table half-a-dozen small
pieces of torn paper, evidently fragments of a letter which had been
torn up, here reproduced in facsimile.

The landlord turned the scraps over, regarding them dubiously. "These
aren't much to recognise, anyhow. _I_ don't know the writing. Where did
you find 'em?"

"They were lying in the lane at the back, a little way down.
Plainly they are pieces of a note addressed to someone called Sammy
or something very like it. See the first piece with its 'mmy'? That
is clearly from the beginning of the note, because there is no line
between it and the smooth, straight edge of the paper above; also,
nothing follows on the same line. Someone writes to Crockett--presuming
it to be a letter addressed to him, as I do for other reasons--as
Sammy. It is a pity that there is no more of the letter to be found
than these pieces. I expect the person who tore it up put the rest in
his pocket and dropped these by accident."

[Illustration]

Kentish, who had been picking up and examining each piece in turn, now
dolorously broke out:

"Oh, it's plain he's sold us--bolted and done us; me as took him
out o' the gutter, too. Look here--'throw them over'; that's plain
enough--can't mean anything else. Means throw _me_ over, and my
friends--me, after what I've done for him. Then 'right away'--go right
away, I s'pose, as he has done. Then," he was fiddling with the scraps
and finally fitted two together, "why, look here, this one with 'lane'
on it fits over the one about throwing over, and it says 'poor f' where
it's torn; that means 'poor fool,' I s'pose--_me_, or 'fathead,' or
something like that. That's nice. Why, I'd twist his neck if I could
get hold of him; and I will!"

Hewitt smiled. "Perhaps it's not quite so uncomplimentary after all,"
he said. "If you can't recognise the writing, never mind. But if he's
gone away to sell you, it isn't much use finding him, is it? He won't
win if he doesn't want to."

"Why, he wouldn't dare to rope under my very eyes. I'd--I'd----"

"Well, well; perhaps we'll get him to run after all, and as well as he
can. One thing is certain--he left this place of his own will. Further,
I think he is in Padfield now--he went toward the town I believe. And I
don't think he means to sell you."

"Well, he shouldn't. I've made it worth his while to stick to me. I've
put a fifty on for him out of my own pocket, and told him so; and if he
won, that would bring him a lump more than he'd probably get by going
crooked, besides the prize money, and anything I might give him over.
But it seems to me he's putting me in the cart altogether."

"That we shall see. Meantime, don't mention anything I've told you to
anyone--not even to Steggles. He can't help us, and he might blurt
things out inadvertently. Don't say anything about these pieces of
paper, which I shall keep myself. By-the-bye, Steggles is indoors,
isn't he? Very well, keep him in. Don't let him be seen hunting about
this evening. I'll stay here to-night and we'll proceed with Crockett's
business in the morning. And now we'll settle _my_ business, please."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the morning Hewitt took his breakfast in the snuggery, carefully
listening to any conversation that might take place at the bar. Soon
after nine o'clock a fast dog-cart stopped outside, and a red-faced,
loud-voiced man swaggered in, greeting Kentish with boisterous
cordiality. He had a drink with the landlord, and said: "How's things?
Fancy any of 'em for the sprint handicap? Got a lad o' your own in,
haven't you?"

"Oh, yes," Kentish replied. "Crockett. Only a young 'un--not got to his
proper mark yet, I reckon. I think old Taylor's got No. 1 this time."

"Capital lad," the other replied, with a confidential nod. "Shouldn't
wonder at all. Want to do anything yourself over it?"

"No--I don't think so. I'm not on at present. Might have a little
flutter on the grounds just for fun: nothing else."

There were a few more casual remarks, and then the red-faced man drove
away.

[Illustration: "'CAPITAL LAD,' THE OTHER REPLIED."]

"Who was that?" asked Hewitt, who had watched the visitor through the
snuggery window.

"That's Danby--bookmaker. Cute chap; he's been told Crockett's missing,
I'll bet anything, and come here to pump me. No good though. As a
matter of fact, I've worked Sammy Crockett into his books for about
half I'm in for altogether--through third parties, of course."

Hewitt reached for his hat. "I'm going out for half an hour now," he
said. "If Steggles wants to go out before I come back, don't let him.
Let him go and smooth over all those tracks on the cinder-path, very
carefully. And, by-the-bye, could you manage to have your son about the
place to-day, in case I happen to want a little help out of doors?"

"Certainly; I'll get him to stay in. But what do you want the cinders
smoothed for?"

Hewitt smiled and patted his host's shoulder. "I'll explain all my
little tricks when the job's done," he said, and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the lane from Padfield to Sedby village stood the "Plough"
beerhouse, wherein J. Webb was licensed to sell by retail beer to be
consumed on the premises or off, as the thirsty list. Nancy Webb, with
a very fine colour, a very curly fringe, and a wide-smiling mouth
revealing a fine set of teeth, came to the bar at the summons of a
stoutish old gentleman with spectacles, who walked with a stick.

The stoutish old gentleman had a glass of bitter beer and then said, in
the peculiarly quiet voice of a very deaf man: "Can you tell me, if you
please, the way into the main Catton Road?"

"Down the lane, turn to the right at the cross roads, then first to the
left."

The old gentleman waited with his hand to his ear for some few seconds
after she had finished speaking, and then resumed, in his whispering
voice, "I'm afraid I'm very deaf this morning." He fumbled in his
pocket and produced a note-book and pencil. "May I trouble you to write
it down? I'm so very deaf at times, that I--thank you."

The girl wrote the direction, and the old gentleman bade her good
morning and left. All down the lane he walked slowly with his stick.
At the cross roads he turned, put the stick under his arm, thrust the
spectacles into his pocket, and strode away in the ordinary guise
of Martin Hewitt. He pulled out his note-book, examined Miss Webb's
direction very carefully, and then went off another way altogether,
toward the "Hare and Hounds."

Kentish lounged moodily in his bar. "Well, my boy," said Hewitt, "has
Steggles wiped out the tracks?"

"Not yet--I haven't told him. But he's somewhere about--I'll tell him
now."

"No, don't. I don't think we'll have that done, after all. I expect
he'll want to go out soon--at any rate, some time during the day. Let
him go whenever he likes. I'll sit upstairs a bit in the club room."

"Very well. But how do you know Steggles will be going out?"

"Well, he's pretty restless after his lost _protégé_, isn't he? I don't
suppose he'll be able to remain idle long."

"And about Crockett. Do you give him up?"

"Oh, no. Don't you be impatient. I can't say I'm quite confident yet of
laying hold of him--the time is so short, you see--but I think I shall
at least have news for you by the evening."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NANCY WEBB."]

Hewitt sat in the club-room until the afternoon, taking his lunch
there. At length he saw, through the front window, Raggy Steggles
walking down the road. In an instant Hewitt was downstairs and at the
door. The road bent eighty yards away, and as soon as Steggles passed
the bend the detective hurried after him.

All the way to Padfield town and more than half through it Hewitt
dogged the trainer. In the end Steggles stopped at a corner and gave
a note to a small boy who was playing near. The boy ran with the note
to a bright, well-kept house at the opposite corner. Martin Hewitt was
interested to observe the legend "H. Danby, Contractor," on a board
over a gate in the side wall of the garden behind this house. In five
minutes a door in the side gate opened, and the head and shoulders of
the red-faced man emerged. Steggles immediately hurried across and
disappeared through the gate.

This was both interesting and instructive. Hewitt took up a position
in the side street and waited. In ten minutes the trainer reappeared
and hurried off the way he had come, along the street Hewitt had
considerately left clear for him. Then Hewitt strolled toward the
smart house and took a good look at it. At one corner of the small
piece of forecourt garden, near the railings, a small, baize-covered,
glass-fronted notice-board stood on two posts. On its top edge appeared
the words "H. Danby. Houses to be Sold or Let." But the only notice
pinned to the green baize within was an old and dusty one, inviting
tenants for three shops, which were suitable for any business, and
which would be fitted to suit tenants. Apply within.

Hewitt pushed open the front gate and rang the door-bell. "There are
some shops to let, I see," he said, when a maid appeared. "I should
like to see them, if you will let me have the key."

"Master's out, sir. You can't see the shops till Monday."

"Dear me, that's unfortunate. I'm afraid I can't wait till Monday.
Didn't Mr. Danby leave any instructions, in case anybody should
inquire?"

"Yes, sir--as I've told you. He said anybody who called about 'em must
come again on Monday."

"Oh, very well, then; I suppose I must try. One of the shops is in High
Street, isn't it?"

"No, sir; they're all in the new part--Granville Road."

"Ah, I'm afraid that will scarcely do. But I'll see. Good day."

Martin Hewitt walked away a couple of streets' lengths before he
inquired the way to Granville Road. When at last he found that
thoroughfare, in a new and muddy suburb, crowded with brick-heaps and
half-finished streets, he took a slow walk along its entire length. It
was a melancholy example of baffled enterprise. A row of a dozen or
more shops had been built before any population had arrived to demand
goods. Would-be tradesmen had taken many of these shops, and failure
and disappointment stared from the windows. Some were half covered
by shutters, because the scanty stock scarce sufficed to fill the
remaining half. Others were shut almost altogether, the inmates only
keeping open the door for their own convenience, and, perhaps, keeping
down a shutter for the sake of a little light. Others again had not
yet fallen so low, but struggled bravely still to maintain a show of
business and prosperity, with very little success. Opposite the shops
there still remained a dusty, ill-treated hedge and a forlorn-looking
field, which an old board offered on building leases. Altogether a most
depressing spot.

There was little difficulty in identifying the three shops offered
for letting by Mr. H. Danby. They were all together near the middle
of the row, and were the only ones that appeared not yet to have been
occupied. A dusty "To Let" bill hung in each window, with written
directions to inquire of Mr. H. Danby or at No. 7. Now, No. 7 was a
melancholy baker's shop, with a stock of three loaves and a plate of
stale buns. The disappointed baker assured Hewitt that he usually kept
the keys of the shops, but that the landlord, Mr. Danby, had taken them
away the day before, to see how the ceilings were standing, and had
not returned them. "But if you was thinking of taking a shop here,"
the poor baker added, with some hesitation, "I--I--if you'll excuse
my advising you--I shouldn't recommend it. I've had a sickener of it
myself."

[Illustration: "I'VE HAD A SICKENER OF IT MYSELF."]

Hewitt thanked the baker for his advice, wished him better luck in
future, and left. To the "Hare and Hounds" his pace was brisk. "Come,"
he said, as he met Kentish's inquiring glance, "this has been a very
good day, on the whole. I know where our man is now, and I think we can
get him, by a little management."

"Where is he?"

"Oh, down in Padfield. As a matter of fact, he's being kept there
against his will, we shall find. I see that your friend, Mr. Danby, is
a builder as well as a bookmaker."

"Not a regular builder. He speculates in a street of new houses now and
again, that's all. But is he in it?"

"He's as deep in it as anybody, I think. Now, don't fly into a passion.
There are a few others in it as well, but you'll do harm if you don't
keep quiet."

"But go and get the police--come and fetch him, if you know where
they're keeping him; why----"

"So we will, if we can't do it without them. But it's quite possible we
can, and without all the disturbance and, perhaps, delay that calling
in the police would involve. Consider, now, in reference to your own
arrangements. Wouldn't it pay you better to get him back quietly,
without a soul knowing--perhaps not even Danby knowing--till the heat
is run to-morrow?"

"Well, yes, it would, of course."

"Very good, then, so be it. Remember what I have told you about keeping
your mouth shut--say nothing to Steggles or anybody. Is there a cab or
brougham your son and I can have for the evening?"

"There's an old hiring landau in the stables you can shut up into a
cab, if that'll do."

"Excellent. We'll run down to the town in it as soon as it's ready.
But, first, a word about Crockett. What sort of a lad is he? Likely to
give them trouble, show fight, and make a disturbance?"

"No, I should say not. He's no plucked 'un, certainly--all his
manhood's in his legs, I believe. You see, he ain't a big sort o' chap
at best, and he'd be pretty easy put upon--at least, I guess so."

"Very good, so much the better, for then he won't have been damaged,
and they will probably only have one man to guard him. Now the
carriage, please."

Young Kentish was a six-foot sergeant of Grenadiers, home on furlough,
and luxuriating in plain clothes. He and Hewitt walked a little way
towards the town, allowing the landau to catch them up. They travelled
in it to within a hundred yards of the empty shops and then alighted,
bidding the driver wait.

"I shall show you three empty shops," Hewitt said, as he and young
Kentish walked down Granville Road. "I am pretty sure that Sammy
Crockett is in one of them, and I am pretty sure that that is the
middle one. Take a look as we go past."

When the shops had been slowly passed, Hewitt resumed: "Now, did you
see anything about those shops that told a tale of any sort?"

"No," Sergeant Kentish replied. "I can't say I noticed anything beyond
the fact that they were empty--and likely to stay so, I should think."

"We'll stroll back, and look in at the windows, if nobody's watching
us," Hewitt said. "You see, it's reasonable to suppose they've put
him in the middle one, because that would suit their purpose best.
The shops at each side of the three are occupied, and if the prisoner
struggled, or shouted, or made an uproar, he might be heard if he
were in one of the shops next those inhabited. So that the middle
shop is the most likely. Now, see there," he went on, as they stopped
before the window of the shop in question, "over at the back there's a
staircase not yet partitioned off. It goes down below and up above: on
the stairs and on the floor near them there are muddy footmarks. These
must have been made to-day, else they would not be muddy, but dry and
dusty, since there hasn't been a shower for a week till to-day. Move
on again. Then you noticed that there were no other such marks in the
shop. Consequently the man with the muddy feet did not come in by the
front door, but by the back; otherwise he would have made a trail from
the door. So we will go round to the back ourselves."

It was now growing dusk. The small pieces of ground behind the shops
were bounded by a low fence, containing a door for each house.

"This door is bolted inside, of course," Hewitt said, "but there is
no difficulty in climbing. I think we had better wait in the garden
till dark. In the meantime, the gaoler, whoever he is, may come out;
in which case we shall pounce on him as soon as he opens the door.
You have that few yards of cord in your pocket, I think? And my
handkerchief, properly rolled, will make a very good gag. Now over."

They climbed the fence and quietly approached the house, placing
themselves in the angle of an outhouse out of sight from the windows.
There was no sound, and no light appeared. Just above the ground about
a foot of window was visible, with a grating over it, apparently
lighting a basement. Suddenly Hewitt touched his companion's arm, and
pointed toward the window. A faint rustling sound was perceptible, and
as nearly as could be discerned in the darkness, some white blind or
covering was placed over the glass from the inside. Then came the sound
of a striking match, and at the side edge of the window there was a
faint streak of light.

"That's the place," Hewitt whispered. "Come, we'll make a push for it.
You stand against the wall at one side of the door and I'll stand at
the other, and we'll have him as he comes out. Quietly, now, and I'll
startle them."

He took a stone from among the rubbish littering the garden and flung
it crashing through the window. There was a loud exclamation from
within, the blind fell, and somebody rushed to the back door and flung
it open. Instantly Kentish let fly a heavy right-hander, and the man
went over like a skittle. In a moment Hewitt was upon him and the gag
in his mouth.

"Hold him," Hewitt whispered, hurriedly. "I'll see if there are others."

He peered down through the low window. Within, Sammy Crockett, his bare
legs dangling from beneath his long overcoat, sat on a packing-box,
leaning with his head on his hand and his back towards the window. A
guttering candle stood on the mantelpiece, and the newspaper which had
been stretched across the window lay in scattered sheets on the floor.
No other person besides Sammy was visible.

They led their prisoner indoors. Young Kentish recognised him as
a public-house loafer and race-course ruffian well known in the
neighbourhood.

"So it's you, is it, Browdie?" he said. "I've caught you one hard
clump, and I've half a mind to make it a score more. But you'll get it
pretty warm one way or another, before this job's forgotten."

Sammy Crockett was overjoyed at his rescue. He had not been
ill-treated, he explained, but had been thoroughly cowed by Browdie,
who had from time to time threatened him savagely with an iron bar, by
way of persuading him to quietness and submission. He had been fed, and
had taken no worse harm than a slight stiffness from his adventure, due
to his light under-attire of jersey and knee-shorts.

Sergeant Kentish tied Browdie's elbows firmly together behind, and
carried the line round the ankles, bracing all up tight. Then he ran a
knot from one wrist to the other over the back of the neck, and left
the prisoner, trussed and helpless, on the heap of straw that had been
Sammy's bed.

[Illustration: "THE PRISONER--TRUSSED AND HELPLESS."]

"You won't be very jolly, I expect," Kentish said, "for some time. You
can't shout and you can't walk, and I know you can't untie yourself.
You'll get a bit hungry, too, perhaps, but that'll give you an
appetite. I don't suppose you'll be disturbed till some time to-morrow,
unless our friend Danby turns up in the meantime. But you can come
along to gaol instead, if you prefer it."

They left him where he lay, and took Sammy to the old landau. Sammy
walked in slippers, carrying his spiked shoes, hanging by the lace, in
his hand.

"Ah," said Hewitt, "I think I know the name of the young lady who gave
you those slippers."

Crockett looked ashamed and indignant. "Yes," he said; "they've done me
nicely between 'em. But I'll pay her--I'll----"

"Hush, hush!" Hewitt said: "you mustn't talk unkindly of a lady, you
know. Get into this carriage, and we'll take you home. We'll see if I
can tell you your adventures without making a mistake. First, you had
a note from Miss Webb, telling you that you were mistaken in supposing
she had slighted you, and that as a matter of fact she had quite done
with somebody else--left him--of whom you were jealous. Isn't that so?"

"Well, yes," young Crockett answered, blushing deeply under the
carriage-lamp: "but I don't see how you come to know that."

"Then she went on to ask you to get rid of Steggles on Thursday
afternoon for a few minutes, and speak to her in the back lane. Now,
your running pumps, with their thin soles, almost like paper, no heels
and long spikes, hurt your feet horribly if you walk on hard ground,
don't they?"

"Ay, that they do--enough to <DW36> you. I'd never go on much hard
ground with 'em."

"They're not like cricket shoes, I see."

"Not a bit. Cricket shoes you can walk anywhere in."

"Well, she knew this--I think I know who told her--and she promised to
bring you a new pair of slippers, and to throw them over the fence for
you to come out in."

"I s'pose she's been tellin' you all this?" Crockett said, mournfully.
"You couldn't ha' seen the letter--I saw her tear it up and put the
bits in her pocket. She asked me for it in the lane, in case Steggles
saw it."

"Well, at any rate, you sent Steggles away, and the slippers did come
over, and you went into the lane. You walked with her as far as the
road at the end, and then you were seized and gagged, and put into a
carriage."

"That was Browdie did that," said Crockett, "and another chap I don't
know. But--why, this is Padfield High Street!" He looked through the
window and regarded the familiar shops with astonishment.

"Of course it is. Where did you think it was?"

"Why, where was that place you found me in?"

"Granville Road, Padfield. I suppose they told you you were in another
town?"

"Told me it was Newstead Hatch. They drove for about three or four
hours, and kept me down on the floor between the seats so as I couldn't
see where we was going."

"Done for two reasons," said Hewitt. "First, to mystify you, and
prevent any discovery of the people directing the conspiracy; and,
second, to be able to put you indoors at night and unobserved. Well, I
think I have told you all you know yourself now as far as the carriage.

"But there is the 'Hare and Hounds' just in front. We'll pull up here
and I'll get out and see if the coast is clear. I fancy Mr. Kentish
would rather you came in unnoticed."

In a few seconds Hewitt was back, and Crockett was conveyed indoors by
a side entrance. Hewitt's instructions to the landlord were few but
emphatic. "Don't tell Steggles about it," he said; "make an excuse to
get rid of him, and send him out of the house. Take Crockett into some
other bedroom, not his own, and let your son look after him. Then come
here, and I'll tell you all about it."

Sammy Crockett was undergoing a heavy grooming with white embrocation
at the hands of Sergeant Kentish, when the landlord returned to Hewitt.
"Does Danby know you've got him?" he asked. "How did you do it?"

"Danby doesn't know yet, and with luck he won't know till he sees
Crockett running to-morrow. The man who has sold you is Steggles."

"Steggles?"

"Steggles it is. At the very first, when Steggles rushed in to report
Sammy Crockett missing, I suspected him. You didn't, I suppose?"

"No. He's always been considered a straight man, and he looked as
startled as anybody."

"Yes, I must say he acted it very well. But there was something
suspicious in his story. What did he say? Crockett had remarked a
chilliness, and asked for a sweater, which Steggles went to fetch.
Now, just think. You understand these things. Would any trainer who
knew his business (as Steggles does) have gone to bring out a sweater
for his man to change for his jersey in the open air, at the very time
the man was complaining of chilliness? Of course not. He would have
taken his man indoors again and let him change there under shelter.
Then supposing Steggles had really been surprised at missing Crockett,
wouldn't he have looked about, found the gate open, and _told_ you it
was open, when he first came in? He said nothing of that--we found the
gate open for ourselves. So that from the beginning, I had a certain
opinion of Steggles."

"What you say seems pretty plain now, although it didn't strike me at
the time. But if Steggles was selling us, why couldn't he have drugged
the lad? That would have been a deal simpler."

"Because Steggles is a good trainer and has a certain reputation to
keep up. It would have done him no good to have had a runner drugged
while under his care--certainly it would have cooked his goose with
_you_. It was much the safer thing to connive at kidnapping. That put
all the active work into other hands, and left him safe, even if the
trick failed. Now you remember that we traced the prints of Crockett's
spiked shoes to within a couple of yards of the fence, and that there
they ceased suddenly?"

"Yes. You said it looked as though he had flown up into the air; and so
it did."

"But I was sure that it was by that gate that Crockett had left, and by
no other. He couldn't have got through the house without being seen,
and there was no other way--let alone the evidence of the unbolted
gate. Therefore, as the footprints ceased where they did, and were not
repeated anywhere in the lane, I knew that he had taken his spiked
shoes off--probably changed them for something else, because a runner
anxious as to his chances would never risk walking on bare feet, with
a chance of cutting them. Ordinary, broad, smooth-soled slippers would
leave no impression on the coarse cinders bordering the track, and
nothing short of spiked shoes would leave a mark on the hard path in
the lane behind. The spike tracks were leading, not directly toward the
door, but in the direction of the fence, when they stopped--somebody
had handed, or thrown, the slippers over the fence and he had changed
them on the spot. The enemy had calculated upon the spikes leaving a
track in the lane that might lead us in our search, and had arranged
accordingly.

"So far, so good. I could see no footprints near the gate in the lane.
You will remember that I sent Steggles off to watch at the Cop before
I went out to the back--merely, of course, to get him out of the way.
I went out into the lane, leaving you behind, and walked its whole
length, first toward the Old Kilns and then back toward the road. I
found nothing to help me except these small pieces of paper--which are
here in my pocket-book, by-the-bye. Of course, this 'mmy' might have
meant '"Jimmy' or 'Tommy,' as possibly as 'Sammy,' but they were not to
be rejected on that account. Certainly Crockett had been decoyed out
of your ground, not taken by force, or there would have been marks of
a scuffle in the cinders. And as his request for a sweater was probably
an excuse--because it was not at all a cold afternoon he must have
previously designed going out--inference, a letter received: and here
were pieces of a letter. Now, in the light of what I have said, look at
these pieces. First there is the 'mmy'--that I have dealt with. Then,
see this 'throw them ov'--clearly a part of 'throw them over'; exactly
what had probably been done with the slippers. Then the 'poor f,'
coming just on the line before, and seen, by joining up with this other
piece, might easily be a reference to 'poor feet.' These coincidences,
one on the other, went far to establish the identity of the letter, and
to confirm my previous impressions. But then there is something else.
Two other pieces evidently mean 'left him,' and 'right away'--send
Steggles 'right away,' perhaps; but there is another, containing almost
all of the words 'hate his,' with the word 'hate' underlined. Now, who
writes 'hate' with the emphasis of underscoring--- who but a woman?
The writing is large and not very regular; it might easily be that of
a half-educated woman. Here was something more--Sammy had been enticed
away by a woman.

"Now, I remembered that when we went into the tap-room on Wednesday,
some of his companions were chaffing Crockett about a certain Nancy
Webb, and the chaff went home, as was plain to see. The woman, then,
who could most easily entice Sammy Crockett away was Nancy Webb. I
resolved to find who Nancy Webb was and learn more of her.

"Meantime I took a look at the road at the end of the lane. It was
damper than the lane, being lower, and overhung by trees. There were
many wheel tracks, but only one set that turned in the road and went
back the way it came--- towards the town--and they were narrow wheels,
carriage wheels. Crockett tells me now that they drove him about for a
long time before shutting him up--probably the inconvenience of taking
him straight to the hiding-place didn't strike them when they first
drove off.

"A few inquiries soon set me in the direction of the 'Plough' and
Miss Nancy Webb. I had the curiosity to look round the place as I
approached, and there, in the garden behind the house, were Steggles
and the young lady in earnest confabulation!

"Every conjecture became a certainty. Steggles was the lover of whom
Crockett was jealous, and he had employed the girl to bring Sammy out.
I watched Steggles home, and gave you a hint to keep him there.

[Illustration: "STEGGLES AND THE YOUNG LADY IN EARNEST CONFABULATION."]

"But the thing that remained was to find Steggles's employer in this
business. I was glad to be in when Danby called--he came, of course, to
hear if you would blurt out anything, and to learn, if possible, what
steps you were taking. He failed. By way of making assurance doubly
sure, I took a short walk this morning in the character of a deaf
gentleman, and got Miss Webb to write me a direction that comprised
three of the words on these scraps of paper--'left,' 'right,' and
'lane'--see, they correspond, the peculiar 'f's,' 't's,' and all.

"Now, I felt perfectly sure that Steggles would go for his pay to-day.
In the first place, I knew that people mixed up with shady transactions
in professional pedestrianism are not apt to trust one another
far--they know better. Therefore, Steggles wouldn't have had his bribe
first. But he would take care to get it before the Saturday heats were
run, because once they were over the thing was done, and the principal
conspirator might have refused to pay up, and Steggles couldn't have
helped himself. Again I hinted he should not go out till I could follow
him, and this afternoon when he went, follow him I did. I saw him
go into Danby's house by the side way and come away again. Danby it
was, then, who had arranged the business; and nobody was more likely,
considering his large pecuniary stake against Crockett's winning this
race.

"But now, how to find Crockett? I made up my mind he wouldn't be in
Danby's own house--that would be a deal too risky, with servants about,
and so on. I saw that Danby was a builder, and had three shops to
let--it was on a paper before his house. What more likely prison than
an empty house? I knocked at Danby's door and asked for the keys of
those shops. I couldn't have them. The servant told me Danby was out (a
manifest lie, for I had just seen him), and that nobody could see the
shops till Monday. But I got out of her the address of the shops, and
that was all I wanted at the time.

"Now, why was nobody to see those shops till Monday? The interval
was suspicious--just enough to enable Crockett to be sent away again
and cast loose after the Saturday racing, supposing him to be kept
in one of the empty buildings. I went off at once and looked at the
shops, forming my conclusions as to which would be the most likely for
Danby's purpose. Here I had another confirmation of my ideas. A poor,
half-bankrupt baker in one of the shops had, by the bills, the custody
of a set of keys; but _he_, too, told me I couldn't have them; Danby
had taken them away--and on Thursday, the very day--with some trivial
excuse, and hadn't brought them back. That was all I wanted, or could
expect in the way of guidance; the whole thing was plain. The rest you
know all about."

"Well, you're certainly as smart as they give you credit for, I must
say. But suppose Danby had taken down his 'to let' notice, what would
you have done then?"

"We had our course even then. We should have gone to Danby, astounded
him by telling him all about his little games, terrorized him with
threats of the law, and made him throw up his hand and send Crockett
back. But as it is, you see, he doesn't know at this moment--probably
won't know till to-morrow afternoon--that the lad is safe and sound
here. You will probably use the interval to make him pay for losing
the game--by some of the ingenious financial devices you are no doubt
familiar with."

"Aye, that I will. He'll give any price against Crockett now, so long
as the bet don't come direct from me."

"But about Crockett, now," Hewitt went on. "Won't this confinement be
likely to have damaged his speed for a day or two?"

"Ah, perhaps," the landlord replied: "but, bless ye, that won't matter.
There's four more in his heat to-morrow. Two I know aren't tryers, and
the other two I can hold in at a couple of quid apiece any day. The
third round and final won't be till to-morrow week, and he'll be as fit
as ever by then. It's as safe as ever it was. How much are you going to
have on? I'll lump it on for you safe enough. This is a chance not to
be missed--it's picking money up."

"Thank you: I don't think I'll have anything to do with it. This
professional pedestrian business doesn't seem a pretty one at all. I
don't call myself a moralist, but, if you'll excuse my saying so, the
thing is scarcely the game I care to pick up money at in any way."

"Oh! very well, if you think so, I won't persuade ye, though I don't
think so much of your smartness as I did, after that. Still, we won't
quarrel--you've done me a mighty good turn, that I must say, and I only
feel I aren't level without doing something to pay the debt. Come, now,
you've got your trade as I've got mine. Let me have the bill, and I'll
pay it like a lord, and feel a deal more pleased than if you made a
favour of it--not that I'm above a favour, of course. But I'd prefer
paying, and that's a fact."

"My dear sir, you have paid," Hewitt said, with a smile. "You paid in
advance. It was a bargain, wasn't it, that I should do your business if
you would help me in mine? Very well, a bargain's a bargain, and we've
both performed our parts. And you mustn't be offended at what I said
just now."

"That I won't. But as to that Raggy Steggles, once those heats are over
to-morrow, I'll ---- well ----!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on the following Sunday week that Martin Hewitt, in his rooms in
London, turned over his paper and read, under the head "Padfield Annual
135 Yards Handicap," this announcement: "Final Heat: Crockett, first;
Willis, second; Trewby, third: Owen, 0; Howell, 0. A runaway win by
nearly three yards."

[Illustration:




ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO


By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd]


XXII.--ZIG-ZAG SAURIAN.

People, as a rule, are not fond of lizards, and the larger the lizards
the less people like them; until the crocodile and the alligator,
largest of all, are received with positive antipathy, and rarely
treated as pets. People make many excuses for such an attitude toward
lizards; calling them ugly, crawly, slimy, scaly, and so forth. I have
an hypothesis that envy is a large element in this human antipathy.
For after all, if we will but confess it, the alligator's is rather an
enviable lot. To lie all day in a bed of warm, soft mud--really, it
is a pleasant thing. To be able, without inconvenience, to postpone
dinner for a fortnight--that is attractively economical. To enjoy the
advantages of six eyelids and the resulting capability in winks--there
is something even in this. But chiefly, envy for the crocodile has
got into the grain of humanity by heredity from those ancients who
believed everything that Plutarch told them in his book, _De Iside
et Osiride_. The crocodile, he informs us therein, can render itself
invisible at will, everything else being perfectly visible to it the
while. This is a noble privilege, and worthy of the most respectful
envy. Jack the Giant Killer performed the trick by means of a cloak;
but Plutarch's crocodile does it "merely by the power of the heye,"
as the street-corner mesmerist has it--does it "like winking," in
fact. The mechanism is very simple, and quite easy to understand. It
consists only of a membrane to draw over the eye; and as the eye it is
drawn over is the crocodile's, it is obvious that he becomes invisible
at once. His ability to see others is provided for by the ingenious
expedient of having the membrane transparent--and there you are. What
could be simpler? Anybody who can run to a transparent membrane fitting
for his eyes may dodge his creditors at will, thanks to the tip of the
benevolent and ingenious Plutarch.

[Illustration: THE CROCODILE-CREASE.]

[Illustration: A PASSING PLEASANTRY.]

[Illustration: "'EAR THAT, BILL?"]

[Illustration: SHORT FROCKS.]

In the reptile-house at these Gardens, the largest saurian bears the
apt name of Little-'un. He is a youthful alligator, although, being
rather more than 10 ft. 6 in. long, he has quite grown out of short
frocks. Nothing infantile remains about his appearance, and he has
in full development that curious cravat of fleshy folds and creases
noticeable in no animals but alligators and 'bus-drivers, and among the
latter species only in the stout and red-faced variety. Little-'un's
name was not given him by way of a joke, but because, nine years
ago, he was only a foot long--which _is_ little for an alligator.
Little-'un has always been a good business alligator, however, and
by strict industry and invincible perseverance in the pursuit of
whatever might be eatable, has risen to an honoured and considerable
eminence in the higher Zoo circles. To observe the open countenance
of Little-'un bearing down on a piece of meat that ought properly to
belong to some other alligator, is to get a sight of a truly original
edition of "Smiles's Self-Help." Little-'un's one moral principle
is--the greatest good of the greatest alligator. His business maxim
is get something to eat; honestly, if there is no other way, but,
anyhow, get it as large as possible, and as often as you can. He
would, without the least bashfulness, proceed to eat his friends in
the same tank if Tyrrell (the keeper, whom you know already) neglected
the commissariat. Indeed, he once began on one fellow-lodger, with no
other excuse than opportunity. Feeding was in progress, and, in the
scramble and confusion, a smallish crocodile, lunging his nose in the
direction of the desired morsel, without particularly noticing where
that direction led, found himself up to the eyes in Little-'un's dental
establishment. Little-'un's prudent habits rendered it unlikely that
he would deliberately fling away anything that Providence had actually
thrust into his mouth, even if it were his own grandfather: and only a
vigorous application of Tyrrell's pole saved the crocodile from making
a meal in a sense he didn't originally intend.

Eighty-five degrees is the temperature prescribed for the water here,
and every crocodile is a thermometer unto himself, soon showing signs,
notwithstanding his thick hide, of any variation in the rate of his
gentle stewing--Little-'un being as sensitive as any, in spite of his
assiduous attention to business.

[Illustration:

200°

"HERE, STOP IT, TYRELL!"

150°

100°

80°

70°

60°

J.A.S.

SWAIN SO

THE CROCODILE THERMOMETER]

With Tyrrell, by the way, Little-'un is comparatively affable, for an
alligator. Tyrrell climbs calmly into the basin, among its inmates,
to swill and mop it out at the weekly cleaning, herding crocodiles
and alligators into a corner by the flourish of a mop, in a manner
more than disrespectful--almost insulting. There is some mysterious
influence about that mop. Why should alligators shut their heads and
stand meekly aside at its potent waggle? I would never venture up the
Nile without Tyrrell's mop. With one wave of that mystic sceptre I
would assume immediate sovereignty over all the crocodiles in Africa,
and drive them into corners. There is no withstanding that mop. If
it will intimidate crocodiles, plainly it would be successful with
leopards, cobras, lions, and tigers. If I could borrow it I would even
try it on the beadle at the Bank of England, and if I could wave _him_
aside with it, I should know that thenceforth the world was at my feet;
and I'm afraid Tyrrell wouldn't get his mop back.

But I was speaking of Little-'un: his affability; and of Tyrrell: his
irreverent familiarity. When Tyrrell mops out the basin, he finds it
convenient to leave somewhat under a foot of water in the bottom for
cleaning purposes, and as this would be damp (as is water's nature) to
tread in, he calmly stands on Little-'un's back and proceeds placidly
with his mopping. To wave an alligator aside with a mop is an insult
altogether, but to stand on his back for the sake of dry shoes is
an outrage unutterable. Little-'un seems a very appropriate name as
it stands, but if ever a time should arrive when it must be changed,
I think, with every respect and honour to the departed statesman, I
should suggest John Bright. "Mr. Speaker," said an honourable member,
who spoke before he thought, but whose name I have forgotten, "Mr.
Speaker, the right honourable gentleman" (Mr. Bright) "accuses me of
making allegations. Why, sir, the right honourable gentleman is the
greatest alligator in this House!" Which is precisely what Little-'un
is now.

[Illustration: AT NURSE.]

Round at the back, in his private domains, Tyrrell keeps a crocodile
and alligator nursery. It is a metal box fixed against a wall and
holding about a gallon. Here are all the infants, eight inches to
a foot long, squirming, wriggling, and struggling, with a lively
activity foreign to the nature of the full-grown alligator. Tyrrell
will plunge his hand into the struggling mass and produce a handful for
your inspection. They are charming little pets and as ready to bite
as if they were twenty feet long. An alligator may be pardoned some
impatience in growing; if he is to be ten feet and a half long at nine
years of age, there is a deal of lee-way to make up. Most creatures
would be discouraged at being born only to a measurement in inches, and
refuse to grow at all.

[Illustration: "BITE? NO."]

[Illustration: A FINE BABY.]

There would appear to be a sort of general reluctance to make a
domestic pet of the crocodile; it is not fashionable now, and nobody
seems anxious to set the _mode_. To encourage anybody who is disposed
to distinguish himself, I may observe that a crocodile is cheapest
when young. This is doubly fortunate, because for a less sum you have
a longer run for your money--the last expression not being intended in
any uncomfortable sense. I believe the usual price of young crocodiles
and alligators, up to a certain size, is a guinea a linear foot; at
any rate, I know you could buy them at that rate of my old friend Mr.
Jamrach, and I have no doubt that the Zoological Society may be able,
from time to time, to spare a foot or two of alligator at the price.
If you buy a foot--or a yard, as the case may be (the _case_, of
course, will be a little longer, but that is unworthy trifling)--you
must be careful to keep it in a warm place, in water at the right
temperature, at night as well as day. Then when it grows to the
size of Little-'un, it will make an imposing embellishment for your
entrance-hall, and useful to receive subscription-collectors. And to
take them inside.

[Illustration: WAITING FOR A BITE.]

It is a bad thing to generalize in a world containing China. China
upsets everything. If you venture to put a date to the invention of
gunpowder, somebody is sure to remind you to except China; the same
with printing and everything else. There is nothing China hasn't
got or hasn't had. So that naturally, after America has many years
flaunted and gloried in the exclusive possession of the broad-nosed
alligator as distinguished from the sharp-snouted crocodile, China,
in the old familiar aggravating way, bobs up serenely with _her_
alligators--perfectly authentic and genuine, and here some of them are,
in the small basin. There's no getting ahead of China.

[Illustration: "WELL, OF ALL THE----"]

[Illustration: FOSSILIZED.]

But Temminck's Snapper is the wonder and gaping-stock of this house.
Bring the most impassive country cousin, let him sneer at the snakes,
lounge past the lizards, turn up his nose at the tigers, elevate it
more at the elephants, ridicule the rhinoceros, and disparage the
donkeys. Let him do all this, and then confront him with the Snapper.
He will be beaten. "Well, of all the----" He will probably refuse to
believe the thing alive, and it certainly looks more like a fine old
Paleozoic Fossil than anything else imaginable. This is due to the
operation of Misdirected Patience--a virtue so noticeable as to demand
capital letters. For the Snapper has been in this not very large tank
for ten years, and has not yet become convinced that there are no fish
in it. Wherefore he laboriously and patiently fishes without a moment's
cessation. Fishing, with him, means waiting immovably with open mouth
for a fish to come and be gobbled. He has waited ten years for a bite,
but that is nothing unusual, as you may try for yourself, if you buy a
rod and line. It is calculated, I believe, that a hundred years more
in his present attitude will be sufficient to fossilize him, when, no
doubt, he will be passed on to the Geological Society. He has never yet
found the need for an individual name; but I am thinking of suggesting
a suitable combination--I think it should be Job Walton.

[Illustration: UNCLE SNAPPER.]

[Illustration: "EH?"]

[Illustration: "WHAT?"]

[Illustration: "MONEY?"]

[Illustration: "NOT ANOTHER HALFPENNY."

J. A. Sigmund]

Job is not an emotional person. He never exhibits enthusiasm, even for
fishing. I shouldn't myself, after ten years' waiting for a bite. There
he floats, with all the mental activity of an ordinary brick, while
visitors come and go, nations are convulsed, elections, boat-races
are decided, and green weed grows all over his back, but he doesn't
care. "A rolling stone gathers no moss" is a capital proverb for the
guidance of people who care for moss as a personal adornment. Job
avoids all rolling, in common with other forms of movement, and is
lavishly rewarded with moss of the greenest, on back, legs, toes, and
tail. Beyond his patience (a negative sort of virtue, after all), Job
Walton has no particular personal characteristic that I can discover,
except extreme niggardliness plain and patent in his face. He has
nothing in the world to be niggardly with, except his moss, but if he
had, he would make a very un-indulgent uncle. I have a theory that
Job is not an animal at all, but a fossilized concretion of the twin
virtues (or what you like to call them), patience and stinginess; a
sort of petrified fungus, produced by the chemical action consequent
on the mingling of the two qualities. Probably some very shocking old
miser (perhaps it was Scrooge himself) lost all his stinginess at
once, just at the identical moment when some long-suffering person
lost his patience (this was, probably, an angler). The subtle essences
comprising these qualities met and mingled--result, a fungus growth,
Job Walton. The same sort of thing occurs a thousand times a day in the
case of toadstools.

[Illustration: ON DUTY.]

I am really friendly with only one of the smaller lizards here--and he
is a large one; the big monitor at the corner. But I have never been
able to learn from him, even in his most confidential moments, how many
feet of tongue he really has. It is a round, whip-lash sort of tongue,
like the ant-eater's, and I have a private superstition in both cases
that there actually is no other end to that tongue. The monitor is fond
of rats, but the rats are not at all partial to his society.

[Illustration: "PAID YOUR SHILLING?"]

[Illustration: "TICKET?"]

[Illustration: "VACCINATED?"]

Lesueur's Water Lizard is a curious specimen. He has not been here
long, but has already assumed, on his own nomination, a position of
great responsibility and importance. He is Inspector of Visitors. He
won't have questionable characters in the reptile-house. When not
actively inspecting, he is watching for his victims. He observes
a visitor approaching. He is on guard at once, by the front glass
of the case. His aspect is official and stern, his manner abrupt
and peremptory; he is not a lizard to be trifled with. "Paid your
shilling?" he demands, as plainly as a silent lizard may. "Got your
railway ticket? Show it." Any respectable visitor with the fear of the
law before his eyes will comply at once. "Where do you live? Produce
your last water-rate receipt." He looks you up and down suspiciously.
"Been vaccinated lately? Date? All right. Pass along." And he swings
abruptly round to watch for somebody else.

[Illustration: "?--?--?"]

[Illustration: ALL'S WELL.]

[Illustration: "MINE!"]

[Illustration: "MINE, I TELL YOU!"]

The Australian Bearded Lizard (most quaint lizards are Australian)
is supposed to derive his colloquial name--the Jew Lizard--from his
beard. But he has an Israelitish acquisitiveness of his own, too. He
goes about his shop--everything he does makes it seem a shop--and
brings his paw down on one pebble and one twig after another with an
unmistakable air of assertive proprietorship. "Mine," he intimates,
"mine, every one of them; and you keep your hands off them, unless
you're ready to do business." He would pronounce it "pishnesh" if
mere gesture-talk admitted of it. A little irritation goes a long way
with the Jew lizard. His beard stands out tremendously, he swells to
a rib-threatening degree, and stands at bay with open mouth, ready
to smite the Philistines hip and thigh and spoil the Egyptians of
their finger-tips--let them but come near enough. But he is a very
respectable lizard, not so lazy as most, and pleasant to the touch.

[Illustration: "YESH, MINE, MY TEAR."]

[Illustration: GALLOT'S LIZARD--"RATIONS AHOY!"]

[Illustration: CATCH WHICH?]

He is not so lazy, for instance, as the chameleon. The chameleon is
the slowest creature alive. If there were a race between a chameleon
and a pump, it would be safest to back the pump. An active little
Gallot's lizard was placed here lately, with a pair of chameleons, but
the contrast was so disgraceful to the chameleons that he was removed,
and made to chum with a Gecko, a few cases off. He absorbed all the
rations, too, which was an addition of injury to insult, although
chameleons can always put off dinner for a month or two without
inconvenience. A chameleon is a sort of twin. Like other things, he has
two halves; but these halves are only acquainted with one another--not
really intimate. His left-hand side is often asleep while the right
is as wide awake as a chameleon's side can be. His eyes, also, are
quite independent of one another, and roll in opposite directions as
often as not, so that he would be inconvenient as a Speaker. Everybody
would catch his eye at once and there would be quarrels--possibly
even fights--a thing impossible in the House of Commons as it is. A
chameleon never walks, he proceeds in this way: After a long and
careful deliberation, extending over half an hour or so, he proceeds
to lift one foot. You may not be able to see it moving, but it is
moving all the same, like the hand of a watch. Take a look round the
Gardens and come back, when, if you have not been too hurried in your
inspection, you may see the lifted foot in mid-air, and the chameleon
probably asleep. He usually takes a nap after any unusual exertion.
In an hour or two he will wake up, and proceed to plant that foot,
with proper deliberation, before him. Then there will be another nap
and a good think, after which the tail will begin to unwind from the
branch it clings to. This process, persistently persevered in for many
days, will carry the intrepid gymnast quite a number of inches. But a
journey of this sort is an enterprise rarely ventured on. Chameleons
prefer the less exciting sport of sitting face to face and daring each
other to mortal combat, secure in the assurance that neither will
think of moving toward the other. They _have_ been known to fight. A
chameleon fight is an amusement whereunto neither the Peace Society
nor the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals need have
any objection. No evangelistic clergyman need incur scandal by being
present, an interested spectator, at a chameleon fight. The savage
combatants never attempt to bite. They gaze gravely and seriously at
the surroundings, and at proper pre-arranged intervals solemnly dab
their tails together--not hard, nor with any particular feeling beyond
a desire to conduct the rite with proper formality and decorum. It is
the most harmless and dignified scuffle in the animal creation.

[Illustration: "GARN, PULL YER EAR!"

"WHAT, YOU?"

"YUS, ME."

"GARN!"]

[Illustration: "THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME."]




_My Diving-Dress._

BY ONE WHO HAS DONE WITH IT.


A large part of my life has been spent in seeking and experiencing
novel sensations. Precisely what quality of mind it is that urges me to
try experiments with myself and other things I do not know positively;
but I firmly believe it to be dauntless intrepidity. My fond mother,
in early days, used to call it a noble thirst for information, and
predicted for me a life of scientific eminence; other people have been
so ill-natured as to call it abject imbecility, and to predict an early
grave from a broken neck or a dynamite explosion, or something equally
sensational and decided. Never mind what it is. In boyhood's days it
led me once up the chimney, once on a river in a wash-tub, once down
a gravel-pit with a broken head, and frequently across my father's
knee, with a pain in another place. Since I have arrived at years of
discretion (or greater indiscretion--just as you please), it has taken
me up in a balloon, out to sea in a torpedo-boat, up the Matterhorn
(with no guide but a very general map of Europe, having the height of
the mountain marked on it in very plain figures), along Cheapside on a
bicycle at mid-day, to a football match in the capacity of referee, and
lastly, and most recently, down under water in a diving-dress. Many of
these experiences were sharp enough while they lasted, and the diving
was as disturbing as most; but, still, I believe nothing was quite so
uncomfortable as the football referee-ship.

[Illustration: "MY DIVING-DRESS."]

But, just now, I am concerned only with the diving. I have been now and
again to Whitstable, where, I believe by some remarkable process of
Nature, every third male person is born a diver. Anyway, Whitstable is
the place where divers mostly grow, and where I caught the temptation
to go a-diving myself. I should feel grateful to any obliging Anarchist
who would blow up Whitstable to-morrow.

I mentioned my desire to one or two old divers who had permitted me to
make their acquaintance in consideration of a suitable succession of
drinks, but met with jeers and suspicion. I believe they were afraid
of opposition in the business. But Whitstable never produced a diver
that could put me off. I took the royal road. I bought a diving-dress
for myself--how much I paid I shall not say here, for why should
an unsympathetic world measure my lunacy by pounds, shillings, and
pence?--especially as that would make rather a long measurement of it.
Never mind what I paid. I got the dress, and I also got permission
to go down and amuse myself on a sunken coasting vessel lying off
Shoeburyness.

It was a very noble diving-suit, and the new india-rubber squeaked
musically as I moved, and smelt very refreshing. There was a
shield-shaped plate, rather like a label on a decanter, hanging on my
chest, that would have looked more complete with "Whisky," or some
similar inscription, on it. There was a noble metal collar--about
thirty-two, the size would have been, on the usual scale. I had also
a very fetching red night-cap, while my helmet was a terror to all
beholders. I don't mind confessing to a certain amount of discomfort
while they were building me up in this dress--partly due to a vivid
imagination. The helmet made me think of the people in the story who
put hot-pots on the heads of strangers, and I seemed stifling at once.
What if I were unpacked at last from this smelly integument--a corpse?
But this was unmanly and un-diver-like. There wasn't much comfort to
be got out of the leaden shoes--try a pair for yourself and see--but
when all was ready I made a shift to get overboard and down the ladder
provided. It was not a great deal of the outer world that I could see
through my windows, and I hung on to that ladder with something of a
desperate clutch. When at last the water stretched away level around my
windows, then, I confess, I hesitated for a moment. But I made the next
step with a certain involuntary blink, and I was under water. All the
heaviness--or most of it--had gone out of my feet, and all my movements
partook of a curiously easy yet slowish character. It looked rather
dark below me, and I tried to remember the specific gravity of the
human body in figures by way of keeping jolly. At the top of my helmet
the air-escape-valve bubbled genially, and I tried to think of myself
as rather a fine figure of a monster among the fish, with a plume of
bubbles waving over my head. You do think of trivial things on certain
cheerful occasions. Remember Fagin in the dock, for instance.

[Illustration: "I WAS ENGULFED IN AN AWFUL CONVULSION."]

[Illustration: "IN THE HOLD WERE AN IMMENSE NUMBER OF BARRELS."]

It was not as long as it seemed before I was on the wreck, and down
below in the nearest hold. Regular professionals had already been at
work, and access to different parts of the ship had been made easy.
Now, in this big hold was an immense number of barrels, stood on end
and packed tightly together--barrels of oil, to judge from externals.
I tried to move one, but plainly they were all jammed tightly
together, and not one would shift. I took the light axe with which I
had furnished myself, using it alternately as wedge and lever, and at
last felt the barrel move. I had certainly loosened it, and pulled up
the axe with the intention of trying to lift the barrel, when I was
suddenly engulfed in an awful convulsion as of many earthquakes in a
free fight. The world was a mob of bouncing oil-barrels, which hit me
everywhere as I floundered in intricate somersaults, and finally found
myself staggering at the bottom of the hold, and staring at the roof,
whereunto all the barrels were sticking like balloons, absolutely
blocking up the hatchway above me.

What was this? Some demoniac practical joke of fiends inhabiting this
awful green sea about me? Were they grinning at me from corners of the
hold? or had some vast revolution in the ways of Nature taken place
in a second, and the law of gravity been reversed? It was not at all
warm down there, but I perspired violently. Then a notion flashed upon
me. Those barrels must have been _empty_. Jammed together, they stayed
below, of course, but once the jam was loosened they would fly at once
towards the surface. Then I thought more. I had been an ass. Of course,
those barrels would do as they had done, even were they full of oil.
Oil floats on water, as anybody should know. They might be either full
or empty, it didn't matter a bit. I had forgotten that I was moving in
a different element from the air I was used to, where barrels of oil
did _not_ incontinently fly up into space without warning. Obviously,
I had made a fool of myself, but I had some comfort in the reflection
that there was nobody about to see it. Then it came upon me suddenly
that I would rather have someone there after all, for I was helpless!
Those horrible barrels were having another jam in the hatchway now, and
my retreat was cut off entirely. Here I was like a rat in a cage, boxed
in on every side. My communication-cord and my air-pipe led up between
the barrels, to outer safety; but what of that? I perspired again. What
would happen to me now? Why did I ever make a submarine Guy Fawkes of
myself, and thus go fooling about, where I had no business, at the
end of a flexible gas-pipe? If I could have dated myself back an hour
at that moment, I believe I should have changed my mind about going
in for this amusement. At this, I began thinking about trivial things
again--how, paraphrasing a certain definition of angling, diving might
be described as matter of a pipe with a pump at one end and something
rather worse than a fool at the other. I determined, if ever I got out
alive, to fire off that epigram at the earliest possible moment--so
here it is.

[Illustration: "I HACKED AWAY VICIOUSLY."]

I made an effort, pulled myself together, and determined on heroic
measures. My axe lay near, and, with a little groping, I found it.
I would hew my way out of this difficulty through the side of the
vessel. I turned on the inoffensive timbers at my side and hacked
away viciously--with, I really fancy, a certain touch of that wild,
stern, unholy joy that anyone feels who is smashing somebody else's
property with no prospect of having to pay for it. Every boy with a
catapult, who lives near an empty house, will understand the feeling I
mean--especially if the empty house has a large conservatory.

The timbers were certainly stout. The work was a bit curious to the
senses--the axe feeling to work with a deal more dash and go than the
arm that directed it. At any rate, the exercise was pretty hard. Any
millionaire in want of an excellent, healthy, and expensive exercise
should try chopping his way through the sides of ships--it will do him
a world of good, and will be as expensive as anybody could possibly
desire. After a while I found I had well started a plank, and, once
through, chopping away round the hole was not so difficult. Still, when
I had a hole big enough to get through, I did not feel by any means as
fresh as I had done when first that horrible copper pot was screwed
down over my head.

I squeezed through the hole, and at the first step I had ever made on
the real sea-bottom, I fell a savage and complicated cropper over my
communication-cord. I got up, but, as I stepped clear of the cord, a
frightful conviction seized my mind that I was a bigger fool than I
had ever given myself credit for being. What in the world was the good
of getting out through the side of the vessel when that communication
cord--my only means of signalling--and that air-pipe--my only means
of submarine life--led up through the boat itself and among those
execrated oil-barrels? Awful! Awful! I sat down helplessly on a broken
rock and stared blankly through my windows. To weep would have been
mere bravado, with so much salt water already about me. I tried to
signal with the communication-cord, but it was caught somewhere in that
congregation of oil-barrels. It seemed to be all up, except myself,
who was all down, with no prospect of ever rising in the world again.
Shadowy forms came and went in the water about me, and I speculated
desperately in how long or how short a time these sea-creatures
would be having a dinner-party, with _me_ as the chief attraction. I
wondered, casually, whether the india-rubber would agree with them, and
hoped that it would not. Then I wondered what they would take for the
indigestion, and I thought they would probably take each other--it's
their way, I believe. I was wandering on in this way, and had just
feebly recollected that there was four pounds eight and something in my
pockets above, which was a pity, because I might have spent it first,
and that I owed my landlady fifteen-and-six, which was a good job,
because it would compensate for that claret she said the cat drank,
when an inspiration seized me--a great inspiration. I should probably
have called out "Eureka!" as did the venerable discoverer of that
principle of specific gravity that had lately (literally) taken a rise
out of me, if I had thought of it, but I didn't, which was fortunate,
because it is rather a chestnut after all.

[Illustration: "AWFUL!"]

This was my notion--a desperate one, but still one with hope in it.
I would shut off the air-escape valve on my helmet, so that the air
being pumped in would inflate my india-rubber dress like a bladder.
Then I would cut my air-pipe and communication cord, stuffing the pipe
and tying it as best I might, take off my leaden shoes and rise to the
surface triumphantly, like an air-cushion, or, say, an oil barrel.
Specific gravity having taken a rise--all the rise--out of me, I would
proceed to take a rise out of specific gravity; a great, glorious, and
effective rise to the upper world. No office-boy on promotion ever
looked forward to his rise with more hope than I to mine. It was a
desperate expedient certainly, but what else to do?

[Illustration: "I TOOK OFF ONE LEADEN SHOE."]

I took off one leaden shoe and loosened the other, ready to kick away.
I shut the escape-valve. I cut the cord with my axe on the rock I had
been sitting on, and then, when the air had blown out my dress to most
corpulent proportions, I took the decisive stroke. I chopped through
the air-pipe. I stuffed it as well as possible and tied it in some sort
of a knot--it was _very_ stiff--in a great hurry, and then--I kicked
off the leaden shoe.

Never, never, never--even if I live on Jupiter after this planet is
blown to shivers--shall I forget the result of my forlorn-hope dodge.
I kicked off the shoe, as I have said, and, in an instant, the whole
universe of waters turned upside down and swirled away beyond my head.
In sober fact, _I_ had turned upside down--as I might have known I
should do, if only I hadn't been a bigger fool than ever.

[Illustration: "I HAD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN."]

Of course, the moment my leaden shoes went, _down_ came my copper
head-pot, being my heaviest part, and up went my feet. I had a pretty
quick rise, certainly, but I prefer not to recall my feelings during
the rush. I can quite understand now why a rise in the world makes some
people giddy. All that I had before felt of amazement and horror, I now
felt multiplied by fifty and squeezed into about two seconds, so that
they felt like ten hours. Up through that awful water and those moving
shadows I went, feeling that I was in reality held still, like a man in
a nightmare. When at last I stopped, I felt that it was but a matter
of moments, and the air would leak away through that cut tube, and I
should go down again, still head under, for the last time, to die in
that grisly combination of mackintosh and copper kettle; also I felt
choking, stifling, when--something had me roughly by the ankle, and I
was dragged, a wretched rag of misplaced ambition, into a boat. The
appearance of my legs sticking out above water had, it seemed, caused
intense amusement among the boat's crew--a circumstance which probably
ought to have gratified me, although it didn't.

[Illustration]

I have little more to add, except that I shudder, to this day, whenever
I see an acrobat standing on his head, because it is so graphically
remindful. But, if anybody is thinking of going in for diving by way of
placid enjoyment, I shall be delighted to treat with him for the sale
and purchase of a most desirable diving-dress in unsoiled condition,
cut in the most fashionable style, with a fascinating copper helmet and
commodious collar, and a neat label for the chest. The shoes will not
be included in the bargain, having been inadvertently left in a damp
place.




_FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR._

XIII.


(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

[Sidenote: THE EMPTY SEAT.]

The new Session is already fairly advanced, and in some sense it is sad
to reflect that business goes forward very much as if Mr. Gladstone
were still in his place by the brass-bound box. It seemed when the
first announcement of his retirement was made that the House of Commons
could scarcely survive the withdrawal. There is not a man in the House
to-day who remembers the place when Mr. Gladstone was not a prominent
figure in it. It is true Mr. Villiers, having continuously sat since he
was first elected for Wolverhampton in 1835, is known as "The Father of
the House." But in a Parliamentary sense Mr. Gladstone was born before
his father, seeing that he took his seat for Newark in the year 1832.
Moreover, whilst Mr. Villiers, literally bent under the weight of his
more than ninety years, has long withdrawn from regular attendance
on Parliamentary duties, Mr. Gladstone was, up to the end of last
Session, daily in his place, actively directing affairs and ready at a
moment's notice to deliver a speech which, standing alone, would make a
Parliamentary reputation.

[Illustration: "LISTENING."]

[Sidenote: LISTENING.]

Up to the last his passion for Parliamentary life was overmastering.
He was, probably, never so happy as when seated in the House following
a debate. Some speeches, to others unbearably blank of interest, were
to him irresistibly attractive. During the last Parliament he, in
deference to an undertaking extorted by Sir Andrew Clark, promised to
limit his regular attendance on debate up to a point marked by the
dinner-hour, not returning save upon exceptional occasions. He made up
for restraint of opportunity by exacting use of the measure provided.
Often between seven and eight o'clock, when the House was almost empty
and some unimportant, unattractive member found his chance, he had
among his scanty audience the Prime Minister, sitting with hand to
ear, apparently entranced. During the interminable Home Rule debates,
Mr. Gladstone formed a habit, at which less excitable members used to
smile, of moving to the gangway-end of the Treasury Bench, sitting
there by the hour eagerly listening to a member whose measure of
attraction for ordinary men was indicated by the emptiness of the
benches. When in Opposition he carried this habit a step further,
occasionally seating himself below the gangway the better to hear an
Irish member.

[Sidenote: THE UNDERTAKER.]

Although immersed in affairs of State, Mr. Gladstone had that intimate
personal knowledge of the House of Commons which seems more natural
among the gossips in the smoke-room. He knew every man above the
level of the absolutely silent members, and had formed a keen and
well-defined judgment of their qualities. He was always on the look-out
for promising young men among his own party, and sometimes found
them, as in the cases of Mr. Asquith, Mr. Acland, Mr. Robertson, Sir
Edward Grey, and Mr. Sydney Buxton. One evening during the Midlothian
campaign, the conversation turned upon new members on the Conservative
side who had made some mark in the last Parliament. I ventured to name
one Irish member, seated above the gangway, who had taken frequent part
in debate on Irish affairs, and had shown intimate knowledge of the
Irish question.

"Yes," said Mr. Gladstone, "but his manner is so funereal. In my humble
way," he added, his face wrinkling into the smile that illumined it
when he was much amused, "I call him the Undertaker."

There was something charming in this way of putting it, as if he were
only a beginner in the way of affixing nicknames to Parliamentary
personages, and must not be understood in his "humble way" to be
competing with practitioners.

[Sidenote: BAITED.]

One feeling that weighed with everyone when Mr. Gladstone withdrew
from the forefront of Parliamentary life was that he, the greatest,
is also the last of a type not cast for modern Parliaments. There was
about him in the heat of battle a certain chivalry of manner, and
in the minutest relationships a courtesy, which is too truly known
as "old-fashioned." With his departure the House of Commons loses a
standard of daily conduct which, though unattainable for the average
man, was ever a wholesome incentive. To gentlemen below the gangway
this courtly bearing under, sometimes, almost brutal provocation, was
an incomprehensible and undesirable thing. They wanted to see him hit
back, give stroke for stroke, and could not understand his patient,
dignified bearing. No man, under my observation in the House of
Commons--and I have lived in it for more than twenty years--was ever
assailed with such bitterness as Mr. Gladstone; and none have shown
so little resentment. During his Ministry of 1880-5, he was nightly
the object of vituperation on the part of the Irish members, who came
nearer to the language of Billingsgate than of Westminster. It seems
now, as it seemed then, that no man could ever forget, or forgive,
the savagery of that prolonged onslaught. I do not know whether Mr.
Gladstone has forgotten it. Certainly, through the last seven years he
sat on one or other of the Front Benches he comported himself as if it
had never been: as if the men whom he alluded to as "my hon. friends"
had ever, as then, cooed him as gently as a sucking dove.

[Illustration: "DIGNITY AND COURTESY."]

In private I have heard him speak of only two members of the House of
Commons with abhorrence, and then the tone of voice and visage were
terrible to hear and see. When he has appeared at the table following
some bitter personal attack, and the House has hushed every sound in
expectation of an avalanche of scathing wrath, he has but lightly
touched on the personal matter, and returned to the course of argument
it had spitefully broken in upon. Once or twice last Session he turned
upon Mr. Chamberlain, and delighted the House by the courtly grace and
delightful skill of his reprisal. But it was never savage, or with any
under-current of nastiness--which possibly, after all, made it the more
effective.

The late Mr. Cavendish Bentinck was much treasured by the House of
Commons by reason of the temptation, invariably irresistible, he laid
in the way of Mr. Gladstone to indulge in lofty banter. Oddly enough,
in these later years, the man who stirred the blackest water of his
ire was Mr. Jesse Collings, whose almost venerable inoffensiveness of
appearance, as Mr. Gladstone turned upon him, completed the enjoyment
of the episode. Mr. Finlay was another member who seemed quite
inadequately to stir his wrath. At one time a promising recruit to the
Liberal party, Mr. Finlay in 1886 seceded with Lord Hartington and Mr.
Chamberlain. Like the other Dissentient Liberals he retained his old
seat, which happened to be immediately behind the Front Opposition
Bench. His contiguity seemed to affect Mr. Gladstone with physical
repulsion. In the heat of debate he would turn round to face Mr.
Finlay, at the moment innocent of wrong-doing, fix him with flaming
eye, and pour over him a torrent of scorching denunciation.

[Sidenote: MONUMENTAL PATIENCE.]

Mr. Gladstone's marvellous patience has been shown most conspicuously
in his bearing towards temporary recalcitrant followers. For at least
a quarter of a century his worst enemies have been those of his own
household. As soon as he has completed the structure of a Ministry,
so soon have "caves" been dug around it by hands that assumed to be
friendly. His progress has ever been clogged by Tea Room cabals, the
incessant unrest culminating in the great disruption of 1886.

I do not remember seeing Mr. Gladstone more angry than he was one
Wednesday afternoon in the Session of 1870. Here again his wrath was
excited by an ordinarily inoffensive person. The Irish Education Bill
was before the House, and there was, naturally, a Tea Room Party formed
by good Liberals for the destruction of their Leader and the bringing
in of the other side. Mr. Fawcett was foremost in the cabal, laying
the foundation, after a manner not unfamiliar in politics, of the
Ministerial position he later attained under the statesman whom he had
attacked from the flank. Mr. Miall, in genial Nonconformist fashion,
accused Mr. Gladstone of profiting by the support of the Opposition,
thus earning the suspicion, distrust, and antagonism of his most
earnest supporters.

By an odd coincidence, Mr. Miall sat that afternoon in the very seat
where last year Mr. Gladstone was accustomed to find Mr. Chamberlain.
When he sat down the Premier leaped to his feet and, turning upon him
with angry gesture, as if he would sweep him bodily out of the House,
said: "I hope my hon. friend will not continue his support of the
Government one moment longer than he deems it consistent with his sense
of duty and right. For God's sake, sir, let him withdraw it the moment
he thinks it better for the cause he has at heart that he should do so."

Twenty-four years have sped since that Wednesday afternoon. But I can
see, as if it were yesterday, the figure with outstretched hand, and
hear the thunderous voice in which this never since repeated invocation
to the Deity rang through the House. The outbreak was memorable because
rare. Since then the provocation has been as persistent as that which
on this same Irish Education Bill prepared for the foundering of the
Liberal party in the earliest months of 1874, and led to all that came
to pass in the next six years of the Disraeli Parliament. Occasionally
Mr. Gladstone has been moved to outburst of resentment. But it has been
slight compared with the incentive.

We have heard and read in recent months much about the courage,
eloquence, and statesmanship of this great career. To me it seems
that the most strongly marked feature in it has been its quiet long
suffering, its sublime patience. The fight is finished now, well done
up to the very last, and to-day--

    For thee, good knight and grey, whose gleaming crest
    Leads us no longer, every generous breast
    Breathes benediction on thy well-won rest.

[Sidenote: YOUTH AND AGE.]

Mr. Gladstone is so accustomed to make passing references to his
extreme age, and those in close intercourse with him have grown so
habituated to the phenomenon, that the marvel of it comes to be
considerably lessened. There are two personal recollections which
serve to place the fact in full light. One was revived by Sir William
Harcourt at one of the Saturday-to-Monday parties with which the
Prince of Wales occasionally brightens Sandringham. A reference to
the Premier's then approaching eighty-fourth birthday being made, Sir
William Harcourt said he had a perfect recollection of an occasion
when he was nursed on the knee of Mr. Gladstone. Sir William is no
chicken, either in years or girth, and recollection of this affecting
scene carried him back nearly sixty years. It was too much for Mr.
Frank Lockwood, who happened to be amongst the guests forming this
particular house party. Through eyes softened with the gleam of tears,
the Recorder of Sheffield sketched on the back of the menu a picture of
the infantile Harcourt fondled on the knee of his right hon. friend,
both unconscious of all the coming years held in store for them. The
sketch is, I believe, now among the prized possessions of the Princess
of Wales.

[Illustration: OLD WILLIAM AND YOUNG WILLIAM.]

The other reminiscence also belongs to the records of a country house,
and it is Mr. Gladstone who recalls it. Mr. Henry Chaplin was a fellow
guest. Mr. Gladstone one evening asked him whether his grandmother had
not lived in a certain street in Mayfair. Mr. Chaplin assented. "Ah,"
said Mr. Gladstone, "I remember it very well. I lived next door to her
for awhile when I was a child. She used to give evening parties. When
the carriages were assembled to take up, my brother and I used to creep
out of bed--it was in the summer time--softly open the window, get out
our squirts, and discreetly fire away at the coachmen on the boxes. I
remember the intense delight with which we used to see them look up to
the sky and call out to ask each other whether it wasn't beginning to
rain."

[Illustration: SIR ISAAC HOLDEN.]

[Sidenote: SIR ISAAC HOLDEN.]

Mr. Gladstone is not, after all, the oldest man in the present House
of Commons. Sir Isaac Holden is his senior by two years. Of the twain,
I fancy Sir Isaac is the younger-looking. During the winter Session,
lacking the impulse of the constant fight round the Home Rule standard,
disappointed by the success of Obstructionist tactics, Mr. Gladstone,
from time to time, showed a distinct falling-off from the splendid form
he had presented through the long summer Session. Sometimes he sat
on the Treasury Bench, with chin sunk on his chest, a grey paleness
stealing over his face, and the light of battle faded from his eyes. He
never failed to pull himself together on returning to the House after
a division. But the effort was made, not, as heretofore, in advance of
his entrance, but after he had walked a few paces, with bent shoulders
and weary gait.

Sir Isaac Holden, who has now entered on his eighty-seventh year,
is as straight as a dart, and walks with springy step that shows no
effort. He shares with Mr. Gladstone the characteristic, rare in a man
of fourscore, that his eyes are still bright and clear. On occasions
when the Standing Orders are suspended and the House sits late in
anticipation of an important division, Sir Isaac waits till whatever
hour is necessary in order to record his vote. When the House is up, he
walks home.

Unlike Mr. Gladstone, Sir Isaac has leisure, means, and disposition
to order his daily life upon carefully-considered rules. His day is
automatically parcelled out: work, exercise, food, and recreation each
having its appointed place and period. He is neither a vegetarian
nor a teetotaler, though the main stock of his daily meals is fruit
and vegetables. For wine he drinks a little claret. He has lived a
busy, useful life, and owes a large fortune to his own industry and
enterprise. Of singularly modest disposition, the only thing he thinks
worthy of being mentioned to his credit is the fact that he invented
the lucifer match.

[Sidenote: THE EFFACEMENT OF THE IRISH MEMBER.]

The still new Parliament possesses no more marked characteristic than
the self-effacement of the Irish member. If any member of the 1874 or
the 1880 Parliament were to revisit Westminster without knowledge of
what had taken place since 1886, he would not recognise the scene. In
those not distant days the Irish member pervaded the Chamber. Whatever
the subject-matter of debate might be, he was sure to march in and make
the question his own. If in any direct or indirect manner Ireland was
concerned, this was natural enough. But any subject, found in China or
Peru, would serve to occupy a night's sitting, and <DW44> the progress
of Government business. In the Parliament of 1880 two of the most
prolonged and fiercest debates, inaugurated and carried on by the Irish
members, related to flogging in the army and the state of affairs in
South Africa.

This procedure was, up to 1886, part of a deliberate policy, of which
Mr. Biggar and Mr. Parnell were the earliest exponents. They wanted
their own Parliament on College Green. If the Saxon, regardless of
entreaties and demands, insisted on keeping them at Westminster, they
would make themselves as obnoxious as possible. The habit of constantly
taking part in debate being thus formed, and fitting easily gentlemen
to whom public speaking comes by nature, it was observed, though with
less persistence, during the last Parliament, when the Irish party was
no longer a political Ishmael, but was the acknowledged ally of one of
the great English armies.

[Sidenote: MR. SEXTON.]

With the opening of the present Session a marvellous, almost
miraculous, change has been wrought. Its most remarkable development,
the fullest measure of rare personal sacrifice, is found in the case
of Mr. Sexton. A man of rare gifts as a debater, no one takes so keen
a pleasure in the delivery of Mr. Sexton's speeches as does the hon.
member himself. This very excess of appreciation was at one time wont
to mar his Parliamentary position. For the ordinary speaker, provision
of one peroration per speech suffices. So illimitable are Mr. Sexton's
natural resources, that he can toss off half-a-dozen perorations in
the course of a single speech. In practice this habit grows a trifle
tantalizing. Even the most indolent listener draws himself together
and concentrates attention when a member, who has been talking for
twenty minutes or half an hour, shows signs of coming to a conclusion.
When, after declaiming a ringing peroration, the orator, recurring to
leveller tones and less ornate style, quietly begins again, the feeling
of disappointment is aggravated by a sense of having been betrayed.

[Illustration: MR. SEXTON.]

In some of his set speeches, extending from one and a half to two
hours, Mr. Sexton, doubtless unconsciously, has been known thus to
impose on the confidence of the House three distinct times. This
long-irresistible tendency to verbosity was regrettable as spoiling
a position won by natural ability, hampered rather than assisted by
adventitious circumstances.

Since the first Session of the new Parliament opened the Irish
members, including Mr. Sexton, have conducted themselves in a manner
that testifies to the potency of patriotism. The one object they have
in view is to get a Home Rule Bill added to the Statute Book. It is
avowedly, as Lord Randolph Churchill long ago, with brusque frankness,
admitted, a race against time. Every week's delay in the accomplishment
of the end imperils the success of the movement. In these circumstances
any Irish member who lengthens the proceeding by speech-making is a
traitor to the cause. The Irish members have, therefore, with one
accord taken and kept a vow of silence.

[Sidenote: RADICAL MARTYRS.]

This is no new thing in Parliamentary tactics. A dozen years ago a
similar effacement of another active party was brought about in the
House of Commons. This was the active and useful private member, of
whom the late Mr. Peter Rylands was a type, accustomed to sit through
Committee of Supply worrying the Minister in charge of the Votes with
innumerable questions and pin-pricking criticisms. The Irish were
then the Obstructionists, and, taking full advantage of opportunity
presented in Committee of Supply, they talked at large through the
night in order to prevent Votes being taken. It came to pass that any
honest, well-meaning member who desired to obtain information touching
a particular Vote came to be regarded as a criminal. He was undoubtedly
by his interposition playing the game of the Obstructionists. It was
not only the time appropriated by his remarks that had to be taken
into account. The quick-witted Irishmen, making the most of every
opportunity, went off on the new trail opened, and followed it for the
greater part of a sitting. The well-meaning economist was shunned by
his friends, frowned on by his leaders, and took care not to repeat
the indiscretion. Between 1880 and 1885 the old-fashioned custom
of narrowly examining the Civil Service Estimates, not the least
interesting function of a member of the House of Commons, received a
blow from which it has not yet recovered.

The consequent self-repression was bad enough for sober Saxons like
Mr. Peter Rylands and his mates in Committee. For the Celtic nature
the strain must be much more severe. What Mr. Sexton suffers, as night
after night he sits below the Gangway, hearing other members talk and
recognising how much better he could put the points, who shall say? As
for Mr. Tim Healy, he providentially finds partial relief in a running
commentary that occasionally draws upon him reproof from the Speaker
or Chairman. Mr. Balfour, with the instincts of a leader partially
responsible for good order in the House, once welcomed these little
ebullitions. They were, he said, equivalent to the blowing-off of
steam. Shut off the means of partial relief, and fatal explosion might
follow.

[Sidenote: THE EXTINCT IRISH MEMBER.]

It is curious but not inexplicable how the type of Irish member
familiar eighteen or even thirteen years ago has disappeared. Of the
band Isaac Butt reappeared on the political stage to lead, but few
are left. Even of their successors, the body Mr. Biggar inspired and
Mr. Parnell organized, those still in the House may be counted on the
fingers of one hand. And what a rare group of individuals they formed!
There were many characters that might have stepped out of the pages
of Lever or Lover. Butt himself was an interesting figure, a relic of
Parliamentary time and manner that to-day seem prehistoric. It is a
pity that such a man, with his great gifts and his wide experience,
should have been allowed to drop behind the horizon without the tribute
of that biography rendered to many far less interesting and important
people. There was something pathetic about the renunciation of his
leadership by the party he had created. When Parnell was a youth at
college, Butt was fighting for Home Rule for Ireland. He was the Moses
of this Irish pilgrimage. Some failings and shortcomings may have
justified the edict which forbade him to enter the Promised Land. But
it was a little hard that he should have been ousted from the command
whilst still on the march he had planned.

[Illustration: MR. TIM HEALY.

_From an Irish MS. of the 19th Century._]

I remember the night when, entering the House whilst the usual flood of
questions was pouring from the Irish camp, he walked on, crossed the
Gangway, and took his seat behind the Front Opposition Bench. He did
not long survive this severance from the majority of his party. He was
not old as years are counted. But he had lived his days, had heard the
chimes at midnight, was bowed in body, harassed in mind, and this last
blow shattered him.

There were few to migrate with him above the Gangway. Almost alone,
McCarthy Downing followed the old leader, a lachrymose comforter,
sitting near him, as Butt, with his back turned to the Irish quarter,
sat with his head leaning on his hands listening to the shrill gibes of
Joseph Gillis, or the more polished but not therefore less acrid taunts
of Parnell.

Mr. Mitchell Henry was one of the few who stood by the old chief, the
rift thus developed widening as the influence of Parnell and Biggar
prevailed, and open war was declared against law and order and the
House of Commons. When the Liberals came in in 1880, and the Irish
members, breaking through a new tradition, decided to remain stationary
on the left of the Speaker, Mitchell Henry crossed the floor, sat with
the Ministerialists, and became a favourite target of the Parnellites.

[Sidenote: SIR PATRICK O'BRIEN.]

With him went Sir Patrick O'Brien, the most delightful embodiment of
genuine Irish humour of the unconscious, inconsequential order known
to the present generation. Sir Pat, with his left hand in his trousers
pocket, his right hand shaking defiance at his countrymen opposite,
was a precious possession, for ever lost to an increasingly prosaic
Parliament. He could not away with the new kind of Irish member
represented by Mr. Kenny, "the young sea-sarpent from County Clare," as
in a flight of lofty but vague eloquence he called him. "Order! order!"
cried the Speaker, sternly. "Then, Mr. Speaker," said Sir Pat, with a
courtly bow, "I will withdraw the sea-sarpent and substitute the hon.
member for County Clare."




_Stories From the Diary of a Doctor._

_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."


X.--WITHOUT WITNESSES.

In the October of 1890 I went to pay a short visit to my friends, the
Brabazons, of Penporran, in Cornwall. I could only spare a week out of
town, and looked forward to my visit with the pleasure which a busy man
must feel when he can relax his labours for a short time.

[Illustration: "WE HAD MANY MEMORIES TO REVIVE."]

Brabazon was an old college friend, and on the first evening of my stay
we had many memories to revive and many friends to talk over. We sat
until the small hours in his smoking-room, and it was early morning
before we retired to bed. Just as I was leaving the room, he said to
me:--

"By the way, you will find some disturbing elements at work here. I
know you are fond of attributing everything to some psychological
cause. I wonder what you will say to the love affairs of Randall,
Carleton, and Miss Farnham."

I naturally asked what my host meant.

"Randall and Carleton are both desperately in love with the same girl,"
he replied. "Did you not notice the state of affairs this evening at
dinner?"

"I naturally noticed Miss Farnham," I answered at once. "It would be
difficult not to be attracted by so striking a personality."

"Barbara Farnham is, without exception, the most dangerous girl of
my acquaintance," replied Brabazon, with a slight laugh. "Before her
advent on the scene, Randall and Carleton were the best possible
friends. Now they are at daggers drawn."

"I confess I did not particularly observe them," I answered.

"Oh, they are just ordinary good young fellows," replied Brabazon. "I
am sorry for Carleton, of course, for I don't think he has the ghost
of a chance with Miss Farnham. He is not particularly good looking,
and he has the misfortune to be poor. Randall is a handsome lad, and
has considerable expectations. His father is Lord Hartmore--but the
fact is, I don't think the girl means to marry either of them--she
is simply playing one against the other for her own ends. She is a
handsome witch, and a dangerous one. She plays as carelessly with edged
tools--as carelessly and unconcernedly as a baby would with its rattle."

I said nothing further. Brabazon conducted me to my room, and wished me
good-night. I sat down by the fire, and thought in an idle manner over
the events of the evening. There was a large house party at Penporran.
Shooting was going on vigorously, and cub-hunting had begun. Some of
the guests were acquaintances of mine. In short, I looked forward to a
pleasant week in this genial house. As I laid my head on my pillow I
thought again, but without any specially keen interest, of Brabazon's
story about the disturbing elements which were now agitating the air of
this otherwise peaceful mansion.

Two young men were in love with the same girl. Surely the situation was
a very ordinary one. Such a complication happened daily.

I wondered why Brabazon should have troubled himself to mention such
an ordinary event, but as I was dropping off to sleep, I saw rising
up before me, in my mind's eye, the proud, beautiful face of Barbara
Farnham, and a kind of intuition told me that these commonplace
incidents might assume the form of tragedy in her cruel and careless
hands.

I dreamt of Miss Farnham that night, and came down to breakfast the
next morning with my curiosity considerably aroused about her.

She was in the room when I entered, and was idly helping herself to
a cup of coffee, which she carried to a distant window where a small
table was also laid for breakfast. She sat down, and, sipping it
leisurely, looked around her with a careless glance. Her eyes fell on
me--she smiled and motioned to me to approach.

"Pray bring your breakfast to this table," she said, in a light tone.
"I was immensely interested in you when I heard you were coming. I
adore doctors, particularly if they are clever. Are you going to ride
this morning?"

I answered in the affirmative, and asked her if she was fond of horses.

"Fond?" she replied, a flash of added warmth lighting up her peculiar
red-brown eyes. "I am going to whisper a secret to you--I never could
compare horses and human beings. I consider the horse the infinitely
nobler creature of the two."

I laughed, and we entered into an animated conversation.

While we were talking, Carleton came into the room. He was a squarely
built young man, with deeply set dark eyes, and a determined chin
and mouth. His figure was slightly above the middle height; he was
extremely spare, but had good shoulders and was well set up. As soon
as ever he appeared in sight, Miss Farnham, by an almost imperceptible
movement, slightly turned her back to him and her talk with me became
even more animated and full of wit than before. Her gay, light laugh
must have reached Carleton, who came straight across the room to her
side.

"You are in your favourite seat," he said.

"Yes," she replied, "and Dr. Halifax is having breakfast with me."

Then she turned to continue her conversation with me, while Carleton
stood perfectly erect and silent by her side.

"Why don't you eat something?" she said to him, presently.

"There is time enough," he answered.

Finding he would not go away she tried to draw him into conversation,
but he was evidently not in the humour to make himself agreeable. His
answers were confined to monosyllables, and to some of Miss Farnham's
remarks he did not reply at all.

I confess that I began to think him an unmitigated bore.

A change was, however, quickly to take place in the situation--Randall,
the other lover, appeared on the scene, and his coming acted like a
flash of sunshine. He was a gay, handsome, debonair-looking young
fellow. He had good teeth, good eyes, a genial smile, a hearty manner.
His voice was musical, and he knew well how to use it. He nodded
carelessly to one or two acquaintances when he entered the room, and
then came straight to Miss Farnham's table.

She shook hands with him, and he nodded a cheerful good morning to
Carleton and me.

"That is right," he said, smiling brightly at the handsome girl; "you
promised to reserve a seat for me at this table, and I see you have
kept your word. Have you done breakfast, Carleton?"

"I had something an hour ago," replied Carleton.

Randall went to a sideboard to help himself to a generous portion of
a dish which was being kept hot with a spirit lamp. On his return our
conversation became gayer and more lively than ever.

I must confess that I saw nothing to object to in Miss Farnham's
manners. I could not imagine why Brabazon spoke of her as a dangerous
witch. She tried to be polite to both men--or rather, she was polite
without effort, but there was not a trace of the flippant in her manner
or bearing. Her beauty was undoubtedly of a remarkable order. Her eyes
were her most striking characteristic. There was a great deal of red
in their brown, which was further accentuated by the red brown of her
long eyelashes. The eyes were capable of every shade of expression, and
could be at times as eloquent and as full of meaning as those of that
bewitching creature, the collie. Her eyebrows were dark and delicately
pencilled. Her hair was tawny in shade--she had quantities of it, and
she wore it picturesquely round her stately, statuesque head. In some
lights that brilliantly  hair looked as if a sunbeam had been
imprisoned in it. Her complexion was of a warm, creamy whiteness. Her
figure was slight and graceful. But for her eyes she might have been
simply remarked as a handsome girl; but those eyes made her beautiful,
and lifted her completely out of the commonplace.

We had nearly finished breakfast, when I was startled by seeing Randall
suddenly press his hand to his eyes, and turn so white that I thought
he was going to lose consciousness. He recovered himself almost
immediately, however, and so completely, that no one else remarked the
circumstance. Miss Farnham rose from the breakfast-table.

"I am going to ride with you, Dr. Halifax," she said, nodding brightly
to me. "I shall come downstairs in my habit in half an hour."

She was crossing the room to speak to some of the other guests when
Carleton came up to her.

"I want to say something to you," he said--"can we go to some room
where we shall be quite undisturbed?"

His words were distinctly audible, not only to me, but to several other
people in the room.

Randall in particular heard them, and I could see that he was waiting
anxiously for the reply.

"I want to ride this morning. I have no time for private confidences,"
replied Miss Farnham, in a distinctly vexed tone.

"I won't keep you long," replied Carleton--"what I have to say is of
great importance, at least to me."

"I will give you ten minutes after lunch; will that suffice?"

"Five minutes now will do better. I am very much in earnest when I make
this request."

"Very well," said Miss Farnham, in a light tone; "importunate people
generally have their way. Come into the conservatory--there is a rose
there on which I have set my heart; it is too high for me to reach."

She left the room as she spoke, and Carleton quickly followed her. As
they disappeared, I noticed more than one guest looking significantly
after them. Carleton's pluck was distinctly approved of--I could see
that by the expression on some of the ladies' faces and one, as she
passed close to Randall's side, was heard to murmur, audibly:--

"Faint heart never won fair lady."

Randall came up to me and asked me to join him in a smoke on the
balcony. As we walked up and down, he talked cheerfully, and, whatever
anxiety he may inwardly have felt, was careful not to betray a trace of
it.

In less than half an hour Miss Farnham joined us. She was in a dark
brown riding-habit, which toned perfectly with her rich and peculiar
colouring. Her spirits were gay, not to say wild, and the warm, creamy
whiteness of her face seemed to glow now as if with hidden fire.

"Are you not ready for your ride?" she said, looking at me with a
certain reproach. "The horses will be round in less than ten minutes.
It is a splendid morning for a gallop. You are coming, too?" she added,
turning suddenly to Randall.

"I only waited for you to invite me," he said. "Of course I shall come,
with pleasure. But I thought," he added, in a low tone, coming close to
her side as he spoke, "that you arranged to ride with Ronald Carleton
this morning?"

"That is off," she replied, in a light tone. "Mr. Carleton has, I
believe, another engagement."

The balcony on which we were walking led round to one of the entrances
to the house; at this moment a groom was seen leading a smart mare up
to the door, and at the same instant Carleton ran down the steps, and
sprang lightly into the saddle.

"Where are you off to?" exclaimed Randall, bending out of the balcony
to speak to him. "Miss Farnham, Dr. Halifax, and I are all going out
immediately. Won't you join us?"

"Not this morning, I think," said Carleton, constraint in his tone. He
gathered up the reins, and the mare began to prance about.

"You are holding her too much on the curb," exclaimed Randall.

"Thanks, I think I know what I'm about," replied Carleton, with evident
temper. "Quiet, you brute, quiet," he continued, vainly endeavouring to
restrain the movements of the impatient animal.

"I tell you, that mare won't stand the curb," shouted Randall. "Give
her her head, and she'll do anything you ask her. I know, for I've
often ridden her."

"When I require a riding lesson from you, I'll inform you of the
fact," answered Carleton, in a sulky voice, which was rendered almost
ridiculous by the frantic movements of the mare, now thoroughly upset.

Miss Farnham, who had been standing in the background, came up at this
juncture, and took her place conspicuously by Randall's side.

"Mr. Randall is right and you are wrong," she exclaimed. "It is
absolutely cruel to ride that mare on the curb."

Carleton looked up with a scowl, which anything but improved him. He
would not even glance at Miss Farnham, but his eyes flashed an angry
fire at his more fortunate rival.

[Illustration: "CARLETON LOOKED UP WITH A SCOWL."]

"Of course, Randall is right," he exclaimed. "All the odds are in his
favour."

"Nonsense," retorted Randall, with heat.

"Come, come, gentlemen, pray don't quarrel on this lovely morning,"
said Miss Farnham. "Mr. Carleton, I wish you a pleasant ride."

She left the balcony as she spoke, and Randall and I immediately
followed her example.

We had a splendid ride over an extensive moorland country, and returned
to lunch in excellent spirits and in high good humour with each other.
Carleton had not yet come back, but his absence did not seem to depress
anyone, certainly not Miss Farnham, whose bright eyes and gay, animated
manner made her the life of the party. Randall was radiant in the
sunshine of her presence. She was confidential and almost affectionate
in her manner to him: and he undoubtedly looked, and was, at his best.

I could not help cordially liking him and thinking that the pair were
well matched. Notwithstanding Brabazon's words of the night before, I
had no doubt that Miss Farnham was sincerely attached to Randall, and
would tell him so presently.

I spent the greater part of the afternoon alone with my host, and did
not see the rest of the guests until we met at dinner. Carleton had
then returned. He sat between a red-haired girl and a very fat old
lady, and looked as _distrait_ and bored as man well could. Randall, on
the other hand, was in his best form. His clothes sat well on him. He
was, undoubtedly, a handsome, striking-looking man.

I cannot describe Miss Farnham's dress. It was ethereal in texture
and suited her well. She was not seated in the neighbourhood of
either Randall or Carleton, but once or twice I noticed that her eyes
wandered down to their part of the table. For some reason, she was not
in such high spirits as she had been in the early part of the day. My
neighbour, a quiet, middle-aged spinster, began suddenly to talk to me
about her.

"I see you are interested in Barbara Farnham," she began. "I am not the
least surprised--you but follow the example of all the other men who
know her."

"Miss Farnham is a very beautiful girl." I replied.

Miss Derrick gave a short sigh.

"Yes," she replied, "Barbara has a beautiful face. She is a fine
creature too, although of course terribly spoilt."

"Have you known her long?" I asked.

"Yes; since she was a child. Of course you must notice, Dr. Halifax,
the state of matters. Barbara's conduct is more or less the talk of
the whole house. I presume from his manner that poor Mr. Carleton's
chances of success are quite over, and for my part I am sorry. He is
not rich, but he is a good fellow--he is devotedly attached to Barbara,
and his abilities are quite above the average. Yes, I am sorry for Mr.
Carleton. Barbara might have done worse than return his affection."

I did not feel inclined to pursue the subject any further with this
somewhat garrulous lady. After a pause, I remarked:--

"Miss Farnham looks tired, and does not seem in her usual spirits."

Miss Derrick shrugged her thin shoulders.

"What else can you expect?" she answered. "Barbara is a creature
of moods. She was quite _exaltée_ all the morning; now she will be
correspondingly dull, until a fresh wave of excitement raises her
spirits."

At this moment the signal for the ladies to withdraw was given. After
their departure, Carleton and Randall found themselves sitting close
together. I noticed that neither man spoke to the other, and also
observed that after a time Carleton deliberately changed his seat for
one at a distant part of the table.

[Illustration: "CARLETON DELIBERATELY CHANGED HIS SEAT."]

We did not sit long over wine, and when we came into the drawing-room
a lady was playing some classical music with precision and sufficient
brilliancy to attract several musical men to the vicinity of the
piano. Her place was quickly taken by the droll man of the party, who
entertained the company with comic songs. The evening dragged on in the
usual manner. For some unaccountable reason no one seemed quite in good
spirits. As for me, I found myself constantly looking in the direction
of the door. I heartily wished that either Carleton or Randall would
come in--I acknowledged to myself that the presence of one at least of
these gentlemen in the room would give me relief.

An hour and more passed away, however, and neither of them appeared.
I glanced towards Miss Farnham. She was standing near the piano, idly
playing with a large feather fan. I thought I read both solicitude and
expectation in her eyes.

The funny man was trolling out a sea-song to which a lively chorus was
attached. Brabazon came up and touched my arm.

"When that is over," he said, in a low voice, "I will ask Barbara
Farnham to sing."

"Can she sing?" I asked.

"Can she!" he reiterated. "Yes, she sings," he replied, emphatically.
"Wait--you will hear her in a moment. Her voice is the most absolutely
sympathetic I have ever listened to."

Soon afterwards Miss Farnham went to the piano. She played her own
accompaniment. One grand sweep her hands seemed to take of the
instrument, as if they meant to embrace it, and then a voice, high,
full, sweet, magnificent in its volume of melody, rose on the air and
seemed to fill the room.

Brabazon was right, Barbara Farnham could sing. As the words fell from
her lips, there was no other sound in the listening room.

I jotted those words down afterwards from memory--they seemed to me to
be a fit prelude to the scene which was immediately to follow:--

    Thou hast filled me a golden cup
      With a drink divine that glows,
    With the bloom that is flowing up
      From the heart of the folded rose.
    The grapes in their amber glow,
      And the strength of the blood-red wine,
    All mingle and change and flow
      In this golden cup of thine
    With the scent of the curling wine,
      With the balm of the rose's breath--
    For the voice of love is thine,
      And thine is the Song of Death!

The voice of the singer sank low as she approached the end of her song.
The final words were in a minor key. I looked full at Miss Farnham,
and her dark eyes met mine. They were full of apprehension. A kind of
premonition of coming sorrow might well have filled her breast from the
look in their depths.

There was a noise and sense of confusion in the outer drawing-room.
People stood back to make way for someone, and hurrying steps came
quickly towards the piano.

Miss Farnham sprang to her feet, the last notes of the song arrested on
her lips.

Carleton, an overcoat covering his evening dress, his hair dishevelled,
his eyes wild, had come hastily to her side.

"You will think that I have killed him, Barbara; but, before God, it is
not true!" he said in a hoarse whisper--then he grasped my arm.

"Come, I want you," he said, and he dragged me, as if he were a young
fury, out of the room.

"What, in the name of Heaven, is the matter?" I asked of him when we
found ourselves in the hall.

"Randall has fallen over the cliff down by Porran's field," he gasped.
"I have found the--the body. Oh! no, no, what am I saying? Not the body
yet--not a body when I left it--it breathed--it just breathed when I
left. I tried to drag it up here, but it was too heavy. Come at once,
for the love of Heaven."

Other people had followed us out of the drawing-room. I encountered a
glance of fire from Miss Farnham's dark eyes--her face was like death
itself. Brabazon, in a tone full of authority, as befitted the host,
began to speak.

"Come!" he said. "Accident or no, there is not a moment to be lost in
trying to help the poor fellow. You will lead us to the spot at once,
Carleton. Come, Halifax; what a blessing that you happen to be on the
spot!"

"Get some brandy and something which we can improvise into a litter
or shutter," I exclaimed. "I am going to my room to fetch my surgical
case."

[Illustration: "I FELT FOR THE PULSE IN THE LIMP AND POWERLESS WRIST."]

I ran upstairs. A moment or two later we were on our way to the scene
of the accident. Every man of the party accompanied us, and several of
the ladies. The foremost of the group was Miss Farnham herself. She had
hastily flung a shawl over her head, and the train of her rich dinner
dress was slung across her arm. She looked at Carleton, and with a
peremptory gesture seemed to invite him to come to her side. He did so,
and they rushed on--too quickly for many of the rest of the party to
keep up with them.

It was a bright, moonlight night, and we had scarcely any need of the
lantern which Brabazon was thoughtful enough to bring with him. We had
to go some distance to reach the spot where poor Randall was lying, but
by-and-by we found him stretched partly on his back, partly rolled over
on his left side, on a little strip of sand which gleamed cold in the
moonlight.

"Yes, it was here I left him," exclaimed Carleton. He fell on his knees
as he spoke and looked intently into the poor lad's face.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, looking up at me, "he can't be dead. I
dragged him as far as this, and then left him lying on his back. See,
he has moved--he is partly on his side now!"

I motioned to Carleton to make way for me to approach. I felt for
the pulse in the limp and powerless wrist. I laid my hand on the
heart--then I gently raised the head, and felt along the region of the
skull.

"You will give him a little brandy," exclaimed Brabazon; "here is the
flask."

Miss Farnham took it out of Brabazon's hands, unscrewed it, and began
to pour some into the cup. As she did so, she knelt also on the sand. I
looked at her and felt that she would probably need the stimulant which
could avail nothing now to the dead.

"It is all over," I said; "he is dead, poor fellow!"

As I spoke, I stretched out my hand and took the brandy flask from
Miss Farnham. She looked wildly round, glanced at Carleton, gave a
piercing cry, and fell forward over Randall's body. She had completely
lost consciousness. I laid her flat on the sand, and, applying some
restoratives, she quickly came to her senses.

The body of the dead man was lifted up and laid on some boards which we
had brought with us, and we returned slowly to the house. Brabazon gave
his arm to Miss Farnham, who truly needed it, for she staggered as she
walked. I looked round for Carleton. There was a wild expression in his
eyes, which made me anxious about him. I saw, too, that he wished to
linger behind the others.

"Come," I said, going up to him, "this has given you a terrible shock;
why, you are just as much overcome as Miss Farnham."

I dragged his hand through my arm, and we followed in the rear of the
sad procession. All the way up to the house he did not speak, nor did
I trouble him with questions. I saw that his misery had made him dumb
for the time being--in short, he was in a stunned condition. I dreaded,
however, the return tide of strong emotion which must inevitably
follow this apparent calm. I guessed that Carleton was a man of strong
sensibilities. I could read character well--most men in my profession
have much practice in this art. The human eye tells a doctor a good
deal. The lips may falter out certain utterances, which the eyes will
belie. I read truth and sincerity in the honest eyes of this young man.
He was intensely reserved--he was jealous to a morbid degree--he in all
probability possessed anything but a good temper; nevertheless, his
eyes were honest, and I felt certain that he had nothing whatever to do
with poor Randall's death. Nevertheless, I knew well that appearances
were strongly against him.

When we got to the house I turned to him and said, abruptly:--

"I should like to see you in Brabazon's smoking-room in about half an
hour."

He raised sullen eyes to my face.

"Come," I said, laying my hand on his shoulder, "I tell you at once I
do not believe that you killed that poor fellow, but we must talk the
matter over. I am anxious to be your friend. It is absolutely necessary
that you should confide in someone. I am as unbiased in my views of the
whole situation as man can be. Come and talk to me in half an hour in
the smoking-room."

He did not say a word, but I knew by the way in which he suddenly
grasped my hand that he would come.

The dead man was carried into the library, where he was laid reverently
on a table. Brabazon then had a consultation with me as to the best
means of breaking the news to Lord and Lady Hartmore. Poor Randall was
their only son; it was a terrible business altogether, and Brabazon was
naturally greatly distressed.

I asked after Miss Farnham. He told me that she had gone straight to
her room. His tone was scarcely sympathetic, and I looked at him in
wonder.

"I have no patience with her," he exclaimed. "She has behaved very
badly--this awful thing would not have occurred but for her. She has
driven poor Carleton----"

I put up my hand to arrest the words.

"Hush!" I exclaimed. "You surely don't----?"

He laughed aloud in his agitation.

"I surely do," he began. "There, Halifax, we won't give the thing a
name to-night. Of course, there must be a coroner's inquest."

"Yes," I replied.

"It is a terrible thing altogether," continued Brabazon; "and to think
of its happening here. And to Randall, of all people--a man with his
expectations. Well, it is a lesson which Miss Farnham may well lay to
heart."

We were standing together in the library--the hour was now nearly
midnight. The body of the dead man lay on the centre table covered with
a white sheet. There came a knock at the door, and to my dismay and
astonishment I saw Carleton enter the room.

"I heard voices, and guessed you would be here," he exclaimed. "I have
recovered my nerves to a certain extent, and wish to tell you, sir,"
looking at his host, "and you also, Dr. Halifax, exactly what has
occurred."

"Come into the smoking-room," said Brabazon, not unkindly.

"No," answered the poor lad. "If you will allow me, I will tell my
story here. There is not much to tell, but what there is had best be
told in the presence of----" his lip trembled--he could not get further
words out. He sank suddenly into a chair, and covered his white face
with his shaking hands. "We must humour him," I said, turning and
speaking in a whisper to Brabazon--"and before God," I continued,
impulsively, "I believe he is as innocent as I am."

[Illustration: "HE COVERED HIS WHITE FACE WITH HIS SHAKING HANDS."]

I drew forward a chair for myself as I spoke, but Brabazon stood by the
hearth.

Carleton began to speak almost directly--his emotion was quickly
mastered.

"I have loved Barbara Farnham for two years. At intervals she has given
me great encouragement, and I had fair hopes of winning her until
she met Randall in this house a fortnight ago. This morning I felt
desperate, and resolved to put my fortunes to the test. I asked her to
give me an interview after breakfast, as you doubtless noticed." He
paused and looked at me--I nodded my head, and he continued: "We went
into the conservatory, and I--I spoke to her. I told her the naked
truth, perhaps a little too bluntly. I asked her if she really meant
to--no, I must not say what I did ask her. It is unfair--unfair to her.
From her manner and her words I plainly gathered that she preferred
Randall to me, and that I had no chance whatever of winning her.
Perhaps I lost my temper--anyhow, it was unmanly of me to say what I
did. I accused her of valuing Randall's position. I told her plainly
that if Randall and I could change places, I should be the favoured
one. We had a disagreement; our interview was full of pain, at least
to me. When I left Miss Farnham the Evil One seemed to enter into me,
and I hated Randall as I never knew before that I could hate anyone. I
would not ride with the others, but went away by myself, and the whole
day has been a long agony to me.

"My hatred to Randall grew worse and worse, until its vehemence
half frightened me. We used to be good friends, too. After dinner
I felt that I could not bear a couple of conventional hours in the
drawing-room, and went out to nurse my misery in the open air. I had no
idea that Randall was also out. I went along by the shore, but mounted
to the higher cliffs on my way back. I intended to leave Penporran
early to-morrow, and felt impatient for the hour when I could get away
from the loathsome sight of my successful rival.

"As I was walking along by the edge of the cliffs, and had just entered
Porran's field, I felt my heart jump into my mouth, for Randall was
coming to meet me. He was about a hundred yards away when I first saw
him. He is a taller man than I, and he seemed to stand out sharply
between me and the sky. I knew by his attitude that he was smoking a
cigar. I stood still for a moment. I did not want to pass him. My heart
was full of torment, and I hated to meet him out there, with not a soul
to stand between us. You know that part of the cliff, Mr. Brabazon?
Randall had just come to that portion of it which is railed in to keep
the cattle from tumbling over. I don't know what possessed him to
take the outside path, which is very narrow and slippery. He did so,
however; and now, for the first time, he must have noticed me. I was
within fifty yards of him, coming also along the edge of the cliff. He
stood stock still, as if something or somebody had shot him. I thought
he was about to shout to me, but instead of doing so, he threw up one
hand and clutched his brow. The next instant he began to sway from side
to side, and before I could approach him, he had fallen over the cliff,
down that awful height!

"My absolute surprise stunned me for a moment--then I ran up to the
spot where he had fallen, and throwing myself on my face and hands,
looked over the cliff, in the hopes that he might have clung on to
something. The moon was bright, but I could not see him. Looking down
from that height made me dizzy, and I saw there was nothing for it but
to retrace my steps as fast as possible to the shore. I ran quickly,
and was breathless when I got up to him. He was lying on his back,
with his arms stretched out--some blood was oozing from his mouth. I
wiped it away and called to him, and putting my arms under his head,
tried to lift him. He moaned and moved faintly. I felt his limbs--they
seemed all right. I had a wild hope that he was only stunned, and tried
to drag him along the shore. He was too heavy for me, however, and I
feared that I was only injuring him in my attempt to get him back to
the house. I laid him as easily as I could on a piece of sand above
high-water mark, and then ran back to Penporran. It was on my way back
that the awful idea first occurred to me that Barbara would think I
had killed him. I seemed to see all the circumstances of his terrible
death with preternatural clearness, and I felt sure that the gravest
suspicion would attach to me. I have come to this room now to tell you
both, before Heaven, and in the presence of the dead man, the solemn
truth. Of course, I cannot compel you to believe me."

Carleton stood up as he uttered these last words. His attitude was very
manly, and the look on his face was at once straightforward and quiet.
I liked him better than I thought I ever could have liked him. I felt
deep sympathy for him, and looked at Brabazon, expecting him to share
my sentiments. To my surprise, however, I saw by the expression round
his lips that he was not favourably impressed by Carleton, and that his
feelings towards him were the reverse of sympathetic.

Carleton looked full at him, expecting him to speak. When he did not,
the poor fellow repeated his last remark, a faint quaver perceptible in
his voice:

"Of course, I cannot compel you to believe me."

"Thank you for coming to see us," said Brabazon then; "you have been
the first to give name to a suspicion which will, doubtless, be
harboured by more than one person who has known all the circumstances
of this unhappy case. I sincerely pity you, Carleton, but I prefer to
keep my judgment in abeyance for the time being. Halifax will tell
you that a coroner's inquest will be necessary. At the inquest the
whole matter will be gone carefully into. You may be certain that all
possible justice will be done you."

"Justice!" exclaimed Carleton, a faint smile playing for an instant
round his lips. "Justice, when there were no witnesses! Oh, that the
dead could speak!" He turned abruptly and prepared to leave the room.

Brabazon called after him.

"You must give me your word of honour that you will not attempt to
leave Penporran before the inquest."

"You may rest assured on that point." said Carleton.

He left the room. The restraint he was putting upon himself gave a
dignity to his whole bearing which impressed me much.

"I fully believe in that poor fellow's innocence," I said, as soon as
the door had closed behind him. Brabazon gave me a keen glance.

"You are a good judge of character," he said, after a pause; "still, I
prefer to keep my judgment in abeyance."

Shortly afterwards he bade me good-night, and I retired to my own room.
I closed the door and stood by the hearth, where the ashes of the fire,
which had been lit some hours previous and had long ago burnt itself
out, were to be seen.

I felt too restless to go to bed, and wished the morning would come. I
was standing so, thinking over all the circumstances which had turned
our gay party into one of mourning, when I heard a footfall outside
my door. I thought it might possibly be Carleton, and going across
the room, I opened the door and went out into the corridor. To my
astonishment, Miss Farnham, still wearing her gay evening dress, stood
before me.

"I was thinking of knocking at your door," she said, "but had scarcely
courage to do so. I want to speak to you."

"I will see you in the morning," I said.

"It is morning already," she replied. "This is no time for
conventionality, Dr. Halifax; I wish to speak to you now. You cannot
sleep, and no more can I. Please follow me to Mrs. Brabazon's
sitting-room, where a fire and a lamp are still burning."

She led the way, and I obeyed her without a word.

"Now tell me the truth." she said, the moment we found ourselves in
the room. "Will Mr. Carleton be accused of having murdered poor Arthur
Randall?"

[Illustration: "PLEASE FOLLOW ME."]

"There is no doubt that grave suspicion will attach to him," I
answered, without hesitation.

"But you think him innocent?" she queried.

"I think him innocent. As innocent as you or I."

"Oh, don't speak of me," she said, sinking suddenly on the sofa. "Pray
don't mention my innocence. But for me this tragedy would never have
happened."

I looked long at her before I replied.

"In one sense you may be right," I answered; "it is quite possible that
but for you Carleton would not have witnessed Randall's death. Still,
you must not be unfair to yourself--you are not accountable for the
sudden brain seizure which must have caused Randall to reel and fall
over the cliff."

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Carleton has just described the accident to Brabazon and me," I
answered. "He saw Randall sway and fall over the cliff. I believe his
story, although I fear few people will agree with me."

"I don't know the story," she said, faintly. "Pray tell it to me."

I did so in a few words.

"You believe all this?" she said, with intense eagerness, when I had
done speaking.

"Yes."

"How do you account for Mr. Randall's death?"

I could not help sighing deeply.

"You allude now to the difficulty of the position," I said. "At the
present moment I cannot account for Randall's death. A man in perfect
health is not often attacked with such violent vertigo as to cause him
to lose the power of keeping himself upright." Then I paused--I was
thinking deeply. "Undoubtedly there have been such cases," I said, "but
they are rare."

I remembered, as I spoke, Randall's change of colour and the sudden
pressure of his hand to his head that morning at breakfast.

"You have seen a good deal of the poor fellow," I said. "Did he ever
at any time complain of peculiar symptoms to you? Did you ever notice
anything about him which would lead you not to suppose him in perfect
health?"

"Never," she said at once, emphatically. "He always seemed to me to be
the perfect embodiment of the rudest health and strength."

"The death is very mysterious," I said; "and while I personally believe
poor Carleton's story, I fear matters will go hard with him."

I was about to leave the room, as I did not imagine Miss Farnham could
have anything further to say to me, when she exclaimed, impulsively,
her eyes filled with the most terrible anguish, her face turning white
as death: "If, indeed, this thing is true, and if Ronald Carleton has
to suffer in consequence of Mr. Randall's death, I shall put an end to
my own life."

"Nonsense!" I said, sharply. "You must not speak in that wild way. You
know you don't mean a word that you say."

"You mistake me," she replied. "I exaggerate nothing. I state a simple
fact when I tell you that if Ronald Carleton suffers for this, my
remorse will be greater than I can bear. I have behaved badly to him."

"Yes, God knows you have!" I interrupted. I felt angry with her, and
did not want to spare her at that moment. "You have behaved badly to
as honest and true-hearted a man as ever breathed. When will beautiful
women like you learn that men's hearts are not mere balls to be kicked
here and there?"

"Oh, yes, you are right to abuse me," she said. "Go on, go on. I am so
unhappy that nothing you can say will add to my pain. My cup of misery
is full. I have ruined the man I love."

"The man you love?" I queried, looking at her in astonishment. "Nay,
you must not be too hard on yourself. You surely are not accountable
for Randall's tragic end. If Carleton's story is true, he died from
sudden vertigo. You were kind to him while he lived--you have nothing
to reproach yourself with on that score."

"Yes, I have," she answered, with sudden passion. "I deceived him. I
made him think that I loved him; in reality, he was nothing to me. It
is Ronald Carleton whom I love."

"Then, in the name of the Evil One----" I began.

"Yes, you may well quote the Evil One," she retorted. "I think he has
been about the house all day. I think he entered into me this morning
when poor Ronald spoke to me. The Evil One held me back then from
telling him what I really thought. I gave him to understand that I--I
hated him, and all the time I loved him--I loved him then--I love him
now--I shall love him for ever! The dead man is nothing to me: less
than nothing!"

[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG HERSELF ON HER KNEES AT MY FEET."]

She began to walk up and down the room: fever spots burnt on her
cheeks; her eyes looked wild; she clenched her right hand.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, after a pause. "You have been good
enough to confide in me: you must have done so for a reason."

She stopped her restless walk and came close to me.

"I have heard of you before, Dr. Halifax," she said. "This is not the
first time you have been asked to help people in trouble. I want you to
help me--will you help me?"

"With all my power, if I can."

"You can. Find out what killed Mr. Randall. Save Ronald Carleton."

"I wish I could," I said, reflectively.

"Oh, it won't be difficult," she replied.

I looked at her in surprise.

"What can you mean?" I asked.

To my amazement, she flung herself on her knees at my feet.

"You can invent something," she said, clasping my hand and pressing it
frantically between both her own. "Oh, it would not be a crime--and
it would save a life--two lives. Say you saw symptoms of apoplexy.
Say--oh, you will know what to say--and you are a great doctor, and you
will be believed."

"Get up," I said, sternly; "I will forgive your wild words, for
circumstances have excited you so much that you do not quite know what
you are saying. Believe me that nothing would give me more sincere
satisfaction than to be able to discover the real cause of poor
Randall's death. But you mistake your man utterly when you make the
suggestion you do. Now I must leave you. It is almost morning, and I
have promised to meet Brabazon downstairs at an early hour."

I went back to my own room, where I sat in anxious thought until the
time which Brabazon had appointed for us to meet arrived. I then went
down to the smoking-room, where I found him.

He looked harassed and ill--no wonder. The subject we had met to
discuss was how best the news of their only son's death was to be
broken to Lord and Lady Hartmore. The Hartmores' place was situated
about a hundred miles away. Brabazon said that there was nothing
whatever for it but to telegraph the unhappy circumstance to them.

"And I fear doing so very much," he added, "for Hartmore is not strong:
he has a rather dangerous heart affection."

"Don't telegraph," I said, impulsively; "I will go and see them."

"You!" exclaimed Brabazon. "That would be an immense relief. You
will know how to break the news in the least startling way. I should
recommend you to see Lady Hartmore if possible first--she is a
strong-minded woman, and has a fine character. But, at best, the shock
will be terrible--it is good of you, Halifax, to undertake so fearful a
mission."

"Not at all," I replied. "Will you come with me?"

"I fear I cannot. My wife is very much shaken, and I ought not to leave
her with a house full of people."

"I suppose most of your guests will leave to-day?"

"Probably; still, for the time being, they are here. Then there is the
inquest, which will most likely take place to-day."

"I was going to propose," I said, "that a post-mortem examination
should precede the inquest."

Brabazon raised his brows--he looked annoyed.

"Is that necessary?" he asked--"a post-mortem examination will only add
needlessly to the sufferings of the unfortunate parents. In this case,
surely, the cause of death is clearly defined--fracture of the skull?"

"The cause of death _is_ clearly defined," I answered, "but not the
cause of the sudden vertigo."

"The sudden vertigo, according to Carleton's account," corrected
Brabazon. He did not say anything further for a moment--nor did I.
After a pause, he continued: "As you are good enough to say you will go
to Tregunnel, I will ask you to take poor Randall's last letter with
you. I went into his room yesterday evening, and found one directed to
his mother on the writing-table. She will prize it, of course. Now I
had better look up your train."

He did so, and half an hour afterwards I was driving as fast as a pair
of horses could take me to the nearest railway station. I caught an
early train to Tregunnel, and arrived there between nine and ten that
morning. A cab conveyed me to the castle, which stood on a little
eminence above the sleepy-looking town.

My errand was, in truth, a gloomy one. During the journey I had
made up my mind for every reason to see Lady Hartmore first. When
the servant opened the door, I asked for her, and giving the man my
card, told him that I wished to see his mistress alone on a matter
of urgent importance. I was shown into a morning-room, and in a very
short time Lady Hartmore came in. She was a tall, fine-looking woman,
with a likeness to her dead son about her kindly, well-opened eyes and
pleasant mouth.

My name and the message I had sent to her by the servant naturally
startled her. She gave me a keen glance when she entered the room,
which I returned with interest. I saw at once that her heart was strong
enough, her nature brave enough, to stand the full weight of the
terrible calamity without breaking down.

"I have come to see you on a most painful matter," I began at once. "I
am just now visiting the Brabazons at Penporran."

"Then it is something about my son," she exclaimed, instantly. Her
face grew very pale; she pressed her hand to her left side, and looked
hurriedly towards the door.

"Lord Hartmore may come in, if you are not quick," she said. "He was in
the breakfast-room when the servant brought me your card and message.
Please tell what you have got to say at once--I can bear a shock, but
he cannot."

Poor wife! poor mother! Her eyes looked at me with dumb entreaty, while
her lips uttered the words of courage.

"Women like you, Lady Hartmore," I could not help uttering,
impulsively, "are always brave. It is my terrible mission to inflict a
great blow upon you--your son has met with an accident."

"Is he dead?" she asked. She came close to me as she spoke, her voice
had sunk to a hoarse whisper.

[Illustration: "'IS HE DEAD?' SHE ASKED."]

"He is dead," I replied, instantly; "sit down."

I motioned her to a chair--she obeyed me.

"Lock the door," she said; "Lord Hartmore must not--must not know of
this--quite yet."

I did what she asked me, and then went and stood with my back to her in
one of the windows.

As I did so I felt in my pocket for the letter which Brabazon was
to have given me. It was not there. I then remembered that in the
excitement of my getting off in time to catch the train we must both
have forgotten it.

After a time Lady Hartmore's voice, sounding hollow and low, reached my
ears.

"Tell me the particulars," she said.

I did so. I sat down near her and told them as briefly as possible. She
listened attentively. When I had finished she said, in a puzzled tone:--

"I cannot account for the sudden giddiness. Arthur always had excellent
health." Then she looked me full in the face. "Do you believe the
story, Dr. Halifax?"

I thought for a moment, then I said, emphatically:--

"Yes, I believe it."

She did not speak at all for the best part of a moment. Then she gave a
heavy sigh.

"After all," she said, "the thing that affects us is the death. He is
dead. The inevitable has overtaken him. It scarcely matters how it
happened--at least not now--not to me."

"Pardon me," I interrupted, "it matters a great deal how it happened.
The cause of your son's death will be a question of anxious
investigation--of the gravest and most searching inquiries. I fully
believe the story which Carleton told us last night, but there are
others who will--who must--suspect him of foul play. Is it possible,
Lady Hartmore--is it in any way within the province of woman, so
completely to forget herself in this moment of terrible anguish, as to
live for another? You can do nothing now for the dead, but you can do
much, very much, for the living."

"You mean for my husband?" she inquired.

"Not alone for your husband--not even principally for him. You can do
much for the man who will be accused of the crime of having murdered
your son. I can only repeat my firm conviction of his innocence, but
the grounds for my belief, at present, go for nothing; circumstances
prove a grave case against him. Your son, to all appearance, was
much attached to the girl whom Carleton loved and loves. Yesterday
morning Carleton received what he considered a final rejection from
Miss Farnham. She spent the day with your son; she gave him every
encouragement. Carleton was morose, gloomy, jealous. His jealousy and
gloom were noticed by every member of our party. Carleton and your son
both absented themselves from the drawing-room after dinner. It was
during that time that the accident, which deprived your son of his
life, took place. There will, of course, be a coroner's inquest. At
the inquest the circumstances which I have just alluded to will come
out, and there is no question but that Carleton will be arrested on
suspicion and sent to trial--unless, indeed, you will help me."

"How can I help you?" she asked. "What am I to do? You ask me to share
your belief, which seems to me to be based on nothing. Suppose I cannot
share it?"

I was silent for a moment.

"I will tell you what I want you to do," I said then. "I want you to
join me in insisting on having a post-mortem examination."

She gave me a glance of horror.

"Why?" she asked. "Why must the sleep of the dead be disturbed?"

Before I could answer her, Lord Hartmore's voice was heard at the door.

She was a brave woman, but at the sound of her husband's voice her
courage for a moment deserted her.

"How--how can I break it to him?" she gasped. "Oh, please, don't leave
me."

"No," I said, "I will stay with you."

I unlocked the door myself, and a white-headed, feeble-looking man came
querulously into the room.

His wife rose to meet him. She put her arms around him and some way,
somehow, conveyed the terrible tidings to his mind. I need scarcely
linger over the hour that followed. At the end of that time I was
accompanying the Hartmores back to Penporran. During the journey my
companions were almost completely silent. Lady Hartmore kept her
veil down, and, I felt sure, wished to avoid speaking to me. The old
lord was completely prostrated with grief. Not by word or hint had
either parent given me the slightest clue by which I could insist on a
post-mortem examination. Their son had evidently enjoyed perfect health
during his brief life. I saw that circumstances were very black against
Carleton.

It was evening when we reached Penporran. Lord and Lady Hartmore went
at once to a private suite of rooms which had been got ready for their
reception. As soon as I could I sought an interview with Brabazon.

"Most of our visitors have left us," he said. "But Miss Farnham and, of
course, Carleton, remain. The inquest is to take place in the library
at an early hour to-morrow."

I was silent for a moment, then I said, abruptly:

"Even at the risk of annoying you, Brabazon, I must repeat my strong
desire that a post-mortem should precede the coroner's inquest."

"Have you spoken to the Hartmores on the subject?" inquired Brabazon.

I told him that I had mentioned my wish to Lady Hartmore.

"And what did she say?" he asked.

"She shrank from the idea with horror," I was obliged to confess.

"You can scarcely blame her," said Brabazon. "Why should the poor
fellow's body be unnecessarily disturbed? The fact is, I have the
greatest faith in your judgment, Halifax, but I think in the present
instance you carry your sympathy for Ronald Carleton too far. The cause
of death in the case of poor Randall was so absolutely apparent, that I
do not think you will get the coroner to consent to a post-mortem."

"There is one thing that occurred to me," I said: "if Randall met his
death by violence, there would be some traces of a struggle at the spot
where he fell over. Randall would not tamely submit to murder--he was
a big man and muscular. Has the path along the cliff been carefully
searched?"

"Yes," replied Brabazon, "and there is no trace anywhere of a struggle.
A little blood has been discovered on a sharp point of rock just where
Carleton described the fall to have taken place. The marks of a heavy
body being dragged along the sands above high-water mark have also been
seen. All these evidences are, of course, I am bound to say, quite
consistent with Carleton's story. The blood on the rock indicates also
the exact spot of the accident."

"That was where the vault of the skull was broken," I said. "By the
way, you forgot to give me poor Randall's letter to his mother.
Doubtless Lady Hartmore would like to have it without a moment's delay."

Brabazon started, and put his hand in his pocket.

"I put the letter here," he said, "intending to give it to you as you
were starting; of course, I forgot it. Here it is; no, though, there is
nothing in my pocket. Surely I can't have dropped it anywhere. I know
I put it here this morning. I rushed up to the poor fellow's room to
fetch it just when the brougham was coming round."

"You did not give it to me," I said; "that letter ought to be found:
it may be of the utmost importance. Was that the coat you wore this
morning?"

"Yes, I have not been out of it all day; you don't know what a rush and
confusion the whole place has been in."

"You will look for the letter, won't you, Brabazon? I cannot quite tell
you why, but it will give me a sense of relief to know that it has been
found before the inquest takes place to-morrow morning."

Soon afterwards we parted. I went into one of the morning-rooms, where
I found Mrs. Brabazon. I made inquiries with regard to Carleton and
Miss Farnham.

"I have not seen either of them," replied my hostess. "I believe Mr.
Carleton has spent the day in his room, and a servant told me that
Barbara Farnham was not well. I hear she has not risen at all to-day."

"Poor girl!" I ejaculated.

Mrs. Brabazon looked at me with languid interest--she was a very
lethargic person.

"Yes," she ejaculated, after a pause--"this tragedy will be a sad blow
to Barbara. She is as ambitious as she is handsome. She would have made
a regal-looking Lady Hartmore."

I said nothing further--I could not betray the poor girl's secret, nor
let Mrs. Brabazon know what a small place high position and greatness
occupied just now in Miss Farnham's thoughts.

Just before the inquest the next morning, I asked Brabazon if the
missing letter had been found.

"No," he said--"I cannot tell you how vexed I am about it. Every
conceivable hole and corner both in the house and out has been
searched, but no trace of the letter has been discovered. What I fear
is that when I was down on the shore yesterday making investigations,
it may have dropped out of my pocket and been washed away with the
incoming tide. I cannot think of any other cause for its absolute
disappearance. I beg of you, Halifax, not to say anything to Lady
Hartmore about it for the present."

"Of course not," I answered, in some surprise at the request.

I then ran upstairs. I must, of course, be present at the inquest, but
I had still a moment at my disposal. I went boldly to Miss Farnham's
door and knocked. After a very brief pause she opened it herself
and stood before me. She was fully dressed. Her face was of a dead
white--all the beautiful warmth of colour had fled.

"I am told I must be present at the inquest," she said. "Is it time for
me to go downstairs? Have you come to fetch me?" She shuddered visibly
as she spoke.

"I have come to ask you to help me," I said, eagerly. "I will manage to
account for your absence in the library. Put on your hat; I want you to
go out at once."

"What do you mean?" she asked, in astonishment.

"I will tell you," I said. "On the day of his death Randall wrote a
letter to his mother. That letter has been lost. Brabazon had it in
his pocket and has dropped it--no one knows where. There is no saying,
Miss Farnham, what important evidence that letter may contain. I am
sure it is not in the house. Brabazon believes that he dropped it when
exploring the coast yesterday. Will you go at once and look for it? The
moment you discover it, bring it to the library. Now, be as quick as
ever you can."

"Yes," she replied, the soul in her eyes leaping up with a sudden
renewed joy. She turned, pinned a hat on her head, wrapped a shawl
round her, and ran downstairs. Her woman's wit grasped the whole
situation at a glance. I went to the library, feeling assured that if
poor Randall's letter were still in existence, Miss Farnham would find
it.

There were present at the inquest Lady Hartmore, Brabazon and his wife,
Carleton, and two gentlemen who had not yet left the house. Also, of
course, the coroner and the jury. The moment I entered the room I
glanced at the coroner; I had not seen him before. He was a little old
gentleman, with a somewhat irascible expression of face, and a testy
manner. I looked from him to poor Carleton, whom I had not seen since
the time when he told his story in this room. The body of the dead man
had been placed in a shell, and still occupied the central table of the
library. Lady Hartmore sat near it. A sheet covered the face of the
dead. Once I saw her raise her hand and touch the sheet reverently.
She had the attitude of one who was protecting the body from intended
violence. Her position and the look on her face reminded me of Rispah.

I looked again from her to Carleton. It was necessary for me to glance
at the poor fellow, and to notice the despair on his face, to enable
me to go up to the coroner, and urge upon him the necessity of a
post-mortem preceding the inquest. He did not take my suggestion kindly.

"The cause of death is abundantly evident," he said, with irritation.
"I cannot counsel a post-mortem examination."

"And I will not hear of it," said Lady Hartmore, looking at me with
eyes full of reproach.

"Pray say nothing more about it," exclaimed Carleton.

I bowed, and sat down.

The inquest was conducted with extreme care, but soon Miss Farnham's
presence was found necessary, and her absence commented upon. I saw
Carleton start when her name was mentioned, and a look of extreme
distress filled his eyes.

"I will go and find her," said Mrs. Brabazon, leaving the room.

She returned in a moment to say that Miss Farnham was not in her room,
and that no one seemed to know anything about her.

"I have sent several servants into the grounds to look for her," she
said.

As Miss Farnham was an important witness, having spent almost the
entire day previous to his death with poor Randall, proceedings were
delayed during her absence.

The case, however, seemed as black as could be against Carleton, and I
had not the least doubt that the coroner would order a warrant to be
issued for his arrest on suspicion.

My one last hope now hung on Miss Farnham's being able to find the
missing letter, and then on the letter containing evidence which would
give a medical cause for poor Randall's extraordinary death.

I seldom found myself in a more torturing position than during the
time of this inquest. Relief, however, was at hand. I heard the sound
of light and quickly moving feet in the hall. The door of the library
was opened, not softly and with reverent hush, but with the eager,
impetuous movement of someone in hot haste. Miss Farnham came into the
room with a wild colour in her cheeks and a wild, bright light in her
eyes. Her skirts were draggled and wet, her hair was loosened and fell
over her shoulders--she had cast away both hat and shawl.

[Illustration: "I CLIMBED THE CLIFF AND GOT THE PAPER."]

"There," she said, going straight up to Lady Hartmore; "there's your
letter--the last letter your son ever wrote to you. It was lost, or
supposed to be lost, but I found it. I walked along the cliff, close to
the edge--very close. There is a part where the cliff is undermined. I
lay on my face and hands and looked over. I saw, far below me, a tiny
ledge of rock: there was a bush growing there, and, sticking in the
bush, something white--it might be a useless rag or a piece of torn
paper, or it might be a letter of importance. The tide was coming in
fast; still, I thought that I had time. I put wings to my feet and
rushed down a narrow path which led to the beach below. The tide had
already come up and was wetting the base of the rock above which the
bush which contained the white paper stood.

"I waded through the water and climbed the cliff and got the paper. I
scrambled down again. When I came back the water was up to my knees.
I crossed it safely, and mounted to the higher cliff again. Then, for
the first time, I examined my prize. Yes, it was a letter--it was
open. I don't know what had become of its covering. I sat on the grass
and I read it--yes, I read every word. Here it is now, and you can
read it. Read it aloud, please, for it is important--it explains, it
saves! Ronald, it saves you!" Here the excited girl paused in her eager
narrative, and turned her full gaze upon Carleton, who was bending
forward to listen to her. "It saves you," she repeated; "it exonerates
you completely!"

The commotion and interest which Miss Farnham's words and manner
excited can be better felt than described. Lady Hartmore stood up and
confronted the breathless girl. She held out her hand and clutched the
letter, which was torn and dirty from its long exposure to wind and
weather. She held it close and looked at it. It was in the beloved
writing of the dead. The dead man was her only son--the letter was
addressed to her, his mother. It contained a last message from the
brain now silent--from the heart now still.

Tears filled her eyes.

"I must read this letter in private," she faltered. "This last letter
of my boy's is too sacred for anyone but his mother to hear--I must
read it alone."

"No," interrupted Miss Farnham, "it contains important information. I
will call upon the coroner to insist on its being read aloud. I risked
my life to get it. Another life hangs upon the information it contains.
Dr. Halifax, you are a medical man--will you insist on this letter
being read aloud?"

I went up to Lady Hartmore and said something to her in a low voice.
She listened attentively--she considered my words. After a pause she
put the letter into my hands.

"If it must be, it must," she said. "This is the last drop in the
bitterness of my cup."

She sat down, and flinging out her two arms, stretched them over the
body of the dead man. Once more her attitude and manner reminded me of
Rispah.

Miss Farnham stood close to Lady Hartmore. She forgot her dishevelled
hair, her disordered appearance. All her soul filled the eyes which she
raised expectantly to my face.

I glanced hurriedly through the letter, then I spoke.

"There is a good deal in this sheet of paper which is strictly
private," I said, "and need not be read for the benefit of the coroner
and the jury; but there are some sentences referring to the state of
Mr. Randall's health which are, as Miss Farnham remarked, of the utmost
importance. I will now proceed to read that portion of the letter."

I did so in a loud, clear voice.

These were poor Randall's words:--

"As far as I can tell, I am in perfect health, but for the last week
or so, I have been suffering at intervals from a strange form of
giddiness. I feel as though I were made to turn round and round, or
against my will impelled to go forwards, or backwards, or to one side.
Sometimes the giddiness takes another form--I fancy that objects are
revolving round _me_. I am perfectly conscious all the time, but the
giddiness is generally accompanied by a distinct sensation of nausea.
Very often the act of closing my eyes removes the vertigo completely
for the time being. When the attack goes off I feel perfectly well,
only I fancy I am suffering from continued deafness in my right ear. I
don't know why I am impelled to tell you this--it is not worth making
a fuss over. If I were to consult a medical man, he would probably set
it down to a form of indigestion. I had a slight attack this morning at
breakfast. If it continues or gets worse, I will take the opportunity
of consulting a London doctor who happens to be in the house."

I did not read any more, but folding up the letter returned it to Lady
Hartmore. Both Carleton and Miss Farnham had approached each other in
their excitement.

I looked beyond them to the coroner.

"I am sure," I said, "that I now express Lady Hartmore's sentiments
as well as my own, when I demand that this inquest be adjourned until
a post-mortem examination has been made on the body of the dead man.
The symptoms which he describes in the letter which I have just read
aloud distinctly point to a disease of the inner ear, well known to
the medical faculty, although not of common occurrence. I will ask the
coroner to take immediate steps to get the services of two independent
doctors to conduct the post-mortem, at which I should wish to be
present."

My words were followed by a slight pause--the coroner then agreed to my
wishes, and the inquest was adjourned.

The post-mortem took place on the afternoon of that same day, and the
results amply accounted for the strange symptoms which poor Randall
had so faithfully described in his last letter to his mother. On the
right side of that portion of the base of the skull which contains
the delicate organs of hearing, we found a small, bony excrescence
growing down into the labyrinth or inner ear. This, though small, was
undoubtedly the cause of the terrible attacks of vertigo which the poor
fellow complained of, and in one of which he met with his tragic death.

The coroner's inquest was resumed on the following day, and, of course,
Carleton was abundantly exonerated.

It was two years afterwards, however, before I accidentally saw in the
_Times_ the announcement of his marriage with Miss Farnham.




_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._


MR. JUSTICE LOPES.

                              BORN 1828.

[Illustration: AGE 34.

_From a Photo. by J. F. Long, Exeter._]

[Illustration: AGE 48.

_From a Photo. by Alexander Bassano._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

The Right Hon. Sir Henry Charles Lopes, P.C., Lord Justice of the
Court of Appeal, third son of the late Sir Ralph Lopes, the second
baronet of Maristow, was born at Devonport, and received his education
at Winchester School and at Balliol College, Oxford (B.A. 1850). He
was called to the Bar of the Inner Temple in 1852. Mr. Lopes was made
Recorder of Exeter in 1867, obtained his silk gown in 1869, and was
elected a Bencher of his Inn shortly afterwards. In April, 1868, he was
returned to the House of Commons as member for Launceston. On November
3rd, 1876, he accepted the vacant Judgeship in the Court of Common
Pleas, and shortly afterwards received the honour of Knighthood. In
1885 he was appointed a Lord Justice of Appeal, and subsequently sworn
of the Privy Council. Sir Henry was Treasurer of the Inner Temple for
the year 1890, and is a member of the Council of Legal Education.


THE GRAND DUKE OF HESSE.

                              BORN 1868.

[Illustration: AGE 15.

_From a Photo. by Carl Backofen, Darmstadt._]

[Illustration: AGE 21.

_From a Photo. by Carl Backofen, Darmstadt._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by Carl Backofen, Darmstadt._]

The marriage of the Princess Victoria Melita of Saxe-Coburg and
Edinburgh to the Grand Duke Ernest of Hesse, which is fixed to take
place on April the 22nd, and at which Her Majesty the Queen, the
Emperor of Germany, and other notabilities will be present, will almost
coincide with the appearance of these portraits. H.R.H. the Grand Duke
Ernest of Hesse Darmstadt was born in Darmstadt, Germany, on the 25th
of November, 1868, and succeeded his father, Louis IV., to the throne
in March, 1892. On his accession to the throne he concluded his speech
with the following words: "I shall try to follow in the footsteps of my
dear father. And I beg of you to help me as you have helped him, not
for duty only, but also out of love." The Duke is the eldest son of the
late Princess Alice, and is, therefore, a grandson of the Queen. In
offering our sincere congratulations and best wishes to the youthful
pair, we are sure that every reader of THE STRAND MAGAZINE will
cordially join us.


PRINCESS VICTORIA MELITA OF SAXE-COBURG AND EDINBURGH.

                              BORN 1876.

[Illustration: AGE 2.

_From a Photo. by Schevegerle, Coburg._]

[Illustration: AGE 4.

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: AGE 10.

_From a Photo. by Hughes & Mullins, Ryde._]

[Illustration: AGE 14.

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by Heath, Plymouth._]

Princess Victoria Melita, of whom we have the pleasure of here
presenting a most charming set of portraits, is the second daughter
of the Duke and Duchess of Saxe-Coburg and Edinburgh. She was born on
the 25th of November, 1876, and it will be seen that the happy pair
therefore celebrate their respective birthdays on the same date.


THE BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

                              BORN 1824.

[Illustration: AGE 4.

_From a Drawing._]

[Illustration: AGE 24.

_From a Daguerreotype._]

[Illustration: AGE 38.

_From a Photo. by Kilburn, Regent St._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by Elliott d'Fry._]

The Right Rev. John Jas. Stewart Perowne, D.D., was born at Burdwan,
Bengal, of a family of French extraction, that came over to this
country at the revocation of the French Edict of Nantes. He was
educated at Norwich Grammar School, and at Corpus Christi College,
Cambridge. Dr. Perowne took his B.A. degree in 1845, and that of
M.A. in 1848, and was elected a Fellow of his College in 1849. He
was appointed Honorary Chaplain to the Queen in 1875. In 1890 he was
consecrated Bishop of Worcester, in succession to Dr. Philpott, who
resigned.


MR. CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, M.P.

                              BORN 1836.

[Illustration: AGE 15.

_From a Bust._]

[Illustration: AGE 32.

_From a Photo. by Maull & Co., London._]

[Illustration: AGE 41.

_From a Photo. by Van Bosh, Paris._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

The Right Hon. Henry Campbell-Bannerman, M.P., is the second son of the
late Sir James Campbell, of Stracathro, Forfarshire. He was educated at
Trinity College, Cambridge (B.A., 1858--M.A., 1861). He is a magistrate
for the counties of Lanark and Kent, and has represented the Stirling
Boroughs in the Liberal interest since December, 1868. He was Financial
Secretary at the War Office from 1871 to 1874; was again appointed
to that office in 1880; and in May, 1882, succeeded Mr. Trevelyan as
Secretary to the Admiralty. On the resignation of Mr. Trevelyan he was
appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, 1884-5, and has held the office
of Secretary of State for War since 1892.




_Crimes and Criminals._


No. III.--COINERS AND COINING.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--BURNISHING BOARD.]

The up-to-date counterfeit-money coiner is one of the most difficult
individuals with whom the police have to deal. He is a positive artist.
He no longer cuts shillings with a pair of scissors out of brass
and silvers them over, as was done in the early part of the present
century. He employs more scientific means, and his methods are such
that only men of considerable ingenuity and inventive powers could
possibly hope to bring them to a successful issue. But, alas! as in
most things--woman's in it!--and to the fair sex belongs the first
case on record in which any person appears to have been executed for
counterfeiting the coin of the realm.

In May, 1721, Barbara Spencer had the crime brought home to her
of indulging in the--in those days--highly treasonable pastime of
manufacturing shilling pieces. She employed two other women, Alice
Hall and Elizabeth Bray, to act as her agents, or "passers," and it is
a significant fact that in almost every case of counterfeiting up to
the present day women are employed in this particular branch of the
profession. Barbara, it should be mentioned, was strangled and burned
at Tyburn, on the 5th July, 1721, her accomplices being acquitted.

The question may be asked: Is the manufacture of counterfeit coin in
a flourishing condition? The answer is a very decided affirmative.
True, the convictions against counterfeiters are few and far
between; but that is owing to the very elaborate measures adopted
by the counterfeiters themselves of preventing a knowledge of their
whereabouts becoming the property of the police. Your next-door
neighbour may be a magnificent hand at turning out "five-bob" pieces;
your butcher, greengrocer, and milk purveyor may all be adepts at the
game. In proof of this, examine this bell and its companion. One is an
ordinary electric bell--the other an invalid's bell-push.

Thomas Raven, _alias_ Cooper, Beauchamp, and "Tom the Tailor," was a
tailor in the salubrious neighbourhood of Bethnal Green. The police
made a raid upon the premises and discovered something like 200
pieces of base coin in the cellar below, and between the joists some
lampblack, plaster of Paris, and a spoon which had contained molten
metal. The coiners were fairly caught. It was the duty of the gentleman
in charge of the shop upstairs to give a certain signal with the bell,
to warn the enterprising personages downstairs. A mistake was made, and
the irrepressible Tom remarked, when told the charge: "Well, I have had
a long run; but if they had given the signals right this morning, you
would not have had me now."

It was, indeed, a long run. It took three years to run "Tom the Tailor"
and a lady who helped to get rid of the coin to earth; and it was
believed that the _pseudo_ coat-cutter had been making counterfeit coin
for the last seventeen years, and before that he had acted as coiners'
agent. If time is money, Tom is still at his old occupation--fourteen
years' penal servitude.

New Scotland Yard has every reason to be proud of its counterfeit
collection--it certainly has real and original samples of everything
associated with this glittering profession, which we shall now proceed
to specify. We do so without the slightest qualms of conscience, and
without any fear that anything we may say may lead to anybody admiring
these remarks too greatly, and seeking to imitate. We are informed that
years of practice are necessary to come up to the standard counterfeit
coin of to-day. Take this sovereign, which is accorded the place
of honour in one of the glass cases. It was made in Barcelona, and
actually contains sixteen shillings' worth of gold in its composition.
It would deceive a banker--there is the true, honest, unadulterated
ring about it. Its date is 1862. To those whom it may concern--that is,
those who happen to be in possession of sovereigns of this date--this
fact may be interesting. Beware of Barcelonas!

[Illustration: A SURPRISE FOR THE TAILOR.]

[Illustration: COINERS SURPRISED.]

But this gold piece is an exception. There are two or three thousand
gold and silver coins here--all arranged in the prettiest and most
delightful of heaps--that would not deceive the easiest-going of
individuals. Pennies, sixpences, shillings, two-shilling pieces,
half-crowns, crown pieces, half-sovereigns, and sovereigns are all
here, the most popular, however, amongst the fraternity being the
shilling, two-shilling piece, and half-crown, as people, when they
accept change, are less likely to "try" these than coins of a higher
value. There are some coins here, however, which positively call for
respect. These George IV. half-crowns are perfect. The King's head
is partially worn away by time--grit and dirt, from constant use of
seventy years, are lodged in the creases of the coin. But time did not
wear the King's features away, or constant use provide the dirt. After
the coin was in a finished state it was placed on a burnishing board
(Fig. 1) made of a piece of ordinary deal, with a few tacks stuck in
to hold the coins in position--and rubbed over with an old scrubbing
brush, in order to dull the coin and give it an ancient appearance.
And the dirt? It is here quite handy. It is in a match-box bearing a
portrait of General Gordon, whilst another deposit is in a small tin
whose label tells that it was originally intended for mustard. Both the
match-box and the mustard-tin contain lampblack. The bellows is used
for "blowing-up" purposes (Fig. 2).

[Illustration: FIG. 2--LAMPBLACK, BRUSHES, AND BELLOWS.]

But George IV. is, or was, a great favourite with counterfeiters.
There are such things in this world as lucky sixpences, and they are
signalled out as such charms, should they happen to have a hole bored
through them. Who would not give a mere paltry ordinary sixpence
for one of these bringers of luck, and a George IV. at that? Echo
answers--everybody. We hope Echo will be more careful after learning
the use of this little drill which we are now examining (Fig. 3). It
is used by counterfeiters to bore holes into sixpences, which they can
warrant, seeing that they are their own make. The counterfeit brooch
is not missing from the collection. It had its birth with the issue
of the Jubilee coins, when those who could afford it had one of the
gold Jubilee five-pound pieces--which were coined to the value of over
£250,000--mounted as a brooch, and worn or treasured as a souvenir of
the fiftieth anniversary of Her Majesty's accession to the throne.
Once again the counterfeiter had a chance. True, the Jubilee sixpences
offered him admirable opportunities in the way of giving further point
to the old adage that "All is not gold that glitters." But he went
farther. He made counterfeit half-crowns and five-shilling pieces,
fastened pins to them, and put them on the market, charging but a small
sum for the supplementary fastener.

[Illustration: FIG. 3--COINERS' TOOLS.]

"Well," argued the purchaser, "the coin will always be worth the
money!" Permit us to observe that the price realized for sham coins
rarely exceeds twopence to twopence-halfpenny in the shilling, whilst a
true, sterling shilling would buy four base half-crowns.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--MOULD FOR FIVE-SHILLING PIECE.]

In order to arrive in some measure at the exact method of manufacture,
it is proposed to examine the curiosities of the New Scotland Yard
counterfeiting cases more minutely.

Every coiner has his "pattern" piece, that is, a genuine piece of
money, which is to give the cast of the coin intended to be copied.
The cast from the true coin is taken in plaster of Paris of the finest
possible quality. There are enough moulds here to thoroughly colonize
a country with counterfeiters! They may be accepted as excellent
examples, for the greater proportion formed part of the stock-in-trade
of the notorious John H----, _alias_ Sydney A----, who was rewarded
with twenty years; some were also found on the premises occupied by a
famous Fulham coiner--whose name we are asked not to publish, but of
whom more anon; others belonged to a worthy who made the fine and large
crown-pieces a speciality (Fig. 4). Some are quite clean, others are
burnt through constant use, not a few show the coin in its rough state,
with the edge uncut and unfiled (Fig. 5), a process performed by an
ordinary pocket-knife and file; whilst a "half-crown" mould reveals the
"get" (Fig. 6), or surplus liquid, which is poured into this receptacle
for making false impressions.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--COUNTERFEIT COINS (UNFINISHED).]

Here are the lead and ladles (Fig. 7). The ladles belonged to a man who
was forced to submit to twelve years' penal servitude as recently as
1891. They are about one and a half feet long, and are used for melting
the composition on the fire. The ladles are similar to those used by
plumbers, costing perhaps eighteen-pence or a couple of shillings. When
a ladle is not used, then a melting-pot or crucible is called into
requisition (Fig. 8); even a saucepan would not be despised. When a pot
or a saucepan is used the glittering liquid is taken out in a boiling
state by iron spoons--and these spoons, of all shapes and sizes,
designs and prices, are provided with a special corner.

Much speculation has always existed as to the real ingredients of
a counterfeit coin. Solder here is another item in the plumber's
outfit--is often the original foundation. But such lead is very
poor in itself, and tin and bismuth have both been found to possess
excellent hardening properties (Fig. 9). But the finest foundation
for a counterfeit coin is obtained out of a certain receptacle from
which your average working man invariably blows the froth previous
to sampling the contents--pewter-pots! Here we have a reason for the
frequent thefts of the traditional holders of mild and bitter, and
when such a theft is brought home to a man, he is at once surmised, and
very properly so, to be in league with coiners.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--A HALF-CROWN MOULD, SHOWING "GET".]

Whilst on the subject of pewter-pots, the writer is inclined to relate
an amusing incident, communicated to him by an East-end publican. Some
curious contests take place in Whitechapel and its environs, one of the
most popular of which is that of pewter-pot cleaning, when James, the
potman at the "Three Boot Brushes," meets William, who holds a similar
position at the "Laughing Lobster," in friendly rivalry, to decide who
can clean the greatest number of pewter-pots in an hour.

This particular East-end publican had such a contest at his "house" one
Sunday morning, and after a most exciting contest his own particular
potman won. This was all very comforting. But, by some mysterious
means, the same evening the public-house was robbed of a number of
pots--and all clean, too!

"I wouldn't 'ave minded _that_, sir," said the communicative publican,
with a decided emphasis on the "that," when relating this--"I wouldn't
'ave minded _that_: but what annoyed me was the remarkable number of
bad two-shilling pieces me and the missus took over the counter a week
afterwards!"

[Illustration: FIG. 7.--LEAD AND LADLES.]

The pewter having been melted, the coins having been cast--the two
sides of the mould being kept together by clamps made of strong
hoop-iron, in order to secure a firm impression (Fig. 10)--filed and
edged, and got as near the proper weight of a good coin as possible, a
very important process now takes place. We will take "silver" coins as
an example. The coins are put on battery racks. Several of these are to
be found here--a pair (Fig. 11) near a couple of batteries (Fig. 12)
will suit our purpose well. One is empty, and shows the wires made in
various sizes to hold securely the coin intended to be immersed in the
bath containing the silvering solution. The other, as will be seen in
the illustration, is well charged with coins. The process of silvering
coins is exactly similar to that of plating knives, spoons, forks,
etc., though the vat--which is usually made of iron with a thin lining
of wood--containing the plating liquid is very much smaller than those
used by men engaged in a legitimate business.

[Illustration: FIG. 8.--MELTING-POT AND CRUCIBLES.]

The "charged" rack is now put into the vat. Coins made out of Britannia
metal, tin, or pewter are not dropped into acid before plating, but
into a very strong and boiling hot solution of pure caustic potash.
The coins are then scratched with a small brush especially made for
this purpose, or at once taken from the alkali without having been
immersed in water, and plunged direct into a cyanide of silver solution
at about 190° Fahrenheit. An electric current of great strength is run
through the vat in which are the coins until they begin to receive a
thin coating. After this they undergo a treatment of ordinary plating
solution to receive the full amount of silvering required. This
completed, they are fixed on a burnishing board to relieve them of any
undue brightness.

We have already referred to a board of this kind, but there is one
at New Scotland Yard of peculiar interest. In the first place, it is
curious from the fact that it is made out of the seat of a common
wooden kitchen chair (Fig. 13), and, further, it is surrounded by
far more curiosity when it is known that it once formed part of
the stock-in-trade of one of the most scientific coiners of modern
times. His name can only be hinted at as "the Party from Fulham." He
approached coining from a thoroughly artistic point of view. His ideas
of counterfeiting and gilding were all carried out on the highest
scientific principles, and an examination of his property revealed an
extraordinary state of affairs.

[Illustration: FIG. 9.--TIN AND BISMUTH.]

When arrested he had in his possession 8s. 10-1/2d. in good money,
together with a shilling and two sixpences, which, judging from
their appearance, had evidently been used as "pattern" pieces. But
his home-made coins were as extensive as they were peculiar. They
included 1 five-pound piece, 8 two-pound pieces, 31 sovereigns, 18
half-sovereigns, 125 half-crowns, 51 florins, 101 shillings, and 171
sixpences. A capital and convincing collection! In addition, he had in
the way of manufacturing paraphernalia, 17 moulds, 1 battery, 2 ladles,
a quantity of plaster of Paris, melting-pot, plate of sand, 9 bottles
of chemicals--including gold plating solution and liquid ammonia, a
selection of which receptacles is shown in company with a Leclanché
battery (Fig. 14), made out of a common three-pound jam jar--files,
clamps, brushes, etc.; in short, everything to prove that he was the
one to whom the expression of "You're coining money, old boy!" would be
honestly applied by any enterprising detective anxious to slap him on
the back and to decorate him with "the bracelets."

Perhaps, however, the books he used are the most interesting. These
consist of a couple of standard works on chemistry, which he had
freely interpolated with marginal notes and pencil marks against
anything calculated to assist him in the pursuit of his profession.
But his "private" reference book is the good thing in his pack of
literature. It is a book similar to that which any schoolboy would use
to do his homework in. It contains the addresses of English taverns
in Paris, servants' registry offices, sewing machine dealers, shops
where furniture may be obtained on hire, house agents, money-lenders,
addresses of statesmen, etc. The newspaper cuttings in this volume
are of a varied character, and include an advertisement of "A Young
Gentleman who has a Grand Piano for Sale," "A Good Cure for a Cold,"
"Cure for Chilblains," "Furniture Polish," and prescriptions for
removing surplus hair from the back of the neck, the right treatment
of headaches, the proper ingredients for making a highly satisfactory
mustard plaster, and a certain cure for sluggish livers!

[Illustration: FIG. 10.--CLAMPS AND MOULD CLOSED--WITH CLAMP.]

"The Party from Fulham" adopted--probably in his early career--an
ingenious means of becoming possessed of useful information--a method
which it would be well if those papers who reply indiscriminately to
questions sent them would make note of. He would write to periodicals
asking such simple conundrums as, "Will you kindly tell me the simplest
way to make a battery?" or, "Would you kindly say in an early issue
the simplest way to make solder for silver?" He often got replies,
as is proved from a newspaper cutting, giving an answer to the last
query--an answer we refrain from publishing, seeing that it gives a
very efficacious recipe for the first step towards "making money."

Further, it is presumed that "the Party from Fulham" either kept
a shop, was a receiver of stolen property, or else attended sales
and purchased articles in the hopes of pawning them and securing a
profit--the latter a distinct business in the East-end of London. The
book contains an entry against the name of a well-known pawnbroker,
of "a wedding-ring, 4s.," followed by the bitterly suggestive words,
"ticket lost"! And there are entries relating to everything between a
violin and a paillasse, a brass fender and a blue beaver coat. There is
actually a ticket of admission to a cookery lecture, which all goes to
prove that "the Party from Fulham" was a most prolific personage.

[Illustration: FIG. 11.--BATTERY RACKS.]

We propose saying something as to how counterfeit coins are circulated,
with one or two instances of ingenuity on the part of those responsible
for putting them about. The coins being completely finished, they
are wrapped up in tissue paper (Fig. 15) in parcels of a dozen or
so, with a piece of paper between each coin in order to keep them
from scratching and chinking when passed from one person's hand to
another's. There are usually four persons employed in a delivery of
counterfeit coin to the public: the maker, the agent, or go-between--in
most cases a woman--the buyer, and the passer proper, the latter
individual never knowing who the actual maker is. The bundles of coins
are generally sold at street corners by appointment only or in public
houses. They are conveyed to the rendezvous in many ways, perhaps the
most original of which was that of the man who carried a couple of
bird-cages--one containing a beautiful little singer which trilled away
to its heart's content, and the other full of counterfeit money!

[Illustration: FIG. 12.--ELECTRIC BATTERIES.]

Women, more often than not, lead to a conviction, as the would-be
passer, say of a bad half-crown on a too-confiding grocer, has seldom
more than one bad coin on him. He makes a small purchase at the
grocer's and tenders the coin. The man of sugar and spice looks at it.

"Excuse me, sir," he remarks, "but I think this half-crown is bad!"

Artful one takes it back.

"Dear me, so it is! Ah! that's all right," giving a good one this time.
"Thanks. No, don't trouble to send it home. Good day!"

Had he succeeded in passing the half crown, ten minutes afterwards he
would have been supplied with one equally bad by the lady in waiting
round the corner. This is where the police find such difficulty in
bringing home a conviction to the actual passer, as anybody in these
deceitful days might find himself the unfortunate possessor of a
spurious coin. Perhaps the before-mentioned grocer would complain to a
policeman. The man would be watched. He would be seen to "speak to the
woman." That would be quite enough--and the possibilities are that they
would find the counterfeit coins concealed about her person, as was the
case with a lady whose Christian name was Harriet, and who owned to
thirty-nine years of age at Clerkenwell Police-court, who had no fewer
than forty counterfeit florins sewn up in her dress. It was sufficient
to cast her husband on the hospitality of a country, the inhabitants of
which are not inclined to grumble at being obliged to provide him with
convict comforts for a period of eight years.

[Illustration: FIG 13.--BURNISHING BOARD MADE OUT OF CHAIR SEAT.]

[Illustration: FIG. 14.--LECLANCHÉ BATTERY, AND BOTTLES OF GOLD
SOLUTION, ETC.]

A frequent method employed is to "work" a publican--and this is the
more enterprising on the "passer's" part, seeing that the generality of
publicans are men who are not often to be caught asleep.

Scene: "The Last House."

Enter well-dressed man smoking big cigar.

Polite Publican: "Good evening, sir."

Big Cigar Proprietor: "Good evening. Brandy and soda, please!" (Throws
down a sovereign, receives brandy and soda and change, the change all
in silver. Big Cigar Proprietor picks up change.)

Big Cigar Proprietor: "Oh! excuse me--could you let me have
half-a-sovereign for ten shillings' worth of this silver?"

Polite Publican (always ready to oblige): "Certainly, sir." (Does so.)

The publican gets, as he thinks, ten shillings' worth of silver back.
Does he? Oh, dear, no! There were three bad two-shilling pieces amongst
it!

It would be difficult to hit upon two more contrasting illustrations
than the following. The first instance goes to prove that children are
called into play as "passers"--though unconsciously so--in the case
when the smallest "coined" piece is to be thrust on the public.

A man used his little girl to go into small confectioners' shops and
purchase a farthing's worth of sweetmeats. The little one tendered
a bad penny, obtaining her sweets and giving her father the three
farthings change. Both were arrested and charged. The child, however,
was taken out of the dock and put in the box to give evidence against
her father. Her childish evidence was convincing enough, and at the end
of the examination, the man, overcome with better feelings, contrived
to catch the little one up in his arms, ere he was sent down below,
caressing her fondly and covering her tiny face with kisses.

Such a method--an awkward method, and one in every way calculated to
be eventually found out--stands in strong contrast with the really
delicate and ingenious means employed by a lady whose efforts at
changing a sovereign were worthy a better cause.

Her _modus operandi_ was to select say a boot-maker's shop, generally
in a well-populated suburban district, and purchase boots to the value
of nineteen and sixpence.

"Will you kindly send them to my house, No. 42, Easyway Terrace, in an
hour's time?" she asks the shopkeeper.

[Illustration: FIG. 15.--COINS PACKED IN TISSUE PAPER.]

[Illustration: CARRYING COUNTERFEIT COIN.]

"Certainly, madam."

"I will pay the messenger when he brings them--I find I have not
sufficient money in my purse. Mrs. Adams is my name," she further
remarks, and leaves the shop.

In an hour's time the boy with the boots is on his way to No. 42,
Easyway Terrace. Curiously enough, he is met outside by Mrs. Adams
herself!

"Oh! are those boots for Mrs. Adams?"

"Yes, mum."

"Thank you. Let me see," playing with her purse, "nineteen and six.
There's a sovereign. You can keep the sixpence for being so punctual."

The lad is delighted, and away he goes whistling. The lady is equally
pleased--away she goes with the boots to a pawnbroker's. The shopkeeper
is in a rage--for the sovereign is a counterfeit one!

It will be well to state the best means of detecting counterfeit coin.
The simplest and most effective test is to bite it. If the coin is bad,
the bite will produce a very gritty sensation on the teeth, which is
never produced by a genuine piece of money. This test will be found to
be an infallible one.

[Illustration: THE COUNTERFEITER AND HIS CHILD.]




_Beauties._


[Illustration: MISS AGNES C. STEVENSON

_From a photo. by Alex. Bassano, Old Bond Street, W._

MISS BARNETT

_From Catford's Art Gallery, Ilfracombe._

MISS NORA WILLIAMSON

_From a Photo. by Alfred Ellis, 20, Upper Baker Street, N.W._

MISS ANNIE O'DEANE.

_From a Photo. by H. R. White, Birmingham._

MISS NANCY NOEL.

_From a Photo. by Alfred Ellis, 20, Upper Baker Street. N.W._]




_How Composers Work._

II.


BY FRANCIS ARTHUR JONES.


MEYER LUTZ.

Herr Meyer Lutz has the rather odd fancy of sitting in the dark for
an hour or two at a time, and letting his fingers wander hither and
thither over the keys, searching out those measures which set the
fashion in the dancing world.

[Illustration: truly yours

Herr Meyer Lutz]

He composes anywhere and everywhere, in the streets, on tops of 'buses,
and even in church.

"I remember," says the popular Gaiety composer, "driving one
Sunday evening to St. George's Cathedral, when the melody to an 'O
Salutaris' struck me. I pencilled it down during the sermon, and my
brother-in-law, Furneaux Cook, sang it after the sermon at Benediction
the same evening."

Herr Lutz believes in taking up some verses and carefully studying them.

"This I often do," he says, "and soon seem to hear a fitting melody
without trying it on the piano till finished."

Fugues and canons, in his opinion, want studying and mathematically
experimentalizing. "Composers," he says in conclusion, "are musical
poets, and 'Poëta nascitur, non fit.'"

The music in his autograph will, I imagine, be familiar to not a few of
my readers.


A. C. MACKENZIE.

Most of Dr. Mackenzie's work is done in the morning from nine to
one-thirty, and he never touches it in the afternoon. As a rule he
leaves _scoring_ for the orchestra or looking over the morning's work
for the evening hours. "But," in his own words, "if I feel capable of
_inventing_, why, I begin to work again about eight-thirty and continue
until I am tired."

As a rule, the principal of the Royal Academy of Music sketches his
music on two or three lines, as shown in the illustration.

"When I am engaged upon anything that absorbs my entire attention," he
continues, "I carry a little musical note-book about with me and jot
down roughly any idea which may occur to me, and I have found this plan
useful. When I am composing I never lose the thread of it, morning,
noon, or night; even at meals I am unconsciously occupied with it--this
goes on until the work is finished."

[Illustration: We have waited for long ... waited for long!]

Dr. Mackenzie decidedly disapproves of the manner in which composers in
England are made to work--viz., to order.

"Such pressure," he says, emphatically, "is unproductive of the best
work, and highly detrimental to one's general health and comfort."

For those reasons he objects to undertake commissions.


TITO MATTEI.

Signor Tito Mattei composes most of his instrumental music at the
piano, but songs are composed anywhere, wherever and whenever he feels
so inspired.

One thing he considers absolutely indispensable to the success of a
composer, viz., a thoroughly good musical education, without which no
one, however gifted, can hope to make a name.

"As a whole," writes this composer, "the English people love music, but
are not, strictly speaking, a musical nation, the reason being that
they do not give sufficient time and care to the study."

The accompanying few bars of music are taken from his popular song
"Beside Me."

[Illustration: _Beside Me._

Dark is the night with-out, I fear The storm, beyond the bar!

_Tito Mattei_]


HUBERT PARRY.

Professor C. Hubert Parry, whose last work, "Job," has been so
enthusiastically received and criticised by the musical world, composes
according to the nature of the composition on which he is engaged.

"There are a hundred and fifty different kinds of work to be done in
composing," he says, "and they vary in accordance with its being a big
work like a symphony or an oratorio, or an opera, or a little thing
like a song or a pianoforte piece. Then, what one wants may come into
one's head when walking or driving, or in bed--anywhere, indeed, but in
front of the paper it has to be written on. Then there is the general
scheme to be considered, which usually comes first, and has to be
thought out in big, cloudy way, out of which the details emerge into
distinctness by degrees, and often want doing over and over again."

Like many another composer, Mr. Parry prefers the morning for the
mechanical part of the art, viz., the work of scoring and writing down
and getting into order those ideas which have already been conceived.

"As far as new ideas and schemes are concerned," he adds, "I am glad
enough to take them at any time of the day they are so obliging as to
come."

It is wonderful how chary the English composers are of answering the
question as to whether or no they consider their countrymen a musical
race. It seems a subject on which they fear to express an opinion,
and either treat the matter with silence or, like Sir Joseph Barnby,
content themselves by saying "We're on the mend." Not so Mr. Parry,
however.

"I consider," he says, "that the English are naturally the most musical
race in the world, except the Germans. It would take a good many
pages to explain my opinion, as it is obviously contrary to all the
received and accredited traditions, so I will not attempt to justify
it at present beyond saying that I don't mean that the race is gifted
with any natural facility, but that taking it all round there is more
appreciation of what is genuinely and wholesomely good--Beethoven,
Bach, Haydn, Brahms, Handel (at his best), Mozart, and the great
madrigalists and so forth--than in any other country except Germany.
The fact that the English people have no great taste for opera is all
in their favour."

Mr. Parry concludes with a few remarks on the merits and demerits of
writing "to order." "Certainly no one could turn out anything worthy
of the name of art," he says, "if he had it on his mind that he was
writing under pressure; neither will any man do anything really good
when he is thinking more of the money payment, or suiting managerial
ideas, than of the thorough working out of his own devices. But
this should not be confounded with a man's undertaking work that is
thoroughly congenial to him when he has plenty of time to carry it out
honourably. If the Philharmonic Society or Richter ask a composer to
write them a symphony, they put at his disposal a magnificent orchestra
for the interpretation of anything that he may have to say in that
line; or if the committee of any great festival invite a composer to
write them an oratorio several years before it is wanted, they put at
his disposal a splendid chorus and soloists, and all the resources a
man can desire. With such opportunities, I should have thought a man
had a better chance of being inspired to some purpose than if he were
pottering about just when the humour took him."

I am fortunate enough to be able to give here, in facsimile, a bar from
the original first score of "Job."

[Illustration: C. Hubert Parry]


EBENEZER PROUT.

Mr. Prout, when composing, makes first a very rapid sketch on two
staves--with instrumental works generally only the upper part and a
figured bass; with choruses, anthems, etc., usually the four-voice
parts. For songs he writes only the melody, with just enough indication
of the accompaniment to prevent his forgetting the idea.

"My first sketches," he says, "are always written as fast as the pen
will go. I make it an invariable rule _never_ to write unless I am in
the humour, and if I find that ideas do not come as fast or faster than
I can put them down, if I have to stop to think what should come next,
I at once put the music-paper aside, knowing that I am not in the mood
for composing. After completing my sketch I begin the fair copy, the
full score, in the case of orchestral work, putting in the details and
often making considerable improvements. My public works usually differ
pretty widely from the original draft; but the first sketch, containing
the fundamental idea, is invariably produced at what I may call a
'white heat.'"

Composition, in this composer's opinion, can be taught so far as the
technique is concerned; but if a student has no ideas, these cannot be
given by any instruction, though a latent talent may often be brought
out and cultivated by proper training. By this he means that there may
be a natural aptitude for composition of which its possessor is unaware
till his teacher discovers and develops it.

Of his own works Mr. Prout thinks he is, perhaps, hardly an impartial
judge, but his own favourites are among the instrumental work, his "3rd
Symphony" and the two quartets in B flat and F; and among the vocal
works, the cantatas the "Red Cross Knight" and "Damon and Phintias."

"It is difficult," continues Mr. Prout, "to give a definite opinion as
to whether the English are a musical nation; it depends so much on the
point of view. Judging by the number of concerts, etc., we are musical
enough, but the want of general public appreciation of the best class
of music, especially in the Metropolis, would incline me to a far
less favourable opinion. In this respect I believe many parts of the
provinces are far ahead of London.

"Do I believe in writing 'to order'? Well, I cannot speak for others,
but for myself, when I receive a commission to write anything, I always
accept, conditionally on the spirit moving me. If the work I am asked
to undertake is sympathetic, the spirit generally moves pretty soon.
Some of my best work has been commissioned, but to write _merely for
money_ is repugnant to me. I have never written a 'pot-boiler' in my
life, and, please God, I never will."

Mr. Prout concludes by saying:--

"I usually compose in the evening, mostly between six and ten, seldom
later. If I have a morning to spare, which does not often happen except
during my holidays, I frequently find that a good time for composing.
Recently I have composed very little, my time being too fully occupied
with writing the series of theoretical works, which is still a long way
from completion."

The MS. is taken from his well-known "Piano Quartet in F."

[Illustration: Ebenezer Prout.]


RUBINSTEIN.

From Herr Anton Rubinstein I have obtained no information whatever. He
has, however, with the kindness which characterizes him, sent me the
accompanying MS.:--

[Illustration: Theme et Variations op. 88

Ant. Rubinstein]

Some time ago Rubinstein left the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, where
he had been for so many years, and visited Dresden, in search of rest
and quietness, and laid aside all business for the time. For any
further information, I must refer my readers to his "Autobiography,"
a fragment published in America, and "A Conversation Upon Music,"
published by Augner.


C. SAINT-SAËNS.

The French composer, Saint-Saëns, considers a piano a useless item in
the art of composition, at all events in his case, for he rarely, if
ever, makes use of one when composing, even to play over completed
works.

Some MS. paper and a pencil are the only materials he works with, and
he has composed whole operas without a musical instrument in the house.

This manner of composing M. Saint-Saëns finds a great saving of
valuable time (and if composers' time is not important, whose is?), and
he does not consider that ideas come any the more readily when seated
before a piano; in fact, rather the reverse.

The portion of MS. will be familiar to those who have studied his works.

[Illustration]


STANFORD.

In Professor C. V. Stanford's opinion the art of composition can be
cultivated, but never acquired. He composes according to the mood in
which he happens to be, and never keeps to any fixed rule or time.

As to composers working under pressure, he imagines that must depend
greatly upon the temperament of the composer. He expresses no opinion
as to which he considers his best work, but says: "That is for the
future to determine and individual tastes to decide."

The half-dozen bars of music are taken from his "Irish Symphony."

[Illustration: C. V. Stanford]


STRAUSS.

Herr Johann Strauss, with whose dreamy waltzes most of us are
familiar, for his part says that he is far too modest to designate
any composition as his _best_. When he finishes one he forgets it
completely for a time in the interest caused by his next work. Method
he has none--only inspiration, genius--for in his opinion composers can
never be made. "One may compose," he says, "very easily, or--not at
all." The divine art must be innate, and a composer--like his brother
genius, the poet--must be born, and can never be made. The music is
taken from one of his well-known waltzes.

[Illustration: Johann Strauss]


BERTHOLD TOURS.

Mr. Berthold Tours, who has written some of the finest anthems and
"Services" of the present day, besides numerous songs, prefers the
morning for composition, and being an early riser, is generally to be
found hard at work soon after 9 a.m., and seldom ceases his labours
till two o'clock. He never composes at an instrument, and thinks that
people who do are very apt to get their ideas from it and not out of
their head; nor does he force himself to compose, preferring to wait
till the inclination is upon him or the composition on which he is
engaged has matured itself in his brain, when there only remains the
mechanical part of writing it down, which very often takes up the most
time. If engaged upon a song, he first of all reads his words over two
or three times carefully and thoughtfully, so as to obtain a grasp of
the style of the verses, and then the music begins and the composition
proceeds smoothly to its close. Mr. Tours considers his "Service in
F" the best work he has yet done. This composition is a universal
favourite with lovers of Church music, and deservedly popular at
festivals.

It is pleasant to hear that this composer considers England a musical
nation. "Not quite so great as Germany, perhaps, but during the
last twenty years there has been great talent shown in music. We
are stronger now in clever composers than we have ever been, and no
nation is so appreciative of good music as the English, or so quick to
recognise and encourage true genius."

Like Dr. A. C. Mackenzie, Mr. Tours does not hold with the popular
belief that composers produce as fine works when writing for
commissions received as when left to follow their own inclinations, but
acknowledges that many great works have been thus produced.

In conclusion, Mr. Tours says that the playing of good classical music,
to those who know the rules of writing, might be a very great help, and
would be an incentive to good composition.

The portion of MS. is taken from his well-known "Harvest Anthem."

[Illustration: While the earth remaineth

Harvest Anthem

Berthold Tours]


P. TSCHAÏKOWSKY.

Klin, near Moscow, was the home of one of the busiest of men. It is
here that the late Russian composer, Tschaïkowsky, lived and worked,
devoting the greater part of the day to his art. Nine o'clock every
morning found him hard at work, and it was one before he stopped for
a light lunch. Two hours every afternoon were rigidly set aside for
one of the few recreations in which he used to indulge, viz., walking;
and it was during these daily strolls that most of the sketches of
his pieces were conceived, and entered into a note-book which was
always forthcoming. Home was reached soon after four, and from five
to half-past eight was employed in arranging and setting in order the
sketches jotted down during the walk.

A piano, he considered, is not absolutely necessary, and he composed
much without the use of one. For instance, on a journey, or long
voyage, or when rusticating in some primitive, far-away little hamlet,
where the peacefulness and quietude are suggestive of composition, but
where the running brook does duty for a piano and you fit your melodies
to the sighing of the wind among the fir trees. Still, the instrument
helped sometimes the development of his musical ideas, and generally
when convenient he made use of one. "I believe," he said, "the creating
power of music to be a precious gift of Nature, which cannot be
obtained by work and study, but only improved and lighted by musical
sciences, besides being purely _empérique_. With the belief that
composers often work better and produce finer results when put under a
certain amount of pressure the professor agrees, pinning his belief on
history, which tells us of many masterpieces being done thus.

"I have never thought," he resumed, "of the reasons explaining why
England, who produced such great poets, has had, comparatively
speaking, but few musicians. It seems to me that the idea that the
English are not gifted for music cannot be considered as 'definitive.'
Who knows that a musical Shakespeare will not be produced? You have
already men of much promise and whose work is very serious."

Of his own compositions, Tschaïkowsky considered his opera "La Dame de
Pique" the best work he had ever done, an opinion which is shared by
many of his admirers.

[Illustration: P Tschaïkowsky]

    NOTE.--Cowen's opera, referred to in our February number as
    "Sigrid," should have been "Signa," which had not been produced
    when this article was written.

[Illustration]




THE ZEALOUS SENTINEL


AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS

It was a chill and cheerless day towards the end of November of
the year 1870. The siege of Paris was in full tide of determinate
execution. For two months, and a little more, the German host
had environed the city with a circle of glistening bayonets and
loud-mouthed cannons, cutting off intercourse with the outside world,
and effectually preventing the incoming of provisions; the smoke and
fumes of burning powder filled the air; while shot and shell rained
down upon the doomed metropolis, by day and by night.

Near the corner of the Boulevard Mazas and the Rue de Bercy was
situated the wine-shop of Victor Rameau, a popular resort of the
middling classes, but patronized by men of high standing, and often
sought by those of the lowest strata of society. On this chill November
day the spacious apartment on the street level was filled by a motley
assemblage. There were present representatives of almost every trade,
profession, and calling, though the military element predominated.

At one of the small oaken tables against the wall sat two men, with
whom we have particularly to do; and at the table next to them, also
against the wall, sat a third. Of the two, one was a sergeant of the
National Guard, named Jacques Carlier, a middle-aged man, with a heavy
red moustache, and a head of closely-clipped red hair. His face was
likewise very red, and his two eyes were as nearly of the same fiery
colour as they could be.

The guardsman's companion was a short, thick-set man, also of middle
age, with dark brown hair and a full beard of the same colour. His
stoutness was peculiar. It did not seem to be fat, but an unusual size
of body and limb--somewhat as though in his youth a ponderous weight
had fallen upon his head and shoulders and knocked him into that squat,
uncouth figure. His hair was thick and tangled; his face, where the
full beard did not hide it, darkly tanned and seemingly unwashed; and
his clothing of the very worst--worn and soiled and ragged. He had
given his name as Pierre Dubois, claiming to be from Ardennes.

The third man--he at the other table--was Colonel de Brèze, of the
National Guard. Both he and the sergeant were in uniform, and, saving
only the rags, neither of them could boast of a personal appearance
very much better than was that of the poor wayfarer from Ardennes.

Pierre Dubois had dark lines under his eyes; a look of pain and
distress marked his face; while a deep-reaching, rasping cough ever and
anon shook his frame and interrupted his speech.

"I'd enlist this moment," he said, "if I could be put on duty under
cover, out of the way of this miserable wintry wind. But what should
I be good for in the trenches, or at the breast-works? You can see for
yourself that I shouldn't last a week."

"Aye," returned the sergeant, "I see very plainly that you wouldn't
be good for much in an exposed position. I should say consumption was
carrying you off about as fast as it could."

"So--it--(a severe fit of coughing)--is."

"Are you fit to enlist at all?"

"Well, no; I do not suppose I am. But I'll be frank with you. I have a
spice of the man Adam in me. It is Vengeance. I was at Sedan, as I have
told you, and the Germans made me a prisoner. I wasn't fit to march: I
could hardly stand; so they pricked me up with their sabre bayonets.
Then, when I was thrown into a dirty prison, and begged for a bit of
medicine for my cough, they gave me curses and a kick. I swore then,
if ever the opportunity should be mine, I would volunteer to stand
sentinel over a squad of German prisoners. You've got those fellows in
limbo, haven't you?"

"Yes, plenty of them."

"And you've got strong, able, well men standing guard over them?"

"Yes, we have."

"Then, there's my opportunity. Put me there, and I'll do double duty,
if I can stand it. At all events, I can perform the duties of a
sentinel just as well as any living man."

At this point Colonel Brèze, who had overheard, faced about.

"Sergeant," he said, "we want this man. I want him at La Force."

At the sound of the name of that celebrated prison, a bright light
gleamed in the provincial's eyes, and he quickly hid his face behind
his beer-mug to conceal the emotion he could not keep back.

The sergeant nodded, and then to the man himself the colonel
continued:--

"You are used to military duty, my good man?"

"Yes, Colonel. I was a conscript when I was twenty, and served four
years; and I enlisted after that. I would be now with Trochu, in all
probability, had not the Germans captured me at Sedan, when out on a
sortie, and held me until I escaped."

"How did you manage to get through their lines when you entered our
beleaguered city?"

"They did not see me. I crawled in through the rain, on a dark night."

"And you would like to do guard duty over German prisoners, eh?"

"I could like nothing better. I have prayed that the privilege might be
mine."

"Very well, it shall be yours. I have command of the guard of La Force.
I want you there."

[Illustration: IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.]

On that same November day--the day on which we heard the conversation
between the colonel and the sergeant and the provincial--a prisoner sat
in one of the strongest and most gloomy of the cells of La Force. Most
of the cells were occupied by several persons, some of them containing
as many as could comfortably lie down therein; but this man had been
condemned to death, and placed in solitary confinement. He was a
young man, not over thirty, fair-faced and handsome. He was of German
birth--a German of Darmstadt--and though clad in the garb of a French
labourer, he was yet a gentleman of education and refinement; his
name, as had been learned from marked articles in his possession, Otho
Maximilian.

Poor Maximilian! In his soldier's ardour and love of country he had
volunteered to his Prince to enter the enemy's lines and bring away
a correct draught of the outer and inner fortifications, together
with proper plans of the disposition of troops. And all this he had
come very near to doing; but, alas! not quite. Had he been content to
carry away his observations and computations in his head, and made
the visible signs of his espionage in the presence of his Prince, all
might have been well. He had gained the interior of the city and its
free range; he had made plans of all important things he wished to
communicate, and he was apprehended and searched, with those neatly
drawn plans upon his person.

Poor Otho! So young and so fair, with wife and three children praying
for him, and waiting in the Fatherland, thus to die! He shed no tears;
he gave voice to no complaints; he was sure his comrades would keep his
memory green; that his Prince would bless him for what he had tried
to do, and that his dearly loved ones would seek consolation in the
thought that he had given his life to his country.

On the day after to-morrow he was to die. He was not to be shot, like a
soldier, nor beheaded, as kings and noblemen had been; he was to suffer
the ignominy of hanging. The thought gave him keenest torture.

That dismal day drew to a close, and, at eventide, when the attendant
came with his food, he made one last earnest appeal for writing
materials, that he might write a brief letter to his wife. But such a
grant would be a violation of prison law; it could not be done. Then
he closed his lips, resolved not to speak again save to the Heavenly
Father.

The night passed, and another dark and dismal day. Another evening
came, and another night shut down over the great prison. Otho's last
night of earth, as the few grim marks on his dungeon wall told him.

At eleven o'clock he threw himself upon his hard straw pallet and tried
to sleep. He heard the solemn bells strike the midnight hour, and a few
moments later the warder of that corridor opened the little wicket in
his door and looked in upon him.

Had our prisoner been on the outside of his cell at that particular
time, he would have seen a movement on the part of the sentinel strange
and unusual. This sentinel had softly and noiselessly followed the
warder to that door, had stood very near while he looked in at the
wicket, and then, when he had started on to the next cell, he leaped
upon him as a cat would strike its prey. A single blow of a sand-bag
upon the warder's head felled him to the granite pavement as though
a lightning-bolt had smitten him. On the next instant the sentinel
was upon his knees, those knees upon the fallen man's breast, with a
folded napkin, in which was a broad, flat, fine sponge, pressed tightly
over the mouth and nostrils. A brief space so, then the guardsman took
from his breast pocket a small flask and renewed the chloroform in the
sponge.

[Illustration: "A SPONGE PRESSED TIGHTLY OVER THE MOUTH."]

Otho Maximilian had heard the opening of the wicket, and had seen
the face that had peered in upon him. He had again closed his eyes,
when he heard a dull, heavy thud, as though a ponderous body had
fallen upon the adamantine floor. The sound was so unusual, so strange
and unaccountable, that he was startled--not with fear, but with a
nameless, shapeless spectre of the unseen. He arose and bent his ear
attentively.

Ere long he heard the light clatter of a key as it was inserted into
the lock of his door, and presently the door was opened and a man came
in--a man habited in the uniform of the National Guard.

"--Sh!" whispered the guardsman. "Speak not, but do as I bid you. Throw
off that ragged blouse. Sacré!--will you obey? Bah!--it is a friend!
Now act, and quickly!"

"What!--you?--Mar----"

"Will you stop your tongue and obey? We will talk by-and-by."

Without another word the prisoner pulled off his blouse and threw it
aside. At the same time the guardsman stripped off his uniform, threw
off waist-belt and baldric, with the sword; then the coat with its
gaudy facings; then the pants, gaiters, and the shoes; and he bade the
other to get himself into them with all possible dispatch, which was
done.

And yet the guardsman stood in full uniform as before. He had come
doubly clad, even to the hat and an extra pompon. And there was still
another dress inside the uniform in which he now appeared. No wonder he
had looked strangely rotund and squat when we met him in M. Rameau's
wine-shop.

"Come! Look out that your sword does not clank, yet be ready to use it
if need be. Now follow me. Look neither to the right nor to the left.
Are you ready? So! Forward! March!"

As they passed out upon the corridor, closing the door behind them,
Otho saw the warder prone upon the pavement, and his sensitive
olfactories detected the presence of the powerful anæsthetic that held
him in thrall.

On that corridor they were at liberty to move as they pleased--for
though there was a post of observation commanding that whole floor,
yet the officer whose duty it was to occupy it was the warder who now
lay senseless, and whose keys the sentinel had taken into his own
possession.

"Mark you," whispered the liberator, when they had reached the head
of the stairs and were about to descend, "we have our greatest risk
directly ahead. The sentinels below have just come on, and may not be
wakeful enough to be over-inquisitive. We must make them believe that
we have been relieved, and that we stopped behind to help M. Joubert
examine a cell."

[Illustration: "HE READ THE PASS."]

"Will they not know at once that I am not a true National Guardsman?"
asked Otho.

"Not if you hide your face as best as you can. They know not me. I
came on last evening for the first time. I only entered the service
yesterday; enlisted on purpose for this bit of work. Oh, God, send that
it prove a success! Now, forward! march!"

At the foot of the stairs was a door, which the zealous sentinel
unlocked with a key taken from the pocket of the warder. As they were
ready to step forth, he called out, imitating the gruff tones of the
warder as closely as possible:--

"There--off you go! and I thank you for your help!"

"You are entirely welcome; but you've robbed me of nigh half an hour's
sleep, nevertheless; good-night, M. Joubert."

The last words were upon his lips as he stepped forth into the lower
hall, and the sentinel there standing supposed, naturally enough, that
he was addressing the warder of the above.

"Now, comrade," said our experimenting guardsman, to the sentinel there
stationed, "if you will let us out, we shall be grateful. M. Joubert
has kept us to help him care for a prisoner who was inclined to be
restive."

"Certainly, comrade." And, without hesitation, the honest sentinel
ushered the twain forth into the vestibule, whence they made way to the
open court.

"Now, my boy, mark me once more: I am Pierre Dubois; you are Julien
Bizet--both of the National Guard. I have in my pocket a pass, signed
by Colonel de Brèze--or it will answer for his signature. I think this
will set us free. Come!"

Boldly they entered the office of the night keeper, where Pierre
exhibited his pass. Fortune favoured the adventurers at every turn.
This keeper was a plethoric, heavy-eyed man, dull and sleepy. He read
the pass and gave it back, and, with only a grunt and a growl at being
disturbed, he got up and opened the way for the anxious twain to go
free.

In the uniform of the National Guard, and with the pass of Colonel
Brèze, it was an easy matter for the fugitives to make their way to the
outer fortifications, whence they had no difficulty in slipping through
into the German lines, where they were received with great rejoicing.

During the winter of 1875-76, Colonel Alphonse de Brèze was called,
by business of State, to the Prussian capital, and while there he
went to the theatre. The play advertised on the occasion of his first
visit was called "The Guardsman," the leading character of which was
a rollicking, fun-making soldier of the French National Guard, said
character being enacted by a Berlin favourite, Martin OEsau. When the
guardsman made his appearance on the stage, De Brèze was electrified.
With the first effort of thought he recognised the man--his recruit
of Rameau's wine-shop!--his zealous sentinel of La Force!--his Pierre
Dubois!

De Brèze could honour and respect brave men. A few days later he called
upon M. OEsau at his home, and spent a pleasant hour; and not long
thereafter he met Otho Maximilian at the same place.

"My friends," the colonel said, as he put down his empty wine-glass,
"had you seen and heard me on that November morning, five years ago,
when my prisoner was demanded of me, and I found an empty cell and a
sentinel missing, you would have been slow to believe that an event
like this could ever enter into the story of our lives!"

"Thank high Heaven for peace and for friendship!" was OEsau's fervent
response.

And they filled up and emptied their glasses to the sentiment.

[Illustration]




_The Queer Side of Things._

[Illustration: THE UNBELIEVERS' CLUB.]


There had been silence for twenty minutes in the circle of our weekly
convivial at the "Chain-Harve." The last word had been "ghosts"--or,
more accurately, "ghostes." During that twenty minutes' silence, broken
only by the puffing of pipes and the setting down of mugs, Mr. Coffin
(who had been an undertaker, or something of that sort, up at London,
and was considered the leading mind of the convivial club) had sat
twinkling his eyes at the kettle-crane in a way that told those who
knew him that something was to come out presently. At the end of the
twenty minutes Peter broke the silence with:--

"He, he! Ghostes! Them's things as some folks thinks as ther' mebbe
more in 'em ner is gen'ly thought--more'n wot some other folks thinks!"

Mr. Coffin transferred his twinkle to Peter, and then spread it
over the company. But the company were engaged in twinkling for
themselves--or, rather, in blinking (which was their substitute for
twinkling)--at the kettle-crane. Most of them were wagging their heads
very slowly from side to side.

"There's some as don't believe nothink," said old Billet.

"An' 'ow about Mrs. Skindle and them there lights down in the Low
Medder?" said Peter.

"And 'ow about Master George's groom?" said Mr. Armstrong, of the Mill.

"Ar!" murmured the company.

Mr. Coffin had now completed the spreading of his twinkle over the
company, and spoke:--

"It seems to me, gentlemen, that this club has a sort of duty in
this very matter of ghosts and things. There's a great deal too much
ignorance and superstition about."

The company, added to by the dropping in of occasional new arrivals,
transferred their gaze--no longer a blink--to Mr. Coffin, in feeble
surprise. Then, very gradually, the slow wag of the heads dissolved
into a slow nod; as they said, very thoughtfully, "Ar!"

"It isn't only ghosts," continued Mr. Coffin. "It's superstition
generally that it's our duty to put our foot down against. There's all
sorts of nonsense about ill-luck from going under ladders, and spilling
salt, and crossing knives--it's a sheer disgrace to the century!"

"Ar!" said the company, feebly.

"I'm glad you agree with me," went on Mr. Coffin, "because I've always
felt strongly about the foolishness of these superstitions. Now, I was
reading the other day in the paper about a club they have in London--it
was there in my time, too; but that brought it to my mind. That club
was established to ridicule those very superstitions; and they go at it
with a vengeance when they are at it--regularly perspire over it, you
might say. Well, now--why shouldn't we--this club--take up this matter
too, just to show the people round about how sensible we are--eh?"

"Ar!" said the company.

"Very well, then, we couldn't have a more suitable occasion to
inaugurate the new proceedings than to-night. This is Hallowe'en,
gentlemen, the one night of the year on which people have the best
chance of seeing ghosts--witches' night, you know; and what's more,
there are just thirteen of us present, and that's another lucky thing;
and what's more, Mr. Puter's yard dog has been howling all the evening,
which is supposed to be a sign that somebody in this house will die
shortly; and, by the way, I heard the death-watch most distinctly
ticking in your parlour wall when I came in to-day, Peter; so, if
you're as eager about the subject as I feel sure you are, why, there's
no reason why we shouldn't begin at once."

"Why not?" murmured the company, very low and hesitatingly.

"Very well, then--those who are in favour of the new departure will
indicate the same in the usual manner, by holding up their hands," said
Mr. Coffin.

And he turned his eye on each of the company in turn, and as he did
so, the one gazed at feebly held up his hand, and then dropped it as
quickly as possible.

They had failed to notice, before he pointed it out, that they numbered
just thirteen. The attendance at the club varied from time to time,
owing to some of the frequenters living in neighbouring villages, and
to other reasons.

So Mr. Coffin called for two knives and a salt-cellar; and then each
one present was blindfolded in turn and made to go through a ceremony
of initiation over the crossed knives and to spill some salt; after
which Mr. Coffin entertained them with a discourse about ghosts, rising
gravestones, banshees, corpse lights, and other things which it was the
duty of the new club to ridicule.

"The time is approaching when the landlord will request us to leave the
premises," said Mr. Coffin; "and, as you are aware, the first of us
to rise to depart must, according to the superstition, die within the
year: a most laughable superstition, of course!"

Mr. Coffin looked round. Each one whom he fixed with his eye chuckled
feebly and whispered "Ar--o' course!"

"Who volunteers to rise first?" asked Mr. Coffin, fixing his twinkle on
the kettle-crane.

[Illustration: "TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE."]

There was a dead silence, broken by a low, blood-curdling, tremulous
moan from the yard; a moan which swelled into a howl so prolonged that
it seemed as though it would never cease. Then another dead silence,
broken by a dreadful grating death-cry from the woods; only the cry
of the screech-owl. Then the landlord looked in and said: "Time,
gentlemen, please."

But no one stirred; Mr. Coffin's twinkle was still fixed upon the crane.

"I propose, brother Unbelievers," he said, "that Peter, as being the
person in whose house the death-watch is ticking at present, is the
fittest person to rise. This will give him a great opportunity of
showing his contempt for absurd superstitions."

"That's right, anyhow--'ear! 'ear!" said the other eleven, quite
heartily this time; and Peter desperately seized and emptied his glass
of gin and water, and--pale as a sheet--slowly rose and buttoned his
coat. As he did so, there resounded again, simultaneously, the howl
of the yard dog and the death-cry of the screech-owl. Peter grinned a
ghastly grin, wiped his brow, said tremulously, "Well--goo' night," and
crawled out.

Then Mr. Coffin removed his twinkle once more from the crane, and rose,
and beamed round upon the company.

"This _is_ a magnificent opportunity for the display of our contempt
for superstition!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "If I remember
rightly, it was on a Hallowe'en, just seven years ago, that the tramp
hanged himself to that oak at the turn of the road--your way home, by
the way, Mr. Armstrong. Yes, it _was_ Hallowe'en! How fortunate! And
then there's Master George's groom who was thrown and broke his neck at
the Squire's gate, and is said to haunt the avenue just inside so as to
be seen from the road. Why, if he's to be seen _any_ night, he's safe
to be about on Hallowe'en--and that's on _your_ road home, Mr. Billet;
there's a chance for _you_! Then some of you have to cross the Low
Meadow where old Meg was drowned, in the time of William the Fourth,
and where the corpse-lights are to be seen, eh? Why, there's some fun
for every one of you. There's the churchyard, too, with a lot of queer
stories about it. Don't you remember about Joe Watts seeing that grey
thing sitting on the grave that had been opened, no one knew how?

"Capital! I'll tell you what. Just come into my place and finish the
evening, and then you can all start off in time to pass those places
exactly at midnight. Come along; and I'll start you all off at the
right time."

[Illustration: "SPRANG OUT UPON PERSONS PASSING BY."]

Getting skilfully behind them all--(for Peter had been found hanging
about just outside the door of the "Chain-Harve")--he edged them into
his cottage like a collie showing sheep into a pen; and made them all
sit down; and told them about an uncle of his who had gone by a haunted
spot for all the world like the turn of the road where the tragedy of
the tramp had occurred; and had heard something following him, though
he could see nothing; and had felt a feeling like a dead fish sliding
down his back; and had been unable to stir from the spot or to turn
his head, although he felt a something behind him all the time; and
had been found nearly dead in the morning. Then there was another tale
of a maniac with blood on his nails, who lurked behind headstones in
just such a churchyard as the one some of them had to pass through
that night, and sprang out upon persons passing by; and was felt to be
cold and slimy; and left those whom he touched paralyzed all down one
side. And there was the story of the woman who saw a gravestone slowly
rising--rising--rising of its own accord; and several other stories.
Between the stories, in the dead silences, were heard the howls of the
yard dog and the cries of the screech-owl: for Mr. Coffin lived close
to the "Chain-Harve."

"And now it's about time for some of you to be off," he said, rising.
"You shall go one by one. Your road home lies by the Low Meadow, Peter;
you'd better start now, and you'll just get there as the clock strikes
twelve--you'll hear the church clock down there, so you can hang
about a bit if you get there too soon. Good-night! Bless me, look at
that thing in the elm tree! Doesn't it look like a man hanging there?
Oh, of course, that's the light from my window on the leaves. Well,
good-night, good-night all! Don't forget the rising gravestones, and
the maniac, and the groom, and the dead fish!"

When the last of them had got round the turn in the road, Mr. Coffin
put on his coat and crept out after them, walking on the turf at the
side of the road so that his steps could not be heard. Presently he
made a short cut across Farmer Worripp's third field so as to head
them. At the other end of the field was the tramp's corner, with the
fatal tree, now thin as to leaves, standing out blurrily against the
dark sky. There, behind the hedge, Mr. Coffin waited to observe how Mr.
Armstrong would pass the spot; Armstrong had been started off in good
time to pass the spot a little before twelve; but the watcher waited in
vain--no Armstrong turned up. So Mr. Coffin started off again, across
country, toward the churchyard, arriving there just before twelve, and
hiding behind King John's Yew; he strained his ear for the sound of
feet, but no sound of feet was to be heard. No one going by the road
could possibly have arrived there before him. The clock struck twelve,
but no one came; he waited until the quarter-past--still no one came.
Then he started off, still across country, to a point on Peter's way
home, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the Low Meadow--but no Peter
was to be seen. So Mr. Coffin went home across the Low Meadow without
meeting a soul--or a spirit. Even down at the Low Meadow he could hear
the distant howl of the yard dog--a marrow-chilling sound enough; but
Mr. Coffin had absolutely no nerves, and simply chuckled.

How the members of the Unbelievers' Club got home that night nobody
ever knew except themselves; but next morning Mr. Coffin was on
his pony making the round of their dwelling or working places, and
interviewing them.

But they seemed very grumpy and short that morning (one and all): and
on his ride home Mr. Coffin twinkled so at the hedges and the trees and
the sky, and chuckled so incessantly that even his pony (who was used
to his ways) several times stopped and turned a brown eye round at its
rider in surprise and inquiry. All that day twelve out of the thirteen
members of the Unbelievers' Club were morose and out of humour; and
that evening the majority of them happened to drop in at the "Threshing
Machine," at the other end of the district from the "Chain-Harve." They
said very little beyond "Good evening," and sat in the tap-room looking
sheepishly at the fire, the important subject of the newly-established
club being strangely avoided.

But reports of the prowess of the club on the previous night had been
carefully spread by Mr. Coffin. He had told everybody he came across
how Armstrong had sat and smoked right under the tramp's tree while the
clock struck twelve, and how Billet had spent nearly an hour by the
gate of the Squire's park, challenging the groom's ghost to show up,
and making the avenue echo with his laughter; and so forth: so that
the members of the new club had become heroes. Thus, one by one, the
villagers were attracted to drop in at the "Threshing Machine" to gaze
reverentially at the fearless ghost-defiers, and ask them all about it.

"It must hav' give yer a bit of a creepy feelin' when the clock began
to strike?" said the saddler.

"Me? Golong with yer! 'Ope _I_ ain't sech a turnip-liver as ter be
frightened at bogies!" replied Armstrong, scornfully.

"Yur! D'ye take us for a set o' babies?" asked Billet, witheringly.

"Yah!" exclaimed Joe Murzle. "Wot next?"

Then the admirers stood drinks to the heroes; and by the time the
latter got up--with more or less difficulty--to go home, there wasn't
one among them who would not have given a week's earnings to meet the
most creepy ghost about.

But the next morning they were silent once more; and Peter looked
gloomily over the fence at Billet.

"Mighty queer about this 'ere pig o' mine, _that's_ wot it is!" said
he. "Bin ailing, he has, ever since yesterday morning."

"Hum!" said Billet. "We-el--if you ask _me_--I tell yer plain as I do
b'leeve my roomatics come on wuss night afore last, and that's pat."

Then they were silent, shaking their heads for several minutes.

"I'll tell yer," said Peter. "'Umbug it may be; an' truck it may be;
but there's things as is best let alone, and that I _do_ think. Thur
ain't no kind o' weak-mindyness nor credibility about _me_; but I says,
wot's the objeck o' goin' a-spillin' o' salt, an' crossin' knives, an'
settin' down thirteen?"

[Illustration: "MIGHTY QUEER ABOUT THIS 'ERE PIG O' MINE."]

"Ar!" said Billet, eagerly, "that's wot I ses--let sleepin' dogs lie,
ses I; and then yer won't git bitten, I ses!"

"I've got a kind o' notion as things are a-going somehow queerish
like," said Armstrong, passing along the lane at that moment. "Do me
if I can git the wind right way round into the mill-sails this mornin'
nor yet yesterday; and what on earth shed make that there lot o'
flour mouldy--well! That there pig's tail o' yourn don't look kind o'
right--it's a-hangin' out straight as a dip. Wot's ailin'?"

Peter and Billet looked at each other and shook their heads. Then Joe
Maydew came along, and told how he had his doubts about them turkeys
of his being quite as they should be, and how Jem Baker the carrier's
horse had gone lame the day before; and how other suspicious things
were happening.

Now, as a fact, Peter's pig had been ailing over a week, and the mill
had been refractory for five or six days--ever since the wind had been
so choppy; and Baker's horse had gradually gone lame from a shoe-nail
badly driven ten days previously. But the "Club" had not been nervously
looking out for evil signs until some thirty hours ago, and so had
failed to find any particular significance in the mishaps.

"It strikes _me_," said Maydew (one of the Unbelievers' Club), "that
there's folks as is fools and folks as is bigger fools; and these 'ere
last kind is them as must go a-sneerin', and unb'leevin', and defyin',
and temptin' o' Providence. Wot's Providence provide bad luck for, if
you ain't free to 'elp yerself to it? An' how are yer goin' to 'elp
yerself to it if ther' ain't no proper reckernized means o' doing of
it--hey?"

"Do jest seem like throwin' away the gifts o' Providence, don't it?"
said Peter.

"And wot I ses, them as up and persuades others for to do that same,
though bein' nameless, is got to answer to it," said Billet. "There's
things as we knows about, and there's other things, as contrariwise, we
don't; and when you ses unluck, and ghostes, and sech ----."

"All tomfoolery, aren't they, Mr. Billet? and no one's more convinced
of that than you and Peter," put in Mr. Coffin, who had come along
unobserved, fixing his persuasive eye on Billet.

The influence of Mr. Coffin's eye was remarkable: poor Billet and Peter
stood on one foot and then on the other, and grinned feebly, while the
other two stood scratching their chins; and, with a cheery wave of the
hand, Mr. Coffin passed on; and when he was out of sight those four
stuck their fists defiantly into the very bottoms of their pockets,
and put their legs wide apart, and muttered: "Is got to arnswer for it;
and it's a mercy if there ain't bad luck for _them_."

[Illustration: "HE SET FIRE TO HIS THATCH."]

For the rest of that week the Unbelievers spent their time in detecting
signs of the ill-luck brought upon them by the rash proceedings of that
fatal evening; for, in truth, they were as superstitious a set as one
could well find. By the end of the week a thousand small misfortunes
had happened, exactly on a footing with the small misfortunes which
had been happening to them every week of their lives; but _now_ these
desperate deeds at the "Chain-Harve" caused everything.

Peter's pig got so ill that Peter was forced to sell it at less than
quarter value to the local butcher, who was forced to send the carcass
to London to dispose of it; and then Peter--always feeble-minded--began
to grow moody and to stand about brooding on ills to come; and while he
stood brooding with a candle in his hand he set fire to his thatch and
burned off half his roof.

Then the evening came round for the weekly meeting of the "Unbelievers'
Club," and Mr. Coffin sat in state in the club-room chair at the
"Chain-Harve"; but at half-past seven (the regulation time for dropping
in) not a member appeared, nor until a quarter past eight; and then Mr.
Coffin set off for the other end of the parish, and found them all at
the "Threshing Machine."

"Ha! Good evening, gentlemen!" said he, taking a big chair by the fire.
"So you've decided to hold our club meeting here for a change?"

"'Ear! 'ear!" cried all those who were not of the fated twelve. Then
came a ten minutes' silence. Then Armstrong said, doggedly:--

"As to clubs, there's clubs as is all right; and there's clubs as is,
what you might say, otherwise--an' that's all about it!"

"Ar! That's jest where it is!" said old Billet.

"An' take it or leave it!" added Joe Maydew.

"Ar!" said the rest.

Peter sat in a dark corner, behind a string of onions, muttering to
himself.

"Is it your pleasure, fellow Unbelievers, that we go into committee on
the future programme of the club?" asked Mr. Coffin.

"'Ear! 'ear!" cried the curious non-members, eagerly.

But Armstrong rose and stuck his fists again into the bottoms of his
pockets, and glared at the proposer.

"W'y, if it comes to that, no, it ain't!" he said, fiercely. "And
take it out o' that!" And with that he stamped out of the "Threshing
Machine," followed by Joe Maydew.

The non-members were terribly disappointed; Mr. Coffin's influence was
powerless to set the proceedings going; the affair was a disastrous
frost; and presently the party broke up. At the hour for closing Peter
still sat in the dark corner behind the string of onions, rocking his
chair on its two hind legs and glowering at his boots; and he had to be
nudged three times before he started up and mechanically trudged out,
with his eyes fixed on the floor.

Next day, at the time for going to work, Peter sat in his living-room
with his chin upon his chest, and refused to budge. He had not
attempted to repair the thatch of his roof; and the rain had soaked his
bed, and spoilt his one or two books, and the  prints on his
wall and other things; but he merely gazed hopelessly round like one
under an irremovable curse, and gave it up. He had left the cover off
his little flour-tub, and the rain had soaked the flour, and a hen was
scratching in it; but there he sat and glowered.

Then he lost his employment at Farmer Worripp's, for the farmer could
not wait his pleasure, and had to engage another hand instead; and so
Peter had to go to the "house" for out-door relief. So he dragged on,
wandering round his garden patch, with his head low, and glowering, and
brooding, and waiting for the further developments of the ill-luck he
had brought on himself by the proceedings at the "Club."

Then his landlord grew tired of receiving no rent, and Peter had to
leave his cottage, after selling his few "sticks" to his neighbours;
or, rather, after his neighbours had come forward and given him a
trifle for this and that article, which he would otherwise have left
behind without an attempt to sell.

And so he wandered out into the road, quietly, at dusk, when no one
was observing, and stood for a moment at his gate, wavering which way
to go; and then he turned at the sound of a dog barking, and went off
slowly in the direction to which he had turned, with no pack--nothing
but his clothes and the small amount from the sale in his pocket.

As he passed the "Chain-Harve," his head still on his breast, Mr.
Coffin (who had been away for ten days, and had not heard of Peter's
latest straits) was standing in the doorway and caught sight of him.

"Halloa, Master Peter," said Coffin. "Whither away now? Coming in to
have half-a-pint?"

Peter suddenly stopped in the light from the tap-room window, raised
his head, and glared fiercely at the speaker: then spat on the ground
before him, and disappeared into the darkness.

The next morning, when Mr. Coffin heard all about Peter's recent
troubles, he set off along the road the way he had gone, and searched
for him high and low. Peter had been seen in the next village, and had
bought a loaf and some cheese at the grocer's; but beyond this the
seeker could not trace him. He tried the next day, and the next; but
with no success.

It was eight or nine weeks after this that, at sunset, Peter dragged
himself from under a haystack where he had been asleep, and drew
himself slowly up to a standing position. He was scarcely recognisable:
his unwashed face was seared and lined with exposure, misery, and
incessant brooding on the ill-luck which had long ago developed in
his feeble mind into a crushing curse--a curse deliberately brought
down upon himself by some awful and inexpiable blasphemy--for such was
the phantasy which had evolved itself out of those harmless acts of
spilling the salt and so forth at the inauguration of the Unbelievers'
Club. Day and night--until he had fallen down with sheer inability to
keep awake--he had wandered on, with his chin on his chest and his eyes
on the road, brooding over the "blasphemy" and the "curse." He looked
like a skeleton; his eyes had grey hollows all round; his clothes were
in rags; and he had been wet through for many days.

Suddenly, now, he glared at the setting sun; then sprang forward to
a heap of flints on the roadside, and with trembling hand eagerly
selected a large stone, and hugged it up inside the breast of his
coat. Then he set off hurriedly--almost at a run--along the road; and
walked, walked, at the same pace, into the dusk, into the darkness,
under the stars. Now and again he would take out the flint and feel
it caressingly; and once he suddenly stopped, and tore off a large
piece of his coat, and wrapped the stone in it; and tied his old red
handkerchief over that, and put the stone back in his coat. Stumbling
along at the same pace, he arrived about ten o'clock at the window of
the "Threshing Machine," and peered in; everyone was away that night
at a merrymaking in the next village, and Mr. Coffin sat alone in the
tap-room.

Peter pushed open the tap-room door, and suddenly appeared before Mr.
Coffin, who started up in surprise. After a few moments' scrutiny he
recognised the changed figure, and advanced and touched its arm, and
sat it down in a chair; and went out and returned with some bread and
cheese and a mug of ale.

Peter pushed away the food and swallowed the pint of ale at a gulp,
then held out the mug to be refilled. It was strong ale, not "swipes."
Mr. Coffin took the mug and set it down; and while his back was turned
Peter seized his untouched glass of hot rum and water and swallowed the
liquor.

Not once did Peter speak, even in reply; but each time the other turned
his back, he would bring out the flint in its wrappings and caress it,
and glare at Mr. Coffin. Then suddenly Peter sprang up and tottered
out; and Mr. Coffin, after a vain attempt to find him in the darkness
outside, mounted his pony and set off for home. He took the lane for
the Low Meadow; and after him, keeping on the grass or in the soft mud,
crept Peter, caressing the flint stone.

[Illustration: "HE WALKED INTO THE DARKNESS."]

Mr. Coffin did not return home that night, although his pony did; and
the next day he was found on the Low Meadow with his skull fractured
and a large sharp flint lying close by; and Peter was found lying face
upwards, glaring at the sky through three feet of water, at the spot
where tradition said that old Meg was drowned in the time of William
the Fourth.

The Low Meadow is triply haunted now; and the villagers avoid it after
nightfall more carefully than ever. The Unbelievers' Club exists no
longer.

J. F. SULLIVAN.




[Illustration: PAL'S PUZZLE PAGE.]




Transcriber's Notes:


    Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were
    silently corrected.

    Punctuation normalized.

    Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed.

    Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.

    Title page added by transcriber.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume VII, Issue
40, April, 1894, by Various

*** 