[Editorial] Modernize hyphenation and spelling
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-1" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3 epub:type="title">I</h3>
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<p>It is not generally known that the mighty city of Stirmingham owes its existence to a water-rat. Stirmingham has a population of half a million, and is the workshop of the earth. It is a proud city, and its press-men have traced its origin back into the dim vista of the past, far before Alfred the Great’s time, somewhere in the days of those monarchs who came from Troy, and whose deeds Holinshed so minutely chronicles.</p>
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<p>But this is all trash and nonsense, and is a cunning device of the able editors aforesaid, who confound—for their own purposes—the city proper with the tiny hamlet of Wolf’s Glow. This little village or cluster of houses, which now forms a part, and the dirtiest part, of the city, can indeed be traced through Hundred Rolls, Domesday Book, and Saxon Charters, almost down to the time of the Romans. But Stirmingham, the prosperous and proud Stirmingham, which thinks that the world could not exist without its watches and guns, its plated goods, its monster factories and mills, which sends cargoes to Timbuctoo, and supplies Java and Malabar with idols—this vast place, whose nickname is a by-word for cheating, for fair outward show and no real solidity, owes its existence to a water-rat. This is a fact. And it happened in this way.</p>
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<p>It is not generally known that the mighty city of Stirmingham owes its existence to a water-rat. Stirmingham has a population of half a million, and is the workshop of the earth. It is a proud city, and its pressmen have traced its origin back into the dim vista of the past, far before Alfred the Great’s time, somewhere in the days of those monarchs who came from Troy, and whose deeds Holinshed so minutely chronicles.</p>
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<p>But this is all trash and nonsense, and is a cunning device of the able editors aforesaid, who confound—for their own purposes—the city proper with the tiny hamlet of Wolf’s Glow. This little village or cluster of houses, which now forms a part, and the dirtiest part, of the city, can indeed be traced through Hundred Rolls, Domesday Book, and Saxon Charters, almost down to the time of the Romans. But Stirmingham, the prosperous and proud Stirmingham, which thinks that the world could not exist without its watches and guns, its plated goods, its monster factories and mills, which sends cargoes to Timbuktu, and supplies Java and Malabar with idols—this vast place, whose nickname is a byword for cheating, for fair outward show and no real solidity, owes its existence to a water-rat. This is a fact. And it happened in this way.</p>
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<p>Once upon a time there was a wide expanse of utterly useless land, flat as this sheet of paper, without a trace of subsoil or any kind of earth in which so much as a blade of grass could grow. It was utterly dry and sterile—not a tree nor a shrub to shelter a cow or a horse, and all men avoided it as a waste and desolate place. It was the very abomination of desolation, and no one would have been surprised to have seen satyrs and other strange creatures diverting themselves thereon. Around one edge of this plain there flowed a brook, so small that one could hardly call it by that name. A dainty lady from Belgravia could have easily stepped across it without soiling the sole of her boot.</p>
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<p>At one spot beside this brook there grew a willow tree. This tree was a picture in itself, and would have made the fortune of any artist who would have condescended to make a loving study of it. The trunk had been of very large size, but now resembled a canoe standing upon end, for nearly one half had decayed, and the crumbling wood had disappeared, leaving a hollow stem. The stem was itself dead and decaying, except one thin streak of green, up which the golden sap of life still ran, and invigorated the ancient head of the tree to send forth yellow buds and pointed leaves. Up one side of the hollow trunk an ivy creeper had climbed to the top, and was fast hanging festoons from bough to bough.</p>
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<p>In the vast mass of decaying wood at the top or head of the tree a briar had taken root—its seed no doubt dropped by some thrush—and its prickly shoots hung over and drooped to the ground in luxuriance of growth. The hardy fern had also found a lodging here, and its dull green leaves, which they say grow most by moonlight, formed a species of crown to the dying tree.</p>
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<p>This willow was the paradise of such birds as live upon insects, for they abounded in the decaying wood; and at the top a wild pigeon had built its nest. As years went by, the willow bent more and more over the brook. The water washing the soil out from between its roots formed a hollow space, where a slight eddy scooped out a deeper hole, in which the vermillion—throated stickleback or minnow disported and watched the mouth of its nest. This eddy also weakened the tree by undermining it at its foundation. The ivy grew thicker till it formed a perfect bush upon the top, and this in the winter afforded a hold for the wind to shake the tree by. The wind would have passed harmlessly through the slender branches, but the ivy, even in winter, the season of storms, left something against which it could rage with effect. Finally came the water-rat.</p>
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<p>If Stirmingham objects to owe its origin to a water-rat, it may at least congratulate itself upon the fact that it was a good old English rat—none of your modern parvenu, grey Hanoverian rascals. It was, in fact, before the Norwegian rat, which had been imported in the holds of vessels, had obtained undisputed sway over the country. It had, however, already driven the darker aboriginal inhabitants away from the cultivated places to take refuge in the woods and streams. It is odd that in the animal kingdom also, even in the rat economy, the darker hued race should give way to the lighter. However, as in Stirmingham the smoke is so great that the ladies when they walk abroad carry parasols up to keep the blacks from falling on and disfiguring their complexion, there can after all be no disgrace in the water-rat ancestry.</p>
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<p>This dark coloured water-rat, finding his position less and less secure at the adjacent barn on account of the attacks of the grey invaders, one fine day migrated, with <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Rat and all the Master and Missy rats, down to the stream. Peeping and sniffing about for a pleasant retreat, he chose the neighbourhood of the willow tree. I cannot stay here to discuss whether or no he was led to the tree by some mystic beckoning hand—some supernatural presentiment; but to the tree he went, and Stirmingham was founded. Two or three burrows—small round holes—sufficed to house <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rat and his family, but these ran right under the willow, and of course still further weakened it.</p>
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<p>In course of time the family flourished exceedingly, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rat became a great-great-great-grandpapa to ever so many minor Frisky Tails. These Frisky Tails finding the ancient quarter too much straightened for comfort, began to scratch further tunnels, and succeeded pretty well in opening additional honeycombs, till presently progress was stayed by a root of the tree. Now they had gnawed through and scratched away half a dozen other roots, and never paused to sniff more particularly at this than the others. But it so happened that this root was the one which supplied the green streak up the trunk of the tree with the golden sap of life drawn by mysterious chemical processes from the earth. Frisky Tails gnawed this root asunder, and cut off the supply of sap. The green streak up the trunk withered and died, and the last stay of the willow was gone. It only remained for the first savage south-wester of winter to finish the mischief.</p>
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<p>The south-wester came, and over went the trunk, crash across the brook. At first this was very awkward for the rats, as thereby most of their subterranean dwellings became torn up and exposed. But very soon a geological change occurred.</p>
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<p>In course of time the family flourished exceedingly, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rat became a great-great-great-grandpapa to ever so many minor Frisky Tails. These Frisky Tails finding the ancient quarter too much straightened for comfort, began to scratch further tunnels, and succeeded pretty well in opening additional honeycombs, till presently progress was stayed by a root of the tree. Now they had gnawed through and scratched away half a dozen other roots, and never paused to sniff more particularly at this than the others. But it so happened that this root was the one which supplied the green streak up the trunk of the tree with the golden sap of life drawn by mysterious chemical processes from the earth. Frisky Tails gnawed this root asunder, and cut off the supply of sap. The green streak up the trunk withered and died, and the last stay of the willow was gone. It only remained for the first savage southwester of winter to finish the mischief.</p>
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<p>The southwester came, and over went the trunk, crash across the brook. At first this was very awkward for the rats, as thereby most of their subterranean dwellings became torn up and exposed. But very soon a geological change occurred.</p>
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<p>The tree had fallen obliquely across the stream, and its ponderous head, or top, choked up the bed, or very nearly. The sand and small sticks, leaves, and so on, brought down by the current, filled up the crevices left by the tree, and a perfect dam was formed.</p>
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<p>Now, as stated before, the ground thereabout was nearly level, and so worthless in character that no man ever troubled his head about it. No one came to see the dam or remove it. The result was the brook overflowed, and then finding this level plateau, instead of eating out a new channel, it spread abroad, and formed first a good-sized puddle, then a pond, then something like a flood, and, as time went by, a marsh. This marsh extended over a space of ground fully a mile long, and altogether covered some nine hundred acres.</p>
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<p>The rats, sagacious creatures, instead of deserting their colony, showed that they possessed that species of wisdom which the Greek sage said was superior to all other knowledge—namely, the knowledge how to turn an evil to a good. Exploring this shallow lake which their carelessness had caused, they found several places still unsubmerged—islands, in fact. To one of these they swam, dug out new catacombs, and being now quite safe from interruption, and protected upon all sides, the Malthusian laws of population had full play, and soon proved its force, for the whole place swarmed with them. The axiom, however, that at the very point when empires are apparently most prosperous, their destruction is near at hand, to some extent applied even to the dominion of the water-rat. They were no longer to be the sole undisturbed possessors.</p>
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<p>Arguing a priori, one would have concluded that if this waste land was worthless before, now it was a marsh, and miasmatic vapours arose from it, it would be still more avoided. But the facts were exactly opposite. So soon as ever the water had spread over the level plain, and had well soaked into the sterile soil, there began to spring up tough aquatic grasses, commonly called bull-polls, from a supposed resemblance between their tangled appearance and the rough hair that hangs over the poll of a bull.</p>
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<p>These grasses are gregarious—that is to say, they prefer to grow in huge bunches. Each bunch increasing year after year, forms in time a small hillock or tuft, and, the roots spreading and spreading, these hillocks of grass almost covered the lake, leaving only narrow channels of water between. Upon these innumerable frogs and toads crawled up out of the water, and they were the chosen resorts of newts.</p>
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<p>In summer time the blue dragon-fly wheeled in mazes over them, or, while settled on the stiff blades of grass, looked like a species of blossom. The current of the brook brought down seeds, and soon the tall reed began to rear its slender stem, and rustle its feathery head in the breeze. The sedges came also, and fringed the marsh with a border of green.</p>
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<p>In summer time the blue dragonfly wheeled in mazes over them, or, while settled on the stiff blades of grass, looked like a species of blossom. The current of the brook brought down seeds, and soon the tall reed began to rear its slender stem, and rustle its feathery head in the breeze. The sedges came also, and fringed the marsh with a border of green.</p>
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<p>Meantime, the root which the rats had gnawed asunder beneath the ancient willow tree, felt the power of spring, and made one more effort. Freed from the incubus of the dead trunk, it threw out a shoot of its own. From this shoot there proceeded other shoots; and, in short, after a while the islands in the marsh became covered with willow trees and osier-beds. The reeds grew apace, and by the time the islands were clothed with willow, the rest of the marsh was occupied by them, saving only the fringe of sedge, and the almost immortal bull-polls, which were as tough as leather, and which nothing could kill.</p>
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<p>Now, also, animal life began to people the once-deserted waste. With the sedges came the sedge-warblers; with the willows came the brook-sparrows; and above all, came the wild-fowl. The heron stalked to and fro between the bull-polls; the ducks swam in and out; the moor-hens took up their residence; and in winter the widgeons and snipes visited the place in myriads.</p>
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<p>Now, also, animal life began to people the once-deserted waste. With the sedges came the sedge-warblers; with the willows came the brook-sparrows; and above all, came the wildfowl. The heron stalked to and fro between the bull-polls; the ducks swam in and out; the moorhens took up their residence; and in winter the widgeons and snipes visited the place in myriads.</p>
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<p>It was now time for man. And man came. He came first in the person of here and there a cotter, who cut himself a huge bundle of reeds for fuel, to mend his thatch, or litter his pig; then in the person of the poacher—if it could be called poaching to hunt where no one preserved—who, with long-barrelled gun, brass-fitted and flint-locked, brought down half a dozen ducks at once, and then waded in after them.</p>
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<p>One day a travelling gipsy tribe came by, and encamped for the night close to the marsh. In this tribe there was a man who, in his way, possessed the genius of Alexander the Great. Alexander chancing to pass a landlocked harbour utterly neglected, saw at a glance its capabilities, and built a city which is renowned to this day.</p>
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<p>This gipsy fellow, who was only a gipsy by marriage, saw this unoccupied marsh, with its wild-fowl, its fish, and, above all, its willows, and at once fixed upon it as a promising spot.</p>
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<p>This gipsy fellow, who was only a gipsy by marriage, saw this unoccupied marsh, with its wildfowl, its fish, and, above all, its willows, and at once fixed upon it as a promising spot.</p>
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<p>He was a basket-maker by trade.</p>
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<p>He waded in to one of the islets, carrying his infant in his arms, and followed by his wife, who carried his tools. He set up his tent-pole, and in time superseded it with a cottage of sod, roofed with reeds. All day he made baskets of willow and flags, in the evening he shot ducks and widgeon. The baskets he sold in the towns, the ducks he ate. One or two others followed his example.</p>
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<p>The gipsy tribe made it a rule to come that way twice a year to purchase the baskets and retail them all over the country. The original settlers had sons, and the sons took possession of other islets, built sod cottages, of wattle-and-daub, and married wives, till there were ten or twelve settlements upon the islands; and these ten or twelve, all in a rude sort of way, gave the chieftainship to the original basket-maker, whose name happened to be Baskette.</p>
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<p>These people, in the heart of a midland county, lived almost exactly the life that was led at the same period by the dwellers in the fen countries to the eastward. It was a rude existence, but it was free and independent, and not without a charm to those who had been born and bred in it. Even this unenviable life was, however, to be disturbed. Two mighty giants were preparing, like the ogres in the fairy tales, to eat up the defenceless population. The lid of a certain tea-kettle had puffed up and down, and Steam had been born. The other ogre was called Legal Rights, and began to bite first.</p>
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<p>These people, in the heart of a midland county, lived almost exactly the life that was led at the same period by the dwellers in the fen countries to the eastward. It was a rude existence, but it was free and independent, and not without a charm to those who had been born and bred in it. Even this unenviable life was, however, to be disturbed. Two mighty giants were preparing, like the ogres in the fairy tales, to eat up the defenceless population. The lid of a certain teakettle had puffed up and down, and Steam had been born. The other ogre was called Legal Rights, and began to bite first.</p>
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<p>Aurelian, baffled, was not beaten. He was a resolute and patient man. Like the famous Carthaginian father, he brought up his son and educated him to consider the Baskette estates as the one object of his attention—only in this case it was not for destruction, but for preservation.</p>
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<p>When young John Marese Baskette, the heir, after distinguishing himself at Eton, was sent higher up the Thames to Oxford, Aurelian immediately placed his son, Theodore Marese, at the same college.</p>
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<p>The result was exactly as he had foreseen. The heir formed a bond of friendship—such as it is in these days—with Theodore. Their one topic of conversation was the estate.</p>
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<p>John was full of the most romantic notions. He was in youth a really exemplary lad—clever, hard-working, winning to himself the good will of all men. Theodore had a genuine liking for his cousin—then, at all events, though probably in after life the attachment he professed was chiefly caused by self interest.</p>
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<p>John was full of the most romantic notions. He was in youth a really exemplary lad—clever, hardworking, winning to himself the good will of all men. Theodore had a genuine liking for his cousin—then, at all events, though probably in after life the attachment he professed was chiefly caused by self interest.</p>
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<p>John was full of ambitious dreams. His vivid imagination had been worked upon by the talk among his companions about the famous owner of twenty millions sterling—his father. Upon an old bookstall he obtained a copy of “The Life of Sternhold Baskette,” now out of print. It inflamed him to the uttermost. There was good metal in the boy if he had only had friends and parents to put it to proper use. He formed the most extraordinary schemes as to what he would do with this wealth when he became of age, and stepped at one bound into the full enjoyment of it, as he supposed he should.</p>
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<p>It was all to be used for the alleviation of the misery of the world, for the relief of the poor, for the succouring of the afflicted, the advancement of all means that could mitigate the penalties attaching to human existence.</p>
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<p>As time wore on, however, these benevolent intentions received their first check.</p>
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<p>He reached his twenty-first birthday. He claimed his birthright, and was refused. Briefly, the reason was because the companies and the American claimants had entered pleas, and because also the property was terribly encumbered, and would require long years of nursing yet before it could be cleared, and this nursing the higher Courts insisted upon.</p>
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<p>Instead of the magnificent income he expected, the young man received two thousand pounds per annum only. It struck his nature a heavy blow, and did much to pervert it, for he looked upon it in the sense of a shameful injustice. With Theodore he left college; at all events he was now his own master, and entered “life.”</p>
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<p>Every one knows what “life” is to a young man of twenty-one with two thousand a year certain—the power of borrowing to a wide margin, and no monitor to check and retard the inevitable course.</p>
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<p>Everyone knows what “life” is to a young man of twenty-one with two thousand a year certain—the power of borrowing to a wide margin, and no monitor to check and retard the inevitable course.</p>
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<p>Theodore was much older—fully thirty at this time; but he was as eager for enjoyment, and perhaps more so.</p>
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<p>To make the story short, they ran through every species of extravagance—visited Paris, Vienna, and all the continental centres of dissipation.</p>
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<p>Ten whole years passed away. John Marese Baskette was by this time a thorough man of the world, deeply in debt, brilliant and fascinating in manner, false and selfish to the backbone. He inherited his mother’s beauty. A tall, broad, well-made man, dark curling hair, large dark eyes, and large eyelashes, bronzed complexion, which, when he was excited, glowed with almost womanly brilliance; strong as a lion, gentle in manner, and fierce as a tiger under the velvet glove. Polished and plausible, there were those who deemed him shallow and wholly concerned with the pleasure of the hour; but they were mistaken.</p>
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<p>John Marese Baskette had rubbed off all the soft and good aspirations of his boyhood; but the ambition which was at the bottom of those schemes remained, and had intensified tenfold. He was burning with ambition. The hereditary mind of the Baskettes, their brain power, had descended to him in full vigour (though hitherto he had wasted it), and he also inherited their thirst for wealth. But his idea of obtaining it was totally opposed to the family tradition. The family tradition was a private life devoted with the patience and self-denial of a martyr to the accumulation of gold.</p>
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<p>Marese’s one absorbing idea was power. To be a ruler, a statesman, a leader, was his one consuming desire. As a ruler he thought, as a member of the Cabinet, it would be easy for him to affect the market in his favour, for Marese was a gambler already upon a gigantic scale. The Stock Exchange and the Bourse were his arena.</p>
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<p>The intense vanity of the man, which led him to seriously hope even for the English Premiership, was, doubtless, a <em>trait</em> derived from his mother. “If I had my rights,” he was accustomed to say to Theodore, “I should be not only the wealthiest man in England, but in Europe and America. My father’s property has more than doubled in value. In England the wealthiest man at once takes a position above crowds of clever people who have nothing but their talents. Without any conceit, I can safely say that I am clever. A clever, wealthy man is so great a rarity that my elevation is a certainty. But nothing can be done without money. At present my wealth is a shadow only. The one thing, Theodore, is money. Our Stock Exchange labour is, in a sense, wasted; our operations are not large enough. What we make is barely sufficient to provide us with common luxuries (he did not pretend to say necessities) and to keep our creditors quiet. Nothing remains for bolder actions. I am thirty, and I have not yet entered the House.”</p>
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<p>This last remark was always the conclusion of his reflections. In a sense, it was like Caesar lamenting upon seeing a statue of Alexander—that he had done nothing at an age when Alexander had conquered the world. He had not even the means to fight the enemies who withheld his birthright from him. The bitterness engendered of these wrongs, the constant brooding over the career that was lost to him, obscured what little moral sense had been left in him after the course of life he had been through; and the once gentle boy was now ripe for any guilt. The verse so often upon the lips of the tyrant was for ever in his mind, and perpetually escaped him unconsciously—</p>
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<p>This last remark was always the conclusion of his reflections. In a sense, it was like Caesar lamenting upon seeing a statue of Alexander—that he had done nothing at an age when Alexander had conquered the world. He had not even the means to fight the enemies who withheld his birthright from him. The bitterness engendered of these wrongs, the constant brooding over the career that was lost to him, obscured what little moral sense had been left in him after the course of life he had been through; and the once gentle boy was now ripe for any guilt. The verse so often upon the lips of the tyrant was forever in his mind, and perpetually escaped him unconsciously—</p>
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<p class="poem">Be just, unless a kingdom tempt to break the laws,<br/>
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For sovereign power alone can justify the cause.</p>
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<p>Like his father Sternhold, he looked upon the undisputed possession of such an estate as conferring powers and position nothing inferior to that of a monarch. His dislike to all things American—in consequence of the claims, now more loudly proclaimed than ever, of the Baskettes from the States—grew to be almost a monomania. He wished that the United States people had but one neck, that he might destroy them all at once—applying the Roman emperor’s saying to his own affairs.</p>
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<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-11" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3 epub:type="title">XI</h3>
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<p>While Marese and Theodore are maturing their plans, it will conduce to the easier comprehension of the horrible, complicated events which followed, if the past history of the estate be briefly summed up in such a manner that this chapter can be used for reference.</p>
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<p>In the commencement, nearly a century previous to the present time, we have seen old Sibbold, the morose miser, gloating over his money, and studying his title-deeds. These gave him an unquestioned right to the farm he occupied, and to the Swamp, or waste land, which had been squatted on by Will Baskette and his companions. This right mainly depended, though not entirely, upon a certain deed of entail. Without that deed Sibbold had still sufficient evidence to prove his right to his farm, but not to the Swamp; without that deed there was no fixed succession—that is to say, he could have devised it to any one he chose.</p>
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<p>In the commencement, nearly a century previous to the present time, we have seen old Sibbold, the morose miser, gloating over his money, and studying his title-deeds. These gave him an unquestioned right to the farm he occupied, and to the Swamp, or waste land, which had been squatted on by Will Baskette and his companions. This right mainly depended, though not entirely, upon a certain deed of entail. Without that deed Sibbold had still sufficient evidence to prove his right to his farm, but not to the Swamp; without that deed there was no fixed succession—that is to say, he could have devised it to anyone he chose.</p>
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<p>There was, therefore, just the possibility that, hating his eldest son Arthur, he had himself destroyed this deed, in order to prepare the way for his second son, James. But against this supposition there was the known character of the man, which led one to imagine that he would rather have died than give up the smallest fraction of his possessions. At all events, this deed was missing, as were several others of little or no value, such as expired leases of fields to tenants, which had once been kept in Sibbold’s oaken press, under padlock and key.</p>
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<p>When Sibbold met with his death at the hands of highwaymen, the farm and waste lands, in the natural course of things, would have passed to his eldest son, Arthur, but he having disappeared, and not appearing to make a claim, James Sibbold, the younger son, took the property. The majority of people always thought, from the fact of Arthur’s not returning to claim his birthright, that he had had a hand in the slaughter of old Will Baskette, and that his conscience drove him away.</p>
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<p>James Sibbold, after a while, married, and had several sons. In time he died, and these sons, though married, still all remained living on the farmstead, or in the outhouses; for as it was known that James’ right was doubtful, they could not agree about the succession, and preferred to live like pigs rather than go to law and have it settled, since the result was so uncertain. At the same time the squatters, basket-makers, reed-cutters, clothes-peg makers, etc, who resided in the Swamp which the rat had caused, had considerably increased in numbers, and were always called, after their former chief, by the name of Baskette.</p>
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<p>He proceeded to drain the Swamp, and to convert it into the Belgravia of Stirmingham. But this project required an enormous expenditure, and just at that moment the first railway to the place, which he had largely supported, came to a standstill, and ate up all his available capital. When, therefore, a return of commercial prosperity took place, he found it impossible alone to complete the vast scheme of streets, squares, etc, which had been commenced.</p>
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<p>Then the building lease plan was resorted to—the very keystone of all this curious history. First, the Corporation of the city took a large slice of the uncompleted property of him on a building lease for a term of years, on the expiration of which the whole reverted to him or his heirs (practically his heirs, as he was not likely to live to the age of 120 years).</p>
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<p>After they had commenced building some uncertainty arose as to whether or no they had the power to enter into such an agreement; they could bind themselves, but could they bind their successors in office? This took place, it must be remembered, long, long before the recent sanitary legislation, which gives such extensive powers to local bodies.</p>
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<p>In order to confirm their proceedings they obtained a private Act of Parliament, which, when it was drawn up, seemed to be worded clearly enough. But every one knows that after the lapse of thirty years or less, words in an inexplicable manner seem to lose their meaning, and to become capable of more than one interpretation. This is perhaps because the persons who read them are influenced unconsciously by a series of circumstances which did not exist at the time the document was composed.</p>
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<p>At any rate, at the date when Marese and Theodore were thinking and scheming, there had already been a great deal of contention over the precise scope of several sentences in this Act: a part of which arose over the question of repairs to the buildings, and partly as to whether, by a little straining, the seventy years of the lease might not be construed to mean practically for ever.</p>
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<p>In order to confirm their proceedings they obtained a private Act of Parliament, which, when it was drawn up, seemed to be worded clearly enough. But everyone knows that after the lapse of thirty years or less, words in an inexplicable manner seem to lose their meaning, and to become capable of more than one interpretation. This is perhaps because the persons who read them are influenced unconsciously by a series of circumstances which did not exist at the time the document was composed.</p>
|
||||
<p>At any rate, at the date when Marese and Theodore were thinking and scheming, there had already been a great deal of contention over the precise scope of several sentences in this Act: a part of which arose over the question of repairs to the buildings, and partly as to whether, by a little straining, the seventy years of the lease might not be construed to mean practically forever.</p>
|
||||
<p>This little straining was managed in this way. When did the lease commence? Had not each successive Mayor got the right to say, “This lease, as interpreted by the Private Act, means, not seventy years from the days of my predecessor, but seventy years from the commencement of my term of office.” By this way of looking at it, so long as there was a Mayor the Corporation would always have seventy years to look forward to.</p>
|
||||
<p>Of course all such reasoning was nothing but pure sophistry; but then most law is sophistry, and sophistry when supported by a rich body of men and called Vested Interest, is often much stronger than the highly belauded and really feeble truth.</p>
|
||||
<p>Here was a tough Gordian knot, to add to the already difficult question of original title. But this was only the preface to the complications to follow. There still remained, after the Corporation had taken a part, a huge howling wilderness of streets with walls two feet high. Companies or syndicates were formed (eight companies in all)—perhaps they had better be called in modern parlance building societies—who took this howling wilderness on the same system of building leases, to fall in at a certain date.</p>
|
||||
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|
|
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|
@ -15,23 +15,23 @@
|
|||
<p>But in addition to these, there was a host of other Baskettes, who in one way or another foisted in their names. There were Baskets, Bascots, Buscots, Biscuits, Buschcotts, Bosquettes—every conceivable variation of spelling from every State and territory, who declared that they were related to the parent stem of Will Baskette, the squatter, who was shot by old Sibbold. These might be called for distinction the pseudo-Baskettes.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then among the True Swampers there was an inner circle, who professed to have prominent “rights” on account of their progenitors having been more nearly related to the original Will Baskette. They argued that the others were not true Baskettes, and had only adopted that name from the chief, while they were real blood Baskettes.</p>
|
||||
<p>In addition, there was another host of people who made a virtue of proclaiming that they were not named Baskette. They did not profess to be named Baskette—they did not take a name which was not theirs! They were Washingtons, Curries, Bolters, Gregorys, Jamesons, and so on. But they had claims because their father’s wives were of the Baskette blood.</p>
|
||||
<p>Finally, there was another sub-division who loudly maintained that half of the original cotters who landed in New York were not Baskettes, but Gibbs, Webbes, Colborns, and so on, and that they were the descendants of these people. And there were some who went the length of declaring that they were descended from two alleged illegitimate sons of old Romy Baskette!</p>
|
||||
<p>Finally, there was another subdivision who loudly maintained that half of the original cotters who landed in New York were not Baskettes, but Gibbs, Webbes, Colborns, and so on, and that they were the descendants of these people. And there were some who went the length of declaring that they were descended from two alleged illegitimate sons of old Romy Baskette!</p>
|
||||
<p>The Baskette Battalion was therefore made up of—1st. The Pure Blood Baskettes; 2nd. The True Swampers; 3rd. Demi-Baskettes, who had that name added to another; 4th. Nominal Baskettes, whose names had an accidental resemblance; 5th. The Feminine Baskettes, descended from women of Baskette strain; 6th. Independent Squatters, not Baskettes, but companions; 7th. Illegitimate Baskettes!</p>
|
||||
<p>Then there were the Sibbolds—such a catalogue! These had been slower to wake up to their “rights” than the Baskettes, but when they did discover them they came in crowds. First, there were the descendants, in a straight line, of the eight sons of James Sibbold, shipped (six with families) to New York. They had multiplied exceedingly, and there was no end to them. The simply Sibbolds, as we may call them, numbered no less than two hundred and eighteen, all told—men, women, and children. Every one of these had some register, some old book—many of these books were worm-eaten copies of Tom Paine’s “Rights of Man”—some piece of paper or other to prove that they had the blood of James Sibbold in their veins.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then there were all the ramifications, pretty much like the Baskette branches; innumerable cadets distantly related, innumerable people whose wife’s uncle’s mother or cousin’s name was Sibbold; and all the various Sibbolde, Sibboldes, Sibald, Sigbeld, Sybels, Sibils, Sibelus, Sibilsons, ad libitum. Illegitimate Sibbolds were as plentiful as blackberries, and all ready to argue the merits of the case with revolver and bowie. If the Baskettes made up a battalion, the Sibbolds formed an army!</p>
|
||||
<p>Between these two great divisions there was the bitterest enmity. The Baskettes derided the claims of the Sibbolds; the Sibbolds derided those of the Baskettes. The Sibbolds told the Baskettes that they were an ill-conditioned lot; if they had been respectable people, and really his relations, old Sternhold would never have shipped them to America out of his sight. The Baskettes retorted that the Sibbolds were ashamed to stay in England, for they were the sons of a murderer; they were the descendants of a dastardly coward, who shot a man through a window. The Sibbolds snarled, and pointed out that the great chief of the Baskettes was nothing but a thief, caught in the act and deservedly punished; a lot of semi-gipsies, rogues, and vagabonds. Their very name showed that they were but basket-makers; they were not even pure gipsy blood—miserable squatters on another man’s property.</p>
|
||||
<p>Blows were not unfrequently exchanged in the saloons and drinking-stores over these quarrels. The result was the formation of two distinct societies, each determined to prosecute its own claim and to oust the other at all hazards. The Baskette battalion relied upon the admitted non-payment of rent by their forefathers to upset all subsequent agreements, and they agreed also that this agreement which their forefathers had signed was not binding on the remote descendants. The document was obtained by trickery, and the land was not put to the use the vendors had understood it was to be put, as the representatives now alleged, to simple agricultural purposes. Further, each of those who signed the document only gave up his cottage and the small plot of garden round it; they did not sell the waste land between the islands.</p>
|
||||
<p>Blows were not unfrequently exchanged in the saloons and drinking-stores over these quarrels. The result was the formation of two distinct societies, each determined to prosecute its own claim and to oust the other at all hazards. The Baskette battalion relied upon the admitted nonpayment of rent by their forefathers to upset all subsequent agreements, and they agreed also that this agreement which their forefathers had signed was not binding on the remote descendants. The document was obtained by trickery, and the land was not put to the use the vendors had understood it was to be put, as the representatives now alleged, to simple agricultural purposes. Further, each of those who signed the document only gave up his cottage and the small plot of garden round it; they did not sell the waste land between the islands.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Sibbolds principal argument was that their forefathers could not sign away an entailed estate without previously cutting off the entail, and it was acknowledged that this had not been done. But, said the Baskettes, there was a question if the land ever was entailed; let the Sibbolds produce the deed, and if it was not entailed, where was their claim?</p>
|
||||
<p>Each of these divisions formed itself into a society, with a regular committee and place of meeting, a minute-book to record accumulated evidence, legal gentlemen to advise, corresponding secretaries, and Heaven knows what. They actually issued gazettes—printed sheets of intelligence. There was the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Baskette Gazette</i> and the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Sibbold Gazette</i>, which papers carefully recorded all deaths, marriages, and new claims. There was a complete organisation, and a—fine thing it was for the lawyers and some few sharp young men.</p>
|
||||
<p>Of late these societies had received more or less cordial overtures from the eight building societies at Stirmingham who held the leases. The first four societies encouraged the Baskette battalion, the second held out hopes to the Sibbolds. The cunning building societies, without committing themselves, desired nothing better than protracted litigation between these claimants and the heir, in the certainty that meantime they should reap the benefit.</p>
|
||||
<p>Among the American corps of claimants there were men of all classes—from common labourers, saloon-keepers, etc, up to judges, editors, financiers, merchants; and many of them were clever, far-seeing persons, who, without putting any weight upon the somewhat strained “rights” they professed to believe in, still thought that there was “something in it, you know,” and money might be got by persistent agitation, if it was only hush-money.</p>
|
||||
<p>Among the American corps of claimants there were men of all classes—from common labourers, saloon-keepers, etc, up to judges, editors, financiers, merchants; and many of them were clever, farseeing persons, who, without putting any weight upon the somewhat strained “rights” they professed to believe in, still thought that there was “something in it, you know,” and money might be got by persistent agitation, if it was only hush-money.</p>
|
||||
<p>Throughout many turbulent States there was at one time quite a feeling aroused against England (which added its venom to the unfortunate Alabama business), as having unjustly kept what was due to American citizens. These societies had their regular agents in Stirmingham and London, whose duty it was to report every change that took place, every variation of the case, and to accumulate evidence and transmit it. These bulletins were received by the “caucuses,” and sometimes printed in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Gazettes</i>.</p>
|
||||
<p>Besides these regular organisations, who had money at disposal and were really formidable, there were several free lances careering over the country, representing themselves as the sons of the elder brother of Romy Baskette, the brother who had disappeared with the gipsies. These were downright impostors, and yet got a living out of the case. Several lecturers also promenaded the States, who made a good thing of it by giving a popular version of the story, illustrated by a diorama of incidents in the lives of the principal actors, from the shooting of Will Baskette to the appearance of Lucia Marese as Lady Godiva. It was singular that no one presented himself as a descendant of Arthur Sibbold; he seemed to have been quite forgotten. So much for America.</p>
|
||||
<p>From Australia there came, time after time, the most startling reports, as is usual when any cause célèbre is proceeding in the Old World. Now, it was a miner at the diggings who had made extraordinary disclosures; now, some shepherd on a sheep-run, after a fit of illness, found his memory returned, and recollected where important deeds were deposited.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nothing, however, came of it. The principal seats of disturbance were America and England; for England produced a crop of what we may call Provisional, or Partial Claimants. Here and there, scattered all over the country—from Kent to Cornwall, from Hampshire to Northumberland—were people of the name of Baskette, which is a very ancient English cognomen, and to be found in every collection of surnames.</p>
|
||||
<p>Most of these were of little or no consequence, but one or two held good positions as gentlemen or merchants. None of these latter made the shadow of a pretence to the estate, but they were fond of speculating as to their possible remote connection with the now famous Baskette stock; and some said that if anything did turn up, if any practical results followed the American attempt, it would be as well to be prepared to take a share in the spoil.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were also at least three impostors—utter scoundrels, who obtained a profusion of drink and some sustenance from credulous fools in tap-rooms by pretending that they were descendants of the elder brother of Romy Baskette. They had not the shadow of a proof, and ought to have been treated to a dose of “cell.”</p>
|
||||
<p>A gipsy tribe, a travelling clan which went about the country with shooting galleries, merry-go-rounds, peep-shows, and so on, were in the habit of proclaiming that they were the very identical tribe from whom offshoots settled in the historical swamp at Wolf’s Glow, in order to attract custom.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were also at least three impostors—utter scoundrels, who obtained a profusion of drink and some sustenance from credulous fools in taprooms by pretending that they were descendants of the elder brother of Romy Baskette. They had not the shadow of a proof, and ought to have been treated to a dose of “cell.”</p>
|
||||
<p>A gipsy tribe, a travelling clan which went about the country with shooting galleries, merry-go-rounds, peepshows, and so on, were in the habit of proclaiming that they were the very identical tribe from whom offshoots settled in the historical swamp at Wolf’s Glow, in order to attract custom.</p>
|
||||
<p>Certain persons in and around Stirmingham, whose fathers or ancestors had sold lands to Sternhold Baskette—lands now worth ten, and in some cases a thousand, times the price he had given for them—had a fallacious idea that if the title of the heir was upset, they would have a chance of regaining possession, or at least of an additional payment for the property.</p>
|
||||
<p>They formed themselves into a loosely-compacted society to protect their interest. It was remarkable that in England, as in America, no one set up a claim to be the descendant of Arthur Sibbold. The real danger was from America, the land of organisation.</p>
|
||||
<p>But in England there was a class of persons who, without possessing any personal interest in the matter, made it their especial business to collect all the “ana” that could be discovered, and gained a livelihood out of their study of the case. More than one private inquiry office in London received large fees from New York clients to make special investigations. The credulity of mankind is exhibited in a striking manner in the support given to these offices. How should they be supposed to be so devotedly attached to the cause of one client? What is to prevent them having fifty, all with the same end, and from selling the information gained from one to the other?</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -14,16 +14,16 @@
|
|||
<p>Marese’s father, old Sternhold, had certainly been mad at one period of his career. His mother, Lucia, had exhibited a vanity so overweening, and a temper so intense, that at times it resembled lunacy. It may have been that, along with the mental powers of calculation and invention which distinguished old Romy and Sternhold, Marese had also inherited the mental weakness of Sternhold and Lucia.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore had shown a taste for extraordinary studies usually avoided by healthy-minded men. His father, Aurelian, had passed the whole of his time with insane patients, and it is said that too much contact with mad people reacts upon the sane. He had early initiated his son into the mysteries of that sad science of the mind which deals with its deficiencies. The son’s youth had been passed in constant intercourse with those harmless and, so to say, <em>reasonable</em> lunatics who are to be met with in the homes and at the dinner-tables of medical men, and whose partial sanity and occasional singular flashes of unnatural intelligence are perhaps more calculated to affect the minds of others than the vagaries of the downright mad.</p>
|
||||
<p>In one short sentence, this terrible crime, which was looming over Marese and Theodore, was nothing less than the deliberate intention to destroy the whole of the claimants to the estate at once. How it originated it is difficult to imagine, but it did. It might perhaps be partly traced to the injunction in Aurelian’s papers to take the weapons out of the hands of the companies; or partly to the oft-expressed wish of Marese’s, after the Roman emperor, that all the claimants had but one neck, so that he might cut it. The said emperor has much to answer for.</p>
|
||||
<p>The announced gathering of the claimants at Stirmingham certainly seemed to bring them all within the reach of the fowler’s net, if he could but cast it aright. Marese and Theodore had half-formed ideas of blowing the whole company into the air as they sat at council in the Sternhold Hall on New Year’s Day, something after the fashion of Guy Fawkes, but with a deadlier compound than he had at his disposal—nitro-glycerine or dynamite; especially the first might be trusted to do the work much more effectually than gunpowder, which was also more difficult to conceal on account of its bulk.</p>
|
||||
<p>The announced gathering of the claimants at Stirmingham certainly seemed to bring them all within the reach of the fowler’s net, if he could but cast it aright. Marese and Theodore had half-formed ideas of blowing the whole company into the air as they sat at council in the Sternhold Hall on New Year’s Day, something after the fashion of Guy Fawkes, but with a deadlier compound than he had at his disposal—nitroglycerine or dynamite; especially the first might be trusted to do the work much more effectually than gunpowder, which was also more difficult to conceal on account of its bulk.</p>
|
||||
<p>It will barely be believed that these two men, in the height of the nineteenth century, calmly examined the vault under that famous hall, in order to see if it was fitted for the purpose. This hall or assembly-room had been finished about the time that the agitation commenced over the heir to the estate, just before Sternhold had married, when the Corporation heaped flattery upon him. It had been named after him.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a fine room, not too large, and yet of sufficient size to seat an audience. The object was to afford a concert-room for dramatic and theatrical performances, and also for balls. As the site was valuable, and every particle of space had to be utilised in the centre of this mighty city, it had been built over vaults, which were intended for bonded warehouses; but partly on account of the high rent asked, and partly because of the dampness of the cellars—the site was the very centre of the old Swamp—had never been occupied. The access was bad, and there was no place for a display or advertisement, which was another reason why the cellars had not let. There was a certain amount of propriety in holding what was to be called “The Grand Centennial Family Council” in this hall, built upon the centre of the ancient Swamp, and named after the founder of the city.</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese and Theodore, in disguise, examined the vaults, under the pretence of being agents for London merchants desirous of opening business in Stirmingham. There was hardly any necessity for this precaution, for it was so many years since they had openly resided in the place that few would have recognised them.</p>
|
||||
<p>To their great surprise, these vaults, whose gloomy darkness they explored by the light of lanterns, extended in one vast cavern, under the whole of the hall. Instead of a series of cellars, there was one huge cavern. This was occasioned by the flooring not being supported upon brick arches, as would have been architecturally preferable, but upon timber posts, or pillars. The place had, in fact, been put up hastily, and the vaults were never completed. The timber pillars were placed in regular order, and it had been intended to build brick partitions; but as no one seemed to care to occupy the cellars, this had never been done. The floor was extremely damp, and the whole appearance of the place repulsive. Snails, toads, and slimy reptiles crawled about, and this under the very stage above, upon which music, song, and dance were wont to enliven the gay hearts of the audiences.</p>
|
||||
<p>One great obstacle to the idea of blowing up the place was the height of these timber posts, which was full eighteen feet, so that the roof of the vault was high over head, and any explosives, to produce the full effect, would have to be piled up on casks or stands. Then the hall was larger than they had supposed, and it was apparent that the coming council would occupy but a portion of it, and perhaps change that portion now and then, so that it would be uncertain where to place the nitro-glycerine.</p>
|
||||
<p>The idea, looked at from a distance and in the abstract, seemed feasible enough; but when they came to face the physical difficulties, it was found to be hard of realisation. There was the danger of getting the explosives into the place, the danger of detection, and, finally, the chance of an accident hoisting the engineer with his own petard, especially at that time of the year when nitro-glycerine was notoriously dangerous on account of the crystals which cold formed upon its surface, and the least jar or shake was sufficient to cause an explosion. Obviously, the plan was a cumbrous one, and without hesitation it was abandoned.</p>
|
||||
<p>One great obstacle to the idea of blowing up the place was the height of these timber posts, which was full eighteen feet, so that the roof of the vault was high over head, and any explosives, to produce the full effect, would have to be piled up on casks or stands. Then the hall was larger than they had supposed, and it was apparent that the coming council would occupy but a portion of it, and perhaps change that portion now and then, so that it would be uncertain where to place the nitroglycerine.</p>
|
||||
<p>The idea, looked at from a distance and in the abstract, seemed feasible enough; but when they came to face the physical difficulties, it was found to be hard of realisation. There was the danger of getting the explosives into the place, the danger of detection, and, finally, the chance of an accident hoisting the engineer with his own petard, especially at that time of the year when nitroglycerine was notoriously dangerous on account of the crystals which cold formed upon its surface, and the least jar or shake was sufficient to cause an explosion. Obviously, the plan was a cumbrous one, and without hesitation it was abandoned.</p>
|
||||
<p>But the main idea, that of getting rid of the claimants at one blow, was not abandoned; it grew and grew, and occupied their minds day and night. At last the thought of transferring the Guy Fawkes expedient from the land to the ocean, which, once the deed was successfully accomplished, would tell no tale, occurred to them.</p>
|
||||
<p>The claimants must come over on shipboard, if only they could be got into one or even two ships; and if these vessels sank upon the voyage suddenly without a warning! This was certainly much safer for the conspirators, as no trace would be left, and it was surer of success, because in the hall some of the victims might escape—at sea they could scarcely do so. They ran over in their minds the various methods of scuttling ships which have been invented from time to time.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was the good old simple plan of boring holes in the bottom with augurs. There was the devilish coal-shell. A box painted to resemble coal, but really containing powder, was thrown among the coal, and when placed in the furnace blew up the boiler, and destroyed the ship. There was the ship-rat—a contrivance by which the very motion of the vessel caused an augur in a box to bore its way through, and so cause a leak. Some benevolent socialists, anxious for the welfare of man, had also promulgated a notion of exploding nitro-glycerine by clockwork, arranged to go so long, and set to act just as the vessel was farthest from land.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was the good old simple plan of boring holes in the bottom with augurs. There was the devilish coal-shell. A box painted to resemble coal, but really containing powder, was thrown among the coal, and when placed in the furnace blew up the boiler, and destroyed the ship. There was the ship-rat—a contrivance by which the very motion of the vessel caused an augur in a box to bore its way through, and so cause a leak. Some benevolent socialists, anxious for the welfare of man, had also promulgated a notion of exploding nitroglycerine by clockwork, arranged to go so long, and set to act just as the vessel was farthest from land.</p>
|
||||
<p>But all these seemed to Marese and Theodore clumsy, risky, and, what was worse, uncertain of operation. It was reserved for Marese to suggest the deadliest of all destructive engines, and he arrived at its conception in this way. He had, as it were, a double mind. He was liable to flashes of inspiration—such as it was—to sudden ideas which shot through him without endeavour. He had also the power of concentrating his thoughts, and bringing the regular forms of logic to his assistance. But this latter method he could only practise with the aid of pen and ink; and it was his constant habit, whenever contemplating an important step, such as a coup upon the Exchange, to write out his plans in a regular sequence, just as he wished them to take place.</p>
|
||||
<p>This written guide he corrected and enlarged until it seemed beyond any further improvement; and then shutting his eyes to all consequences, resolutely avoiding those secret promptings which suggest that something has been left undone, he was accustomed to rush at the matter in hand, and dispose of it with bold, unhesitating strokes. This method certainly had its advantages, but it had also the disadvantage that if by any accident his notes fell into other hands, he was lost.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nevertheless, after thinking and thinking in vain over this great problem, and failing of any very brilliant flash of intelligence, Marese at last resorted to his favourite system, and sought the solution by the aid of pen and ink. First he wrote at the top of his rough draft—</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
|
|||
<p>In these gases Marese found his desideratum. His engine of destruction burst upon his mind, as it were, complete in a moment. Some such poisonous gas should be shipped on board these vessels, closely confined in a box or other receptacle, and at the proper moment liberated, to spread throughout the steamer a subtle vapour which no man could see coming, and against which strength, skill, and discipline would be perfectly powerless.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore, looking up, saw a change upon Marese’s countenance, and immediately knew that something had occurred to him. The heir was pale as death; his own conception, so ghastly and treacherous, filled him with a nameless horror at the same moment that he never hesitated in his purpose.</p>
|
||||
<p>After a while he took up a pen and added to his already written premises the conclusion—his idea in a few brief sentences—and handed it to Theodore. He left it to Theodore to select the gas, and to arrange the mechanical details. He had sown the seed, the other must patiently tend it. And the other did patiently tend it; and this is what it grew to.</p>
|
||||
<p>The name of the gas which Theodore at last, after much thought, fixed upon shall not be here disclosed; for although it is well-known to chemists, and any one who can read could easily find it, there is no knowing what imitations might not spring up if they were aware of the means being so ready at hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>The name of the gas which Theodore at last, after much thought, fixed upon shall not be here disclosed; for although it is well-known to chemists, and anyone who can read could easily find it, there is no knowing what imitations might not spring up if they were aware of the means being so ready at hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>Though suicide is such a simple and obvious expedient in difficulties, yet there are scores who do not commit it because they never think of it. If some kind friend suggested the pistol or the knife they would at once employ it.</p>
|
||||
<p>Gas had one property which rendered it peculiarly fitted for the purpose in view. Being elastic, it could be compressed to a great extent, and thus an immense volume might be contained in a small compass. Therefore the case or receptacle to hold the vapour poison need not be of large dimensions; and this was a matter of some importance.</p>
|
||||
<p>The gas chosen was not in any way explosive; on the contrary, it had the property of extinguishing any light which was placed in it—there was thus no danger of any accidental circumstance causing an explosion at an awkward moment. It was absolutely safe—the operator ran no risk, provided always that he did not inhale the vapour.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -31,7 +31,7 @@
|
|||
<p>He passed on, and left the crowd thoroughly convinced of the tricks played by the medical faculty, and purchasing largely of the vegetable pills. Theodore had found a substance which would eat through his iron and wood cases, and leave an aperture—a substance, too, whose action was equal, and could be regulated to a sufficiently accurate extent.</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon reflection, however, and after making several experiments, he did not employ ordinary aquafortis, but another acid equally powerful, and which was still more regular in its action. He tried the experiment time after time, till at last he obtained the proper strength, and fixed the requisite amount of acid to eat through a given thickness of iron and wood in a certain time. He repeated the experiment till he was absolutely certain of the result.</p>
|
||||
<p>The plan had now grown delightfully clear and well-defined—the infernal machine became of the simplest construction. All that had to be done was to place the acid in the case confined in a small and very thin copper vessel (lined with an enamel to resist it), which was to be screwed to one side of the case, then pump the gas in, hermetically seal it, heave the whole thing on board the steamer, and leave it to work its way. Delightfully simple!</p>
|
||||
<p>He called Marese to look over his drawings, and to witness his experiments with the acid. Marese was enchanted; his confidence in Theodore’s scientific resources was confirmed. There was, however, one question he asked—Was the gas so strong and so poisonous that the small quantity confined in a case three feet square would destroy a whole ship’s company? Would not the gas escape, rise up, and dissipate itself through the port-holes, up the hatchways, and be further weakened by the breezes that blew and caused draught in various places between decks? These ocean steamers were very roomy.</p>
|
||||
<p>He called Marese to look over his drawings, and to witness his experiments with the acid. Marese was enchanted; his confidence in Theodore’s scientific resources was confirmed. There was, however, one question he asked—Was the gas so strong and so poisonous that the small quantity confined in a case three feet square would destroy a whole ship’s company? Would not the gas escape, rise up, and dissipate itself through the portholes, up the hatchways, and be further weakened by the breezes that blew and caused draught in various places between decks? These ocean steamers were very roomy.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore was delighted to have an opportunity of explaining the properties and nature of the vapour to his friend. The peculiarity of this gas was that, although an invisible fluid, it was extremely heavy—it was heavier far than atmospheric air. He easily proved that a gas might be heavier than air by a well-known experiment with a vapour (not the one to be used in this case) which he poured out of a glass phial over a candle. The invisible gas descended and extinguished the candle; There was not the slightest chance of the poison-vapour escaping quickly through ports or up hatchways. It would, as it were, cling to the vessel. The pressure inside the case would cause it to issue rapidly from the aperture eaten out by the acid. It would then diffuse itself laterally, and gradually penetrate into every crevice and corner of the ship. The effect would be that one by one every person on board would inhale it, and in an instant, let the quantity breathed be never so small, down he would drop, or grow rigid as he sat—unconscious was the word Theodore used as an euphemism for death. He did not mention another effect it would have, lest the horror of it should cause even Marese to falter.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore traced out the probable course of events on board the fated vessel. First, the persons working or living in the cabins and places nearest the case would feel the effect and succumb. Then there would be alarm and excitement—others would rush to the spot, and they would immediately fall, just as the birds and beast did who entered those fatal caves abroad. One man on board, perhaps, might detect the cause—the surgeon, or any doctor who chanced to be a passenger—and might cry out to man the boats and escape; but who, in the hurry and excitement, would heed him?—he would not have time to escape himself, much less to explain the danger to others. It was doubtful whether even so much as a signal of distress would be hoisted. The crew, the officers, the passengers would be so completely puzzled, so utterly at their wit’s end, that no course would suggest itself to them before it was too late.</p>
|
||||
<p>In this respect the gas had an immense advantage over any apparatus which would set the ship on fire. Let the fire be never so rapid, one boat at least might get away, and on that boat the very person whom it was most desirable should seek the floor of the ocean. Moreover, fire could be seen from a vast distance, and might attract attention from other vessels, who by day would observe the smoke, and by night the glare of the flames.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
|
|||
<p>If they contrived to select a vessel which carried a valuable cargo, that salvage money would be something extremely large in amount, added to the value of the steamer itself. They might manoeuvre to get such a cargo stored. This would be far superior to the clumsy dodge of sinking the ship and claiming the insurance money.</p>
|
||||
<p>As to getting the case on board, it was as easy as could be. Having proceeded to New York in Marese’s yacht, taking with them the necessary apparatus for producing the gas (which was very simple), and pumping it into the case, they could ascertain the hour of the steamer’s departure, fill the case, regulate the acid for say four, or perhaps three days, and send it on board only a little while before she started. They would then, on board the yacht, proceed to sea on a cruise and keep the steamer in sight.</p>
|
||||
<p>Delightfully simple! Perfectly complete and scientific in every detail!</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese once again asked if the gas was really so powerful? Theodore referred to his note-books, and showed him an extract from a newspaper not of so very remote a date, wherein it was stated that at a conference of the various leading European Powers it had been resolved not to employ certain implements in warfare, such as explosive shells or bullets under a certain size, and poisonous gases or vapours which could be thrown into a fortress or town in shells. Marese was convinced, and regarded the engine as perfect.</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese once again asked if the gas was really so powerful? Theodore referred to his notebooks, and showed him an extract from a newspaper not of so very remote a date, wherein it was stated that at a conference of the various leading European Powers it had been resolved not to employ certain implements in warfare, such as explosive shells or bullets under a certain size, and poisonous gases or vapours which could be thrown into a fortress or town in shells. Marese was convinced, and regarded the engine as perfect.</p>
|
||||
<p>Thus did two men deliberately plan out the destruction of several hundreds of their fellow-beings without one single thought or reflection upon the misery and suffering they would cause, or upon the intrinsic villainy of the act.</p>
|
||||
<p>Well was it suggested by a French thinker that certain natures are incapable of feeling, incapable of remorse so long as they remain “faithful to the logic of their type”—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr> faithful to their own selfish interests and passions.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Marese was thunderstruck. For a time it seemed that their enemies were hydra-headed—no sooner was one head cut off than three sprouted up in the place. But the man was not one to be daunted. This also must be done, he said. They had not much time now to lose. It was already the middle of September, and a fortnight must be reckoned for the passage of the yacht to New York. They spent anxious days and nights considering a variety of plans. There is not time to unravel the strange mazes of the mind and trace the genesis of the idea which at last suggested itself to Theodore. It was only one degree less ingenious, and if anything still more horrible, than the infernal machine of Marese.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore still continued the asylum at Stirmingham. It was an important source of income, in fact. In that asylum there were confined lunatics of all degrees of insanity, most of them having wealthy friends, and some the representatives of large properties. Among these was one more remarkable than the rest. He was the representative of a long line of lunatics, or semi-lunatics. Popular tradition accused a progenitor living two centuries before of a crime too dark to be mentioned, and believed that the lunacy of his descendants was a special punishment from heaven. This particular individual had seemed tolerably sane till he was permitted to marry—a cruel thing. He then rapidly developed his inherited tendencies, living as a married man, left more free from restraint by friends and others.</p>
|
||||
<p>Though the owner of broad acres and lovely woodlands, he delighted in the society of tinkers, and was himself a clever hand at mending pots and kettles. He had such a fancy for tinkering that he actually promenaded the country for miles in company with gipsies, calling at the farmhouses—on his own tenants—asking for things to mend.</p>
|
||||
<p>He was also absurdly fond of dogs, and filled the house with them—especially the large mastiff breed, of which he was particularly enraptured, till no one could approach it, and his poor wife was frightened out of her senses. Tinkering, fondling these dogs, and playing the tin whistle occupied his time. His money he scattered far and wide among the gipsies, pedlars, and tinkers, and gave enormous sums for the pure-bred mastiffs.</p>
|
||||
<p>He was also absurdly fond of dogs, and filled the house with them—especially the large mastiff breed, of which he was particularly enraptured, till no one could approach it, and his poor wife was frightened out of her senses. Tinkering, fondling these dogs, and playing the tin whistle occupied his time. His money he scattered far and wide among the gipsies, pedlars, and tinkers, and gave enormous sums for the purebred mastiffs.</p>
|
||||
<p>The countenance of the man expressed the most intense melancholy—that hopeless incurable vacancy of look which is seen on the features of some monkeys while in captivity. His face, and the shape of his head, in fact, much resembled a monkey’s; and the ears protruding from the side of the skull, very large and ill-formed, completed the resemblance. He had a favourite resort in one of the woods surrounding the family mansion. Through this wood there ran a stream, and a tree had fallen across it, making a natural bridge.</p>
|
||||
<p>On this tree, over the stream, he would perch himself astride, his feet nearly in the water, and play for hours upon the tin whistle, while his troop of dogs disported in the woods around. He had a wonderful instinct of music, and really played in a marvellous manner upon this simple instrument, exhibiting skill even in the choice of the whistle—for it is difficult to find one that has a mellow tone.</p>
|
||||
<p>The spectacle of this being, sitting on the tree trunk in the gloom of the woods, his long legs dangling down to the water, with his melancholy baboon face, performing extraordinary fantasias upon a tin whistle, could hardly be matched.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -42,8 +42,8 @@
|
|||
<p>Their plans were now complete. Theodore, in order to obtain the lunatic’s goodwill, had restored to him his whistle; and he roamed to and fro in the court of the asylum, examining the high walls, stone by stone, for a crevice of escape, while his rapid fingers manipulated interminable airs of the merriest kind.</p>
|
||||
<p>When the engineer approached the ancient Swamp with his level and theodolite, and was followed by an army of workmen in short corduroys and slops, who cleared away the rushes and bull-polls, swept off the willow-beds and watercress, drove the waterfowl away and plucked up the reeds and sedges, then the water-rat knew that his time was come. The teeth that had nibbled away at the willow-tree root till it fell and blocked up the stream, would nibble no more. The nimble feet and black eyes would be seen no more biding among the flags, or plunging out of sight into the water as a footstep was heard.</p>
|
||||
<p>The lake which the water-rat had made, with its islands and its cotters, was in its way useful, and not altogether despicable. The poor basket-makers, humble as they were, made good and useful baskets, mended pots and pans, split good clothes-pegs, and injured no man till Sibbold fired that fatal shot.</p>
|
||||
<p>From that hour a curse seemed to hang over the place. A vast city, full of seething human life, had taken the place of the swamp and the bullrushes; the hearths of the poor cotters were gone, and huge hotels, club-houses, theatres, were there instead. Progress and development—yes; but with development came crime.</p>
|
||||
<p>Under that overgrown city there extended a system of tunnels, sewers—some large enough to drive a horse and cart down them, others hardly large enough to admit the band. But they extended everywhere. Under the busy street, under the quiet office where the only sound was the scratching of the pen, or the buzz of a fly “in th’ pane;” under the gay theatre and the gossiping club-house there was not a spot that was not undermined.</p>
|
||||
<p>From that hour a curse seemed to hang over the place. A vast city, full of seething human life, had taken the place of the swamp and the bullrushes; the hearths of the poor cotters were gone, and huge hotels, clubhouses, theatres, were there instead. Progress and development—yes; but with development came crime.</p>
|
||||
<p>Under that overgrown city there extended a system of tunnels, sewers—some large enough to drive a horse and cart down them, others hardly large enough to admit the band. But they extended everywhere. Under the busy street, under the quiet office where the only sound was the scratching of the pen, or the buzz of a fly “in th’ pane;” under the gay theatre and the gossiping clubhouse there was not a spot that was not undermined.</p>
|
||||
<p>And in these subterranean catacombs there dwelt a race nearly as numerous as the human hive above, who worked and gnawed in the dark; they were the domains of the successors of the little furred creatures which nibbled down the ancient willow tree. The grey sewer-rat worked and multiplied exceedingly beneath this mighty city. The grey rat was worse than the water-rat.</p>
|
||||
<p>He had his human prototypes. What were Marese and Theodore but sewer-rats working in secret, in the dark underground, out of sight, whose presence could hardly be detected by a faint occasional scratching or rustle?</p>
|
||||
<p>Beside these there were a numerous company of lesser men and masculine brutes, and female fiends, burrowing, fighting in the dark places of this mighty city, whose presence was made known at times by faint sounds of shrieking or devilish glee which rose up, as it were, from the bowels of the earth. The reign of the harmless water-rat was over. The rule of the sewer-rat was now in full force.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,26 +9,26 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-2" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">II</h3>
|
||||
<p>So long as this waste land was tenanted only by the “owl and the bittern,” Legal Rights slumbered. The moment man put his foot upon it the ogre woke up, for it is not permitted to that miserable two-legged creature to rest in peace anywhere in this realm.</p>
|
||||
<p>The village of Wolf’s Glow was distant about a mile and a quarter from the old willow tree whose fall had dammed up the brook and caused the marsh. The brook, in fact, ran past the village, and supplied more than one farmhouse with water. These farms were of the poorest class—mere stretches of pasture-land, and such pasture which a well-fed donkey would despise!</p>
|
||||
<p>The poorest farm, in appearance at all events, was Wick—a large but tumbledown place, roofed with grey slates, which, stood apart from the village. It was the largest house in the place, and yet seemed the most poverty-stricken. The grey slates were falling off. The roof-tree had cracked and bent, the lattice windows were broken, and the holes stuffed up with bundles of hay and straw. The garden was choked with weeds, and the very apple trees in the orchard were withering away.</p>
|
||||
<p>The village of Wolf’s Glow was distant about a mile and a quarter from the old willow tree whose fall had dammed up the brook and caused the marsh. The brook, in fact, ran past the village, and supplied more than one farmhouse with water. These farms were of the poorest class—mere stretches of pastureland, and such pasture which a well-fed donkey would despise!</p>
|
||||
<p>The poorest farm, in appearance at all events, was Wick—a large but tumbledown place, roofed with grey slates, which, stood apart from the village. It was the largest house in the place, and yet seemed the most poverty-stricken. The grey slates were falling off. The rooftree had cracked and bent, the lattice windows were broken, and the holes stuffed up with bundles of hay and straw. The garden was choked with weeds, and the very apple trees in the orchard were withering away.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sibbold, the owner and occupier, was detested by the entire village, and by no one more than his two sons. He was a miser, and yet nothing seemed to prosper with him; and pare and save as much as he would he could make no accumulation. His sons were the only labourers he employed, though his farm was the largest thereabouts, and he paid them only in lodging and food, and not much of the latter.</p>
|
||||
<p>The eldest, Arthur, chafed bitterly under this treatment, for he appears, from the scanty records that remain of him, to have been a lad of spirit and energy.</p>
|
||||
<p>The second son, James, was of a grosser nature, and his mind was chiefly occupied with eating and drinking. He had an implicit faith in the wealth of his father, and submitted patiently to all these hardships and rough treatment in the hope of ingratiating himself with the old man, and perhaps supplanting Arthur in his will—that is, so far as his money was concerned, for the land, as the villagers said, “went by heirship”—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr> was entailed—but who would care for such land?</p>
|
||||
<p>Arthur saw the game and did nothing to prevent it; on the contrary, he took a certain pleasure in irritating the savage and morose old man, whom he thoroughly despised. Perhaps what happened in the future was a punishment for this unfilial conduct, however much it was provoked.</p>
|
||||
<p>The mother, it must be understood, had long been dead, and there was no mediator between the stern old man and his fiery-tempered son. Old Sibbold was descended of a good family—one that had once held a position, not only in the county but in the country—and he dwelt much on the past, recalling the time when a Sibbold had held a bishop a prisoner for King John.</p>
|
||||
<p>He pored over the deeds in his old oak chest—a press, which stood on four carved legs, and was closed with a ponderous padlock. That chest, if it could be found now, would be worth its weight, not in gold merely, but in diamonds. At that time these deeds and parchments were of little value; they related mostly to by-gone days, and Arthur ridiculed his father’s patient study of their crabbed handwriting.</p>
|
||||
<p>He pored over the deeds in his old oak chest—a press, which stood on four carved legs, and was closed with a ponderous padlock. That chest, if it could be found now, would be worth its weight, not in gold merely, but in diamonds. At that time these deeds and parchments were of little value; they related mostly to bygone days, and Arthur ridiculed his father’s patient study of their crabbed handwriting.</p>
|
||||
<p>What was the use of dwelling on the past?—up and speculate on the present!</p>
|
||||
<p>Irritated beyond measure, old Sibbold would reply that half the county belonged to him, and he could prove it. All that they could see from that window was his.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why,” said Arthur, “all we can see is the Lea, which is as barren as the crown of my hat, except in weeds and bulrushes!”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Barren or not, they’re mine,” said Sibbold, closing his chest; “and I will make those squatters pay!”</p>
|
||||
<p>For the Lea was that piece of waste ground which the brook had overflowed, and in a sense rendered fertile.</p>
|
||||
<p>From that hour began a persecution of the basket-makers who had settled on the little islets in the marsh. Sibbold had an undoubted parchment right—whether he had a moral and true right to a place he had never touched with spade or plough is a different matter. He claimed a rent. The cotters refused to pay. Their chieftain, old Will Baskette, wanted to compromise matters, and offered a small quit-rent.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now every one knows that quit-rent and rent are very different things in a legal point of view. A man who pays rent can be served with notice to quit. A man who pays quit-rent has a claim upon the soil, and cannot be ejected. Sibbold refused the quit-rent, and had the squatters served with a notice. They went on cutting reeds, weaving baskets, and shooting wild-fowl, just the same; till one day old Sibbold, accompanied with a posse of constables (there were no police in those days), walked into the marsh with his jack-boots on; and, while one of the cotters was absent selling his baskets, began to tear the little hut down, despite the curses of the women and the wailing of the children. But the hut, as it happened, was stronger in reality than appearance, and resisted the attack, till one of the constables suggested fire.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now everyone knows that quit-rent and rent are very different things in a legal point of view. A man who pays rent can be served with notice to quit. A man who pays quit-rent has a claim upon the soil, and cannot be ejected. Sibbold refused the quit-rent, and had the squatters served with a notice. They went on cutting reeds, weaving baskets, and shooting wildfowl, just the same; till one day old Sibbold, accompanied with a posse of constables (there were no police in those days), walked into the marsh with his jackboots on; and, while one of the cotters was absent selling his baskets, began to tear the little hut down, despite the curses of the women and the wailing of the children. But the hut, as it happened, was stronger in reality than appearance, and resisted the attack, till one of the constables suggested fire.</p>
|
||||
<p>A burning brand from the cottage hearth was applied by old Sibbold himself to the reed thatch, and in a moment up shot a fierce blaze which left nothing but ashes, and sod walls two feet high. One can imagine the temper a man of gipsy blood would be in when, on returning home, he found his children crying and the women silent, sitting among the ruins. From that hour a spirit of revenge took possession of the dwellers in this Dismal Swamp of hostility to the village.</p>
|
||||
<p>Hitherto these half savage people had paid of their own free will a kind of tribute to the regular house-folk of Wolf’s Glow. The farmers’ wives received useful presents of baskets and clothes-pegs, and every now and then half a dozen wild ducks were found on the threshold in the morning. The clergyman was treated in a similar manner; and being known to have a penchant for snipes and woodcocks, his table was well supplied in the season. Sometimes there were other things left in a mysterious way at the door—such as a bladder full of the finest brandy or Hollands gin, or a packet of tobacco or snuff.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was generally after the visit of the gipsy tribe, who were smugglers to a considerable extent. No farmer ever missed a lamb or a horse: such property was far safer since the settlement of the Dismal Swamp.</p>
|
||||
<p>But now the village had attacked the Swamp, the Swamp retaliated on the village, and a regular war commenced. The farmers’ sheep began to disappear—none so often as old Sibbold’s. Once a valuable horse of his was lost. This drove him to the verge of frenzy. He went down to the Swamp, and presently returned swearing and vowing vengeance—he had been shot at. This aroused the clergyman into action. He went to the Swamp, and was received with respect. He talked of conciliation, and reproved them, especially speaking of the sin of murder. They listened, but utterly scouted the idea.</p>
|
||||
<p>“We steal,” they said, openly. “It is our revenge; but we do not murder. Sibbold was not fired at. One of our young men was seeking ducks—he did not know that Sibbold at the same moment was creeping noiselessly through the reeds to fire our huts. He shot at the ducks, and some of the pellets glanced off Sibbold’s jack-boots. That’s the truth.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“We steal,” they said, openly. “It is our revenge; but we do not murder. Sibbold was not fired at. One of our young men was seeking ducks—he did not know that Sibbold at the same moment was creeping noiselessly through the reeds to fire our huts. He shot at the ducks, and some of the pellets glanced off Sibbold’s jackboots. That’s the truth.”</p>
|
||||
<p>And it was the truth. But Sibbold vowed vengeance, and was heard to say that he would have their blood. He refused to see the clergyman who came to mediate and explain. He accused him of complicity, and reviled him.</p>
|
||||
<p>James, as usual, agreed with and seconded him. Arthur sided with the squatters, and said so openly. Sibbold cursed him. Arthur said pointedly that when he inherited the land the squatters should be unmolested. Sibbold struck him with an ash stick.</p>
|
||||
<p>Arthur left the house and went to the Swamp. He called on old Will Baskette, and expressed his hatred of his father’s tyranny. He asked to be taught to make baskets, and to be initiated into the gipsy mysteries. He was a quick lad, and they took an interest in teaching him. He soon knew how to make two or three kinds of baskets, learnt the gipsy language, and imbibed their singular traditions.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
|
|||
<p>They could not be got to move. That was a lawless age in outlying places. Finding this, the village began to contemplate a raid en masse upon the Swamp. Nothing was talked of in the alehouse but fighting. Men compared the length of their gun-barrels, and put up marks to prove the range of their shot. The younger men were ready for the fray, the elders hesitated. They looked at their thatched houses, at their barns and ricks. The insurance companies had not then penetrated into the most obscure nooks and corners.</p>
|
||||
<p>After all, the Swamp people were not unsupported: they were a branch of a tribe. If they were seriously injured the tribe might return, and no one could calculate the consequences.</p>
|
||||
<p>So the foray was put off from day to day. But the news that it was meditated soon reached the Swamp, and made the dwellers there more desperate than ever. Their thefts grew to such a height that nothing was safe. The geese and turkeys disappeared; wheat was stolen from the barns; sheep were taken by the dozen, and no trace could be found. Now and then a horse disappeared. It came to such a pitch that the very beer in the barrels, the cider in the cellar, was not safe, but was taken nightly.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sibbold, of course, suffered most. Tapping a cider barrel, he found it quite empty. The old man was beside himself with rage; but he said nothing. He studied retaliation. He watched his barns—the wheat seemed to disappear under his very eyes. One night as he was returning from his barn, carrying his long-barrelled flint-lock under his arm, he fancied he saw a gleam of light in the ivy, which almost hid the cellar window. Stealthily he peeped through. There was a man stooping down, drawing off the cider from a barrel into a bucket.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sibbold, of course, suffered most. Tapping a cider barrel, he found it quite empty. The old man was beside himself with rage; but he said nothing. He studied retaliation. He watched his barns—the wheat seemed to disappear under his very eyes. One night as he was returning from his barn, carrying his long-barrelled flintlock under his arm, he fancied he saw a gleam of light in the ivy, which almost hid the cellar window. Stealthily he peeped through. There was a man stooping down, drawing off the cider from a barrel into a bucket.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sibbold’s lips compressed; a fire came into his eyes. He grasped his gun. Just then the thief held up the candle in his left hand, and revealed the features of old Will Baskette, the very chief of the Swamp. Sibbold hated him more particularly because he knew that Arthur frequented his hut. Up went the long gun. The gleam of light from the candle guided the aim. The muzzle was close to the lattice window. A cruel eye glanced along the barrel, a finger was on the trigger. The flint struck the steel with a sharp snick—a spark flew out—an explosion—the window-glass smashed—a cloud of smoke—one groan, and all was still.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sibbold rushed round the house, opened the door gently, locked it behind him, and stole upstairs. On the landing he met his youngest son James. For a moment they looked at one another. The young man spoke first.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Quick, and load your gun,” he said. “Then put it in the rack and get into bed. Give me your breeches.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -44,15 +44,15 @@
|
|||
<p>The old man did as he was bid. The gun was put in the rack; old Sibbold got into bed. James took his breeches, poured a bucket of water on them, and hung them up in the wide chimney—the embers still glowed on the hearth. Then he stole upstairs.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Arthur is out,” he whispered, as he passed the old man’s bedroom.</p>
|
||||
<p>Ten minutes passed. Then there arose clatter of feet and a shouting.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Farmer! farmer! your house is a-fire. The thatch be caught alight.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Farmer! farmer! your house is afire. The thatch be caught alight.”</p>
|
||||
<p>James opened the window, yawned, and asked what was the matter.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Father’s asleep,” he said, as if not comprehending them. “He got wet in the brook, and went to bed early. Can’t ye come in the morning?”</p>
|
||||
<p>But the others soon roused the house.</p>
|
||||
<p>The thatch had indeed caught over the cellar window; but fortunately it was nearly covered with moss and weeds, and was easily put out.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then some one noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then someone noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’ll go upstairs and fetch father a blanket to wrap his knees in,” said James. “Father, thee blow the embers up; John Andrews, thee knows where the cellar is: give ’em the key, father, and do you go, John, and draw some cider.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Away went John Andrews with the lantern, and came back with a face white as a sheet, just as James got downstairs. There was a dead man in the cellar, in a flood of gore and cider!</p>
|
||||
<p>The result was a coroner’s inquiry; the thefts and so forth might have gone on for ever, but death could not be disregarded. Even in that lawless age, death was attended to. An inquest was held, and the jury was composed of the farmers of the village. Suspicion fell very strongly upon old Sibbold. The Swamp people openly denounced him as the murderer. His neighbours, much as they hated the Swamp, believed in their hearts that they were right; and not all their class prejudice could overcome the innate horror they felt in his presence. More than one had heard him say he would have blood. Now there was blood enough.</p>
|
||||
<p>The result was a coroner’s inquiry; the thefts and so forth might have gone on forever, but death could not be disregarded. Even in that lawless age, death was attended to. An inquest was held, and the jury was composed of the farmers of the village. Suspicion fell very strongly upon old Sibbold. The Swamp people openly denounced him as the murderer. His neighbours, much as they hated the Swamp, believed in their hearts that they were right; and not all their class prejudice could overcome the innate horror they felt in his presence. More than one had heard him say he would have blood. Now there was blood enough.</p>
|
||||
<p>Still there was not enough evidence to arrest Sibbold. The Swamp people said he would run away, and if he did they would watch him and bring him back. But Sibbold did nothing of the kind. He faced the inquiry with a stern dignity which imposed on some.</p>
|
||||
<p>First came the medical evidence. The doctor proved that the shot had entered the left side, just below the heart, and had passed downwards. It had entered all together—the pellets not spread about, but close together, like a bullet, which proved that the gun had been fired very close. Death must have been absolutely instantaneous. Deceased was in a stooping posture when he received the charge.</p>
|
||||
<p>The constable who had examined the premises, declared it as his belief—as, indeed, it was the belief of everyone present—that the shot had been fired from without the window. The shot itself could not have smashed every pane—that was the concussion. The thatch had been doubtless set on fire by a piece of the paper which had been used as wadding.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -63,7 +63,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Suspicion fell very strong on Arthur. But at this moment the wife of the deceased started forward and declared her belief in his innocence, recounting how he had learnt basket-making, etc, of the dead man, and they had been on the most friendly terms.</p>
|
||||
<p>Still, said the Coroner, he might have mistaken his man in the uncertain light. Had he a gun? It was shown that the three Sibbolds had but one gun; that Arthur never used a gun, being of a tender nature, and often expressing his dislike to see birds wantonly slaughtered.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Sibbolds were then, with the other witnesses, ordered out, and the Coroner addressed the jury.</p>
|
||||
<p>He told them plainly where his suspicions lay: one of the Sibbolds, he was certain, did the deed, but which? Two were in bed, or at least were to all appearance in bed, and one point in their favour was that the thatch was alight. Now, if they had known that, they would hardly have lain till the neighbours came up. The third was out that night, and, according to his own showing, must have returned about the time the murder was committed. But in his favour it was urged that he was on the best of terms with the deceased; that he had no gun of his own; that he disliked the use of a gun. He said much more, but these were the chief points, and particularly he laid down the law. They must not imagine because a man was stealing that thereby his life was at any one’s mercy. If a struggle took place, and the thief was killed in the struggle, there were then several loopholes of escape from the penalty of the law. First, it might be called chance-medley; next, there would be a doubt whether the stab or shot was not given in self-defence, and was not intended to kill. But in this case there was every appearance of deliberate murder. The thief had been spied at the cask; the murderer had coolly aimed along his gun and fired, hitting his man in a vital part, evidently of design and aforethought.</p>
|
||||
<p>He told them plainly where his suspicions lay: one of the Sibbolds, he was certain, did the deed, but which? Two were in bed, or at least were to all appearance in bed, and one point in their favour was that the thatch was alight. Now, if they had known that, they would hardly have lain till the neighbours came up. The third was out that night, and, according to his own showing, must have returned about the time the murder was committed. But in his favour it was urged that he was on the best of terms with the deceased; that he had no gun of his own; that he disliked the use of a gun. He said much more, but these were the chief points, and particularly he laid down the law. They must not imagine because a man was stealing that thereby his life was at anyone’s mercy. If a struggle took place, and the thief was killed in the struggle, there were then several loopholes of escape from the penalty of the law. First, it might be called chance-medley; next, there would be a doubt whether the stab or shot was not given in self-defence, and was not intended to kill. But in this case there was every appearance of deliberate murder. The thief had been spied at the cask; the murderer had coolly aimed along his gun and fired, hitting his man in a vital part, evidently of design and aforethought.</p>
|
||||
<p>He then left the jury to their deliberations. They talked it over half an hour in a sullen manner, and then <em>returned an open verdict</em>—“Found dead.” The Coroner remonstrated, and recommended that at least it should be “Wilful murder against persons unknown,” but they were obstinate.</p>
|
||||
<p>That verdict stands to this day. The dread spectre of the gallows vanished from Wolf’s Glow. Old Will Baskette was buried in the churchyard, and his funeral was attended by the whole of the Swamp people and half the village. And over their ale the farmers whispered that it served the old thief right, but they avoided old Sibbold. The work of the rats had already brought fruit in bloodshed.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -25,25 +25,25 @@
|
|||
<p>But all this talking, and searching, and analysing made a deep impression upon the mind of young Romy Baskette, who was now hard upon twenty years of age. Boteler, really desirous of pushing the lad on, sent him to London, whither Arthur Sibbold had preceded him, and placed him, at a high premium, in the care of a friend of his, who was in the iron trade. Romy grew and prospered, and being of a serious disposition saved all the money he could lay hands on. Presently old Boteler died, and left him, not all, but a great share of his worldly wealth. With this he bought a share in the iron business, and became a partner. Wealth rolled in upon him, and at an early period of life he retired from active labour, married, and bought an estate a few miles from Wolf’s Glow.</p>
|
||||
<p>In his leisure hours the memory of the old days with the vicar returned. He resolved to test the vicar’s theory. He purchased a small piece of land in Wolf’s Glow parish, sank a shaft, and sure enough came upon <em>coal</em>.</p>
|
||||
<p>This discovery revivified the whole man. He cast off sloth, forgot all about retirement, and plunged into business again. Another search, conducted by practical hands, proved the existence of iron.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was a furore. Collieries were started; iron furnaces set going. It was just at the dawn of the great iron and coal trade. The railways had been started, and the demand was greater than the supply. Romy Baskette and Company soon employed two thousand hands coal-digging and iron-smelting. The man, in fact, wore himself out at the trade of money-making. He could not rest. Night and day his brain was at work: An accidental conversation with one of his workmen suggested to him a new idea. The smiths of the time could not make nails fast enough for all the building that was going on. This workman had been a sailor in his day, and had seen nails abroad which were made in batches by machinery, instead of slowly and laboriously, one by one, by hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was a furore. Collieries were started; iron furnaces set going. It was just at the dawn of the great iron and coal trade. The railways had been started, and the demand was greater than the supply. Romy Baskette and Company soon employed two thousand hands coal-digging and iron-smelting. The man, in fact, wore himself out at the trade of moneymaking. He could not rest. Night and day his brain was at work: An accidental conversation with one of his workmen suggested to him a new idea. The smiths of the time could not make nails fast enough for all the building that was going on. This workman had been a sailor in his day, and had seen nails abroad which were made in batches by machinery, instead of slowly and laboriously, one by one, by hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>Baskette caught at the idea. He studied and learnt what he could. He made a voyage himself abroad, and soon mastered the secret. He erected machinery, and <em>cut</em> nails were first made. The consumption was enormous. The business of this Baskette and Company became so large that it almost passed out of control. Meantime other firms had come and settled, bought land, dug up coal, and set up smelting furnaces. In ten years the population from being absolutely nil rose to thirty-five thousand people. By this time Romy had killed himself. But that mattered little, for he had left a son, and a son who inherited all his genius, and was—if anything still “harder in the mouth.” He was named, from his mother’s family, Sternhold Baskette.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold picked up the plough-handle which had dropped from his father’s grasp, and continued the good work, never once looking back. But although equally clever, the bent of his genius was different from that of old Romy. Romy was at heart a speculator, and believed in personal property. Sternhold was a Conservative, and put his faith in real property, houses, and land. He kept up the old forges and collieries, but he started no new ones. He invested the money in land and houses, particularly the latter. His life may be summed up in two strokes of genius—the first was bringing the iron horse to Stirmingham, as the new town was called; the second was the building lease investment.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is hard to give the pre-eminence to either. They were both profound schemes—neither would have been complete without the other. He did not originate the idea of the railway—that was done for him—but he put it on its legs, and he brought it to the centre of the town.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is hard to give the preeminence to either. They were both profound schemes—neither would have been complete without the other. He did not originate the idea of the railway—that was done for him—but he put it on its legs, and he brought it to the centre of the town.</p>
|
||||
<p>The original scheme almost omitted Stirmingham. Railways were not then fully understood; their projectors had such vast ideas in their heads, they aimed at long trunk lines, and so this railroad was to connect London, the sea, and a certain large town—larger than Stirmingham then, but now nothing beside the modern city.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold, as the largest shareholder, and as finding the capital to get through Parliament, prevailed to have the course altered so as to sweep by Stirmingham. He knew that this would improve his property there at least fifty per cent. But he had other ideas in his head. The line could not be finished under three years, and in those three years it was his intention to become possessed of the whole ground upon which the town of Stirmingham stood. He foresaw that it would become a mighty centre. He braced up his nerves, and prepared to spend his darling hoards like water.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold, as the largest shareholder, and as finding the capital to get through Parliament, prevailed to have the course altered so as to sweep by Stirmingham. He knew that this would improve his property there at least fifty percent. But he had other ideas in his head. The line could not be finished under three years, and in those three years it was his intention to become possessed of the whole ground upon which the town of Stirmingham stood. He foresaw that it would become a mighty centre. He braced up his nerves, and prepared to spend his darling hoards like water.</p>
|
||||
<p>One by one the fields, the plots, the houses, became his; and the greed growing on him, he cast longing eyes on the adjacent marsh, now called Glow’s Lea.</p>
|
||||
<p>The solicitors he employed tried to restrain his infatuation. They represented to him that even his vast wealth could not sustain this more than kingly expenditure, and as to the marsh, it was sheer madness to purchase it. In vain. Perhaps a tinge of pride had something to do with it. He would buy up the rotten old Swamp where his progenitor had dwelt, drain it, and cover it with mansions.</p>
|
||||
<p>But now came a difficulty—the title to the ground was not all that could be wished. James had been dead some years, but it was well-known that had Arthur returned—if Arthur still lived, or his heirs—that James had no right. He had enjoyed the farm and the land, such as it was, unmolested, all his life. He had married, and had eight sons. Six of these had married since, and most of them had children.</p>
|
||||
<p>As none could claim the property, they all found a miserable livelihood upon it, somehow or other. They had degenerated into a condition little better than that of the squatters in the Swamp.</p>
|
||||
<p>Three families lived in the farmhouse, constantly quarrelling; two made their dwelling in the cowsheds, slightly improved; one boiled the pot in the great carthouse, and the two single men slept in the barn. Such a condition of slovenliness and dirt it would be hard to equal. And the language, the fighting, and the immorality are better left undescribed! The clergyman of Wolfs Glow wished them further.</p>
|
||||
<p>To these wretches the offers of Sternhold Baskette came like the promised land. He held out 300 pounds apiece, on condition that they would jointly sign the deed and then go to America. They jumped at it. The solicitor warned Baskette that the contract was not sound. He asked, in reply, if any one could produce the deed under which the property descended by “heirship.” No one could. Somehow or other it had been lost.</p>
|
||||
<p>To these wretches the offers of Sternhold Baskette came like the promised land. He held out 300 pounds apiece, on condition that they would jointly sign the deed and then go to America. They jumped at it. The solicitor warned Baskette that the contract was not sound. He asked, in reply, if anyone could produce the deed under which the property descended by “heirship.” No one could. Somehow or other it had been lost.</p>
|
||||
<p>In less than a month eight Sibbolds, with their wives and families, were en route to the United States, and Sternhold took possession. Then came the Swamp settlement difficulty.</p>
|
||||
<p>At first Baskette thought of carrying matters with a high hand. The squatters said they had lived there for two generations, or nearly so, and had paid no rent. They had a right. Sternhold remembered that they were of his clan. He gave them the same terms as the Sibbolds—and they took them. Three hundred pounds to such miserable wretches seemed an El Dorado.</p>
|
||||
<p>They signed a deed, and went to America, filling up half a vessel, for there were seventeen heads of families, and children ad libitum.</p>
|
||||
<p>Thus Sternhold bought the farm and the Swamp for 7500 pounds. His aim in getting them to America was that no question of right might crop up—for the Cunard line was not then what it is now, and the passage was expensive and protracted. He reckoned that they would spend the money soon after landing, and never have a chance of returning.</p>
|
||||
<p>Meantime the railway came to a standstill. There had been inflation—vast sums of promotion money had been squandered in the usual reckless manner, and ruin stared the shareholders in the face. To Sternhold it meant absolute loss of all, and above everything, of prestige.</p>
|
||||
<p>Already the keen business men of the place began to sneer at him. At any cost the railway must be kept on its legs. He sacrificed a large share of his wealth, and the works recommenced. The old swamp, or marsh, was drained.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold had determined to make this the Belgravia of Stirmingham, and had the plans prepared accordingly. They were something gigantic in costliness and magnificence. His best friends warned and begged him to desist. No; he would go on. Stirmingham would become the finest city in England, and he should be the richest man in Europe. Up rose palatial mansions, broad streets, splendid club-houses—even the foundations of a theatre were laid. And all this was begun at once. Otherwise, Sternhold was afraid that the compass of an ordinary life would not enable him to see these vast designs finished. So that one might walk through streets with whole blocks of houses only one story high.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold had determined to make this the Belgravia of Stirmingham, and had the plans prepared accordingly. They were something gigantic in costliness and magnificence. His best friends warned and begged him to desist. No; he would go on. Stirmingham would become the finest city in England, and he should be the richest man in Europe. Up rose palatial mansions, broad streets, splendid clubhouses—even the foundations of a theatre were laid. And all this was begun at once. Otherwise, Sternhold was afraid that the compass of an ordinary life would not enable him to see these vast designs finished. So that one might walk through streets with whole blocks of houses only one story high.</p>
|
||||
<p>Everything went on swimmingly, till suddenly the mania for speculation which had taken possession of all the kingdom received a sudden check by the failure of a certain famous railway king.</p>
|
||||
<p>As if by magic, all the mighty works at Stirmingham ceased, and Sternhold grew sombre, and wandered about with dejected step. His friends, men of business, reminded him of their former warnings. He bent his head, bit his lip, and said only, “Wait!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Meantime the line had been constructed, but was not opened. The metals were down, but the stations were not built, and the locomotives had not arrived. Everybody was going smash. Several collieries failed; land and houses became cheap. Sternhold invested his uttermost in the same property—bought houses, till he had barely enough to keep him in bread and cheese. Still they laughed and jeered at him, and still he said only, “Wait!”</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,19 +9,19 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-4" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">IV</h3>
|
||||
<p>The owner of three parts of Stirmingham—now a monstrous overgrown city, just building a cathedral—actually had nothing but a little bread and cheese for supper. There were people who condoled with him, and offered to lend him sums of money—not large, but very useful to a starving man, one would have thought. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thank you; I’ll wait.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Certain keen speculators tried to come round him in twenty different ways. They represented that all this mass of bricks and mortar—this unfinished Belgravia—really was not worth owning; no one could ever find the coin to finish the plans, and house property had depreciated ninety per cent.</p>
|
||||
<p>Certain keen speculators tried to come round him in twenty different ways. They represented that all this mass of bricks and mortar—this unfinished Belgravia—really was not worth owning; no one could ever find the coin to finish the plans, and house property had depreciated ninety percent.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Very true,” said Sternhold. “Good morning, gentlemen.”</p>
|
||||
<p>He held on like grim death. Men of genius always do—mark Caesar, and all of them. ’Tis the bulldog that wins.</p>
|
||||
<p>By-and-by things began to take a turn. The markets looked up. Iron and coal got brisker. The first locomotive was put on the line, then another, and another; London could be reached in two hours, goods could be transmitted in six, instead of thirty by the old canal or turnpike.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Stock Exchange got busy again. You could hear the masons and bricklayers—chink, tink, tinkle, as their trowels chipped off the edges—singing away in chorus. The whistle of the engines was never silent. Vast clouds of smoke hung over the country from the factories and furnaces. Two or three new trades were introduced—among others, the placed goods, cheap jewellery, and idol-making businesses, and trade-guns for Africa. Rents began to rise; in two years they went up forty per cent. The place got a name throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom, and a Name is everything to a town as well as to an individual.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Stock Exchange got busy again. You could hear the masons and bricklayers—chink, tink, tinkle, as their trowels chipped off the edges—singing away in chorus. The whistle of the engines was never silent. Vast clouds of smoke hung over the country from the factories and furnaces. Two or three new trades were introduced—among others, the placed goods, cheap jewellery, and idol-making businesses, and trade-guns for Africa. Rents began to rise; in two years they went up forty percent. The place got a name throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom, and a Name is everything to a town as well as to an individual.</p>
|
||||
<p>But by a curious contradiction, just as his property began to rise in value, and his investment looked promising, Sternhold grew melancholy and walked about more wretched than ever. The truth soon leaked out—he had no money to complete his half-finished streets and blocks of houses. Nothing could induce him to borrow; not a halfpenny would he take from any man.</p>
|
||||
<p>There the streets and houses, the theatres, club-houses, magnificent mansions, huge hotels, languished, half-finished, some a story, some two stories high, exposed to wind and weather. In the midst of a great city there was all this desolation, as if an enemy had wreaked his vengeance on this quarter only.</p>
|
||||
<p>There the streets and houses, the theatres, clubhouses, magnificent mansions, huge hotels, languished, half-finished, some a story, some two stories high, exposed to wind and weather. In the midst of a great city there was all this desolation, as if an enemy had wreaked his vengeance on this quarter only.</p>
|
||||
<p>Large as were the sums derived from his other properties—houses and shops and land, which were occupied—it was all eaten up in the attempt to finish this <em>marble</em> Rome in the middle of a brick Babylon. Heavy amounts too had to be disbursed to keep the railway going, for it did not pay a fraction of dividend yet. Men of business pressed on Sternhold. “Let us complete the place,” they said. “Sell it to us on building leases; no one man can do the whole. Then we will form three or four companies or syndicates, lease it of you, complete the buildings, and after seventy years the whole will revert to you or your heirs.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Still Sternhold hesitated. At last he did lease a street or two in this way to a company, who went to work like mad, paid the masons and bricklayers double wages, kept them at it day and night, and speedily were paying twenty per cent, dividends on their shares out of the rents of the completed buildings. This caused a rush. Company after company was formed. They gave Sternhold heavy premiums for the privilege to buy of him; even then it was difficult to get him to grant the leases. When he did accept the terms and the ready cash, every halfpenny of it went to complete streets on his own account; and so he lived, as it were, from hand to mouth.</p>
|
||||
<p>Still Sternhold hesitated. At last he did lease a street or two in this way to a company, who went to work like mad, paid the masons and bricklayers double wages, kept them at it day and night, and speedily were paying twenty percent, dividends on their shares out of the rents of the completed buildings. This caused a rush. Company after company was formed. They gave Sternhold heavy premiums for the privilege to buy of him; even then it was difficult to get him to grant the leases. When he did accept the terms and the ready cash, every halfpenny of it went to complete streets on his own account; and so he lived, as it were, from hand to mouth.</p>
|
||||
<p>After all this excitement and rush, after some thousands of workmen were put at it, they did not seem to make much impression upon the huge desolation of brick and mortar. Streets and squares rose up, and still there were acres upon acres of wilderness, foundations half-dug out and full of dirty water, walls three feet high, cellars extending heaven only knew where.</p>
|
||||
<p>People came for miles to see it, and called it “Baskette’s Folly.” After a while, however, they carefully avoided it, and called it something worse—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr> “The Rookery;” for all the scum and ruffianism of an exceptionally scummy and ruffianly residuum chose it as their stronghold. Thieves and worse—ill-conditioned women—crowds of lads, gipsies, pedlars—the catalogue would be as long as Homer’s—took up their residence in these foundations and cellars. They seized on the planks which were lying about in enormous piles, and roofed over the low walls; and where planks would not do they got canvas.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, it is well-known that this class of people do not do much harm when they are scattered about and separated here, there, and everywhere over a city; but as soon as they are concentrated in one spot, then it becomes serious. Gangs are formed, they increase in boldness; the police are defied, and not a house is safe.</p>
|
||||
<p>This place became a crying evil. The papers raved about it, the police (there were police now) complained and reported it to head-quarters. There was a universal clamour. By this time Stirmingham had got a corporation, aldermen, and mayor, who met in a gorgeous Guildhall, and were all sharp men of business. Now the corporation began to move in this matter of “Baskette’s Folly.” Outside people gave them the credit of being good citizens, animated by patriotic motives, anxious for the honour of their town, and desirous of repressing crime. Keen thinkers knew better—the Corporation was not above a good stroke of business. However, what they did was this: After a great deal of talk and palaver, and passing resolutions, and consulting attorneys, and goodness knows what, one morning a deputation waited upon Sternhold Baskette, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, at his hotel (he always lived at an hotel), and laid before him a handsome proposition. It was to the effect that he should lease them the said “Folly,” or incomplete embryo city, for a term of years, in consideration whereof they would pay down a certain sum, and contract to erect buildings according to plans and specifications agreed upon, the whole to revert in seventy years to Sternhold or his heirs.</p>
|
||||
<p>This place became a crying evil. The papers raved about it, the police (there were police now) complained and reported it to headquarters. There was a universal clamour. By this time Stirmingham had got a corporation, aldermen, and mayor, who met in a gorgeous Guildhall, and were all sharp men of business. Now the corporation began to move in this matter of “Baskette’s Folly.” Outside people gave them the credit of being good citizens, animated by patriotic motives, anxious for the honour of their town, and desirous of repressing crime. Keen thinkers knew better—the Corporation was not above a good stroke of business. However, what they did was this: After a great deal of talk and palaver, and passing resolutions, and consulting attorneys, and goodness knows what, one morning a deputation waited upon Sternhold Baskette, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, at his hotel (he always lived at an hotel), and laid before him a handsome proposition. It was to the effect that he should lease them the said “Folly,” or incomplete embryo city, for a term of years, in consideration whereof they would pay down a certain sum, and contract to erect buildings according to plans and specifications agreed upon, the whole to revert in seventy years to Sternhold or his heirs.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold fought hard—he asked for extravagant terms, and had to be brought to reason by a threat of an appeal by the Corporation to Parliament for a private Act.</p>
|
||||
<p>This sobered him, for he was never quite happy in his secret mind about his title. Terms were agreed upon, the earnest money paid, and the masons began to work. Then suddenly there was an uproar. The companies or syndicates who had leased portions of the estate grew alarmed lest this enormous undertaking should, when finished, depreciate their property. They cast about for means of opposing it. It is said—but I cannot believe it—that they gave secret pay to the thieves and ruffians in the cellars to fight the masons and bricklayers, and drive them off.</p>
|
||||
<p>At all events serious collisions occurred. But the Corporation was too strong. They telegraphed to London and got reinforcements, and carried the entrenchments by storm.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -29,17 +29,17 @@
|
|||
<p>This alarmed the Corporation. There were secret meetings and long faces. But if one lawyer discovers a difficulty, another can always suggest a way round the corner. The Corporation went to Parliament, and got a private Act; but they did not go as a body. They went through Sternhold, who was persuaded; and indeed it looked plausible, that by so doing, and by getting the sanction of the House of Commons, he improved his own title.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then the Corporation smiled, and built away faster than ever. In the course of an almost incredibly short time the vast plans of Sternhold were completed by the various companies, by the Corporation, and by himself; for every penny he got as premium, every penny of ground-rent, every penny from his collieries, iron furnaces, and cut-nail factories, went in bricks and mortar. It was the most magnificent scheme, perhaps, ever started by a single man. The city was proud of it. Like Augustus, he had found it brick, and left it marble.</p>
|
||||
<p>Yet, in reality, he was no richer. The largest owner, probably, of house property in the world, he could but just pay his way at his hotel. Although he had a fine country house (which old Romy had purchased) in the suburbs, he never used it—it was let. He preferred a hotel as a single man because there was no trouble to look after servants, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> He lived in the most economical manner—being obliged to, in fact.</p>
|
||||
<p>Yet this very economy increased the popular belief in his riches. He was a miser. Give a man that name, let it once stick to him, and there is no limit to the fables that will be eagerly received as truth. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. Call a man a miser, and, if he is so inclined, he can roll in borrowed money, dine every day on presents of game and fish, and marry any one he chooses. I only wish I had the reputation.</p>
|
||||
<p>Yet this very economy increased the popular belief in his riches. He was a miser. Give a man that name, let it once stick to him, and there is no limit to the fables that will be eagerly received as truth. Give a dog a bad name and hang him. Call a man a miser, and, if he is so inclined, he can roll in borrowed money, dine every day on presents of game and fish, and marry anyone he chooses. I only wish I had the reputation.</p>
|
||||
<p>No one listened to Sternhold’s constant reiteration of what was true—that he was really poor. It was looked upon as the usual stock-in-trade language of a miser. His fame spread. Popular rumour magnified and magnified the tale till it became like a chapter from the Arabian Nights.</p>
|
||||
<p>After all, there was some grain of truth in it. If he could have grasped all that was his, he would have surpassed all that was said about his riches.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily News</i> hit upon a good idea to out-distance its great rival the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily Post</i>. This idea was a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Miser of Stirmingham.” After, the editor had considered a little, he struck out “miser,” and wrote “capitalist”—it had a bigger sound.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily News</i> hit upon a good idea to outdistance its great rival the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily Post</i>. This idea was a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Miser of Stirmingham.” After, the editor had considered a little, he struck out “miser,” and wrote “capitalist”—it had a bigger sound.</p>
|
||||
<p>The manuscript was carefully got up in secret by the able editor and two of his staff, who watched Sternhold like detectives, and noted all his peculiarities of physiognomy and manner. They knew—these able editors know everything—that the public are particularly curious how much salt and pepper their heroes use, what colour necktie they wear, and so on. As the editor said, they wanted to make Sternhold the one grand central figure—perfect, complete in every detail. And they did it.</p>
|
||||
<p>They traced his origin and pedigree—this last was not quite accurate, but near enough. They devoted 150 pages to a mere catalogue of his houses, his streets, his squares, club-houses, theatres, hotels, railways, collieries, ironworks, nail factories, estates, country mansions, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> They wrote 200 pages of speculations as to the actual value of this enormous property; and modestly put the total figure at “something under twenty millions, and will be worth half as much again in ten years.” They did not forget the building leases; when these fell in, said the memoir, he or his heirs would have an income of 750,000 pounds per annum.</p>
|
||||
<p>They carefully chronicled the fact that the capitalist had never married, that he had no son or daughter, that he was growing old, or, at least, past middle age, and had never been known to recognise any one as his relation (having, in fact, shipped the whole family to America). What a glorious thing this would be for some lucky fellow! They finished up with a photograph of Sternhold himself. This was difficult to obtain. He was a morose, retiring man—he had never, so far as was known, had his portrait taken. It was quite certain that no persuasion would induce him to sit for it. The able editor, however, was not to be done. On some pretext or other Sternhold was got to the office of the paper, and while he sat conversing with the editor, the photographer “took him” through a hole made for the purpose in the wooden partition between the editor’s and sub-editor’s room. As Sternhold was quite unconscious, the portrait was really a very good one. Suddenly the world was taken by storm with a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Capitalist of Stirmingham. His enormous riches, pedigree, etc, 500 pages, post octavo, illustrated, price 7 shillings 6 pence.”</p>
|
||||
<p>They traced his origin and pedigree—this last was not quite accurate, but near enough. They devoted 150 pages to a mere catalogue of his houses, his streets, his squares, clubhouses, theatres, hotels, railways, collieries, ironworks, nail factories, estates, country mansions, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> They wrote 200 pages of speculations as to the actual value of this enormous property; and modestly put the total figure at “something under twenty millions, and will be worth half as much again in ten years.” They did not forget the building leases; when these fell in, said the memoir, he or his heirs would have an income of 750,000 pounds per annum.</p>
|
||||
<p>They carefully chronicled the fact that the capitalist had never married, that he had no son or daughter, that he was growing old, or, at least, past middle age, and had never been known to recognise anyone as his relation (having, in fact, shipped the whole family to America). What a glorious thing this would be for some lucky fellow! They finished up with a photograph of Sternhold himself. This was difficult to obtain. He was a morose, retiring man—he had never, so far as was known, had his portrait taken. It was quite certain that no persuasion would induce him to sit for it. The able editor, however, was not to be done. On some pretext or other Sternhold was got to the office of the paper, and while he sat conversing with the editor, the photographer “took him” through a hole made for the purpose in the wooden partition between the editor’s and subeditor’s room. As Sternhold was quite unconscious, the portrait was really a very good one. Suddenly the world was taken by storm with a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Capitalist of Stirmingham. His enormous riches, pedigree, etc, 500 pages, post octavo, illustrated, price 7 shillings 6 pence.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The able editor did not confine himself to Stirmingham. Before the book was announced he made his London arrangements, also with the lessees of the railway bookstalls. At one and the same moment of time, one morning Stirmingham woke up to find itself placarded with huge yellow bills (the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">News</i> was Liberal then—it turned its coat later on—and boasted that John Bright had been to the office), boys ran about distributing handbills at every door, men stood at the street corners handing them to everybody who passed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Flaring posters were stuck up at every railway station in the kingdom; ditto in London. The dead walls and hoardings were covered with yellow paper printed in letters a foot long. Three hundred agents, boys, girls, and men, walked all over the metropolis crying incessantly “Twenty Millions of Money,” and handing bills and cards to every one. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Athenaeum, Saturday Review, Spectator</i>, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Times</i>; every paper, magazine, review; every large paper in the country had an advertisement. The result was something extraordinary.</p>
|
||||
<p>Flaring posters were stuck up at every railway station in the kingdom; ditto in London. The dead walls and hoardings were covered with yellow paper printed in letters a foot long. Three hundred agents, boys, girls, and men, walked all over the metropolis crying incessantly “Twenty Millions of Money,” and handing bills and cards to everyone. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Athenaeum, Saturday Review, Spectator</i>, and <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Times</i>; every paper, magazine, review; every large paper in the country had an advertisement. The result was something extraordinary.</p>
|
||||
<p>The name of Sternhold Baskette was on everybody’s lips. His “Twenty Millions of Money” echoed from mouth to mouth, from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. It crossed the Channel, it crossed the Alps, it crossed the Atlantic and the Pacific. It was heard on the Peak of Teneriffe, and in the cities of India.</p>
|
||||
<p>The New York firms seized on it as a mine of wealth. The book, reprinted, was sold from the Hudson River to the Rocky Mountains, and to the mouth of the Mississippi for twenty cents. The circulation was even larger in the United States than in Britain, for there everybody worshipped the dollar. The able editor made his fortune. The book ran through thirty editions, and wore out two printing machines and three sets of type. The two gentlemen of the staff who had assisted in the compilation had a fair share, and speedily put on airs. They claimed the authorship, though the idea had certainly originated with the editor. There was a quarrel. They left, being offered higher salaries in this way:—The other paper, the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i>, though blue in principles, grew green with envy, and tried to disparage as much as possible. They offered these respectable gentlemen large incomes to cut the book to pieces that they themselves had written. No one could do it better—no one understood the weak points, and the humbug of the thing so well. The fellows went to work with a will. The upshot was a little warfare between the Sternholders and the anti-Sternholders. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">News</i> upheld Sternhold, stuck to everything it had stated, and added more. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> disparaged him in every possible way. This newspaper war had its results, as we shall presently see. For the present these two noble principled young men, who first wrote a book for pay and then engaged to chop it into mincemeat for pay, may be left to search and search into the Baskette by-gone history for fresh foul matter to pour forth on the hero of Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>The New York firms seized on it as a mine of wealth. The book, reprinted, was sold from the Hudson River to the Rocky Mountains, and to the mouth of the Mississippi for twenty cents. The circulation was even larger in the United States than in Britain, for there everybody worshipped the dollar. The able editor made his fortune. The book ran through thirty editions, and wore out two printing machines and three sets of type. The two gentlemen of the staff who had assisted in the compilation had a fair share, and speedily put on airs. They claimed the authorship, though the idea had certainly originated with the editor. There was a quarrel. They left, being offered higher salaries in this way:—The other paper, the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i>, though blue in principles, grew green with envy, and tried to disparage as much as possible. They offered these respectable gentlemen large incomes to cut the book to pieces that they themselves had written. No one could do it better—no one understood the weak points, and the humbug of the thing so well. The fellows went to work with a will. The upshot was a little warfare between the Sternholders and the anti-Sternholders. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">News</i> upheld Sternhold, stuck to everything it had stated, and added more. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Post</i> disparaged him in every possible way. This newspaper war had its results, as we shall presently see. For the present these two noble principled young men, who first wrote a book for pay and then engaged to chop it into mincemeat for pay, may be left to search and search into the Baskette bygone history for fresh foul matter to pour forth on the hero of Stirmingham.</p>
|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
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<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-5" epub:type="chapter">
|
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<h3 epub:type="title">V</h3>
|
||||
<p>“The Hero of Stirmingham;” so the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">News</i> dubbed him; so it became the fashion, either in ridicule or in earnest, to call him. People came from all parts to see him. Every one who, on business or pleasure, came to the city, tried to lodge at the hotel where he lived, or at least called there on the chance of meeting the mortal representative of Twenty Millions Sterling. The hotel proprietor, who had previously lost money by him, and execrated his economy, now reaped a golden harvest, and found his business so large that he set about building a monster place at one side of the original premises, for he was afraid to pull it down lest the capitalist should leave.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The Hero of Stirmingham;” so the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">News</i> dubbed him; so it became the fashion, either in ridicule or in earnest, to call him. People came from all parts to see him. Everyone who, on business or pleasure, came to the city, tried to lodge at the hotel where he lived, or at least called there on the chance of meeting the mortal representative of Twenty Millions Sterling. The hotel proprietor, who had previously lost money by him, and execrated his economy, now reaped a golden harvest, and found his business so large that he set about building a monster place at one side of the original premises, for he was afraid to pull it down lest the capitalist should leave.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now a curious psychological change was wrought by all this in old Sternhold’s character. Up till this period of his life he had been one of the most retiring and reserved of men, morose, self-absorbed, shrinking from observation. He now became devoured with an insatiable vanity. He could not shake off the habit of economy, the frugal manner of living, which, he had so long practised; but his mind underwent a complete revolution.</p>
|
||||
<p>It has often been observed that when a man makes one particular subject his study, in course of time that which was once clear grows obscure, and instead of acquiring extraordinary insight, he loses all method, and wanders.</p>
|
||||
<p>Something of the kind was the case with Sternhold. All his life had been devoted to the one great object of owning a city, of being the largest proprietor of houses and streets in the world. His whole thought, energy, strength, patience—his entire being—had been concentrated upon this end. In actual fact, it was not attained yet, for he was practically only the nominal owner; but the publication of this book acted in a singular manner upon his brain. He grew to believe that he really was all that the “Life” represented him to be—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr> the most extraordinary man the world had ever seen.</p>
|
||||
<p>He attempted no state, he set up no carriage; he stuck to his old confined apartments at the hotel he had always frequented; but he lived in an ideal life of sovereign grandeur. He talked as though he were a monarch—an absolute autocrat—as if all the inhabitants of Stirmingham were his subjects; and boasted that he could turn two hundred thousand people out of doors by a single word.</p>
|
||||
<p>In plain language, he lost his head; in still plainer language, he went harmlessly mad—not so mad that any one even hinted at such a thing. There was no lunacy in his appearance or daily life; but the great chords of the mind were undoubtedly at this period of his existence quite deranged.</p>
|
||||
<p>In plain language, he lost his head; in still plainer language, he went harmlessly mad—not so mad that anyone even hinted at such a thing. There was no lunacy in his appearance or daily life; but the great chords of the mind were undoubtedly at this period of his existence quite deranged.</p>
|
||||
<p>He really was getting rich now. The houses he had himself completed, with the premiums paid for building leases, began to return a considerable profit. The income from his collieries and factories was so large, that even bricks and mortar could not altogether absorb it. Perhaps he was in receipt of three thousand pounds per annum, or more. But now, unfortunately, just as the fruits of his labour were fast ripening, this abominable book upset it all.</p>
|
||||
<p>There can be no doubt that the editor of the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily News</i>, with the best intentions in the world, dealt his Hero two mortal wounds. In the first place, he drove him mad. Sternhold spent days and nights studying how he could exceed what he had already done.</p>
|
||||
<p>Dressed in a workman’s garb for disguise, he explored the whole neighbourhood of Stirmingham, seeking fresh land to purchase. His object was to get it cheap, for he knew that if there was the slightest suspicion that he was after it, a high price would be asked. In some instances he succeeded. One or two cases are known where he bought, with singular judgment and remarkable shrewdness, large tracts for very small sums. He paid only one-fifth on completion, leaving the remainder on mortgage. This enabled him to buy five times as much at once as would have otherwise been possible.</p>
|
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<p>But there were sharp fellows in Stirmingham, who watched the capitalist like hawks, and soon spied out what was going on. Their game was to first discover in what direction Sternhold was buying in secret, then to forestall him, and nearly double the price when he arrived.</p>
|
||||
<p>In this way Sternhold got rid of every shilling of his income. Even then he might have prospered; but, as bad luck would have it, the railway, after two millions of money had been sunk on it, actually began to pay dividends of three and a half per cent, then four, then six; for a clever fellow had got at the helm, and was forcing up the market so as to make hay while the sun shone.</p>
|
||||
<p>In this way Sternhold got rid of every shilling of his income. Even then he might have prospered; but, as bad luck would have it, the railway, after two millions of money had been sunk on it, actually began to pay dividends of three and a half percent, then four, then six; for a clever fellow had got at the helm, and was forcing up the market so as to make hay while the sun shone.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold was in raptures with railways. Some sharp young men of forty-five and fifty immediately laid their heads together, and projected a second railway at almost right angles—not such a bad idea, but one likely to cause enormous outlay. They represented to Sternhold that this new line would treble the value of the property he had recently bought, extending for some miles beyond the city. He jumped at it. The Bill was got through Parliament. One half of these sharp young men were lawyers, the other half engineers and contractors.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold deposited the money, and they shared it between them. When the money was exhausted the railway languished. This exasperated old Baskette. For the first time in his life he borrowed money, and did it on a royal scale;—I am almost afraid to say how much, and certainly it seems odd how people could advance so much knowing his circumstances.</p>
|
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<p>However, he got it. He bought up all the shares, and became practically owner of the new line. He completed it, and rode on the first locomotive in triumph, surrounded by his parasites. For alas! he had yielded to parasites at last, who flattered and fooled him to perfection. This was the state of affairs when the second mortal wound was given.</p>
|
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<section data-parent="book-1" id="chapter-1-6" epub:type="chapter">
|
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<h3 epub:type="title">VI</h3>
|
||||
<p>His heir! Sternhold seriously believed that he had no living relations. It is often said that poor people have plenty of children, while the rich, to whom they would be welcome, have few or none. This was certainly a case in point. The poor Baskettes, who had been shipped to America, had a whole tribe of descendants. Here was a man who, nominally at least, was the largest owner of property known, who was childless, and had already reached and exceeded the allotted age of man.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold was seventy-two. He looked back and ransacked his memory. He had never heard anything of this uncle, his father’s brother; his mother’s friends were all dead. There was not a soul for whom he cared a snap of his fingers. Firstly, he had no relations; secondly, he had no friends, for Sternhold, wide as was his circle of acquaintances, had never been known to visit any one. His life had been solitary and self-absorbed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold was seventy-two. He looked back and ransacked his memory. He had never heard anything of this uncle, his father’s brother; his mother’s friends were all dead. There was not a soul for whom he cared a snap of his fingers. Firstly, he had no relations; secondly, he had no friends, for Sternhold, wide as was his circle of acquaintances, had never been known to visit anyone. His life had been solitary and self-absorbed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, for the first time, he felt his loneliness, and understood that he was a solitary being. Who should be his heir? Who should succeed to that mighty edifice he had slowly built up? The architect had been obliged to be content with gazing upon the outside of his work only; but the successor, if he only lived the usual time, would revel in realised magnificence unsurpassed. The old man was quite staggered, and went about as in a dream.</p>
|
||||
<p>The idea once started, there were plenty who improved upon it. The Corporation at their meetings incidentally alluded to the matter, and it was delicately suggested that Sternhold would crown his memory with ineffable glory if he devised his vast estate to the city. Such a bequest in a few years would make the place absolutely free from taxation. The rents would meet poor’s-rates, gas-rates, water-rates, sanitary-rates, and all. One gentleman read an elaborate series of statistics, proving that the income from the property, when once the building leases fell in, would not only free the city from local, but almost, if not quite, from imperial taxation. There were many instances in history of kings, as rewards for great services, issuing an order that certain towns should be exempt from the payment of taxes for a series of years. Sternhold had it thus in his power to display really regal munificence.</p>
|
||||
<p>Other gentlemen of more radical leanings cried “Shame!” on the mere fact of one man being permitted to attain such powers. It was absurd for one man to possess such gigantic wealth, and for several hundred thousand to live from hand to mouth. The people should share it, not as a gift, but as a right; it should be seized for the benefit of the community.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Corporation people were much too knowing to talk like this. They went to work in a clever way. First, they contrived various great banquets, to which Sternhold was invited, and at which he was put in the seat of honour and lauded to the skies. Next, they formed a committee and erected a statue in a prominent place to the founder of Stirmingham, and unveiled it with immense ceremony. Certain funds had been previously set apart for the building of a public library; this being completed about that time, was named the Sternhold Institute. An open space or “park,” which the Corporation had been obliged to provide for the seething multitudes who were so closely crowded together, was called the Sternhold Public Park. Yet Sternhold never subscribed a farthing to either of these.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nothing was left undone to turn his head. His portrait, life-size, painted in oil, was hung up in the Council-hall; medals were struck to commemorate his birthday. The Corporation were not alone in their endeavours; other disinterested parties were hard at work. Most energetic of all were the religious people. Chapel projectors, preachers, church extension societies, missionary associations, flew at his throat. His letter-box was flooded; his door was for ever resounding with knocking and ringing. The sound of the true clerical nasal twang was never silent in his anteroom. The hospitals came down on him flat in one lump, more particularly those establishments which publicly boast that they never solicit assistance, and are supported by voluntary contributions caused by prayer.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nothing was left undone to turn his head. His portrait, life-size, painted in oil, was hung up in the Council-hall; medals were struck to commemorate his birthday. The Corporation were not alone in their endeavours; other disinterested parties were hard at work. Most energetic of all were the religious people. Chapel projectors, preachers, church extension societies, missionary associations, flew at his throat. His letter-box was flooded; his door was forever resounding with knocking and ringing. The sound of the true clerical nasal twang was never silent in his anteroom. The hospitals came down on him flat in one lump, more particularly those establishments which publicly boast that they never solicit assistance, and are supported by voluntary contributions caused by prayer.</p>
|
||||
<p>The dodge is to publish the <em>fact</em> as loudly as possible. To proclaim that the institution urgently wants a few thousands is not begging. A list of all the charities that recommended themselves to his notice would fill three chapters: then the patentees—the literary people who were prepared to write memoirs, biographies, etc—would have to be omitted.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now here is a singular paradox. If a poor wretched mortal, barely clothed in rags, his shoes off his feet, starring with hunger, houseless, homeless, who hath not where to lay his head, asks you for a copper, it means seven days’ imprisonment as a rogue. If all the clergymen and ministers, the secretaries, and so forth, come in crowds begging for hundreds and thousands, it is meritorious, and is applauded.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now this is worthy of study as a phenomenon of society. But these were not all. Sternhold had another class of applicants, whom we will not call ladies, or even women, but <em>females</em> (what a hateful word female is), who approached him pretty much as the Shah was approached by every post while in London and Paris.</p>
|
||||
<p>He was deluged with photographs of females. Not disreputable characters either—not of Drury Lane or Haymarket distinction, but of that class who use the columns of the newspapers to advertise their matrimonial propensities. Tall, short, dark, light, stout, thin, they poured in upon him by hundreds; all ready, willing, and waiting.</p>
|
||||
<p>Most were “thoroughly domesticated and musical;” some were penetrated with the serious responsibilities of the position of a wife; others were filled with hopes of the life to come (having failed in this).</p>
|
||||
<p>Some men would have enjoyed all this; some would have smiled; others would have flung the lot into the waste-basket. Sternhold was too methodical and too much imbued with business habits to take anything as a good joke. He read every letter, looked at every photograph, numbered and docketed them, and carefully put them away.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some men would have enjoyed all this; some would have smiled; others would have flung the lot into the wastebasket. Sternhold was too methodical and too much imbued with business habits to take anything as a good joke. He read every letter, looked at every photograph, numbered and docketed them, and carefully put them away.</p>
|
||||
<p>Other efforts were made to get at him. He had parasites—men who hung on him—lickspittles. To a certain extent he yielded to the titillation of incessant laudation; and, if he did not encourage, did not repel them. They never ceased to fan his now predominant vanity. They argued that the Corporation and all the rest were influenced by selfish motives (which was true). They begged him not to forget what was due to himself—not to annihilate and obliterate himself. It was true he was aged; but aged men—especially men who had led temperate lives like himself—frequently had children. In plain words, they one and all persuaded him to marry; and they one and all had a petticoated friend who would just suit him.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold seemed very impassive and immoveable; but the fact was that all this had stirred him deeply. He began to seriously contemplate marriage. He brooded over the idea. He was not a sentimental man; he had not even a spark of what is called human nature in the sense of desiring to see merry children playing around him. But he looked upon himself as a mighty monarch; and as a mighty monarch he wished more and more every day to found not only a kingdom, but a dynasty.</p>
|
||||
<p>This appears to be a weakness from which even the greatest of men are not exempt. Napoleon the Great could not resist the idea. It is the one sole object of almost all such men whose history is recorded. Occasionally they succeed; more often it destroys them. Some say Cromwell had hopes in that direction.</p>
|
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<p>Other girls less favoured by Nature, but more by circumstance, and by the fickle and unaccountable tastes of certain wealthy individuals, had forestalled her, and she stored up in her mind bitter hatred of several of these who had snubbed and sneered at her.</p>
|
||||
<p>The fairy prince of her dream, however, came at last in the person of an old man of three score years and ten, and she snapped him up in a trice. No doubt, like all Stirmingham, she entertained the most fabulous ideas of Sternhold’s wealth.</p>
|
||||
<p>These dreams were destined to be rudely shattered. She seems to have had pretty much her own way at first. Doubtless the old man was as wax in her hands, till his former habits began to pull at him. She had one good trait at all events, if it could be called good—the first use she made of her new position was to provide for her family, or rather for the only member of it in England.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was Aurelian Marese, her brother, who must have been a man of some talent and energy, for despite all obstacles of poverty he contrived to pass his examination and obtain a diploma from the College of Surgeons. He came to Stirmingham, and with the assistance of Sternhold’s purse set up as a mad doctor, in plain parlance, or in softer language, established a private lunatic asylum. Oddly enough, it would seem that notwithstanding the immense population of the city, there was not till that time any establishment of the kind in the place, and the result was that Aurelian prospered. He certainly was a clever fellow, as will be presently seen, though some fancy he over-reached himself. When at last Sternhold, worn out with the unwonted gaieties into which Lucia plunged him, showed unmistakable signs of weariness, and desired to return to Stirmingham, she yielded with a good grace. She reckoned that he could not last long, and it was her game to keep him in good temper; for she had learnt by this time that he had the power to dispose of his property just as he chose.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was Aurelian Marese, her brother, who must have been a man of some talent and energy, for despite all obstacles of poverty he contrived to pass his examination and obtain a diploma from the College of Surgeons. He came to Stirmingham, and with the assistance of Sternhold’s purse set up as a mad doctor, in plain parlance, or in softer language, established a private lunatic asylum. Oddly enough, it would seem that notwithstanding the immense population of the city, there was not till that time any establishment of the kind in the place, and the result was that Aurelian prospered. He certainly was a clever fellow, as will be presently seen, though some fancy he overreached himself. When at last Sternhold, worn out with the unwonted gaieties into which Lucia plunged him, showed unmistakable signs of weariness, and desired to return to Stirmingham, she yielded with a good grace. She reckoned that he could not last long, and it was her game to keep him in good temper; for she had learnt by this time that he had the power to dispose of his property just as he chose.</p>
|
||||
<p>We can easily imagine the restlessness of this creature confined in the dull atmosphere of three or four rooms at Dodd’s Hotel, South Street. But she bore it, and to her it was a species of martyrdom—the very reverse of what she had pictured.</p>
|
||||
<p>After a while, as time went on, whispers began to fly about—people elevated their eyebrows and asked questions under their breath, exchanged nods and winks. The fact was apparent; Sternhold could scarce contain himself for joy. There was an undoubted prospect of The Heir. The old man got madder than ever—that is, in the sense of self-laudation. He could not admire himself sufficiently. The artful woman played upon him, you may be sure; at all events there was a deed of gift executed at this time conveying to her certain valuable estates lying outside the city, and tolerably unencumbered. Why she came to select those particular estates which were not half so valuable as others she might have had, was known only to herself then; but doubtless Aurelian had heard about the Yankee claims, and advised her to take what was safe. These estates were, in fact, bought with old Romy’s money made by the nail factory, and were quite apart from the rest.</p>
|
||||
<p>About this time, also, Sternhold left Dodd’s Hotel. This was another evidence of her power over him. The best joke was, that although there was old Romy’s country mansion about five miles from Stirmingham, although Sternhold had since purchased four other mansions, and had nominally street upon street of houses in the town, he had not a place to take his wife to. He was obliged to rent one of his own houses of the company who had built it on a building lease.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sternhold now had her great wish gratified to some extent. She was the observed of all observers. They tell you tales now in Stirmingham of her extravagance, and the lengths she went. Her carriages, her horses, her servants, her dinners, parties, and what not, were the one topic of conversation. Even old-fashioned, straitlaced people found their objections overcome by curiosity, and accepted her invitations.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Sternhold now had her great wish gratified to some extent. She was the observed of all observers. They tell you tales now in Stirmingham of her extravagance, and the lengths she went. Her carriages, her horses, her servants, her dinners, parties, and whatnot, were the one topic of conversation. Even old-fashioned, straitlaced people found their objections overcome by curiosity, and accepted her invitations.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sternhold was never visible at these gatherings; but he rejoiced in them. He was proud of his wife. He looked upon her as a prodigy. He gave her the reins. But personally he practically returned to his old habits. He still retained his old apartments at Dodd’s; and there he might be found, at almost all hours, sitting at his desk, and eagerly, joyously receiving every visitor who came to tell him of some fresh extravagance, some fresh frolic of his wife’s!</p>
|
||||
<p>How was all this expenditure supported, since his actual income was so small? By a series of loans, which there were always men ready to offer, and whose terms Sternhold always signed. Once or twice he did remonstrate, but darling Lucia went into tears, and her brother Aurelian assured him that, in her state of health, any vexation was dangerous, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> Aurelian, through the Sternhold connexion, was now a fashionable physician.</p>
|
||||
<p>How was all this expenditure supported, since his actual income was so small? By a series of loans, which there were always men ready to offer, and whose terms Sternhold always signed. Once or twice he did remonstrate, but darling Lucia went into tears, and her brother Aurelian assured him that, in her state of health, any vexation was dangerous, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> Aurelian, through the Sternhold connection, was now a fashionable physician.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the event happened, and a son was born. The memory of the week succeeding that day will not soon pass away in Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sternhold, himself a most temperate man, declared that he would make every one in the city tipsy; and he practically succeeded. He had barrels of ale and gallons of spirits and wine offered free to all comers at every public-house and tavern. He had booths erected in an open field just outside the town, for dancing and other amusements, and here refreshments of all kinds were served out gratis.</p>
|
||||
<p>Old Sternhold, himself a most temperate man, declared that he would make everyone in the city tipsy; and he practically succeeded. He had barrels of ale and gallons of spirits and wine offered free to all comers at every public-house and tavern. He had booths erected in an open field just outside the town, for dancing and other amusements, and here refreshments of all kinds were served out gratis.</p>
|
||||
<p>The police were in despair. The cells overflowed, and would hold no more, and the streets reeled with drunken men, and still more drunken women.</p>
|
||||
<p>This saturnalia reigned for four days, and would soon have culminated—at least, so the police declared—in a general sack of the city by the congregated ruffians. A detachment of dragoons was actually sent for, and encamped in Saint George’s Square, with their horses and arms ready at a moment’s notice. But it all passed off quietly; and from that hour Sternhold, and more particularly the infant son, became the idol of the populace.</p>
|
||||
<p>They still look back with regret to those four days of unlimited licence, and swear by the son of Sternhold.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
|
|||
<h3 epub:type="title">VIII</h3>
|
||||
<p>The idea having been once entertained, grew and grew, till it overshadowed everything else. The singular circumstance then happened of one man slowly and carefully collecting evidence during another’s lifetime to prove him insane the moment he died.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aurelian placed his principal reliance upon the violent jealousy Sternhold had exhibited. So vehement and irregulated a passion founded upon mere phantasms of the imagination, was in itself strong presumptive proof of an unsound mind. He had no difficulty in finding witnesses to Sternhold’s outrageous conduct. The old man had been seen walking up and down the street, on the opposite side of the pavement to the house in which Lucia lived, for hours and hours at a time, simply watching. He had been heard to use violent and threatening language. He had made himself ill. The mind was so overwrought by excitement that it reacted upon the body, and it was some time before the balance was restored—if indeed it could ever be restored.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were many trifling little things of manner—of fidgetiness—absurd personal habits—which, taken in conjunction with the bad temper he had displayed, went to make up the case. Aurelian added to this the vanity Sternhold had of late openly indulged in. This was notorious, and had become a by-word.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were many trifling little things of manner—of fidgetiness—absurd personal habits—which, taken in conjunction with the bad temper he had displayed, went to make up the case. Aurelian added to this the vanity Sternhold had of late openly indulged in. This was notorious, and had become a byword.</p>
|
||||
<p>But when Aurelian had written all this out upon paper—when he had, as it were, prepared his brief—his shrewd sense told him that in truth it was very weak evidence. Any lawyer employed for the defence could easily find arguments to upset the whole.</p>
|
||||
<p>Day by day, as he thought it over, his reliance upon the insanity resource grew less and less—and yet he could not see what else there was to do. He racked his brain. The man, like others, was in fact fascinated by the enormous property at stake: he could not get it out of his mind. It haunted him day and night. He ransacked his memory, called up all his reading, all his observation, all that he had heard—every expedient and plan that had come under his notice for gaining an end.</p>
|
||||
<p>For a time, however, it was in vain. It is often the case that when we seek an idea it flies from us, and will not be constrained, not even by weeks of the deeply-pondering state. Often the more we think upon a subject, the less we seem to see our way clear. And so it was with him.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -21,7 +21,7 @@
|
|||
<p>There was such a thing as divorce—this might not destroy the child’s right, but it would place him out of Lucia’s hands. There must be no handle for Lucia’s enemies to grasp at. She must be manoeuvred so as to make Sternhold frantic without committing herself.</p>
|
||||
<p>Lucia was aflame for such a course. She had restrained herself for years. She was burning to be free, on fire for “life” and excitement; above all, for admiration, for praise—the intoxicating breath of the multitude that cheers to the echo! The Stage! the dance—music—the fiery gaze of a thousand eyes following each motion! There must have been something of the true artist in her. The grandest position, the most unlimited wealth, would not have satisfied her without the stage.</p>
|
||||
<p>She had married Sternhold in the hope of appearing as other women did in the theatres owned by their lovers. She had tried to broach the subject to Sternhold; he had held up his hands in horror, and she constrained herself and bided her time.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nearly four years now—four years! The coarse jests, the loud laughter, the shouts and screams and cat-calls of the low threepenny gaff or music hall from which she had been snatched—even such a life as that seemed to her far, far superior to this irksome confinement, this slavery which was not even gilded. Aurelian was right in his conjecture that she could not be much longer held in—she must burst out.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nearly four years now—four years! The coarse jests, the loud laughter, the shouts and screams and catcalls of the low threepenny gaff or music hall from which she had been snatched—even such a life as that seemed to her far, far superior to this irksome confinement, this slavery which was not even gilded. Aurelian was right in his conjecture that she could not be much longer held in—she must burst out.</p>
|
||||
<p>Half-formed schemes had been working themselves into shape in her mind for months past. She would leave her boy with Aurelian, take her jewels and sables, sell them, borrow money upon the estate which Sternhold had made hers by deed of gift, go to London or Paris, and plunge headlong into “life,” paying any price for the one grand ambition of her existence.</p>
|
||||
<p>The craving—the <em>fury</em>, it might almost be called—the furious desire for admiration from men which seized upon her at times, would certainly, sooner or later, have hurled her on to a desperate step.</p>
|
||||
<p>At this moment Aurelian came with his carefully-considered plan. She met him open-armed. With one blow she could avenge herself upon Sternhold, with one blow gratify herself and destroy him—destroy him body and soul. This moment—this hour!</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -28,7 +28,7 @@
|
|||
<p>The conflict between the brother and sister was terrible. She raged, her frame swelled; she had tasted triumph, and the draught is more intoxicating even than the taste of blood. She would go on.</p>
|
||||
<p>But he was resolute, and he won. That very day he took her to England—took is the right word, for it was necessary to use physical force at times. He got her to her house at Stirmingham, and never left her till she had grown more composed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold was in an asylum. Aurelian thought that he would surely die; but he did not.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aurelian then began to scheme to get him in his own “retreat.” Possession was nine points of the law. He went to Vienna at once before any one guessed his object, obtained the proper permit, and in six days deposited the wretched being in his asylum in the suburbs of Stirmingham. Once there, thought Aurelian, let them get him out if they can.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aurelian then began to scheme to get him in his own “retreat.” Possession was nine points of the law. He went to Vienna at once before anyone guessed his object, obtained the proper permit, and in six days deposited the wretched being in his asylum in the suburbs of Stirmingham. Once there, thought Aurelian, let them get him out if they can.</p>
|
||||
<p>The fact was soon known; and there was an excitement. The parasites, disappointed and raging, did their best to inflame the populace. There was a growl, and the police began to prepare for an attack upon the asylum; but, after all, the moment any of them reflected, they said, “Why, it’s all right; the poor fellow is mad. He could not be in better hands.” The plan of a popular tumult fell through.</p>
|
||||
<p>The parasites next tried the law, but found that Aurelian had been before them: he had all the proper documents; he could not be touched.</p>
|
||||
<p>Next the companies began to stir. They were uncertain what to do, and whether it was better for their interests that Sternhold should be in his brother-in-law’s custody or not.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
|
|||
<p>He gave the companies to understand that if he had the guardianship of the boy their interests should be most carefully studied.</p>
|
||||
<p>They appeared favourable. The step was taken. The boy remained with his mother; his mother remained in her house, seeing Aurelian daily, and indeed watched by his <em>employees</em>.</p>
|
||||
<p>No change took place. Aurelian congratulated himself that all was going on favourably. The boy, who had little or no idea of the meaning of the word “father,” was constantly at Aurelian’s residence—the asylum where his parent was confined—playing with Aurelian’s son, who was carefully instructed to please him, and indeed was sharp enough already to require little instruction.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold lingered in his melancholy state. He was no longer violent—simply dejected. He did not seem able to answer the simplest question. If asked if he was hungry, he would stare, and say something relating to his school-days.</p>
|
||||
<p>Sternhold lingered in his melancholy state. He was no longer violent—simply dejected. He did not seem able to answer the simplest question. If asked if he was hungry, he would stare, and say something relating to his schooldays.</p>
|
||||
<p>And this was the man who had built Stirmingham. For five years he remained in this state, and then suddenly brightened up; and it was thought and <em>feared</em> that he would recover the use of his faculties. It lasted but three days. In that short time he wrote three important documents.</p>
|
||||
<p>The first was a statement to the effect that he had wronged Lucia. He now saw his folly—he had been led into his persecution of her by designing people, and blamed himself for his subsequent conduct. He earnestly entreated her forgiveness. The second was a species of family history, short but complete, refuting the claims of the American Baskettes. They were indeed of the same name, he wrote, but not of the same blood. The truth was that the cotters who had lived in the Swamp, now covered with mansions, had no name. They were half gipsies; they had no registered or baptismal name.</p>
|
||||
<p>Will Baskette, who had been shot, was the chief man among them, and gradually they came by the country people to be called by his name. They were not blood relations in any sense of the term. This paper also gave the writer’s views of his transactions with the Sibbolds and the cotters or “Baskettes,” and concluded with the firmly expressed conviction—the honest statement of a man near his end—that his title was irrefutable, and he knew of no genuine claim.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,14 +9,14 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-2" id="chapter-2-1" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">I</h3>
|
||||
<p>Forty-three miles as the crow flies, south of Stirmingham, there stands upon the lonely Downs a solitary, lichen-grown post, originally intended to direct wayfarers upon those trackless wastes.</p>
|
||||
<p>In winter, when the herbage, always short, was shortest, and when the ground was softened by rain, there might be detected the ruts left by waggon wheels crossing each other in various directions; but road, or path properly so-called, there was none, and a stranger might as well have been placed on the desert of the Sahara. For time, and the rain blown with tremendous force across these open Downs by the wind, had all but obliterated the painted letters upon the cross-arms, and none but those acquainted with the country could have understood the fragmentary inscriptions.</p>
|
||||
<p>In winter, when the herbage, always short, was shortest, and when the ground was softened by rain, there might be detected the ruts left by wagon wheels crossing each other in various directions; but road, or path properly so-called, there was none, and a stranger might as well have been placed on the desert of the Sahara. For time, and the rain blown with tremendous force across these open Downs by the wind, had all but obliterated the painted letters upon the cross-arms, and none but those acquainted with the country could have understood the fragmentary inscriptions.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some mischievous ploughboys or shepherd lads, tired of arranging flints in fanciful rows, or cutting their names upon the turf, had improved the shining hour by climbing up this post, pulling out the arms, and inserting them in the opposite mortices, thereby making the poor post an unwitting liar. This same section of the population had also energetically pelted all the milestones for far around with flints, till the graven letters upon them were beaten out. Such wooden wit was their only resource in a place where <em>Punch</em> never penetrated; for this lonesome spot was appropriately named World’s End, or, it was locally pronounced, Wurdel’s End.</p>
|
||||
<p>The undulating downs surrounded it upon every side, dotted here and there at long distances with farmsteads and a few cottages, and now and then a small village or hamlet of ten or a dozen houses grouped together in a “combe,” or narrow valley, where there happened to be a spring of water and a “bourne” or stream. Yet World’s End was not altogether to be despised. In this out-of-the-way place there was perhaps the finest natural racecourse in England, to which the uneven uphill course at Epsom, made famous by the Derby, was but an exercise ground.</p>
|
||||
<p>A level stretch of sweet, elastic turf, half a mile wide, ran in a line something like half a horse-shoe, under the steep Downs, for a distance of two miles, unimpeded by hedge, ditch, or enclosed field, and obstructed only in a few spots by thick bushes of furze and a few scattered hawthorn trees.</p>
|
||||
<p>A level stretch of sweet, elastic turf, half a mile wide, ran in a line something like half a horseshoe, under the steep Downs, for a distance of two miles, unimpeded by hedge, ditch, or enclosed field, and obstructed only in a few spots by thick bushes of furze and a few scattered hawthorn trees.</p>
|
||||
<p>A spectator standing upon the Downs had the whole of this Plain, as it was called, at once under his eye; could see a horse start and watch it gallop to the goal. From an ancient earthwork camp or “castle,” this Down was known as Berbury Hill, and the level plain was often called Berbury racecourse.</p>
|
||||
<p>For from time immemorial rustic sports, and local races between the horses of the neighbouring farmers, had taken place twice a year under the Berbury Hill. The sports were held in the early spring; the races proper, according to custom, came off in October. They were of the most primitive character, as may be judged from the following poster, which the kindness of a printer and bookbinder at Barnham—the nearest town—enables us to present to the reader. He had preserved a copy of it, having returned the original to the committee, who sat at the Shepherd’s Bush Inn upon the Downs:—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Take Notiss. The Public is hereby Invite to the Grand open and Hurdle Rases and Steple-Chaces at Wurdel’s End which is to come off on Wensday after old Michelmuss Day. All particlars of the Stewards which is Martin Brown, William Smith, Philip Lewis, Ted Pontin. Illegul Beting is stoped.”</p>
|
||||
<p>This copy had in the corner, “Please print two Score and send by Carrier,” and the unfortunate printer, ashamed to issue such a circular, sent it back with an amended form for approval; but the carrier forgot the letter, and it was not delivered till a week after the event—not that much was lost by the failure to give this species of publicity to the races. The day was well-known to all those who were likely to attend. The half-dozen gipsies, with the cocoanut sticks and gingerbread stall, duly arrived, and took up their quarters in a fir copse where the ground was dry, and the tree-trunks sheltered them somewhat from the breeze which always blows over the Downs.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Take Notiss. The Public is hereby Invite to the Grand open and Hurdle Rases and Steple-Chases at Wurdel’s End which is to come off on Wensday after old Michelmuss Day. All particlars of the Stewards which is Martin Brown, William Smith, Philip Lewis, Ted Pontin. Illegul Beting is stoped.”</p>
|
||||
<p>This copy had in the corner, “Please print two Score and send by Carrier,” and the unfortunate printer, ashamed to issue such a circular, sent it back with an amended form for approval; but the carrier forgot the letter, and it was not delivered till a week after the event—not that much was lost by the failure to give this species of publicity to the races. The day was well-known to all those who were likely to attend. The half-dozen gipsies, with the coconut sticks and gingerbread stall, duly arrived, and took up their quarters in a fir copse where the ground was dry, and the tree-trunks sheltered them somewhat from the breeze which always blows over the Downs.</p>
|
||||
<p>Most of the spectators were hill men. There still lingers the old feud between the hill and vale—not so fierce, toned down to an occasional growl—but Nature herself seems to have provided a never-ceasing ground of quarrel. These two races, the hill and the vale men, must always put up opposing prayers to heaven. The vale prays for fine and dry weather; the hill prays for wet. How then can they possibly agree? Not more than three knots of men and half a dozen wenches came up from the vale, and these gave pretty good evidence that they had called en route at the Shepherd’s Bush, for they were singing in chorus the lament of the young woman who went to the trysting place to meet her faithless swain:—</p>
|
||||
<p class="poem">But what was there to make her sad?<br/>
|
||||
The gate was there, but not the lad;<br/>
|
||||
|
|
@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Day by day Aymer, while his funds lasted and he could stay in Florence, came and stood before the statue, lingering for hours in its close vicinity; so that the artist, as she sketched, had the fullest opportunity of noting the strong contrast between his delicate, intellectual features and slight, tall frame, and the coarse dress he wore. Growing interested, she instructed her attendants to make inquiries, and they easily elicited the name of the stranger, and the place from which he had come.</p>
|
||||
<p>By a curious coincidence, it so happened that the lady-artist herself was the owner of a family mansion, and moderately large estate but a few miles from Aymer’s home. He was, in fact, perfectly familiar with her name, which was a household word at World’s End, where distinguished names were few; but moving in his low sphere he had never seen her face.</p>
|
||||
<p>Lady Lechester—Agnes Lechester to her friends—was “lord of herself, that heritage of woe,” and being of an artistic turn of mind, had spent much of her time upon the Continent; another reason being certain unhappy matters connected with the history of the family mansion. She was much struck with the singularity of a mere lad of low and poor estate thus coming to Florence, obviously from pure love of the beautiful. Nothing approaching to affection sprang up in her mind; it must be distinctly understood that her interest was of a different character entirely. But from that moment Aymer unconsciously became the subject of a certain amount of surveillance. He deemed himself despised and unnoticed by all; but there was one who had not forgotten him.</p>
|
||||
<p>Those happy days in lovely Florence passed like a dream. Even by living on a few fruits and a little bread alone, the scanty stock of money he had carried with him could not be made to last for ever. Barely a month of pure, unalloyed pleasure—pure in every sense of the term—and poor Aymer, who knew not how to get employment in a foreign city, was obliged to return, and Agnes Lechester saw him no more standing in rapt admiration before the famous statue.</p>
|
||||
<p>Those happy days in lovely Florence passed like a dream. Even by living on a few fruits and a little bread alone, the scanty stock of money he had carried with him could not be made to last forever. Barely a month of pure, unalloyed pleasure—pure in every sense of the term—and poor Aymer, who knew not how to get employment in a foreign city, was obliged to return, and Agnes Lechester saw him no more standing in rapt admiration before the famous statue.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer reached Dover with five shillings in his pocket, and walked the whole of the distance, one hundred and fifty miles, to World’s End, often sleeping out at night under a rick. Slight as he was in frame, he possessed considerable power of enduring fatigue, and had a way of lounging idly along the road, abstracted in thought, and so walking mile after mile, till he woke up at his destination.</p>
|
||||
<p>They laughed him to scorn at World’s End. The poor fellow wandered about in the daytime on the Downs, hiding in the fir copses, lying on the ancient earthwork entrenchment, and dreaming of his fair Florence, so many hundreds of miles away. He grew dejected and hopeless till he saw Violet. Then in time, the very destiny he deemed so harsh in confining him to that rude spot seemed even superior to the glorious possibilities he had hoped for. For Violet took the place of the marble goddess; yet there never was a beauty less like the Venus de Medici. Lovely as are the ideals men have created for themselves, it sometimes happens that Nature presents us with a rare gem, surpassing those cold conceptions of the mind as far as the sun is above the earth.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
|
|||
<p>It was not the man who had the right upon his side who won. If that was the case, what use would there be for lawyers? Too often it was the man who had the law upon his side, and the law only. He actually heard magistrates, and even judges, expressing their regret that the law compelled them to give decisions contrary to the true justice of the cause before them.</p>
|
||||
<p>By degrees he became aware of the extraordinary fact, that with all the cumbrous system of law phrases—a system that requires a special dictionary—there was not even a word to express what he understood as justice; not even a word to express it!</p>
|
||||
<p>Justice meant a decision according to the law, and not according to the right or wrong of the particular case proceeding; equity meant a decision based upon a complex, antiquated, unreasonable jumble of obsolete customs. The sense of the word “equity”—as it is used in the sublime prophecy, “With equity shall he judge the world”—was entirely lost.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the brief time that he had sat beside <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton in these Courts, Aymer conceived an intense loathing for the whole system. After all, what was the law, upon which so much was based, which over-rode equity, justice, truth, and even conscience? What was this great fetish to which every one bowed the knee—from the distinguished and learned judge downwards, the judge who, in point of fact, admitted and regretted that he decided against his conscience? It was principally precedent. Because a man had once been hung for a murder committed in a certain manner, men must always be hung for murder. Because a judge had once given a verdict which, under the circumstances, was as <em>near the right</em> as he dared to go (and our judges do this), then every one who came after must be dealt with by this immovable standard.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the brief time that he had sat beside <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton in these Courts, Aymer conceived an intense loathing for the whole system. After all, what was the law, upon which so much was based, which overrode equity, justice, truth, and even conscience? What was this great fetish to which everyone bowed the knee—from the distinguished and learned judge downwards, the judge who, in point of fact, admitted and regretted that he decided against his conscience? It was principally precedent. Because a man had once been hung for a murder committed in a certain manner, men must always be hung for murder. Because a judge had once given a verdict which, under the circumstances, was as <em>near the right</em> as he dared to go (and our judges do this), then everyone who came after must be dealt with by this immovable standard.</p>
|
||||
<p>The very passage of time itself—the changes introduced into society, custom, and modes of thought in the course of the years—was in itself a strong and all-sufficient argument against this fetish precedent.</p>
|
||||
<p>That was not all. Aymer in his position—to a certain extent confidential—had a glimpse behind the scenes. Quick of observation and comprehension, he saw that even this game of argument, and precedent, and quibble was not conducted honestly. He had heard and read so much of the freedom, the liberty of England, the safety of the subject, the equal justice meted out to all, that he was literally confounded when the bare facts stared him in the face.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was jobbery, corruption under the whole of it; there was class prejudice operating in the minds of those on the judgment-seat; there were a thousand-and-one small, invisible strings, which palled this way and that behind the scenes. It was, after all, a species of Punch and Judy show, moved by wires, and learnt by rote by the exhibitor.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -28,22 +28,22 @@
|
|||
<p>Evening after evening, upon leaving the office, he laboured at his new conception, illustrating his book with his own pencil, spending hour after hour upon it far into the night. So absorbed was he upon it, that he almost neglected Violet’s letters—almost, he could not quite—but his notes were so short and so unlike his usual style, that she, with her knowledge of his character, saw at once what he was doing, and kept begging him not to overwork himself.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Circumstances over which we have no control.” There are other circumstances still more powerful—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, those circumstances which we never even think of controlling, which happen so quietly and whose true significance is so little apparent at the time, that we pass them by without a thought.</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton was engaged in a cause which necessitated extracts to be made from a file of old newspapers. Being overworked himself, and his staff also in full employment, he asked Aymer to do this, and to do it especially well and carefully. Aymer began the work, and at first found it dry enough, but as he got deeper into it, the strange contrast presented by this contemporary chronicle with the present day gradually forced itself upon him, and he ceased to cast aside the papers so soon as the particular extract required was made.</p>
|
||||
<p>Presently the idea occurred to him of writing an article for the London papers, founded upon the curiosities of these old sheets of news. With this view, after he had finished the work he was set to do, he got into the habit of carrying two or three of the papers home, and re-reading and studying them, and making notes by his own fireside. The file was really interesting. It began in the year 1710. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Barnham Chronicle</i> was one of those extremely old papers published in county towns, which live on from year to year without an effort, because they meet with no opposition. The circle of its readers, in all probability, at that date—more than a century and a half after its establishment—was scarcely larger than in the first year of publication. It had been taken and read by whole generations. The son found it taken by his father, and when he succeeded to the farm, to the mill, or to the shop, continued the old subscription.</p>
|
||||
<p>Presently the idea occurred to him of writing an article for the London papers, founded upon the curiosities of these old sheets of news. With this view, after he had finished the work he was set to do, he got into the habit of carrying two or three of the papers home, and rereading and studying them, and making notes by his own fireside. The file was really interesting. It began in the year 1710. The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Barnham Chronicle</i> was one of those extremely old papers published in county towns, which live on from year to year without an effort, because they meet with no opposition. The circle of its readers, in all probability, at that date—more than a century and a half after its establishment—was scarcely larger than in the first year of publication. It had been taken and read by whole generations. The son found it taken by his father, and when he succeeded to the farm, to the mill, or to the shop, continued the old subscription.</p>
|
||||
<p>Looked at in the light of the present day, when intelligence is flashed from end to end of the kingdom in a few hours, the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Barnham Chronicle</i> was all but ridiculous. Its news was a week old or more, stale and unprofitable. It did not even advance so far as to have a London letter; but perhaps that was no great loss to its readers.</p>
|
||||
<p>Yet the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Barnham Chronicle</i> was a “property” in more than one sense; it paid, as well it might, at fourpence per copy, and with the monopoly of auctioneer’s and lawyer’s advertisements in that district. And it could boast of a more than patriarchal age.</p>
|
||||
<p>Reading slowly, paragraph by paragraph, through this enormous file, his note-book at his side, Aymer came upon one advertisement, simply worded, and with no meretricious advantage given to it by large type or other printer’s resource, yet which he read with a special interest. It contained the name of Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick; and that name was sufficient to attract him. It ran thus:—</p>
|
||||
<p>Reading slowly, paragraph by paragraph, through this enormous file, his notebook at his side, Aymer came upon one advertisement, simply worded, and with no meretricious advantage given to it by large type or other printer’s resource, yet which he read with a special interest. It contained the name of Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick; and that name was sufficient to attract him. It ran thus:—</p>
|
||||
<p class="letter">“Notice of Change of Name.—I, Arthur Sibbold, tea-dealer, of the City of London, in the county of Middlesex, do hereby give notice, that it is my intention to apply for permission to add to my present baptismal names the name of Waldron, upon the occasion of my approaching marriage with Miss Annica Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick, co. B—, etc, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr> And that I shall be henceforward known, called, and designated by the name of Arthur Sibbold Waldron in all deeds, writings, etc, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr>”</p>
|
||||
<p>To us who are acquainted with the history of the city of Stirmingham, this entry has a wide significance; to Aymer it had none beyond the mere fact of the mention of Waldron. He copied it into his note-book with a mental resolve to show it to Violet, and thought no more of it. An event that happened about this time made him forget all about what appeared to him a trivial matter. This was the trial of Jenkins, the gardener, for the murder of Jason Waldron. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, who was engaged for the defence, to instruct counsel, naturally made much use of Aymer’s local knowledge and perfect acquaintance with the details of that terrible day, and was thereby furnished with fresh and overwhelming arguments.</p>
|
||||
<p>To us who are acquainted with the history of the city of Stirmingham, this entry has a wide significance; to Aymer it had none beyond the mere fact of the mention of Waldron. He copied it into his notebook with a mental resolve to show it to Violet, and thought no more of it. An event that happened about this time made him forget all about what appeared to him a trivial matter. This was the trial of Jenkins, the gardener, for the murder of Jason Waldron. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, who was engaged for the defence, to instruct counsel, naturally made much use of Aymer’s local knowledge and perfect acquaintance with the details of that terrible day, and was thereby furnished with fresh and overwhelming arguments.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer worked with a will, for he knew that Violet was much concerned and extremely anxious as to the result, and he watched the proceedings on the fateful day with intense interest. It is needless to recapitulate the details of the case, which have been already given. The result was an acquittal. The Judge summed up in favour of the prisoner, observing that it was monstrous if a man must be condemned to the last penalty of the law, because it so chanced that a tool belonging to him had been snatched up as the readiest instrument for a murderous attack. To his experience the murder did not appear at all in the light of an ordinary crime. In the first place, there was an apparent absence of motive. So far as was known, Waldron had no enemies and no quarrel with any man. Evidently it was not committed with the intention of theft, as not a single article had been missed. It appeared to him like the unaccountable impulse of an unreasoning being; in plain words, like the act of <em>a lunatic with homicidal tendencies</em>. The jury unanimously acquitted the prisoner, and Aymer hastened to send the news to Violet. He could not post with it himself, as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton had other cases to attend to.</p>
|
||||
<p>Poor Jenkins was free—and lost. The shock had stunned him, and he was too old and too much weakened by disease to ever recover from it. He could not face his native village, the place where his family, though humble, had for generations borne a good character. He had an almost childish dread of meeting any one from Bury Wick or World’s End, and even avoided Aymer, who sought him in the crowd.</p>
|
||||
<p>Poor Jenkins was free—and lost. The shock had stunned him, and he was too old and too much weakened by disease to ever recover from it. He could not face his native village, the place where his family, though humble, had for generations borne a good character. He had an almost childish dread of meeting anyone from Bury Wick or World’s End, and even avoided Aymer, who sought him in the crowd.</p>
|
||||
<p>How truly was it said that “service is no inheritance!” After two generations of faithful service, these poor people were practically exiled from home and friends, and this without fault of their own. Violet would have gladly done what she could for the aged couple. They might have, at all events, lived at The Place and taken care of the old house, but she and Aymer lost sight of them entirely.</p>
|
||||
<p>All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a waggon came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was heard of no more—for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried himself, as he hoped, for ever out of sight. There was a certain natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer what he might, he would not ask for aid—not even from Violet. And he did suffer—he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad character, but the stigma of “murder” clinging to him, he wandered about seeking work, and nearly starved.</p>
|
||||
<p>All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a wagon came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was heard of no more—for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried himself, as he hoped, forever out of sight. There was a certain natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer what he might, he would not ask for aid—not even from Violet. And he did suffer—he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad character, but the stigma of “murder” clinging to him, he wandered about seeking work, and nearly starved.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even in Bury Wick, where he was so well-known, had he returned, he would have found a certain amount of reluctance to receive him into the old grooves. In distant villages where the dreadful tale of blood had penetrated, and where the people had had little or no opportunity of hearing the facts, there was still a strong prejudice against him; and it must be owned that from an outsider’s point of view, it <em>did</em> look suspicious that he should have been alone near the house when the deed was committed. So it was that he found it hard to get employment, especially now the winter was come, and labour less in demand.</p>
|
||||
<p>At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a waggon was sent to fetch his goods.</p>
|
||||
<p>At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a wagon was sent to fetch his goods.</p>
|
||||
<p>Albert Herring had the reputation of being a hard master, and it was well deserved. Hard work, long hours, small pay, and that given grudgingly, and withheld on trivial pretences—these were the practices which gained for him the hatred of the labouring population. Yet with singular inconsistency they were always willing to work for him. This is a phenomenon commonly to be observed—the worst of masters can always command plenty of men.</p>
|
||||
<p>With Jenkins it was a matter of necessity. If he could not get work he must starve or go into the union—dreaded almost as much as the prison. Albert kept him several days after his application—he would see about it—he was in no hurry. He laid much stress upon the gardener’s age, though the other assured him that willingness would compensate for that Jenkins had been a gardener, not a labourer. It was doubtful if he would understand his duties if he was put on to cut a hedge.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, yes!” said the old man, eagerly; “I can use an axe or a bill-hook.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ay, ay,” said Albert, brutally. “Thee can <em>use a bill-hook</em>, so I’ve heard say.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh, yes!” said the old man, eagerly; “I can use an axe or a billhook.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ay, ay,” said Albert, brutally. “Thee can <em>use a billhook</em>, so I’ve heard say.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Jenkins bowed his head, and his lip quivered.</p>
|
||||
<p>The upshot was that he was put on at nine shillings per week—one shilling to be deducted for rent of a small cottage.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Aymer’s reply was that he feared he should never complete his book, for something always seemed to happen to delay it, and now he should soon have to accompany <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton to Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was in this way. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, before removing to Barnham, where he inherited the practice and most of the fortune of a deceased uncle, had lived in Stirmingham, working as the junior partner in a firm there. He was no longer a partner, but still continued on friendly relations with the firm; and having much confidence in his ability, they frequently sent for him in difficult cases.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now this firm—Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson—had one very good client, who had been to them almost equal to an estate, bringing in a yearly income, and paying cash without dispute. This client, or rather these clients, was one of those very building societies which had leased old Sternhold Baskette’s incomplete houses for a term of years.</p>
|
||||
<p>House property is, as every one knows, fruitful in causes of litigation—repairs, defaulting tenants, disputes, and what not; and, in addition, there is the task of collecting the rents, and a vast variety of smaller pickings. All these Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had enjoyed for fully half a century, till they had come to look upon them as their legitimate right, and as certain to descend into the hands of their successors. But as time went on, they began to get anxious, and to perceive that there was a great deal of truth in the ancient maxim, “This too shall pass away,” for the term of the lease, long as it was, rapidly approached expiration.</p>
|
||||
<p>House property is, as everyone knows, fruitful in causes of litigation—repairs, defaulting tenants, disputes, and whatnot; and, in addition, there is the task of collecting the rents, and a vast variety of smaller pickings. All these Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had enjoyed for fully half a century, till they had come to look upon them as their legitimate right, and as certain to descend into the hands of their successors. But as time went on, they began to get anxious, and to perceive that there was a great deal of truth in the ancient maxim, “This too shall pass away,” for the term of the lease, long as it was, rapidly approached expiration.</p>
|
||||
<p>Obviously, it was their interest to delay the delivering up of the property to the heir, John Marese Baskette, as long as possible; and they felt the stake to be so great, that they did not spare their own money in the effort to oust him from his just claim.</p>
|
||||
<p>Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson were all three old and experienced men—safe men, in every sense; but they hesitated to trust entirely to their own ingenuity in this complicated business. They had, in fact, entrusted it to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, who was not only more energetic, but was full of resources which would never have occurred to such steady persons as the three partners.</p>
|
||||
<p>So it happened that, as the fall of the year advanced, Broughton had his hands full of the building societies’ business, and had engaged to proceed to Stirmingham as their legal representative, at the great family council of the claimants in the Sternhold Hall, which was to open in three or four days.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -36,8 +36,8 @@
|
|||
<p class="letter">“New York, Tuesday Night.<br/>
|
||||
“The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> sailed on Friday at noon, but <em>without</em> the claimants. She brings the specie announced.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Then there was an editorial note to the effect that several other words of the telegram could not be read, on account of the unsatisfactory state of the wires. The evening papers had further particulars:—</p>
|
||||
<p class="letter">“The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, and the yacht of John Marese Baskette, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, have passed Sandy Hook. All well. A snow-storm blocked the line from Imola to New York, and the claimants could not arrive in time. They follow per <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Saskatchewan</i>.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Next day additional particulars came to hand. It appeared that the heir, Marese, had on the Wednesday gone to Imola, and received an ovation from the assembled claimants. He was to accompany them to New York on the Friday, and to follow the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> in his yacht. On Thursday night there came a heavy fall of snow—and a strong wind, which caused immense drifts. Notwithstanding these the special train, with Marese and one hundred and fifty claimants, started from Imola with a pilot-engine in front, the station-masters along the line having telegraphed that they would clear it in time. They did partially succeed in the attempt; but the storm came on again, the wires were blown down; and telegraphic communication for a part of the way interrupted.</p>
|
||||
<p class="letter">“The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, and the yacht of John Marese Baskette, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, have passed Sandy Hook. All well. A snowstorm blocked the line from Imola to New York, and the claimants could not arrive in time. They follow per <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Saskatchewan</i>.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Next day additional particulars came to hand. It appeared that the heir, Marese, had on the Wednesday gone to Imola, and received an ovation from the assembled claimants. He was to accompany them to New York on the Friday, and to follow the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> in his yacht. On Thursday night there came a heavy fall of snow—and a strong wind, which caused immense drifts. Notwithstanding these the special train, with Marese and one hundred and fifty claimants, started from Imola with a pilot-engine in front, the stationmasters along the line having telegraphed that they would clear it in time. They did partially succeed in the attempt; but the storm came on again, the wires were blown down; and telegraphic communication for a part of the way interrupted.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the thick snow the special crept along, with the pilot in front; but, despite of all their caution, the pilot-engine ran into a drift and stuck fast. The special came up, but there was no collision. To proceed was, however, impossible; every moment made it more so, and they began to fear lest the return to Imola should be also blocked up.</p>
|
||||
<p>After much consultation it was decided to run back to Imola, and proceed by a more circuitous route. There was just a chance that, if this other route was clear of snow, they might get to New York in time. They put on steam and pushed as fast as possible, and the consequence was a narrow escape from a serious disaster. The wind, since they had passed, had blown down a large pine tree, which fell across the line. The engine of the special struck this tree, but being provided with cow-guards, was not thrown off the line. Some of the machinery was, however, damaged, and the special came to a standstill. After a long delay, consequent on the interruption of telegraphic communication, a second train was sent up, and the passengers re-embarked in it, and at last got back to Imola. It was now, however, too late to reach New York in time, especially as the longer route was equally encumbered with drifts of snow. The result was that the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was obliged to start without them.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“An extraordinary thing now happened. The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was observed by the captain of the yacht to be making straight for the sailing ship ahead, and had now got so close that a collision appeared inevitable. He called to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore, who came up from below. The <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> ran dead at the sailing ship, though she was making thirteen knots to the other’s four, and the slightest turn of her wheel would have carried her free. On account of the direction of the wind, the ship was sailing almost right before it, and the steamer appeared to be aiming at her stern.</p>
|
||||
<p>“On the yacht they could see the crew of the sailing ship making frantic signs over the quarter to the steamer, but not the slightest notice was taken. The captain of the sailing ship had relied upon the steamer giving way, as is usual, and had allowed her to come so close that, it seems, he lost his head. Seeing this, the mate sang out to put the helm a-starboard, and run straight before the wind. This was done, and only just in time, for the steamer actually grazed her quarter, and carried away their boom. Knowing that the captain of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was an old sailor, and a steady, experienced man, they were astonished at this behaviour, especially as, without staying to inquire what damage had been done, she kept on her course at still greater speed.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The captain of the yacht now put on speed, being desirous of speaking the steamer; but after an hour or two it was evident that the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was drawing ahead, and had increased her lead by at least a mile. They could not understand this, as the yacht was notoriously faster, and it became evident that the engineer of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> must have got his safety-valve screwed-down.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Night, as every one knows, falls rapidly at this time of the year, and the darkness was increased by the fog, which now came on again. During the evening all their conversation was upon the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>. Surely she would not keep up her speed in such a fog as this? The yacht had slackened, and was doing, as before, about six knots.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Night, as everyone knows, falls rapidly at this time of the year, and the darkness was increased by the fog, which now came on again. During the evening all their conversation was upon the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>. Surely she would not keep up her speed in such a fog as this? The yacht had slackened, and was doing, as before, about six knots.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The night wore on, till about two o’clock, when the wind freshened, and blew half a gale. At four the fog cleared, and the watch reported that the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was on their starboard quarter, a mile astern, with her engines stopped. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore was called, and came on deck. There lay the steamer in the trough of the sea, rolling, heaving—so much so that they wondered her sticks did not go. No smoke issued from her funnel, and the steam-pipe gave no sign. The usual flag was flying, but no signal was shown in answer to the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon’s</i> inquiry. There was no sail on her.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It was at once evident that something was wrong, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore ordered the yacht to be put about. They tried the signals, but, as I said, no notice was taken. On approaching the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, which had to be done with some caution, as she slewed about in a helpless manner, and was drifting before the sea, an extraordinary spectacle presented itself. As she rolled, her deck came partly into view, and they saw, with what feelings may be imagined, several men lying on the deck, and thrown now this way, now that, as the rollers went under her, evidently either dead or unconscious.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Filled with alarm and excitement, they attempted to board the vessel, but found it impossible. The waves made all but a clean breach over her. She staggered like a drunken man, and swung now this way, now that. Some of the standing rigging had given way, and they could hear the masts creak. They were afraid to get under her lee in case they should fall.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -20,20 +20,20 @@
|
|||
<p>“After an hour or so a clamour arose to pitch the dead overboard. What on earth was the use of keeping them? An abominable stench came up from between decks, and many of them could barely stand it. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore and the captain begged them to be calm, but it was in vain. They rose en masse, and in a short space of time every one of these dead bodies had been heaved overboard.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The gale had moderated, and the splash of each corpse as it fell into the water could be distinctly heard on board the yacht ahead. Such conduct cannot be too much deplored, and there was a talk of prosecuting the men for mutiny; but, on the other hand, there appears to be some excuse in the extraordinary and unprecedented horrors of the situation.</p>
|
||||
<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore remained on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, doing all that science and patience could do for the sole survivor, who proved to be the third officer. Towards sunrise he rallied considerably, but <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore never had any hopes, and advised the captain to take a note of his depositions, which was done.</p>
|
||||
<p>“His name, he said, was William Burrows, of Maine. He could only speak a few sentences at a time, and that very faintly, but the substance of it was that all went well with the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> up till early that morning, when first the fog came on. Very soon after the mist settled down, and speed was reduced, there was a commotion below, and a report spread through the ship that three men were dying. In ten minutes half a dozen more were taken in this manner. They complained merely of inability to breathe, and of a deadly weakness, and prayed to be taken on deck. This was done; but then ten or twelve more were affected, and those who went below to assist them up on deck fell victims at once to the same strange disorder. Every one throughout the ship complained of a faint, sickly odour, and no sooner was this inhaled than a deadly lethargy seized upon them, and increased till they fell down and died. He happened to be on deck in the wheelhouse at the time, and saw half a dozen sailors and three of the passengers brought up, but remembered no more, for the sickly smell invaded the deck. He heard a singing in his ears, and the blood seemed to press heavily, as if driven upwards against the roof of his skull. He remembered no more for some hours. Then he, as it were, awoke, and got up on his legs, but again felt the same lethargy, and fell. When the disorder first attacked the ship’s company, the captain talked of stopping the steamer and signalling for assistance; but it appeared to be useless, for the fog was so thick that any flag, or rocket, or light would have been unnoticed at half a cable’s distance. Preparations were made to fire a gun, and the steam blast was ordered, but the engineer was dead, and no one would go below. The captain then descended to go to the engine-room, and was seen no more. Meantime the steamer continued her way. When he got on his legs in the wheelhouse, it was just after the bow of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> had carried away the boom of an unknown sailing ship, and he could feel that she was then going at a tremendous speed. The fog had cleared, and if he had had strength enough he could have made signals, but the deadly sleep came over him again, and he was unconscious till picked up by the crew of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i>.</p>
|
||||
<p>“This was all he could tell, and it threw no light upon the cause of the disaster. After he had signed this in a shaky hand—I have seen the original document—he sank rapidly, and, despite of every remedy and stimulant, died before noon. His body was the only one brought into port, and it was interred yesterday in the presence of a vast assembly. A post-mortem examination failed to detect the slightest trace of poison or indication of disease; and all those who assisted in removing the dead bodies on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, declare that they presented no known symptoms of any epidemic—for the prevailing belief in New York at first was that some epidemic had broken out—a kind of plague, which destroyed its victims almost as soon as attacked. But for this there seems no foundation whatever. None of the sailors of the yacht caught the epidemic. One or two were unwell for a day or so, but are now well and hearty.</p>
|
||||
<p>“His name, he said, was William Burrows, of Maine. He could only speak a few sentences at a time, and that very faintly, but the substance of it was that all went well with the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> up till early that morning, when first the fog came on. Very soon after the mist settled down, and speed was reduced, there was a commotion below, and a report spread through the ship that three men were dying. In ten minutes half a dozen more were taken in this manner. They complained merely of inability to breathe, and of a deadly weakness, and prayed to be taken on deck. This was done; but then ten or twelve more were affected, and those who went below to assist them up on deck fell victims at once to the same strange disorder. Everyone throughout the ship complained of a faint, sickly odour, and no sooner was this inhaled than a deadly lethargy seized upon them, and increased till they fell down and died. He happened to be on deck in the wheelhouse at the time, and saw half a dozen sailors and three of the passengers brought up, but remembered no more, for the sickly smell invaded the deck. He heard a singing in his ears, and the blood seemed to press heavily, as if driven upwards against the roof of his skull. He remembered no more for some hours. Then he, as it were, awoke, and got up on his legs, but again felt the same lethargy, and fell. When the disorder first attacked the ship’s company, the captain talked of stopping the steamer and signalling for assistance; but it appeared to be useless, for the fog was so thick that any flag, or rocket, or light would have been unnoticed at half a cable’s distance. Preparations were made to fire a gun, and the steam blast was ordered, but the engineer was dead, and no one would go below. The captain then descended to go to the engine-room, and was seen no more. Meantime the steamer continued her way. When he got on his legs in the wheelhouse, it was just after the bow of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> had carried away the boom of an unknown sailing ship, and he could feel that she was then going at a tremendous speed. The fog had cleared, and if he had had strength enough he could have made signals, but the deadly sleep came over him again, and he was unconscious till picked up by the crew of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i>.</p>
|
||||
<p>“This was all he could tell, and it threw no light upon the cause of the disaster. After he had signed this in a shaky hand—I have seen the original document—he sank rapidly, and, despite of every remedy and stimulant, died before noon. His body was the only one brought into port, and it was interred yesterday in the presence of a vast assembly. A postmortem examination failed to detect the slightest trace of poison or indication of disease; and all those who assisted in removing the dead bodies on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, declare that they presented no known symptoms of any epidemic—for the prevailing belief in New York at first was that some epidemic had broken out—a kind of plague, which destroyed its victims almost as soon as attacked. But for this there seems no foundation whatever. None of the sailors of the yacht caught the epidemic. One or two were unwell for a day or so, but are now well and hearty.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I think <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore’s suggestion the best that has been made—and it gradually gains ground with educated men, though the mass cling to the fanciful notion of foul play in some unheard-of way—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore thinks that it was caused by the generation of coal-damp, or some similar and fatal gas, in the coal-bunkers of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>; and everything seems to favour this supposition. It is well-known that in cold weather—especially in cold weather accompanied by fog—coal-damp in mines is especially active and fatal. Most of the great explosions which have destroyed hundreds at once have occurred in such a state of the atmosphere.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Now the fog which came on that fatal morning was peculiarly thick and heavy, and it so happens that the coal in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca’s</i> bunkers came from a colliery where, only a fortnight ago, there was an explosion. The vapour, or gas, or whatever it was that was thus generated, was not the true coal-damp, or it would have been ignited by the furnaces of the boilers, or at the cook’s fires; but in all probability it was something very near akin to it. All the symptoms described by poor Burrows, are those of blood-poisoning combined with suffocation, and such would be the effects of a gas or vapour arising from coal. Fatal effects arising from damp coal in close bunkers are on record; but this is the worst ever heard of.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It would seem that after the engineer and the crew fell into their fatal slumbers, the steam in the boilers must have reached almost a bursting pressure—the boilers being untended—and the engineer, in falling, had opened the valve to the full, which accounts for the extraordinary speed of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> when pursued by the yacht. Being a very long vessel and sharp in the bows, and going at a very high speed, she would naturally keep nearly a direct course, as there was little wind or sea to interfere with her rudder. So soon as the fires burned out the engines stopped, and the sea rising, she became entirely at the mercy of the waves.</p>
|
||||
<p>“When Burrows fell a victim he saw nine or ten men on deck lying prone in a fatal sleep—when the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i> sent a boat’s crew on board there were but three bodies on deck; the rest had rolled, or been washed, overboard.</p>
|
||||
<p>“These are the principal particulars of this unprecedented catastrophe. This is a long letter, but I am sure that you will be eager for news upon the subject, and, to tell the truth, I cannot get it out of my mind, and it relieves me to write it down.</p>
|
||||
<p>“What a narrow escape we have all had. And especially me, for I came on to New York from Imola before the rest started, and got clear through without any snow. When it was found that they could not reach New York in time, I was in doubt whether to go by the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, or remain and accompany the main body in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Saskatchewan</i>. Accident decided. I met an old friend whom I had not seen for years, and resolved to take advantage of the delay, and spend a day or two with him. So I escaped.</p>
|
||||
<p>“But had it not been for the snow-storm, which caused so much cursing at the time, we should one and all have perished miserably. The impression made upon us was so deep that just before the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Saskatchewan</i> started the whole body of the claimants attended a special service at a church here, when thanksgivings were offered for the escape they had had, and prayers offered up for future safety.</p>
|
||||
<p>“But had it not been for the snowstorm, which caused so much cursing at the time, we should one and all have perished miserably. The impression made upon us was so deep that just before the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Saskatchewan</i> started the whole body of the claimants attended a special service at a church here, when thanksgivings were offered for the escape they had had, and prayers offered up for future safety.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I look forward with much pleasure to my voyage in the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i> yacht, at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Baskette’s invitation. A finer, more gentlemanly man does not exist; and I am greatly impressed with the learning of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was much struck with the contents of this letter of Anthony Baskelette’s. The whole tragedy seemed to pass before his mind; his vivid imagination called up a picture of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, steaming as fast as bursting pressure could drive her with a crew of corpses across the winter sea. He made an extract from it, and sent it to Violet. Next day they were en route for Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the same moment the designer of this horrible event was steaming across the Atlantic in his splendid yacht, gulling weak-minded, simple Baskelette with highest notions of honour, and what not. When Marese found that the snow had blocked the line and prevented access to New York, his rage and disappointment knew no bounds; but he was sufficiently master of himself to think and decide upon the course to be pursued.</p>
|
||||
<p>Although that part of the diabolical scheme which aimed at the wholesale destruction of the claimants had failed, all the other sections of it were in train to succeed. The bullion was shipped, the cargo a rich one, the steamer herself valuable—no better prize could ever fall to him. Therefore he telegraphed to Theodore in cypher to proceed as had been arranged.</p>
|
||||
<p>The infernal machine, concealed in the simple aspect of an ordinary strong deal-box, was sent on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, and everything happened just as Theodore had foreseen. If the conspirators were somewhat disturbed in their calculations by the snow-storm, on the other hand their designs were assisted by the heavy fog which had occurred at sea. Undoubtedly this fog rendered the poisonous gas escaping from the case still more effective, as it would prevent it dispersing so rapidly, and at the same time it hid any signals the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> might have made.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the same moment the designer of this horrible event was steaming across the Atlantic in his splendid yacht, gulling weak-minded, simple Baskelette with highest notions of honour, and whatnot. When Marese found that the snow had blocked the line and prevented access to New York, his rage and disappointment knew no bounds; but he was sufficiently master of himself to think and decide upon the course to be pursued.</p>
|
||||
<p>Although that part of the diabolical scheme which aimed at the wholesale destruction of the claimants had failed, all the other sections of it were in train to succeed. The bullion was shipped, the cargo a rich one, the steamer herself valuable—no better prize could ever fall to him. Therefore he telegraphed to Theodore in cipher to proceed as had been arranged.</p>
|
||||
<p>The infernal machine, concealed in the simple aspect of an ordinary strong deal-box, was sent on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>, and everything happened just as Theodore had foreseen. If the conspirators were somewhat disturbed in their calculations by the snowstorm, on the other hand their designs were assisted by the heavy fog which had occurred at sea. Undoubtedly this fog rendered the poisonous gas escaping from the case still more effective, as it would prevent it dispersing so rapidly, and at the same time it hid any signals the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> might have made.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nothing more fortunate for the conspirators than this fog could have happened, for its service did not end here—it furnished a plausible explanation of what would have otherwise been inexplicable.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore easily contrived the removal of the fatal case, now empty, on board the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i> after the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> had returned to port. The case had been consigned to Liverpool, which was the port the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was bound for, and the excuse for sending it by the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i> was all cut and dried—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, that the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i> was for London.</p>
|
||||
<p>Nothing was more natural than that, after this narrow escape, it should be wished to transfer the case to the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i>. This was done; and while at sea Theodore quietly removed his machine and pitched it into the water at night, and it sank in the abyss, being lined with iron inside.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
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|
|
@ -10,36 +10,36 @@
|
|||
<h3 epub:type="title">XIV</h3>
|
||||
<p>The great city whose ownership was at stake, knew that the eagles were gathered to the living carcase, and yet did not feel their presence. What are one hundred and fifty people in a population of half a million? They are lost, unless they march in order and attract attention by blocking up the streets. Disband a regiment of the Line in Saint Paul’s Churchyard at London, and in ten minutes it would disappear, and no one would notice any unusual prevalence of red coats on the pavements.</p>
|
||||
<p>The newspaper people were woefully disappointed, for the Press were not admitted. They revenged themselves with caricature portraits of the claimants, and grotesque sketches of their manners and conduct. Although the Press were excluded; there were several present who could write shorthand, and amongst these was a clerk from the office of Shaw, Shaw, and Simson, whose notes I have had the opportunity of consulting.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Sternhold Hall, in which the council was held, was built, as has been stated, upon a spot once the very centre of the Swamp, now surrounded with noble streets of mansions and club-houses, theatres, picture-galleries—the social centre of Stirmingham. The front—you can buy a photograph of it for a shilling—is of the Ionic order of architecture—that is, the modern mock Ionic—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the basement is supported by columns of that order, and above these the facade consists of windows in the Gothic style, which are, after all, dumb windows only. The guide-books call it magnificent; it is really simply incongruous.</p>
|
||||
<p>The whole of the first two days was spent by the one hundred and fifty claimants in wrangling as to who should take the chair, how the business should be conducted, who should be admitted and who should not. All the minor differences suppressed while on the voyage broke out afresh, the moment the eagles had scented the carcase. Two days’ glimpse at the wealth of Stirmingham, was sufficient to upset all the artificial calm and friendship, which had been introduced by the generous offers of Marese Baskette. One gentleman proposed that a certain section of claimants should be wholly excluded from the hall. This caused a hubbub, and if the incident had happened in the States revolvers might have been used. The Original Swampers declared that they would not sit under a chairman drawn from any other body but themselves. The outer circle of Baskettes considered that the conceit of the Swampers was something unbearable, and declined to support them in any way. The Illegitimate Swampers alone supported the Originals, in the hope of getting up by clinging to their coat-tails. The Primitive Sibbolds were quite as determined to sit under no president but their own, and, the ranks of the other Sibbolds were split up into twenty parties. The clamour of tongues, the excitement, the hubbub was astounding.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer, as clerk to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, had a first-rate view of the whole, for Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had provided for the comfort of their representative by purchasing for the time the right to use the stage entrance of the room. Their offices were for the nonce established in the green-room. Their clients mounted upon the platform or stage, and passed behind the curtain to private consultation. This astute management upset the other seven companies, whose representatives had to locate themselves as best they might in the midst of a stormy sea of contending people. From the rear of the stage, just where the stage-manager was accustomed to look out upon the audience and watch the effect upon them of the play, Aymer had a good view of the crowd below, and beheld men in every shade of cloth, with rolls of paper, yellow deeds, or old books and quill pens in their hands, gesticulating and chattering like the starlings at World’s End.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Sternhold Hall, in which the council was held, was built, as has been stated, upon a spot once the very centre of the Swamp, now surrounded with noble streets of mansions and clubhouses, theatres, picture-galleries—the social centre of Stirmingham. The front—you can buy a photograph of it for a shilling—is of the Ionic order of architecture—that is, the modern mock Ionic—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the basement is supported by columns of that order, and above these the façade consists of windows in the Gothic style, which are, after all, dumb windows only. The guidebooks call it magnificent; it is really simply incongruous.</p>
|
||||
<p>The whole of the first two days was spent by the one hundred and fifty claimants in wrangling as to who should take the chair, how the business should be conducted, who should be admitted and who should not. All the minor differences suppressed while on the voyage broke out afresh, the moment the eagles had scented the carcase. Two days’ glimpse at the wealth of Stirmingham, was sufficient to upset all the artificial calm and friendship, which had been introduced by the generous offers of Marese Baskette. One gentleman proposed that a certain section of claimants should be wholly excluded from the hall. This caused a hubbub, and if the incident had happened in the States revolvers might have been used. The Original Swampers declared that they would not sit under a chairman drawn from any other body but themselves. The outer circle of Baskettes considered that the conceit of the Swampers was something unbearable, and declined to support them in any way. The Illegitimate Swampers alone supported the Originals, in the hope of getting up by clinging to their coattails. The Primitive Sibbolds were quite as determined to sit under no president but their own, and, the ranks of the other Sibbolds were split up into twenty parties. The clamour of tongues, the excitement, the hubbub was astounding.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer, as clerk to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, had a first-rate view of the whole, for Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had provided for the comfort of their representative by purchasing for the time the right to use the stage entrance of the room. Their offices were for the nonce established in the greenroom. Their clients mounted upon the platform or stage, and passed behind the curtain to private consultation. This astute management upset the other seven companies, whose representatives had to locate themselves as best they might in the midst of a stormy sea of contending people. From the rear of the stage, just where the stage-manager was accustomed to look out upon the audience and watch the effect upon them of the play, Aymer had a good view of the crowd below, and beheld men in every shade of cloth, with rolls of paper, yellow deeds, or old books and quill pens in their hands, gesticulating and chattering like the starlings at World’s End.</p>
|
||||
<p>For two whole days the storm continued, till at last <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton suggested that the debate should be conducted in sections; each party to have its own president, secretary, committee, and reporter of progress; each to sit apart from the others by means of screens, and that there should be a central committee-room, to receive the reports and tabulate them in order. This scheme was adopted, and something like order began to prevail. Anthony Baskelette, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, who had now arrived per the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i>, was pretty unanimously voted to the presidentship of the central committee, or section, the members of which were composed of representatives from every party. Screens were provided at no little expense, and the great hall was portioned out into thirty or forty pens, not unlike the high pews used of old in village churches.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was intensely interested and amused, as he stood at his peep-hole on the stage, from which he could see into every one of these pens, or pews, and watch the eagerness of the disputes going on between the actors in each.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was intensely interested and amused, as he stood at his peephole on the stage, from which he could see into every one of these pens, or pews, and watch the eagerness of the disputes going on between the actors in each.</p>
|
||||
<p>The first great object the sections had in view was to reduce their claims to something like shape and order; for this purpose each section was numbered from 1 to 37, and was to deliver to the central section, Number 38, a report or summary of the general principles and facts upon which the members of the section based their claim. This summary of claim, as it was called, was to be short, succinct, and clear; and to be supported by minute extracts of evidence, by the vouchers of the separate individuals, so to say, showing that the summary was correct.</p>
|
||||
<p>These extracts of evidence attached to the summary were really not extracts, but full copies, and had to contain the dates, names, method of identification, and references to church registers, tombstones, family Bibles, and so forth.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was astounded at the magnitude of these volumes of evidence—for such, in fact, they were. He had an opportunity of just glancing at them, as they were laid upon the table of the central section one after another. The summaries were reasonable and tolerably well expressed. The minutes of evidence were something overwhelming. A section would send up in the course of a day—first, its summary and a pile of folios—seventy or eighty large lawyer’s folios of evidence to be attached to it. On the morrow it would beg for permission to add to its evidence, and towards the afternoon up would come another huge bundle of closely-written manuscript.</p>
|
||||
<p>This would go on for several days, till the central committee at last issued an order to receive no more evidence from section Number—.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then section Number—would hold an indignation meeting and protest, till the central committee was obliged to receive additional bundles of so-called evidence. Half of this evidence was nothing better than personal recollection.</p>
|
||||
<p>The method pursued in the sections was delightfully simple and gratifying to every member’s vanity. He was supplied with pen and ink, and told to put down all he could recollect about his family. The result was that in each section there were five or six people—and in some more—all busily at work, writing autobiographies; and as everybody considered himself of quite as much consequence as his neighbour, the bulk of these autobiographies can easily be imagined.</p>
|
||||
<p>If any one had taken the trouble to wade through these personal histories, he would have been highly gratified with the fertility of the United States in breeding truly benevolent, upright, and distinguished men!</p>
|
||||
<p>Out of all that one hundred and fifty there was not one who did not merit the gratitude of his township at least, and some were fully worthy of the President’s chair at the White House. Their labours for the good of others were most carefully recorded—the subscriptions they had made to local charities far away on the other side of the Atlantic, to schoolhouses, and chapels, town-halls, and what not.</p>
|
||||
<p>“There,” ran many a proud record—“you will see my initials upon the corner-stone—‘J.I.B.,’ for ‘Jonathan Ithuriel Baskette,’ and the date (186-), which is in itself good evidence towards my case.”</p>
|
||||
<p>If anyone had taken the trouble to wade through these personal histories, he would have been highly gratified with the fertility of the United States in breeding truly benevolent, upright, and distinguished men!</p>
|
||||
<p>Out of all that one hundred and fifty there was not one who did not merit the gratitude of his township at least, and some were fully worthy of the President’s chair at the White House. Their labours for the good of others were most carefully recorded—the subscriptions they had made to local charities far away on the other side of the Atlantic, to schoolhouses, and chapels, town-halls, and whatnot.</p>
|
||||
<p>“There,” ran many a proud record—“you will see my initials upon the cornerstone—‘J.I.B.,’ for ‘Jonathan Ithuriel Baskette,’ and the date (186-), which is in itself good evidence towards my case.”</p>
|
||||
<p>All this mass of rubbish had to be sifted by the central, committee, to be docketed, indexed, arranged, and a general analysis made of it.</p>
|
||||
<p>They worked for a while without a murmur, and suddenly collapsed. It was impossible to meet the flood of writing. Fancy one hundred and fifty people writing their autobiographies all at once, and each determined to do himself justice! Such a spectacle was never witnessed since the world began, and was worthy of the nineteenth century. The central committee flung up their hands in despair. A resource was presently found in the printing-press.</p>
|
||||
<p>When once the idea was started, the cry spread to all corners of the hall, and rose in a volume of sound to be echoed from the roof. The Press! The Spirit evoked by Faust which he could not control, nor any who have followed him.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was unanimously decided that everything should be printed—sectional summaries, minutes of evidence, central committees analysis, solicitors arguments, references and all. There was rejoicing in the printing offices at Stirmingham that day. Now the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily Post</i> reaped the reward of its long attack upon the family of the heir, upon Sternhold Baskette, and Marese, his son. The contract was offered to the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Daily Post</i>, the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Daily Post</i> accepted it, and set to work, but soon found it necessary to obtain the aid of other local printers.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now a new source of delay and worry arose. The moment everybody knew they were going into print—why is it print sounds so much better than manuscript?—each and all wanted to revise and add to their histories. First, all the sections had to receive back their summaries and minutes of evidence, to be re-written, corrected, revised, and above all extended. The scribbling of pens recommenced with redoubled vigour, and now the printer’s devils appeared upon the scene. The cost of printing the enormous mass of verbiage must have been something immense, but it was cheerfully submitted to—because each man looked forward to the pleasure of seeing himself in print.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now a new source of delay and worry arose. The moment everybody knew they were going into print—why is it print sounds so much better than manuscript?—each and all wanted to revise and add to their histories. First, all the sections had to receive back their summaries and minutes of evidence, to be rewritten, corrected, revised, and above all extended. The scribbling of pens recommenced with redoubled vigour, and now the printer’s devils appeared upon the scene. The cost of printing the enormous mass of verbiage must have been something immense, but it was cheerfully submitted to—because each man looked forward to the pleasure of seeing himself in print.</p>
|
||||
<p>Acres upon acres of proofs went in and out of the Sternhold Hall, and meantime Aymer grew impatient and weary of it. His time was much more occupied than at Barnham. He had to conduct all Broughton’s correspondence, and when that was finished lend a hand in arranging the minutes of evidence for the committee, who had applied for assistance to the solicitors. He had only reckoned on a month at Stirmingham at the outside. Already a fortnight had elapsed, and there seemed no sign of the end.</p>
|
||||
<p>His letters to Violet became tinged with a species of dull despair. All this scribbling was to him the very acme of misery, the very winter of discontent—meaningless, insufferable. There was no progress in it for him: he could not find a minute’s spare time now to proceed with his private work. Not a step was gained nearer Violet.</p>
|
||||
<p>When at last the scribbling was over; when the proofs had been read and re-read and corrected till the compositors went mad; then the speechifying had to begin. This to Aymer was even more wearisome than the other. For <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton having discovered his literary talent, employed him to listen to the debate and write a daily précis of its progress, which it would be less trouble to him to read than the copious and interminable notes of the shorthand writer.</p>
|
||||
<p>This order compelled Aymer to pay close attention to every speech from first to last; and as they one and all followed the American plan of writing out their speeches and reading them, most were of inordinate length. To suit the speakers a new arrangement of the hall had to be made. The screens were now removed, and the sections placed in a kind of semi-circle, with the central section in front. Those who desired to speak gave in their names, and were called upon by the president in regular rotation.</p>
|
||||
<p>When at last the scribbling was over; when the proofs had been read and reread and corrected till the compositors went mad; then the speechifying had to begin. This to Aymer was even more wearisome than the other. For <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton having discovered his literary talent, employed him to listen to the debate and write a daily précis of its progress, which it would be less trouble to him to read than the copious and interminable notes of the shorthand writer.</p>
|
||||
<p>This order compelled Aymer to pay close attention to every speech from first to last; and as they one and all followed the American plan of writing out their speeches and reading them, most were of inordinate length. To suit the speakers a new arrangement of the hall had to be made. The screens were now removed, and the sections placed in a kind of semicircle, with the central section in front. Those who desired to speak gave in their names, and were called upon by the president in regular rotation.</p>
|
||||
<p>The first subject discussed was the method to be pursued. Some recommended that the whole body of claimants should combine and present their claims en masse. Others thought that this plan might sacrifice those who had good claims to those who had bad ones. Many were for forming a committee, chosen from the various sections, to remain in England and instruct the solicitors; others were for forming at once a committee of solicitors.</p>
|
||||
<p>After four or five days of fierce discussion the subject was still unsettled, and a new one occupied its place. This was—how should the plunder be divided? Such a topic seemed to outsiders very much like reckoning the chickens before they were hatched. But not so to these enthusiastic gentlemen. They were certain of wresting the properly from the hands of the “Britishers,” who had so long kept them out of their rights—the Stars and Stripes would yet float over the city of Stirmingham, and the President of the United States should be invited to a grand dinner in that very hall!</p>
|
||||
<p>The division of the property caused more dissension than everything else taken together. One section—that of the Original Swampers—declared that it <em>would</em> have, nothing should prevent its having, the whole of the streets, etc, built on the site of the Swamp. The Sibbolds cared not a rap for the Swamp; they <em>would</em> have all the property which had grown upon the site of old Sibbold’s farm at Wolfs Glow. The Illegitimates claimed pieces here and there, corresponding to the islands of the Swamp. Some one proposed that the meeting should be provided with maps of Stirmingham, and the idea was unanimously adopted.</p>
|
||||
<p>The division of the property caused more dissension than everything else taken together. One section—that of the Original Swampers—declared that it <em>would</em> have, nothing should prevent its having, the whole of the streets, etc, built on the site of the Swamp. The Sibbolds cared not a rap for the Swamp; they <em>would</em> have all the property which had grown upon the site of old Sibbold’s farm at Wolfs Glow. The Illegitimates claimed pieces here and there, corresponding to the islands of the Swamp. Someone proposed that the meeting should be provided with maps of Stirmingham, and the idea was unanimously adopted.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then came the day of the surveyors. One vast map was ordered—it had to be made in sections—and was estimated to cover, when extended, a mile in length by three hundred yards in breadth; and then it did not satisfy some of the claimants. Then followed a terrible wrangle over the maps. Everybody wanted to mark his possession upon it with red ink, and these red ink lines invariably interfered with one another. One gentleman proposed, with true American ingenuity, to have the map traced in squares—like the outlying territories and backwoods of America—and to assign to each section a square! But this was too equal a mode to satisfy the more grasping.</p>
|
||||
<p>Finally, it was resolved that all the minutes of evidence should be gone through by the central committee, and that they should sketch out those portions of the city to which each section was entitled. This took some time. At the end of that time the great Sternhold Hall presented an extraordinary spectacle. The walls of the hall, from the ceiling to the floor, and all round, and the very ceiling itself, were papered with these sections of the map, each strongly marked with lines in red ink. Near the stage there was a vast library of books, reaching half-way to the ceiling; this was composed of the summaries, minutes of evidence, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr></p>
|
||||
<p>Finally, it was resolved that all the minutes of evidence should be gone through by the central committee, and that they should sketch out those portions of the city to which each section was entitled. This took some time. At the end of that time the great Sternhold Hall presented an extraordinary spectacle. The walls of the hall, from the ceiling to the floor, and all round, and the very ceiling itself, were papered with these sections of the map, each strongly marked with lines in red ink. Near the stage there was a vast library of books, reaching halfway to the ceiling; this was composed of the summaries, minutes of evidence, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr></p>
|
||||
<p>All round the room wandered the claimants in knots of two or three, examining their claims as marked upon the sections of the map. Many had opera-glasses to distinguish the claims which were “skyed;” some affected to lie down on their backs and examine the ceiling with telescopes; scores had their volume of evidence in their hands, and were trying to discover upon what principle the central committee had apportioned out the city.</p>
|
||||
<p>Of course there was a general outcry of dissatisfaction—one section had too much, another too little, and some sections, it was contended, had no right to any. The meeting then resolved that each section should visit the spaces marked out for its claim, and should report to the central committee upon its value. Away went the sections, and there might have been seen five or six gentlemen in one street, and ten or twelve round the corner, with maps and pencils, talking eagerly, and curiously scanning the shops and houses—poking their noses into back courts and alleys—measuring the frontage of club-houses and theatres. The result was an uproar, for each section declared that the other had had a more valuable portion of the city given to it; and one utterly rejected its section, for it had got the Wolf’s Glow district—the lowest den in Stirmingham!</p>
|
||||
<p>Of course there was a general outcry of dissatisfaction—one section had too much, another too little, and some sections, it was contended, had no right to any. The meeting then resolved that each section should visit the spaces marked out for its claim, and should report to the central committee upon its value. Away went the sections, and there might have been seen five or six gentlemen in one street, and ten or twelve round the corner, with maps and pencils, talking eagerly, and curiously scanning the shops and houses—poking their noses into back courts and alleys—measuring the frontage of clubhouses and theatres. The result was an uproar, for each section declared that the other had had a more valuable portion of the city given to it; and one utterly rejected its section, for it had got the Wolf’s Glow district—the lowest den in Stirmingham!</p>
|
||||
<p>After a long discussion, it was at last arranged that each section should retain, pro tem, its claim as marked out, and that <em>token the property was realised</em>, any excess of one section over the other should be equally divided. These people actually contemplated the possibility of putting the city up to auction! To such lengths will the desire of wealth drive the astutest of men, blinding their eyes to their own absurdity.</p>
|
||||
<p>After these preliminary points were settled, the meeting at last resolved itself into a committee of the whole house, and proceeded to business. The first business was to verify the evidence. This necessitated visits to the churches, and public record office to make extracts, etc, and two days were set apart for that purpose. It was a rich harvest for the parish clerks of Stirmingham, and especially for the fortunate clerk at Wolf’s Glow. After this the meeting, beginning to be alarmed at the enormous expense it had incurred, resolved on action, and with that object it decided to hold a secret session, and to exclude all persons not strictly claimants.</p>
|
||||
<p>This relieved Aymer from his wearisome task of chronicling the proceedings; but he could not leave or get a day to visit Violet. As he left the hall he stopped a moment to look at the stock-in-trade of an itinerant bookseller, who had established his track in front of the building since the family congress began. His stock was principally genealogical, antiquarian, and topographical—mostly old rubbish, that no one would imagine to be worth a sixpence, and yet which, among a certain class, commands a good sale.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,22 +9,22 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-2" id="chapter-2-15" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">XV</h3>
|
||||
<p>Their mouths watered for the great city, yet it seemed no nearer to them than when three thousand miles away on the other side of the Atlantic. They talked loudly of their rights, but there was the little difficulty of possession, which is sometimes a trifle more than nine points of the law. I have conversed with unreasonable members of a certain Church, which claims to be universal, who considered that half England—half the vast domains owned by lords and ladies, by the two hundred and fifty proprietors of Great Britain—was really the property of the Church, if she had her rights.</p>
|
||||
<p>There are those who consider that Algeria ought to belong to the Arabs, that Africa belongs to the blacks, and India to the Hindoos. Sat there comes this awkward item of possession. You have to buy the man in possession out, or else pitch him out; and the difficulty in this case was that there were so many in possession. Eight companies and a Corporation are not easily ejected.</p>
|
||||
<p>The fact was, the grand family council was a farce, and fell through. Even as a demonstration it completely failed. The members of it might just as well have stayed at home, and sent a monster petition to the House of Lords, several hundred yards long (as per the usual custom now-a-days), and their progress would have been about as great.</p>
|
||||
<p>There are those who consider that Algeria ought to belong to the Arabs, that Africa belongs to the blacks, and India to the Hindus. Sat there comes this awkward item of possession. You have to buy the man in possession out, or else pitch him out; and the difficulty in this case was that there were so many in possession. Eight companies and a Corporation are not easily ejected.</p>
|
||||
<p>The fact was, the grand family council was a farce, and fell through. Even as a demonstration it completely failed. The members of it might just as well have stayed at home, and sent a monster petition to the House of Lords, several hundred yards long (as per the usual custom nowadays), and their progress would have been about as great.</p>
|
||||
<p>The <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily News</i>, which had published the life of Sternhold Baskette, and defended his legitimate line, poured bitter satire upon it, and held the whole business up to ridicule—as well it might. The <em>News</em> was now Conservative. The intense self-conceit of the Yankees—to imagine that they were going to quietly take possession of a great English city, and hoist the Stars and Stripes on Saint George’s Cathedral at Stirmingham!</p>
|
||||
<p>The American gentlemen fumed and fussed, and uttered threats of making the Stirmingham claim a feature in the next Presidential election—it should “leave the low sphere of personal contention, and enter the arena of political discussion;” so they said. It should be a new <em>Alabama</em> case; and if they could not have Stirmingham, they would have—the Dollars!</p>
|
||||
<p>Meantime the dollars disappeared rather rapidly, and, after a month or six weeks of these endless wranglings in the Sternhold Hall, there began to be symptoms of an early break-up. First, three or four, then ten, then a dozen, crept off, and quietly sailed for New York, lighter in pocket, and looking rather foolish. The body, however, of the claimants could not break up in that ignominious manner. It was necessary for them to do something to mark the fact that they had been there, at all events.</p>
|
||||
<p>Meantime the dollars disappeared rather rapidly, and, after a month or six weeks of these endless wranglings in the Sternhold Hall, there began to be symptoms of an early breakup. First, three or four, then ten, then a dozen, crept off, and quietly sailed for New York, lighter in pocket, and looking rather foolish. The body, however, of the claimants could not break up in that ignominious manner. It was necessary for them to do something to mark the fact that they had been there, at all events.</p>
|
||||
<p>The final result was that they appointed a committee of solicitors—one for each section that chose to be represented. Twenty-two sections did choose, and twenty-two solicitors formed the English committee who were to promote the claims of one hundred and fifty able-bodied Baskettes and Sibboldians, who represented about three times that number of women and children. Then they held a banquet in the Sternhold Hall, and invited the Mayor of Stirmingham, who, however, was very busy that evening, and “deeply regretted” his inability to be present. The council then broke up, and departed for New York.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was indeed glad; now he should be able to see Violet again, and resume his book so long laid aside. But no; there came a new surprise. A certain recalcitrant borough in the West returned unexpectedly a member of the wrong colour to Parliament, and the House was dissolved, and writs were issued for a general election. Three days afterwards an address appeared in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Stirmingham Daily News</i>, announcing Marese Baskette as a candidate for that place in the Conservative interest. The heir had resolved to enter the House if possible, and his proclamation fell on Stirmingham, not like a thunderbolt, but like the very apple of discord dropped from heaven.</p>
|
||||
<p>First, it upset poor Aymer’s little plans and hopes. The companies were desperately alarmed, and not without reason; for if Marese got into Parliament he would, no doubt, very quickly become in himself a power, and would be supported by his party in his claim upon the building societies. It would be to the interest of his party that he should obtain his property—it would be so much substantial gain to them. Practically, Marese Baskette would have the important borough of Stirmingham in his pocket; therefore the party would be sure to do all they could to get his claim fully admitted. Imagine that party in power; fancy the chief at the head of Government!</p>
|
||||
<p>Every one knows that justice and equity are immaculate in England, and that no strain is ever put upon them for political purposes, or to gratify political supporters. The fact is so well understood, so patent, that it is unnecessary to adduce any proof of it. But there is, nevertheless, a certain indefinite feeling that the complexion of the political party in power extends very widely, and penetrates into quarters supposed to be remote from its centre. Whichever happens to be uppermost—but let us not even think such treasonable things.</p>
|
||||
<p>Everyone knows that justice and equity are immaculate in England, and that no strain is ever put upon them for political purposes, or to gratify political supporters. The fact is so well understood, so patent, that it is unnecessary to adduce any proof of it. But there is, nevertheless, a certain indefinite feeling that the complexion of the political party in power extends very widely, and penetrates into quarters supposed to be remote from its centre. Whichever happens to be uppermost—but let us not even think such treasonable things.</p>
|
||||
<p>At all events the companies had a real dread—a heartfelt fear—lest Marese Baskette should get into Parliament, and so obtain political support to his claim. They had foreseen something of the kind; they had dreaded its happening any time ever since he came of age; but they had reckoned that his known poverty would keep him out, especially as there was a very popular landlord in the county, Sir Jasper Norton, who, with another prominent supporter of the Liberal Government, had hitherto proved invincible. It had hung over their heads for years; now it had fallen, and fallen, of all other times, just at the very moment when their leases were on the point of expiring. A more unfortunate moment for them could not have been chosen. With one consent they resolved to fight him tooth and nail. This was fatal to poor Aymer’s hopes. For the company (Number 6) which employed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson could not possibly spare <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton’s energetic spirit; he must help them fight the coming man. Broughton, seeing good fees and some sport, resolved, to stay, and with him poor Aymer had to remain.</p>
|
||||
<p>The whole city was in a ferment. Marese Baskette’s name was upon every lip, and as the murmur swelled into a roar it grew into something very like a cheer for the heir. That cheer penetrated the thick walls of many a fashionable villa and mansion, and was listened to with ill-concealed anxiety. Many a portly gentleman, dressed in the tailor’s best, with broad shirt-front, gold studs, and heavy ring, rubicund with good living, as he stood upon his hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, in the midst of his family circle, surrounded with luxury, grew thoughtful and absent as that dull distant roar reached his ears. Banker and speculator, city man, merchant, ironworker, coalowner, millowner, heard and trembled. For the first time they began to comprehend the meaning of the word Mob.</p>
|
||||
<p>The whole city was in a ferment. Marese Baskette’s name was upon every lip, and as the murmur swelled into a roar it grew into something very like a cheer for the heir. That cheer penetrated the thick walls of many a fashionable villa and mansion, and was listened to with ill-concealed anxiety. Many a portly gentleman, dressed in the tailor’s best, with broad shirtfront, gold studs, and heavy ring, rubicund with good living, as he stood upon his hearthrug, with his back to the fire, in the midst of his family circle, surrounded with luxury, grew thoughtful and absent as that dull distant roar reached his ears. Banker and speculator, city man, merchant, ironworker, coalowner, millowner, heard and trembled. For the first time they began to comprehend the meaning of the word Mob.</p>
|
||||
<p>That word is well understood in America; twice it has been thoroughly spelt and learnt by heart in France. Will it ever be learnt in England? Outside those thick walls and strong shutters in the dingy street or dimly-lit suburban road, where the bitter winter wind drove the cold rain and sleet along, there roamed abroad a mighty monster roused from his den. They heard and trembled. Before that monster the safeguards of civilisation are as cobwebs. He may be scotched with Horse Guards and Snider rifles, beaten back into his caverns; but of what avail is that after the mischief is done? In sober earnest, the middle classes began to fear for the safety of Stirmingham. You see, the grey sewer-rats had undermined it from end to end!</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that the ironmasters and the coalowners, and some of the millowners, had held out long and successfully against a mighty strike: a strike that extended almost to a million of hearths and homes. They had won in the struggle, but the mind of the monster was bitter against them. They were Liberal—nearly all. Let them and their candidates keep a good look-out!</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that the ironmasters and the coalowners, and some of the millowners, had held out long and successfully against a mighty strike: a strike that extended almost to a million of hearths and homes. They had won in the struggle, but the mind of the monster was bitter against them. They were Liberal—nearly all. Let them and their candidates keep a good lookout!</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened also that the winter was hard and cold, work scarce, provisions dear; everything was wrong. It is at such times that, in exact opposition to all rules, the grey rat flourishes!</p>
|
||||
<p>Finally, it happened that the party who had so strangely abdicated power just at the time when they seemed so firmly fixed, had committed a singularly, an exceptionally, unpopular act. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! They had curtailed his hours for drinking it, and to all appearance in an arbitrary way. Rumour said that they contemplated an alliance with the Cold Water Pump—that horror of horrors, the Temperance party. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! And the grey rat showed his teeth.</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese Baskette issued his pronunciamento, and at once opened the campaign. Everybody read it, from the club-house to the grimy bar of the lowest public-house. The club-house smiled, and said, “Clever;” the pot-house cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He <em>was</em> their man. Even yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was born.</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese Baskette issued his pronunciamento, and at once opened the campaign. Everybody read it, from the clubhouse to the grimy bar of the lowest public-house. The clubhouse smiled, and said, “Clever;” the pothouse cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He <em>was</em> their man. Even yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was born.</p>
|
||||
<p>History magnifies itself as time rolls on; the memory of that brief hour of unlimited riot had grown till it remained the one green spot in the life of the Stirmingham populace. This was the very man—this was the very infant whose advent, almost a generation ago, had been celebrated with rejoicings such as no king or queen in these degenerate days ever offered to the people.</p>
|
||||
<p>When old Sternhold Baskette in the joy of his heart poured out wine in gallons, spirits in casks, and beer in rivers, he baptised his son Marese, the Child of the People. And it bore fruit at this great distance of time.</p>
|
||||
<p>John Marese Baskette was, as we know, a clever man; he had a still more subtle man at his elbow. Between them they composed his address and his first oration. Be sure they did not forget the memory so dear to the people. Not one single thing was omitted which could tend to identify Marese Baskette with the populace. The combination of capital against them, the hard winter and price of provisions, all were skilfully turned to advantage; and, above all, the beer. When the publicans had read his address they one and all said, “He’s our man.” Licensed victuallers, beer-house keepers, “off the premises” men, gin-palace, eating-house, restaurant, hotel—all joined hands and marched in chorus, praising the man who promised to turn on the beer.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -39,21 +39,21 @@
|
|||
<p>The exposure was worth a thousand votes to Baskette. But though exposed, the Corporation and the companies never ceased their efforts. Between them they comprised almost all of the rich employers of labour. They had one terrible engine—a fearful instrument of oppression and torture—invented in our modern days, in order that we may not get free and “become as gods.” They put on the screw.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is not a working man in England, from the hedger and ditcher, and the wretch who breaks the flints by the roadside, up to the best paid clerk or manager of a bank—not one single man who receives wages from another—who does not know the meaning of that word.</p>
|
||||
<p>Let no one imagine that the “screw” is confined in its operation to the needy artisan or the labourer. It extends into all ranks of society, poisons every family circle, tortures every tenant and householder—all who in any way depend for comfort, luxury, or peace upon another person. There is but one rank who are free—the few who, whether for wages or as tenants, never have to look to others.</p>
|
||||
<p>Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous, and the second, infinitely few—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the Screwed-down, and the Screw-drivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the screw-drivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.</p>
|
||||
<p>Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous, and the second, infinitely few—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, the Screwed-down, and the Screwdrivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the screwdrivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.</p>
|
||||
<p>Perhaps they gave it one turn too many; at all events the mob set up a yell. They formed processions and marched about the streets with bundles of screws, strung like bunches of keys, at the end of poles. Squibs flew in all directions—too personal to be quoted here. Somebody wrote a parody on “John Brown’s Knapsack”—representing old Sternhold Baskette as John Brown, and his soul as marching on. This, set to music, resounded in every corner.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is sad, but it is true. Everything might still have gone off pretty quiet, had it not been for religion, or rather pseudo-religion. There were in the city vast numbers of workmen of the lowest class from Ireland, and when the watchwords “Orangemen” and “Papists” are mentioned, every one will understand. Fights occurred hourly—a grand battle-royal was imminent. The grey rats did all they could to foster the animosity, and got up sham quarrels to set fire to the excited passions of the mob. Their game was riot, in order that they might plunder. While the fools were fighting and the wise men trying to put them down, the grey rats meant to make off with all they could get.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer, having by this time made for himself some little reputation for intelligence and quick observation, was sent out by the committee, of which Broughton was chairman, to watch the temper of the people; to penetrate into all the corners and out-of-the-way places; to hang on the skirts of the crowd and pick up their hopes and wishes, and to make reports from time to time as anything struck him. He was even to bring in the lampoons and squibs that were circulated, and, if possible, to spy out the secret doings of the other party—a commission which gave him liberty to roam. He wished to be gone, but this was better than the close office-work. He should see something of life; he should see man face to face. (In gilded salons and well-bred society it is only the profile one sees—the full face is averted.) He put on his roughest suit, took his note-book, and strolled out into the city.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is sad, but it is true. Everything might still have gone off pretty quiet, had it not been for religion, or rather pseudo-religion. There were in the city vast numbers of workmen of the lowest class from Ireland, and when the watchwords “Orangemen” and “Papists” are mentioned, everyone will understand. Fights occurred hourly—a grand battle-royal was imminent. The grey rats did all they could to foster the animosity, and got up sham quarrels to set fire to the excited passions of the mob. Their game was riot, in order that they might plunder. While the fools were fighting and the wise men trying to put them down, the grey rats meant to make off with all they could get.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer, having by this time made for himself some little reputation for intelligence and quick observation, was sent out by the committee, of which Broughton was chairman, to watch the temper of the people; to penetrate into all the corners and out-of-the-way places; to hang on the skirts of the crowd and pick up their hopes and wishes, and to make reports from time to time as anything struck him. He was even to bring in the lampoons and squibs that were circulated, and, if possible, to spy out the secret doings of the other party—a commission which gave him liberty to roam. He wished to be gone, but this was better than the close office-work. He should see something of life; he should see man face to face. (In gilded salons and well-bred society it is only the profile one sees—the full face is averted.) He put on his roughest suit, took his notebook, and strolled out into the city.</p>
|
||||
<p>The first thing he had to report was that an insinuation which had been spread abroad against Baskette was actually working in his favour. It had been thrown out that he was upon too familiar terms with a certain lady, singer and actress, the fame of whose wonderful beauty was sullied with suspicions of her frailty. With a certain section of the people, who prided themselves upon being “English to the backbone,” this was resented as unfair. With a far larger portion it was at once believed, and, amid sly nods and winks, taken as another proof that Baskette was one of themselves.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer wandered about the city; he saw its horrors, its crime. At such a period the sin, the wickedness and misery which commonly lurks in corners, came out and flaunted in the daylight. A great horror fell upon him—a horror of the drunkenness, the cursing, the immorality, the fierce brutishness. He shuddered. Not that he was himself pure, but he was sensitive and quick to understand, to see beneath the surface. He was of an age when the mind deals with broad generalities. If this was the state of one city only—then, poor England!</p>
|
||||
<p>His imagination pictured a time when this monster might be uppermost. One night he ascended the tower of a great brewery and looked down upon the city, all flaring with gas. Up from the depth came the shouting, the hum of thousands, the tramp of the multitudes. He looked afar. The horizon was bright with blazing fires—the sky red with a crimson and yellow glow. Not a star, was visible, a dense cloud of smoke hid everything. The iron furnaces shot forth their glowing flames, the engines puffed and snorted. He thought of Violet and trembled: when the monster was let loose, what then?</p>
|
||||
<p>He descended and wandered away he knew not exactly whither, but he found himself towards midnight mixed in a crowd around the police station. Jammed in amid, the throng he was shoved against the wall, but fortunately a lamp-post preserved him from the crush. However, he could not move. The gas-light fell upon the wall and lit up the proclamations of “<abbr>V.R.</abbr>”—the advertisements of missing and lost, the descriptions of persons who were wanted, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr></p>
|
||||
<p>He descended and wandered away he knew not exactly whither, but he found himself towards midnight mixed in a crowd around the police station. Jammed in amid, the throng he was shoved against the wall, but fortunately a lamppost preserved him from the crush. However, he could not move. The gaslight fell upon the wall and lit up the proclamations of “<abbr>V.R.</abbr>”—the advertisements of missing and lost, the descriptions of persons who were wanted, <abbr class="eoc">etc.</abbr></p>
|
||||
<p>One sheet, half-defaced with the wind and rain and mud splashed against it, caught his eye—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Escaped,” so ran the fragment, “from … mingham Asylum, a lunatic of homicidal tendencies … Stabbed a warder … killed his wife by driving a nail into her head … Is at large. His description—Long grey hair, restless eye, peculiar ears, walks with a shambling gait, and has a melancholy expression of countenance. Plays fantastic airs upon a tin whistle, and is particularly fond of tinkering.”</p>
|
||||
<p>A new bill, “Two Hundred Pounds Reward,” for the apprehension of a defaulting bank manager, blotted out the rest.</p>
|
||||
<p>But Aymer had read enough. A sickening sensation seized him—this horrible being loose upon society, tinkering, playing upon a tin whistle, and driving nails into women’s heads! In his ears sounded the din of tremendous shouts, “Baskette for ever!” and he saw a carriage go by from which the horses had been taken, and in which a man was standing upright, with his hat off, bowing. It was Marese Baskette returning from an evening meeting, and dragged in his carriage by the mob to his hotel.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer caught a glance of his dark eye flashing with triumph, and it left an unpleasant impression upon him. But the shouts rose up to the thick cloud of smoke overhead—“Baskette for ever! Baskette for ever!”</p>
|
||||
<p>But Aymer had read enough. A sickening sensation seized him—this horrible being loose upon society, tinkering, playing upon a tin whistle, and driving nails into women’s heads! In his ears sounded the din of tremendous shouts, “Baskette forever!” and he saw a carriage go by from which the horses had been taken, and in which a man was standing upright, with his hat off, bowing. It was Marese Baskette returning from an evening meeting, and dragged in his carriage by the mob to his hotel.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer caught a glance of his dark eye flashing with triumph, and it left an unpleasant impression upon him. But the shouts rose up to the thick cloud of smoke overhead—“Baskette forever! Baskette forever!”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh! my love,” wrote Aymer to Violet, “this is, indeed, an awful place. I begin to live in dread of my fellow-creatures. Not for worlds—no, not for worlds, would I be the owner of this city (as so many are striving to be), lest I should be held, partly at least, responsible hereafter for its miseries, its crimes, its drunkenness, its nameless, indefinable horrors.”</p>
|
||||
<p>These words, read by what afterwards happened, are remarkable. Aymer’s last vision of Stirmingham was the same man drawn again in his carriage amid tenfold louder shouts than before, “Baskette for ever!” He headed the poll by over 1000 votes.</p>
|
||||
<p>These words, read by what afterwards happened, are remarkable. Aymer’s last vision of Stirmingham was the same man drawn again in his carriage amid tenfold louder shouts than before, “Baskette forever!” He headed the poll by over 1000 votes.</p>
|
||||
<p>The grey rats were triumphant.</p>
|
||||
<p>End of Volume Two.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
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|
|
@ -21,8 +21,8 @@
|
|||
<p>Aymer could not have analysed her then—if asked, he could have barely recounted the colour of her hair. Yet she dwelt with him—hovered about him; he fed upon the remembrance of her until he had seen her again. By slow degrees he grew to understand the reason of her surpassing loveliness—to note the separate features, to examine the colours and the lines that composed this enchanting picture. A new life dawned upon him—a new worship, so to say.</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that Martin Brown had some business to transact with Jason Waldron. Waldron bore the reputation of being a “scholard;” he was known to be comparatively wealthy; he did not mix with the society of World’s End; and he was held in some sort of awe by the rude and uneducated residents in the locality.</p>
|
||||
<p>Much as he despised that useless Aymer Malet, Martin in his secret heart felt that he was better fitted to meet and talk with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron than himself. Aymer was, therefore, accredited to The Place. He went with no little trepidation, knowing that it was Violet’s home, and sharing to some extent the local hesitation to meet Waldron, who, being an invalid, he had never seen. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron received him with a cordial courtesy, which quickly put him at his ease. When the grey-haired, handsome old man, sitting in his Bath-chair in the shadow of a sycamore tree, extended his hand and said: “I had some slight knowledge of your father, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet—he came of a good family,” poor Aymer forgot his coarse dress, and exhibited the bearing of a born gentleman. He could not help admiring the garden in which he found his host. This evidently genuine admiration pleased Waldron extremely, for the garden had been the solace of his retired manhood, and of his helpless age. He began to talk about it directly.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It is the trees,” he said; “it is the trees that make it look well. Trees are really far more beautiful than flowers. I planted most of them; you have heard the Eastern saying, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet—that those who plant trees live long. That yew-hedge?—no; I did not plant that. Such hedges are rare now—that hedge has been growing fully a hundred years—the stems, if you will look, are of immense size. To my mind, the old English yew is a greater favourite than the many foreign evergreens now introduced. The filbert walk?—yes; I planted that. Come and see me in a few months’ time, and you shall crack as many as you choose. The old house picturesque?—it is: I wish I had a sketch of it. You draw?—a little; now try. Take out your pocket-book—ah! I see you have a regular artist’s sketchbook.”</p>
|
||||
<p>To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the opportunity of exhibiting his skill before some one who could appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever, even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof, the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper.</p>
|
||||
<p>“It is the trees,” he said; “it is the trees that make it look well. Trees are really far more beautiful than flowers. I planted most of them; you have heard the Eastern saying, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet—that those who plant trees live long. That yew-hedge?—no; I did not plant that. Such hedges are rare now—that hedge has been growing fully a hundred years—the stems, if you will look, are of immense size. To my mind, the old English yew is a greater favourite than the many foreign evergreens now introduced. The filbert walk?—yes; I planted that. Come and see me in a few months’ time, and you shall crack as many as you choose. The old house picturesque?—it is: I wish I had a sketch of it. You draw?—a little; now try. Take out your pocketbook—ah! I see you have a regular artist’s sketchbook.”</p>
|
||||
<p>To tell the honest truth, Aymer was not a little pleased to have the opportunity of exhibiting his skill before someone who could appreciate it. He was a natural draughtsman. I do not think he ever, even in later and more fortunate days, attempted colours; but with pencil and crayon, or pen and ink, he was inimitable. Once at work with his pencil, Aymer grew absorbed and forgot everything—even the presence of the invalid, who watched him with interest. The gables and the roof, the curious mullioned windows, the chimney-stacks, the coat of arms and fantastic gargoyles, then the trees and arbours grew upon the paper.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ah! that’s my window,” said a low voice.</p>
|
||||
<p>His pencil slipped and made a thick stroke—he looked round, it was Violet.</p>
|
||||
<p>For the first time he looked into her eyes and met her face to face. He could not draw. His hand would not keep steady; he blamed it to the heat of the summer sun. Violet declared it was her fault.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -30,7 +30,7 @@
|
|||
<p>In his confusion Aymer somehow got away, and then remembered that the sketchbook he had left behind was full of drawings, and amongst them there were two that brought a flush to his brow as he thought of them. One was Violet on horseback; the other a profile of her face. He wished to return and claim his book, and yet he hesitated. A sweet uncertainty as to what she would think mastered him. He dared not venture back. The next day passed, and the next—still he did not go—a week, a fortnight.</p>
|
||||
<p>He could not summon up courage. Then came a note for “A. Malet, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>”—that “<abbr>Esq.</abbr>” subjected him to bitter ridicule from rude old Martin—from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron, inquiring if he had been ill, and begging him to visit at The Place, according to promise.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was no escape. He went; and from that hour the intimacy increased and ripened till not a day passed without some part of it being spent with the Waldrons. Violet had seen her portrait in the sketchbook, but she said not a word. She made Aymer draw everything that took her fancy. Once he was bold enough to ask to sketch her hand. She blushed, and became all dignity; Aymer cowered. He was not bold enough. How could he be? With barely a shilling in his pocket, rough corduroy trousers, an old battered hat, a black coat almost green from long exposure to sun and rain;—after years of ridicule and jeering how could he face her?</p>
|
||||
<p>His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and over-sensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass and obtain her love, when it was his already.</p>
|
||||
<p>His heart was full, but his lips dared not speak. His timidity and oversensitiveness made him blind to signs and tokens that would have been instantly apparent to others of harder mould. He never saw the overtures that the growing love in Violet’s breast compelled her to offer. He tormented himself day and night with thinking how to compass and obtain her love, when it was his already.</p>
|
||||
<p>The one great difficulty was his poverty. Think how he would, he could discover no method by which it could be remedied. He had no means of obtaining employment, and employment would imply absence from her. How could he make her love him? He turned to his faithful friend and adviser, dear old Will. The tiny volume of poems was carefully scanned, and he lit upon those verses commencing—</p>
|
||||
<p class="poem">When as thine eye hath chose the dame<br/>
|
||||
And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -73,7 +73,7 @@
|
|||
Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form<br/>
|
||||
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches<br/>
|
||||
Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved.</p>
|
||||
<p>The modern taste for catalogues compels me to name the colour of her eye and hair. Her eye was full, large, and lustrous; that deep black so rarely seen—an eye that gave quick expression to the emotions of the heart—that flashed with laughter, or melted with tenderness. Her hair was not quite golden; it was properly brown, but so near the true golden that a little sunlight lit it up with a glossy radiance impossible to express in words. The complexion was that lovely mingling of red and white, which the prince in the fairy tale prayed his lady-love might have, when he saw the crimson blood of a raven he had slain, staining the translucent marble slab upon which it had fallen. The nose was nearly straight; the lips full and scarlet. She was tall, but not too tall. It is difficult for a woman to have a good carriage unless she be of moderate height. Enough of the catalogue system.</p>
|
||||
<p>The modern taste for catalogues compels me to name the colour of her eye and hair. Her eye was full, large, and lustrous; that deep black so rarely seen—an eye that gave quick expression to the emotions of the heart—that flashed with laughter, or melted with tenderness. Her hair was not quite golden; it was properly brown, but so near the true golden that a little sunlight lit it up with a glossy radiance impossible to express in words. The complexion was that lovely mingling of red and white, which the prince in the fairy tale prayed his ladylove might have, when he saw the crimson blood of a raven he had slain, staining the translucent marble slab upon which it had fallen. The nose was nearly straight; the lips full and scarlet. She was tall, but not too tall. It is difficult for a woman to have a good carriage unless she be of moderate height. Enough of the catalogue system.</p>
|
||||
<p>They visited all the places in the neighbourhood where Aymer’s pencil could find a subject. Now it was a grand old beech tree; now only a grey stone, set up centuries and centuries since as a “stone of memorial” by races long reduced to ashes; now The Towers, the home of Lady Lechester. With them always went Dando, Waldron’s favourite dog, a huge mastiff, who gambolled about in unwieldly antics at Violet’s feet.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer listened to her as she played. He sat by the invalid under the shadow of the sycamore tree near the open window, where he could see her sitting at the piano, pouring forth the music of Mendelssohn in that peculiar monotonous cadence which marks the master’s works and fills the mind with a pleasant melancholy. Now and then her head turned, a glance met his, and then the long eyelashes drooped again. Presently out she would come with a rush, making old Dando (short for Dandolo) bound and bark with delight as he raced her round the green, tearing her flowing dress with his teeth, and whisking away when she tried to catch him.</p>
|
||||
<p>The grace of her motions, the suppleness of her lithe form, filled Aymer’s heart with a fierce desire to clasp her waist and devour her lips, while the invalid laughed aloud at the heavy bounds of his dog. The old man saw clearly what was going forward, yet he did not put forth his hand to stay it. They were a happy trio that summer and autumn at World’s End.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
|
|||
<p>At this he was highly pleased. He at once set to work to ground Aymer in the original languages in which Plato and Livy wrote. He taught him to appreciate the delicate allusions, and exquisite turn of diction, of Horace. He corrected the crude ideas which the self-instructed student had formed, and opened to him the wide field of modern criticism. The effect upon Aymer’s mind was most beneficial, and the old man, while teaching the youth, felt his heart, already predisposed, yearning towards him more and more.</p>
|
||||
<p>To Violet this was especially a happy omen, for she, above all things, loved her only parent, and had not ceased to fear lest her affection for Aymer should be met by his disapproval. As time went on, the ties of intimacy still further strengthened.</p>
|
||||
<p>Waldron was now often seen in deep thought, and left the young people more to themselves. He busied himself with pen and ink, with calculations and figures, to the subject-matter of which he did not ask their attention.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even yet Aymer had not thought of marriage; even yet he had not overcome his constitutional sensitiveness so much as to contemplate such a possibility. It was enough to dwell in the sunshine of her presence. Thoroughly happy in her love, he never thought of to-morrow. Perhaps it is a matter to be regretted that we cannot always remain in this state—ever enjoying the ideal without approaching nearer to the realisation, for the realisation, let it be never so glorious, is of the earth, earthy.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even yet Aymer had not thought of marriage; even yet he had not overcome his constitutional sensitiveness so much as to contemplate such a possibility. It was enough to dwell in the sunshine of her presence. Thoroughly happy in her love, he never thought of tomorrow. Perhaps it is a matter to be regretted that we cannot always remain in this state—ever enjoying the ideal without approaching nearer to the realisation, for the realisation, let it be never so glorious, is of the earth, earthy.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is quite true that women like courage, and that boldness often goes a long way; but it is questionable whether with high-bred natures a subdued, quiet, and delicate manner does not go still further. Aymer was incapable of self-laudation, of that detestable conceit which some think it proper to show when they have made what they are pleased to call “a conquest.” Pity the poor castles that have stooped to them!</p>
|
||||
<p>His happiness had but one alloy—the perpetual remembrance of his own unworthiness, the immeasurable difference in his worldly position, which made it a presumption in him even to frequent her presence, much less to bask in her love. There were plenty who did not fail to remind him of this discrepancy in their mutual positions, for his intimacy at The Place could not, of course, pass unnoticed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Martin Brown said nothing whatever. If there was any alteration in his manner as the truth dawned on him, it was in favour of Aymer. With such men everything is judged by results. While Aymer went about sketching alone, he despised him and his pencil; the moment the very same talent obtained him the notice of those in a superior station, then Aymer was do longer such a fool. Martin said nothing. He refrained from his former jeers, and abstained from telling Aymer to go and mind the sheep.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -27,8 +27,8 @@
|
|||
<p>It was true. In an hour’s time they were galloping over the soft springy turf of the Downs, trying the paces of the grey, who proved faster than the black. The rides were repeated day by day; and it often happened that, while thus enjoying themselves, they passed one or more of those very persons who had so often insulted Aymer.</p>
|
||||
<p>Instead of sitting firmer and with pride in his saddle, Aymer felt that he all the more deserved their censure, and looked the other way as he went by.</p>
|
||||
<p>He did not know that there was one eye at least that watched him with pleasure, and with something like a quiet envy. It was the same grey eye that had observed, him in the Palazzo at Florence.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes Lechester had returned to England to spend some time at the old Towers, and had not failed to make inquiries for the young pilgrim who, in coarse garb, she had seen at the shrine of art. She heard of the intimacy with Waldron, whom she had once or twice spoken to; and as the lovers rode slowly beneath her grand and comfortless home, she sat at her window, and paused in her art-work, and looked down upon them and sighed. She could not but envy them their joy and youth, their path strewn with roses and lighted by love. She had no need to envy Violet’s beauty, for, although no longer young, Agnes Lechester was a fine woman. It was the life, the full glowing life, she deemed so desirable. And she rejoiced that the poor pilgrim had found so fair a lady-love. So that there was one eye at least which, unknown to Aymer, watched him with a quiet pleasure and approval. Had he known it, it would have encouraged him greatly. By precipitating matters it might have prevented—but let us proceed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Jason Waldron knew that his daughter loved, and was beloved. He was no ordinary man. His life had been spent far from those money-making centres where, in time, the best of natures loses its original bias, and sees nothing but gold. Age, he believed, had given him some power of penetration; and in Aymer he thought he had found one in a thousand—one with whom his darling daughter’s future would be safe. “He will not follow the universal idol,” thought the old man. “He will be content with art and literature, with nature and with Violet. I can see nothing in store for them but the happiest of lives.” He waited long, expecting Aymer to approach the subject in some distant manner. At last he comprehended his reluctance. “He is poor and proud—he is afraid, and no wonder,” he thought. “He shall not suffer for that.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes Lechester had returned to England to spend some time at the old Towers, and had not failed to make inquiries for the young pilgrim who, in coarse garb, she had seen at the shrine of art. She heard of the intimacy with Waldron, whom she had once or twice spoken to; and as the lovers rode slowly beneath her grand and comfortless home, she sat at her window, and paused in her artwork, and looked down upon them and sighed. She could not but envy them their joy and youth, their path strewn with roses and lighted by love. She had no need to envy Violet’s beauty, for, although no longer young, Agnes Lechester was a fine woman. It was the life, the full glowing life, she deemed so desirable. And she rejoiced that the poor pilgrim had found so fair a ladylove. So that there was one eye at least which, unknown to Aymer, watched him with a quiet pleasure and approval. Had he known it, it would have encouraged him greatly. By precipitating matters it might have prevented—but let us proceed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Jason Waldron knew that his daughter loved, and was beloved. He was no ordinary man. His life had been spent far from those moneymaking centres where, in time, the best of natures loses its original bias, and sees nothing but gold. Age, he believed, had given him some power of penetration; and in Aymer he thought he had found one in a thousand—one with whom his darling daughter’s future would be safe. “He will not follow the universal idol,” thought the old man. “He will be content with art and literature, with nature and with Violet. I can see nothing in store for them but the happiest of lives.” He waited long, expecting Aymer to approach the subject in some distant manner. At last he comprehended his reluctance. “He is poor and proud—he is afraid, and no wonder,” he thought. “He shall not suffer for that.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The benevolent old man, anxious only to complete the happiness of those he loved, resolved to be the first, and to hold out a welcoming hand. One day he called for Aymer to his study, and motioning him to a seat, averted his face, not to confuse him, and said that he had long seen the mutual affection between Violet and him. He understood why Aymer had refrained from taking him into his confidence—he could appreciate the difficulties of his position. Without any hesitation, he approved of Violet’s choice. His own years had now begun to weigh upon him, and he grew daily more anxious that Violet should be settled. He proposed, therefore, that if Aymer would not mind the arrangement, they should be united as speedily as possible, and that after a short trip they should return and live with him at The Place. He could not spare Violet entirely—he must hear the sound of her voice, and see the light of her eyes, while yet the power to do so remained with him. He was not really rich. In that poor district, indeed, he appeared so, but it was only by comparison. Were he to be placed in some great city, side by side with the men whose trade was gold, his little all would sink into the utmost insignificance. Beside rude rustics, who lived from hand to mouth, content if they paid the rent, and perhaps put by a hundred guineas in the county bant, he was well off; but not when weighed against the world.</p>
|
||||
<p>He had but the house he dwelt in, a few acres of surrounding pasture, and three thousand pounds placed out on loan. This money brought in a good interest, but he had lately thought of calling it in for greater safety, as he felt himself to be getting old in every sense of the term.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was obvious, therefore, that on the score of expense alone it would be difficult for him to give a dower to Violet sufficient to support a second home. If they could be happy with him, why he should be content.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-2" id="chapter-2-4" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">IV</h3>
|
||||
<p>The marriage would have taken place earlier but for two circumstances: first, the difficulty of obtaining the wedding outfit for Violet in that out-of-the-way place; and secondly, because Jason insisted upon some important alterations being made in the old house, in order to render it more comfortable for his children.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to study her prayer-book, a remark that never failed to make the blood mount to her forehead.</p>
|
||||
<p>There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to study her prayerbook, a remark that never failed to make the blood mount to her forehead.</p>
|
||||
<p>She grew somewhat pensive as the final moment approached—with all her youth and spirits, with all the happy omens that accompanied the course of her love, she could not view this, the most important step she would ever take, always with thoughtless levity. She became silent and thoughtful, gave up riding, and devoted herself almost exclusively to attending upon Jason, till Aymer—silly fellow!—grew jealous, and declared it was unkind of her to look forward to the wedding-day as if it was a sentence of imprisonment.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron had lived so retired that there was some little difficulty in fixing upon a representative to give Violet away, for as an invalid he could not himself go to the church; and this was the only thing he was heard to regret—that he should not see Violet married. However, he consoled himself with the thought that he should see her immediately afterwards, as the church was hardly half a mile distant, down in a narrow combe or valley. After some reflection, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron decided upon asking his solicitor, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, of Barnham, to act as his representative and give the bride away.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton, who was an old bachelor, was really delighted at the idea, but with true professional mendacity made an immense virtue of the sacrifice of time it entailed. He really was so busy with a great law case just coming on that really—but then his old friend Waldron, and lovely Miss Violet—duty pulled him one way and inclination another, and beauty, as was proper, triumphed.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Aymer could not do less than ask old Martin Brown to stand as his best man, never dreaming that he would accept the task. But what was his surprise when Martin declared that he should enjoy the fun, and would rather miss Barnham fair than not be there. He came out tolerably handsome for him; he offered Aymer a five-pound note to purchase a suitable dress! This note Aymer very respectfully declined to take, and the farmer, half repenting of his generosity, did not press him too hard. Yet he could not help expressing his wonder as to how Aymer meant to appear at church. “Thee bisn’t a-goin’ to marry th’ squire’s darter in thee ould hat?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer smiled and said nothing. Fortune had aided him in this way too. After endless disappointments and “returned with thanks,” he had suddenly received a cheque for a sketch of his which had been accepted by an illustrated paper. Immediately afterwards came another cheque for a short story accepted by a magazine. This success, small as it was, elated him, if anything, more than the approaching marriage-day. He had tried, and tried, and tried, and failed again and again, till he despaired and ceased to make the attempt, till the necessity of obtaining some clothes drove him to the last desperate venture. He was elated beyond measure. A successful author, a successful artist, and just about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!</p>
|
||||
<p>He resolved to tell Violet nothing about it, but to show her the sketch and the story as they were upon their trip. Thus it was that he was independent of Martini grudging generosity. Fortune did not stop even here. As if determined to shower delight upon him—to make up at one blow for the cruel isolation, the miserable restraint he had undergone—she never seemed to tire of opening up fresh vistas of pleasure. Both Violet and Aymer would have been satisfied, and more than satisfied, with a simple visit to the seaside; but Jason was not so easily pleased. His daughter was his life—nothing was too good for her—and, besides, such an event happened but once in a lifetime, and it was fit and proper that it be accompanied with memorable circumstances. He announced his intention of sending his children to Florence.</p>
|
||||
<p>To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt for ever in Aymer’s dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been impossible to add another blessing.</p>
|
||||
<p>To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt forever in Aymer’s dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been impossible to add another blessing.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet raced about the house and the garden, teasing Dando to distraction—all her pensiveness dispelled, murmuring “Florence” at every turn. What further joy could there be in store?—it was impossible. It is almost safe to say that these two were the happiest in England. Well they might be. They had all upon their side—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, youth.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was to be married upon her twenty-first birthday; Aymer was twenty-three only. Money—not riches—but sufficient for an easy life. Italy in view—the land of the artist and the poet! It was like a fairy dream!</p>
|
||||
<p>The days flew by. The dresses came—oh, what eager discussions and conferences there were over the dresses! All the farmers’ daughters and wives in the neighbourhood to whom Violet was even distantly known, claimed the privilege to see the trousseau. In London it would have been overlooked—there all things are upon a grand scale.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -32,16 +32,16 @@
|
|||
<p>I hope among the readers of this history there will be many ladies who can remember their feelings on the approach of the marriage-day. Let them kindly recall those moments of wild excitement, of trepidation lest some accident should happen, of a half-hesitation, of a desire to plunge at once and get it over—and approximately they will understand Violet’s heart.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even yet Fortune had not exhausted her favours. On the morning of World’s End Races, just one short week before the day, there came a letter in an unknown handwriting, addressed to Aymer Malet, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, enclosing five ten-pound notes from an anonymous donor, who wished him every felicity, and advised him to persevere in his art studies.</p>
|
||||
<p>This extraordinary gift, so totally unexpected, filled Aymer with astonishment. It seemed as if it had dropped from the skies, for he had not the remotest suspicion that Lady Lechester was watching him with interest.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotos eating. The beech trees already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure. A dream-like, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotus eating. The beech trees already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure. A dreamlike, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was up with the sun—how could she rest? Miss Merton was with her, chatting gaily. Oh, the mysteries of the toilet! my feeble pen must leave that topic to imagination. All I can say is, that it seemed as if it never would be completed, notwithstanding the reiterated warnings of Jason that the time was going fast.</p>
|
||||
<p>There came one more pleasant surprise.</p>
|
||||
<p>A strange man on horseback was seen riding up to The Place. This was so rare an event that Violet’s heart beat fast, fearing lest even at the eleventh hour something should happen to cause delay. She waited; her hands trembled. Even the delicious toilet had to be suspended.</p>
|
||||
<p>Footsteps came up the staircase, and then the maidservant, bearing in her hand a small parcel, advanced to Miss Waldron. With trembling fingers she cut the string—it was a delicate casket of mother-of-pearl. The key was in it; she opened the lid, and an involuntary exclamation of surprise and admiration burst from her lips.</p>
|
||||
<p>There lay the loveliest necklace of pearls that ever the sun had shone upon. Rich, costly pearls—pearls that were exactly fitted above all jewels for her—pearls that she had always wished for—pearls! They were round her neck in a moment.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Merton was in raptures; the maidservant lost her wits, and ran downstairs calling every one to go up and see Miss Vi’<!-- is this right? --> let “in them shiners!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Merton was in raptures; the maidservant lost her wits, and ran downstairs calling everyone to go up and see Miss Vi’<!-- is this right? --> let “in them shiners!”</p>
|
||||
<p>For a while, in the surprise and wonder, the donor had been forgotten. Under the necklace was a delicate pink note, offering Lady Lechester’s sincere desire that Miss Waldron would long wear her little present, and wishing her every good thing. When the wedding trip was over, would <abbr><em>Mrs.</em></abbr> Aymer Malet let her know that she might call?</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was not perfect any more than other girls; she had naturally a vein of pride; she did feel no little elation at this auspicious mark of attention and regard from a person in Lady Lechester’s position. The rank of the donor added to the value of the gift.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron was much affected by this token of esteem. He could not express his pleasure to the giver, because her messenger had galloped off the moment he had delivered the parcel. The importance of the bride, great enough before, immediately rose ninety per cent, in the eyes of Miss Merton, and a hundred and fifty per cent, in the eyes of the lower classes.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron was much affected by this token of esteem. He could not express his pleasure to the giver, because her messenger had galloped off the moment he had delivered the parcel. The importance of the bride, great enough before, immediately rose ninety percent, in the eyes of Miss Merton, and a hundred and fifty percent, in the eyes of the lower classes.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron, examining the pearls with the eye of a connoisseur, valued them at the very lowest at two hundred guineas. The involuntary tears of the poor pilgrim at the shrine of art had indeed solidified into gems!</p>
|
||||
<p>The news flew over the adjacent village of Bury Wick; the servants at The Place spread it abroad, and in ten minutes it was known far and wide. The excitement was intense. Champagne was grand enough—but pearls! World’s End went wild! Champagne and pearls in one day! The whole place turned out to give the bride a triumphant reception.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer was forgotten in the excitement over Violet: forgotten, but not by the bride. All she wished was to be able to show him her present—but etiquette forbade his being sent for on that particular morning; he must meet her at the church.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,15 +9,15 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-2" id="chapter-2-5" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">V</h3>
|
||||
<p>There was an attempt at order, but it was an utter failure. The men came crowding after Merton’s carriage shouting and firing guns, the horses snorted, and when Violet glanced from the window, the excitement of the scene made her hesitate and draw back.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton—a regular <em>lady’s bachelor</em>, so to say—was equal to the occasion; it was not the first at which he had assisted. He at once became the soul of the ceremonies. He congratulated Waldron, hastened everybody, went into the apartment where the breakfast was laid out, and with his own hands re-arranged it to his satisfaction, shouting out all the time to the bride to make haste.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton—a regular <em>lady’s bachelor</em>, so to say—was equal to the occasion; it was not the first at which he had assisted. He at once became the soul of the ceremonies. He congratulated Waldron, hastened everybody, went into the apartment where the breakfast was laid out, and with his own hands rearranged it to his satisfaction, shouting out all the time to the bride to make haste.</p>
|
||||
<p>She came at last. How few brides look well in their wedding-dresses. Even girls who are undeniably handsome fail to stand the trying ordeal; but Violet was so happy, so radiant, she could not help but appear to the best advantage.</p>
|
||||
<p>Poor old Jason’s lip quivered as he gazed at his girl’s face—for the last time as <em>his</em>—his lip quivered, and the words of his blessing would not come; his throat swelled, and a tear gathered in his eye. She bent and kissed him, turned and crossed the threshold.</p>
|
||||
<p>Waldron wheeled himself to the large open window, and watched her walk to the carriage along the carpet, put down that her feet might not touch the ground.</p>
|
||||
<p>Who shall presume to analyse the feelings of that proud and happy old man? The carriage moved, the crowd shouted, the guns fired; he wheeled his chair a little round, and his head leant forward. Was he thinking of a day twenty-two years ago, when he—not a young man, but still full of hope—led another fair bride to the altar; a bride who had long since left him?</p>
|
||||
<p>It was an ovation—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton on the other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged, handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards from the churchyard lych-gate, they had erected an arch—as had been determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush—an arch that would have done credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The bride dismounted at the lych-gate, which was itself covered with flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was an ovation—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton on the other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged, handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards from the churchyard lychgate, they had erected an arch—as had been determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush—an arch that would have done credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The bride dismounted at the lychgate, which was itself covered with flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch.</p>
|
||||
<p>The churchyard was full of children, chiefly girls, all carrying roses and flowers to strew the path of the happy couple when they emerged united. In the porch the ringers stood, four on each side, with their hands upon the ropes ready to clash forth the news that the deed was done. The old old clerk was there, in his black suit, which had done duty on so many occasions.</p>
|
||||
<p>She entered the little church—small, but extremely ancient. She passed the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely all must be well: but she could not see him—not for the moment. True-hearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in so long.</p>
|
||||
<p>She entered the little church—small, but extremely ancient. She passed the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely all must be well: but she could not see him—not for the moment. Truehearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in so long.</p>
|
||||
<p>For the moment she barely recognised the handsome, gentlemanly man before her. It was Aymer—oh yes, it was Aymer—and how noble he looked now that he was dressed as became him. Her heart gave another bound of joy—involuntarily she stepped forward; what could be wanting to complete her happiness that day? Certainly it would have been hard to have named one single thing as lacking—not one. The pews were full of women of all classes—they had been mostly reserved for them—the men finding standing room as best they could; and a buzz of admiration went round the church as Violet came into fall view. Her dress was good—it was nothing to belles who flourish in Belgravia; but at World’s End—goodness, it was Paris itself.</p>
|
||||
<p>That costume formed the one great topic of conversation for years afterwards. I know nothing of these things; but Miss Merton told me a few days ago that the bride wore a wreath of white rosebuds and myrtle upon her lovely head, and a veil of real Brussels lace. Her earrings were of rubies and diamonds—a present that morning from gallant <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton. She had a plain locket (with a portrait of Waldron), and wore the splendid necklace of pearls, the gift of Lady Lechester.</p>
|
||||
<p>Her dress was white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and her feet were shod in satin boots. Of course the “rosy, slender fingers” were cased in the traditional white kid, and around her wrist was a bracelet of solid dull gold—the bridegroom’s present, only delivered just as she stepped into the carriage. She carried a bouquet of stephanotis, orange, and myrtle.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -26,13 +26,13 @@
|
|||
<p>Aymer waited for her. Till now Violet had been comparatively calm; but now, face to face with the clergyman robed in white, near to the altar and its holy associations, as the first tones of his sonorous voice fell upon her ear, what wonder that her knees trembled and the blood forsook her cheek. Aymer surreptitiously, and before he had a right in etiquette to do so, touched her hand gently—it strengthened and revived her; she blushed slightly, and the vicar’s voice, as he gazed upon her beauty, involuntarily softened and fell. While his lips uttered the oft-repeated words, so known by heart that the book in his hand was unneeded, his soul offered up a prayer that this fair creature—yes, just this one—should be spared those pains and miseries which were ordained upon the human race.</p>
|
||||
<p>The flag upon the church tower waved in the gentle breeze; the children were marshalled beside the path in two long rows, with their hands full of flowers; the women in the cottages were hunting up the old slippers and shoes; the men looked to the caps upon the nipples of their guns; the handsome greys snorted at the gate; and the grand old sun, above all, bathed the village in a flood of light. I cannot linger over it longer.</p>
|
||||
<p>The solemn adjuration was put, the question asked, and Aymer in an audible voice replied, “I will.” The still more solemn adjuration to the woman was repeated—it is but a few words, but it conveys a world of meaning, it sums up a lifetime—and Violet’s answer was upon her lips, when, before she could form the words, the chancel side-door burst open, and there—</p>
|
||||
<p>There before her very eyes, before the bride to whom that day was consecrated, who for that one day was by all law human and divine to be kept from all miserable things, there stood an awe-struck, gasping man, whose white shirt-front was one broad sheet of crimson blood.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is difficult to gather together, from the confused narratives of those who were present, what really happened in consecutive order, but this is nearly it. Not only was his shirt-front blood, but his grey hair and partially bald head were spotted that awful red, and his trembling hands dripped—the blood literally dripped from them on to the stone pavement. For one awful moment there was a pause—utter silence. The man staggered forward and said in broken tones, but audible over the whole church—</p>
|
||||
<p>There before her very eyes, before the bride to whom that day was consecrated, who for that one day was by all law human and divine to be kept from all miserable things, there stood an awestruck, gasping man, whose white shirtfront was one broad sheet of crimson blood.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is difficult to gather together, from the confused narratives of those who were present, what really happened in consecutive order, but this is nearly it. Not only was his shirtfront blood, but his grey hair and partially bald head were spotted that awful red, and his trembling hands dripped—the blood literally dripped from them on to the stone pavement. For one awful moment there was a pause—utter silence. The man staggered forward and said in broken tones, but audible over the whole church—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Miss Violet; your father is <em>dead</em>!” And the bride dropped like a stone before Aymer at her side, or Merton just behind, could grasp her arm. She was down upon the cold stone floor, her wedding-dress all crumpled up, her wreath fallen off, the light of life and love gone from her eyes, the happy glow from her cheek. Even in that moment the clergyman’s heart smote him. His impious prayer! That this one because of her beauty should be spared—and struck down before his very eyes in the midst of her joy and triumph. All that they could see in the body of the church was a shapeless heap of satin where but a moment before had stood the most envied of them all.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer knelt and lifted her head; it lay helpless upon his hands. As he did so the wedding-ring, which he had ready, slipped unnoticed from his grasp and was lost. When it was missed, days afterwards, and a search was instituted, it could not be found, and this the superstitious treasured up as a remarkable fact.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton raised her up; her frame was limp and helpless in their arms. They carried her to the vestry and brought water. Miss Merton, trembling as she was, did not faint; but, good, brave girl, did her best.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the excitement over the bride, even the man who had brought this awful news was for the moment forgotten. When they looked for him he was leaning against the altar-rails, as if about to fall, and some of the blood was spotted on the sacred altar-cloth. The men rushed at him; the women, afraid, held back and watched what new harm must come. They deemed that it was some horrible creature; they could not believe that it was only the old gardener at The Place—Waldron’s oldest servant.</p>
|
||||
<p>Only the gardener. He was as helpless as themselves. He had over-exerted himself running to the church with his dreadful tidings, and being subject to heart disease, he could barely stand, and only gasp out that “Master was killed, and quite dead!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Only the gardener. He was as helpless as themselves. He had overexerted himself running to the church with his dreadful tidings, and being subject to heart disease, he could barely stand, and only gasp out that “Master was killed, and quite dead!”</p>
|
||||
<p>The men, finding nothing could be got from him, ran out, and made direct for The Place. Some leapt on their horses, but those on foot crossing the meadow, as the gardener had done, got there first. All the men made for The Place—all the women stayed to see what would become of the bride.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a dead faint, but it was not long before she came to, and immediately insisted upon being taken home. They would have detained her in the vestry till at least confirmation of the dreadful intelligence had arrived. But no, she begged and prayed them to take her; and fearing lest uncertainty should do more harm than certainty, they half-led, half-carried her from the church.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was not a dry eye among the sympathising women who had remained—not one among those rude, half-educated people whose heart was not bursting with sorrow for the poor shrinking form that was borne through their midst.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“The moment before,” said the narrator, “the sky was perfectly clear; the storm came without the slightest warning.” The fact being that the crowd were so intent upon the spectacle before them that they had not noticed the gathering clouds.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ay,” concluded the narrator, who evidently shared in the superstition, “it be an awful thing to bear witness about blood. There be them about here as I wouldn’t stand in their shoes!”</p>
|
||||
<p>A dead silence followed. Men understood what he meant. Already public suspicion had fallen upon the gardener.</p>
|
||||
<p>And Violet? Violet was calm and tearless, but heart-broken. She would not see Aymer till the third day—it was the morning of the inquest, though she did not know it. She saw him in her own room, still darkened. A thrush was singing loud and clear in the tree below the window. The sun still shone as it had done upon the bridal day, but the room was dark.</p>
|
||||
<p>And Violet? Violet was calm and tearless, but heartbroken. She would not see Aymer till the third day—it was the morning of the inquest, though she did not know it. She saw him in her own room, still darkened. A thrush was singing loud and clear in the tree below the window. The sun still shone as it had done upon the bridal day, but the room was dark.</p>
|
||||
<p>Miss Merton, despite her horror, had remained by her friend. She left the apartment as Aymer entered, Violet could not speak to him. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and convulsive sobs shook her form.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is better to leave them together. The soled wedding-dress, the beautiful pearl necklace tinged with the horrible hue of blood, had been carefully put out of sight. People were searching for the wedding-ring in the chancel at the church, but could not find it.</p>
|
||||
<p>The inquest was held at the Shepherd’s Bush. As had been the case at another inquest a century before, held at a place then almost as retired—at Wolf’s Glow—so here the jury was formed of the farmers of the district.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -29,32 +29,32 @@
|
|||
<p>Saying little or nothing, they collected in groups of two or three around the coffin, wistfully gazing upon the features of the dead. For the features were placid, notwithstanding the terrible wound upon the top of the head. The peace of his life clung to him even in a violent death.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was not one man there who could remember a single word or deed by which the dead had injured any human being. Quiet, retired, benevolent, largely subscribing in an unostentatious manner to the village charities, ready always with a helping hand to the poor—surely he ought to have been secure? What motive could there be?</p>
|
||||
<p>They returned to the Shepherd’s Bush. The Coroner asked for the evidence of the person who had last seen the deceased alive. It was at once apparent that numbers had seen him.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, who attended, self-employed, to watch the case for Violet, and from attachment to his deceased friend—was selected as a representative of the many. He deposed that he had last seen the deceased alive at quarter to eleven on the marriage-day, at the moment that the bride took leave of her father, and received his blessing. This simple statement produced a profound impression. The deceased, who little thought that that parting would last for ever, was then sitting as usual in his armchair, which he could wheel about as he chose, close to the open window—almost <em>in</em> the window—and as witness escorted the bride to her carriage, he looked back and saw the deceased had partly turned round, so that the back of his head was towards the window. He had then his velvet skullcap off, and witness believed that he was engaged in silent prayer. This statement also naturally produced a profound effect. The deceased’s head was partially bald, and the little hair he had was grey. The day was very warm and sultry.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, who attended, self-employed, to watch the case for Violet, and from attachment to his deceased friend—was selected as a representative of the many. He deposed that he had last seen the deceased alive at quarter to eleven on the marriage-day, at the moment that the bride took leave of her father, and received his blessing. This simple statement produced a profound impression. The deceased, who little thought that that parting would last forever, was then sitting as usual in his armchair, which he could wheel about as he chose, close to the open window—almost <em>in</em> the window—and as witness escorted the bride to her carriage, he looked back and saw the deceased had partly turned round, so that the back of his head was towards the window. He had then his velvet skullcap off, and witness believed that he was engaged in silent prayer. This statement also naturally produced a profound effect. The deceased’s head was partially bald, and the little hair he had was grey. The day was very warm and sultry.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton paused, and the next witness was the first person who had seen the deceased after the fatal attack. This was the gardener. He appeared in court, visibly shaking, bearing the marks of recent excitement upon his countenance. He was an aged man, clad in corduroys and grey, much-worn coat—not the suit he had worn on the wedding-day. His name was Edward Jenkins. His wife pressed hard to be admitted to the court, but was forbidden, and remained without, wringing her hands and sobbing. This witness was much confused, and his answers were difficult to get—not from reluctance to speak, but from excitement and fear. He produced an unfavourable impression upon the Coroner, which the medical man in court observing, remarked that he had recently attended the witness for heart disease at the request of the deceased, who took a great interest in his old servant. Even this, however, did not altogether succeed—there was an evident feeling against the man.</p>
|
||||
<p>His evidence, when reduced to writing, was singularly simple, vague, and unsatisfactory. Why had he not gone to the church to see the wedding, as it appeared every single person had done, not even excepting the dog Dando? He had much desired to see the marriage of his young mistress; but being the only man-servant, it was his duty to see to the wines and to the table; and at the time when the carriage started he was in the garden cutting fresh flowers, for the purpose of strewing the lady’s footpath when she returned and descended from the carriage, and also to decorate the breakfast table. How long was it after the carriage started that anything happened? It seemed barely a minute. He was in a remote part of the garden, hastily working, when—almost immediately after the carriage started—he happened to look up, and saw a stranger on the green in front of the house.</p>
|
||||
<p>His evidence, when reduced to writing, was singularly simple, vague, and unsatisfactory. Why had he not gone to the church to see the wedding, as it appeared every single person had done, not even excepting the dog Dando? He had much desired to see the marriage of his young mistress; but being the only manservant, it was his duty to see to the wines and to the table; and at the time when the carriage started he was in the garden cutting fresh flowers, for the purpose of strewing the lady’s footpath when she returned and descended from the carriage, and also to decorate the breakfast table. How long was it after the carriage started that anything happened? It seemed barely a minute. He was in a remote part of the garden, hastily working, when—almost immediately after the carriage started—he happened to look up, and saw a stranger on the green in front of the house.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Stay,” said the Coroner. “Describe that person.”</p>
|
||||
<p>This he could not do. The glimpse he had caught was obtained through the boughs and branches of several trees and shrubs. He could not say whether the stranger was tall or short, dark or light, or what dress he wore; but he had a vague idea that he had a dirty, grey coat on.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was an unfortunate remark, for the witness at that moment wore such a coat.</p>
|
||||
<p>He could not say whether he had a hat or a cap on, nor what colour trousers he wore. The stranger appeared to cross the green diagonally towards the house.</p>
|
||||
<p>“What did witness do?”</p>
|
||||
<p>For a moment he did nothing—it did not strike him as anything extraordinary. That morning there had been scores of people about the house, and numbers of strangers whom he did not know. They were attracted by the talk about the wedding, and he thought no harm. He went on with his work as hastily as he could, for he still hoped to have finished in time to make a short cut across the fields, and see a part of the marriage ceremony.</p>
|
||||
<p>He became so excited with the wish to see the ceremony that he left part of his work undone. As he went he had to pass the open window of the dining-room, where “master” was sitting. He was running, and actually passed the window without noticing anything; but before he had got to the front door he heard a groan. He ran back, and found his master prone on the floor of the apartment, in a pool of blood. He had evidently fallen out of his armchair forwards—started up and fallen. Witness, excessively frightened, lifted him up, and placed him in the chair, and it was in so doing that his shirt-front became saturated with the sanguinary stream, which also dyed his hands. He had on a shirt-front and a black suit, in order to wait at table at the wedding-breakfast. “Master” never spoke or groaned again. So soon as he was placed in the armchair his head dropped on one side as if quite dead, and witness then ran as fast as he could to the church, and crossed the fields by a short cut which brought him to the chancel-door.</p>
|
||||
<p>For a moment he did nothing—it did not strike him as anything extraordinary. That morning there had been scores of people about the house, and numbers of strangers whom he did not know. They were attracted by the talk about the wedding, and he thought no harm. He went on with his work as hastily as he could, for he still hoped to have finished in time to make a shortcut across the fields, and see a part of the marriage ceremony.</p>
|
||||
<p>He became so excited with the wish to see the ceremony that he left part of his work undone. As he went he had to pass the open window of the dining-room, where “master” was sitting. He was running, and actually passed the window without noticing anything; but before he had got to the front door he heard a groan. He ran back, and found his master prone on the floor of the apartment, in a pool of blood. He had evidently fallen out of his armchair forwards—started up and fallen. Witness, excessively frightened, lifted him up, and placed him in the chair, and it was in so doing that his shirtfront became saturated with the sanguinary stream, which also dyed his hands. He had on a shirtfront and a black suit, in order to wait at table at the wedding-breakfast. “Master” never spoke or groaned again. So soon as he was placed in the armchair his head dropped on one side as if quite dead, and witness then ran as fast as he could to the church, and crossed the fields by a shortcut which brought him to the chancel-door.</p>
|
||||
<p>The stranger, who had crossed, the narrow “green” or lawn before the house, had entirely disappeared, and he saw nothing of him in the house. In his haste and confusion, he did not see with what the deed had been committed.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was the substance of his evidence. Cross-examine him as they might, neither the Coroner nor the jury, nor <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, could get any further light. The witness was evidently much perturbed. There were those who thought his manner that of a guilty man—or, at least, of a man who knew more than he chose to tell. On the other hand, it might be the manner of an aged and weakly man, greatly upset in mind and body by the frightful discovery he had made. All the jury knew the relations between the witness and the deceased. Jenkins had lived in the service of the Waldrons all his life, as had his father before him, and the deceased had always exhibited the greatest interest in his welfare. He had good wages, an easy occupation, and was well cared for in every way. The most suspicious could conceive of no ground of quarrel or ill-will.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Coroner directed the witness to remain in attendance, and the first person who had seen the deceased after the alarm was given was called.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was Phillip Lewis, a farmer’s son (one of the stewards at World’s End Races), who being swift of foot had outstripped the others in the run from the church to The Place.</p>
|
||||
<p>Phillip Lewis found the deceased in his armchair, with his head drooping on one side—just as the gardener Jenkins described; only this witness at once caught sight of the weapon with which the fatal blow was given. It was lying on the ground, just outside the open window, stained with blood, and was now produced by the constable who had taken charge of it. It was a small bill-hook, not so large as would be used in cutting hedges, but much the same shape.</p>
|
||||
<p>The edge of a bill-hook, as every one knows, curves inward like a sickle, and at the end the blade forms a sharp point, or spike. It is, therefore, a fearful instrument with which to deliver a blow upon a bare head.</p>
|
||||
<p>Phillip Lewis found the deceased in his armchair, with his head drooping on one side—just as the gardener Jenkins described; only this witness at once caught sight of the weapon with which the fatal blow was given. It was lying on the ground, just outside the open window, stained with blood, and was now produced by the constable who had taken charge of it. It was a small billhook, not so large as would be used in cutting hedges, but much the same shape.</p>
|
||||
<p>The edge of a billhook, as everyone knows, curves inward like a sickle, and at the end the blade forms a sharp point, or spike. It is, therefore, a fearful instrument with which to deliver a blow upon a bare head.</p>
|
||||
<p>Phillip Lewis said that the gardener Jenkins recognised this hook as his—the one he usually employed to lop the yew trees, and other favourite trees of the deceased, and for general work in the shrubberies.</p>
|
||||
<p>This piece of evidence made the jury look very sternly upon Jenkins. He was asked if it was his, and at once admitted it. Where had he left it last? He would not be quite sure, but he believed in the tool-house, which was close to the gate in the garden wall, which led out into the fields. He had used it that morning.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was a distinct movement among the jury. They evidently began to suspect Jenkins.</p>
|
||||
<p>The medical man, <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parker, was the last witness. He had examined the wound the deceased had received. There was first an incised wound, three inches long, on the top of the skull, extending along the very crown of the head. This wound was not deep, and, though serious, might not have proved mortal. At the end of this wound there was a small space not cut at all, but an inch farther, just at the top of the forehead, was a deep wound, which had penetrated to the brain, and must have caused almost instantaneous death.</p>
|
||||
<p>These peculiar wounds were precisely such as would have been made if a person had approached the deceased from behind, and struck him on the bare head with the bill-hook produced. He did not think that there was more than one blow. He thought that the deceased when he received the blow must have started up mechanically, and, losing power, fell forward on to the floor. He did not think that the deceased had suffered much pain. There would not be time. The point or spike-like end of the hook had stuck deep into the brain. He had examined the hook, and found clotted gore and a few grey hairs upon the blade.</p>
|
||||
<p>These peculiar wounds were precisely such as would have been made if a person had approached the deceased from behind, and struck him on the bare head with the billhook produced. He did not think that there was more than one blow. He thought that the deceased when he received the blow must have started up mechanically, and, losing power, fell forward on to the floor. He did not think that the deceased had suffered much pain. There would not be time. The point or spike-like end of the hook had stuck deep into the brain. He had examined the hook, and found clotted gore and a few grey hairs upon the blade.</p>
|
||||
<p>This concluded the evidence, and the court was cleared—after the Coroner had whispered a few words to the police, several members of which force were present.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Coroner then summed up the evidence, and in a few brief but terribly powerful sentences pointed out that suspicion could only attach to one man. This man was left alone. He had every opportunity. The tale of the alleged stranger on the lawn bore every mark of being apocryphal. It was obviously a clumsy invention. The witness, who at first could not give any idea whatever as to how the stranger was dressed, had, when pressed, in a manner identified himself as the stranger, by describing him as wearing a grey coat.</p>
|
||||
<p>In conclusion, he would add that the country had been scoured by the police in the three days that had elapsed, and they had failed to find any trace of the supposed stranger. He then left the jury to deliberate, and going out into the air, met <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, who was more firmly convinced than the Coroner as to the guilt of Jenkins.</p>
|
||||
<p>“There was no motive,” he admitted, as they talked it over, walking slowly down the road; “but crimes were not always committed from apparent motives. On the contrary, out of ten such crimes seven would, if investigated, seem to be committed from very inadequate motives. How could they tell that Waldron had not called to the gardener <em>after</em> the carriage had left, and that then a quarrel took place?” He was determined to see that justice was done to his dead friend.</p>
|
||||
<p>But while the Coroner and Merton thus strolled along together a new complexion had been put upon affairs. The wretched wife of Jenkins, who had heard the muttered communications of the police, and saw that they kept a close look-out upon her husband, had listened as near the door as she could get, and so heard the summing-up of the Coroner. Distracted and out of her mind with terror, a resource occurred to her that would never have been thought of by one less excited. She rushed from the place like mad. “Poor old Sally has lost her head,” said the hangers about. She ran across the fields, scrambled through the hedges, reached The Place, tore upstairs, and threw herself upon Violet, beseeching her for the love of God to save her poor husband.</p>
|
||||
<p>But while the Coroner and Merton thus strolled along together a new complexion had been put upon affairs. The wretched wife of Jenkins, who had heard the muttered communications of the police, and saw that they kept a close lookout upon her husband, had listened as near the door as she could get, and so heard the summing-up of the Coroner. Distracted and out of her mind with terror, a resource occurred to her that would never have been thought of by one less excited. She rushed from the place like mad. “Poor old Sally has lost her head,” said the hangers about. She ran across the fields, scrambled through the hedges, reached The Place, tore upstairs, and threw herself upon Violet, beseeching her for the love of God to save her poor husband.</p>
|
||||
<p>Till that moment Violet had not the least idea that Jenkins, who had carried her in his arms many a time when she was a child, and was more like an old friend than a servant, was under any suspicion. She rose up at once and went downstairs, the first time since the wedding-day. Aymer and Miss Merton tried to stay her.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Hush!” she said; “it is my duty.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She was obliged to pass the fatal window; she burst into tears, but hurried on. Aymer went with her, and assisted her along the very same route that Sally had come—over ditches and through the gaps in the hedges. Violet reached the Shepherd’s Bush bareheaded, panting. Involuntarily, the crowd hanging about, one and all, boors that they were, took off their hats. She knocked at the door where the jury sat astounded, they admitted her. Strung up to the highest pitch she burst upon them, cowed them, overcame them.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
|
|||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section data-parent="book-2" id="chapter-2-7" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">VII</h3>
|
||||
<p>Every one knows what a dull monotony of sorrow succeeds to a great loss. Perhaps it was fortunate for Violet that her mind was in some small measure withdrawn from too consuming grief by the unfortunate position of the poor old gardener. Over the very grave of the dead, as it were, she quarrelled—the word is hardly too strong—with Merton.</p>
|
||||
<p>Everyone knows what a dull monotony of sorrow succeeds to a great loss. Perhaps it was fortunate for Violet that her mind was in some small measure withdrawn from too consuming grief by the unfortunate position of the poor old gardener. Over the very grave of the dead, as it were, she quarrelled—the word is hardly too strong—with Merton.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton was bitter against Jenkins. His professional mind, always ready to put the worst aspect upon anything, quick to suspect and slow to relinquish an idea, was convinced of the gardener’s guilt. In his zeal for the memory of his poor friend, he forgot that he might be injuring an innocent man. He even went so far as to speak strongly to Violet about her visit to the jury. Surely she should have been the last to protect the murderer. He said something like this in the heat of his temper, and regretted it afterwards. It was cruel, unjust, and inconsiderate. Violet simply left the room and refused to see him.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton left the house in a rage, and resolved to spare nothing to convict the miserable gardener. Now this quarrel produced certain events—it set on foot another chain of circumstances. Violet was now alone at The Place. Miss Merton could not stay longer. Before she went she asked if she should send back the dog Dando, which Merton had taken to Barnham. Violet, still bitter, in an unreasoning way, against the dog, said no.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Then,” said Miss Merton, “may I take him with me to Torquay?”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -16,7 +16,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Next day there came a note from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton, in which the writer, in a formal way, expressed regret if he had uttered anything which had annoyed her, and asked her to accompany Miss Merton to Torquay for change of scene. Violet thanked him, but refused.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer saw her every day. She did not give way to tears and fits of excited sorrow, but a dull weakness seemed to have taken possession of her. All the old spirit and joy had left her. She wandered about listlessly, stunned, in fact. All the interest she took was in poor Jenkins’ fate. Aymer, at her wish, went to Barnham, and engaged a lawyer to defend him. This soon reached Merton’s ears, and annoyed him exceedingly; though, to do him justice, he was at that very hour striving to put Violet’s affairs into order.</p>
|
||||
<p>Those affairs were—unknown to her—in a most critical state. The deceased, as he had told Aymer, had three thousand pounds out at interest, as he believed, upon good security, but which he thought of calling in. This money had been advanced to a <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Joseph Herring, a large farmer at Belthrop, some ten miles from World’s End.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Herring was a successful man and a good man; at all events he had no worse failing than an inordinate love of foxhunting. He had a large family, six sons and eight daughters, but there always seemed to be plenty for them. They lived and dressed well, rode out to the Meet, and one by one, as the sons grew older, they were placed in farms. Foxhunting men, with the reputation of some means, can always find favour in the eyes of landlords. If any one had been asked to point out a fortunate family in that county, he would at once have placed his finger upon the name of Herring.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Herring was a successful man and a good man; at all events he had no worse failing than an inordinate love of foxhunting. He had a large family, six sons and eight daughters, but there always seemed to be plenty for them. They lived and dressed well, rode out to the Meet, and one by one, as the sons grew older, they were placed in farms. Foxhunting men, with the reputation of some means, can always find favour in the eyes of landlords. If anyone had been asked to point out a fortunate family in that county, he would at once have placed his finger upon the name of Herring.</p>
|
||||
<p>The original home farm, where dwelt old Herring and his wife, four of the daughters, and one son, who really managed it, was of good size, fertile, and easily rented. The eldest son, Albert Herring, who was married and had children, occupied a fine farm at no great distance; and the two other sons had a smaller farm between them, and with them lived the other four sisters. Of course it was understood that these farms had been stocked partly with borrowed money; but that was a common thing, and there was every indication that all the family were prospering.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was to this Joseph Herring that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron had advanced three thousand pounds, taking ample security, as was believed, upon stock, and upon a small estate which belonged to Herring’s wife. Merton recommended this Herring as a client of his, and conducted the operation. Waldron had given Merton notice that he wished to withdraw the money; but Merton, not thinking there was any hurry, had not mentioned it to Joseph, when there came this awful catastrophe at World’s End and drove the matter entirely out of his head. But his attention was drawn back to it in an equally sudden manner. Old Joseph Herring, the foxhunter, while out with the hounds, put his horse at a double mound where there appeared to be a gap. This gap had been caused by cutting down an elm tree, and he imagined that the trunk had been removed.</p>
|
||||
<p>The morning had been cold, and although the ground was not hard there had been what is called a “duck’s frost” in places. The horse’s hoofs slipped upon the level butt of the tree, which had been sawn off; the animal fell heavily, and upon his side.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -25,14 +25,14 @@
|
|||
<p>His sons and daughters gathered round him; all were at hand except the eldest, Albert, and he was sent for. Joseph, who had seen too many accidents not to know he was doomed, even if it had not been visible upon the faces of his wife and children, betrayed the greatest uneasiness. He kept asking for “Albert” and for “Merton.” Messenger after messenger was despatched after both, and still they did not come.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton, when the messenger reached him, was in the Petty Sessional Court at Barnham, watching the preliminary proceedings against poor Jenkins, which happened to take place that day. He was much excited.</p>
|
||||
<p>The lawyer whom Aymer had engaged to defend Jenkins was a professional rival—a keen and clever man, and he had so worked up the case, and suggested so many doubts and probabilities that the Bench of magistrates hesitated to commit him.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was in the thick of the fight that the messenger from the death-bed arrived. Will it be believed, so great was the professional rivalry between these men, and so determined was Merton to succeed in committing poor Jenkins, that he paused, he hesitated, finally he waited till the case was finished.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was in the thick of the fight that the messenger from the deathbed arrived. Will it be believed, so great was the professional rivalry between these men, and so determined was Merton to succeed in committing poor Jenkins, that he paused, he hesitated, finally he waited till the case was finished.</p>
|
||||
<p>“After all,” he said to himself, “very likely the accident to Joseph is much exaggerated—people always lose their heads at such times. At all events his neck’s not broken, and he’s alive; the messenger doesn’t know exactly where he’s hurt. There’s no particular hurry.”</p>
|
||||
<p>But it so happened that there <em>was</em> a particular cause for hurry. While Merton persuaded himself that he was looking after the cause of his murdered friend and revenging him, that friend’s dearest one—his Violet—was fast losing her patrimony. Even when the second messenger came with more exact intelligence, Merton thought—“Sometimes men lie for days with broken backs, and what does he want me for? His will is made; I’ve got it in my office, and a very just will it is. All his affairs are arranged, I believe. It’s all fuss and fidget.”</p>
|
||||
<p>However, he ordered his carriage to wait at the door of the Court, and half an hour afterwards the Bench reappeared.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Chairman said that although there was very little evidence against the prisoner Jenkins, although his character had been proved excellent, and although his solicitor had most ably conducted the defence, yet the Bench felt that the crime was one too serious for them to think of dismissing a suspected person. The prisoner would be committed for trial at the Assizes, which fortunately for him came on that day fortnight.</p>
|
||||
<p>A smile of triumph lit up Merton’s face as he gathered up his papers. The rival solicitor smiled too, and assured Aymer who was present to tell Violet what happened, that the grand jury would be certain to throw out the bill. There was not a tittle of evidence against the prisoner.</p>
|
||||
<p>With this assurance Aymer mounted and rode back to Violet. At the same time Merton, telling his coachman not to distress the horses, drove leisurely towards the death-bed, where he had been so anxiously expected for hours.</p>
|
||||
<p>The scene at that death-bed was extremely dreadful. The poor dying man gradually became more and more restless and excited; nor could all the efforts of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parker, the persuasions of the clergyman, nor the tears of his wife and children, keep him calm.</p>
|
||||
<p>With this assurance Aymer mounted and rode back to Violet. At the same time Merton, telling his coachman not to distress the horses, drove leisurely towards the deathbed, where he had been so anxiously expected for hours.</p>
|
||||
<p>The scene at that deathbed was extremely dreadful. The poor dying man gradually became more and more restless and excited; nor could all the efforts of <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parker, the persuasions of the clergyman, nor the tears of his wife and children, keep him calm.</p>
|
||||
<p>The thought of death—the idea of preparing for the hereafter never seemed to occur to him. His one wish was to see “Albert” and “Merton;” till feverish and his eye glittering with excitement, all that he could ejaculate was those two names.</p>
|
||||
<p>He remained for four hours quite conscious, and able to converse; then suddenly there was a change, and he lost the power of answering questions, though still faintly repeating those names. The scene was very shocking.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why doesn’t Albert come?” said poor <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Herring. “He might have been here two hours ago. If Merton would not, Albert, my son, might have come.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
|
|||
<p>He could not, or would not, leave his engines. He busied about with them—now riding himself upon the plough, now watching the drivers of the engines, now causing experiments to be made with the scarifier. He paid little attention to the first messenger. “Tell them I’ll be there,” he said. Another and another messenger, still Albert remained with his plough.</p>
|
||||
<p>“He asks for me, does he?” he said. “I’ll be there directly.” Still he made no haste. After quitting the engines he went out of his path to visit a flock of fat sheep, and putting up a covey of partridges in the stubble, stayed to mark them down.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the house he calmly refreshed himself with cheese and ale. As he mounted his horse another messenger came, this time with a note from <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parker. Albert mounted with much bustle, and made off at a gallop. Two miles on the way he pulled up to a walk, met his shepherd, and had a talk with him about the ewes; then the farrier on his nag, and described to him the lameness of a carthorse. All this time his father lay dying. Strange and unaccountable indifference!</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton reached Belthrop Farm first, and was too late. Joseph Herring was dead. He had died without even so much as listening to the words of the clergyman—yet he had to all appearance been a good, and even pious man while in health. Why was he so strangely warped upon his death-bed?</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton reached Belthrop Farm first, and was too late. Joseph Herring was dead. He had died without even so much as listening to the words of the clergyman—yet he had to all appearance been a good, and even pious man while in health. Why was he so strangely warped upon his deathbed?</p>
|
||||
<p>“Oh! Albert—Albert, my son, my son! Why did you linger?” cried poor <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Herring as he entered.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Father?” said Albert, questioningly.</p>
|
||||
<p>She shook her head.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -58,7 +58,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“In cash!” they cried. “He told us that he paid one-fifth only, and the rest remained in bills.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The agent saw he had got on delicate ground; but they pressed him, and he could not very well escape. It then came out that Albert had paid sixteen hundred pounds in hard cash for the engines, by which, as the factory had been pressed for money, he got them at little more than two-thirds of the value, which was considered to be two thousand three hundred pounds.</p>
|
||||
<p>The brothers were simply astounded. They went home and talked it over with the fourth son, who managed the Belthrop Farm. They could not understand how Albert came to have so much ready cash. At last the conclusion forced itself upon them—the three thousand pounds borrowed from Waldron must have been lent by their father to Albert. They remembered that something had been said of an opening Albert had heard of, to add another farm to his already large tenancy.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was the secret—poor old Joseph, a bad accountant, had given the money to Albert, and, never thinking of dying, had postponed drawing up the proper deeds. Without a moment’s delay they proceeded in a body to Albert’s residence. He received them in an off-hand manner—utterly denied that he had had the money, challenged them to find the proof, and finally threatened if they set such a tale about the county to prosecute them for slander. This was too much.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was the secret—poor old Joseph, a bad accountant, had given the money to Albert, and, never thinking of dying, had postponed drawing up the proper deeds. Without a moment’s delay they proceeded in a body to Albert’s residence. He received them in an offhand manner—utterly denied that he had had the money, challenged them to find the proof, and finally threatened if they set such a tale about the county to prosecute them for slander. This was too much.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is wretched to chronicle these things; but they must be written. High words were followed by blows; there was a fight between the eldest and the next in succession, and both being strong men, they were much knocked about. The other brothers, maddened with their loss, actually cheered on their representative, and stripped to take his place as soon as he should be fatigued. But at that moment poor old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Joseph Herring, who had feared this, arrived, driving up in a pony-carriage, and sprang between the combatants. She received a severe blow, but she separated them, and they parted with menacing gestures.</p>
|
||||
<p>Once back at Belthrop, a kind of family council was held. Merton was sent for, but nothing could be done. There was not a scrap of proof that Albert had had the money. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Joseph, went to him, reasoned with him, entreated him. He turned a deaf ear to her remonstrances, and cursed her to her face. The miserable woman returned to her despairing younger children, and never recovered the terrible blow which the selfish, and inhuman conduct of her eldest son had inflicted upon her. Ruin stared them in the face. Waldron’s loan was due, and everything was already advertised for sale.</p>
|
||||
</section>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
|
|||
<h3 epub:type="title">VIII</h3>
|
||||
<p>How suddenly the leaves go in the autumn! They linger on the trees till we almost cheat ourselves into the belief that we shall escape the inevitable winter; that for once the inexorable march of events will be stayed, till some morning we wake up and look forth, and lo! a wind has arisen, and the leaves are gone.</p>
|
||||
<p>Absorbed in the one miserable topic—the one thought of Waldron’s terrible fate—Violet and Aymer spent several weeks almost unconsciously. When at last they, as it were, woke up and looked forth, the actual tangible leaves upon the trees had disappeared, and, like them, the green leaves of their lives had been shaken down and had perished.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even yet they had one consolation—they had themselves. The catastrophe that had happened at the very eleventh hour, at the moment when their affection and their hope was about to be realised, after all had only drawn them closer together. She was more dependent upon him than ever. There was no kind Jason to fly to now; the resources he could command were gone for ever. Had Aymer been as selfish as he was unselfish, that very fact would not have been without its pleasure. She could come to him only now in trouble, and she did come to him.</p>
|
||||
<p>Even yet they had one consolation—they had themselves. The catastrophe that had happened at the very eleventh hour, at the moment when their affection and their hope was about to be realised, after all had only drawn them closer together. She was more dependent upon him than ever. There was no kind Jason to fly to now; the resources he could command were gone forever. Had Aymer been as selfish as he was unselfish, that very fact would not have been without its pleasure. She could come to him only now in trouble, and she did come to him.</p>
|
||||
<p>It may be that all that happy summer which they had spent together, strolling about, sketching under the beech and fir; all that happy winter, with its music and song; all the merry spring, with its rides, had not called forth such deep and abiding love between these two as was brought into existence by these weeks of sorrow, the first frosts of their year. They were constantly together; they were both orphans now; they had nothing but themselves. It was natural that they should grow all in all to each other.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was one subject that was never alluded to between them, and that was the interrupted marriage. It was too painful for Violet, too delicate a subject for Aymer to mention. It was in both their minds, yet neither spoke of it. They were, and they were not, married. In a sense—in the sense of the publication of the banns; in the sense of the public procession to the church, the sanction of friends, the presence of the people—in this sense they were married. But the words “I will” had never left Violet’s lips, however willing they were to utter the phrase; and, above all, the ring had never been placed upon her finger. Nor could that ring be found. They were half married.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a strange and exceptional case, perhaps unequalled. Morally, Violet felt that she was his legally, Aymer feared that she was not his. He feared it, because he knew that it would be impossible to persuade Violet to undergo the ceremony a second time, till the memory of that dreadful day had softened and somewhat faded. It might be months, perhaps years. The disappointment to him was almost more than he could bear. To be so near, to have the prize within his reach, and then to be dashed aside with the merciless hand of fate.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -22,15 +22,15 @@
|
|||
<p>The vicar undertook that task, but failed completely. Violet begged him to spare her—to desist; she could not—not yet.</p>
|
||||
<p>After that day she was more and more tender and affectionate to Aymer, as if to make up to him for his loss. She said that he must take heart—they had no need to be unhappy. In a little while, but not yet—not yet, while that fearful vision was still floating before her eyes. But Aymer must be happy. They had sufficient. <em>He</em> had left them all he had. That was another reason why they should wait, in affection for his memory. They could see each other daily—their future would be together. And Aymer, miserable as he was, was forced to be content.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton had not been to The Place. Not one word had he said about the difficulty in Herring’s affairs, and the loss of the three thousand pounds. Violet was utterly ignorant that her fortune was gone. She spoke very bitterly of Merton. “If he had loved poor papa,” she said, “he would never have persecuted his faithful servant,” for nothing could shake her belief in Jenkins’ innocence, and she did all she could to comfort the poor gardener’s desolate wife.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own it. He ought to have hastened to Herring’s death-bed. Had that dying man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money, all would have been well.</p>
|
||||
<p>Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own it. He ought to have hastened to Herring’s deathbed. Had that dying man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money, all would have been well.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the fierce attempt to revenge his old friend, he had irreparably injured that friend’s daughter, and he dreaded the inevitable disclosure. He put it off till the last, hoping against hope, and doing all that his lawyer’s ingenuity could suggest to recover some part of the amount. In endeavouring to succeed in this, he pressed hard—very hard—upon the Herring family. He pushed them sorely, and spared not. He was bitterly exasperated against them. Unjustly, he openly accused them of a plot to rob his client and dishonour him.</p>
|
||||
<p>He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his death-bed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article. Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew nothing.</p>
|
||||
<p>He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his deathbed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article. Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew nothing.</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superstitious; the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who passed beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral—no one had used it.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour—which was the most comfortable room in the house—were reading, and looked up mutually at the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause; and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so muffled, that they doubted the evidence of their ears—and yet surely it was a knocking.</p>
|
||||
<p>The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the fire and looked fearfully at each other.</p>
|
||||
<p>One thing was certain—no person who knew The Place, no one from the village, would come to that door. If it was any mortal man or woman, it must be a stranger; and the last time a stranger had crossed the “green,” all knew what had happened. If it was not a stranger, then it must be the spirit of poor “master.” They were determined not to hear.</p>
|
||||
<p>The taps were repeated. Violet and Aymer looked at each other.</p>
|
||||
<p>Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if any one was without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind, bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was, he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet. Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched—a woman’s dress. He lifted her up—the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.</p>
|
||||
<p>Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if anyone was without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind, bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was, he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet. Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched—a woman’s dress. He lifted her up—the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Violet, dear!” he said, “it is a woman—she has fainted; may I bring her in?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet’s sympathies were at once on the alert. The woman was carried in and laid upon the rug before the fire, the servant came crowding in to render assistance brandy was brought, and the stranger opened her eyes and moaned faintly. Then they saw that, although stained with travel and damp from exposure to the drifting snow her dress was that of a lady.</p>
|
||||
<p>Under the influence of the warm fire and the brandy she soon recovered sufficiently to sit up. She was not handsome nor young her best features were a broad, intellectual looking forehead, and fine dark eyes. So soon as ever she was strong enough to speak she turned to Violet, and begged to be alone with her for a little while.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -17,11 +17,11 @@
|
|||
<p>Conquering her fluttering heart, Violet, in a maze of bewilderment, opened it herself. Agnes held out her hand, and kissed her twice upon the cheek and forehead.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Forgive me!” she said. “Forgive me for coming so soon after—. But I wanted to see you; I had much to say to you.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet began to thank her in a confused way for the pearl necklace. Agnes stopped her; it was not that—it was about Violet herself that she had come to talk. Even in her surprise and confusion, Violet could not help thinking that Agnes was very beautiful. It was a species of beauty that was precisely the opposite of Violet’s. Both gained by the contrast of the other’s style.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes Lechester was at least thirty—she might have been a year or two older—and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was for ever before her mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven’s hue, so often spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued manner—the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which distinguished her in conversation and in daily life.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes Lechester was at least thirty—she might have been a year or two older—and there hovered over her countenance an indefinable air of melancholy, as if the memory of a past sorrow was forever before her mind. There was not a wrinkle, not a groove upon her pale brow, but the impress of pain was none the less unmistakable upon her features. Her hair was very dark, as near as possible to the raven’s hue, so often spoken of, so rarely seen. Her eyes were large and grey, deep-set under delicate eyebrows, well-marked, and slightly arching. Her forehead high and intellectual. The features, the nose and mouth, were small and well-made, the ears especially delicate. High blood and long descent spoke out clearly in her every aspect, down even to the quiet subdued manner—the exquisite tact, and consideration for others, which distinguished her in conversation and in daily life.</p>
|
||||
<p>She was about the same height as Violet, but appeared taller, being more slightly made. She wore a simple black-silk, extremely plain, and one mourning-ring—no other jewellery.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet, whose position was not a little embarrassing, found herself in a few moments entirely at her ease, and conversing as with an old friend. Agnes did not in a direct manner recall the terrible past, but she had a way of asking what may be called sympathising questions, which quickly drew forth Violet’s confidence.</p>
|
||||
<p>For the first time she found a sister to whom she could express her feelings unrestrainedly; and even that brief hour of companionship did her much good. Not till all trace of distant formality had been removed, not till there had been a certain degree of familiarity established between them, did Agnes allude to the real object of her visit. She had come to ask Violet as a favour—so she put it—to spend a little time with her. The Towers were so very, very lonely—she said this in a tone that was evidently sincere—she had so few visitors, practically none, and she should be so glad if Violet would come. Violet saw in an instant that it was really out of kindness to her that the invitation was given; she wished to accept it, and yet hesitated. Agnes pressed her. Then she remembered Aymer—what would he say? If she went, he would be alone—he would not see her, and she would not see him. Thinking of him, a slight blush rose to her cheek. Perhaps Agnes guessed what was passing in her mind, for she said—</p>
|
||||
<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet will, of course, come and see us—often. You must ask his permission, you know. I will come again to-morrow and fetch you in the brougham.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet will, of course, come and see us—often. You must ask his permission, you know. I will come again tomorrow and fetch you in the brougham.”</p>
|
||||
<p>So it was practically settled, and Agnes, after a warm farewell, departed. Violet waited for Aymer, almost fearing he would upbraid her; but then the separation would only be for a little time. A little time!</p>
|
||||
<p>When Agnes Lechester came to ask her to The Towers, she came with a full knowledge of Violet’s position—of her monetary loss, and of the noble self-sacrifice she had made.</p>
|
||||
<p>It chanced—“circumstances over which we have no control” again—that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, to whom Violet had transferred her affairs, had succeeded to the business of an uncle, an elder <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, who was almost the hereditary solicitor of the Lechester family. The position was one of great emolument, and gave some social precedence; hence, perhaps, part of the jealousy exhibited towards him by <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton—an older man, and not so fortunate. From him Agnes learnt the whole of the details. The frightful catastrophe—the mystery of the murder of poor Waldron—had greatly impressed her, and the sad circumstances of the interrupted bridal trebled the interest she had taken in Violet and Aymer. She had instructed Broughton to inform her of everything, and especially of how matters stood with Violet now her father was no more. As he had now the charge of Violet’s affairs, it was easy for him to do this; and being a comparatively young man, and with a heart not yet quite dead to feeling, he was himself much interested in the woman who could so willingly give up the last fragment of her fortune.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
|
|||
<p>So, in his intercourse with Agnes Lechester, the same faculty of perceiving what pleased, led him to disregard the ordinary method of lovers; he avoided all mention, or almost avoided, expressions of affection, or of love, and harped upon the string which he had found vibrated most willingly in her breast. The theme was ample and he did not hesitate to work upon it. He compared his position and that of Agnes when united, and when his rights were conceded, to that of the royal reigning dukes of Italy a hundred years ago—dukes whose territory in area was not large, but whose power within that area was absolute.</p>
|
||||
<p>The city of Stirmingham was in effect a grander possession than Parma or Milan; far more valuable estimated in coin, far more influential estimated by the extent of its commerce. Without a doubt, when once he had obtained possession, the Government would soon recognise his claims and confer upon him a coronet, unless indeed Agnes preferred a career of perhaps greater power in the House of Commons. He candidly admitted his ignoble descent.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My ancestor,” he wrote, “was a poor basket-maker; there is no attempt on my part to conceal the fact. I am perfectly well aware that upon the score of blood I am far, far, your inferior, and unable to offer a single claim to equality. The Lechesters, I know, were powerful auxiliaries of William, the Conqueror of England. The name is preserved in the Roll of Battle Abbey; it occupies an important place in the ‘early chronicles.’ Heralds have blazoned its arms, genealogists recorded its descent, poets have sung its fame. Yet remember, even in this view of the matter, that the great William himself, the feudal lord of the Lechesters, was descended upon the mother’s side from a tanner. I cannot compare my father, grand old Sternhold, with William the Conqueror; and yet, in this age when wealth is what provinces and conquered countries used to be, perhaps there may be some faint resemblance.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Then he went on:—“I will not disguise from you the fact that in your long descent, and in your connections with the highest families in the land—not even excepting ancient royalty—I place much of my hope for recovering my legitimate possessions and for fighting my myriad enemies. To me the alliance is simply invaluable. To yourself I would fain hope it would not be without its charms. I do not approach you with a boy’s silly affection expressed in rhyme and love-sick glances. I do not follow your footsteps from place to place. It is long since I have had even ten minutes conversation with you. I have treated you as I should an equal (not in position, for there you are superior), but as my equal in mind and ability; not as your sex is commonly treated. I have not wooed you as a woman. I have asked you to be my partner, something more than my partner in the kingdom—for so in fact it is—which is mine by right.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Then he went on:—“I will not disguise from you the fact that in your long descent, and in your connections with the highest families in the land—not even excepting ancient royalty—I place much of my hope for recovering my legitimate possessions and for fighting my myriad enemies. To me the alliance is simply invaluable. To yourself I would fain hope it would not be without its charms. I do not approach you with a boy’s silly affection expressed in rhyme and lovesick glances. I do not follow your footsteps from place to place. It is long since I have had even ten minutes conversation with you. I have treated you as I should an equal (not in position, for there you are superior), but as my equal in mind and ability; not as your sex is commonly treated. I have not wooed you as a woman. I have asked you to be my partner, something more than my partner in the kingdom—for so in fact it is—which is mine by right.”</p>
|
||||
<p>This tone was exactly fitted to the mind of the person he addressed. Delicate and full of benevolence, kind, thoughtful, anxious always for others good, there was still at the root of Agnes Lechester’s mind a strong vaulting ambition. An ambition which some said had warped her mind with overweening pride, which had cut her off from the natural sphere in which she should have moved, leaving her with little or no society, and which, if rumour spoke correctly, had in earlier days forced her to stifle the heart that beat responsive to another’s love.</p>
|
||||
<p>To Violet, this calm, reasoning courtship, full of coronets and crowns, thinking of nothing but power, was inexplicable. Her heart wrapped up in Aymer, she could not understand this species of barter—of long descent and good family against wealth and property. It seemed unnatural—almost a kind of sacrilege. She fancied that Agnes was not without twinges of conscience, not without hesitation, and naturally put down her apparent vacillation to feelings, similar to those which would have animated herself under the same circumstances.</p>
|
||||
<p>This is not the place to argue upon marriage; but in passing it does appear that both sides are right and both wrong. It does not of necessity follow that marriage must be for love only; but on the other hand it does not follow that marriage should be for convenience always, and never for affection. In the present instance, to all appearance the parties were exactly fitted to each other. It was notorious that although Lady Lechester had a sufficient income for all her purposes, and even a superfluity, that the revenue from her large estates was greatly reduced by encumbrances upon it. There were surmises that this comparatively inadequate income was one reason why Agnes saw so little society; she was too proud to mingle in a circle for which her purse was unfitted.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
|
|||
<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
||||
<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-10" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">X</h3>
|
||||
<p>After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the designs upon the wall-papering got mixed up before his eyes in a fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.</p>
|
||||
<p>After a while, Aymer awoke from the stupor into which the drug that had been administered to him had thrown his senses. His awakening was more painful than the first effects of the poison. His head felt as heavy as lead, and there was a dull pain across his brow. A languid helplessness seemed to possess his limbs, he could not walk across the room, and with difficulty stretched out his hand to the bell-rope. Then all the designs upon the wallpapering got mixed up before his eyes in a fantastic dance, which made him giddy, till he was obliged to shut them. His consciousness had as yet barely sufficiently returned for him to notice that he was in a different apartment to any he had hitherto occupied at the asylum. He must have had partial returns to consciousness previously, for he found himself sitting in a large armchair, half clad, and wearing a dressing-gown. A second pull at the bell-rope brought footsteps outside the door, which sounded heavy upon the boards, evidently uncarpeted. Then a key turned in the lock outside, at the sound of that Aymer opened his eyes quickly, and a strong-looking man, whom he had never seen before, peered in.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Where is <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Theodore?” said Aymer. “Is Miss Waldron come? Tell them I am better. Ask her to see me. What has been the matter with me?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You’ve had one of your fits, sir,” replied the man, very civilly, but in an indifferent tone.</p>
|
||||
<p>“My fits! I never have fits. Why do you stand in the doorway? Why was the door locked?”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“I am sure of it. What should you do if you got out?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I should go straight to Belthrop—or, stay, perhaps I should go to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton. He would protect me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Broughton—ah! he is a lawyer. I see you are sane. I must have a look at you. Turn your face towards the picture of the ‘Last Supper.’ ”</p>
|
||||
<p>Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a side-board was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.</p>
|
||||
<p>Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a sideboard was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I see you. I have read you. You have talent, perhaps genius; but your chin is weak. You know not how to fight men. You do not comprehend that men are beasts, and that it is necessary to be always fighting them. Still you are sane, you are young—eat, and get strong—you will do. Your name is familiar to me. Who was your father?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer told him. The voice replied—“I knew him—a clever man, and, excuse me, a fool. How came you to reside at World’s End?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer told him. “But who are you?” he said, eagerly. “Let me see you also.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -41,7 +41,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“Go on—how did you make the hole?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“With the steel and with the poker—grinding the bricks into dust, and mingling the dust with the ashes of the fire, so that the warder himself carried them away.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“And why not escape this way?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Because, in the first place, the door of that room is kept locked; secondly, because it opens also into the same corridor, and at the end of that corridor is the guard-room, where there is always a warder. Your bell rings in that room.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Because, in the first place, the door of that room is kept locked; secondly, because it opens also into the same corridor, and at the end of that corridor is the guardroom, where there is always a warder. Your bell rings in that room.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“How did you learn all these things?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“How did you learn all the little traits of human nature, which the reviewers say you put in your book? By observation, of course. I had to walk along that corridor to reach the grounds, when I was allowed to go out.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“But you could bore a hole into the corridor?”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -57,7 +57,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“But,” said Aymer, “I see here ‘water-canal’ marked. I have seen that canal; why, it runs just outside the high wall just across the courtyard here.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ay, and that is the awkward part of it. First, a narrow courtyard or chasm to bridge; then a high wall to surmount; then a broad and deep canal—especially broad here, for, as you will see on the plan, there is a double width of water for the barges to turn round in. Finally, an unknown maze of streets.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Not unknown,” said Aymer. “I can be of some use there;” and he told Fulk of his residence in Stirmingham during the family council and the election. He had a fair knowledge of the streets.</p>
|
||||
<p>“That is extremely fortunate,” said Fulk. “You must trace out a plan for me, in case we should get separated. So you were at the family council—I read much of it in the papers which they allow me. By-the-by, Marese Baskette is about to marry my cousin. I wonder she has escaped the asylum so long—the common fate of us poor Lechesters. Tell me now about your Violet’s claim.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“That is extremely fortunate,” said Fulk. “You must trace out a plan for me, in case we should get separated. So you were at the family council—I read much of it in the papers which they allow me. By the by, Marese Baskette is about to marry my cousin. I wonder she has escaped the asylum so long—the common fate of us poor Lechesters. Tell me now about your Violet’s claim.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer did so.</p>
|
||||
<p>Fulk mused a little while.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I begin to see daylight,” he said. “I see much that I did not previously comprehend. If we only wait, and keep watching, everything comes plain in time. Waldron—I knew the Waldrons well—very respectable people, and well descended. Waldron is mentioned in Domesday—Waleran Venator—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, Walron, the Huntsman. Jason Waldron—I wonder if I had better tell you what I know?—he was murdered, and—but you will not rest nor eat.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -74,7 +74,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“Homicidal tendencies!—escaped! Stay a minute, let me think. I remember now. Oh! what a fool I have been. Why, I saw the description of him posted up against the police station in Stirmingham, during the election; it was partly destroyed—evidently an old bill. I see—I see. But why should Odo Lechester kill Jason?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“He was instructed to do so. Your dear friend Theodore, who so kindly offered you a secretaryship at seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, told him to do so.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Why—how—how could he—”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Work on Odo’s mind? Easily enough. Poor Odo—he is a beast, born in the shape of a man: it is not his fault—he is not responsible. Odo is a tinker and a whistler; he is at home among the gipsies and the woods, playing on his tin whistle, mending pots and kettles. His three great passions are tinkering, dogs, and—liberty. Theodore simply assured him that it was Waldron who was the cause of his confinement. Jason dead, Odo would be for ever free. Shall I add one more word? If Jason’s daughter were also dead, Odo would be still safer in his freedom.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Work on Odo’s mind? Easily enough. Poor Odo—he is a beast, born in the shape of a man: it is not his fault—he is not responsible. Odo is a tinker and a whistler; he is at home among the gipsies and the woods, playing on his tin whistle, mending pots and kettles. His three great passions are tinkering, dogs, and—liberty. Theodore simply assured him that it was Waldron who was the cause of his confinement. Jason dead, Odo would be forever free. Shall I add one more word? If Jason’s daughter were also dead, Odo would be still safer in his freedom.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Good God! he may be killing her now. Let me out—help me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Silence! Be quiet. She is safe—your cries will ruin all. She is safe in this very building.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Impossible—I can’t believe it; it is all a blind. I must go to Belthrop; I must see Broughton. Good God, how weak I am!”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -109,11 +109,11 @@
|
|||
<p>“True—all the means; but not the physical strength, nor the physical courage. I could not do it without a companion to assist me. You forget my leg was broken; it is still weak. You forget that I have been confined without exercise for two years—enough to weaken any man; and I was never strong. I used to envy Odo as he climbed trees, like the wild man of the woods he is by nature. Besides, I wanted courage; don’t despise me. I have moral courage, but I have no physical courage. I jumped from the wall—yes; but under extreme excitement—this must be done coolly; and I could not climb the rope. You must climb first, and drag me up by sheer force.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I will do it somehow,” said Aymer. “But why not tie loops in the rope for your feet and hands? Is it long enough?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Plenty; I never thought of that. Two heads are better than one. I will do that this very night. How long do you think it will take you to recover yourself?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I will try it to-morrow,” said Aymer.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I will try it tomorrow,” said Aymer.</p>
|
||||
<p>“No; that is too soon. Say the night after. We must go as early in the evening as is compatible with being unseen, so as to have the whole night to escape in. Now sleep. I shall not say another word.”</p>
|
||||
<p>He withdrew, and Aymer vainly tried to slumber. He could not sleep till morning, and he did not wake till far into the day. His breakfast was waiting for him. As he sat down to it with a better appetite, Fulk spoke to him from the picture.</p>
|
||||
<p>“You look better,” he said; “your long sleep has refreshed you. Shall we try it to-night? I own I am afraid lest some trifle should delay us.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“To-night, certainly,” said Aymer. “I feel quite well now. It was simply a heaviness—a drowsiness—a narcotic, perhaps. Let it be to-night. I must go to Violet.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You look better,” he said; “your long sleep has refreshed you. Shall we try it tonight? I own I am afraid lest some trifle should delay us.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Tonight, certainly,” said Aymer. “I feel quite well now. It was simply a heaviness—a drowsiness—a narcotic, perhaps. Let it be tonight. I must go to Violet.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Ah, Violet!” sighed Fulk. “That was my poor wife’s name too. I shall love your Violet. I will help you. I know more of the world than you do.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The day passed slowly. They conversed in low tones nearly all the time. Aymer, led on by Fulk’s gentle ways, frankly told him all his struggles, his disappointments, his hopes. Fulk was deeply interested. At last he said—</p>
|
||||
<p>“At ten we will do it, or perish. I have a mind,” he said, “to let you go alone; you are stronger than I am. Very likely my nervousness or weakness will spoil the whole enterprise; but you could do it certainly.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -124,16 +124,16 @@
|
|||
<p>“<em>Now</em>,” said Fulk; “I have got the rope ready. Take the picture down, and scramble through the hole. No; hand me your change of dress first. There is the rope.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer had no difficulty in getting through, and at once picked up the rope. At one end he found a heavy knob of coal fastened.</p>
|
||||
<p>“That is to throw it up by,” said Fulk, “and to make the rope hang down the other side. I hid it for that purpose.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Fulk put the window open, shading the gas by the blind. Aymer coiled up the rope on his left arm to let it run out easily; and was glad now of the physical education he had unwillingly imbibed at old Martin Brown’s. Many a time he had cast the cart-line over a tall waggon-load of straw. He looked out, measured the height, and hurled the knob of coal. It flew straight up into the air, carrying with it the destinies of two men, like a shot from a mortar over a ship in distress. A moment of suspense—it cleared the wall, the rope ran out quickly, till but a few feet were left in Aymer’s hands. Fulk opened the other half of the window; the rope was passed round the upright and secured. Next the air-belt had to be fastened under Fulk’s chest and inflated. Aymer tied his change of clothes and Fulk’s in the other air-belt, and adjusted them to his back. These incumbrances gave him some little uneasiness. He pulled at the rope—it was firm; the ruler had caught the crenelations. Then arose the difficulty as to who should go first; Aymer, with a lurking suspicion lest Fulk’s heart should fail, compelled him to take the lead. He helped him at the window, and saw a new danger. Their shadows were projected on the wall opposite; if any one looked that way it would be seen in an instant that something was going forward. Below on the right was a bow window, and from this bow window a stream of light fell upon the rope. However it was too late to hesitate.</p>
|
||||
<p>Fulk put the window open, shading the gas by the blind. Aymer coiled up the rope on his left arm to let it run out easily; and was glad now of the physical education he had unwillingly imbibed at old Martin Brown’s. Many a time he had cast the cart-line over a tall wagon-load of straw. He looked out, measured the height, and hurled the knob of coal. It flew straight up into the air, carrying with it the destinies of two men, like a shot from a mortar over a ship in distress. A moment of suspense—it cleared the wall, the rope ran out quickly, till but a few feet were left in Aymer’s hands. Fulk opened the other half of the window; the rope was passed round the upright and secured. Next the air-belt had to be fastened under Fulk’s chest and inflated. Aymer tied his change of clothes and Fulk’s in the other air-belt, and adjusted them to his back. These incumbrances gave him some little uneasiness. He pulled at the rope—it was firm; the ruler had caught the crenelations. Then arose the difficulty as to who should go first; Aymer, with a lurking suspicion lest Fulk’s heart should fail, compelled him to take the lead. He helped him at the window, and saw a new danger. Their shadows were projected on the wall opposite; if anyone looked that way it would be seen in an instant that something was going forward. Below on the right was a bow window, and from this bow window a stream of light fell upon the rope. However it was too late to hesitate.</p>
|
||||
<p>Folk clung like a cat till he got his foot into the first loop, then he went up fairly well. As soon as he was up, and Aymer could see his form dimly astride of the wall, he followed. Halfway up, as he looked down, he saw a man in the bow window approach and draw down the blind. If he had looked out he must have seen the rope and Aymer, but he did not. When the blinds were down the rope became invisible. With a beating heart Aymer found himself at the top of the wall, astride, facing Fulk, who pressed his hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I feel all right now we have started,” he whispered; “I think I shall manage it yet.”</p>
|
||||
<p>There were no loops for the descent. Aymer, after one glance at the city lights before him, slid down first, and let himself into the water gently. He adjusted the load on his back on the float: then shook the line as a signal to Fulk, who came halfway down well, but his nervous excitement overcame him, and he rather fell than slid the remainder, reaching the water with a splash. His head did not go under, but they feared lest any one had heard it. In a few seconds, as all was quiet, Aymer struck out, pushing the float in front and dragging Fulk behind. He had no load to support, but simply to force his way through the water. It was chilly, but not so cold as he had feared. It smelt unpleasant—some chemical works discharged into it. Though a fairly good swimmer, Aymer had a hard struggle to cross the broad canal, and more than once paused to recover his strength. At last they landed on the towing path, and without a moment’s delay got over a low wall into some back garden and changed their clothes, wrapping the wet things round a loose brick from the wall and dropping them in the water. They then made haste along the towing path, Aymer leading, and emerged at a bridge into a broad thoroughfare, gaslit but deserted.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were no loops for the descent. Aymer, after one glance at the city lights before him, slid down first, and let himself into the water gently. He adjusted the load on his back on the float: then shook the line as a signal to Fulk, who came halfway down well, but his nervous excitement overcame him, and he rather fell than slid the remainder, reaching the water with a splash. His head did not go under, but they feared lest anyone had heard it. In a few seconds, as all was quiet, Aymer struck out, pushing the float in front and dragging Fulk behind. He had no load to support, but simply to force his way through the water. It was chilly, but not so cold as he had feared. It smelt unpleasant—some chemical works discharged into it. Though a fairly good swimmer, Aymer had a hard struggle to cross the broad canal, and more than once paused to recover his strength. At last they landed on the towing path, and without a moment’s delay got over a low wall into some back garden and changed their clothes, wrapping the wet things round a loose brick from the wall and dropping them in the water. They then made haste along the towing path, Aymer leading, and emerged at a bridge into a broad thoroughfare, gaslit but deserted.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Come on,” whispered Aymer. “There is the station; we shall catch the up 10:15 train to London.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Good-by.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Goodbye.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Part? What do you mean?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I mean this: that I owe you my liberty—I shall repay you. I shall stay here and watch for your Violet—I am sure she is here.”</p>
|
||||
<p>It was useless arguing with him: Fulk was determined.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I here. Make haste. By-the-by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no money with me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I here. Make haste. By the by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no money with me.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer insisted upon dividing the sixty-five pounds he had left. Then they shook hands.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Stay,” said Fulk, “our rendezvous?—Where shall we meet again? Quick!—your train.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“At The Place, World’s End,” said Aymer at a venture, and with one more rapid handshake ran off. He caught his train, and by one in the morning was in London.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
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|
|
@ -10,23 +10,23 @@
|
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<h3 epub:type="title">XII</h3>
|
||||
<p>Science, as illustrated by the printing press, the telegraph, the railway, is a double-edged sword. At the same moment that it puts an enormous power in the hands of the good man, it also offers an equal advantage to the evil disposed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore Marese was a man of science; and he was a typical man of science—hard, clear, bright, pitiless as the dissecting knife. Unfortunately, he applied his knowledge and his undoubted ability to the worst of uses. One pursuit to which he had devoted special effort, and over which he had spent many thoughtful hours, was the problem how to dispose of a dead human body. There was an old superstitious saying that the earth will not hide blood—it will out. Theodore was of a different opinion. Science had conquered everything: science could conquer this. Yet it certainly was a difficult task. Did you ever contemplate the difficulty? Suppose you slay your enemy—slay him secretly, effectually: now, what next? Try to bury it: the loose earth speaks for itself. Exhalations will rise. Quicklime it, and hasten its decomposition: there will remain, perhaps, only a brass button, or some coin left in the pocket. Throw it into the water: it will rise to the surface. Burn it, and all the city will know from the odour. The more you think over it, the more difficult it will appear. But Theodore had found the solution.</p>
|
||||
<p>In that laboratory of his which Fulk wished to explore, and which was a harmless-looking room—without so much as a phial or a microscope in view, there was at one corner, not very far from the fireplace, a long upright cupboard, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Or, rather, the cupboard rose about halfway, and a bookcase reached the remainder. It was a shallow cupboard. There were no locks to the doors. Any one could pull them open, and see a few trifles within—such trifles as might be found in any bachelor’s room. The bookcase was also shallow, but there was depth enough back for some rows of books. The books were harmless enough—mostly medical works, just such works as any one can purchase who cares to. Nothing certainly here to excite suspicion. Yet behind that cupboard and bookcase was concealed the most deadly, insidious, awful engine ever constructed by man—an engine about which no secrecy exists either, and which living men have seen in operation; which has been described in the papers; and which the legislature must put down, or strictly regulate.</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon removing one of the books, Theodore had merely to push aside a small brass plate, which looked like part of a hinge, and there was a keyhole; turn the key, and the whole cupboard swung bodily out into the room. It was, in fact, a blind, placed in front of a narrow inner door, which rose to the ceiling. When the door was open, there stood revealed an iron box, not unlike an extremely long coffin, placed on end. There was a keyhole—two key-holes—to this iron box. Open the first, and there was a large cavity, tall enough for a man to sit on a bar which went across it, without his head touching the iron roof. In this iron roof there was an opening, not unlike a small grating. Put the key in the second keyhole, above the first, and there was the apparatus, greatly improved by Theodore, but in substance the same as used in other places—the apparatus for absorbing the smell of the gases which arise from a human body when consumed by heat. Every one knows that if the smoke of a pipe be passed through water in a peculiar way, it loses its pungency, and you can inhale it with more comfort: this is the hookah. Everybody also knows that manufacturers in great towns are compelled to consume their own smoke, and all have seen a lump of loaf sugar suck up a spoonful of tea. A combination of these principles formed Theodore’s deadly engine, which was nothing more or less than a private cremation stove. The ordinary fire in the harmless-looking fireplace produced sufficient heat, when a draught was caused by turning a winch with a multiplying wheel placed at the lower part of the cupboard, just beneath the cavity which was to receive the body. This body, made thoroughly insensible and unconscious by being saturated with chloroform or strong drugs—or, if you like, still more insensible with a trifle of arsenic—had merely to be lifted into its iron coffin, the door closed, the blast applied, and in a couple of hours or so there would remain a little heap of ashes, and a little melted metal, brass buttons, coins, and such like, things easily dropped into a canal, dust easily mixed with the ashes under the grate. Now, where was all that superstitious nonsense about the difficulty of getting rid of a dead body?</p>
|
||||
<p>Whether Theodore had ever used this awful engine was never known; but it existed, and it may exist at this present hour in other equally unsuspected places. What I say is, that the legislature should take cremation in hand. If any one had been shut up in that iron box alive—only stupefied for a few minutes with a drug, put in asleep; if they had been awakened by the red-hot iron, of what use would their screams have been—deadened by the confinement, deadened by thick walls?</p>
|
||||
<p>In that laboratory of his which Fulk wished to explore, and which was a harmless-looking room—without so much as a phial or a microscope in view, there was at one corner, not very far from the fireplace, a long upright cupboard, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Or, rather, the cupboard rose about halfway, and a bookcase reached the remainder. It was a shallow cupboard. There were no locks to the doors. Anyone could pull them open, and see a few trifles within—such trifles as might be found in any bachelor’s room. The bookcase was also shallow, but there was depth enough back for some rows of books. The books were harmless enough—mostly medical works, just such works as anyone can purchase who cares to. Nothing certainly here to excite suspicion. Yet behind that cupboard and bookcase was concealed the most deadly, insidious, awful engine ever constructed by man—an engine about which no secrecy exists either, and which living men have seen in operation; which has been described in the papers; and which the legislature must put down, or strictly regulate.</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon removing one of the books, Theodore had merely to push aside a small brass plate, which looked like part of a hinge, and there was a keyhole; turn the key, and the whole cupboard swung bodily out into the room. It was, in fact, a blind, placed in front of a narrow inner door, which rose to the ceiling. When the door was open, there stood revealed an iron box, not unlike an extremely long coffin, placed on end. There was a keyhole—two keyholes—to this iron box. Open the first, and there was a large cavity, tall enough for a man to sit on a bar which went across it, without his head touching the iron roof. In this iron roof there was an opening, not unlike a small grating. Put the key in the second keyhole, above the first, and there was the apparatus, greatly improved by Theodore, but in substance the same as used in other places—the apparatus for absorbing the smell of the gases which arise from a human body when consumed by heat. Everyone knows that if the smoke of a pipe be passed through water in a peculiar way, it loses its pungency, and you can inhale it with more comfort: this is the hookah. Everybody also knows that manufacturers in great towns are compelled to consume their own smoke, and all have seen a lump of loaf sugar suck up a spoonful of tea. A combination of these principles formed Theodore’s deadly engine, which was nothing more or less than a private cremation stove. The ordinary fire in the harmless-looking fireplace produced sufficient heat, when a draught was caused by turning a winch with a multiplying wheel placed at the lower part of the cupboard, just beneath the cavity which was to receive the body. This body, made thoroughly insensible and unconscious by being saturated with chloroform or strong drugs—or, if you like, still more insensible with a trifle of arsenic—had merely to be lifted into its iron coffin, the door closed, the blast applied, and in a couple of hours or so there would remain a little heap of ashes, and a little melted metal, brass buttons, coins, and suchlike, things easily dropped into a canal, dust easily mixed with the ashes under the grate. Now, where was all that superstitious nonsense about the difficulty of getting rid of a dead body?</p>
|
||||
<p>Whether Theodore had ever used this awful engine was never known; but it existed, and it may exist at this present hour in other equally unsuspected places. What I say is, that the legislature should take cremation in hand. If anyone had been shut up in that iron box alive—only stupefied for a few minutes with a drug, put in asleep; if they had been awakened by the red-hot iron, of what use would their screams have been—deadened by the confinement, deadened by thick walls?</p>
|
||||
<p>“I am extremely sorry,” said Theodore Marese, meeting Violet at the railway station, and handing her to a carriage; “I regret very much that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet could not come. He has, in fact, gone upon a special mission. A gentleman in the Isle of Man, who owed us a large sum, died suddenly; his affairs are in confusion, and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Malet was obliged to start this afternoon to see to our debt. I am the bearer of his regrets. At all events, he will not be absent more than a week.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was naturally much disappointed, but after all, it was only a week or ten days, and they treated her with great courtesy at the residence at the asylum. A matron was always ready to afford her companionship; no intrusion was made upon her privacy. Theodore occasionally called upon her in the most respectful way. Books, papers, anything she seemed to wish for came at once. The matron, a lady-like person, took her into the town to do some shopping. Everything but a letter from Aymer. However, that was easily explained—the sea-post was always uncertain. Theodore took her over a great part of the asylum; she was astonished at its size, and the number of its inmates. It saddened her, and she still more longed for Aymer to return.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was naturally much disappointed, but after all, it was only a week or ten days, and they treated her with great courtesy at the residence at the asylum. A matron was always ready to afford her companionship; no intrusion was made upon her privacy. Theodore occasionally called upon her in the most respectful way. Books, papers, anything she seemed to wish for came at once. The matron, a ladylike person, took her into the town to do some shopping. Everything but a letter from Aymer. However, that was easily explained—the sea-post was always uncertain. Theodore took her over a great part of the asylum; she was astonished at its size, and the number of its inmates. It saddened her, and she still more longed for Aymer to return.</p>
|
||||
<p>Why it was that she was not confined like Aymer was never wholly explained, but there is some reason to think that Marese Baskette had a faint idea of marrying her himself. He was, as we have seen, nervous about his marriage with Lady Lechester: lest anything should happen to prevent or delay it. This girl, Violet, he well knew, had a good claim to the estate; suppose he married her? She was a second string to his bow. As to the rumour of his being her father’s murderer, he would trust to his own wit and handsome face to overcome that. He never questioned his power to have her if he chose—but Lady Lechester first. Theodore had therefore his instructions to treat her well, and give her seeming liberty, and above all to keep her in good temper. Theodore did as he was bid. This seems the natural solution of the problem. If she had known that Aymer was so near!</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened at this time that, on the seventh day after Violet’s arrival, the famous singer, Mademoiselle F—o, of whom all the world was talking, was to sing for one night only in the Sternhold Hall. Theodore, finding that she was getting restless and thoughtful, seized upon this opportunity to while away her gloom. He proposed that she should accompany him to the theatre or hall, and Violet, who had never heard an opera in her life, was naturally enough delighted to go. They went, and as it chanced it was the very night that Aymer and poor Fulk chose to make their escape. Thus it was that Theodore’s eye caught sight of Fulk, the moment the commotion caused by his late entrance attracted his attention. Violet was extremely pleased; the notes of the music and song filled her with an exquisite enjoyment. She was very beautiful, leaning over the front of her box, and scores of glasses were directed at her. Had she known that at that very moment Aymer was risking his life to escape!</p>
|
||||
<p>The difficulty in this history-writing is to describe two or three events at the same moment. The eye can only read one line at a time, how then are you to bring two scenes at once before it? Some allowance must be made for the infirmities of the pen. There were two scenes proceeding at the moment that Theodore’s eye fell upon Fulk—three scenes, if you reckon the opera on the stage. First, poor Fulk shivering with terror, struggling to escape, the crowd round execrating him, his mind in a whirl, reproaching himself with his folly, and the tall figure of Theodore, who had come down from the box, pointing him out to an attendant and pushing forward to seize him. On the stage, La Sonnambula was uttering her sweetest trill; Marese Baskette’s mistress in the full height of her glory, with hundreds upon hundreds of the élite of that great city intent upon her every accent—hundreds upon hundreds of well-dressed, fashionable, wealthy ladies and gentlemen, most of whom knew her connection with Marese, the popular M.P., were there. This very knowledge attracted them in shoals. This was scene two.</p>
|
||||
<p>The third scene was underneath. There in the darkness and gloom of the cellars, amid the slimy pools of water, the hideous fungi, the loathsome toads and creeping things, the grey sewer-rats were at work. You have seen a ship launched—she stands firm as a rock till the last wedge is knocked away, then glides into the water. Something of the same kind was going on here beneath the feet of several hundred human beings. These musty cellars and vaults under the Sternhold Hall, with their awkward approach, had been let at last. A London firm had given a small sum for them, and established a store of whisky casks. A dozen or so of whisky casks had been rolled down, a name put upon the door, and an advertisement in the newspaper. Nobody could do business with this firm, their terms were too high. The whisky casks, in truth, contained pure spring water. It was an excuse, however, for men in rough jackets, who had evidently been at work, to go in and out of these vaults, and to take with them saws and chisels, hammers, and other harmless tools. The firm was, in fact, composed of a dozen or more of the sharpest sewer-rats in Stirmingham. Their little game was so delightfully simple—only a little gnawing to be done! When Theodore and Baskette went down into this place, they found the floor supported by timber pillars. Their idea was to blow it up. The sewer-rats were much cleverer—their idea was to saw through the wooden pillars, and let the roof or floor down, and with it many hundred shrieking, maimed, and mutilated human beings. How simple great ideas appear when once they are described! There is nothing novel in the idea either: the holy Saint Dunstan tried it at Calne, and found it answer admirably.</p>
|
||||
<p>Some say odd accidents have happened to grand stands at race meetings, through iron bolts being inadvertently removed. When hundreds of well-dressed, fashionable people, ladies and gentlemen, with gold rings and diamonds, earrings and bracelets, watches, money, bank-notes, and similar valuables about them, not to mention rich cloaks and perhaps furs, were shrieking, struggling, groaning, maimed, mutilated, and broken to pieces, with jagged ends and splinters of deal sticking into their bodies, how nice and benevolent it would be to go in among and assist them; to lift up the broken arm, and lighten it of the massive gold bracelet; to pull the horrid splinter out of the leg, and extract the well-filled purse; to alleviate the agony of the bruised shoulder or the broken back, and remove the choice fur or necklace of diamonds! Thoughtful of the sewer-rats to provide this banquet of Christian charity!</p>
|
||||
<p>Some say odd accidents have happened to grand stands at race meetings, through iron bolts being inadvertently removed. When hundreds of well-dressed, fashionable people, ladies and gentlemen, with gold rings and diamonds, earrings and bracelets, watches, money, banknotes, and similar valuables about them, not to mention rich cloaks and perhaps furs, were shrieking, struggling, groaning, maimed, mutilated, and broken to pieces, with jagged ends and splinters of deal sticking into their bodies, how nice and benevolent it would be to go in among and assist them; to lift up the broken arm, and lighten it of the massive gold bracelet; to pull the horrid splinter out of the leg, and extract the well-filled purse; to alleviate the agony of the bruised shoulder or the broken back, and remove the choice fur or necklace of diamonds! Thoughtful of the sewer-rats to provide this banquet of Christian charity!</p>
|
||||
<p>The one difficulty had been to get the several hundred people there. They had all in readiness for months, watching. They had it ready while the family council sat, and had deliberated about knocking the last wedge out at that time, but on reflection it was doubtful whether the Americans had much coin about them. Finally, one shrewd sewer-rat hit upon the idea of engaging Mademoiselle F—o to come down and sing. They paid her one hundred pounds in advance, with travelling expenses to come afterwards; and it would have been a good speculation in itself, for they took three hundred and fifty pounds, including the boxes. These boxes were a worry. They could not be let down, they were not built on wooden pillars; however, it was easy to shut one of the folding-doors at the entrance, and let the bolt drop into the stone—easy to raise a cry of “Fire!”—easy to imagine the crush at the door.</p>
|
||||
<p>Easy also for me to enter into a catalogue of broken limbs, ribs, fractures, contusions, gashes, etc, etc—I shall leave it to the surgical imagination. But when hundreds of people, closely packed, are suddenly precipitated eighteen feet, amid splintering planks and crushing beams, it is probable that the hospitals will be full. This was the third scene preparing underneath.</p>
|
||||
<p>Just as Fulk felt Theodore close to him—just as F—o uttered her sweetest trill—just as Violet was in the height of her enjoyment—the grey rat gave his last nibble—the last wedge was knocked away; and the floor went down. Poor Violet saw it all. She saw fourteen hundred hands suddenly thrown up into the air; she heard one awful cry, she felt the box tremble and vibrate, and the whole audience sank—sank as into one great pit. She turned deadly pale; she clung with both hands to the balustrade; but she did not faint. It was all too quick.</p>
|
||||
<p>Fulk was in a stooping position, struggling to escape. That saved him. He fell with his body across a joist, which with a few others had not been sawn—some few had to be left to keep the floor apparently safe. His arms flew out in front, his legs struggling behind; he was poised on the centre of his body. At any other time one might have laughed. In that terrible moment the instinctive love of life endowed him with unusual strength. He knew not how he did it, but he got astride of the joist; he worked himself along it; he reached one of the slender iron columns or shafts which supported the boxes and gallery. He who mistrusted his power to climb a rope, in that hour of horrors went up that shaft with ease, assisted by the scroll-work on it. He got into the very box where Violet sat, with straining eyes gazing into that bottomless pit. Exhausted, he fell on his knees beside her. Exhausted, he heard the cry of “Fire!”—heard the rush to the doors. He remained on his knees, gazing, like her, down into the pit.</p>
|
||||
<p>The cry that rose up—the shouts, the groans, the shrieks—will ring in Fulk’s ears till his death. Violet never heard a sound; her whole faculties were concentrated in her eyes. Heaps of human beings striving, heaving; fragments of dresses, opera cloaks fluttering from joists in mid-air; splinters with pieces of torn coats—Ah! I cannot write it; and she dares not tell me. One dares not dwell on this scene. One more word only. Fulk glanced at the stage: still the lights burnt there; the painted scene was untouched; the singer, F—o, had fled by the stage staircase.</p>
|
||||
<p>The cry that rose up—the shouts, the groans, the shrieks—will ring in Fulk’s ears till his death. Violet never heard a sound; her whole faculties were concentrated in her eyes. Heaps of human beings striving, heaving; fragments of dresses, opera cloaks fluttering from joists in midair; splinters with pieces of torn coats—Ah! I cannot write it; and she dares not tell me. One dares not dwell on this scene. One more word only. Fulk glanced at the stage: still the lights burnt there; the painted scene was untouched; the singer, F—o, had fled by the stage staircase.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is odd, but the idea since came to me—she was the cheese; the hall, the trap. The simile will hardly bear close investigation.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was those few minutes that Fulk and Violet spent in motionless horror that saved them. They thereby escaped the crush at the door; that is to say, they escaped being in it; it was impossible to go out without seeing it. Fulk recovered himself a little: his first instinct was that of a gentleman—the lady beside him. He caught her arm, and dragged her up from her seat; and she came with him unresistingly out of the box into the corridor: he could feel her whole frame tremble. Perhaps, reasoning after the event, they might as well have sat still; but remember the awful cry of fire, the instinctive desire to escape, and that Fulk was still fearful of being re-captured! They reached the staircase—descended it to within a few feet of the passage. There they saw a black mass, writhing, heaving: it was a mass of men and women who had fallen, and been trodden down. It extended along the whole passage to the open air. Then Violet fainted, and hung in his arms inert, helpless. Poor girl! it was enough to unnerve the boldest man. Fulk grasped her round the waist—he was short remember—he struggled with her; got his feet on that awful floor of moving bodies; he stumbled, and staggered towards the air, gasping for breath, dragging, half-trailing her behind him. He cried for help—his arms failed him; his poor, weak leg—the one that had been broken—slipped down into a crevice between two fallen men, and strive how he would he could not get it out. A mist swam before his eyes; but he did not let go—gallant little Fulk!</p>
|
||||
<p>It was those few minutes that Fulk and Violet spent in motionless horror that saved them. They thereby escaped the crush at the door; that is to say, they escaped being in it; it was impossible to go out without seeing it. Fulk recovered himself a little: his first instinct was that of a gentleman—the lady beside him. He caught her arm, and dragged her up from her seat; and she came with him unresistingly out of the box into the corridor: he could feel her whole frame tremble. Perhaps, reasoning after the event, they might as well have sat still; but remember the awful cry of fire, the instinctive desire to escape, and that Fulk was still fearful of being recaptured! They reached the staircase—descended it to within a few feet of the passage. There they saw a black mass, writhing, heaving: it was a mass of men and women who had fallen, and been trodden down. It extended along the whole passage to the open air. Then Violet fainted, and hung in his arms inert, helpless. Poor girl! it was enough to unnerve the boldest man. Fulk grasped her round the waist—he was short remember—he struggled with her; got his feet on that awful floor of moving bodies; he stumbled, and staggered towards the air, gasping for breath, dragging, half-trailing her behind him. He cried for help—his arms failed him; his poor, weak leg—the one that had been broken—slipped down into a crevice between two fallen men, and strive how he would he could not get it out. A mist swam before his eyes; but he did not let go—gallant little Fulk!</p>
|
||||
<p>Strong arms seized him. Cabmen, police, coachmen, grooms—idlers who had rushed to the doors—seized him, and pulled him out, and set him on his legs, and pushed the brandy flask between his teeth. And still Fulk instinctively held tight to his burden.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Where shall I drive you, sir?” said one cabman.</p>
|
||||
<p>“To—I don’t know. Where is a good hotel?”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
|
|||
<p>“Where could Aymer be?” was the question she constantly asked.</p>
|
||||
<p>Fulk said, “Aymer was doubtless at Belthrop, trying to find her.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“But Hannah Bond knows I started for Stirmingham,” objected Violet. “If Aymer should see her, and go back to Stirmingham. I must write to her—or will you?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till to-morrow night. Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till tomorrow night. Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Hannah must come and live here with me,” said Violet, musingly. “I think I shall stay at The Place till—till—where is your newspaper?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I—I—burnt it,” said Fulk. “I burnt it helping you to light the fire.”</p>
|
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<p>It was the truth, yet it was a lie. He had burnt it, that Violet might not see something in it. Aymer was not at Belthrop. Aymer’s name was in the paper.</p>
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@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
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<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-13" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">XIII</h3>
|
||||
<p>At twelve o’clock of the night before his wedding-day, Marese Baskette was galloping, fast as his best thorough-bred could carry him, from Barnham town to The Towers. Barely had he settled himself at his hotel to think over the coming day, than a message summoned him to return. It was a splendid night—warm, still, the sky full of stars, and a faint odour of the hawthorn blossom in the air. The thin mist that Lady Lechester had seen had descended into the hollows, and as Marese rode through it, it reached to his saddle-bow. The horse rushed on, hidden in the cloud that covered the earth; the rider sat above it. Far behind clattered the groom, who had fetched him in hot haste.</p>
|
||||
<p>At twelve o’clock of the night before his wedding-day, Marese Baskette was galloping, fast as his best thoroughbred could carry him, from Barnham town to The Towers. Barely had he settled himself at his hotel to think over the coming day, than a message summoned him to return. It was a splendid night—warm, still, the sky full of stars, and a faint odour of the hawthorn blossom in the air. The thin mist that Lady Lechester had seen had descended into the hollows, and as Marese rode through it, it reached to his saddlebow. The horse rushed on, hidden in the cloud that covered the earth; the rider sat above it. Far behind clattered the groom, who had fetched him in hot haste.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Lady Lechester is lost!” Such was his brief message, and not all Marese’s sharp questioning could elicit anything more, for the simple reason that nothing more was known. About eight o’clock she had been seen to leave the house, and the servants took no particular notice of it, expecting her to return in a short time, as she usually did. As she usually did I—this was the first time Marese had heard of the nocturnal walks of his bride. It was a mystery to him: it angered him. A man of plots and stratagems, he was always more or less suspicious of others. An hour had passed, and Lady Lechester did not return. The guests—and they were numerous that night at The Towers—asked for her; the household still kept their mistress’s secret, but two ventured out to seek her. They went to the well-known spot, they saw the oak trunk, they heard the roar of the river—but Lady Lechester was not there. An anxious consultation took place; butler, footmen, the upper servants held a whispered discussion. At last the gamekeeper was sent for: if Lady Lechester happened to see him, she would not be annoyed; if she met any of the others, and fancied they had been watching her, it would cost them their places. The guests were put off with various excuses. Time passed: the gamekeeper reported the park clear, and not a trace of Lady Agnes. The truth could no longer be concealed. The alarm and excitement among the wedding guests may easily be imagined. All the gentlemen at once put on their hats, and with lanterns and brandy flasks proceeded to search the park in every direction. A man was despatched post-haste on the swiftest horse for the bridegroom. One gentleman rode with him to Barnham, woke up the police, and instructed them to be on the alert, but, if possible, to keep matters quiet. Especially they were to look out for the dog Dando, who was known to have accompanied Lady Agnes, but had not returned.</p>
|
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<p>Marese reached The Towers about one in the morning. During his ride he had mastered his feelings; he had crushed down the superstitious presentiment which warned him that all was in vain. He had not felt so unusually nervous about this marriage for nothing. But he mastered himself. One of his maxims was never to regret the past, but to apply the mind with iron will to make the best of the present. He called the servants, naturally taking the lead, and made them tell him all they knew. Then for the first time Lady Agnes’ strange visits to “The Pot” became known; and at once the gloomiest forebodings filled the minds of the guests. She was drowned; she had fallen down “The Pot.” The idea grew and grew, till it became the one belief. Marese himself could not doubt it. It was a strange and solemn conclave they held, at that hour of the night, in the hall at The Towers, Marese standing in the midst, his face pale but composed, the guests crowding round him, the servants coming up one by one to be examined. The great clock at The Towers tolled two, and there stepped silently into the room a stranger, plainly dressed, but remarkably upright, with an air of authority—the Superintendent of police from Barnham. A silence followed his entrance. He marked it, and said that he had brought drags to search the river—was there a boat anywhere to be obtained?</p>
|
||||
<p>There was no boat. The Ise ran so swift and was so shallow at ordinary times, and lay so deep down between its banks, that no one cared to keep a boat. The nearest known was a little punt four miles down the river, where it enlarged into a small lake. A man was despatched to borrow it, and pole it up the rapid stream; he could not reach “The Pot,” work as hard as he might, under three hours. All the gentlemen and not a few of the ladies, too excited to sit quietly within, went with the Superintendent across the park to “The Pot,” and watched the drags used. The Superintendent asked them to stand back a moment while he examined the ground round the mouth of the funnel. He did so carefully; the grass had left no mark of a footstep, there was not a trace of a struggle, not a scrap of dress hanging to a twig, or a broken ornament. Then the drags were dropped down the strange funnel into the roaring water, and under the quiet stars the wedding guests gathered in a circle, watching the police as they searched the cave in vain. Neither drag nor pole could detect anything at the bottom; the light of the strongest bull’s-eye failed to show any trace that a body had fallen down that narrow crevice; no stones or earth recently dislodged, not a particle of dress or shawl here either.</p>
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@ -26,13 +26,13 @@
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<p>The magistrates seeing so respectable a solicitor as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton taking an interest in the prisoner, consulted, and to Marese’s intense disgust offered to allow the prisoner half an hour to confer with his attorney. In that brief period poor Aymer had to relate his confinement and his escape. Broughton listened attentively; then he said—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Your story is strange, almost incredible; still you are in a position where nothing will do you much good but public opinion. My usual advice would be to reserve your defence; my present advice to you is to tell the Bench exactly what you have told me, only much more fully. There are no reporters admitted; but I will see that your statement is published. I believe you myself. If the public show any signs of believing you, the prosecutors will withdraw. It is your only chance; for, to be candid, the evidence is terribly against you.”</p>
|
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<p>They returned to the justice-room. The first witness called was the policeman who had detected Aymer and the dog in the street. He described Aymer as walking very fast, and dodging from house to house as if trying to escape notice. This was point Number 1 against him. Then came the evidence as to his furious struggle with the police. One constable could barely make himself understood; a blow straight from the shoulder had knocked a tooth out, and his voice sounded hollow and indistinct. Such a violent resistance obviously indicated a guilty conscience. This was point Number 2 against him. Next it was stated, and stated with perfect truth, that the prisoner had refused to give his name, his place of residence, or any information about himself; and that, finally, he had totally denied even so much as knowing that there was such a person as Lady Lechester. He had tried to conceal his identity in every way, and had deliberately told an untruth, for after living so long at World’s End, how could he have failed to know Lady Lechester? This was point Number 3. Then he gave a very vague, unsatisfactory account of how the dog had followed him. He declared that the dog was a strange dog to him—that he had never seen it before. Now this must be also a wilful falsehood. Point Number 4. But the darkest evidence of all was reserved to the last. There was brought into the room an “iron-witted” ploughboy, with a shock head of light hair, small eyes, heavy jowl, and low forehead—the very class of witness most to be dreaded, for nothing on earth can make them understand that it is possible for them to be mistaken.</p>
|
||||
<p>The ploughboy, Andrew Hornblow by name, told his story straightforwardly enough. He said that he had been to the “Shepherd’s Bush” that fateful evening, after work; that he had a pint and a half of ale, but was not any the worse for liquor. That at about half-past seven, or a little earlier, he left the “Shepherd’s Bush” inn to return to the farmhouse where he slept. He went across the fields and Downs, and his path led him over a section of the park. As he passed a fir copse he heard some one playing on a tin whistle in a most peculiar way. He was curious: to see who it was, and got into the copse. The moment his footsteps were heard the whistle stopped; but pushing aside the boughs, he caught a glimpse of a tallish man, in a grey suit—a dirty-grey suit—who seemed anxious to avoid observation, and plunged into the dark recesses of the copse. He didn’t think much of it at the time; but it so happened that the spot where he had seen the man was within a hundred yards of “The Pot;” and talking of the disappearance of Lady Lechester to his master, the fact had got to the knowledge of the police. Had he seen that man since? Not till he had come into the room; and he pointed at the prisoner, who indeed wore a grey suit, somewhat travel-stained and frayed in places, as if from passage through hedges or woods.</p>
|
||||
<p>The ploughboy, Andrew Hornblow by name, told his story straightforwardly enough. He said that he had been to the “Shepherd’s Bush” that fateful evening, after work; that he had a pint and a half of ale, but was not any the worse for liquor. That at about half-past seven, or a little earlier, he left the “Shepherd’s Bush” inn to return to the farmhouse where he slept. He went across the fields and Downs, and his path led him over a section of the park. As he passed a fir copse he heard someone playing on a tin whistle in a most peculiar way. He was curious: to see who it was, and got into the copse. The moment his footsteps were heard the whistle stopped; but pushing aside the boughs, he caught a glimpse of a tallish man, in a grey suit—a dirty-grey suit—who seemed anxious to avoid observation, and plunged into the dark recesses of the copse. He didn’t think much of it at the time; but it so happened that the spot where he had seen the man was within a hundred yards of “The Pot;” and talking of the disappearance of Lady Lechester to his master, the fact had got to the knowledge of the police. Had he seen that man since? Not till he had come into the room; and he pointed at the prisoner, who indeed wore a grey suit, somewhat travel-stained and frayed in places, as if from passage through hedges or woods.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton cross-examined this witness at great length, and with his accustomed shrewdness—but in vain, the ploughboy was certain the prisoner was the man. All that could be got from him was, that he had not distinctly seen the face of the man in the copse, but he was tallish, and wore a dirty-grey suit. This established the fact that the prisoner was near about the spot, where Lady Lechester had disappeared somewhere within half an hour of that mysterious event.</p>
|
||||
<p>Point Number 6 was still more convincing. Upon the prisoner being searched, there was found upon him a tin whistle. The whistle was produced, and was of a peculiar construction: when blown, it gave a singular sound, more musical than the ordinary whistle. It was covered with sketches—apparently engraved with a sharp tool—of dogs, some of them very spirited and faithful outline representations. It was well known that the prisoner was a good draughtsman. The only point that remained to be established was the death of Lady Lechester. The body had not been found.</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon this evidence the police very properly asked for a remand till the body was discovered.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton immediately applied for bail.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Bench asked upon what grounds, and this gave Aymer an opportunity to tell his tale. Remember, that all this time Marese Baskette was sitting side by side with the magistrates, who naturally felt for his position, and treated him with exceptional courtesy.</p>
|
||||
<p>When Aymer began, Marese objected on the ground that the prisoner was a lunatic escaped from Stirmingham Asylum, and that these wild statements, if they got into print, would do him harm. The Bench assured him that nothing the prisoner—whose wild appearance proved the condition of his mind—could say would prejudice him in their estimation, and as there were no reporters present nothing could get abroad. It was better to let the prisoner tell his tale; he might inadvertently disclose the fate of poor Lady Lechester. It was true that the prisoner being a lunatic would escape the extreme penalty of the law, but it was very desirable to learn all that could be known of poor Lady Agnes. Marese had to be satisfied, and to listen while Aymer, in clear, forcible language, told his story, hinting broadly at Marese’s complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, and describing the manner in which he had been trapped, and his escape. The Bench listened with an incredulous air, as well they might. The man was evidently mad—quite mad. Finally, Aymer came to his arrival at Belthrop late in the afternoon of the day after he had got out of the asylum. Finding Violet was not at Hannah Bond’s, and greatly alarmed, he was at a loss what to do. To go back to Stirmingham was extremely dangerous for fear of re-capture, and he hesitated for a while. At last, after partaking of refreshment given to him by old Hannah, he had started for Barnham with the intention of calling on <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton and taking his advice. Halfway to Barnham it had occurred to him that perhaps Violet after all was at The Towers, and he diverged from his course and approached the mansion, as he supposed, about one in the morning. He saw a number of people about and in commotion, and afraid of being recognised and captured altered his mind again, and turned to go to Barnham across the Downs. In doing so he admitted that he had passed near “The Pot,” but not at the time stated by the ploughboy—half-past seven in the evening—but half-past one in the morning. As he walked through the grass he saw something glistening, and picked up the tin whistle found upon him. He should not have taken the trouble to carry it away had it not been for the curious figures on it, which, being a light night, he could just distinguish. As he came up the side of the Downs, just as he passed The Giant’s Ring—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, a circle of stones set on edge—some ancient monument—he was overtaken by the dog Dando, who jumped and fawned upon him with delight as an old friend, and followed him to Barnham where he was captured by the police. He had resisted them because he thought they were under orders to return him to the asylum. The dog Dando limped a little, and he had noticed that his back showed signs of a severe recent beating. Hannah Bond could prove that he did not leave Belthrop till nearly or quite eight, and it was impossible for him to get to “The Pot,” ten miles, in less than three hours, across a rough country. His dress was dirty and torn because he had walked quite twenty miles when arrested, and passed through several coppices. Upon this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton asked for bail, and offered himself in any sum they might name. But the Bench could not get over the fact of the asylum—the prisoner was a dangerous lunatic; even if his story was true he was a lunatic. No; the prisoner was removed to his cell pending the discovery of the body of Lady Lechester. All that Broughton could do was to order his carriage and set out for Belthrop to find Hannah Bond.</p>
|
||||
<p>When Aymer began, Marese objected on the ground that the prisoner was a lunatic escaped from Stirmingham Asylum, and that these wild statements, if they got into print, would do him harm. The Bench assured him that nothing the prisoner—whose wild appearance proved the condition of his mind—could say would prejudice him in their estimation, and as there were no reporters present nothing could get abroad. It was better to let the prisoner tell his tale; he might inadvertently disclose the fate of poor Lady Lechester. It was true that the prisoner being a lunatic would escape the extreme penalty of the law, but it was very desirable to learn all that could be known of poor Lady Agnes. Marese had to be satisfied, and to listen while Aymer, in clear, forcible language, told his story, hinting broadly at Marese’s complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, and describing the manner in which he had been trapped, and his escape. The Bench listened with an incredulous air, as well they might. The man was evidently mad—quite mad. Finally, Aymer came to his arrival at Belthrop late in the afternoon of the day after he had got out of the asylum. Finding Violet was not at Hannah Bond’s, and greatly alarmed, he was at a loss what to do. To go back to Stirmingham was extremely dangerous for fear of recapture, and he hesitated for a while. At last, after partaking of refreshment given to him by old Hannah, he had started for Barnham with the intention of calling on <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton and taking his advice. Halfway to Barnham it had occurred to him that perhaps Violet after all was at The Towers, and he diverged from his course and approached the mansion, as he supposed, about one in the morning. He saw a number of people about and in commotion, and afraid of being recognised and captured altered his mind again, and turned to go to Barnham across the Downs. In doing so he admitted that he had passed near “The Pot,” but not at the time stated by the ploughboy—half-past seven in the evening—but half-past one in the morning. As he walked through the grass he saw something glistening, and picked up the tin whistle found upon him. He should not have taken the trouble to carry it away had it not been for the curious figures on it, which, being a light night, he could just distinguish. As he came up the side of the Downs, just as he passed The Giant’s Ring—<abbr epub:type="z3998:initialism">i.e.</abbr>, a circle of stones set on edge—some ancient monument—he was overtaken by the dog Dando, who jumped and fawned upon him with delight as an old friend, and followed him to Barnham where he was captured by the police. He had resisted them because he thought they were under orders to return him to the asylum. The dog Dando limped a little, and he had noticed that his back showed signs of a severe recent beating. Hannah Bond could prove that he did not leave Belthrop till nearly or quite eight, and it was impossible for him to get to “The Pot,” ten miles, in less than three hours, across a rough country. His dress was dirty and torn because he had walked quite twenty miles when arrested, and passed through several coppices. Upon this <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton asked for bail, and offered himself in any sum they might name. But the Bench could not get over the fact of the asylum—the prisoner was a dangerous lunatic; even if his story was true he was a lunatic. No; the prisoner was removed to his cell pending the discovery of the body of Lady Lechester. All that Broughton could do was to order his carriage and set out for Belthrop to find Hannah Bond.</p>
|
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<p>Poor Aymer. It was Violet he thought of still. But events press so quickly, it is impossible to pause and analyse his emotion. The next day about noon, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton came into the cell with a grave look upon his face, and carrying a large parcel in his hand. Aymer begged him to tell him the truth at once. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton told him that first the body of Lady Lechester had been found. A more careful search by boat near “The Pot” had discovered it. Instead of being carried down by the current, an eddy at the cave had thrown it up against the course of the stream a few yards, and lodged it behind a boulder. There were no marks of violence: she had simply been drowned. Secondly, he had been to Belthrop, and found Hannah Bond’s cottage shut up, the old lady gone, and not a trace of her to be found, though he had searched the villages for miles round. Thirdly, the book parcel in his hand had been to London to Aymer’s address there, and had been returned to him, Aymer having left instructions that his letters should be sent to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton. Upon removing the outer wrapper, there was the name and address of Aymer Malet, <abbr>Esq.</abbr>, written in the handwriting of the dead Lady Lechester.</p>
|
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</section>
|
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</body>
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@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
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<p>At that very time, late into the night, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton was conferring with the prisoner in his cell. He had been sent for in haste, and went quickly fearing lest Aymer should be ill. The parcel addressed to Aymer Malet in Lady Lechester’s handwriting was a large antique Bible, which Aymer recognised in a moment as having belonged to old Jenkins, the gardener at The Place. He had seen it lying about, but had taken no notice of it. It was in fact the very Bible Lady Agnes had purchased of the gardener’s wife when left in destitution by her husband’s imprisonment. Inside the Bible was a short formal note, dated the very day in the evening of which Lady Agnes was drowned, stating that the writer when she bought the book was unaware to whom it had belonged, and therefore returned it to Aymer’s address—not knowing Violet’s—as she desired to retain nothing of theirs. She added that she would return the dog Dando if they would receive it, and tell her where to send it. Aymer, having no occupation in his cell but melancholy thoughts and anxious cares about Violet, naturally turned over the leaves of the noble old book, and looking at it closer than before he found at the end, upon one of the spare leaves, a curious inscription which purported to be a copy from a tomb. It was in Latin, English, and Greek—a strange, fantastic mixture—and when translated, read to the effect that Arthur Sibbold Waldron, whilom of Wolf’s Glow, born Sibbold, afterwards Sibbold Waldron, was married at Saint S—Church, Middlesex, and was buried at Penge in Kent—with dates, and the usual sentiments. The entry in the Bible simply added: “Copy of ye inscription, now defaced. Mem. To have the same re-cut. B.W.” Here was the clue Aymer had searched for in vain, thrown into his hands, by the operation of those strange and mysterious circumstances over which no one has any control. He sent for <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton; and so it was that when Fulk found that gentleman it was in the cell. The surprise of Aymer, and his pleasure at seeing Fulk, his still greater joy and relief when Fulk in his first sentence announced that Violet was safe, can easily be imagined. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton had no sooner heard Fulk’s explanation than he at once comprehended the importance of securing Odo. He and Fulk with two assistants drove as near the wood as practicable, and after much trouble safely lodged the unfortunate lunatic in the hands of the police. Fulk remained with Broughton, who very considerately went in his carriage in the morning over to The Place, and brought Violet and Hannah Bond to his own private residence in Barnham.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the inquiry that followed, the first step was the release of Aymer on bail, on the testimony of Hannah Bond, that he had not left the cottage at Belthrop till eight o’clock. The ploughboy, when shown Odo, at once declared that this was the man he had seen—“A’ had such mortal big ears—a’ minded that, now.” And Marese? His position became extremely awkward. It was easy to declare that Aymer was a lunatic; but when Fulk was produced—when the clever escape was related in exactly the same manner by both—when Fulk added what he had overheard about the murder of Jason Waldron, Marese could not but notice that the magistrates and the Court looked coldly upon him. He claimed them both as escaped lunatics. Said the Bench—</p>
|
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<p>“We don’t see what right you have to them. The owner of the asylum is dead. We will take it upon ourselves to say, that the lunatics, for lunatics, have a remarkably sane way of talking.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The result was, that Marese withdrew; the more he meddled with the matter, the worse it became for him. To add to the evil complexion of affairs, Odo confessed in his cell to the murder of Jason Waldron. He strenuously denied having touched Lady Agnes; he declared that his sole object was the dog. The dog was the descendant of an old favourite, and he had once followed Miss Merton to Torquay to get it. But as he stole round from behind the oak trunk to seize the dog, Lady Agnes saw him, started, missed her footing, and fell down “The Pot.” He knew her—she was his cousin, and he had no feeling against her. In all probability this story was true, as no marks of violence were found on the body. But he frankly confessed hitting Jason Waldron on the head with the bill-hook; and stated exactly what Fulk had already said—that he was told by Theodore Marese, if he killed that man, <em>and his daughter</em> (Aymer shuddered), he should be always free. He had laid in wait for the daughter; but she was out of his reach at The Towers.</p>
|
||||
<p>The result was, that Marese withdrew; the more he meddled with the matter, the worse it became for him. To add to the evil complexion of affairs, Odo confessed in his cell to the murder of Jason Waldron. He strenuously denied having touched Lady Agnes; he declared that his sole object was the dog. The dog was the descendant of an old favourite, and he had once followed Miss Merton to Torquay to get it. But as he stole round from behind the oak trunk to seize the dog, Lady Agnes saw him, started, missed her footing, and fell down “The Pot.” He knew her—she was his cousin, and he had no feeling against her. In all probability this story was true, as no marks of violence were found on the body. But he frankly confessed hitting Jason Waldron on the head with the billhook; and stated exactly what Fulk had already said—that he was told by Theodore Marese, if he killed that man, <em>and his daughter</em> (Aymer shuddered), he should be always free. He had laid in wait for the daughter; but she was out of his reach at The Towers.</p>
|
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<p>Odo concluded with a cunning wink, and called <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton to come near. He whispered to him that he should be the richest man in the world if he would give him liberty. Broughton humoured the miserable creature, and told the rest to leave the cell.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then Odo disclosed his bribe. He said that years ago the gipsies with whom he consorted had shown him a deed, to which they attached a species of superstitious reverence, and asked him to read it, it being in law characters, and in Latin. It was a deed conferring an entail upon the estate at Wolfs Glow—“the very estate,” whispered Odo, “that all the people are trying for.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Odo ascertained that this deed had been stolen by Romy Baskette’s elder brother—the man who, with his mother, left the Swamp when old Will Baskette was shot—stolen with the intention of injuring the Sibbolds, his father’s murderers. He had watched old Sibbold poring over this deed, therefore thought it valuable, seized his opportunity, and stole it. With the strangest, maddest mixture of shrewdness and lunacy, Odo in his turn stole the deed from the gipsies who had preserved it, and held it, to be used as a bribe in case he should be captured. He now offered it to Broughton, if Broughton would only let him go free.</p>
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@ -8,24 +8,24 @@
|
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<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
|
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<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-2" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">II</h3>
|
||||
<p>The manner in which Marese Baskette became acquainted with Lady Lechester affords another instance of those “circumstances over which we have no control,” which have already been so strongly illustrated in this history. In the course of his purchases of land and property, old Sternhold Baskette was so shrewd and far-seeing, and so difficult to impose upon, that only once did he make any considerable mistake.</p>
|
||||
<p>The manner in which Marese Baskette became acquainted with Lady Lechester affords another instance of those “circumstances over which we have no control,” which have already been so strongly illustrated in this history. In the course of his purchases of land and property, old Sternhold Baskette was so shrewd and farseeing, and so difficult to impose upon, that only once did he make any considerable mistake.</p>
|
||||
<p>It happened that among other land which he bought at no great distance from Stirmingham, there was a small plot of not much more than two acres, which was included in a large area, and not specified particularly in the agreement. This plot had been in the hands of tenants who had lived so long upon it that they believed they had acquired a prescriptive right. They sold their right to a person whom we may call A, and A sold it in common with other property to Sternhold Baskette. The thing was done, no questions asked, and apparently no one thought anything more about it. But what piece of land is there so small that it can escape the eagle eye of an English lawyer? And especially when that lawyer is a new broom, and a rising man determined to make his mark.</p>
|
||||
<p>So it happened that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, Lady Lechester’s new solicitor (and successor to his uncle’s practice), in going over the map of the estate, and comparing it with older maps, found out that there was a certain two-acre piece missing; and being anxious to recommend himself to so good a client as Lady Agnes, lost no time in tracing out the clue to it.</p>
|
||||
<p>He had not much difficulty in discovering the facts of the case, but it was very soon apparent to his legal knowledge that although the documentary claim of Lady Agnes, and her moral right, were indisputable, yet the whole value of the little property would probably be swallowed up in costs, if an attempt was made to recover it. He represented the fact to her, but Lady Agnes at once instructed him to proceed.</p>
|
||||
<p>The same over-mastering pride which was the one fault of her character, lent an almost sacred value to every piece of land, however small, which had once formed part of the estate of her ancestors. Not one rood of ground would she have parted with, not one perch should remain in the hands of strangers whilst she had the means of disputing possession. Yet this was the very woman who, with open-handed generosity, was ever ready to succour or assist the poor, and would not hesitate to spend large sums of money to give another person a pleasure.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton went to law and quickly found it a tough job, for this was one of those small properties which old Sternhold had been able to keep in his own hands, and his son Marese was not disposed to part with it, especially as with lapse of time—although situated far from the city proper—it had increased in value some twenty-five per cent.</p>
|
||||
<p>The same overmastering pride which was the one fault of her character, lent an almost sacred value to every piece of land, however small, which had once formed part of the estate of her ancestors. Not one rood of ground would she have parted with, not one perch should remain in the hands of strangers whilst she had the means of disputing possession. Yet this was the very woman who, with openhanded generosity, was ever ready to succour or assist the poor, and would not hesitate to spend large sums of money to give another person a pleasure.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton went to law and quickly found it a tough job, for this was one of those small properties which old Sternhold had been able to keep in his own hands, and his son Marese was not disposed to part with it, especially as with lapse of time—although situated far from the city proper—it had increased in value some twenty-five percent.</p>
|
||||
<p>Broughton advised Lady Agnes not to go to the inevitable expense of protracted litigation; but she was firm, and the battle began in the Courts, when suddenly, as the forces advanced to the fight, the enemy gave in and surrendered without firing a shot.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a piece of Theodore’s work. That subtle brain of his had perceived a means by which Marese might, if he played his cards rightly, obtain the value of this little plot of land ten times over. Why not marry this Lady Lechester? She would give him exactly what he wanted—a position and connections among the nobility which all the wealth of old Sternhold could not buy.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Who is Lady Lechester?” asked Marese.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore told him. He knew, because in the asylum at Stirmingham there were two lunatics of that family, the most profitable of the patients the asylum contained.</p>
|
||||
<p>“If any accident should happen to either of those patients,” said Theodore, “Lady Lechester’s property would be doubled; if an accident happen to both of them, it would be trebled. Accidents sometimes happen in the best regulated asylums. The easiest way to get rid of a lunatic who exhibits homicidal tendencies is—to let him escape. He kills two or three, and then—he cuts his own throat. With a lunatic who has not got homicidal tendencies, and whose madness is, between ourselves, a <em>matter of opinion</em>—with such persons there are other methods; but no matter, get Lady Lechester first.” And Marese, seeing that his (Theodore’s) words were good, did as he was advised.</p>
|
||||
<p>One day there called at The Towers a gentleman, who was received by Lady Agnes in the most distant manner, for she recognised his name as that of her opponent. Marese met her with a species of mingled deference and pride, exactly suited to the person he addressed. He begged pardon for his intrusion; he felt that an apology was due to Lady Lechester which written words could not convey. His lawyers had involved him in a mistaken and ungentlemanly contest. When he had learnt that his antagonist was a lady, and a lady of distinguished position, he had looked into the matter personally, and at once saw that whatever claim the chicanery of the law gave him, was far over-balanced by the moral and social right of Lady Lechester. He had at once stayed proceedings, had ordered his solicitors to immediately restore possession to Lady Lechester, and had come in person to offer his sincere apology for the trouble he had inadvertently caused.</p>
|
||||
<p>One day there called at The Towers a gentleman, who was received by Lady Agnes in the most distant manner, for she recognised his name as that of her opponent. Marese met her with a species of mingled deference and pride, exactly suited to the person he addressed. He begged pardon for his intrusion; he felt that an apology was due to Lady Lechester which written words could not convey. His lawyers had involved him in a mistaken and ungentlemanly contest. When he had learnt that his antagonist was a lady, and a lady of distinguished position, he had looked into the matter personally, and at once saw that whatever claim the chicanery of the law gave him, was far overbalanced by the moral and social right of Lady Lechester. He had at once stayed proceedings, had ordered his solicitors to immediately restore possession to Lady Lechester, and had come in person to offer his sincere apology for the trouble he had inadvertently caused.</p>
|
||||
<p>Be sure that Marese’s personal appearance had something to do with his success. At all events Lady Agnes was deeply impressed with his conduct, which she easily ascribed to a nobility of mind; and not to be outdone, while she freely accepted the land, she insisted upon disbursing a sum sufficient to cover the money that had been spent on it.</p>
|
||||
<p>From that hour Marese was a favoured visitor at The Towers. He came but rarely, but when he came his presence lingered after him. His name, as the heir of Stirmingham, was constantly before her in the papers and on everyone’s lips. Add to this his own deep artifice, and it is not to be wondered at that he made progress.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last it came to pass that Broughton was engaged in arranging the clearing off of certain heavy incumbrances upon the Lechester estate, with money which Marese had received for salvage of the <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Lucca</i>. Such an arrangement could only mean marriage.</p>
|
||||
<p>Not long after Marese’s visit to The Towers, Aymer arrived with Broughton, bringing with him a collection of pictures, old Bibles, and some few bronzes for Lady Lechester, and a heart full of affection for Violet. He was invited to stay several days, and did so, and for that brief time the joys they had shared at The Place seemed to return. The weather of early spring was too chilly for much out-of-door exercise; but they had all the vast structure of The Towers to wander over—galleries and corridors, vast rooms where they were unlikely to be interrupted, for now the new wing had been built, very few of the servants ever entered the old rooms, and Lady Agnes never. Aymer had come with his mind full of a thousand things he had to say—of love, of hope, of projects that he had formed, and yet when they were together, and the silent rooms invited him to speak, he found himself instead listening to Violet’s low voice as she told him all about her life at The Towers, and her feelings for him. It was natural that, the first pleasures of their meeting over, Violet should speak of Lady Agnes, and Aymer of the heir, with whose fortunes he had of late seemed to be mixed up. Violet was full of a subject which she had long wanted to confide to Aymer, and yet hardly liked to write. It was about some singularities of Lady Agnes.</p>
|
||||
<p>She was very kind, very affectionate and considerate, and yet, Violet said, it seemed to those who lived with her constantly that she had something for ever preying upon her mind. She was subject to fits of silence and abstraction, which would seize her at unaccountable times, and she would then rise and withdraw, and shut herself up in her own room for hours; and once for as long an two days she remained thus secluded.</p>
|
||||
<p>At such times she generally used a small room in the new wing, the key of which never left her hands, and which no one entered but herself. Another singular habit which she had was going out at night, or after dusk, into the most unfrequented portion of the park. She would seem to be seized with a sudden desire to escape all notice and observation, would put on her hat, wrap herself in a plain shawl, and let the weather be what it might, go forth alone. The servants were so well acquainted with this habit that they never offered to accompany her—indeed, it was part of the household etiquette to affect not to notice her at these times. Her absence rarely exceeded an hour, but knowing that poachers were often abroad, Violet owned that these nocturnal rambles filled her with alarm while they lasted. Another peculiar thing was that Lady Agnes seemed at times as if she believed there was a third person in the room, invisible to others. Once, Violet going into her apartment, surprised her talking in an excited tone, and found to her astonishment that there was no one near her. She was about to retire, when she was transfixed with astonishment to see that Agnes held a naked sword in her hand, which she would point at some invisible object, and then speak softly in a tongue that Violet did not understand, but believed to be Latin. Violet saw that she was not perceived. Agnes’ eyes were wide open, but fixed and staring, as if she saw and yet did not see. Afraid, and yet unwilling to call assistance, Violet remained in the ante-chamber, and presently there was a profound silence. She cautiously went in and found the sword returned to its position over the mantelpiece, and Lady Agnes fast asleep in her armchair.</p>
|
||||
<p>She was very kind, very affectionate and considerate, and yet, Violet said, it seemed to those who lived with her constantly that she had something forever preying upon her mind. She was subject to fits of silence and abstraction, which would seize her at unaccountable times, and she would then rise and withdraw, and shut herself up in her own room for hours; and once for as long an two days she remained thus secluded.</p>
|
||||
<p>At such times she generally used a small room in the new wing, the key of which never left her hands, and which no one entered but herself. Another singular habit which she had was going out at night, or after dusk, into the most unfrequented portion of the park. She would seem to be seized with a sudden desire to escape all notice and observation, would put on her hat, wrap herself in a plain shawl, and let the weather be what it might, go forth alone. The servants were so well acquainted with this habit that they never offered to accompany her—indeed, it was part of the household etiquette to affect not to notice her at these times. Her absence rarely exceeded an hour, but knowing that poachers were often abroad, Violet owned that these nocturnal rambles filled her with alarm while they lasted. Another peculiar thing was that Lady Agnes seemed at times as if she believed there was a third person in the room, invisible to others. Once, Violet going into her apartment, surprised her talking in an excited tone, and found to her astonishment that there was no one near her. She was about to retire, when she was transfixed with astonishment to see that Agnes held a naked sword in her hand, which she would point at some invisible object, and then speak softly in a tongue that Violet did not understand, but believed to be Latin. Violet saw that she was not perceived. Agnes’ eyes were wide open, but fixed and staring, as if she saw and yet did not see. Afraid, and yet unwilling to call assistance, Violet remained in the antechamber, and presently there was a profound silence. She cautiously went in and found the sword returned to its position over the mantelpiece, and Lady Agnes fast asleep in her armchair.</p>
|
||||
<p>What ought she to do? Ought the family physician, <abbr>Dr.</abbr> Parker, to be made acquainted with these facts, or was it best to pass them unnoticed? Violet was half afraid to say so, but at these times an ill-defined dread would arise lest Agnes’ mind was partly affected. Insanity was well known to run in the Lechester family. Violet’s gentle and affectionate mind was filled with fear lest her benefactress should suffer some injury. What had she better do?</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a difficult question, and Aymer could not answer it. To him, Lady Lechester appeared to be of perfectly sound mind; he could hardly believe the strange things Violet had told him. At all events it would be best not to take any action at present; better wait and watch if these symptoms developed themselves. Violet should keep as close a watch upon Lady Agnes as was compatible with not arousing her suspicions, and yet—</p>
|
||||
<p>The selfishness of the true lover came to the surface. He did not like to leave his love in a house where the mistress was certainly given to odd habits, and might possibly be really insane—not even though that mistress had shown the most disinterested and affectionate interest in her. But what could he do? His time was up, he must return to Broughton and recommence the old dreary round of labour, to recommence the book he was writing in his solitary apartments. The poor fellow was very miserable at parting, though Agnes asked him to come when he chose.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -33,9 +33,9 @@
|
|||
<p>It was very strange, but these symptoms she had described to Aymer, seemed to increase and strengthen directly afterwards. Lady Lechester seemed to desire more and more to be alone: she wandered more frequently out into the park, not only by night but in the open daylight; and Violet watching her, and yet ashamed to watch, learnt which way her steps tended, and was always prepared, if any alarm was given, to start at once for the spot.</p>
|
||||
<p>That spot was about half-a-mile, perhaps a little more, from The Towers, and just within the park walls. It was concealed from The Towers by the intervening trees which dotted the park, but there was no wood or copse to pass through in reaching it.</p>
|
||||
<p>Wherever a rapid river eats its way through a hilly country, and where streams dash down from the hills to join it, there singular tunnels, or whatever the proper name may be, are often found. The Ise (obviously a corruption of Ouse) was a narrow, clear stream, extremely rapid, and confined between high banks, which made it, for two-thirds of its career, practically inaccessible.</p>
|
||||
<p>At this particular place, in days gone by, it appeared as if a stream, perhaps flowing from some long extinct glacier, had cut its way down to the river by boring a narrow, circular tunnel through the bank of the river. This tunnel was narrow at the top, not larger than would admit the body of a man, but widened as it descended, till where it reached the river there was a considerable cave, and any one kneeling on the sward above could look down upon the water of the river in the dim light, and hear its gurgling, murmuring sound rise up, greatly increased in volume by the acoustic properties of the tunnel, which somewhat resembled the famed Ear of Dionysius, though of course irregular in shape. When the river was swollen with rain or snow, the water came halfway up the tunnel, and the gurgling noise then rose into a hissing, bubbling sound, like that from a huge cauldron of boiling water. Hence, perhaps, its popular name of “Pot.” Such “Pots” are to be found, more or less varied in construction, in many parts of England, and generally associated with some local tradition of supernatural beings, or of ancient heroes.</p>
|
||||
<p>At this particular place, in days gone by, it appeared as if a stream, perhaps flowing from some long extinct glacier, had cut its way down to the river by boring a narrow, circular tunnel through the bank of the river. This tunnel was narrow at the top, not larger than would admit the body of a man, but widened as it descended, till where it reached the river there was a considerable cave, and anyone kneeling on the sward above could look down upon the water of the river in the dim light, and hear its gurgling, murmuring sound rise up, greatly increased in volume by the acoustic properties of the tunnel, which somewhat resembled the famed Ear of Dionysius, though of course irregular in shape. When the river was swollen with rain or snow, the water came halfway up the tunnel, and the gurgling noise then rose into a hissing, bubbling sound, like that from a huge cauldron of boiling water. Hence, perhaps, its popular name of “Pot.” Such “Pots” are to be found, more or less varied in construction, in many parts of England, and generally associated with some local tradition of supernatural beings, or of ancient heroes.</p>
|
||||
<p>This particular funnel was known as Kickwell Pot—an apparently unmeaning name. The antiquaries, however, would have it that Kickwell was a degenerate form of Cwichhelm, the name of a famous chieftain in the days when the Saxons and Britons fought for the fairest isle of the sea. Probably, they added, Cwichhelm, in one of his numerous battles, was defeated, and perhaps forced to take refuge in this very cave, which was accessible in a canoe or small boat from below, and may have been larger and more capable of habitation then than in our time. At all events, Kickwell Pot had a bad name in the neighbourhood, and there were traditions that more than one man had lost his life, by attempting to descend its precipitous sides in search of treasure temptingly displayed by a dwarf. This may or may not have been founded upon some old worship of a water-spirit or cave-god. The effect was that the common people shunned the spot.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a wild place. The beech trees and the great hawthorns, which half-filled that side of the park, completely hid all view of the mansion, and on the right and left were steep downs, so thinly clad with vegetation that the chalk was bare in places. In front swirled along the dark river, whose bank rose twenty feet almost sheer cliff, and opposite was a plantation of fir. On the left hand, facing the fir plantation, was the low stone wall of the park which ended here. Near the mouth of “The Pot,” round which some one had built up a loosely-compacted wall of a few stones without mortar, to keep sheep from falling in, was the trunk of a decayed oak tree, once vast in size and reaching to a noble height, now a mere stump, but still retaining a certain weird grandeur. Its hollow trunk formed a natural hut, facing “The Pot” and the dark fir plantation.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was a wild place. The beech trees and the great hawthorns, which half-filled that side of the park, completely hid all view of the mansion, and on the right and left were steep downs, so thinly clad with vegetation that the chalk was bare in places. In front swirled along the dark river, whose bank rose twenty feet almost sheer cliff, and opposite was a plantation of fir. On the left hand, facing the fir plantation, was the low stone wall of the park which ended here. Near the mouth of “The Pot,” round which someone had built up a loosely-compacted wall of a few stones without mortar, to keep sheep from falling in, was the trunk of a decayed oak tree, once vast in size and reaching to a noble height, now a mere stump, but still retaining a certain weird grandeur. Its hollow trunk formed a natural hut, facing “The Pot” and the dark fir plantation.</p>
|
||||
<p>This was a singular spot for the mistress of that fair estate to frequent almost at all hours of the day and night. No wonder that Violet, having ascertained its character, grew more and more alarmed, and kept a closer watch.</p>
|
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</section>
|
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</body>
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|
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@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
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<p>When once Agnes had received a letter, which had travelled with its message of love and admiration over those thousands and thousands of miles of ocean, then she realised how she had cut herself off from her own darling; and her heart, before so cold and hard, softened, and was full of miserable forebodings. She lost much of her youthful beauty—the incessant anxiety that gnawed at her heart deprived her cheeks of their bloom, and her form of its graceful lines. She grew pale, even haggard, and people whispered that the heiress was fast going into a decline. Hours and hours she spent alone in the room of the old mansion where the parting had taken place. Sitting there in the Blue Room, as it was called, her mind filled with pictures of war and its dangers, her soul ever strung up to the highest pitch of anxious waiting, what wonder was it that Agnes began to see visions and to dream dreams—visions that she never mentioned, dreams that she never told. It would be easy to argue that what happened was a mere coincidence; that her fears had excited her mind; and that if the actual event had not lent a factitious importance to the affair, it would have passed as a mental delusion.</p>
|
||||
<p>Certain it was that in May, about ten months after De Warren’s departure, Agnes grew suddenly cheerful—the very opposite to what she had been. She sang and played, and danced about the old house. She said that something had told her that De Warren was coming home. No letter had reached her to that effect; the war was still going on, and yet she was perfectly certain that for some reason or other the cornet was returning—and, what was better, was returning covered with honours. Those in the house looked upon this sudden change of spirits and manner as a certain sign that something would happen to the heiress, and her faithful old nurse (dead before Violet’s advent) kept a close watch upon her.</p>
|
||||
<p>One day, a curious thing happened. In the midst of lunch, Lady Agnes sprang up from table with a joyful but hysterical laugh, and declared that Walter was coming on horseback, and she must go and meet him. Quick as thought she had her hat on, and rushed out of the house, the nurse following at a little distance, anxious to see what would happen.</p>
|
||||
<p>Lady Agnes walked swiftly across the park to a little wicket-gate in the wall, where Warren used to meet her. Then she stopped and looked along the path, while the nurse hid behind the trunk of a beech tree at a short distance. In a few minutes Agnes cried out, “I hear him—I hear him; it is his footstep.” Then a minute afterwards she flung out her arms as if embracing some one, and cried, and seemed to kiss the air, uttering warm words of affection. The nurse saw nothing—only a light puff of wind stirred the leaves and caused a rustling.</p>
|
||||
<p>Lady Agnes walked swiftly across the park to a little wicket-gate in the wall, where Warren used to meet her. Then she stopped and looked along the path, while the nurse hid behind the trunk of a beech tree at a short distance. In a few minutes Agnes cried out, “I hear him—I hear him; it is his footstep.” Then a minute afterwards she flung out her arms as if embracing someone, and cried, and seemed to kiss the air, uttering warm words of affection. The nurse saw nothing—only a light puff of wind stirred the leaves and caused a rustling.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes in a few moments turned to the right, and began to walk, or rather glide, as it seemed to the excited fancy of the nurse, at a swift pace, all the while talking as if to some person who accompanied her, and every now and then pausing to throw her arms round his neck, and uttering an hysterical sob. She made straight for “The Pot,” and went quickly round the oak stump. The nurse followed rapidly, and as she peeped round the oak there was Lady Agnes facing her on the other side of “The Pot,” with both arms extended and her face white as death. “Walter,” she said, distinctly; “Walter, what does that red spot on your forehead mean? Are you angry?” Then she fell prone on the grass in a dead faint, and the nurse had immense trouble to get her home again.</p>
|
||||
<p>Just a month afterwards came the news that Walter was dead, having been shot in the <em>forehead</em> with a ball from a matchlock while leading on his men. He had won much praise by his desperate courage, and the last despatch recommended him for promotion, and for the Cross for saving life under heavy fire.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, looked at dispassionately by others, the whole incident resolves itself into a case of excitement and over-anxiety acting upon a naturally sensitive organisation. But it was easy to see how to Lady Agnes the affair wore a very different light. To her the imaginary shape, invisible to others, which had met her at the little wicket-gate, was real—the spirit of her lover, which had come from the wilds of China, over thousands of miles, to acquaint her in dumb show of the destruction of its body.</p>
|
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|
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@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
|
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<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-4" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">IV</h3>
|
||||
<p>Ever since the world began it has been the belief of mankind that desolate places are the special haunt of supernatural beings. To this day the merchants who travel upon camels across the deserts of the East, are firmly persuaded that they can hear strange voices calling them from among the sandhills, and that at dusk wild figures may be seen gliding over the ruins of long-lost cities. It is useless to demonstrate that the curious noises of the desert, are caused by the tension which the dead silence causes upon the nerves of the ear, or by the shifting of the sand, and the currents of air which the heated surface of the sand makes whirl about. The belief is so natural that it cannot be entirely eradicated. In the olden times in our own fair England, and not so very long ago either, there was not a wild and unfrequented place which had not got its spirit. The woods had their elves and wild huntsmen, the meadows their fairies, the fountains their nymphs, the rocks and caves their dwarfs, and the air at night was crowded with witches travelling to and fro.</p>
|
||||
<p>Let any one who possesses a vivid imagination and a highly-wrought nervous system, even now, in this nineteenth century, with all the advantages of learning and science, go and sit among the rocks, or in the depths of the wood and think of immortality, and all that that word really means, and by-and-by a mysterious awe will creep into the mind, and it will half believe in the possibility of seeing or meeting something—<em>something</em>—it knows not exactly what.</p>
|
||||
<p>Let anyone who possesses a vivid imagination and a highly-wrought nervous system, even now, in this nineteenth century, with all the advantages of learning and science, go and sit among the rocks, or in the depths of the wood and think of immortality, and all that that word really means, and by-and-by a mysterious awe will creep into the mind, and it will half believe in the possibility of seeing or meeting something—<em>something</em>—it knows not exactly what.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes Lechester went into the desolate places fully expecting to meet her lover, and she met—</p>
|
||||
<p>A more desolate place than the Kickwell Pot could not easily be found in highly-cultivated England, so near to an inhabited mansion. Even in winter, when the leaves were off the trees, there was not a place where a view could be got of it from the mansion, and when there the visitor was, to all intents and purposes, isolated from the world. In summer it was still more hidden, for the thick leaves above, and the tall brake fern growing luxuriantly beneath, obstructed the view, and it was impossible to see for more than a dozen yards. There was but one spot from whence it was possible to overlook “The Pot,” and that was from the summit of the Down on the right. But this Down was totally deserted. The very sheep kept aloof from it. Its steep sides were almost inaccessible even to their nimble feet, and the soil was so thin—that no herbage grew to reward the bold climber. Shepherds kept their flocks away from that neighbourhood, for if a sheep lost its footing and stumbled, there was no escape. The body must roll and rebound till it reached the swift river below, which running between steep banks was not easy to get at, and death by drowning was certain. In the course of time many had been lost in this way, and now care was taken that the flocks should not travel in that direction. Animal life almost entirely avoided the bare chalk cliffs. Sometimes a hawk would linger on the edge, as it were, poising himself on his wings but a few feet above the ridge, as if glorying in defiance of the depth below. Sometimes a solitary crow would alight upon the hill, to devour the spoil it had carried off, in peace and undisturbed. In the fir plantation on the other side of the river a few pigeons built, and now and then a loud jay chattered, and a squirrel peeped out from the topmost branches among the cones. The woodpecker might be heard now and then tapping in the great beech trees, and a brown rabbit would start out from among the fern. But so far as man was concerned the spot was totally desolate: no path passed near, the common people avoided it. It was a desolate place.</p>
|
||||
<p>In summer time a place to meditate in. To sit upon the sward, leaning back against the vast trunk of the dead oak tree, listening to the gentle murmur of the river, as it rose up out of the mouth of “The Pot” close to the feet. In winter a weird and sinister spot, when the trees were bare and dark, the fir trees gloomy and black, when the snow lodged in great drifts upon the Downs, and the murmur of the river rose to a dull, sullen roar, resounding up the strange, natural funnel. When the grey clouds hung over the sky, and the mist clung to the hill, and the occasional gusts of bitter wind rustled the dead beech leaves—then indeed it was a desolate place. It was here that the darkness, the thin column of smoke-like darkness, began to grow into form and shape; and as it took to itself a figure, so the vision of poor Walter faded away, and lost its distinctness of outline.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -29,7 +29,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Out of this desk Agnes was taking what, at that distance, Violet could only conjecture were letters, and burning them one by one in the flame of the lamp.</p>
|
||||
<p>Presently she paused, and Violet saw her kiss something which looked like a curl of chestnut hair. Then not fancying her self-imposed task of watching her benefactress, and convinced that there was no danger, Violet stole away.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes was, in fact, destroying her memorials of Walter De Warren, which she had kept in his own desk in the room in which she had last seen him alive. She had determined to cast aside all remembrance of him; his memory should not embarrass her in the course she would pursue. Freed from the slightest control by him, she thought that she would be the better able to choose between the earthly and the immortal destinies offered to her. Yet she still lingered, still hesitated. She could not say to Marese “I will,” nor could she say “I will not.” She permitted his money to be used in freeing her estate of encumbrance, and this gave him a moral claim upon her hand. After that was done, it seemed to her that the spirit who visited her at “The Pot” visibly frowned, and the great eyes were full of reproach.</p>
|
||||
<p>What was this feeble earthly glory to that which was offered to her in the sky? She had chosen wrongly, contrary to the spirit of the proud and ambitious Lechesters; she was acting in opposition to the traditions of her race. Marese, after all, was a low-born upstart. The ancestry of the spirit had no beginning and no end. Again she hesitated.</p>
|
||||
<p>What was this feeble earthly glory to that which was offered to her in the sky? She had chosen wrongly, contrary to the spirit of the proud and ambitious Lechesters; she was acting in opposition to the traditions of her race. Marese, after all, was a lowborn upstart. The ancestry of the spirit had no beginning and no end. Again she hesitated.</p>
|
||||
<p>About this time there came a letter from Miss Merton, dated Torquay, written in a formal but polite manner, begging to be informed what she had better do with the dog Dando. She did not wish to get rid of him—she had become quite attached to the dog and he to her—but she was not the actual owner, and she did not like the responsibility of having so valuable an animal with her.</p>
|
||||
<p>It seemed as if the value of the dog was well known, for at least two deliberate attempts had been made to steal it within a few days. And these attempts had not a little alarmed Miss Merton. To find that her steps were watched and followed by a wild-looking tramp, or tinker fellow, bent upon carrying off the dog was, to say the least, extremely unpleasant.</p>
|
||||
<p>The man—an ill-looking fellow—was always about the house, and would not go away. He played a tin whistle, and whenever the dog heard some peculiar notes, he became greatly excited, and began to dance about in a curious manner. Not only that, but if the tramp varied the tune in some way, then the dog grew frantic to run after him, and twice she had the utmost difficulty to recover him.</p>
|
||||
|
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|
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|
|
@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
|
|||
<p>In truth, she wondered why he had never asked her to come to him—to be married and live with him in his humble lodgings at Barnham. She would have been happy and content. But to Aymer the idea was impossible. All the romance of his life was woven around her head; he would not bring her to miserable back rooms, to a confined narrow life in a third-class street. It would have been to admit that his whole being was a failure; that he had formed hopes and dreamed dreams beyond his power ever to grasp, and his spirit was not yet broken to that. No, he would struggle and work, and bear anything for Violet’s sake. Anything but this miserable monotony without progress. Had there been progress, however slow, he might have tamed his impatient mind and forced himself to endure it.</p>
|
||||
<p>Day after day passed, the nights came and went, and each morning found him precisely in the same position as before. His organisation was too sensitive, too highly wrought, eager, nervous, for the dull plodding of daily life. He chafed against it, till dark circles formed themselves under his eyelids—circles which sleep would not remove. These were partly caused by overwork.</p>
|
||||
<p>Broughton, on returning from Stirmingham, found his affairs at Barnham had got into a fearful state of muddle, and Aymer had to assist him to clear the Augean stable of accumulated correspondence, and satisfy neglected clients. Often, after a long day’s work, he had to carry accounts or correspondence home with him and finish it there, and then after that he would open his own plain simple desk—much such a desk as the one that had belonged to poor Cornet De Warren—and resume his interrupted <abbr class="eoc">MS.</abbr></p>
|
||||
<p>After a while it became unbearable; the poor fellow grew desperate. He might not have so soon given way, had not a slight attack of illness, not sufficient to confine him in-doors, added to the tension of his nerves. He determined to stay on until his MS was finished—till the last word had been written, and the last sketch elaborated—then he would go to London, no matter what became of him. If all else failed he could, at the last, return to Wick Farm; they would give him a bed and a crust, and he would be no worse off than before.</p>
|
||||
<p>After a while it became unbearable; the poor fellow grew desperate. He might not have so soon given way, had not a slight attack of illness, not sufficient to confine him indoors, added to the tension of his nerves. He determined to stay on until his MS was finished—till the last word had been written, and the last sketch elaborated—then he would go to London, no matter what became of him. If all else failed he could, at the last, return to Wick Farm; they would give him a bed and a crust, and he would be no worse off than before.</p>
|
||||
<p>He toiled at his book at midnight, and long hours afterwards, when the good people of Barnham town were calmly sleeping the sleep of the just, and permitting the talent in their midst to eat its own heart. At last it was finished, and he left.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton wished him to stay, offered to increase his salary, said that he had become really useful, and even, as a personal favour, begged him to remain. Aymer thanked him sincerely, but was firm—he must go. So far as was possible he explained to Broughton the reason, and the lawyer, hard as he was, had sufficient power of understanding others to perceive the real state of affairs. He warned Aymer that certain disappointment awaited him in London, that no publisher would issue a book by an unknown author unless paid for it. Aymer shook his head sadly—he had known that well enough long ago, but he must go.</p>
|
||||
<p>Broughton shook hands with him, gave him a five-pound note over and above his salary, and told him if in distress, as he prophesied he would certainly soon be, to write to him, or else return.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -23,7 +23,7 @@
|
|||
<p>This language greatly cheered poor Aymer, and for a few days he was in a species of Paradise.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was not even yet fully spring—the wind was cold at times, but still they could go out freely; and with Violet at his side, and Dando bounding along in front, it seemed almost like a return to the old joyous times at World’s End.</p>
|
||||
<p>The hours flew by, and when the last day came it seemed as if but a few minutes had elapsed. It happened to be a wet day—the spring showers were falling steadily, and, unable to go out, they rambled into the old mansion, and strolled from room to room.</p>
|
||||
<p>The groom had been ordered to get the dog-cart out by a certain time to take Aymer seven miles to the nearest railway station. That station was but a small one, and two up-trains only stopped there in the course of the day—if he missed this he would not reach London that night.</p>
|
||||
<p>The groom had been ordered to get the dogcart out by a certain time to take Aymer seven miles to the nearest railway station. That station was but a small one, and two up-trains only stopped there in the course of the day—if he missed this he would not reach London that night.</p>
|
||||
<p>Forgetful of time, perhaps half purposely forgetful, Aymer lingered on, and could not tear himself away.</p>
|
||||
<p>At length the groom, tired of waiting in the rain, and anxious about the time, waived all ceremony, and came to seek his passenger.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer pressed Violet’s hand, kissed it, and was gone, not daring to look back.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
|
|||
<p>From that very room De Warren had gone, forth to his fate: from that room Aymer had started to win himself a way in the world.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was late at night when he reached London. Nothing could be done till the morning. As he had no experience of the ways of the metropolis, Aymer naturally paid about half as much again as was necessary, and reckoning up his slender stock of money, foresaw that he could not long remain in town at this rate.</p>
|
||||
<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton had given him a written introduction to a firm of law-publishers and stationers with whom he dealt—not that they would be of any use to him in themselves, but in the idea that they might have connections who could serve him.</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon these gentlemen he waited in the morning, and was fairly well received. They gave him a note to another firm who were in a more popular line of business. Aymer trudged thither, and found these people very off-handed and very busy. They glanced at his manuscript—not in their line. Had he anything that would be likely to take with boys?—illustrated fiction sold best for boys and girls. Ah, well! they were sorry and very busy. Suppose he tried so-and-so?</p>
|
||||
<p>Upon these gentlemen he waited in the morning, and was fairly well received. They gave him a note to another firm who were in a more popular line of business. Aymer trudged thither, and found these people very offhanded and very busy. They glanced at his manuscript—not in their line. Had he anything that would be likely to take with boys?—illustrated fiction sold best for boys and girls. Ah, well! they were sorry and very busy. Suppose he tried so-and-so?</p>
|
||||
<p>This process, or pretty much the same process, was repeated for two or three days, until poor Aymer, naturally enough, lost heart.</p>
|
||||
<p>As he left one publisher’s shop, a clerk, who was writing at his desk near the door, noticed his careworn look, and having once gone through a somewhat similar experience, and seeing “gentleman” marked upon his features, asked him if he would show him the work.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer did so. The clerk, an experienced man, turned over the illustrations carefully, and then appeared to ponder.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -43,7 +43,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Aymer, as he walked along busy Fleet Street and up into the Strand, thought over this advice, and it sounded reasonable enough—too reasonable. For he had so little money. When all he had saved from the gift of fifty pounds, his salary, and Broughton’s present, were added together, he had but forty-seven pounds. Out of this he was advised to expend forty pounds in one lump; to him it seemed like risking a fortune. But Violet? His book? He could not help, even after all his disappointments, feeling a certain faith in his book.</p>
|
||||
<p>Westwards he walked, past the famous bronze lions, and the idea came into his mind—How did the hero of Trafalgar win his fame? Was it not by courage only—simple courage? On, then. He went to the firm mentioned. They haggled for a larger sum; but Aymer was firm, for the simple reason that he had no more to give. Then they wanted a few days to consider.</p>
|
||||
<p>This he could not refuse; and these days passed slowly, while his stock of money diminished every hour. Finally they agreed to publish the work, but bound him down to such conditions, that it was hard to see how he could recover a tenth part of his investment, much less obtain a profit. He signed the agreement, paid the money, and walked forth.</p>
|
||||
<p>He went up the steps to the National Gallery, barely knowing what he did. He stood and gazed down upon the great square, with the lions and the fountains, and the busy stream of human life flowing for ever round it. A proud feeling swelled up within. At last his book would be seen and read, his name would be known, and then—Violet!</p>
|
||||
<p>He went up the steps to the National Gallery, barely knowing what he did. He stood and gazed down upon the great square, with the lions and the fountains, and the busy stream of human life flowing forever round it. A proud feeling swelled up within. At last his book would be seen and read, his name would be known, and then—Violet!</p>
|
||||
<p>Days and weeks went by, and yet no proofs came to his humble lodgings, or rather sleeping place, for all day he wandered to and fro in the great city. When he called at the publishers’ office they treated him with supercilious indifference, and—“Really did not know that the immediate appearance of the little book was so important.” There were other works they had had in hand previously, and which must have priority.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer wandered about, not only into the great thoroughfares and the famous streets of the City and West End, but eastwards down to the docks, filled with curiosity, observing everything, storing his mind with facts and characteristics for future use, and meantime starving—for it was rapidly coming to that; and the descent was facilitated by a misfortune which befell him in Shoreditch, where, as he was standing near a passage or court in a crowd, a thief made off with three pounds out of his remaining five.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is easy to say—Why did not Aymer get work? But how was he to do so with no money to advertise, no introductions, no kind of security to give, a perfect stranger? He did try. He called upon some firms who advertised in the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Telegraph</i>. The very first question was—Where do you come from? The country! That answer was sufficient. They wanted a man up to London work and to the ways of the City. Aymer modestly said he could learn. “Yes,” they replied, “and we must pay for your education. Good morning.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -14,7 +14,7 @@
|
|||
<p>As he sat thinking over his position, the idea occurred to him to see what mention the book made of the great estate at Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>There were pages upon pages devoted to Sibbolds and Baskettes, just as he expected. Aymer ran down the list, recalling, as he went, the scenes he had witnessed in the Sternhold Hall.</p>
|
||||
<p>At the foot of one page was a short note in small type, and a name which caught his eye—“Bury Wick Church.” He read it—it stated that it was uncertain what had become of Arthur Sibbold, the heir by the entail, and that inquiries had failed to elucidate his fate. There was a statement, made on very little authority, that he had been buried in Bury Wick Church, <abbr>co.</abbr> B—, but researches there had revealed nothing. Either he had died a pauper, and had been interred without a tombstone, or else <em>he had changed his name</em>. It was this last sentence that in an instant threw a flood of light, as it were, into Aymer’s mind—<em>changed his name</em>.</p>
|
||||
<p>Full of excitement, he rushed to his little portmanteau, tore out his note-book, and quickly found the memorandum made in the office of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, at Barnham.</p>
|
||||
<p>Full of excitement, he rushed to his little portmanteau, tore out his notebook, and quickly found the memorandum made in the office of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, at Barnham.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was the explanation of the disappearance of Arthur Sibbold—there was the advertisement in a small local newspaper of his intended marriage and change of name. Doubtless he had afterwards been known as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Waldron—had been buried as Waldron, and his death registered as Waldron. As Waldron of The Place, World’s End! Then poor old Jason Waldron, the kindest man that ever lived, was in reality the true heir to the vast estate at Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>Jason was dead, but Violet remained. Violet was the heiress. He sat, perfectly overwhelmed with his own discovery, of which he never entertained a moment’s doubt. He ransacked his memory of what he had heard at the family council; tried to recall the evidence that had been produced at that memorable <em>fiasco</em>; but found it hard to do so, for at the time his mind was far away with Violet, and he had no personal interest in the proceedings. Had he only known—what an opportunity he would have had—he might have learnt the smallest particulars.</p>
|
||||
<p>Thinking intently upon it, it seemed to him that the name of Arthur Sibbold was rarely, if ever, mentioned at that conference, it was always <em>James</em> Sibbold; Arthur seemed to have dropped out of the list altogether.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -23,14 +23,14 @@
|
|||
<p>He called his landlady, took up his great coat, and gave it to her—could she sell it? She looked it over, found many faults, but finally went out with it. In half an hour she returned with eighteen shillings.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer had given three pounds for it just before his wedding-day. He paid the old lady her half-crown, and hurried back to Holywell Street. The book he wanted, however, was not so easily to be found. All had heard of it—but no one had it.</p>
|
||||
<p>In time he was directed to a man who dealt in genealogical works, sold deeds, autographs, and similar trash. Here he found the book, and had a haggle for it, finally securing it for seven shillings and sixpence; the fellow would have been glad of three shillings, for it had been on his shelves for years, but Aymer was burning with impatience. In the preface he found a scanty account of the Sibbolds, not one-fifth as much as he had reckoned upon, for the book was devoted to Sternhold, the representative man of the Baskettes. There was, however, a pretty accurate narrative of the murder of Will Baskette, and from that Aymer incidentally obtained much that he wanted. Reflecting upon the murder, and trying to put himself in Arthur Sibbold’s place, Aymer arrived at a nearly perfect conception of the causes which led him to bury himself, as it were, out of sight.</p>
|
||||
<p>One of two things was clear—either Arthur Sibbold had actually participated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved for ever to abandon the home of his ancestors.</p>
|
||||
<p>One of two things was clear—either Arthur Sibbold had actually participated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved forever to abandon the home of his ancestors.</p>
|
||||
<p>Probably he had travelled as far as possible from the scene of the murder—perhaps to London (this was the case)—got employment, and, being successful, finally married into the Waldron family, and changed his name. He would naturally be reticent about his ancestors. The next generation would forget all about it, and the third would never think to inquire.</p>
|
||||
<p>Had the vast estate been in existence before Arthur Sibbold’s death, most probably he would have made himself known; but it was clear that it had not grown to one-fiftieth part of its present magnificence till long after.</p>
|
||||
<p>The silence of Arthur Sibbold, and Arthur Sibbold’s descendant, was thus readily and reasonably accounted for. Reading further, Aymer came to the bargain which Sternhold Baskette had made with the sons of James Sibbold, and of their transhipment to America. Here the legal knowledge that he had picked up in the office of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton enabled him to perceive several points that would not otherwise have occurred to him. That transaction was obviously null and void, if at the time it was concluded either Arthur Sibbold, or Arthur Sibbold’s descendants, were living. They were the lawful owners of the old farm at Wolf’s Glow, and of the Dismal Swamp, and it was impossible for James Sibbold’s children to transfer the estate to another person. All then that it was necessary to prove was that Violet was the direct descendant of Arthur Sibbold, and her claim would be at once irresistible. Then it occurred to him that at the family council he had often heard mention made of a certain deed of entail which was missing, and for which the members of the Sibbold detachment had offered large sums of money.</p>
|
||||
<p>The long, long hours and days that he had spent in the Sternhold Hall chronicling the proceedings of the council, and which he had at the time so heartily hated soon proved of the utmost value. He could at once understand what was wanted, and perceive the value of the smallest link of evidence. Here was one link obviously wanting—the deed. Without that deed the descent of Violet from Arthur Sibbold was comparatively of small account. It was possible that even then she might be a co-heiress; but without that deed—which specially included female heiresses—she would not be able to claim the entire estate. Yet even then, as the direct descendant of the elder brother, her claim would be extremely valuable, and far more likely to succeed than the very distant chance of the American Sibbolds or Baskettes, all of whom laboured under the disadvantage that their forefathers had sold their birthright for a mess of pottage. Another and far more serious difficulty which occurred to him as he thought over the matter, far into the night, was the absence of proof of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It was clear from the little book whose notes had opened his eyes, that the register of the church at Bury Wick, World’s End, had been searched, and no record found. His memorandum of the advertisement of change of name described Arthur Sibbold as of Middlesex; the marriage therefore might have taken place in London. Probably Sibbold had met the Miss Waldron he had afterwards married in town. Where then was he to find the register of marriage? Middlesex was a wide definition. How many churches were there in Middlesex? What a Herculean labour to search through them all!</p>
|
||||
<p>He was too much excited to sleep. Despite of all these drawbacks—the disappearance of the deed, and the absence of the marriage certificate—there was no reasonable doubt that Violet was the heiress of the Stirmingham estates. The difficulties that were in the way appeared to him as nothing; he would force his way through them. She should have her rights—and then! He would search every church in London till he did find the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It must be in existence somewhere. If it was in existence he would find it. Towards two o’clock in the morning he fell asleep, and, as a result, did not wake till ten next day. Hurrying to his daily task, he was met with frowns and curses for neglect, and venturing to remonstrate, was discharged upon the spot.</p>
|
||||
<p>Here seemed an end at once to all his golden dreams. He walked back into the City, and passing along Fleet Street, was stopped for a moment by a crowd of people staring into the window of a print and bookshop, and talking excitedly. A momentary curiosity led him to press through the crowd, till he could obtain a view of the window. There he saw—wonder of wonders—one of his own sketches, an illustration from his book, greatly enlarged, and printed in colours. It was this that had attracted the crowd. The humour and yet the pathos of the picture—the touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin—had gone straight to their hearts. On every side he heard the question, “Whose is it?”—“Who drew it?”—“What’s the artist’s name?” Then the title of the book was repeated, and “Who’s it by?”—“Who wrote it?”—“I’ll get a copy! Third Edition already—it must be good.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened (it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced to turn over a leaf of the MS, which was lying where Aymer had left it, on the publisher’s wide desk. This man had a world-wide reputation, and feared no competitor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was greatly struck with the sketches.</p>
|
||||
<p>Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened (it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced to turn over a leaf of the MS, which was lying where Aymer had left it, on the publisher’s wide desk. This man had a worldwide reputation, and feared no competitor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was greatly struck with the sketches.</p>
|
||||
<p>“This man will make hid fortune,” he said. “Why on earth do you let the book lie here mouldering?”</p>
|
||||
<p>The publisher said nothing, but next day the manuscript was put in hand, hurried out, and well advertised. The first and second edition sold out in a week, and Aymer heard nothing of it till accident led him into the crowd round the shop window in Fleet Street.</p>
|
||||
<p>It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher’s with a glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -40,8 +40,8 @@
|
|||
<p>“Now,” said his friend, “you call on my employers—I will mention your name—and offer them a work you have in hand.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer did so, and obtained a commission to write a work for them, to be illustrated by himself, and was presented with a twenty-pound note as earnest-money. Thus in a few hours, from a penniless outcast, he found himself with seventy pounds in his pocket—with a name, and with a prospect of constant and highly remunerative employment. If this continued, and of course it would—not all his disappointments could quench his faith in his destiny—he would marry Violet almost immediately. With this money he could search out, and establish her claim; he would employ her own late employer, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton. He was anxious to write to Violet, but he had not tasted food that day yet. He entered a restaurant and treated himself to a really good dinner, with a little of the generous juice of the grape. Towards five o’clock he sat himself down in his old room to write to Violet, and to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton.</p>
|
||||
<p>He wrote and wrote and wrote, and still he could not conclude; his heart was full, and he knew that there was a loving pair of eyes which would read every line with delight. First about his book—sending, of course, two copies by the same post—one for Violet, one for Lady Lechester—telling Violet of the excitement it had caused, of the crowd in the street, of the anxiety to learn the author’s name, of the first, second, third edition, and the fourth in the press. Was it to be wondered at that he dilated upon this subject?</p>
|
||||
<p>Then he told her of his troubles, of his work at the wharf, and explained why he had not written, and finally came to the discovery that Violet was the heiress of Stirmingham. He had a difficult task to explain to her how this arose; he had to review the whole history of the case in as short a compass as possible, and to put the links of evidence clearly, so that a non-technical mind could grasp them. He finished with a declaration of his intention to spare neither trouble, time, nor expense to establish Violet’s right; he would search every church register in London; she should ride in her carriage yet. If only poor Jason had been alive to rejoice in all this!</p>
|
||||
<p>This was the same man, remember, who not many weeks before had written to Violet from Stirmingham in the midst of the turmoil of the election, expressing his deep sense of the responsibility that must of necessity fall upon the owner of that marvellous city; he would not be that man for worlds. The self-same man was now intent on nothing less than becoming, through Violet, the very thing he had said he would not be at any price. Still the same omnipotent circumstances over which we have no control, and which can alter cases, and change the whole course of man’s nature.</p>
|
||||
<p>Then he told her of his troubles, of his work at the wharf, and explained why he had not written, and finally came to the discovery that Violet was the heiress of Stirmingham. He had a difficult task to explain to her how this arose; he had to review the whole history of the case in as short a compass as possible, and to put the links of evidence clearly, so that a nontechnical mind could grasp them. He finished with a declaration of his intention to spare neither trouble, time, nor expense to establish Violet’s right; he would search every church register in London; she should ride in her carriage yet. If only poor Jason had been alive to rejoice in all this!</p>
|
||||
<p>This was the same man, remember, who not many weeks before had written to Violet from Stirmingham in the midst of the turmoil of the election, expressing his deep sense of the responsibility that must of necessity fall upon the owner of that marvellous city; he would not be that man for worlds. The selfsame man was now intent on nothing less than becoming, through Violet, the very thing he had said he would not be at any price. Still the same omnipotent circumstances over which we have no control, and which can alter cases, and change the whole course of man’s nature.</p>
|
||||
<p>To Broughton he wrote in more businesslike style. He could not help triumphing a little after the other’s positive prophecy of his failure; he sent him also a copy of the third edition. But the mass of his letter referred to Violet’s claim upon the estate, and went as fully into details as he could possibly do. He referred <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton to the number and date of the Barnham newspaper, which contained the advertisement of Arthur Sibbold’s change of name. Would <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton take up the case?</p>
|
||||
<p>Who can trace the wonderful processes of the mind, especially when that mind is excited by unusual events, by unusual indulgence, and by a long previous course of hard thinking? That evening Aymer treated himself to the theatre, and saw his beloved Shakespeare performed for the first time. It was <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i>—the greatest of all tragedies. Who can tell? It may be that the intricate course of crime and bloodshed, he had seen displayed upon the stage, had preternaturally excited him; had caused him to think of such things. Perhaps the wine he had taken—a small quantity indeed, but almost unprecedented for him—had quickened his mental powers. Be it what it might, towards the grey dawn Aymer dreamt a dream—inchoate, wild, frenzied, horrible, impossible to describe. But he awoke with the drops of cold perspiration upon his forehead, with a great horror clinging to him, and he asked himself the question—Who murdered Jason Waldron, true heir to Stirmingham city? His legal knowledge suggested the immediate reply—Those who had an interest and a motive so to do. The man who had an interest was—John Marese Baskette.</p>
|
||||
<p>There was not a shadow of proof, but Aymer rose that morning weighed down with the firm moral conviction that it was he and no other who had instigated the deed. He recalled to his mind the circumstances of that mysterious crime—a crime which had never been even partially cleared up. He thought of Violet—his Violet—the next heir. Oh, God! if she were taken too. Should he go down to her at once? No; it was the fancy of his distempered mind. He would conquer it. She was perfectly safe at The Towers; and yet Marese came their sometimes. No; where could she be safer than amid that household and troop of servants? But he wrote and hinted his dark suspicions to her; warned her to be on her guard. This, he said, he was determined upon—he would establish her right, and he would punish the murderer of poor Jason. That very day he had commenced his search among the churches.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -9,10 +9,10 @@
|
|||
<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-7" epub:type="chapter">
|
||||
<h3 epub:type="title">VII</h3>
|
||||
<p>When Aymer’s first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with pleasure. His triumph was her triumph—his fame her fame—and in the excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered every obstacle. As she had read Marese’s letters to Agnes, so it was only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible—a marvel undreamt of. Marese was the heir—there could not be two—and in Marese she was personally interested. Together they re-read that portion of Aymer’s letter, and wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his conclusions—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the identity?</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible—a marvel undreamt of. Marese was the heir—there could not be two—and in Marese she was personally interested. Together they reread that portion of Aymer’s letter, and wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his conclusions—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the identity?</p>
|
||||
<p>The whole thing appeared so strange and <em>bizarre</em>, that Agnes said she really thought he must be romancing—drawing on his imagination, as he had in the book she held in her hand.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once telling her that her great-grandfather’s name was Sibbold, or something like that—she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it, because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of time, that may be bridged by three or four persons’ successive memories. He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or Sibald, and <em>he</em> again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought at Culloden in ’45. If it had not been for that circumstance, the name would have escaped her altogether.</p>
|
||||
<p>The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be the heir if this were the case—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never been mentioned at the family council—surely that was in itself sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese—to herself—to credit such nonsense. Aymer must be ill—over-excited.</p>
|
||||
<p>The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be the heir if this were the case—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never been mentioned at the family council—surely that was in itself sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese—to herself—to credit such nonsense. Aymer must be ill—overexcited.</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward struggle had warped her nature—as if in vigorously, aggressively defending Marese, she was defending herself.</p>
|
||||
<p>The incident caused a coolness between them—the first that had sprung up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of engulfing them in the seething waters of contention.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the morning came Aymer’s second letter, imputing the worst of all crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -20,19 +20,19 @@
|
|||
<p>A great horror fell upon her—a horror only less great than had fallen that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her father’s murderer—she had eaten at the same table—she had shaken hands with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and abhorrence, there rose a horror—almost a fear. Next to being in the presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most awful. She could not stay at The Towers—she could not remain, when at any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his actual hands—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter dislike to The Towers fell upon her—a hatred of the place. It seemed as if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to associate with the one person of all others whom love, duty, religion—all taught her to avoid. She must go—no matter where. She had a little money—the remnant left after all. Jason’s debts had been paid—only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Merton had sent it to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place which was still hers; but no, that could not be—she could not, could not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the very walls. She would go to some small village where living was cheap; where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would keep her—till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated to write to him—she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of necessaries to give her luxuries.</p>
|
||||
<p>That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in bitter scorn—would not deign even to listen to her—and yet it was wrong to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of honour. Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate which hung over her—to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and upon that she finally decided—it was to leave a note for Agnes, enclosing Aymer’s letter.</p>
|
||||
<p>It was Agnes’ constant practice to go for a drive about three in the afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station.</p>
|
||||
<p>The man at once got the dog-cart ready, and in half an hour, with her trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look back—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to leave them—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money.</p>
|
||||
<p>The man at once got the dogcart ready, and in half an hour, with her trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look back—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to leave them—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money.</p>
|
||||
<p>This incident touched her deeply—she had forgotten that, in leaving The Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little station, or “road,” as it was called. “Belthrop Road” was two and a half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk, and reached the place on foot just before dusk.</p>
|
||||
<p>On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had lived at World’s End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many a time. She married, and removed to her husband’s parish, and was now a widow.</p>
|
||||
<p>Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady jumped at Violet’s proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should be too small—she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum—quiet and retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of assuring him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts.</p>
|
||||
<p>Circumstances over which no one as usual had had any control, made that spring a memorable one in the quiet annals of Belthrop. The great agricultural labourers’ movement of the Eastern counties had extended even to this village; a branch of the Union had been formed, meetings held, and fiery language indulged in. The delegate despatched to organise the branch, looked about him for a labourer of some little education to officiate as secretary, and to receive the monthly contributions from the members.</p>
|
||||
<p>Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener, who still worked for <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man of some little intelligence, and, though a new comer, the working men regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had been aroused by repeated losses—cattle had died, crops gone wrong; above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and <em>burn down, his home over his head</em>.</p>
|
||||
<p>Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener, who still worked for <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man of some little intelligence, and, though a newcomer, the working men regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had been aroused by repeated losses—cattle had died, crops gone wrong; above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and <em>burn down, his home over his head</em>.</p>
|
||||
<p>Early in the spring the labourers struck, and the strike extended to Belthrop. The months passed on, the farmers were in difficulty, and meantime the wretched labourers were half-starved. Albert was furious, for he could not get his wheat sown, and upon that crop he depended to meet his engagements. Yet he was the one of all others, at a meeting which was called, to persuade the farmers to hold out; and above all he abused Jenkins, the secretary; called him a traitor, a firebrand, an incendiary. The meeting broke up without result; and it was on that very evening that Violet arrived. The third evening afterwards she was suddenly called out by gossiping old Hannah Bond, who rushed in, in a state of intense excitement—</p>
|
||||
<p>“Farmer Herring’s ricks be all ablaze!”</p>
|
||||
<p>Violet was dragged out by the old woman, and beheld a magnificent, and yet a sad sight. Eight and thirty ricks, placed in a double row, were on fire. About half had caught when she came out. As she stood watching, with the glare in the sky reflected upon her face, she saw the flames run along from one to another, till the whole rickyard was one mass of roaring fire. The outbuildings, the stables, and cow-houses, all thatched, caught soon after—finally the dwelling-house.</p>
|
||||
<p>The farm being situated upon the Downs, the flames and sparks were seen for miles and miles in the darkness of the night, and the glare in the sky still farther. The whole countryside turned out in wonder and alarm; hundreds and hundreds trooped over Down and meadow to the spot. Efforts were made by scores of willing hands to stay the flames—efforts which seemed ridiculously futile before that fearful blast; for with the fire there rose a wind caused by the heated column of air ascending, and the draught was like that of a furnace. Nothing could have saved the place—not all the engines in London, even had there been water; and the soil being chalky, and the situation elevated, there was but one deep well. As it was, no engine reached the spot till long after the fire was practically over—Barnham engine came in the grey of the morning, having been raced over the hills fully fifteen miles. By that time, all that was left of that noble farmhouse and rickyard, was some two-score heaps of smoking ashes, smouldering and emitting intense heat.</p>
|
||||
<p>Hundreds upon hundreds stood looking on, and among them there moved dark figures:—policemen—who had hastily gathered together.</p>
|
||||
<p>And where was Albert Herring? Was he ruined? He at that moment recked nothing of the fire. He was stooping—in a lowly cottage at a little distance—over the form of his only son, a boy of ten. The family had easily escaped before the dwelling-house took fire, and were, to all intents and purposes, safe; but this lad slipped off, as a lad would do, to follow his father, and watch the flames. A burning beam from one of the outhouses struck him down. Albert heard a scream; turned, and saw his boy beneath the flaring, glowing timber. He shrieked—literally shrieked—and tore at the beam with his scorched hands till the flesh came off.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the on-lookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt—one whole shoulder seemed injured—and the doctors gave no hope of his life. (As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he did not die—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let roof-tree fall and ruin come—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world—only save him this one little life.</p>
|
||||
<p>At last the onlookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt—one whole shoulder seemed injured—and the doctors gave no hope of his life. (As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he did not die—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let rooftree fall and ruin come—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world—only save him this one little life.</p>
|
||||
<p>In the morning Albert turned like a wild beast at bay, shouting and crying for vengeance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;” but when did man ever hearken to that? He marked out Jenkins, the gardener; he pointed him out to all. That was the man—had they not heard him say he hoped Heaven would burn the farm over his head?</p>
|
||||
<p>That was true; several had heard it. Jenkins had been the last to leave the premises that night.</p>
|
||||
<p>The gardener, utterly confounded, could not defend himself. The leader of the Unionists! The police looked grave, and the upshot was he was taken into custody.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -15,12 +15,12 @@
|
|||
<p>Lady Agnes’ indignation knew no bounds. She reproached him for even so much as daring to investigate the matter—for deeming it possible that anything of the kind could be. Let him leave the house immediately—she regretted that she had demeaned herself so much as to admit him to see her.</p>
|
||||
<p>This aroused <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton—who was not without his professional pride—and he answered rather smartly, that Lady Lechester seemed to be forgetting the very dignity to which, she laid claim; and added that if he should mention Aymer’s discovery to the building society in Stirmingham, who were his clients, <em>they</em> at least would think Miss Waldron’s claim one well worth supporting. With this parting shot he bowed and left the room.</p>
|
||||
<p>No sooner was he gone, than Agnes took up her pen and wrote direct to Marese Baskette, enclosing Aymer’s second letter—which accused Marese of being the instigator of the murder—and giving the fullest particulars she could remember of his first—relating to Violet’s claim. She did not forget to describe her interview with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Broughton, nor to mention his threat of the building society taking the matter up. She assured him that she looked upon the matter as a hoax and an insult; and only related the story to him in order that he might take the proper proceedings to punish the author of the calumny.</p>
|
||||
<p>This letter reached Marese at his club in London, and, hardened man that he was, it filled him with well-founded alarm. Till that moment he had believed that no one on earth was aware of the Waldron claims but himself and Theodore, who had learnt it from perusal of his father Aurelian’s papers. As for any one suspecting him of complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, he had never dreamt that detection was possible.</p>
|
||||
<p>This letter reached Marese at his club in London, and, hardened man that he was, it filled him with well-founded alarm. Till that moment he had believed that no one on earth was aware of the Waldron claims but himself and Theodore, who had learnt it from perusal of his father Aurelian’s papers. As for anyone suspecting him of complicity in the death of Jason Waldron, he had never dreamt that detection was possible.</p>
|
||||
<p>If ever a crime was managed skilfully, that had been; and as to the old story that “murder will out,” it was of course an exploded superstition. Had it been Aymer alone who was on his track, he would not so much have cared; but Aymer had not kept the secret to himself: he had written to a lawyer, giving his proofs; the lawyer had verified one of them, at least, and Marese well knew what lawyers were. Then there was the threat of the building society, just as he was on the point of making a favourable composition with them, and was actually to receive a surrender of some part of the property in a few weeks’ time. He appreciated the full force of Broughton’s remark, repeated by Lady Agnes, that the building society, his client, would be sure to support Violet Waldron’s claim. Of course they would. A fresh litigation would be set on foot, and possession of the estate indefinitely delayed; if that was delayed, his marriage with Lady Lechester would be also thrown back.</p>
|
||||
<p>Yet despite all these serious reflections, Marese would have made comparatively light of the matter had it not been for the accusation of crime—for the fact that Aymer had obtained a faint glimpse of the truth. He was not the man to hesitate one moment at crime, or to regret it after it was done; but he dreaded detection, as well he might, for from the height to which he had risen, and was about to rise, his fall would be great indeed. He smiled at Lady Agnes’ suggestion that he should prosecute Aymer for libel or slander. Prosecute him in open court, and at once fix ten thousand eyes upon that dark story; perhaps bring a hundred detectives, eager to hunt out the secrets of a rich man, upon his track! That would be folly indeed.</p>
|
||||
<p>Aymer must be silenced, and Violet removed; but not like that. The first thing he did was to telegraph for Theodore, who came up by the express from Stirmingham.</p>
|
||||
<p>They had a long and anxious consultation. Theodore persuaded Marese to go at once to The Towers to see Agnes and deny the imputation—to secure her, in fact. Marese thought that this would hardly do; he knew Agnes better than Theodore. She would think that he had put himself out unnecessarily, that he had taken it too greatly to heart, and would simply ask him why he had not at once instituted legal proceedings against Aymer.</p>
|
||||
<p>In his secret heart of hearts, Marese did not care to visit that neighbourhood more often than was absolutely necessary. And he really did think that Agnes’ transcendent pride would be better suited if he treated the matter in an off-hand way, and dispatched only an agent to represent him—a species of ambassador. Another reason was that Broughton, if he was on the watch, would take Marese’s visit to The Towers as a proof that there was something in it, else why should he be so anxious to deny it?</p>
|
||||
<p>In his secret heart of hearts, Marese did not care to visit that neighbourhood more often than was absolutely necessary. And he really did think that Agnes’ transcendent pride would be better suited if he treated the matter in an offhand way, and dispatched only an agent to represent him—a species of ambassador. Another reason was that Broughton, if he was on the watch, would take Marese’s visit to The Towers as a proof that there was something in it, else why should he be so anxious to deny it?</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore was willing to go, and he did not long delay his departure. “For all the time that we waste in thinking,” said Marese, “this fellow, Malet, is at work. It will take him some time to search all the London churches; but it may so happen that he may hit upon the very entry he wants at the first church chance leads him to.”</p>
|
||||
<p>There was no time to be lost. Very probably Aymer himself, of whose whereabouts in London they were quite ignorant, might go down to The Towers expecting to see his affianced, Violet. Theodore might meet him there, and—</p>
|
||||
<p>Above all things, Theodore was to so work upon Lady Agnes’ mind as to turn this apparent disadvantage to a real good, and use it to precipitate the marriage. Could not she be brought to see that her proudest course would be to marry Marese, in despite of all these foul calumnies, at once, in defiance? It would be difficult for Marese to put this himself, but his agent could do so.</p>
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
@ -22,7 +22,7 @@
|
|||
<p>It was understood that Lady Lechester was to lay the first stone of this grand mansion when they returned from the wedding trip. They were to go to Italy, and make excursions in the Mediterranean in Marese’s yacht <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Gloire de Dijon</i>, the name of which he now altered to <i epub:type="se:name.vessel.boat">Agnes</i>.</p>
|
||||
<p>Marese’s life at this time was one long continued triumph. The only danger that had threatened him was crushed; both Aymer and Violet were in safe keeping.</p>
|
||||
<p>Theodore was still at Stirmingham watching them; perhaps a sterner keeper than Theodore might turn the key upon one or both ere long. He set his teeth firmly with a frown as he thought of that possibility. Marese was not the man to be threatened with impunity. At all events they were quite safe for a good length of time—till long after his marriage. The marriage once over and he feared nothing. No scandal could seriously injure him after that. He should be secured with a triple wall of brass—of wealth, power, position.</p>
|
||||
<p>The property at Stirmingham was falling into his hands like an over-ripe pear. Let the companies strive how they might, they could no longer discover any pretext to delay its surrender. The American claimants had vanished into the distance—that great dread had departed. He had paid off in hard cash a large share of the claims the building societies made upon him, for expenses they had incurred in improving the property. He had obtained a rule that the remainder of the claims should be discharged by instalments; and as now in a short time he should enjoy almost unlimited credit, there would be no difficulty in raising the necessary sums.</p>
|
||||
<p>The property at Stirmingham was falling into his hands like an overripe pear. Let the companies strive how they might, they could no longer discover any pretext to delay its surrender. The American claimants had vanished into the distance—that great dread had departed. He had paid off in hard cash a large share of the claims the building societies made upon him, for expenses they had incurred in improving the property. He had obtained a rule that the remainder of the claims should be discharged by instalments; and as now in a short time he should enjoy almost unlimited credit, there would be no difficulty in raising the necessary sums.</p>
|
||||
<p>With other societies he had corresponded; with the Corporation he was on the best of terms, having used his influence in Parliament already to pass a private bill of theirs, and they had no legal power to prevent his seizure of his rights. With the rest of his creditors he was not only on good terms—he was pressed to borrow more. Literally he felt himself, as he surveyed his monetary affairs, the richest man in the world.</p>
|
||||
<p>Another success came to him. He had delivered his maiden speech in the House, and whether it really was clever or appropriate, or whether people were predisposed in his favour, certain it was that it had produced an impression. The papers were full of it; the reviewers considered it an omen of an honourable parliamentary career. It was quoted from one end of the kingdom to the other. His party begun to cast an eye upon him. Here was that rare combination—a rich man with talent. Could they not turn him to account?</p>
|
||||
<p>Then came the announcement of the engagement with Lechester, and they went a step further, and said something must be done. Something was forthwith done. An office was offered to him—not a high office, nor very remunerative, but still an office; and one only a degree beneath that of a Minister. It was well understood that no man ever filled that post without subsequently becoming a Minister. It was a kind of political cadetship. Marese accepted the office, and wrote to Lady Lechester, who saw in this a new proof of the career in store for her; and he received in reply the warmest note he had hitherto had.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -33,7 +33,7 @@
|
|||
<p>Yet through all this loud sound of preparation, through all this silk and satin, through everything that could be devised to make the heart content, there penetrated a trouble. Agnes would at times retire to her private room, and remain secluded for hours. After these solitary fits her step was slower, and her countenance pale and melancholy, till she gradually recovered herself. She had broken off her habit of visiting the Kickwell Pot. It had been a great trial to her to do so; but she had at last firmly made up her mind, and had conquered the singular fascination which drew her thither. She had decided upon the earthly career: she would close her eyes to the immortal one. But the memory of the spirit was not so easily effaced: she mused on its shape, its graceful, swaying elegance of motion, the glow in its wonderful eyes, and felt at times the thrill of its electric touch. It required immense strength of mind to resist the temptation to converse once more with her phantom-lover.</p>
|
||||
<p>Who that had for a moment contemplated the proud and happy position of Lady Lechester, the observed of all observers, would have credited that such a hankering, such an extraordinary belief, still possessed her mind?</p>
|
||||
<p>Time flew, and there remained but one brief week till the marriage day. Marese was to come to The Towers on the morrow, and stay till the day previous to the ceremony when he was, in obedience to the old etiquette, to sleep at Barnham. For one day only would she be alone at The Towers. Marese came; the hours flew; some little warmth infused itself even into their cold intercourse. Just before dinner he left The Towers for Barnham. After dark, Lady Agnes went out alone, wrapped in her plaid shawl, and made her way to “The Pot.”</p>
|
||||
<p>The morrow was her wedding-day, yet the old fascination had conquered—she could not resist it. Once more, for the last time, she would look upon the face of that glorious being, and beg his forgiveness. It was May now—beautiful May. The beech trees were covered with foliage, the air was soft and warm, and there was a delicate odour at times of the hawthorn blossom borne upon the gentle breeze. Only in places there was a low white mist, a dew hanging like a light cloud a few feet above the earth. A thin column of such a mist hung over the mouth of “The Pot,” spectral, ghost-like. There had been heavy rains previously, and the river was swollen and turbid. Its roar came up in a sullen hoarse murmur through the narrow tunnel. Over the steep down or cliff there shone one lucent planet—the evening star.</p>
|
||||
<p>The morrow was her wedding-day, yet the old fascination had conquered—she could not resist it. Once more, for the last time, she would look upon the face of that glorious being, and beg his forgiveness. It was May now—beautiful May. The beech trees were covered with foliage, the air was soft and warm, and there was a delicate odour at times of the hawthorn blossom borne upon the gentle breeze. Only in places there was a low white mist, a dew hanging like a light cloud a few feet above the earth. A thin column of such a mist hung over the mouth of “The Pot,” spectral, ghostlike. There had been heavy rains previously, and the river was swollen and turbid. Its roar came up in a sullen hoarse murmur through the narrow tunnel. Over the steep down or cliff there shone one lucent planet—the evening star.</p>
|
||||
<p>Agnes stole out from among the fern and beech trees, and stood beside the great decaying oak trunk, leaning lightly against it. Before her but two steps was the mouth of “The Pot,” and over it hovered the thin mist.</p>
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<p>The old, old fascination fell upon her, the same half unconsciousness of all surrounding things. The star grew dim, the roar of the river receded to an immense distance, and then arose the spirit. What intercourse they had cannot be told: whether she half yielded to the desire to soar above this earthly ball, and stepped forward to his embrace—whether she eagerly implored for pardon for her weakness, dazzled by worldly glory.</p>
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<p>The dog Dando had followed her unchidden. He alone of all that had pertained to Aymer and Violet, Agnes had retained. He knew the old path so well. He crouched so still at the foot of the great oak trunk. So quietly, so heedlessly, taking no heed of the figure, the shadow that stole onward in the dark beneath the beech trees—stole forward from trunk to trunk, from bunch of fern to hawthorn bush.</p>
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