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<title>VI</title>
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<section data-parent="book-3" id="chapter-3-6" epub:type="chapter">
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<h3 epub:type="title ordinal z3998:roman">VI</h3>
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<p>He repented his folly very speedily, for the landlady had advanced him half-a-crown two days before for some necessaries, and now asked him for the money.</p>
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<p>Not all the hunger and thirst of downright destitution is so hard to bear to a proud spirit as the insults of a petty creditor. He could not taste his tea; the dry bread—he could not afford butter—stuck in his throat. If he had not spent that shilling, he might have paid a part at least of his debt.</p>
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<p>He took up the book—the cause of his depression—and, still ashamed of himself, began to search it for any reference to his own name. In vain; Malet was not mentioned, there were no unclaimed legacies, no bank dividends accumulating, no estates without an owner waiting for him to take possession—it was an absolute blank. The shilling had been utterly wasted.</p>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<p>If he could read a copy of the “Life of Sternhold Baskette,” perhaps he might be able to get a better understanding of the facts.</p>
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<p>He deeply regretted now that he had not purchased a copy, as he might have done so easily at Stirmingham, on the stall of the itinerant bookseller. Then he had a little money; now he had none.</p>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<p>“This man will make his fortune,” he said. “Why on earth do you let the book lie here mouldering?”</p>
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<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>
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<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>
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<p>Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible—the booksellers had not paid yet—the expense had been enormous—advertising, etc, there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser—the clerk who had told him to publish at his own risk. This man, or rather gentleman, said he had expected him for days, and wondered why he had not come.</p>
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<p>“Wait till one o’clock,” said he, “and I will accompany you.”</p>
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<p>At one they revisited the offices of the publisher. The upshot was that Aymer was presented with a cheque for fifty pounds, being his own forty pounds, and ten pounds additional.</p>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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<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>
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