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diff --git a/21821-h/21821-h.htm b/21821-h/21821-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfbc97b --- /dev/null +++ b/21821-h/21821-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8302 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Mark of Cain, by Andrew Lang + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + --> +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mark Of Cain, by Andrew Lang + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mark Of Cain + +Author: Andrew Lang + +Release Date: June 12, 2007 [EBook #21821] +Last Updated: December 17, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARK OF CAIN *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="cainTP (22K)" src="images/cainTP.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE MARK OF CAIN + </h1> + <h2> + By Andrew Lang <br /> <br /> <br /> 1886 + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>THE MARK OF CAIN.</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—A Tale of Two Clubs. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—In the Snow. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—An Academic Pothouse. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—Miss Marlett’s. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—Flown. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—At St. Gatien’s. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—After the Inquest. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—The Jaffa Oranges. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—Mrs. St. John Deloraine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—Traps. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—The Night of Adventures. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—A Patient. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII.—Another Patient. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—Found. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV.—The Mark of Cain. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI.—The Verdict of Fate. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MARK OF CAIN. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I.—A Tale of Two Clubs. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Such arts the gods who dwell on high + Have given to the Greek.”—<i>Lays of Ancient Rome.</i> +</pre> + <p> + In the Strangers’ Room of the Olympic Club the air was thick with + tobacco-smoke, and, despite the bitter cold outside, the temperature was + uncomfortably high. Dinner was over, and the guests, broken up into little + groups, were chattering noisily. No one had yet given any sign of + departing: no one had offered a welcome apology for the need of catching + an evening train. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the civilized custom which permits women to dine in the presence + of the greedier sex is the proudest conquest of Culture. Were it not for + the excuse of “joining the ladies,” dinner-parties (Like the congregations + in Heaven, as described in the hymn) would “ne’er break up,” and suppers + (like Sabbaths, on the same authority) would never end. + </p> + <p> + “Hang it all, will the fellows <i>never</i> go?” + </p> + <p> + So thought Maitland, of St. Gatien’s, the founder of the feast. The + inhospitable reflections which we have recorded had all been passing + through his brain as he rather moodily watched the twenty guests he had + been feeding—one can hardly say entertaining. It was a “duty dinner” + he had been giving—almost everything Maitland did was done from a + sense of duty—yet he scarcely appeared to be reaping the reward of + an approving conscience. His acquaintances, laughing and gossipping round + the half-empty wine-glasses, the olives, the scattered fruit, and “the + ashes of the weeds of their delight,” gave themselves no concern about the + weary host. Even at his own party, as in life generally, Maitland felt + like an outsider. He wakened from his reverie as a strong hand was laid + lightly on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Maitland,” said a man sitting down beside him, “what have <i>you</i> + been doing this long time?” + </p> + <p> + “What have I been doing, Barton?” Maitland answered. “Oh, I have been + reflecting on the choice of a life, and trying to humanize myself! Bielby + says I have not enough human nature.” + </p> + <p> + “Bielby is quite right; he is the most judicious of college dons and + father-confessors, old man. And how long do you mean to remain his pupil + and penitent? And how is the pothouse getting on?” + </p> + <p> + Frank Barton, the speaker, had been at school with Maitland, and ever + since, at college and in life, had bullied, teased, and befriended him. + Barton was a big young man, with great thews and sinews, and a broad, + breast beneath his broadcloth and wide shirt-front. He was blonde, + prematurely bald, with an aquiline commanding nose, keen, merry blue eyes, + and a short, fair beard. He had taken a medical as well as other degrees + at the University; he had studied at Vienna and Paris; he was even what + Captain Costigan styles “a scoientific cyarkter.” He had written learnedly + in various Proceedings of erudite societies; he had made a cruise in a + man-of-war, a scientific expedition; and his <i>Les Tatouages, Étude + Médico-Lêgale</i>, published in Paris, had been commended by the highest + authorities. Yet, from some whim of philanthropy, he had not a home and + practice in Cavendish Square, but dwelt and labored in Chelsea. + </p> + <p> + “How is your pothouse getting on?” he asked again. + </p> + <p> + “The pothouse? Oh, the <i>Hit or Miss</i> you mean? Well, I’m afraid it’s + not very successful I took the lease of it, you know, partly by way of + doing some good in a practical kind of way. The working men at the + waterside won’t go to clubs, where there is nothing but coffee to drink, + and little but tracts to read. I thought if I gave them sound beer, and + looked in among them now and then of an evening, I might help to civilize + them a bit, like that fellow who kept the Thieves’ Club in the East End. + And then I fancied they might help to make <i>me</i> a little more human. + But it does not seem quite to succeed. I fear I am a born wet blanket But + the idea is good. Mrs. St. John Delo-raine quite agrees with me about <i>that</i>. + And she is a high authority.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. St. John Deloraine? I’ve heard of her. She is a lively widow, isn’t + she?” + </p> + <p> + “She is a practical philanthropist,” answered Maitland, flushing a little. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty, too, I have been told?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she is ‘conveniently handsome,’ as Izaak Walton says.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Maitland, here’s a chance to humanize you. Why don’t you ask her + to marry you? Pretty and philanthropic and rich—what better would + you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish everyone wouldn’t bother a man to marry,” Maitland replied + testily, and turning red in his peculiar manner; for his complexion was + pale and unwholesome. + </p> + <p> + “What a queer chap you are, Maitland; what’s the matter with you? Here you + are, young, entirely without encumbrances, as the advertisements say, no + relations to worry you, with plenty of money, let alone what you make by + writing, and yet you are not happy. What is the matter with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you should know best What’s the good of your being a doctor, and + acquainted all these years with my moral and physical constitution (what + there is of it), if you can’t tell what’s the nature of my complaint?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t diagnose many cases like yours, old boy, down by the side of the + water, among the hardy patients of Mundy & Barton, general + practitioners. There is plenty of human nature <i>there!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “And do you mean to stay there with Mundy much longer?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know. A fellow is really doing some good, and it is a + splendid practice for mastering surgery. They are always falling off + roofs, or having weights fall on them, or getting jammed between barges, + or kicking each other into most interesting jellies. Then the foreign + sailors are handy with their knives. Altogether, a man learns a good deal + about surgery in Chelsea. But, I say,” Barton went on, lowering his voice, + “where on earth did you pick up——?” + </p> + <p> + Here he glanced significantly at a tall man, standing at some distance, + the centre of half a dozen very youthful revellers. + </p> + <p> + “Cranley, do you mean? I met him at the <i>Trumpet</i> office. He was + writing about the Coolie Labor Question and the Eastern Question. He has + been in the South Seas, like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he has been in a lot of queerer places than the South Seas,” + answered the other, “and he ought to know something about Coolies. He has + dealt in them, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay,” Maitland replied rather wearily. “He seems to have travelled + a good deal: perhaps he has travelled in Coolies, whatever they may be.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear fellow, do you know what kind of man your guest is, or don’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “He seems to be a military and sporting kind of gent, so to speak,” said + Maitland; “but what does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t know why he left his private tutor’s; you don’t know why + he left the University; you don’t know why he left the Ninety-second; you + don’t know, and no one does, what he did after that; and you never heard + of that affair with the Frenchman in Egypt?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Maitland replied, “about his ancient history I own I don’t know + anything. As to the row with the Frenchman at Cairo, he told me himself. + He said the beggar was too small for him to lick, and that duelling was + ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + “They didn’t take that view of it at Shephard’s Hotel” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is not my affair,” said Maitland. “One should see all sort of + characters, Bielby says. This is not an ordinary fellow. Why, he has been + a sailor before the mast, he says, by way of adventure, and he is full of + good stories. I rather like him, and he can’t do my moral character any + harm. <i>I’m</i> not likely to deal in Coolies, at my time of life, nor + quarrel with warlike aliens.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but he’s not a good man to introduce to these boys from Oxford,” + Barton was saying, when the subject of their conversation came up, + surrounded by his little court of undergraduates. + </p> + <p> + The Hon. Thomas Cranley was a good deal older than the company in which he + found himself. Without being one of the hoary youths who play Falstaff to + every fresh heir’s Prince Harry, he was a middle-aged man, too obviously + accustomed to the society of boys. His very dress spoke of a prolonged + youth. À large cat’s-eye, circled with diamonds, blazed solitary in his + shirt-front, and his coat was cut after the manner of the contemporary + reveller. His chin was clean shaven, and his face, though a good deal + worn, was ripe, smooth, shining with good cheer, and of a purply bronze + hue, from exposure to hot suns and familiarity with the beverages of many + peoples. His full red lips, with their humorous corners, were shaded by a + small black mustache, and his twinkling bistre-colored eyes, beneath + mobile black eyebrows, gave Cranley the air of a jester and a good fellow. + In manner he was familiar, with a kind of deference, too, and reserve, + “like a dog that is always wagging his tail and deprecating a kick,” + thought Barton grimly, as he watched the other’s genial advance. + </p> + <p> + “He’s going to say good-night, bless him,” thought Maitland gratefully. + “Now the others will be moving too, I hope!” + </p> + <p> + So Maitland rose with much alacrity as Cranley approached him. To stand up + would show, he thought, that he was not inhospitably eager to detain the + parting guest. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Mr. Maitland,” said the senior, holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It is still early,” said the host, doing his best to play his part. “Must + you really go?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the night’s young” (it was about half-past twelve), “but I have a + kind of engagement to look in at the Cockpit, and three or four of your + young friends here are anxious to come with me, and see how we keep it up + round there. Perhaps you and your friend will walk with us.” Here he bowed + slightly in the direction of Barton. + </p> + <p> + “There will be a little <i>bac</i> going on,” he continued—“<i>un + petit bac de santé</i>; and these boys tell me they have never played + anything more elevating than loo.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I am no good at a round game,” answered Maitland, who had + played at his Aunt’s at Christmas, and who now observed with delight that + everyone was moving; “but here is Barton, who will be happy to accompany + you, I daresay.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re for a frolic, boys,” said Barton, quoting Dr. Johnson, and + looking rather at the younger men than at Cranley, “why, I will not balk + you. Good-night, Maitland.” + </p> + <p> + And he shook hands with his host. + </p> + <p> + “Good-nights” were uttered in every direction; sticks, hats, and umbrellas + were hunted up; and while Maitland, half-asleep, was being whirled to his + rooms in Bloomsbury in a hansom, his guests made the frozen pavement of + Piccadilly ring beneath their elegant heels. + </p> + <p> + “It is only round the corner,” said Cranley to the four or five men who + accompanied him. “The Cockpit, where I am taking you, is in a fashionable + slum off St. James’s. We’re just there.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing either meretricious or sinister in the aspect of that + favored resort, the Cockpit, as the Decade Club was familiarly called by + its friends—and enemies. Two young Merton men and the freshman from + New, who were enjoying their Christmas vacation in town, and had been + dining with Maitland, were a little disappointed in the appearance of the + place. They had hoped to knock mysteriously at a back door in a lane, and + to be shown, after investigating through a loopholed wicket, into a narrow + staircase, which, again, should open on halls of light, full of blazing + wax candles and magnificent lacqueys, while a small mysterious man would + point out the secret hiding-room, and the passages leading on to the roof + or into the next house, in case of a raid by the police. Such was the old + idea of a “Hell;” but the advance of Thought has altered all these early + notions. The Decade Club was like any other small club. A current of warm + air, charged with tobacco-smoke, rushed forth into the frosty night when + the swinging door was opened; a sleepy porter looked out of his little + nest, and Cranley wrote the names of the companions he introduced in a + book which was kept for that purpose. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are free of the Cockpit for the night,” he said, genially. “It’s + a livelier place, in the small hours, than that classical Olympic we’ve + just left.” + </p> + <p> + They went upstairs, passing the doors of one or two rooms, lit up but + empty, except for two or three men who were sleeping in uncomfortable + attitudes on sofas. The whole of the breadth of the first floor, all the + drawing-room of the house before it became a club, had been turned into a + card-room, from which brilliant lights, voices, and a heavy odor of + tobacco and alcohol poured out when the door was opened. A long green + baize-covered table, of very light wood, ran down the centre of the room, + while refreshments stood on smaller tables, and a servant out of livery + sat, half-asleep, behind a great desk in the remotest corner. There were + several empty chairs round the green baize-covered table, at which some + twenty men were sitting, with money before them; while one, in the middle, + dealt out the cards on a broad flap of smooth black leather let into the + baize. Every now and then he threw the cards he had been dealing into a + kind of well in the table, and after every deal he raked up his winnings + with a rake, or distributed gold and counters to the winners, as + mechanically as if he had been a croupier at Monte Carlo. The players, who + were all in evening dress, had scarcely looked up when the strangers + entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Brought some recruits, Cranley?” asked the Banker, adding, as he looked + at his hand, “<i>J’en donne!</i>” and becoming absorbed in his game again. + </p> + <p> + “The game you do not understand?” said Cranley to one of his recruits. + </p> + <p> + “Not quite,” said the lad, shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + “All right; I will soon show you all about it; and I wouldn’t play, if I + were you, till you <i>know</i> all about it. Perhaps, after you know <i>all</i> + about it, you’ll think it wiser not to play at all At least, you might + well think so abroad, where very fishy things are often done. Here it’s + all right, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Is baccarat a game you can be cheated at, then—I mean, when people + are inclined to cheat?” + </p> + <p> + “Cheat! Oh, rather! There are about a dozen ways of cheating at baccarat.” + </p> + <p> + The other young men from Maitland’s party gathered round their mentor, who + continued his instructions in a low voice, and from a distance whence the + play could be watched, while the players were not likely to be disturbed + by the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Cheating is the simplest thing in the world, at Nice or in Paris,” + Cranley went on; “but to show you how it is done, in case you ever do play + in foreign parts, I must explain the game. You see the men first put down + their stakes within the thin white line on the edge of the tabla Then the + Banker deals two cards to one of the men on his left, and all the fellows + on that side stand by <i>his</i> luck. Then he deals two to a chappie on + his right, and all the punters on the right, back that sportsman. And he + deals two cards to himself. The game is to get as near nine as possible, + ten, and court cards, not counting at all. If the Banker has eight or + nine, he does not offer cards; if he has less, he gives the two players, + if they ask for them, one card each, and takes one himself if he chooses. + If they hold six, seven, or eight, they stand; if less, they take a card. + Sometimes one stands at five; it depends. Then the Banker wins if he is + nearer nine than the players, and they win if <i>they</i> are better than + he; and that’s the whole affair.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see where the cheating can come in,” said one of the young + fellows. + </p> + <p> + “Dozens of ways, as I told you. A man may have an understanding with the + waiter, and play with arranged packs; but the waiter is always the + dangerous element in <i>that</i> little combination. He’s sure to peach or + blackmail his accomplice. Then the cards may be marked. I remember, at + Ostend, one fellow, a big German; he wore spectacles, like all Germans, + and he seldom gave the players anything better than three court cards when + he dealt One evening he was in awful luck, when he happened to go for his + cigar-case, which he had left in the hall in his great-coat pocket. He + laid down his spectacles on the table, and someone tried them on. As soon + as he took up the cards he gave a start, and sang out, ‘Here’s a swindle! + <i>Nous sommes volés!</i>’ He could see, by the help of the spectacles, + that all the nines and court cards were marked; and the spectacles were + regular patent double million magnifiers.” + </p> + <p> + “And what became of the owner of the glasses?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he just looked into the room, saw the man wearing them, and didn’t + wait to say good-night. He just <i>went!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Here Cranley chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “I remember another time, at Nice: I always laugh when I think of it! + There was a little Frenchman who played nearly every night. He would take + the bank for three or four turns, and he almost always won. Well, one + night he had been at the theatre, and he left before the end of the piece + and looked in at the Cercle. He took the Bank: lost once, won twice; then + he offered cards. The man who was playing nodded, to show he would take + one, and the Frenchman laid down an eight of clubs, a greasy, dirty old + rag, with <i>théâtre français de nice</i> stamped on it in big letters. It + was his ticket of readmission at the theatre that they gave him when he + went out, and it had got mixed up with a nice little arrangement in cards + he had managed to smuggle into the club pack. I’ll never forget his face + and the other man’s when <i>Théâtre Français</i> turned up. However, you + understand the game now, and if you want to play, we had better give fine + gold to the waiter in exchange for bone counters, and get to work.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three of the visitors followed Cranley to the corner where the + white, dissipated-looking waiter of the card-room sat, and provided + themselves with black and red <i>jetons</i> (bone counters) of various + values, to be redeemed at the end of the game. + </p> + <p> + When they returned to the table the banker was just leaving his post. + </p> + <p> + “I’m cleaned out,” said he, “<i>décavé</i>. Good-night,” and he walked + away. + </p> + <p> + No one seemed anxious to open a bank. The punters had been winning all + night, and did not like to desert their luck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, this will never do,” cried Cranley. “If no one else will open a bank, + I’ll risk a couple of hundred, just to show you beginners how it is done!” + </p> + <p> + Cranley sat down, lit a cigarette, and laid the smooth silver + cigarette-case before him. Then he began to deal. + </p> + <p> + Fortune at first was all on the side of the players. Again and again + Cranley chucked out the counters he had lost, which the others gathered + in, or pushed three or four bank-notes with his little rake in the + direction of a more venturesome winner. The new-comers, who were winning, + thought they had never taken part in a sport more gentlemanly and amusing. + </p> + <p> + “I must have one shy,” said Martin, one of the boys who had hitherto stood + with Barton, behind the Banker, looking on. He was a gaudy youth with a + diamond stud, rich, and not fond of losing. He staked five pounds and won; + he left the whole sum on and lost, lost again, a third time, and then + said, “May I draw a cheque?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you may,” Cranley answered. “The waiter will give you <i>tout + ce qu’il faut pour écrire</i>, as the stage directions say; but I don’t + advise you to plunge. You’ve lost quite enough. Yet they say the devil + favors beginners, so you can’t come to grief.” + </p> + <p> + The young fellow by this time was too excited to take advice. His cheeks + had an angry flush, his hands trembled as he hastily constructed some + paper currency of considerable value. The parallel horizontal wrinkles of + the gambler were just sketched on his smooth girlish brow as he returned + with his paper. The bank had been losing, but not largely. The luck turned + again as soon as Martin threw down some of his scrip. Thrice consecutively + he lost. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” said Barton suddenly to Cranley, “may I help myself to one of + your cigarettes?” + </p> + <p> + He stooped as he spoke, over the table, and Cranley saw him pick up the + silver cigarette-case. It was a handsome piece of polished silver. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; help yourself. Give me back my cigarette-case, please, when + you have done with it.” + </p> + <p> + He dealt again, and lost. + </p> + <p> + “What a nice case!” said Barton, examining it closely. “There is an Arabic + word engraved on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” said Cranley, rather impatiently, holding out his hand for the + thing, and pausing before he dealt. “The case was given me by the late + Khédive, dear old Ismail, bless him! The word is a talisman.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so. The case seemed to bring you luck,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + Cranley half turned and threw a quick look at him, as rapid and timid as + the glance of a hare in its form. + </p> + <p> + “Come, give me it back, please,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Now, just oblige me: let me try what there is in luck. Go on playing + while I rub up my Arabic, and try to read this ineffable name on the case. + Is it the word of Power of Solomon?” + </p> + <p> + Cranley glanced back again. “All right,” he said, “as you are so curious—-j’en + donne!” + </p> + <p> + He offered cards, and lost. Martin’s face brightened up. His paper + currency was coming back to him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a shame,” grumbled Cranley, “to rob a fellow of his fetich. Waiter, + a small brandy-and-soda! Confound your awkwardness! Why do you spill it + over the cards?” + </p> + <p> + By Cranley’s own awkwardness, more than the waiter’s, a little splash of + the liquid had fallen in front of him, on the black leather part of the + table where he dealt. He went on dealing, and his luck altered again. The + rake was stretched out over both halves of the long table; the gold and + notes and counters, with a fluttering assortment of Martin’s I O U’s, were + all dragged in. Martin went to the den of the money-changer sullenly, and + came back with fresh supplies. + </p> + <p> + “Banco?” he cried, meaning that he challenged Cranley for all the money in + the bank. There must have been some seven hundred pounds. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Cranley, taking a sip of his soda water. He had dealt + two cards, when his hands were suddenly grasped as in two vices, and + cramped to the table. Barton had bent over from behind and caught him by + the wrists. + </p> + <p> + Cranley made one weak automatic movement to extricate himself; then he sat + perfectly still. His face, which he turned over his shoulder, was white + beneath the stains of tan, and his lips were blue. + </p> + <p> + “Damn you!” he snarled. “What trick are you after now?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you drunk, Barton?” cried some one. + </p> + <p> + “Leave him alone!” shouted some of the players, rising from their seats; + while others, pressing round Barton, looked over his shoulder without + seeing any excuse for his behavior. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said Barton, in a steady voice, “I leave my conduct in the + hands of the club. If I do not convince them that Mr. Cranley has been + cheating, I am quite at their disposal, and at his. Let anyone who doubts + what I say look here.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m looking here, and I don’t see what you are making such a fuss + about,” said Martin, from the group behind, peering over at the table and + the cards. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly—— No, it is no use.” The last remark was + addressed to the captive, who had tried to release his hands. “Will you + kindly take up some of the cards and deal them slowly, to right and left, + over that little puddle of spilt soda water on the leather? Get as near + the table as you can.” + </p> + <p> + There was a dead silence while Martin made this experiment. + </p> + <p> + “By gad, I can see every pip on the cards!” cried Martin. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you can; and if you had the art of correcting fortune, you + could make use of what you see. At the least you would know whether to + take a card or stand.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t,” said the wretched Cranley. “How on earth was I to know that + the infernal fool of a waiter would spill the liquor there, and give you a + chance against me?” + </p> + <p> + “You spilt the liquor yourself,” Barton answered coolly, “when I took away + your cigarette-case. I saw you passing the cards over the surface of it, + which anyone can see for himself is a perfect mirror. I tried to warn you—for + I did not want a row—when I said the case ‘seemed to bring you + luck.’ But you would not be warned; and when the cigarette-case trick was + played out, you fell back on the old dodge with the drop of water. Will + anyone else convince himself that I am right before I let Mr. Cranley go?” + </p> + <p> + One or two men passed the cards, as they had seen the Banker do, over the + spilt soda water. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a clear case,” they said. “Leave him alone.” + </p> + <p> + Barton slackened his grip of Cranley’s hands, and for some seconds they + lay as if paralyzed on the table before him, white and cold, with livid + circles round the wrists. The man’s face was deadly pale, and wet with + perspiration. He put out a trembling hand to the glass of brandy-and-water + that stood beside him; the class rattled against his teeth as he drained + all the contents at a gulp. + </p> + <p> + “You shall hear from me,” he grumbled, and, with an inarticulate muttering + of threats he made his way, stumbling and catching at chairs, to the door. + When he had got outside, he leaned against the wall, like a drunken man, + and then shambled across the landing into a reading-room. It was empty, + and Cranley fell into a large easy-chair, where he lay crumpled up, rather + than sat, for perhaps ten minutes, holding his hand against his heart. + </p> + <p> + “They talk about having the courage of one’s opinions. Confound it! Why + haven’t I the nerve for my character? Hang this heart of mine! Will it + never stop thumping?” + </p> + <p> + He sat up and looked about him, then rose and walked toward the table; but + his head began to swim, and his eyes to darken; so he fell back again in + his seat, feeling drowsy and beaten. Mechanically he began to move the + hand that hung over the arm of his low chair, and it encountered a + newspaper which had fallen on the floor. He lifted it automatically and + without thought: it was the <i>Times</i>. Perhaps to try his eyes, and see + if they served him again after his collapse, he ran them down the columns + of the advertisements. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly something caught his attention; his whole lax figure grew braced + again as he read a passage steadily through more than twice or thrice. + When he had quite mastered this, he threw down the paper and gave a low + whistle. + </p> + <p> + “So the old boy’s dead,” he reflected; “and that drunken tattooed ass and + his daughter are to come in for the money and the mines! They’ll be clever + that find him, and I shan’t give them his address! What luck some men + have!” + </p> + <p> + Here he fell into deep thought, his brows and lips working eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do it,” he said at last, cutting the advertisement out of the paper + with a penknife. “It isn’t often a man has a chance to <i>star</i> in this + game of existence. I’ve lost all my own social Lives: one in that business + at Oxford, one in the row at Ali Musjid, and the third went—to-night. + But I’ll <i>star</i>. Every sinner should desire a new Life,” he added + with a sneer.* + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * “Starring” is paying for a new “Life” at Pool. +</pre> + <p> + He rose, steady enough now, walked to the door, paused and listened, heard + the excited voices in the card-room still discussing him, slunk + down-stairs, took his hat and greatcoat, and swaggered past the porter. + Mechanically he felt in his pocket, as he went out of the porch, for his + cigarette-case; and he paused at the little fount of fire at the door. + </p> + <p> + He was thinking that he would never light a cigarette there again. + </p> + <p> + Presently he remembered, and swore. He had left his case on the table of + the card-room, where Barton had laid it down, and he had not the impudence + to send back for it. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Vile damnum!</i>” he muttered (for he had enjoyed a classical + education), and so disappeared in the frosty night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II.—In the Snow. + </h2> + <p> + The foul and foggy night of early February was descending, some weeks + after the scene in the Cockpit, on the river and the town. Night was + falling from the heavens; or rather, night seemed to be rising from the + earth—steamed up, black, from the dingy trampled snow of the + streets, and from the vapors that swam above the squalid houses. There was + coal-smoke and a taste of lucifer matches in the air. In the previous + night there had been such a storm as London seldom sees; the powdery, + flying snow had been blown for many hours before a tyrannous northeast + gale, and had settled down, like dust in a neglected chamber, over every + surface of the city. Drifts and “snow-wreathes,” as northern folk say, + were lying in exposed places, in squares and streets, as deep as they lie + when sheep are “smoored” on the sides of Sundhope or Penchrist in the + desolate Border-land. All day London had been struggling under her cold + winding-sheet, like a feeble, feverish patient trying to throw off a heavy + white counterpane. Now the counterpane was dirty enough. The pavements + were three inches deep in a rich greasy deposit of mud and molten ice. + Above the round glass or iron coverings of coal-cellars the + foot-passengers slipped, “ricked” their backs, and swore as they stumbled, + if they did not actually fall down, in the filth. Those who were in haste, + and could afford it, travelled, at fancy prices, in hansoms with two + horses driven tandem. The snow still lay comparatively white on the + surface of the less-frequented thoroughfares, with straight shining black + marks where wheels had cut their way. + </p> + <p> + At intervals in the day the fog had fallen blacker than night. Down by the + waterside the roads were deep in a mixture of a weak gray-brown or coffee + color. Beside one of the bridges in Chelsea, an open slope leads straight + to the stream, and here, in the afternoon—for a late start was made—the + carts of the Vestry had been led, and loads of slush that had choked up + the streets in the more fashionable parts of the town had been unladen + into the river. This may not be the most; scientific of sanitary modes of + clearing the streets and squares, but it was the way that recommended + itself to the wisdom of the Contractor. In the early evening the fog had + lightened a little, but it fell sadly again, and grew so thick that the + bridge was lost in mist half-way across the river, like the arches of that + fatal bridge beheld by Mirza in his Vision. The masts of the vessels + moored on the near bank disappeared from view, and only a red lamp or two + shone against the blackness of the hulks. From the public-house at the + corner—the <i>Hit or Miss</i>—streamed a fan-shaped flood of + light, soon choked by the fog. + </p> + <p> + Out of the muddy twilight of a street that runs at right angles to the + river, a cart came crawling; its high-piled white load of snow was faintly + visible before the brown horses (they were yoked tandem) came into view. + This cart was driven down to the water-edge, and was there upturned, with + much shouting and cracking of whips on the part of the men engaged, and + with a good deal of straining, slipping, and stumbling on the side of the + horses. + </p> + <p> + One of the men jumped down, and fumbled at the iron pins which kept the + backboard of the cart in its place. + </p> + <p> + “Blarmme, Bill,” he grumbled, “if the blessed pins ain’t froze.” + </p> + <p> + Here he put his wet fingers in his mouth, blowing on them afterward, and + smacking his arms across his breast to restore the circulation. + </p> + <p> + The comrade addressed as Bill merely stared speechlessly as he stood at + the smoking head of the leader, and the other man tugged again at the pin. + </p> + <p> + “It won’t budge,” he cried at last. “Just run into the <i>Hit or Miss</i> + at the corner, mate, and borrow a hammer; and you might get a pint o’ hot + beer when ye’re at it. Here’s fourpence. I was with three that found a + quid in the <i>Mac</i>,* end of last week; here’s the last of it.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * A quid in the <i>Mac</i>—a sovereign in the street-scrapings. + called <i>Mac</i> from Macadam, and employed as mortar in + building eligible freehold tenements. +</pre> + <p> + He fumbled in his pocket, but his hands were so numb that he could + scarcely capture the nimble fourpence. Why should the “nimble fourpence” + have the monopoly of agility? + </p> + <p> + “I’m Blue Ribbon, Tommy, don’t yer know,” said Bill, with regretful + sullenness. His ragged great-coat, indeed, was decorated with the azure + badge of avowed and total abstinence. + </p> + <p> + “Blow yer blue ribbon! Hold on where ye are, and I’ll bring the bloomin’ + hammer myself.” + </p> + <p> + Thus growling, Tommy strode indifferent through the snow, his legs + protected by bandages of straw ropes. Presently he reappeared in the + warmer yellow of the light that poured through the windows of the old + public-house. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, which he + then thrust into the deeps of his pockets, hugging a hammer to his body + under his armpit. + </p> + <p> + “A little hot beer would do yer bloomin’ temper a deal more good than ten + yards o’ blue ribbon at sixpence. Blue ruin’s more in <i>my</i> line,” + observed Thomas, epigram-matically, much comforted by his refreshment. Aid + with two well-directed taps he knocked the pins out of their sockets, and + let down the backboard of the cart. + </p> + <p> + Bill, uncomforted by ale, sulkily jerked the horses forward; the cart was + tilted up, and the snow tumbled out, partly into the shallow shore-water, + partly on to the edge of the slope. + </p> + <p> + “Ullo!” cried Tommy suddenly. “E’re’s an old coat-sleeve a sticking out o’ + the snow.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Alves!” exclaimed Bill, with a noble eye on the main chance. + </p> + <p> + “‘Alves! of course, ‘alves. Ain’t we on the same lay,” replied the + chivalrous Tommy. Then he cried, “Lord preserve us, mate; <i>there’s a + cove in the coat!</i>” + </p> + <p> + He ran forward, and clutched the elbow of the sleeve which stood up + stiffly above the frozen mound of lumpy snow. He might well have thought + at first that the sleeve was empty, such a very stick of bone and skin was + the arm he grasped within it. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Bill, help us to dig him out, poor chap!” + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” asked Bill, leaving the horses’ heads. + </p> + <p> + “Dead! he’s bound to be dead, under all that weight. But how the dickens + did he get into the cart? Guess we didn’t shovel him in, eh; we’d have + seen him?” + </p> + <p> + By this time the two men had dragged a meagre corpse out of the snow heap. + A rough worn old pilot-coat, a shabby pair of corduroy trousers, and two + broken boots through which the toes could be seen peeping ruefully, were + all the visible raiment of the body. The clothes lay in heavy swathes and + folds over the miserable bag of bones that had once been a tall man. The + peaked blue face was half hidden by a fell of iron-gray hair, and a + grizzled beard hung over the breast. + </p> + <p> + The two men stood for some moments staring at the corpse. A wretched woman + in a thin gray cotton dress had come down from the bridge, and shivered + beside the body for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a goner,” was her criticism. “I wish <i>I</i> was.” + </p> + <p> + With this aspiration she shivered back into the fog again, walking on her + unknown way. By this time a dozen people had started up from nowhere, and + were standing in a tight ring round the body. The behavior of the people + was typical of London gazers. No one made any remark, or offered any + suggestion; they simply stared with all their eyes and souls, absorbed in + the unbought excitement of the spectacle. They were helpless, idealess, + interested and unconcerned. + </p> + <p> + “Run and fetch a peeler, Bill,” said Tommy at last. + </p> + <p> + “Peeler be hanged! Bloomin’ likely I am to find a peeler. Fetch him + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Sulky devil you are,” answered Tommy, who was certainly of milder mood; + whereas Bill seemed a most unalluring example of the virtue of Temperance. + It is true that he had only been “Blue Ribbon” since the end of his + Christmas bout—that is, for nearly a fortnight—and Virtue, a + precarious tenant, was not yet comfortable in her new lodgings. + </p> + <p> + Before Tommy returned from his quest the dusk had deepened into night The + crowd round the body in the pea-coat had grown denser, and it might truly + be said that “the more part knew not wherefore they had come together.” + The centre of interest was not a fight, they were sure, otherwise the ring + would have been swaying this way and that. Neither was it a dispute + between a cabman and his fare: there was no sound of angry repartees. It + might be a drunken woman, or a man in a fit, or a lost child. So the outer + circle of spectators, who saw nothing, waited, and patiently endured till + the moment of revelation should arrive. Respectable people who passed only + glanced at the gathering; respectable people may wonder, but they never do + find out the mystery within a London crowd. On the extreme fringe of the + mob were some amateurs who had just been drinking in the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + They were noisy, curious, and impatient. + </p> + <p> + At last Tommy arrived with two policeman, who, acting on his warning, had + brought with them a stretcher. He had told them briefly how the dead man + was found in the cart-load of snow. + </p> + <p> + Before the men in blue, the crowd of necessity opened. One of the officers + stooped down and flashed his lantern on the heap of snow where the dead + face lay, as pale as its frozen pillow. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, it’s old Dicky Shields!” cried a voice in the crowd, as the peaked + still features were lighted up. + </p> + <p> + The man who spoke was one of the latest spectators that had arrived, after + the news that some pleasant entertainment was on foot had passed into the + warm alcoholic air and within the swinging doors of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + “You know him, do you?” asked the policeman with the lantern. + </p> + <p> + “Know him, rather! Didn’t I give him sixpence for rum when he tattooed + this here cross and anchor on my arm? Dicky was a grand hand at tattooing, + bless you: he’d tattooed himself all over!” + </p> + <p> + The speaker rolled up his sleeve, and showed, on his burly red forearm, + the emblems of Faith and Hope rather neatly executed in blue. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he was in the <i>Hit or Miss</i>,” the speaker went on, “no later + nor last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Wot beats me,” said Tommy again, as the policeman lifted the light + corpse, and tried vainly to straighten the frozen limbs, “Wot beats me is + how he got in this here cart of ours.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s light enough surely,” added Tommy; “but I warrant <i>we</i> didn’t + chuck him on the cart with the snow in Belgrave Square.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you put up at night?” asked one of the policemen suddenly. He + had been ruminating on the mystery. + </p> + <p> + “In the yard there, behind that there hoarding,” answered Tommy, pointing + to a breached and battered palisade near the corner of the public-house. + </p> + <p> + At the back of this ricketty plank fence, with its particolored tatters of + damp and torn advertisements, lay a considerable space of waste ground. + The old houses that recently occupied the site had been pulled down, + probably as condemned “slums,” in some moment of reform, when people had + nothing better to think of than the housing of the poor. + </p> + <p> + There had been an idea of building model lodgings for tramps, with all the + latest improvements, on the space, but the idea evaporated when something + else occurred to divert the general interest. Now certain sheds, with + roofs sloped against the nearest walls, formed a kind of lumber-room for + the parish. + </p> + <p> + At this time the scavengers’ carts were housed in the sheds, or outside + the sheds when these were overcrowded. Not far off were stables for the + horses, and thus the waste ground was not left wholly unoccupied. + </p> + <p> + “Was this cart o’ yours under the sheds all night or in the open?” asked + the policeman, with an air of penetration. + </p> + <p> + “Just outside the shed, worn’t it, Bill?” replied Tommy. + </p> + <p> + Bill said nothing, being a person disinclined to commit himself. + </p> + <p> + “If the cart was outside,” said the policeman, “then the thing’s plain + enough. You started from there, didn’t you, with the cart in the + afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” answered Tommy. + </p> + <p> + “And there was a little sprinkle o’ snow in the cart?” + </p> + <p> + “May be there wos. I don’t remember one way or the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you <i>must</i> be a stupid if you don’t see that this here cove,” + pointing to the dead man, “got drinking too much last night, lost hisself, + and wandered inside the hoarding, where he fell asleep in the cart.” + </p> + <p> + “Snow do make a fellow bloomin’ sleepy,” one of the crowd assented. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he never wakened no more, and the snow had covered over his body + when you started with the cart, and him in it, unbeknown. He’s light + enough to make no difference to the weight. Was it dark when you started?” + </p> + <p> + “One of them spells of fog was on; you could hardly see your hand,” + grunted Tommy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it’s as plain as—as the nose on your face,” said the + policeman, without any sarcastic intentions. “That’s how it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, Bobby!” cried one of the crowd. “They should make you an + inspector, and set you to run in them dynamiting Irish coves.” + </p> + <p> + The policeman was not displeased at this popular tribute to his + shrewdness. Dignity forbade him, however, to acknowledge the compliment, + and he contented himself with lifting the two handles of the stretcher + which was next him. A covering was thrown over the face of the dead man, + and the two policemen, with their burden, began to make their way + northward to the hospital. + </p> + <p> + A small mob followed them, but soon dwindled into a tail of street boys + and girls. These accompanied the body till it disappeared from their eyes + within the hospital doors. Then they waited for half an hour or so, and at + last seemed to evaporate into the fog. + </p> + <p> + By this time Tommy and his mate had unharnessed their horses and taken + them to stable, the cart was housed (beneath the sheds this time), and + Bill had so far succumbed to the genial influences of the occasion as to + tear off his blue badge and follow Tommy into the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + A few chance acquaintances, hospitable and curious, accompanied them, + intent on providing with refreshments and plying with questions the heroes + of so remarkable an adventure. It is true that they already knew all Tommy + and Bill had to tell; but there is a pleasure, in moments of emotional + agitation, in repeating at intervals the same questions, and making over + and again the same profound remarks. The charm of these performances was + sure to be particularly keen within the very walls where the dead man had + probably taken his last convivial glass, and where some light was certain + to be thrown, by the landlady or her customers, on the habits and history + of poor Dicky Shields. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III.—An Academic Pothouse. + </h2> + <p> + The <i>Hit or Miss</i> tavern, to customers (rough customers, at least) + who entered it on a foggy winter night, seemed merely a public by the + river’s brim. Not being ravaged and parched by a thirst for the + picturesque, Tommy and his mates failed to pause and observe the + architectural peculiarities of the building. Even if they had been of a + romantic and antiquarian turn, the fog was so thick that they could have + seen little to admire, though there was plenty to be admired. The <i>Hit + or Miss</i> was not more antique in its aspect than modern in its + fortunes. Few public-houses, if any, boasted for their landlord such a + person as Robert Maitland, M.A., Fellow of St. Gatien’s, in the University + of Oxford. + </p> + <p> + It is, perhaps, desirable and even necessary to explain how this + arrangement came into existence. We have already made acquaintance with + “mine host” of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, and found him to be by no means the + rosy, genial Boniface of popular tradition. That a man like Maitland + should be the lessee of a waterside tavern, like the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, + was only one of the anomalies of this odd age of ours. An age of revivals, + restorations, experiments—an age of dukes who are Socialists—an + age which sees the East-end brawling in Pall Mall, and parties of West-end + tourists personally conducted down Ratcliffe Highway—need not wonder + at Maitland’s eccentric choice in philanthropy. + </p> + <p> + Maitland was an orphan, and rich. He had been an unpopular lonely boy at a + public school, where he was known as a “sap,” or assiduous student, and + was remarked for an almost unnatural indifference to cricket and rowing. + At Oxford, as he had plenty of money, he had been rather less unpopular. + His studies ultimately won him a Fellowship at St. Gatien’s, where his + services as a tutor were not needed. Maitland now developed a great desire + to improve his own culture by acquaintance with humanity, and to improve + humanity by acquaintance with himself. This view of life and duty had been + urged on him by his college “coach,” philosopher, and friend, Mr. Joseph + Bielby. A man of some energy of character, Bielby had made Maitland leave + his desultory reading and dull hospitalities at St. Gatien’s and betake + himself to practical philanthropy. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me you don’t see much in life,” Bielby had said. “Throw yourself + into the life of others, who have not much to live on.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland made a few practical experiments in philanthropy at Oxford. He + once subsidized a number of glaziers out on strike, and thereon had his + own windows broken by conservative undergraduates. He urged on the + citizens the desirability of running a steam tramway for the people from + the station to Cowley, through Worcester, John’s, Baliol, and Wadham + Gardens and Magdalene. His signature headed a petition in favor of having + three “devils,” or steam-whoopers, yelling in different quarters of the + town between five and six o’clock every morning, that the artisans might + be awakened in time for the labors of the day. + </p> + <p> + As Maitland’s schemes made more noise than progress at Oxford, Bielby + urged him to come out of his Alma Mater and practise benevolence in town. + He had a great scheme for building over Hyde Park, and creating a Palace + of Art in Poplar with the rents of the new streets. While pushing this + ingenious idea in the columns of the <i>Daily Trumpet</i>, Maitland looked + out for some humbler field of personal usefulness. The happy notion of + taking a philanthropic public-house occurred to him, and was acted upon at + the first opportunity. Maitland calculated that in his own bar-room he + could acquire an intimate knowledge of humanity in its least sophisticated + aspects. He would sell good beer, instead of drugged and adulterated stuff + He would raise the tone of his customers, while he would insensibly gain + some of their exuberant vitality. He would shake off the prig (which he + knew to be a strong element in his nature), and would, at the same time, + encourage temperance by providing good malt liquor. + </p> + <p> + The scheme seemed feasible, and the next thing to do was to acquire a + tavern. Now, Maitland had been in the Oxford movement just when + æstheticism was fading out, like a lovely sun-stricken lily, while + philanthropy and political economy and Mr. Henry George were coming in, + like roaring lions. Thus in Maitland there survived a little of the old + leaven of the student of Renaissance, a touch of the amateur of + “impressions” and of antiquated furniture. He was always struggling + against this “side,” as he called it, of his “culture,” and in his hours + of reaction he was all for steam tramways, “devils,” and Kindergartens + standing where they ought not. But there were moments when his old + innocent craving for the picturesque got the upper hand; and in one of + those moments Maitland had come across the chance of acquiring the lease + of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + That ancient bridge-house pleased him, and he closed with his opportunity. + The <i>Hit or Miss</i> was as attractive to an artistic as most + public-houses are to a thirsty soul When the Embankment was made, the + bridge-house had been one of a street of similar quaint and many-gabled + old buildings that leaned up against each other for mutual support near + the rivers edge. But the Embankment slowly brought civilization that way: + the dirty rickety old houses were both condemned and demolished, till at + last only the tavern remained, with hoardings and empty spaces, and a + dust-yard round it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The house stood at what had been a corner. The red-tiled roof was so +high-pitched as to be almost perpendicular. The dormer windows of the +attics were as picturesque as anything in Nuremberg. The side-walls +were broken in their surface by little odd red-tiled roofs covering +projecting casements, and the house was shored up and supported by huge +wooden beams. You entered (supposing you to enter a public-house) by a +low-browed door in front, if you passed in as ordinary customers did. At +one corner was an odd little board, with the old-fashioned sign: + + “Jack’s Bridge House. + “<i>Hit or Miss</i>—Luck’s All.” + </pre> + <p> + But there was a side-door, reached by walking down a covered way, over + which the strong oaken rafters (revealed by the unflaking of the plaster) + lay bent and warped by years and the weight of the building. From this + door you saw the side, or rather the back, which the house kept for its + intimates; a side even more picturesque with red-tiled roofs and dormer + windows than that which faced the street. The passage led down to a slum, + and on the left hand, as you entered, lay the empty space and the + dust-yard where the carts were sheltered in sheds, or left beneath the + sky, behind the ruinous hoarding. + </p> + <p> + Within, the <i>Hit or Miss</i> looked cosey enough to persons entering out + of the cold and dark. There was heat, light, and a bar-parlor with a wide + old-fashioned chimney-place, provided with seats within the ingle. On + these little benches did Tommy and his friends make haste to place + themselves, comfortably disposed, and thawing rapidly, in a room within a + room, as it were; for the big chimney-place was like a little chamber by + itself. Not on an ordinary night could such a party have gained admittance + to the bar-parlor, where Maitland himself was wont to appear, now and + then, when he visited the tavern, and to produce by his mere presence, and + without in the least intending it, an Early Closing Movement. + </p> + <p> + But to-night was no common night, and Mrs. Gullick, the widowed landlady, + or rather manager, was as eager to hear all the story of the finding of + poor Dicky Shields as any of the crowd outside had been. Again and again + the narrative was repeated, till conjecture once more began to take the + place of assertion. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” asked one of the men, “how old Dicky got the money for a + boose?” + </p> + <p> + “The money, ay, and the chance,” said another. “That daughter of his—a + nice-looking girl she is—kept poor Dicky pretty tight.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t let him get—” the epigrammatist of the company was just + beginning to put in, when the brilliant witticism he was about to utter + burst at once on the intellect of all his friends. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t let him <i>get</i> tight, you was a-goin’ to say, Tommy,” howled + three or four at once, and there ensued a great noise of the slapping of + thighs, followed by chuckles which exploded, at intervals, like crackers. + </p> + <p> + “Dicky ‘ad been ‘avin’ bad times for long,” the first speaker went on. “I + guess he ‘ad about tattooed all the parish as would stand a pint for + tattooing. There was hardly a square inch of skin not made beautiful + forever about here.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! and there was no sale for his beastesses and bird-ses nuther; or else + he was clean sold out, and hadn’t no capital to renew his stock of hairy + cats and young parrots.” + </p> + <p> + “The very stuffed beasts, perched above old Dicky’s shop, had got to look + real mangey and mouldy. I think I see them now: the fox in the middle, the + long-legged moulting foreign bird at one end, and that ‘ere shiny old + rhinoceros in the porch under them picters of the dying deer and t’other + deer swimming. Poor old Dicky! Where he raised the price o’ a drain, let + alone a booze, beats me, it does.” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said Mrs. Gullick, who had been in the outer room during the + conversation, “why, it was a sailor gentleman that stood Dicky treat A + most pleasant-spoken man for a sailor, with a big black beard He used to + meet Dicky here, in the private room up-stairs, and there Dicky used to do + him a turn of his trade—tattooing him, like. ‘I’m doing him to + pattern, mum,’ Dicky sez, sez he: ‘a <i>facsimile</i> o’ myself, mum.’ It + wasn’t much they drank neither—just a couple of pints; for sez the + sailor gentleman, he sez, ‘I’m afeared, mum, our friend here can’t carry + much even of <i>your</i> capital stuff. We must excuse’ sez he, ‘the + failings of an artis’; but I doesn’t want his hand to shake or slip when + he’s a doin’ <i>me</i>,’ sez he. ‘Might > spile the pattern,’ he sez, + ‘also hurt’ And I wouldn’t have served old Dicky with more than was good + for him, myself, not if it was ever so, I wouldn’t I promised that poor + daughter of his, before Mr. Maitland sent her to school—years ago + now—I promised as I would keep an eye on her father, and speak of—A + hangel, if here isn’t Mr. Maitland his very self!” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Gullick arose, with bustling courtesy, to welcome her landlord, + the Fellow of St. Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + Immediately there was a stir among the men seated in the ingle. One by one—some + with a muttered pretence at excuse, others with shame-faced awkwardness—they + shouldered and shuffled out of the room. Maitland’s appearance had + produced its usual effect, and he was left alone with his tenant. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mrs. Gullick,” said poor Maitland, ruefully, “I came here for a + chat with our friends—a little social relaxation—on economic + questions, and I seem to have frightened them all away.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, they’re a rough lot, and don’t think themselves company for the + likes of you. But,” said Mrs. Gullick, eagerly—with the delight of + the oldest aunt in telling the saddest tale—“you ‘ve heard this + hawful story? Poor Miss Margaret, sir! It makes my blood—” + </p> + <p> + What physiological effect on the circulation Mrs. Gullick was about to + ascribe to alarming intelligence will never be known; for Maitland, + growing a little more pallid than usual, interrupted her: + </p> + <p> + “What has happened to Miss Margaret? Tell me, quick!” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to <i>herself</i>, poor lamb, but her poor father, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland seemed sensibly relieved. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what about her father?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone, sir—gone! In a cartload o’ snow, this very evening, he was + found, just outside o* this very door.” + </p> + <p> + “In a cartload of snow!” cried Maitland. “Do you mean that he went away in + it, or that he was found in it dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, sir; dead for many hours, the doctor said; and in this very + house he had been no later than last night, and quite steady, sir, I do + assure you. He had been steady—oh, steady for weeks.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland assumed an expression of regret, which no doubt he felt to a + certain extent But in his sorrow there could not but have been some + relief. For Maitland, in the course of his philanthropic labors, had known + old Dicky Shields, the naturalist and professional tattooer, as a hopeless + <i>mauvais sujet</i>. But Dicky’s daughter, Margaret, had been a daisy + flourishing by the grimy waterside, till the young social reformer + transplanted her to a school in the purer air of Devonshire. He was having + her educated there, and after she was educated—why, then, Maitland + had at one time entertained his own projects or dreams. In the way of + their accomplishment Dicky Shields had been felt as an obstacle; not that + he objected—on the other hand, he had made Maitland put his views in + writing. There were times—there had lately, above all, been times—when + Maitland reflected uneasily on the conditional promises in this document + Dicky was not an eligible father-in-law, however good and pretty a girl + his daughter might be. But now Dicky had ceased to be an obstacle; he was + no longer (as he certainly had been) in any man’s way; he was nobody’s + enemy now, not even his own. + </p> + <p> + The vision of all these circumstances passed rapidly, like a sensation + rather than a set of coherent thoughts, through Maitland’s consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me everything you know of this wretched business,” he said, rising + and closing the door which led into the outer room. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, you have not been here for some weeks, or you would know that + Dicky had found a friend lately—an old shipmate, or petty-officer, + he called him—a sailor-man. Well-to-do, he seemed; the mate of a + merchant vessel he might be. He had known Dicky, I think, long ago at sea, + and he’d bring him here ‘to yarn with him,’ he said, once or twice it + might be in this room, but mainly in the parlor up-stairs. He let old + Dicky tattoo him a bit, up there, to put him in the way of earning an + honest penny by his trade—a queer trade it was. Never more than a + pint, or a glass of hot rum and water, would he give the old man. Most + considerate and careful, sir, he ever was. Well, last night he brought him + in about nine, and they sat rather late; and about twelve the sailor comes + in, rubbing his eyes, and ‘Good-night, mum,’ sez he. ‘My friend’s been + gone for an hour. An early bird he is, and I’ve been asleep by myself. If + you please, I’ll just settle our little score. It’s the last for a long + time, for I’m bound to-morrow for the China Seas, eastward. Oh, mum, a + sailor’s life!’ So he pays, changing a half-sovereign, like a gentleman, + and out he goes, and that’s the last I ever see o’ poor Dicky Shields till + he was brought in this afternoon, out of the snow-cart, cold and stiff, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you suppose all this happened? How did Shields get <i>into</i> + the cart?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s just what they’ve been wondering at, though the cart was + handy and uncommon convenient for a man as ‘ad too much, if ‘ad he ‘<i>ad</i>; + as believe it I cannot, seeing a glass of hot rum and water would not + intoxicate a babe. May be he felt faint, and laid down a bit, and never + wakened. But, Lord a mercy, what’s <i>that</i>?” screamed Mrs. Gullick, + leaping to her feet in terror. + </p> + <p> + The latched door which communicated with the staircase had been burst + open, and a small brown bear had rushed erect into the room, and, with a + cry, had thrown itself on Mrs. Gullick’s bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if ever I ‘<i>ad</i> a fright!” that worthy lady exclaimed, turning + toward the startled Maitland, and embracing at the same time the little + animal in an affectionate clasp. “Well, if <i>ever</i> there was such a + child as you, Lizer! What is the matter with you <i>now</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother,” cried the bear, “I dreamed of that big Bird I saw on the + roof, and I ran down-stairs before I was ‘arf awake, I was that horful + frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you just go up-stairs again—and here’s a sweet-cake for you—and + you take this night-light,” said Mrs. Gullick, producing the articles she + mentioned, “and put it in the basin careful, and knock on the floor with + the poker if you want me. If it wasn’t for that bearskin Mr. Toopny was + kind enough to let you keep, you’d get your death o’ cold, you would, + running about in the night. And look ‘ere, Lizer,” she added, patting the + child affectionately on the shoulder, “do get that there Bird out o’ your + head. It’s just nothing but indigestion comes o’ you and the other + children—himps they may well call you, and himps I’m sure you are—always + wasting your screws on pasty and lemonade and raspberry vinegar. + Just-nothing but indigestion.” + </p> + <p> + Thus admonished, the bear once more threw its arms, in a tight embrace, + about Mrs. Gullick’s neck; and then, without lavishing attention on + Maitland, passed out of the door, and could be heard skipping up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure, sir, I ask your pardon,” exclaimed poor Mrs. Gullick; “but + Lizer’s far from well just now, and she did have a scare last night, or + else, which is more likely, her little inside (saving your presence) has + been upset with a supper the Manager gave all them pantermime himps.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs. Gullick, why is she dressed like a bear?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s such a favorite with the Manager, sir, and the Property Man, and + all of them at the <i>Hilarity</i>, you can’t <i>think</i>, sir,” said + Mrs. Gullick, not in the least meaning to impugn Maitland’s general + capacity for abstract speculation. “A regular little genius that child is, + though I says it as shouldn’t. Ah, sir, she takes it from her poor father, + sir.” And Mrs. Gullick raised her apron to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Now the late Mr. Gullick had been a clown of considerable merit; but, like + too many artists, he was addicted beyond measure to convivial enjoyment. + Maitland had befriended him in his last days, and had appointed Mrs. + Gullick (and a capital appointment it was) to look after his property when + he became landlord of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + “What a gift, sir, that child always had! Why, when she was no more than + four, I well remember her going to fetch the beer, and her being a little + late, and Gullick with the thirst on him, when she came in with the jug, + he made a cuff at her, not to hurt her, and if the little thing didn’t + drop the jug, and take the knap! Lord, I thought Gullick would ‘a died + laughing, and him so thirsty, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Take the knap?” said Maitland, who imagined that “the knap” must be some + malady incident to childhood. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, it’s when one person cuffs at another on the stage, you know, + and the other slaps his own hand, on the far side, to make the noise of a + box on the ear: that’s what we call ‘taking the knap’ in the profession. + And the beer was spilt, and the jug broken, and all—Lizer was that + clever? And this is her second season, just ended, as a himp at the <i>Hilarity</i> + pantermime; and they’re that good to her, they let her bring her bearskin + home with her, what she wears, you know, sir, as the Little Bear in ‘The + Three Bears,’ don’t you know, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland was acquainted with the legend of the Great Bear, the Middle + Bear, and the Little Tiny Small Bear, and had even proved, in a learned + paper, that the Three Bears were the Sun, the Moon, and the Multitude of + Stars in the Aryan myth. But he had not seen the pantomime founded on the + traditional narrative. + </p> + <p> + “But what was the child saying about a big Bird?” he asked. “What was it + that frightened her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, I think it was just tiredness, and may be, a little something + hot at that supper last night; and, besides, seeing so many queer things + in pantermimes might put notions in a child’s head. But when she came home + last night, a little late, Lizer was very strange. She vowed and swore she + had seen a large Bird, far bigger than any common bird, skim over the + street. Then when I had put her to bed in the attic, down she flies, + screaming she saw the Bird on the roof. I had hard work to get her to + sleep. To-day I made her lay a-bed and wear her theatre pantermime + bearskin, that fits her like another skin—and she’ll be too big for + it next year—just to keep her warm in that cold garret. That’s all + about it, sir. She’ll be well enough in a day or two, will Lizer.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I hope she will, Mrs. Gullick,” said Maitland; “and, as I am + passing his way, I will ask Dr. Barton to call and see the little girl. + Now I must go, and I think the less we say to anyone about Miss Shields, + you know, the better. It will be very dreadful for her to learn about her + father’s death, and we must try to prevent Her from hearing how it + happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Gullick, bobbing; “and being safe away at + school, sir, we’ll hope she won’t be told no more than she needn’t know + about it.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland went forth into the thick night: a half-hearted London thaw was + filling the shivering air with a damp brown fog. + </p> + <p> + He walked to the nearest telegraph office, and did not observe, in the raw + darkness and in the confusion of his thoughts, that he was followed at no + great distance by a man muffled up in a great-coat and a woollen + comforter. The stranger almost shouldered against him, as he stood reading + his telegram, and conscientiously docking off a word here and there to + save threepence, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “From Robert Maitland to Miss Marlett. + “The Dovecot, Conisbeare, + “Tiverton. + “I come to-morrow, leaving by 10.30 train. Do + not let Margaret see newspaper. Her father dead. + Break news.” + </pre> + <p> + This telegram gave Maitland, in his excited state, more trouble to + construct than might have been expected. We all know the wondrous badness + of post-office pens or pencils, and how they tear or blot the paper when + we are in a hurry; and Maitland felt hurried, though there was no need for + haste. Meantime the man in the woollen comforter was buying stamps, and, + finishing his bargain before the despatch was stamped and delivered, went + out into the fog, and was no more seen. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV.—Miss Marlett’s. + </h2> + <p> + Girls’ schools are chilly places. The unfortunate victims, when you chance + to meet them, mostly look but half-alive, and dismally cold. Their noses + (however charming these features may become in a year or two, or even may + be in the holidays) appear somehow of a frosty temperature in the long + dull months of school-time. The hands, too, of the fair pupils are apt to + seem larger than common, inclined to blue in color, and, generally, are + suggestive of inadequate circulation. À tendency to get as near the fire + as possible (to come within the frontiers of the hearth-rug is forbidden), + and to cower beneath shawls, is also characteristic of joyous girlhood—school-girlhood, + that is. In fact, one thinks of a girls’ school as too frequently a spot + where no one takes any lively exercise (for walking in a funereal + procession is not exercise, or Mutes might be athletes), and where there + is apt to be a pervading impression of insufficient food, insufficient + clothing, and general unsatisfied tedium. + </p> + <p> + Miss Marlett’s Establishment for the Highest Education of Girls, more + briefly known as “The Dovecot, Conisbeare,” was no exception, on a + particularly cold February day—the day after Dicky Shields was found + dead—to these pretty general rules. The Dovecot, before it became a + girls’ school, was, no doubt, a pleasant English home, where “the fires + wass coot,” as the Highlandman said. The red-brick house, with its lawn + sloping down to the fields, all level with snow, stood at a little + distance from the main road, at the end of a handsome avenue of Scotch + pines. But the fires at Miss Marlett’s were not good on this February + morning. They never <i>were</i> good at the Dovecot. Miss Marlett was one + of those people who, fortunately for themselves, and unfortunately for + persons dwelling under their roofs, never feel cold, or never know what + they feel. Therefore, Miss Marlett never poked the fire, which, + consequently used to grow black toward its early death, and was only + revived, at dangerously long intervals, by the most minute doses of + stimulant in the shape of rather damp small coals. Now, supplies of coal + had run low at the Dovecot, for the very excellent reason that the roads + were snowed up, and that convoys of the precious fuel were scarcely to be + urged along the heavy ways. + </p> + <p> + This did not matter much to the equable temperature of Miss Marlett; but + it did matter a great deal to her shivering pupils, three of whom were + just speeding their morning toilette, by the light of one candle, at the + pleasant hour of five minutes to seven on a frosty morning. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear,” said one maiden—Janey Harman by name—whose blonde + complexion should have been pink and white, but was mottled with alien and + unbecoming hues, “<i>why</i> won’t that old Cat let us have fires to dress + by? Gracious, Margaret, how black your fingers are!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and I cant get them clean,” said Margaret, holding up two very + pretty dripping hands, and quoting, in mock heroic parody: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ho, dogs of false Tarentum, + Are not my <i>hands</i> washed white?” + </pre> + <p> + “No talking in the bedrooms, young ladies,” came a voice, accompanied by + an icy draught, from the door, which was opened just enough to admit a + fleeting vision of Miss Mariettas personal charms. + </p> + <p> + “I was only repeating my lay, Miss Marlett,” replied the maiden thus + rebuked, in a tone of injured innocence— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Ho, dogs of false Tarentum,’” + </pre> + <p> + —and the door closed again on Miss Marlett, who had not altogether + the best of it in this affair of outposts, and could not help feeling as + if “that Miss Shields” was laughing at her. + </p> + <p> + “Old Cat!” the young lady went on, in a subdued whisper. “But no wonder my + hands were a little black, Janey. You forget that it’s my week to be + Stoker. Already, girls, by an early and unexpected movement, I have cut + off some of the enemy’s supplies.” + </p> + <p> + So speaking, Miss Margaret Shields proudly displayed a small deposit of + coals, stored, for secrecy, in the bottom of a clothes-basket. + </p> + <p> + “Gracious, Daisy, how clever! Well, you are something <i>like</i> a + stoker,” exclaimed the third girl, who by this time had finished dressing: + “we shall have a blaze to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Now, it must be said that at Miss Marlett’s school, by an unusual and + inconsistent concession to comfort and sanitary principles, the elder + girls were allowed to have fires in their bed-rooms at night, in winter. + But seeing that these fires resembled the laughter of the wicked, inasmuch + as they were brief-lived as the crackling of thorns under pots, the girls + were driven to make predatory attacks on fuel wherever it could be found. + Sometimes, one is sorry to say, they robbed each other’s fireplaces, and + concealed the coal in their pockets. But this conduct—resembling + what is fabled of the natives of the Scilly Islands, that they “eke out a + precarious livelihood by taking in each other’s washing”—led to + strife and bickering; so that the Stoker for the week (as the girl + appointed to collect these supplies was called) had to infringe a little + on the secret household stores of Miss Marlett. This week, as it happened, + Margaret Shields was the Stoker, and she so bore herself in her high + office as to extort the admiration of the very housemaids. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Even the ranks of Tusculum + Could scarce forbear to cheer,” + </pre> + <p> + If we may again quote the author who was at that time Miss Shields’ + favorite poet. Miss Shields had not studied Mr. Matthew Arnold, and was + mercifully unaware that not to detect the “pinchbeck” in the <i>Lays</i> + is the sign of a grovelling nature. + </p> + <p> + Before she was sent to Miss Marlett’s, four years ere this date, Margaret + Shields’ instruction had been limited. “The best thing that could be said + for it,” as the old sporting prophet remarked of his own education, “was + that it had been mainly eleemosynary.” The Chelsea School Board fees could + but rarely be extracted from old Dicky Shields. But Robert Maitland, when + still young in philanthropy, had seen the clever, merry, brown-eyed child + at some school treat, or inspection, or other function; had covenanted in + some sort with her shiftless parent; had rescued the child from the + streets, and sent her as a pupil to Miss Marlett’s. Like Mr. Day, the + accomplished author of “Sandford and Merton,” and creator of the immortal + Mr. Barlow, Robert Maitland had conceived the hope that he might have a + girl educated up to his own intellectual standard, and made, or + “ready-made,” a helpmate meet for him. He was, in a more or less formal + way, the guardian of Margaret Shields, and the ward might be expected (by + anyone who did not know human nature any better) to blossom into the wife. + </p> + <p> + Maitland could “please himself,” as people say; that is, in his choice of + a partner he had no relations to please—no one but the elect young + lady, who, after all, might not be “pleased” with alacrity. + </p> + <p> + Whether pleased or not, there could be no doubt that Margaret Shields was + extremely pleasing. Beside her two shivering chamber-mates + (“chamber-dekyns” they would have been called, in Oxford slang, four + hundred years ago), Miss Shields looked quite brilliant, warm, and + comfortable, even in the eager and the nipping air of Miss Marlett’s + shuddering establishment, and by the frosty light of a single candle. This + young lady was tall and firmly fashioned; a nut-brown maid, with a ruddy + glow on her cheeks, with glossy hair rolled up in a big tight knot, and + with a smile (which knew when it was well off) always faithful to her + lips. These features, it is superfluous to say in speaking of a heroine, + “were rather too large for regular beauty.” She was perfectly ready to + face the enemy (in which light she humorously regarded her mistress) when + the loud cracked bell jangled at seven o’clock exactly, and the drowsy + girls came trooping from the dormitories down into the wintry class-rooms. + </p> + <p> + Arithmetical diversions, in a cold chamber, were the intellectual treat + which awaited Margaret and her companions. Arithmetic and slates! Does + anyone remember—can anyone forget—how horribly distasteful a + slate can be when the icy fingers of youth have to clasp that cold + educational formation (Silurian, I believe), and to fumble with the greasy + slate-pencil? With her Colenso in her lap, Margaret Shields grappled for + some time with the mysteries of Tare and Tret. “Tare an’ ‘ouns, <i>I</i> + call it,” whispered Janey Harman, who had taken, in the holidays, a + “course” of Lever’s Irish novels. Margaret did not make very satisfactory + progress with her commercial calculations. After hopelessly befogging + herself, she turned to that portion of Colenso’s engaging work which is + most palpitating with actuality: + </p> + <p> + “If ten Surrey laborers, in mowing a field of forty acres, drink + twenty-three quarts of beer, how much cider will thirteen Devonshire + laborers consume in building a stone wall of thirteen roods four poles in + length, and four feet six in height?” + </p> + <p> + This problem, also, proved too severe for Margaret’s mathematical + endowments, and (it is extraordinary how childish the very greatest girls + can be) she was playing at “oughts and crosses” with Janey Harman when the + arithmetic master came round. He sat down, not unwillingly, beside Miss + Shields, erased, without comment, the sportive diagrams, and set himself + vigorously to elucidate (by “the low cunning of algebra”) the difficult + sum from Colenso. + </p> + <p> + “You see, it is like <i>this</i>,” he said, mumbling rapidly, and + scribbling a series of figures and letters which the pupil was expected to + follow with intelligent interest. But the rapidity of the processes quite + dazed Margaret: a result not unusual when the teacher understands his + topic so well, and so much as a matter of course that he cannot make + allowance for the benighted darkness of the learner. + </p> + <p> + “Ninety-five firkins fourteen gallons three quarts. You see, it’s quite + simple,” said Mr. Cleghorn, the arithmetic master. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you; I <i>see</i>,” said Margaret, with the kind readiness of + woman, who would profess to “see” the Secret of Hegel, or the inmost heart + of the Binomial Theorem, or the nature of the duties of cover-point, or + the latest hypothesis about the frieze of the Parthenon, rather than be + troubled with prolonged explanations, which the expositor, after all, + might find it inconvenient to give. + </p> + <p> + Arithmetic and algebra were not this scholar’s <i>forte</i>; and no young + lady in Miss Marlett’s establishment was so hungry, or so glad when eight + o’clock struck and the bell rang for breakfast, as Margaret Shields. + </p> + <p> + Breakfast at Miss Marlett’s was not a convivial meal. There was a long + narrow table, with cross-tables at each end, these high seats, or <i>dais</i>, + being occupied by Miss Marlett and the governesses. At intervals down the + table were stacked huge piles of bread and butter—of extremely thick + bread and surprisingly thin butter—each slice being divided into + four portions. The rest of the banquet consisted solely of tea. Whether + this regimen was enough to support growing girls, who had risen at seven, + till dinnertime at half-past one, is a problem which, perhaps, the + inexperienced intellect of man can scarcely approach with confidence. But, + if girls do not always learn as much at school as could be desired, + intellectually speaking, it is certain that they have every chance of + acquiring Spartan habits, and of becoming accustomed (if familiarity + really breeds contempt) to despise hunger and cold. Not that Miss + Marlett’s establishment was a <i>Dothegirls Hall</i>, nor a school much + more scantily equipped with luxuries than others. But the human race has + still to learn that girls need good meals just as much as, or more than, + persons of maturer years. Boys are no better off at many places; but boys + have opportunities of adding bloaters and chops to their breakfasts, which + would be considered horribly indelicate and insubordinate conduct in + girls. + </p> + <p> + “Est ce que vous aimez les tartines à l’Anglaise,” said Janey Harman to + Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Ce que j’aime dans la tartine, c’est la simplicité prime-sautière da sa + nature,” answered Miss Shields. + </p> + <p> + It was one of the charms of the “matinal meal” (as the author of “Guy + Livingstone” calls breakfast) that the young ladies were all compelled to + talk French (and such French!) during this period of refreshment. + </p> + <p> + “Toutes choses, la cuisine exceptée, sont Françaises, dans cet + établissement peu recréatif,” went on Janey, speaking low and fast. + </p> + <p> + “Je déteste le Français,” Margaret answered, “mais je le préfère + infiniment à l’Allemand.” + </p> + <p> + “Comment accentuez, vous le mot préfère, Marguerite?” asked Miss Marlett, + who had heard the word, and who neglected no chance of conveying + instruction. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, two accents—one this way, and the other that,” answered + Margaret, caught unawares. She certainly did not reply in the most correct + terminology. + </p> + <p> + “Vous allez perdre dix marks,” remarked the schoolmistress, if + incorrectly, perhaps not too severely. But perhaps it is not easy to say, + off-hand, what word Miss Marlett ought to have employed for “marks.” + </p> + <p> + “Voici les lettres qui arrivent,” whispered Janey to Margaret, as the + post-bag was brought in and deposited before Miss Marlett, who opened it + with a key and withdrew the contents. + </p> + <p> + This was a trying moment for the young ladies. Miss Marlett first sorted + out all the letters for the girls, which came, indubitably and + unmistakably, from fathers and mothers. Then she picked out the other + letters, those directed to young ladies whom she thought she could trust, + and handed them over in honorable silence. These maidens were regarded + with envy by the others. Among them was not Miss Harman, whose letters + Miss Marlett always deliberately opened and read before delivering them. + </p> + <p> + “Il y a une lettre pour moi, et elle va la lire,” said poor Janey to her + friend, who, for her part, never received any letters, save a few, at + stated intervals, from Maitland. These Miss Shields used to carry about in + her pocket without opening them till they were all crumply at the edges. + Then she hastily mastered their contents, and made answer in the briefest + and most decorous manner. + </p> + <p> + “Qui est votre correspondent?” Margaret asked. We are not defending her + French. + </p> + <p> + “C’est le pauvre Harry Wyville,” answered Janey. “Il est sous-lieutenant + dans les Berkshires à Aldershot Pourquoi ne doit il pas écrire à moi, il + est comme on diroit, mon frère.” + </p> + <p> + “Est il votre parent?” + </p> + <p> + “Non, pas du tout, mais je l’ai connu pour des ans. Oh, pour des ans! + Voici, elle à deux dépêches télégraphiques,” Janey added, observing two + orange colored envelopes which had come in the mail-bag with the letters. + </p> + <p> + As this moment Miss Marlett finished the fraternal epistle of Lieutenant + Wyville, which she folded up with a frown and returned to the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne je veux vous parler à part, après, dans mon boudoir,” remarked + Miss Marlett severely; and Miss Herman, becoming a little blanched, + displayed no further appetite for tartines, nor for French conversation. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, to see another, and a much older lady, read letters written to one + by a lieutenant at Aldershot, whom one has known for years, and who is + just like one’s brother, is a trial to any girl. + </p> + <p> + Then Miss Marlett betook herself to her own correspondence, which, as + Janey had noticed, included <i>two</i> telegraphic despatches in + orange-colored envelopes. + </p> + <p> + That she had not rushed at these, and opened them first, proves the + admirable rigidity of her discipline. Any other woman would have done so, + but it was Miss Marietta rule to dispose of the pupils’ correspondence + before attending to her own. “Business first, pleasure afterward,” was the + motto of this admirable woman. + </p> + <p> + Breakfast ended, as the girls were leaving the room for the tasks of the + day, Miss Marlett beckoned Margaret aside. + </p> + <p> + “Come to me, dear, in the boudoir, after Janey Harman,” said the + schoolmistress in English, and in a tone to which Margaret was so + unaccustomed that she felt painfully uneasy and anxious—unwonted + moods for this careless maiden. + </p> + <p> + “Janey, something must have happened,” she whispered to her friend, who + was hardening her own heart for the dreadful interview. + </p> + <p> + “Something’s <i>going</i> to happen, I’m sure,” said poor Janey, + apprehensively, and then she entered the august presence, alone. + </p> + <p> + Margaret remained at the further end of the passage, leading to what Miss + Marlett, when she spoke French, called her “boudoir.” The girl felt colder + than even the weather warranted. She looked alternately at Miss Marietta + door and out of the window, across the dead blank flats to the low white + hills far away. Just under the window one of the little girls was + standing, throwing crumbs, remains of the tartines, to robins and + sparrows, which chattered and fought over the spoil. One or two + blackbirds, with their yellow bills, fluttered shyly on the outside of the + ring of more familiar birds. Up from the south a miserable blue-gray haze + was drifting and shuddering, ominous of a thaw. From the eaves and the + branches of the trees heavy drops kept falling, making round black holes + in the snow, and mixing and melting here and there in a yellowish plash. + </p> + <p> + Margaret shivered. Then she heard the boudoir door open, and Janey came + out, making a plucky attempt not to cry. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” whispered Margaret, forgetting the dread interview before + her, and her own unformed misgivings. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t give me the letter. I’m to have it when I go home for good; and + I’m to go home for good at the holidays,” whimpered Janey. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Janey!” said Margaret, petting the blonde head on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret Shields, come here!” cried Miss Marlett, in a shaky voice, from + the boudoir. + </p> + <p> + “Come to the back music-room when she’s done with you,” the other girl + whispered. And Margaret marched, with a beating heart, into Miss Marlett’s + chamber. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Margaret!” said Miss Marlett, holding out her hands. She was + standing up in the middle of the boudoir. She ought to have been sitting + grimly, fortified behind her bureau; that was the position in which she + generally received pupils on these gloomy occasions. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Margaret!” she repeated. The girl trembled a little as the + school-mistress drew her closer, and made her sit down on a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened?” she asked. Her lips were so dry that she could + scarcely speak. + </p> + <p> + “You must make up your mind to be very brave. Your father——” + </p> + <p> + “Was it an accident?” asked Margaret, suddenly. She knew pretty well what + was coming. Often she had foreseen the end, which it needed no prophet to + foretell. “Was it anything very dreadful?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maitland does not say. You are to be called for to-day. Poor Daisy!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Marlett, I am so very unhappy!” the girl sobbed. Somehow she was + kneeling now, with her head buried in the elder lady’s lap. “I have been + horrid to you. I am so wretched!” + </p> + <p> + A little kindness and a sudden trouble had broken down Miss Margaret + Shields. For years she had been living, like Dr. Johnson at college, with + a sad and hungry heart, trying to “carry it off by her wild talk and her + wit.” “It was bitterness they mistook for frolic.” She had known herself + to be a kind of outcast, and she determined to hold her own with the other + girls who had homes and went to them in the holidays. Margaret had not + gone home for a year. She had learned much, working harder than they knew; + she had been in the “best set” among the pupils, by dint of her cheery + rebelliousness. Now she suddenly felt all her loneliness, and knew, too, + that she had been living, socially, in that little society at the expense + of this kind queer old Miss Marlett’s feelings. + </p> + <p> + “I have been horrid to you,” she repeated. “I wish I had never been born.” + </p> + <p> + The school-mistress said nothing at all, but kept stroking the girl’s + beautiful head. Surreptitiously Miss Marlett wiped away a frosty tear. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mind me,” at last Miss Marlett said. “I never thought hardly of + you; I understood. Now you must go and get ready for your journey; you can + have any of the girls you like to help you to pack.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Marlett carried generosity so far that she did not even ask which of + the girls was to be chosen for this service. Perhaps she guessed that it + was the other culprit. + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret rose and dried her eyes, and Miss Marlett took her in her + arms and kissed her and went off to order a travelling luncheon and to + select the warmest railway rug she could find; for the teacher, though she + was not a very learned nor judicious school-mistress, had a heart and + affections of her own. She had once, it is true, taken the word <i>legibus</i> + (dative plural of lex, a law) for an adjective of the third declension, + legibus, legiba, legibum; and Margaret had criticised this grammatical + subtlety with an unsparing philological acumen, as if she had been + Professor Moritz Haupt and Miss Marlett, Orelli. And this had led to the + end of Latin lessons at the Dovecot, wherefore Margaret was honored as a + goddess by girls averse to studying the classic languages. But now Miss + Marlett forgot these things, and all the other skirmishes of the past. + </p> + <p> + Margaret went wearily to her room, where she bathed her face with cold + water; it could not be too cold for her, A certain numb forgetfulness + seemed to steep her mind while she was thus deadening her eyes again and + again. She felt as if she never wished to raise her eyes from this + chilling consolation. Then, when she thought she had got lid of all the + traces of her trouble, she went cautiously to the back music-room. Janey + was there, moping alone, drumming on the window-pane with her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Come to my room, Janey,” she said, beckoning. + </p> + <p> + Now, to consort together in their bedrooms during school-hours was + forbidden to the girls. + </p> + <p> + “Why, well only get into another scrape,” said Janey, ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “No, come away; I’ve got leave for you. You’re to help me to pack” + </p> + <p> + “To pack!” cried Janey. “Why, <i>you’re</i> not expelled, are you? You’ve + done nothing. You’ve not even had a perfectly harmless letter from a boy + who is just like a brother to you and whom you’ve known for years.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret only beckoned again and turned away, Janey following in silence + and intense curiosity. + </p> + <p> + When they reached their room, where Margaret’s portmanteau had already + been placed, the girl began to put up such things as she would need for a + short journey. She said nothing till she had finished, and then she sat + down on a bed and told Janey what she had learned; and the pair “had a + good cry,” and comforted each other as well as they might. + </p> + <p> + “And what are you going to do?” asked Janey, when, as Homer says, “they + had taken their fill of chilling lamentations.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you no one else in all the world?” + </p> + <p> + “No one at all. My mother died when I was a little child, in Smyrna. Since + then we have wandered all about; we were a long time in Algiers, and we + were at Marseilles, and then in London.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have a guardian, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he sent me here. And, of course, he’s been very kind, and done + everything for me; but he’s quite a young man, not thirty, and he’s so + stupid, and so stiff, and thinks so much about Oxford, and talks so like a + book. And he’s so shy, and always seems to do everything, not because he + likes it, but because he thinks he ought to. And, besides—” + </p> + <p> + But Margaret did not go further in her confessions, nor explain more + lucidly why she had scant affection for Mait-land of St. Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + “And had your poor father no other friends who could take care of you?” + Janey asked. + </p> + <p> + “There was a gentleman who called now and then; I saw him twice. He had + been an officer in father’s ship, I think, or had known him long ago at + sea. He found us out somehow in Chelsea. There was no one else at all.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don’t know any of your father’s family?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Margaret, wearily. “Ob, I have forgotten to pack up my + prayer-book.” And she took up a little worn volume in black morocco with + silver clasps. “This was a book my father gave me,” she said. “It has a + name on it—my grandfather’s, I suppose—‘Richard Johnson, + Linkheaton, 1837.’” Then she put the book in a pocket of her travelling + cloak. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother’s father it may have belonged to,” said Janey. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” Margaret replied, looking out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you won’t stay away long, dear,” said Janey, affectionately. + </p> + <p> + “But <i>you</i> are going, too, you know,” Margaret answered, without much + tact; and Janey, reminded of her private griefs, was about to break down, + when the wheels of a carriage were heard laboring slowly up the snow-laden + drive. + </p> + <p> + “Why, here’s some one coming!” cried Janey, rushing to the window. “Two + horses! and a gentleman all in furs. Oh, Margaret, this must be for you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V.—Flown. + </h2> + <p> + Maitland’s reflections as, in performance of the promise he had + telegraphed, he made his way to the Dovecot were deep and distracted. The + newspapers with which he had littered the railway carriage were left + unread: he had occupation enough in his own thoughts. Men are so made that + they seldom hear even of a death without immediately considering its + effects on their private interests. Now, the death of Richard Shields + affected Maitland’s purposes both favorably and unfavorably. He had for + some time repented of the tacit engagement (tacit as far as the girl was + concerned) which bound him to Margaret. For some time he had been dimly + aware of quite novel emotions in his own heart, and of a new, rather + painful, rather pleasant, kind of interest in another lady. Maitland, in + fact, was becoming more human than he gave himself credit for, and a sign + of his awakening nature was the blush with which he had greeted, some + weeks before, Barton’s casual criticism on Mrs. St. John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + Without any well-defined ideas or hopes, Maitland had felt that his + philanthropic entanglement—it was rather, he said to himself, an + entanglement than an engagement—had become irksome to his fancy. Now + that the unfortunate parent was out of the way, he felt that the daughter + would not be more sorry than himself to revise the relations in which they + stood to each other. Vanity might have prevented some men from seeing + this; but Maitland had not vitality enough for a healthy conceit. A + curious “aloofness” of nature permitted him to stand aside, and see + himself much as a young lady was likely to see him. This disposition is + rare, and not a source of happiness. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, his future relations to Margaret formed a puzzle + inextricable. He could not at all imagine how he was to dispose of so + embarrassing a <i>protégée</i>. Margaret was becoming too much of a woman + to be left much longer at school; and where was she to be disposed of? + </p> + <p> + “I might send her to Girton,” he thought; and then, characteristically, he + began to weigh in his mind the comparative educational merits of Girton + and Somerville Hall. About one thing only was he certain: he must consult + his college mentor, Bielby of St. Gatien’s, as soon as might be. Too long + had this Rasselas—occupied, like the famous Prince of Abyssinia, + with <i>the choice of life</i>—neglected to resort to his academic + Imlac. In the meantime he could only reflect that Margaret must remain as + a pupil at Miss Marlett’s. The moment would soon be arriving when some + other home, and a chaperon instead of a school-mistress, must be found for + this peculiar object of philanthropy and outdoor relief. + </p> + <p> + Maitland was sorry he had not left town by the nine o’clock train. The + early dusk began to gather, gray and damp; the train was late, having made + tardy progress through the half-melted snow. He had set out from + Paddington by the half-past ten express, and a glance at the harsh and + crabbed page of Bradshaw will prove to the most sceptical that Maitland + could not reach Tiverton much before six. Half frozen, and in anything but + a happy temper, he engaged a fly, and drove off, along heavy miserable + roads, to the Dovecot. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the closed and barred gates of that vestal establishment, + Maitland’s cabman “pulled, and pushed, and kicked, and knocked” for a + considerable time, without manifest effect. Clearly the retainers of Miss + Marlett had secured the position for the night, and expected no visitors, + though Maitland knew that he ought to be expected. “The bandogs bayed and + howled,” as they did round the secret bower of the Lady of Brauksome; and + lights flitted about the windows. When a lantern at last came flickering + up to the gate, the bearer of it stopped to challenge an apparently + unlooked-for and unwelcome stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you? What do you want?” said a female voice, in a strong Devonian + accent. + </p> + <p> + “I want Miss Marlett,” answered Maitland. + </p> + <p> + There was some hesitation. Then the porter appeared to reflect that a + burglar would not arrive in a cab, and that a surreptitious lover would + not ask for the schoolmistress. + </p> + <p> + The portals were at length unbarred and lugged apart over the gravel, and + Maitland followed the cook (for she was no one less) and the candle up to + the front door. He gave his card, and was ushered into the chamber + reserved for interviews with parents and guardians. The drawing-room had + the air and faint smell of a room very seldom occupied. All the chairs + were so elegantly and cunningly constructed that they tilted up at + intervals, and threw out the unwary male who trusted himself to their + hospitality. Their backs were decorated with antimacassars wrought with + glass beads, and these, in the light of one dip, shone fitfully with a + frosty lustre. On the round table in the middle were volumes of “The + Mothers of England,” “The Grandmothers of the Bible,” Blair “On the + Grave,” and “The Epic of Hades,” the latter copiously and appropriately + illustrated. In addition to these cheerful volumes there were large tomes + of lake and river scenery, with gilt edges and faded magenta bindings, + shrouded from the garish light of day in drab paper covers. + </p> + <p> + The walls, of a very faint lilac tint, were hung with prize sketches, in + water colors or in pencil, by young ladies who had left. In the former + works of art, distant nature was represented as, on the whole, of a mauve + hue, while the foreground was mainly composed of burnt-umber rocks, + touched up with orange. The shadows in the pencil drawings had an + agreeably brilliant polish, like that which, when conferred on fenders by + Somebody’s Patent Dome-Blacklead, “increases the attractions of the + fireside,” according to the advertisements. Maitland knew all the + blacklead caves, broad-hatted brigands, and pea-green trees. They were old + acquaintances, and as he fidgeted about the room he became very impatient. + </p> + <p> + At last the door opened, and Miss Marlett appeared, rustling in silks, + very stiff, and with an air of extreme astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maitland?” she said, in an interrogative tone. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you expect me? Didn’t you get my telegram?” asked Maitland. + </p> + <p> + It occurred to him that the storm might have injured the wires, that his + message might never have arrived, and that he might be obliged to explain + everything, and break his bad news in person. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, certainly. I got <i>both</i> your telegrams. But why have you come + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to see Margaret Shields, of course, and consult you about her. But + what do you mean by <i>both</i> my telegrams?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Marlett turned very pale, and sat down with unexpected suddenness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what will become of the poor girl?” she cried, “and what will become + of <i>me</i>? It will get talked about. The parents will hear of it, and I + am ruined.” + </p> + <p> + The unfortunate lady passed her handkerchief over her eyes, to the extreme + discomfiture of Maitland. He could not bear to see a woman cry; and that + Miss Marlett should cry—Miss Marlett, the least melting, as he had + fancied, of her sex—was a circumstance which entirely puzzled and + greatly disconcerted him. + </p> + <p> + He remained silent, looking at a flower in the pattern of the carpet, for + at least a minute. + </p> + <p> + “I came here to consult you, Miss Marlett, about what is to become of the + poor girl; but I do not see how the parents of the other young ladies are + concerned. Death is common to all; and Margaret’s father, though his life + was exposed to criticism, cannot be fairly censured because he has left it + And what do you mean, please, by receiving <i>both</i> my telegrams? I + only #sent <i>one</i>, to the effect that I would leave town by the 10.30 + train, and come straight to you. There must be some mistake somewhere. Can + I see Miss Shields?” + </p> + <p> + “See Miss Shields! Why, she’s <i>gone!</i> She left this morning with your + friend,” said Miss Marlett, raising a face at once mournful and alarmed, + and looking straight at her visitor. + </p> + <p> + “She’s <i>gone!</i> She left this morning with my friend!” repeated + Maitland. He felt like a man in a dream. + </p> + <p> + “You said in your first telegram that you would come for her yourself, and + in your second that you were detained, and that your friend and her + father’s friend, Mr. Lithgow, would call for her by the early train; so + she went with <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, Mr. Lithgow! I have no friend, Mr. lithgow,” cried Maitland; + “and I sent no second telegram.” + </p> + <p> + “Then who <i>did</i> send it, sir, if you please? For I will show you both + telegrams,” cried Miss Marlett, now on her defence; and rising, she left + the room. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +While Miss Marlett was absent, in search of the telegrams, Maitland had +time to reflect on the unaccountable change in the situation. What had +become of Margaret? Who had any conceivable interest in removing her +from school at the very moment of her father’s accidental death? And by +what possible circumstances of accident or fraud could two messages from +himself have arrived, when he was certain that he had only sent one? +The records of somnambulism contain no story of a person who despatched +telegrams while walking in his sleep. Then the notion occurred to +Maitland that his original despatch, as he wrote it, might have been +mislaid in the office, and that the imaginative clerk who lost it might +have filled it up from memory, and, like the examinees in the poem, +might + + “Have wrote it all by rote, + And never wrote it right.” + </pre> + <p> + But the fluttering approach of such an hypothesis was dispersed by the + recollection that Margaret had actually departed, and (what was worse) had + gone off with “his friend, Mr. Lithgow.” Clearly, no amount of accident or + mistake would account for the appearance of Mr. Lithgow, and the + disappearance of Margaret. + </p> + <p> + It was characteristic of Maitland that within himself he did not greatly + blame the schoolmistress. He had so little human nature—as he + admitted, on the evidence of his old college tutor—that he was never + able to see things absolutely and entirely from the point of view of his + own interests. His own personality was not elevated enough to command the + whole field of human conduct. He was always making allowances for people, + and never felt able to believe himself absolutely in the right, and + everyone else absolutely in the wrong. Had he owned a more full-blooded + life, he would probably have lost his temper, and “spoken his mind,” as + the saying is, to poor Miss Marlett She certainly should never have let + Margaret go with a stranger, on the authority even of a telegram from the + girl’s guardian. + </p> + <p> + It struck Maitland, finally, that Miss Marlett was very slow about finding + the despatches. She had been absent quite a quarter of an hour. At last + she returned, pale and trembling, with a telegraphic despatch in her hand, + but not alone. She was accompanied by a blonde and agitated young lady, in + whom Maitland, having seen her before, might have recognized Miss Janey + Harman. But he had no memory for faces, and merely bowed vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “This is Miss Harman, whom I think you have seen on other occasions,” said + Miss Marlett, trying to be calm. + </p> + <p> + Maitland bowed again, and wondered more than ever. It did occur to him, + that the fewer people knew of so delicate a business the better for + Margaret’s sake. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought Miss Harman here, Mr. Maitland, partly because she is Miss + Shields’ greatest friend” (here Janey sobbed), “but chiefly because she + can prove, to a certain extent, the truth of what I have told you.” + </p> + <p> + “I never for a moment doubted it, Miss Marlett; but will you kindly let me + compare the two telegrams? This is a most extraordinary affair, and we + ought to lose no time in investigating it, and discovering its meaning. + You and I are responsible, you know, to ourselves, if unfortunately to no + one else, for Margaret’s safety.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t got the two telegrams!” exclaimed poor Miss Marlett, who + could not live up to the stately tone of Maitland. “I haven’t got them, or + rather, I only have one of them, and I have hunted everywhere, high and + low, for the other.” + </p> + <p> + Then she offered Maitland a single dispatch, and the flimsy pink paper + fluttered in her shaking hand. + </p> + <p> + Maitland took it up and read aloud: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sent out at 7.45. Received 7.51. + “From Robert Maitland to Miss Marlett. + “The Dovecot, Conisbeare, + “Tiverton. + “I come to-morrow, leaving by 10.30 train. + Do not let Margaret see the newspaper. + Her father dead. Break news.” + </pre> + <p> + “Why, that is my own telegram!” cried Maitland; “but what have you done + with the other you said you received?” + </p> + <p> + “That is the very one I cannot find, though I had both on the escritoire + in my own room this morning. I cannot believe anyone would touch it. I did + not lock them away, not expecting to have any use for them; but I am quite + sure, the last time I saw them, they were lying there.” + </p> + <p> + “This is very extraordinary,” said Maitland. “You tell me, Miss Marlett, + that you received two telegrams from me. On the strength of the later of + the two you let your pupil go away with a person of whom you know nothing, + and then you have not even the telegram to show me. How long an interval + was there between the receipt of the two despatches?” + </p> + <p> + “I got them both at once,” said poor, trembling Miss Marlett, who felt the + weakness of her case. “They were both sent up with the letters this + morning. Were they not, Miss Harman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Janey; “I certainly saw two telegraphic envelopes lying among + your letters at breakfast. I mentioned it to—to poor Margaret,” she + added, with a break in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “But why were the telegrams not delivered last night?” Maitland asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have left orders,” Miss Marlett answered, “that only telegrams of + instant importance are to be sent on at once. It costs twelve shillings, + and parents and people are so tiresome, always telegraphing about nothing + in particular, and costing a fortune. These telegrams <i>were</i> very + important, of course; but nothing more could have been done about them if + they had arrived last night, than if they came this morning. I have had a + great deal of annoyance and expense,” the schoolmistress added, “with + telegrams that had to be paid for.” + </p> + <p> + And here most people who live at a distance from telegraph offices, and + are afflicted with careless friends whose touch on the wire is easy and + light, will perhaps sympathize with Miss Marlett. + </p> + <p> + “You might at least have telegraphed back to ask me to confirm the + instructions, when you read the second despatch,” said Maitland. + </p> + <p> + He was beginning to take an argumentative interest in the strength of his + own case. It was certainly very strong, and the excuse for the + schoolmistress was weak in proportion. + </p> + <p> + “But that would have been of no use, as it happens,” Janey put in—an + unexpected and welcome ally to Miss Marlett—“because you must have + left Paddington long before the question could have reached you.” + </p> + <p> + This was unanswerable, as a matter of fact; and Miss Marlett could not + repress a grateful glance in the direction of her wayward pupil. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Maitland, “it is all very provoking, and very serious. Can + you remember at all how the second message ran, Miss Marlett?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I know it off by heart; it was directed exactly like that in your + hand, and was dated half an hour later. It ran: ‘Plans altered. Margaret + required in town. My friend and her father’s, Mr. Lithgow, will call for + her soon after mid-day. I noticed there were just twenty words.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you also notice the office from which the message was sent out?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Marlett, shaking her head with an effort at recollection. + “I am afraid I did not notice.” + </p> + <p> + “That is very unfortunate,” said Maitland, walking vaguely up and down the + room. “Do you think the telegram is absolutely lost?” + </p> + <p> + “I have looked everywhere, and asked all the maids.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see it last, for certain?” + </p> + <p> + “I laid both despatches on the desk in my room when I went out to make + sure that Margaret had everything comfortable before she started.” + </p> + <p> + “And where was this Mr. Lithgow then?” + </p> + <p> + “He was sitting over the fire in my room, trying to warm himself; he + seemed very cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Clearly, then, Mr. Lithgow is now in possession of the telegram, which he + probably, or rather certainly, sent himself. But how he came to know + anything about the girl, or what possible motive he can have had—” + muttered Maitland to himself. “She has never been in any place, Miss + Marlett, since she came to you, where she could have made the man’s + acquaintance?” + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible to say whom girls may meet, and how they may manage it, + Mr. Maitland,” said Miss Marlett sadly; when Janey broke in: + </p> + <p> + “I am <i>sure</i> Margaret never met him here. She was not a girl to have + such a secret, and she could not have acted a part so as to have taken me + in. I saw him first, out of the window. Margaret was very unhappy; she had + been crying. I said, ‘Here’s a gentleman in furs, Margaret; he must have + come for you.’ Then she looked out and said, ‘It is not my guardian; it is + the gentleman whom I saw twice with my father.’” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a man was he to look at?” + </p> + <p> + “He was tall, and dark, and rather good-looking, with a slight black + mustache. He had a fur collar that went up to his eyes almost, and he was + not a young man. He was a gentleman,” said Janey, who flattered herself + that she recognized such persons as bear without reproach that grand old + name—when she saw them. + </p> + <p> + “Would you know him again if you met him?” + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere,” said Janey; “and I would know his voice.” + </p> + <p> + “He wore mourning,” said Miss Marlett, “and he told me he had known + Margaret’s father. I heard him say a few words to her, in a very kind way, + about him. That seemed more comfort to Margaret than anything. ‘He did not + suffer at all, my dear,’ he said. He spoke to her in that way, as an older + man might.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how on earth could <i>he</i> know?” cried Maitland. “No one was + present when her poor father died. His body was found in a—,” and + Maitland paused rather awkwardly. There was, perhaps, no necessity for + adding to the public information about the circumstances of Mr. Shields’ + decease. “He was overcome by the cold and snow, I mean, on the night of + the great storm.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always heard that the death of people made drowsy by snow and + fatigue is as painless as sleep,” said Miss Marlett with some tact. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that is what the man must have meant,” Maitland answered. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing more to be said on either side, and yet he lingered, + trying to think over any circumstance which might lend a clew in the + search for Margaret and of the mysterious Mr. Lithgow. + </p> + <p> + At last he said “Good-night,” after making the superfluous remark that it + would be as well to let everyone suppose that nothing unusual or + unexpected had happened. In this view Miss Marlett entirely concurred, for + excellent reasons of her own, and now she began to regret that she had + taken Miss Harman into her counsels. But there was no help for it; and + when Maitland rejoined his cabman (who had been refreshed by tea), a kind + of informal treaty of peace was concluded between Janey and the + schoolmistress. After all, it appeared to Miss Marlett (and correctly) + that the epistle from the young officer whom Janey regarded as a brother + was a natural and harmless communication. It chiefly contained accounts of + contemporary regimental sports and pastimes, in which the writer had + distinguished himself, and if it did end “Yours affectionately,” there was + nothing very terrible or inflammatory in that, all things considered. So + the fair owner of the letter received it into her own keeping, only she + was “never to do it again.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Marlett did not ask Janey to say nothing about Margaret’s + inexplicable adventure. She believed that the girl would have sufficient + sense and good feeling to hold her peace; and if she did not do so of her + own accord, no vows would be likely to bind her. In this favorable + estimate of her pupil’s discretion Miss Marlett was not mistaken. + </p> + <p> + Janey did not even give herself airs of mystery among the girls, which was + an act of creditable self-denial. The rest of the school never doubted + that, on the death of Miss Shields’ father, she had been removed by one of + her friends. As for Maitland, he was compelled to pass the night at + Tiverton, revolving many memories. He had now the gravest reason for + anxiety about the girl, of whom he was the only friend and protector, and + who was, undeniably, the victim of some plot or conspiracy. Nothing more + practical than seeking the advice of Bielby of St. Gatien’s occurred to + his perplexed imagination. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI.—At St. Gatien’s. + </h2> + <p> + The following day was spent by Maitland in travel, and in pushing such + inquiries as suggested themselves to a mind not fertile in expedients. He + was not wholly unacquainted with novels of adventure, and he based his + conduct, as much as possible, on what he could remember in these + “authorities.” For example, he first went in search of the man who had + driven the cab which brought the mysterious Mr. Lithgow to flutter the + Dovecot. So far, there was no difficulty. One of the cabdrivers who plied + at the station perfectly remembered the gentleman in furs whom he had + driven to the school After waiting at the school till the young lady was + ready, he had conveyed them back again to the station, and they took the + up-train. That was all <i>he</i> knew. The gentleman, if his opinion were + asked, was “a scaly varmint.” On inquiry, Maitland found that this wide + moral generalization was based on the limited <i>pour-boire</i> which Mr. + Lithgow had presented to his charioteer. Had the gentleman any luggage? + Yes, he had a portmanteau, which he left in the cloak-room, and took away + with him on his return to town—not in the van, in the railway + carriage. “What could he want with all that luggage?” Maitland wondered. + </p> + <p> + The next thing was, of course, to find the guard of the train which + conveyed Margaret and her mysterious friend to Taunton. This official had + seen the gentleman and the young lady get out at Taunton. They went on to + London. + </p> + <p> + The unfortunate guardian of Margaret Shields was now obliged to start for + Taunton, and thence pursue his way, and his inquiries, as far as + Paddington. The position was extremely irksome to Maitland. Although, in + novels, gentlemen often assume the <i>rôle</i> of the detective with + apparent relish, Maitland was not cast by Nature for the part. He was too + scrupulous and too shy. He detested asking guards, and porters, and + station-masters, and people in refreshment-rooms if they remembered having + seen, yesterday, a gentleman in a fur coat travelling with a young lady, + of whom he felt that he had to offer only a too suggestive description. + The philanthropist could not but see that everyone properly constructed, + in imagination, a satisfactory little myth to account for all the + circumstances—a myth in which Maitland played the unpopular part of + the Avenging Brother or Injured Husband. + </p> + <p> + What other path, indeed, was open to conjecture? A gentleman in a fur + coat, and a young lady of prepossessing appearance, are travelling alone + together, one day, in a carriage marked “Engaged.” Next day, another + gentleman (not prepossessing, and very nervous) appears on the same route, + asking anxious questions about the wayfarer in the notable coat (bearskin, + it seemed to have been) and about the interesting young lady. Clearly, the + pair were the fond fugitives of Love; while the pursuer represented the + less engaging interests of Property, of Law, and of the Family. All the + romance and all the popular interest were manifestly on the other side, + not on Maitland’s side. Even his tips were received without enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + Maitland felt these disadvantages keenly; and yet he had neither the time + nor the power to explain matters. Even if he had told everyone he met that + he was really the young lady’s guardian, and that the gentleman in the fur + coat was (he had every reason to believe) a forger and a miscreant, he + would not have been believed. His opinion would, not unjustly, have been + looked on as distorted by what Mr. Herbert Spencer calls “the personal + bias.” He had therefore to put up with general distrust and brief + discourteous replies. + </p> + <p> + There are many young ladies in the refreshment-bar at Swindon. There they + gather, numerous and fair as the sea-nymphs—Doto, Proto, Doris, and + Panope, and beautiful Galatea. Of them Maitland sought to be instructed. + But the young ladies were arch and uncommunicative, pretending that their + attention was engaged in their hospitable duties. Soup it was their + business to minister to travellers, not private information. They <i>had</i> + seen the gentleman and lady. Very attentive to her he seemed. Yes, they + were on the best terms: “very sweet on each other,” one young lady + averred, and then secured her retreat and concealed her blushes by + ministering to the wants of a hungry and hurried public. All this was + horribly disagreeable to Maitland. + </p> + <p> + Maitland finally reached Paddington, still asking questions. He had + telegraphed the night before to inquire whether two persons answering to + the oft-repeated description had been noticed at the terminus. He had + received a reply in the negative before leaving Tiverton. Here, then, was + a check. If the ticket-collector was to be credited, the objects of his + search had reached Westbourne Park, where their tickets had been taken. + There, however, all the evidence proved that they had not descended. + Nobody had seen them alight Yet, not a trace was to be found at Paddington + of a gentleman in a fur coat, nor of any gentleman travelling alone with a + young lady. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly nine o’clock when Maitland, puzzled, worn out, and + disgusted, arrived in town. He did what he could in the way of + interrogating the porters—all to no purpose. In the crowd and bustle + of passengers, who skirmish for their luggage under inadequate lights, no + one remembered having seen either of the persons whom Maitland described. + There remained the chance of finding out and cross-examining all the + cab-drivers who had taken up passengers by the late trains the night + before. But that business could not be transacted at the moment, nor + perhaps by an amateur. + </p> + <p> + Maitland’s time was limited indeed. He had been obliged to get out at + Westbourne Park and prosecute his inquisition there. Thence he drove to + Paddington, and, with brief enough space for investigations that yielded + nothing, he took his ticket by the 9.15 evening train for Oxford. His + whole soul was set on consulting Bielby of St. Gatien’s, whom, in his + heart, Maitland could not but accuse of being at the bottom of all these + unprecedented troubles. If Bielby had not driven him, as it were, out of + Oxford, by urging him to acquire a wider knowledge of humanity, and to + expand his character by intercourse with every variety of our fallen + species, Maitland felt that he might now be vegetating in an existence + peaceful, if not well satisfied. “Adventures are to the adventurous.” It + is a hard thing when they have to be achieved by a champion who is not + adventurous at all. If he had not given up his own judgment to Bielby’s, + Maitland told himself he never would have plunged into philanthropic + enterprise, he never would have taken the <i>Hit or Miss</i> he never + would have been entangled in the fortunes of Margaret Shields, and he + would not now be concerned with the death, in the snow, of a dissipated + old wanderer, nor obliged to hunt down a runaway or kidnapped school-girl. + Nor would he be suffering the keen and wearing anxiety of speculating on + what had befallen Margaret. + </p> + <p> + His fancy suggested the most gloomy yet plausible solutions of the mystery + of her disappearance. In spite of these reflections, Maitland’s confidence + in the sagacity of his old tutor was unshaken. Bielby had not been + responsible for the details of the methods by which his pupil was trying + to expand his character. Lastly, he reflected that if he had not taken + Bielby’s advice, and left Oxford, he never would have known Mrs. St. John + Deloraine, the lady of his diffident desires. + </p> + <p> + So the time passed, the minutes flitting by, like the telegraph posts, in + the dark, and Maitland reached the familiar Oxford Station. He jumped into + a hansom, and said, “Gatien’s.” Past Worcester, up Carfax, down the High + Street, they struggled through the snow; and at last Maitland got out and + kicked at the College gate. The porter (it was nearly midnight) opened it + with rather a scared face: + </p> + <p> + “Horful row on in quad, sir,” he said. “The young gentlemen ‘as a bonfire + on, and they’re a larking with the snow. Orful A they’re a making, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The agricultural operation thus indicated by the porter was being + forwarded with great vigor. A number of young men, in every variety of + garb (from ulsters to boating-coats), were energetically piling up a huge + Alp of snow against the door of the Master’s lodge. Meanwhile, another + band had carried into the quad all the light tables and cane chairs from a + lecture-room. Having arranged these in a graceful pyramidal form, they + introduced some of the fire-lighters, called “devils” by the College + servants, and set a match to the whole. + </p> + <p> + Maitland stood for a moment in doubt, looking, in the lurid glare, very + like a magician who has raised an army of fiends, and cannot find work for + them. He felt no disposition to interfere, though the venerable mass of St + Ga-tien’s seemed in momentary peril, and the noise was enough to waken the + dead, let alone the Bursar of Oriel. But Maitland was a non-resident + Fellow, known only to the undergraduates, where he was known at all, as a + “Radical,” with any number of decorative epithets, according to the taste + and fancy of the speaker. He did not think he could identify any of the + rioters, and he was not certain that they would not carry him to his room, + and there screw him up, according to precedent. Maitland had too much + sense of personal dignity to face the idea of owing his escape from his + chambers to the resources of civilization at the command of the college + blacksmith. He, therefore, after a moment of irresolution, stole off under + a low-browed old door-way communicating with a queer black many-sided + little quadrangle; for it is by no means necessary that a quadrangle + should, in this least mathematical of universities, be quadrangular. + Groping and stumbling his familiar way up the darkest of spiral + staircases, Maitland missed his footing, and fell, with the whole weight + of his body, against the door at which he had meant to knock. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said a gruff voice, as if the knocking had been done in the + most conventional manner. + </p> + <p> + Maitland had come in by this time, and found the distinguished Mr. Bielby, + Fellow of St. Gatien’s, sitting by his fireside, attired in a gray + shooting-coat, and busy with a book and a pipe. This gentleman had, on + taking his degree, gone to town, and practised with singular success at + the Chancery Bar. But on some sudden disgust or disappointment, he threw + up his practice, returned to College, and there lived a retired life among + his “brown Greek manuscripts.” He was a man of the world, turned hermit, + and the first of the kind whom Maitland had ever known. He had “coached” + Maitland, though he usually took no pupils, and remained his friend and + counsellor. + </p> + <p> + “How are you, Maitland?” said the student, without rising. “I thought, + from the way in which you knocked, that you were some of the young men, + coming to ‘draw me,’ as I think they call it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bielby smiled as he spoke. He knew that the undergraduates were as + likely to “draw” him as boys who hunt a hare are likely to draw a fierce + old bear that “dwells among bones and blood.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bielby’s own environment, to be sure, was not of the grisly and + mortuary character thus energetically described by the poet His pipe was + in his hand. His broad, bald, red face, ending in an auburn spade-shaped + beard, wore the air of content. Around him were old books that had + belonged to famous students of old—Scaliger, Meursius, Muretus—and + before him lay the proof-sheets of his long-deferred work, a new critical + edition of “Demetrius of Scepsis.” + </p> + <p> + Looking at his friend, Maitland envied the learned calm of a man who had + not contrived, in the task of developing his own human nature, to become + involved, like his pupil, in a singular and deplorable conjuncture of + circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “The men are making a terrible riot in quad,” he said, answering the + other’s remark. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” replied Bielby, genially; “boys will be boys, and so will + young men. I believe our Torpid has bumped Keble, and the event is being + celebrated.” + </p> + <p> + Here there came a terrific howl from without, and a crash of broken glass. + </p> + <p> + “There go some windows into their battels,” said Mr. Bielby. “They will + hear of this from the Provost But what brings you here, Maitland, so + unexpectedly? Very glad to see you, whatever it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said Maitland, “I rather want to ask your advice on an + important matter. The fact is, to begin at the beginning of a long story, + that some time ago I got, more or less, engaged to be married.” + </p> + <p> + This was not a very ardent or lover-like announcement, but Bielby seemed + gratified. + </p> + <p> + “Ah-ha,” replied the tutor, with a humorous twinkle. “Happy to hear it + Indeed, I <i>had</i> heard a rumor, a whisper! A little bird, as they say, + brought a hint of it—I hope, Maitland, a happy omen! A pleasant + woman of the world, one who can take her own part in society, and your + part, too, a little—if you will let me say so—is exactly what + you need. I congratulate you very heartily. And are we likely to see the + young lady in Oxford? Where is she just now?” + </p> + <p> + Maitland saw that the learned Bielby had indeed heard something, and not + the right thing. He flushed all over as he thought of the truth, and of + Mrs. St John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I wish I knew,” said Maitland at last, beginning to find this + consulting of the oracle a little difficult. “The fact is, that’s just + what I wanted to consult you about. I—I’m afraid I’ve lost all + traces of the young lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you mean?” asked the don, his face suddenly growing grave, + while his voice had not yet lost its humorous tone. “She has not eloped? + You don’t mean to tell me she has run away from you?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know what to say,” answered Maitland. “I’m afraid she has + been run away with, that she is the victim of some plot or conspiracy.” + </p> + <p> + “You surely can’t mean what you say” (and now the voice was gruffer than + ever). “People don’t plot and conspire nowadays, if ever they did, which + probably they didn’t! And who are the young lady’s people? Why don’t they + look after her? I had heard she was a widow, but she must have friends.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not a widow—she is an orphan,” said Maitland, blushing + painfully. “I am her guardian in a kind of way.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the wrong stories have reached me altogether! I’m sure I beg your + pardon, but did you tell me her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Her name is Shields—Margaret Shields”—(“Not the name I was + told,” muttered Bielby)—“and her father was a man who had been + rather unsuccessful in life.” + </p> + <p> + “What was his profession, what did he do?” + </p> + <p> + “He had been a sailor, I think,” said the academic philanthropist; “but + when I knew him he had left the sea, and was, in fact, as far as he was + anything, a professional tattooer.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “He tattooed patterns on sailors and people of that class for a + livelihood.” + </p> + <p> + Bielby sat perfectly silent for a few minutes, and no one who saw him + could doubt that his silence arose from a conscious want of words on a + level with the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Has Miss—h’m, Spears—Shields? thank you; has she been an + orphan long?” he asked, at length. He was clearly trying to hope that the + most undesirable prospective father-in-law described by Maitland had long + been removed from the opportunity of forming his daughter’s character. + </p> + <p> + “I only heard of his death yesterday,” said Maitland. + </p> + <p> + “Was it sudden?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. The fact is, he was a man of rather irregular habits, and he + was discovered dead in one of the carts belonging to the Vestry of St + George’s, Hanover Square.” + </p> + <p> + “St. George’s, Hanover Square, indeed!” said the don, and once more he + relapsed, after a long whistle, into a significant silence. “Maitland,” he + said at last, “how did you come to be acquainted with these people? The + father, as I understand, was a kind of artist; but you can’t, surely, have + met them in society?” + </p> + <p> + “He came a good deal to ‘my public-house, the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. I think + I told you about it, sir, and you rather seemed to approve of it. The + tavern in Chelsea, if you remember, where I was trying to do something for + the riverside population, and to mix with them for their good, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night!” growled Bielby, very abruptly, and with considerable + determination in his tone. “I am rather busy this evening. I think you had + better think no more about the young lady, and say nothing whatever about + the matter to anyone. Good-night!”. + </p> + <p> + So speaking, the hermit lighted his pipe, which, in the astonishment + caused by Maitland’s avowals, he had allowed to go out, and he applied + himself to a large old silver tankard. He was a scholar of the Cambridge + school, and drank beer. Maitland knew his friend and mentor too well to + try to prolong the conversation, and withdrew to his bleak college room, + where a timid fire was smoking and crackling among the wet faggots, with a + feeling that he must steer his own course in this affair. It was clearly + quite out of the path of Bielby’s experience. + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” thought Maitland, “if I had not taken his advice about trying + to become more human, and taken that infernal public-house too, I never + would have been in this hole.” + </p> + <p> + All day Maitland had scarcely tasted anything that might reasonably be + called food. “He had eaten; he had not dined,” to adopt the distinction of + Brillat-Savarin. He had been dependent on the gritty and flaccid + hospitalities of refreshment-rooms, on the sandwich and the bun. Now he + felt faint as well as weary; but, rummaging amidst his cupboards, he could + find no provisions more tempting and nutritious than a box of potted + shrimps, from the college stores, and a bottle of some Hungarian vintage + sent by an advertising firm to the involuntary bailees of St. Gatien’s. + Maitland did not feel equal to tackling these delicacies. + </p> + <p> + He did not forget that he had neglected to answer a note, on philanthropic + business, from Mrs. St. John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + Weary as he was, he took pleasure in replying at length, and left the + letter out for his scout to post. Then, with a heavy headache, he tumbled + into bed, where, for that matter, he went on tumbling and tossing during + the greater part of the night. About five o’clock he fell into a sleep + full of dreams, only to be awakened, at six, by the steam-whooper, or + “devil,” a sweet boon with which his philanthropy had helped to endow the + reluctant and even recalcitrant University of Oxford. + </p> + <p> + “Instead of becoming human, I have only become humanitarian,” Maitland + seemed to hear his own thoughts whispering to himself in a night-mare. + Through the slowly broadening winter dawn, in snatches of sleep that + lasted, or seemed to last, five minutes at a time, Maitland felt the + thought repeating itself, like some haunting refrain, with a feverish + iteration. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII.—After the Inquest. + </h2> + <p> + To be ill in college rooms, how miserable it is! Mainland’s scout called + him at half-past seven with the invariable question, “Do you breakfast + out, sir?” If a man were in the condemned cell, his scout (if in + attendance) would probably arouse him on the morning of his execution + with, “Do you breakfast out, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Maitland, in reply to the changeless inquiry; “in common room + as usual. Pack my bag, I am going down by the nine o’clock train.” + </p> + <p> + Then he rose and tried to dress; but his head ached more than ever, his + legs seemed to belong to someone else, and to be no subject of just + complacency to their owner. He reeled as he strove to cross the room, then + he struggled back into bed, where, feeling alternately hot and cold, he + covered himself with his ulster, in addition to his blankets. Anywhere but + in college, Maitland would, of course, have rung the bell and called his + servant; but in our conservative universities, and especially in so + reverend a pile as St. Gatiens, there was, naturally, no bell to ring. + Maitland began to try to huddle himself into his greatcoat, that he might + crawl to the window and shout to Dakyns, his scout. + </p> + <p> + But at this moment there fell most gratefully on his ear the sound of a + strenuous sniff, repeated at short intervals in his sitting-room. Often + had Maitland regretted the chronic cold and handkerchiefless condition of + his bedmaker; but now her sniff was welcome as music, much more so than + that of two hunting horns which ambitious sportsmen were trying to blow in + quad. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Trattles!” cried Maitland, and his own voice sounded faint in his + ears. “Mrs. Trattles!” + </p> + <p> + The lady thus invoked answered with becoming modesty, punctuated by + sniffs, from the other side of the door: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; can I do anything for you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Call Dakyns, please,” said Maitland, falling back on his pillow. “I don’t + feel very well.” + </p> + <p> + Dakyns appeared in due course. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry to hear you’re ill, sir; you do look a little flushed. Hadn’t I + better send for Mr. Whalley, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Now, Mr. Whalley was the doctor whom Oxford, especially the younger + generation, delighted to honor. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t think you need. Bring me breakfast here. I think I’ll be able + to start for town by the 11.58. And bring me my letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir,” answered Dakyns. + </p> + <p> + Then with that fearless assumption of responsibility which always does an + Englishman credit, he sent the college messenger in search of Mr. Whalley + before he brought round Maitland’s letters and his breakfast commons. + </p> + <p> + There were no letters bearing on the subject of Margaret’s disappearance; + if any such had been addressed to him, they would necessarily be, as + Maitland remembered after his first feeling of disappointment, at his + rooms in London. Neither Miss Marlett, if she had aught to communicate, + nor anyone else, could be expected to know that Mait-land’s first act + would be to rush to Oxford and consult Bielby. + </p> + <p> + The guardian of Margaret turned with no success to his breakfast commons; + even tea appeared unwelcome and impossible. + </p> + <p> + Maitland felt very drowsy, dull, indifferent, when a knock came to his + door, and Mr. Whalley entered. He could not remember having sent for him; + but he felt that, as an invalid once said, “there was a pain somewhere in + the room,” and he was feebly pleased to see his physician. + </p> + <p> + “A very bad feverish cold,” was the verdict, and Mr. Whalley would call + again next day, till which time Maitland was forbidden to leave his room. + </p> + <p> + He drowsed through the day, disturbed by occasional howls from the + quadrangle, where the men were snowballing a little, and, later, by the + scraping shovels of the navvies who had been sent in to remove the snow, + and with it the efficient cause of nocturnal disorders in St. Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + So the time passed, Maitland not being quite conscious of its passage, and + each hour putting Margaret Shields more and more beyond the reach of the + very few people who were interested in her existence. Maitland’s illness + took a more severe form than Whalley had anticipated, and the lungs were + affected. Bielby was informed of his state, and came to see him; but + Maitland talked so wildly about the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, about the man in + the bearskin coat, and other unintelligible matters, that the hermit soon + withdrew to the more comprehensible fragments of “Demetrius of Scepsis.” + He visited his old pupil daily, and behaved with real kindness; but the + old implicit trust never revived with Maitland’s returning health. + </p> + <p> + At last the fever abated. Maitland felt weak, yet perfectly conscious of + what had passed, and doubly anxious about what was to be done, if there + was, indeed, a chance of doing anything. + </p> + <p> + Men of his own standing had by this time become aware that he was in + Oxford, and sick, consequently there was always someone to look after him. + </p> + <p> + “Brown,” said Maitland to a friend, on the fifth day after his illness + began, “would you mind giving me my things? I’ll try to dress.” + </p> + <p> + The experiment was so far successful that Maitland left the queer bare + slit of a place called his bedroom (formed, like many Oxford bedrooms, by + a partition added to the large single room of old times), and moved into + the weirdly aesthetic study, decorated in the Early William Morris manner. + </p> + <p> + “Now will you howl for Dakyns, and make him have this telegram sent to the + post? Awfully sorry to trouble you, but I can’t howl yet for myself,” + whispered Maitland, huskily, as he scribbled on a telegraph form. + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to howl for you,” said Brown, and presently the wires were + carrying a message to Barton in town. Maitland wanted to see him at once, + on very pressing business. In a couple of hours there came a reply: Barton + would be with Maitland by dinner-time. + </p> + <p> + The ghostly room, in the Early William Morris manner, looked cosey and + even homelike when the lamp was lit, when the dusky blue curtains were + drawn, and a monster of the deep—one of the famous Oxford soles, + larger than you ever see them elsewhere—smoked between Maitland and + Barton. Beside the latter stood a silver quart pot, full of “strong,” a + reminiscence of “the old coaching days,” when Maitland had read with + Barton for Greats. The invalid’s toast and water wore an air of modest + conviviality, and might have been mistaken for sherry by anyone who relied + merely on such information as is furnished by the sense of sight The wing + of a partridge (the remainder of the brace fell to Barton’s lot) was + disposed of by the patient; and then, over the wine, which he did not + touch, and the walnuts, which he tried nervously to crack in his thin, + white hands, Maitland made confession and sought advice. + </p> + <p> + It was certainly much easier talking to Barton than to Bielby, for Barton + knew so much already, especially about the <i>Hit or Miss</i>; but when it + came to the story of the guardianship of Margaret, and the kind of + prospective engagement to that young lady, Barton rose and began to walk + about the room. But the old beams creaked under him in the weak places; + and Barton, seeing how much he discomposed Maitland, sat down again, and + steadied his nerves with a glass of the famous St. Gatien’s port. + </p> + <p> + Then, when Maitland, in the orderly course of his narrative, came to the + finding of poor Dick Shields’ body in the snow-cart, Barton cried, “Why, + you don’t mean to say that was the man, the girl’s father? By George, I + can tell you something about <i>him</i>! At the inquest my partner, old + Munby, made out—” + </p> + <p> + “Has there been an inquest already? Oh, of course there must have been,” + said Maitland, whose mind had run so much on Margaret’s disappearance that + he had given little of his thoughts (weak and inconsecutive enough of + late) to the death of her father. + </p> + <p> + “Of course there has been an inquest Have you not read the papers since + you were ill?” + </p> + <p> + Now, Maitland had the common-room back numbers of the <i>Times</i> since + the day of his return from Devonshire in his study at that very moment But + his reading, so far, had been limited to the “Agony Column” of the + advertisements (where he half hoped to find some message), and to all the + paragraphs headed “Strange Occurrence” and “Mysterious Disappearance.” + None of these had cast any light on the fortunes of Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen anything about the inquest,” he said. “What verdict did + they bring in? The usual one, I suppose—‘Visitation,’ and all that + kind of thing, or ‘Death from exposure while under the influence of + alcoholic stimulants.’” + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what they made it,” said Barton; “and I don’t blame them; + for the medical evidence my worthy partner gave left them no other choice. + You can see what he said for yourself in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + Barton had been turning over the file of the <i>Times</i>, and showed + Maitland the brief record of the inquest and the verdict; matters so + common that their chronicle might be, and perhaps is, kept stereotyped, + with blanks for names and dates. + </p> + <p> + “A miserable end,” said Maitland, when he had perused the paragraph. “And + now I had better go on with my story? But what did you mean by saying you + didn’t ‘blame’ the coroner’s jury?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any more story? Is it not enough? I don’t know that I should + tell you; it is too horrid!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t keep anything from me, please,” said Maitland, moving nervously. “I + must know everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” answered Barton, his voice sinking to a tone of reluctant horror—“well, + your poor friend was <i>murdered!</i> That’s what I meant when I said I + did not blame the jury; they could have given no other verdict than they + did on the evidence of my partner.” + </p> + <p> + Murder! The very word has power to startle, as if the crime were a new + thing, not as old (so all religions tell us) as the first brothers. As a + meteoric stone falls on our planet, strange and unexplained, a waif of the + universe, from a nameless system, so the horror of murder descends on us, + when we meet it, with an alien dread, as of an intrusion from some lost + star, some wandering world that is Hell. + </p> + <p> + “Murdered!” cried Maitland. “Why, Barton, you must be dreaming! Who on + earth could have murdered poor Shields? If ever there was a man who was no + one’s enemy but his own, that man was Shields! And he literally had + nothing that anyone could have wanted to steal. I allowed him so much—a + small sum—paid weekly, on Thursdays; and it was a Wednesday when he + was—when he died. He could not have had a shilling at that moment in + the world!” + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry to have to repeat it, but murdered he was, all the same, + and that by a very cunning and cautious villain—a man, I should say, + of some education. + </p> + <p> + “But how could it possibly have been done? There’s the evidence before you + in the paper. There was not a trace of violence on him, and the + circumstances, which were so characteristic of his ways, were more than + enough to account for his death. The exposure, the cold, the mere sleeping + in the snow—it’s well known to be fatal Why,” said Maitland, + eagerly, “in a long walk home from shooting in winter, I have had to send + back a beater for one of the keepers; and we found him quite asleep, in a + snowdrift, under a hedge. He never would have wakened.” + </p> + <p> + He was naturally anxious to refute the horrible conclusion which Barton + had arrived at. + </p> + <p> + The young doctor only shook his head. His opinion was manifestly fixed. + </p> + <p> + “But how can you possibly know better than the jury,” urged Maitland + peevishly, “and the coroner, and the medical officer for the district, who + were all convinced that his death was perfectly natural—that he got + drunk, lost his way, laid down in the cart, and perished of exposure? Why, + you did not even hear the evidence. I can’t make out,” he went on, with + the querulousness of an invalid, “why you should have come up just to talk + such nonsense. The coroner and the jury are sure to have been right.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see, it was not the coroner’s business nor the jury’s business, + to know better than the medical officer for the district, on whose + evidence they relied. But it is <i>my</i> business; for the said officer + is my partner, and, but for me, our business would be worth very little. + He is about as ignorant and easy-going an excellent old fellow as ever let + a life slip out of his hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you knew so much, why didn’t you keep him straight?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, as it happened, I was down in Surrey with my people, at a wedding, + when the death occurred, and they made a rather superficial examination of + the deceased.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I see less than ever how you got a chance to form such an + extraordinary and horrible opinion if you were not there, and had only + this printed evidence,” said Maitland, waving a sheet of the <i>Times</i>, + “to go by; and <i>this</i> is dead against you. You’re too clever.” + </p> + <p> + “But I made a proper and most careful examination myself, on my return to + town, the day after the inquest,” said Barton, “and I found evidence + enough <i>for me</i>—never mind where—to put the matter beyond + the reach of doubt. The man was <i>murdered</i>, and murdered, as I said, + very deliberately, by some one who was not an ordinary ignorant + scoundrel.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I don’t see how you got a chance to make your examination,” said + Maitland; “the man would be buried as usual—” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me. The unclaimed bodies of paupers—and there was no one to + claim <i>his</i>—are reserved, if needed—” + </p> + <p> + “I see—don’t go on,” said Maitland, turning rather pale, and falling + back on his sofa, where he lay for a little with his eyes shut “It is all + the fault of this most unlucky illness of mine,” he said, presently. “In + my absence, and as nobody knew where I was, there was naturally no one to + claim the body. The kind of people who knew about him will take no trouble + or risk in a case like that.” He was silent again for a few moments; then, + “What do <i>you</i> make out to have been the cause of death?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Barton slowly, “I don’t much care to go into details which + you may say I can hardly prove, and I don’t want to distress you in your + present state of health.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you speak out! Was he poisoned? Did you detect arsenic or + anything? He had been drinking with some one!” + </p> + <p> + “No; if, in a sense, he had been poisoned, there was literally nothing + that could be detected by the most skilled analysis. But, my dear fellow, + there are venoms that leave <i>no</i> internal trace. If I am right—and + I think I am—he was destroyed by one of these. He had been a great + traveller, had he not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Maitland. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is strange; the murderer must have been a great traveller also. + He must have been among the Macoushi Indians of Guiana, and well + acquainted with their arts. I know them too. I went there botanizing.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be more explicit?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said; “you must take it on my word, after all.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland, if not convinced, was silent He had knowledge enough of Barton, + and of his healthy and joyous nature, to be certain that his theory was no + morbid delusion; that he had good grounds for an opinion which, as he + said, he could no longer, prove—which was, indeed, now incapable of + any proof. No one had seen the commission of the crime, and the crime was + of such a nature, and so cunningly planned, that it could not possibly be + otherwise brought home to the murderer. + </p> + <p> + Now Maitland, knowing the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, and the private room + up-stairs with the dormer windows, where the deed must have been done, if + done at all, was certain that there could not possibly have been any + eye-witness of the crime. + </p> + <p> + “What shall you do?” he asked, “or have you done anything in consequence + of your discovery? Have you been to the police?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Barton; “where was the use? How can I prove anything now? It is + not as if poison had been used, that could be detected by analysis. + Besides, I reflected that if I was right, the less fuss made, the more + likely was the murderer to show his hand. Supposing he had a secret motive—and + he must have had—he will act on that motive sooner or later. The + quieter everything is kept, the more he feels certain he is safe, the + sooner he will move in some way or other. Then, perhaps, there may be a + chance of detecting him; but it’s an outside chance. Do you know anything + of the dead man’s past history?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, except that he was from the North, and had lived a wandering + life.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we must wait and see. But there is his daughter, left under your + care. What do you mean to do about <i>her?</i>” + </p> + <p> + The question brought Maitland back to his old perplexities, which were now + so terribly increased and confused by what he had just been told. + </p> + <p> + “I was going to tell you, when you broke in with this dreadful business. + Things were bad before; now they are awful,” said Maitland. “<i>His + daughter has disappeared!</i> That was what I was coming to: that was the + rest of my story. It was difficult and distressing enough before I knew + what you tell me; now—great Heavens! what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + He turned on the sofa, quite overcome. Barton put his hand encouragingly + on his shoulder, and sat so for some minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all about it, old boy?” asked Barton, at length. + </p> + <p> + He was very much interested, and most anxious to aid his unfortunate + friend. His presence, somehow, was full of help and comfort. Maitland no + longer felt alone and friendless, as he had done after his consultation of + Bielby. Thus encouraged, he told, as clearly and fully as possible, the + tale of the disappearance of Margaret, and of his entire failure even to + come upon her traces or those of her companion. + </p> + <p> + “And you have heard nothing since your illness?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to any purpose. What do you advise me to do?” + </p> + <p> + “There is only one thing certain, to my mind,” said Barton. “The seafaring + man with whom Shields was drinking on the last night of his life, and the + gentleman in the fur travelling-coat who sent the telegram in your name + and took away Margaret from Miss Marlett’s, are in the same employment, + or, by George, are probably the same person. Now, have you any kind of + suspicion who they or he may be? or can you suggest any way of tracking + him or them?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Maitland; “my mind is a perfect blank on the subject. I never + heard of the sailor till the woman at the <i>Hit or Miss</i> mentioned + him, the night the body was found. And I never heard of a friend of + Shields’, a friend who was a gentleman, till I went down to the school.” + </p> + <p> + “Then all we can do at present is, <i>not</i> to set the police at work—they + would only prevent the man from showing—but to find out whether + anyone answering to the description is ‘wanted’ or is on their books, at + Scotland Yard. Why are we not in Paris, where a man, whatever his social + position might be, who was capable of that unusual form of crime, would + certainly have his <i>dossier</i>? They order these things better in + France.” + </p> + <p> + “There is just one thing about him, at least about the man who was + drinking with poor Shields on the night of his death. He was almost + certainly tattooed with some marks or other. Indeed, I remember Mrs. + Gullick—that’s the landlady of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>—saying + that Shields had been occupied in tattooing him. He did a good deal in + that way for sailors.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove,” said Barton, “if any fellow understands tattooing, and the + class of jail-birds who practise it, I do. It is a clew after a fashion; + but, after all, many of them that go down to the sea in ships are + tattooed, even when they are decent fellows; and besides, we seldom, in + our stage of society, get a view of a fellow-creature with nothing on but + these early decorative designs.” + </p> + <p> + This was only too obvious, and rather damping to Maitland, who for a + moment had been inclined to congratulate himself on his <i>flair</i> as a + detective. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII.—The Jaffa Oranges. + </h2> + <h3> + “Letting <i>I dare not</i> wait upon <i>I would</i>.” + </h3> + <p> + Of all fairy gifts, surely the most desirable in prospect, and the most + embarrassing in practice, would be the magical telescope of Prince Ali, in + the “Arabian Nights.” With his glass, it will be remembered, he could see + whatever was happening on whatever part of the earth he chose, and, though + absent, was always able to behold the face of his beloved. How often would + one give Aladdin’s Lamp, and Fortunatus’ Purse, and the invisible Cap + which was made of “a darkness that might be <i>felt</i>” to possess for + one hour the Telescope of Fairyland! + </p> + <p> + Could Maitland and Barton have taken a peep through the tube, while they + were pondering over the means of finding Margaret, their quest would have + been aided, indeed, but they would scarcely have been reassured. Yet there + was nothing very awful, nor squalid, nor alarming, as they might have + expected, anticipated, and dreaded, in what the vision would have shown. + Margaret was not in some foreign den of iniquity, nor, indeed, in a den at + all. + </p> + <p> + The tube enchanted would have revealed to them Margaret, not very far off, + not in Siberia nor Teheran, but simply in Victoria Square, Pimlico, S.W. + There, in a bedroom, not more than commonly dingy, on the drawing-room + floor, with the rattling old green Venetian blinds drawn down, Margaret + would have been displayed. The testimony of a cloud of witnesses, in the + form of phials and medical vessels, proved that she had for some time been + an invalid. The pretty dusky red of health would have been seen to have + faded from her cheeks, and the fun and daring had died out of her eyes. + The cheeks were white and thin, the eyes were half-closed from sickness + and fatigue, and Margaret, a while ago so ready of speech, did not even + bestir herself to answer the question which a gentleman, who stood almost + like a doctor, in an attitude of respectful inquiry, was putting as to her + health. + </p> + <p> + He was a tall gentleman, dark, with a ripe kind of face, and full, red, + sensitive, sensual lips, not without a trace of humor. Near the door, in a + protesting kind of attitude, as if there against her will, was a + remarkably handsome young person, attired plainly as a housekeeper, or + upper-servant, The faces of some women appear to have been furnished by + Nature, or informed by habit, with an aspect that seems to say (in fair + members of the less educated classes), “I won’t put up with none of them + goings on.” Such an expression this woman wears. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you feel better, my dear?” the dark gentleman asks again. + </p> + <p> + “She’s going on well enough,” interrupted the woman with the beautiful + dissatisfied face. “What with peaches and grapes from Covent Garden, and + tonics as you might bathe in—” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” + </p> + <p> + “She <i>ought</i> to get well,” the dissatisfied woman continued, as if + the invalid were obstinately bent on remaining ill. + </p> + <p> + “I was not speaking, at the moment, to you, Mrs. Darling,” said the dark + gentleman, with mockery in his politeness, “but to the young lady whom I + have entrusted to your charge.” + </p> + <p> + “A pretty trust!” the woman replied, with a sniff + </p> + <p> + “Yes, as you kindly say, an extremely pretty trust. And now, Margaret, my + dear—’—” + </p> + <p> + The fair woman walked to the window, and stared out of it with a trembling + lip, and eyes that saw nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Margaret, my dear, tell me for yourself, how do you feel?” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind,” answered the girl at last. “I am sure I am better. I + am not very strong yet. I hope I shall get up soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything you would like? Perhaps you are tired of peaches and + grapes; may I send you some oranges?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you; you are very good. I am often thirsty when I waken, or + rather when I leave off dreaming. I seem to dream, rather than sleep, just + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor girl!” said the dark gentleman, in a pitying voice. “And what do you + dream?” + </p> + <p> + “There seems to be a dreadful quiet, smooth, white place,” said the girl, + slowly, “where I am; and something I feel—something, I don’t know + what—drives me out of it. I cannot rest in it; and then I find + myself on a dark plain, and a great black horror, a kind of blackness + falling in drifts, like black snow in a wind, sweeps softly over me, till + I feel mixed in the blackness; and there is always some one watching me, + and chasing me in the dark—some one I can’t see. Then I slide into + the smooth, white, horrible place again, and feel I <i>must</i> get away + from it. Oh, I don’t know which is worst! And they go and come all the + while I’m asleep, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “I am waiting for the doctor to look in again; but all <i>I</i> can do is + to get you some Jaffa oranges, nice large ones, myself. You will oblige + me, Mrs. Darling” (he turned to the housekeeper), “by placing them in Miss + Burnside’s room, and then, perhaps, she will find them refreshing when she + wakes. Good-by for the moment, Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + The fair woman said nothing, and the dark gentleman walked into the + street, where a hansom cab waited for him. “Covent Garden,” he cried to + the cabman. + </p> + <p> + We have not for some time seen, or rather we have for some time made + believe not to recognize, the Hon. Thomas Cranley, whose acquaintance (a + very compromising one) we achieved early in this narrative. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley, “with his own substantial private purpose sun-clear before + him” (as Mr. Carlyle would have said, in apologizing for some more + celebrated villain), had enticed Margaret from school. Nor had this been, + to a person of his experience and resources, a feat of very great + difficulty. When he had once learned, by the simplest and readiest means, + the nature of Maitland’s telegram to Miss Marlett, his course had been + dear. The telegram which followed Maitland’s, and in which Cranley used + Maitland’s name, had entirely deceived Miss Marlett, as we have seen. By + the most obvious ruses he had prevented Maitland from following his track + to London. His housekeeper had entered the “engaged” carriage at + Westbourne Park, and shared, as far as the terminus, the compartment + previously occupied by himself and Margaret alone. Between Westbourne Park + and Paddington he had packed the notable bearskin coat in his portmanteau. + The consequence was, that at Paddington no one noticed a gentleman in a + bearskin coat, travelling alone with a young lady. A gentleman in a light + ulster, travelling with two ladies, by no means answered to the + description Maitland gave in his examination of the porters. They, + moreover, had paid but a divided attention to Maitland’s inquiries. + </p> + <p> + The success of Cranley’s device was secured by its elementary simplicity. + A gentleman who, for any reason, wishes to obliterate his trail, does + wisely to wear some very notable, conspicuous, unmistakable garb at one + point of his progress. He then becomes, in the minds of most who see him, + “the man in the bearskin coat,” or “the man in the jack-boots,” or “the + man with the white hat.” His identity is practically merged in that of the + coat, or the boots, or the hat; and when he slips out of them, he seems to + leave his personality behind, or to pack it up in his portmanteau, or with + his rugs. By acting on this principle (which only requires to be stated to + win the assent of pure reason), Mr. Cranley had successfully lost himself + and Margaret in London. + </p> + <p> + With Margaret his task had been less difficult than it looked. She + recognized him as an acquaintance of her father’s, and he represented to + her that he had been an officer of the man-of-war in which her father had + served; that he had lately encountered her father, and pitied his poverty—in + poor Shields, an irremediable condition. The father, so he declared, had + spoken to him often and anxiously about Margaret, and with dislike and + distrust about Maitland. According to Mr. Cranley, Shield’s chief desire + in life had been to see Margaret entirely free from Maitland’s + guardianship. But he had been conscious that to take the girl away from + school would be harmful to her prospects. Finally, with his latest breath, + so Mr. Cranley declared, he had commended Margaret to his old officer, and + had implored him to abstract her from the charge of the Fellow of St + Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + Margaret, as we know, did not entertain a very lively kindness for + Maitland, nor had she ever heard her father speak of that unlucky young + man with the respect which his kindness, his academic rank, and his + position in society deserved. It must be remembered that, concerning the + manner of her father’s death, she had shrunk from asking questions. She + knew it had been sudden; she inferred that it had not been reputable. + Often had she dreaded for him one of the accidents against which + Providence does not invariably protect the drunkard. Now the accident had + arrived, she was fain to be ignorant of the manner of it. Her new + guardian, again, was obviously a gentleman; he treated her with perfect + politeness and respect, and, from the evening of the day when she left + school, she had been in the charge of that apparently correct chaperon, + the handsome housekeeper with the disapproving countenance. Mr. Cranley + had even given up to her his own rooms in Victoria Square, and had lodged + elsewhere; his exact address Margaret did not know. The only really + delicate point—Cranley’s assumption of the name of “Mr. Lithgow”—he + frankly confessed to her as soon as they were well out of the Dovecot. He + represented that, for the fulfilment of her father’s last wish, the ruse + of the telegram and the assumed name had been necessary, though highly + repugnant to the feelings of an officer and a gentleman. Poor Margaret had + seen nothing of gentlemen, except as philanthropists, and (as we know) + philanthropists permit themselves a license and discretion not customary + in common society. + </p> + <p> + Finally, even had the girl’s suspicions been awakened, her illness + prevented her from too closely reviewing the situation. She was with her + father’s friend, an older man by far, and therefore a more acceptable + guardian than Maitland. She was fulfilling her father’s wish, and hoped + soon to be put in the way of independence, and of earning her own + livelihood; and independence was Margaret’s ideal. + </p> + <p> + Her father’s friend, her own protector—in that light she regarded + Cranley, when she was well enough to think consecutively. There could be + no more complete hallucination. Cranley was one of those egotists who do + undoubtedly exist, but whose existence, when they are discovered, is a + perpetual surprise even to the selfish race of men. In him the instinct of + self-preservation (without which the race could not have endured for a + week) had remained absolutely unmodified, as it is modified in the rest of + us, by thousands of years of inherited social experience. Cran-ley’s + temper, in every juncture, was precisely that of the first human being who + ever found himself and other human beings struggling in a flood for a + floating log that will only support one of them. Everything must give way + to his desire; he had literally never denied himself anything that he + dared taka As certainly as the stone, once tossed up, obeys the only law + it knows, and falls back to earth, so surely Cranley would obtain what he + desired (if it seemed safe), though a human life, or a human soul, stood + between him and his purpose. + </p> + <p> + Now, Margaret stood, at this moment, between him and the aims on which his + greed was desperately bent. It was, therefore, necessary that she should + vanish; and to that end he had got her into his power. Cranley’s original + idea had been the obvious one of transporting the girl to the Continent, + where, under the pretence that a suitable situation of some kind had been + found for her, he would so arrange that England should never see her more, + and that her place among honest women should be lost forever. But there + were difficulties in the way of this tempting plan. For instance, the girl + knew some French, and was no tame, unresisting fool; and then Margaret’s + illness had occurred, and had caused delay, and given time for reflection. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he thought, as he lit his cigar and examined his mustache in + the mirror (kindly provided for that purpose in well-appointed hansoms)—“after + all it is only, the dead who tell no tales, and make no inconvenient + claims.” + </p> + <p> + For after turning over in his brain the various safe and easy ways of + “removing” an inconvenient person, one devilish scheme had flashed across + a not uninstructed intellect—a scheme which appeared open to the + smallest number of objections. + </p> + <p> + “She shall take a turn for the worse,” he thought; “and the doctor will be + an uncommonly clever man, and particularly well read in criminal + jurisprudence, if he sees anything suspicious in it.” + </p> + <p> + Thus pondering, this astute miscreant stopped at Covent Garden, dismissed + his cab, and purchased a basket of very fine Jaffa oranges. He then hailed + another cab, and drove with his parcel to the shop of an eminent firm of + chemists, again dismissing his cab. In the shop he asked for a certain + substance, which it may be as well not to name, and got what he wanted in + a small phial, marked <i>poison</i>. Mr. Cranley then called a third cab, + gave the direction of a surgical-instrument maker’s (also eminent), and + amused his leisure during the drive in removing the label from the bottle. + At the surgical-instrument maker’s he complained of neuralgia, and + purchased a hypodermic syringe for injecting morphine or some such anodyne + into his arm. À fourth cab took him back to the house in Victoria Square, + where he let himself in with a key, entered the dining-room, and locked + the door. + </p> + <p> + Nor was he satisfied with this precaution. After aimlessly moving chairs + about for a few minutes, and prowling up and down the room, he paused and + listened. What he heard induced him to stuff his pocket-handkerchief into + the keyhole, and to lay the hearth-rug across the considerable chink + which, as is usual, admitted a healthy draught under the bottom of the + door. Then the Honorable Mr. Cranley drew down the blinds, and unpacked + his various purchases. He set them out on the table in order—the + oranges, the phial, and the hypodermic syringe. + </p> + <p> + Then he carefully examined the oranges, chose half a dozen of the best, + and laid the others on a large dessert plate in the dining-room cupboard. + One orange he ate, and left the skin on a plate on the table, in company + with a biscuit or two. + </p> + <p> + When all this had been arranged to his mind, Mr. Cranley chose another + orange, filled a wineglass with the liquid in the phial, and then drew off + a quantity in the little syringe. Then he very delicately and carefully + punctured the skin of one of the oranges, and injected into the fruit the + contents of the syringe. This operation he elaborately completed in the + case of each of the six chosen oranges, and then tenderly polished their + coats with a portion of the skin of the fruit he had eaten. That portion + of the skin he consumed to dust in the fire; and, observing that a strong + odor remained in the room, he deliberately turned on the unlighted gas for + a few minutes. After this he opened the window, sealed his own seal in red + wax on paper a great many times, finally burning the collection, and lit a + large cigar, which he smoked through with every appearance of enjoyment. + While engaged on this portion of his task, he helped himself frequently to + sherry from the glass, first carefully rinsed, into which he had poured + the liquid from the now unlabelled phial. Lastly he put the phial in his + pocket with the little syringe, stored the six oranges, wrapped in + delicate paper, within the basket, and closed the window. + </p> + <p> + Next he unlocked the door, and, without opening it, remarked in a sweet + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Now, Alice, you may come in!” + </p> + <p> + The handle turned, and the housekeeper entered. + </p> + <p> + “How is Miss Burnside?” he asked, in the same silvery accents. (He had + told Margaret that she had better be known by that name, for the present + at least.) + </p> + <p> + “She is asleep. I hope she may never waken. What do you want with her? Why + are you keeping her in this house? What devil’s brew have you been making + that smells of gas and sherry and sealing-wax?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl,” replied Mr. Cranley, “you put too many questions at once. + As to your first pair of queries, my reasons for taking care of Miss + Burnside are my own business, and do not concern you, as my housekeeper. + As to the ‘devil’s brew’ which you indicate in a style worthy rather of + the ages of Faith and of Alchemy, than of an epoch of positive science, + did you never taste sherry and sealing-wax? If you did not, that is one of + the very few alcoholic combinations in which you have never, to my + knowledge, attempted experiments. Is there any other matter on which I can + enlighten an intelligent and respectful curiosity?” + </p> + <p> + The fair woman’s blue eyes and white face seemed to glitter with anger, + like a baleful lightning. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand your chaff,” she said, with a few ornamental epithets, + which, in moments when she was deeply stirred, were apt to decorate her + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “I grieve to be obscure,” he answered; “<i>brevis esse laboro</i>, the old + story. But, as you say Miss Burnside is sleeping, and as, when she wakens, + she may be feverish, will you kindly carry these oranges and leave them on + a plate by her bedside? They are Jaffa oranges, and finer fruit, Alice, my + dear, I have seldom tasted! After that, go to Cavendish Square, and leave + this note at the doctor’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing’s too good for <i>her!</i>” growled the jealous woman, + thinking of the fruit; to which he replied by offering her several of the + oranges not used in his experiment. + </p> + <p> + Bearing these, she withdrew, throwing a spiteful glance and leaving the + door unshut, so that her master distinctly heard her open Margaret’s door, + come out again, and finally leave the house. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I’ll give her a quarter of an hour to waken,” said Mr. Cranley, and + he took from his pocket a fresh copy of the <i>Times</i>. He glanced + rather anxiously at the second column of the outer sheet “Still + advertising for him,” he said to himself; and he then turned to the + sporting news. His calmness was extraordinary, but natural in him; for the + reaction of terror at the possible detection of his villainy had not yet + come on. When he had read all that interested him in the <i>Times</i>, he + looked hastily at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Just twenty minutes gone,” he said. “Time she wakened—and tried + those Jaffa oranges.” + </p> + <p> + Then he rose, went up stairs stealthily, paused a moment opposite + Margaret’s door, and entered the drawing-room. Apparently he did not find + any of the chairs in the dining-room comfortable enough; for he chose a + large and heavy <i>fauteuil</i>, took it up in his arms, and began to + carry it out In the passage, just opposite Margaret’s chamber, he stumbled + so heavily that he fell, and the weighty piece of furniture was dashed + against the door of the sick-room, making a terrible noise. He picked it + up, and retired silently to the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “That would have wakened the dead,” he whispered to himself, “and she is + not dead—yet. She is certain to see the oranges, and take one of + them, and then—” + </p> + <p> + The reflection did not seem to relieve him, as he sat, gnawing his + mustache, in the chair he had brought down with him. Now the deed was + being accomplished, even his craven heart awoke to a kind of criminal + remorse. Now anxiety for the issue made him wish the act undone, or + frustrated; now he asked himself if there were no more certain and less + perilous way. So intent was his eagerness that a strange kind of lucidity + possessed him. He felt as if he beheld and heard what was passing in the + chamber of sickness, which he had made a chamber of Death. + </p> + <p> + She has wakened—she has looked round—she has seen the poisoned + fruit—she has blessed him for his kindness in bringing it—she + has tasted the oranges—she has turned to sleep again—and the + unrelenting venom is at its work! + </p> + <p> + Oh, strange forces that are about us, all inevitably acting, each in his + hour and his place, each fulfilling his law without turning aside to the + right hand or to the left! The rain-drop running down the pane, the star + revolving round the sun of the furthest undiscoverable system, the grains + of sand sliding from the grasp, the poison gnawing and burning the tissues—each + seems to move in his inevitable path, obedient to an unrelenting will. + Innocence, youth, beauty—that will spares them not. The rock falls + at its hour, whoever is under it. The deadly drug slays, though it be + blended with the holy elements. It is a will that moves all things—<i>mens + agitat molem</i>; and yet we can make that will a slave of our own, and + turn this way and that the blind steadfast forces, to the accomplishment + of our desires. + </p> + <p> + It was not, naturally, with these transcendental reflections that the + intellect of Mr. Cranley was at this moment engaged. If he seemed actually + to be present in Margaret’s chamber, watching every movement and hearing + every heart-beat of the girl he had doomed, his blue lips and livid face, + from which he kept wiping the cold drops, did not therefore speak of late + ruth, or the beginning of remorse. + </p> + <p> + It was entirely on his own security and chances of escaping detection that + he was musing. + </p> + <p> + “Now it’s done, it can’t be undone,” he said. “But is it so very safe, + after all? The stuff is not beyond analysis, unluckily; but it’s much more + hard to detect this way, mixed with the orange-juice, than any other way. + And then there’s all the horrid fuss afterward. Even if there is not an + inquest—as, of course, there won’t be—they’ll ask who the girl + is, what the devil she was doing here. Perhaps they’ll, some of them, + recognize Alice: she has been too much before the public, confound her. It + may not be very hard to lie through all these inquiries, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + And then he looked mechanically at his cold fingers, and bit his + thumb-nail, and yawned. + </p> + <p> + “By gad! I wish I had not risked it,” he said to himself; and his + complexion was now of a curious faint blue, and his heart began to flutter + painfully in a manner not strange in his experience. He sunk back in his + chair, with his hands all thrilling and pricking to the finger-tips. He + took a large silver flask from his pocket, but he could scarcely unscrew + the stopper, and had to manage it with his teeth. A long pull at the + liquor restored him, and he began his round of reflections again. + </p> + <p> + “That French fellow who tried it this way in Scotland was found out,” he + said; “and—” He did not like, even in his mind, to add that the + “French fellow, consequently, suffered the extreme penalty of the law. But + then he was a fool, and boasted beforehand, and bungled it infernally. + Still, it’s not absolutely safe: the other plan I thought of first was + better. By gad! I wish I could be sure she had not taken the stuff. + Perhaps she hasn’t. Anyway, she must be asleep again now; and, besides, + there are the other oranges to be substituted for those left in the room, + if she <i>has</i> taken it. I <i>must</i> go and see. I don’t like the + job.” + </p> + <p> + He filled his pockets with five unpoisoned oranges, and the skin of a + sixth, and so crept upstairs. His situation was, perhaps, rather novel. + With murder in his remorseless heart, he yet hoped against hope, out of + his very poltroonery, that murder had not been done. At the girl’s door he + waited and listened, his face horribly agitated and shining wet. All was + silent. His heart was sounding hoarsely within him, like a dry pump: he + heard it, so noisy and so distinct that he almost feared it might wake the + sleeper. If only, after all, she had not touched the fruit! + </p> + <p> + Then he took the door-handle in his clammy grasp; he had to cover it with + a handkerchief to get a firm hold. He turned discreetly, and the door was + pushed open in perfect stillness, except for that dreadful husky thumping + of his own heart. At this moment the postman’s hard knock at the door + nearly made him cry out aloud. Then he entered; a dreadful visitor, had + anyone seen him. She did not see him; she was asleep, sound asleep; in the + dirty brown twilight of a London winter day, he could make out that much. + He did not dare draw close enough to observe her face minutely, or bend + down and listen for her breath. And the oranges! Eagerly he looked at + them. There were only five of them. Surely—no! a sixth had fallen on + the floor, where it was lying. With a great sigh of relief he picked up + all the six oranges, put them in his pockets, and, as shrinkingly as he + had come-yet shaking his hand at the girl, and cursing his own cowardice + under his breath—he stole down stairs, opened the dining-room door, + and advanced into the blind, empty dusk. + </p> + <p> + “Now I’ll settle with you!” came a voice out of the dimness; and the start + wrought so wildly on his nerves, excited to the utmost degree as they + were, that he gave an inarticulate cry of alarm and despair. Was he + trapped, and by whom? + </p> + <p> + In a moment he saw whence the voice came. It was only Alice Darling, in + bonnet and cloak, and with a face flushed with something more than anger, + that stood before him. + </p> + <p> + Not much used to shame, he was yet ashamed of his own alarm, and tried to + dissemble it. He sat down at a writing-table facing her, and merely + observed: + </p> + <p> + “Now that you have returned, Alice, will you kindly bring lights? I want + to read.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing up-stairs just now?” she snarled. “Why did you send + me off to the doctor’s, out of the way?” + </p> + <p> + “My good girl, I have again and again advised you to turn that invaluable + curiosity of yours—curiosity, a quality which Mr. Matthew Arnold so + justly views with high esteem—into wider and nobler channels. + Disdain the merely personal; accept the calm facts of domestic life as you + find them; approach the broader and less irritating problems of Sociology + (pardon the term) or Metaphysics.” + </p> + <p> + It was cruel to see the enjoyment he got out of teasing this woman by an + ironical jargon which mystified her into madness. This time he went too + far. With an inarticulate snarl of passion she lifted a knife that lay on + the dining-room table and made for him. But this time, being prepared, he + was not alarmed; nay, he seemed to take leasure in the success of his plan + of tormenting. The heavy escritoire at which he sat was a breastwork + between him and the angry woman. He coolly opened a drawer; produced a + revolver, and remarked: + </p> + <p> + “No; I did not ask for the carving-knife, Alice. I asked for lights; and + you will be good enough to bring them. I am your master, you know, in + every sense of the word; and you are aware that you had better both hold + your tongue and keep your hands off me—and off drink. Fetch the + lamp!” + </p> + <p> + She left the room cowed, like a beaten dog. She returned, set the lamp + silently on the table, and was gone. Then he noticed a letter, which lay + on the escritoire, and was addressed to him. It was a rather peculiar + letter to look at, or rather the envelope was peculiar; for, though + bordered with heavy black, it was stamped, where the seal should have + been, with a strange device in gold and colors—a brown bun, in a + glory of gilt rays. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. St John Deloraine,” he said, taking it up. “How in the world did <i>she</i> + find me out? Well, she is indeed a friend that sticketh closer than a + brother—a deal closer than Surbiton, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Surbiton was the elder brother of Mr. Cranley, and bore the second + title of the family. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose there is another woman in London,” he thought to himself, + “that has not heard all about the row at the Cockpit, and that would write + to me.” + </p> + <p> + Then he tore the chromatic splendors of the device on the envelope, and + read the following epistle: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Early English Bunhouse, + + “Chelsea, Friday. + + “My dear Mr. Cranley, + + “Where are you hiding, or yachting, you wandering man? I can + hear nothing of you from anyone—nothing <i>good</i>, and you + know I never believe anything <i>else</i>. Do come and see me, at + the old Bunhouse here, and tell me about <i>yourself</i>” + </pre> + <p> + —(“She <i>has</i> heard,” he muttered) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —“and help me in a little difficulty. Our housekeeper (you + know we are strictly <i>blue ribbon—a cordon bleu</i>, I call + her) has become engaged to a <i>plumber</i>, and she is leaving + us. <i>Can</i> you recommend me another? I know how interested + you are (in spite of your wicked jokes) in our little + enterprise. And we also want a girl, to be under the + housekeeper, and keep the accounts. Surely you will come to + see me, whether you can advise me or not. + + “Yours very truly, + + “Mary St. John Deloraine” + </pre> + <p> + “Idiot!” murmured Mr. Cranley, as he finished reading this document; and + then he added, “By Jove! it’s lucky, too. I’ll put these two infernal + women off on <i>her</i>, and Alice will soon do for the girl, if she once + gets at the drink. She’s dangerous, by Jove, when she has been drinking. + Then the Law will do for Alice, and all will be plain sailing in smooth + waters.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX.—Mrs. St. John Deloraine + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. St. John Deloraine, whose letter to Mr. Cranley we have been + privileged to read, was no ordinary widow. As parts of her character and + aspects of her conduct were not devoid of the kind of absurdity which is + caused by virtues out of place, let it be said that a better, or kinder, + or gentler, or merrier soul than that of Mrs. St. John Deloraine has + seldom inhabited a very pleasing and pretty tenement of clay, and a house + in Cheyne Walk. + </p> + <p> + The maiden name of this lady was by no means so euphonious as that which + she had attained by marriage. Miss Widdicombe, of Chipping Carby, in the + county of Somerset, was a very lively, good-hearted and agreeable young + woman; but she was by no means favorably looked on by the ladies of the + County Families. Now, in the district around Chipping Carby, the County + Families are very County indeed, few more so. There is in their demeanor a + kind of <i>morgue</i> so funereal and mournful, that it inevitably reminds + the observer (who is not County) of an edifice in Paris, designed by + Méryon, and celebrated by Mr. Robert Browning. The County Families near + Chipping Carby are far, far from gay, and what pleasure they do take, they + take entirely in the society of their equals. So determined are they to + drink delight of tennis with their peers, and with nobody else, that even + the Clergy are excluded, <i>ex officio</i>, and in their degrading + capacity of ministers of Religion, from the County Lawn Tennis Club. As we + all know how essential young curates fresh from college are to the very + being of rural lawn-tennis, no finer proof can be given of the + inaccessibility of the County people around Chipping Carby, and of the + sacrifices which they are prepared to make to their position. + </p> + <p> + Now, born in the very purple, and indubitably (despite his profession) one + of the gentlest born of men, was, some seven years ago, a certain Mr. St. + John Deloraine. He held the sacrosanct position of a squarson, being at + once Squire and Parson of the parish of Little Wentley. At the head of the + quaint old village street stands, mirrored in a moat, girdled by beautiful + gardens, and shadowy with trees, the Manor House and Parsonage (for it is + both in one) of Wentley Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + To this desirable home and opulent share of earth’s good things did Mr. + St. John Deloraine succeed in boyhood. He went to Oxford, he travelled a + good deal, he was held in great favor and affection by the County matrons + and the long-nosed young ladies of the County. Another, dwelling on such + heights as he, might have become haughty; but there was in this young man + a cheery naturalness and love of mirth which often drove him from the + society of his equals, and took him into that of attorneys’ daughters. + Fate drew him one day to an archery meeting at Chipping Carby, and there + he beheld Miss Widdicombe. With her he paced the level turf, her “points” + he counted, and he found that she, at least, could appreciate his somewhat + apt quotation from <i>Chastelard</i>: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pray heaven, we make good Ends.” + </pre> + <p> + Miss Widdicombe <i>did</i> make good “Ends.” She vanquished Mrs. + Struggles, the veteran lady champion of the shaft and bow, a sportswoman + who was now on the verge of sixty. Why are ladies, who, almost + professionally, “rejoice in arrows,” like the Homeric Artemis—why + are they nearly always so well stricken in years? Was Maid Marion forty at + least before her performances obtained for her a place in the well-known + band of Hood, Tuck, Little John, and Co.? + </p> + <p> + This, however, is a digression. For our purpose it is enough that the + contrast between Miss Widdicombe’s vivacity and the deadly stolidity of + the County families, between her youth and the maturity of her vanquished + competitors, entirely won the heart of Mr. St John Deloraine. He saw—he + loved her—he was laughed at—he proposed—he was accepted—and, + oh, shame! the County had to accept, more or less, Miss Widdicombe, the + attorney’s daughter, as <i>châtelaine</i> (delightful word, and dear to + the author of <i>Guy Livingstone</i>) of Wentley Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + When the early death of her husband threw Mrs. St John Deloraine almost + alone on the world (for her family had, naturally, been offended by her + good fortune), she left the gray old squarsonage, and went to town. In + London, Mrs. St John Deloraine did not find people stiff, With a good + name, an impulsive manner, a kind heart, a gentle tongue, and plenty of + money, she was welcome almost everywhere, except at the big County dinners + which the County people of her district give to each other when they come + to town. + </p> + <p> + This lady, like many of us, had turned to charity and philanthropy in the + earlier days of her bereavement; but, unlike most of us, her benevolence + had not died out with the sharpest pangs of her sorrow. Never, surely, was + there such a festive philanthropist as Mrs. St. John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + She would go from a garden-party to a mothers’ meeting; she was great at + taking children for a day in the country, and had the art of keeping them + amused. She was on a dozen charitable committees, belonged to at least + three clubs, at which gentlemen as well as ladies of fashion were + eligible, and where music and minstrelsy enlivened the after-dinner hours. + </p> + <p> + So good and unsuspecting, unluckily, was Mrs. St. John Deloraine, that she + made bosom friends for life, and contracted vows of eternal sympathy, + wherever she went. At Aix, or on the Spanish frontier, she has been seen + enjoying herself with acquaintances a little dubious, like Greek texts + which, if not absolutely corrupt, yet stand greatly in need of + explanation. It is needless to say that gentlemen of fortune, in the old + sense—that is, gentlemen in quest of a fortune—pursued hotly + or artfully after Mrs. St. John Deloraine. But as she never for a moment + suspected their wiles, so these devices were entirely wasted on her, and + her least warrantable admirers found that she insisted on accepting them + as endowed with all the Christian virtues. Just as some amateurs of music + are incapable of conceiving that there breathes a man who has no joy in + popular concerts (we shall have popular conic sections next), so Mrs. St + John Deloraine persevered in crediting all she met with a passion for + virtue. Their speech might bewray them as worldlings of the world, but she + insisted on interpreting their talk as a kind of harmless levity, as a + mere cynical mask assumed by a tender and pious nature. Thus, no one ever + combined a delight in good works with a taste for good things so + successfully as Mrs. St John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the lady’s “favorite vanity,” in the matter of good works, + was <i>The Bunhouse</i>. This really serviceable, though quaint, + institution was not, in idea, quite unlike Maitland’s enterprise of the + philanthropic public-house, the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. In a slum of Chelsea + there might have been observed a modest place of entertainment, in the + coffee and bun line, with a highly elaborate Chelsea Bun painted on the + sign. This piece of art, which gave its name to the establishment, was the + work of one of Mrs. St John Deloraine’s friends, an artist of the highest + promise, who fell an early victim to arrangements in haschisch and Irish + whiskey. In spite of this ill-omened beginning, <i>The Bunhouse</i> did + very useful work. It was a kind of unofficial club and home, not for + Friendly Girls, nor the comparatively subdued and domesticated slavery of + common life, but for the tameless tribes of young women of the metropolis. + Those who disdain service, who turn up expressive features at sewing + machines, and who decline to stand perpendicularly for fifteen hours a day + in shops—all these young female outlaws, not professionally vicious, + found in <i>The Bunhouse</i> a kind of charitable shelter and home. + </p> + <p> + They were amused, they were looked after, they were encouraged not to + stand each other drinks, nor to rival the profanity of their brothers and + fathers. “Places” were found for them, in the rare instances when they + condescended to “places.” Sometimes they breakfasted at <i>The Bunhouse</i>, + sometimes went there to supper. Very often they came in a state of + artificial cheerfulness, or ready for battle. Then there would arise such + a disturbance as civilization seldom sees. Not otherwise than when boys, + having tied two cats by the tails, hang them over the handle of a door—they + then spit, and shriek, and swear, fur flies, and the clamor goes up to + heaven: so did the street resound when the young patrons of <i>The + Bunhouse</i> were in a warlike humor. Then the stern housekeeper would + intervene, and check these motions of their minds, <i>haec certamina tanta</i>, + turning the more persistent combatants into the street. Next day Mrs. St. + John Deloraine would come in her carriage, and try to be very severe, and + then would weep a little, and all the girls would shed tears, all would + have a good cry together, and finally the Lady Mother (Mrs. St John + Deloraine) would take a few of them for a drive in the Park. After that + there would be peace for a while, and presently disturbances would come + again. + </p> + <p> + For this establishment it was that Mrs. St. John Deloraine wanted a + housekeeper and an assistant. The former housekeeper, as we have been + told, had yielded to love, “which subdues the hearts of all female women, + even of the prudent,” according to Homer, and was going to share the home + and bear the children of a plumber. With her usual invincible innocence, + Mrs. St. John Deloraine had chosen to regard the Hon. Thomas Cranley as a + kind good Christian in disguise, and to him she appealed in her need of a + housekeeper and assistant. + </p> + <p> + No application could possibly have suited that gentleman better. <i>He</i> + could give his own servant an excellent character; and if once she was + left to herself, to her passions, and the society of Margaret, that young + lady’s earthly existence would shortly cease to embarrass Mr. Cranley. + Probably there was not one other man among the motley herds of Mrs. St. + John Deloraine’s acquaintance who would have used her unsuspicious + kindness as an instrument in a plot of any sort. But Mr. Cranley had (when + there was no personal danger to be run) the courage of his character. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and lunch with her?” he asked himself, as he twisted her note, + with its characteristic black border and device of brown, and gold. “I + haven’t shown anywhere I was likely to meet anyone I knew, not since—since + I came back from Monte Carlo.” + </p> + <p> + Even to himself he did not like to mention that affair of the Cockpit The + man in the story who boasted that he had committed every crime in the + calendar withdrew his large words when asked “if he had ever cheated at + cards.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Mr. Cranley went on, “I don’t know: I dare say it’s safe enough. + She does know some of those Cockpit fellows; confound her, she knows all + sorts of fellows. But none of them are likely to be up so early in the day—not + up to luncheon anyhow. She says”—and he looked again at the note—“that + she’ll be alone; but she won’t. Everyone she sees before lunch she asks to + luncheon: everyone she meets before dinner she asks to dinner. I wish I + had her money: it would be simpler and safer by a very long way than this + kind of business. There really seems no end to it when once you begin. + However, here goes,” said Mr. Cranley, sitting down to write a letter at + the escritoire which had just served him as a bulwark and breastwork. + “I’ll write and accept Probably she’ll have no one with her, but some girl + from Chipping Carby, or some missionary from the Solomon Islands who never + heard of a heathen like me.” + </p> + <p> + As a consequence of these reflections, Mr. Cranley arrived, when the clock + was pointing to half-past one, at Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s house in + Cheyne Walk. He had scarcely entered the drawing-room before that lady, in + a costume which agreeably became her pleasant English style of beauty, + rushed into the room, tumbling over a favorite Dandie Dinmont terrier, and + holding out both her hands. + </p> + <p> + The terrier howled, and Mrs. St. John Deloraine had scarcely grasped the + hand which Mr. Cranley extended with enthusiasm, when she knelt on the + carpet and was consoling the Dandie. + </p> + <p> + “Love in which thy hound has part,” quoted Mr. Cranley. And the lady, + rising with her face becomingly flushed beneath her fuzzy brown hair, + smiled, and did not remark the sneer. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Cranley,” she said; “and, as I have put + off luncheon till two, <i>do</i> tell me that you know someone who will + suit me for my dear <i>Bun-house</i>. I know how much you have always been + interested in our little project.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley assured her that, by a remarkable coincidence, he knew the + very kind of people she wanted. Alice he briefly described as a + respectable woman of great strength of character, “of body, too, I + believe, which will not make her less fit for the position.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mrs. St. John Deloraine, sadly; “the dear girls are sometimes a + little tiresome. On Wednesday, Mrs. Carter, the housekeeper, you know, + went to one of the exhibitions with her <i>fiancé</i>, and the girls broke + all the windows and almost all the tea-things.” + </p> + <p> + “The woman whom I am happy to be able to recommend to you will not stand + anything of that kind,” answered Mr. Cranley. “She is quiet, but extremely + firm, and has been accustomed to deal with a very desperate character. At + one time, I mean, she was engaged as the attendant of a person of + treacherous and ungovernable disposition.” + </p> + <p> + This was true enough; and Mr. Cranley then began to give a more or less + fanciful history of Margaret She had been left in his charge by her + father, an early acquaintance, a man who had known better days, but had + bequeathed her nothing, save an excellent schooling and the desire to earn + her own livelihood. + </p> + <p> + So far, he knew he was safe enough; for Margaret was the last girl to tell + the real tale of her life, and her desire to avoid Maitland was strong + enough to keep her silent, even had she not been naturally proud and + indisposed to make confidences. + </p> + <p> + “There is only one thing I must ask,” said Mr. Cranley, when he had quite + persuaded the lady that Margaret would set a splendid example to her young + friends. “How soon does your housekeeper leave you, and when do you need + the services of the new-comers?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the plumber is rather in a hurry. He really is a good man, and I + like him better for it, though it seems rather selfish of him to want to + rob me of Joan. He is; determined to be married before next Bank Holiday—in + a fortnight that is—and then they will go on their honeymoon of + three days to Yarmouth.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley blessed the luck that had not made the plumber a yet more + impetuous wooer. + </p> + <p> + “No laggard in love,” he said, smiling. “Well, in a fortnight the two + women will be quite ready for their new place. But I must ask you to + remember that the younger is somewhat delicate, and has by no means + recovered from the shock of her father’s sudden death—a very sad + affair,” added Mr. Cranley, in a sympathetic voice. + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear girl!” cried Mrs. St. John Deloraine, with the ready tears in + her eyes; for this lady spontaneously acted on the injunction to weep with + those who weep, and also laugh with those who laugh. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley, who was beginning to feel hungry, led her thoughts off to the + latest farce in which Mr. Toole had amused the town; and when Mrs. St. + John Deloraine had giggled till she wept again over her memories of this + entertainment, she suddenly looked at her watch. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he’s very late,” she said; “and yet it is not far to come from the + <i>Hit or Miss</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “From the <i>Hit or Miss</i>!” cried Mr. Cranley, much louder than he was + aware. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you may well wonder, if you don’t know about it, that I should have + asked a gentleman from a public-house to meet you. But you will be quite + in love with him; he is such a very good young man. Not handsome, nor very + amusing; but people think a great deal too much of amusingness now. He is + very, very good, and spends almost all his time among the poor. He is a + Fellow of his College at Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + During this discourse Mr. Cranley was pretending to play with the terrier; + but, stoop as he might, his face was livid, and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Did I tell you his name?” Mrs. St. John Deloraine ran on. “He is a—” + </p> + <p> + Here the door was opened, and the servant announced “Mr. Maitland.” + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. St. John Deloraine had welcomed her new guest, she turned, and + found that Mr. Cranley was looking out of the window. + </p> + <p> + His position was indeed agonizing, and, in the circumstances, a stronger + heart might have blanched at the encounter. + </p> + <p> + When Cranley last met Maitland, he had been the guest of that + philanthropist, and he had gone from his table to swindle his + fellow-revellers. What other things he had done—things in which + Maitland was concerned—the reader knows, or at least suspects. But + it was not these deeds which troubled Mr. Cranley, for these he knew were + undetected. It was that affair of the baccarat which unmanned him. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for it but to face Maitland and the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Let me introduce you—” said Mrs. St. John Deloraine. + </p> + <p> + “There is no need,” interrupted Maitland. “Mr. Cranley and I have known + each other for some time. I don’t think we have met,” he added, looking at + Cranley, “since you dined with me at the Olympic, and we are not likely to + meet again, I’m afraid; for to-morrow, as I have come to tell Mrs. Si John + Deloraine, I go to Paris on business of importance.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley breathed again; it was obvious that Maitland, living out of + the world as he did, and concerned (as Cranley well knew him to be) with + private affairs of an urgent character, had never been told of the trouble + at the Cockpit, or had, in his absent fashion, never attended to what he + might have heard with the hearing of the ear. As to Paris, he had the best + reason for guessing why Maitland was bound thither, as he was the secret + source of the information on which Maitland proposed to act. + </p> + <p> + At luncheon—which, like the dinner described by the American guest, + was “luscious and abundant”—Mr. Cranley was more sparkling than the + champagne, and made even Maitland laugh. He recounted little philanthropic + misadventures of his own—cases in which he had been humorously + misled by the <i>Captain Wraggs</i> of this world, or beguiled by the + authors of that polite correspondence—begging letters. + </p> + <p> + When luncheon was over, and when Maitland was obliged, reluctantly, to go + (for he liked Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s company very much), Cranley, who + had determined to see him out, shook hands in a very cordial way with the + Fellow of St. Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + “And when are we likely to meet again?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know,” said Maitland. “I have business in Paris, and I + cannot say how long I may be detained on the Continent.” + </p> + <p> + “No more can I,” said Mr. Cranley to himself; “but I hope you won’t return + in time to bother me with your blundering inquiries, if ever you have the + luck to return at all.” + </p> + <p> + But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a good + voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a <i>comédienne</i>) + at the Palais Royal. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X.—Traps. + </h2> + <p> + The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the lady of + <i>The Bunhouse</i>, Barton, when he came home from a round of + professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted + lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there, + discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that he + was indeed “moving about in worlds not realized.” Keen as was the interest + which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend’s affairs, he now and + again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever revolved round + the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you,” he observed, with some shade of + hypocrisy. “Anything new to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Maitland; “I really do think I have a clew at last.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles,” said Barton, groaning as + the bell-rope came away in his hands. “Bring lights, please, and tea, and + stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend,” he remarked, when the blackened but + alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir,” answered Jemima, who greatly admired + the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost + comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Now for your clew, old man,” exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland a + cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no sugar. + “Oh, Ariadne, what a boon that clew of yours has been to the detective + mind! To think that, without the Minotaur, the police would probably never + have hit on that invaluable expression, ‘the police have a clew.’” + </p> + <p> + Maitland thought this was trifling with the subject. + </p> + <p> + “This advertisement,” he said, gravely, “appears to me undoubtedly to + refer to the miscreant who carried off Margaret, poor girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it, by Jove?” cried Barton, with some eagerness this time. “Let’s + have a look at it!” + </p> + <p> + This was what he read aloud: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bearskin Coat.—The gentleman travelling with a young lady, + who, on Feb. 19th, left a bearskin coat at the Hôtel Alsace + and Lorraine, Avenue de l’Opéra, Paris, is requested to + remove it, or it will be sold to defray expenses. + + “Dupin.” + </pre> + <p> + “This <i>may</i> mean business,” he said, “or it may not. In the first + place, is there such an hotel in Paris as the ‘Alsace et Lorraine,’ and is + M. Dupin the proprietor?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>That’s</i> all right,” said Maitland. “I went at once to the Club, and + looked up the <i>Bottin</i>, the Paris Directory, don’t you know.” + </p> + <p> + “So far, so good; and yet I don’t quite see what you can make of it. It + does not come to much, you know, even if the owner of the coat is the man + you want And again, is he likely to have left such a very notable article + of dress behind him in an hotel? Anyway, can’t you send some detective + fellow? Are you going over yourself in this awful weather?” + </p> + <p> + So Barton argued, but Maitland was not to be easily put off the hopeful + scent. + </p> + <p> + “Why, don’t you see,” he exclaimed, “the people at the hotel will at least + be able to give one a fuller description of the man than anything we have + yet. And they may have some idea of where he has gone to; and, at least, + they will have noticed how he was treating Margaret, and that, of course, + is what I am most anxious to learn. Again, he may have left other things + besides the coat, or there may be documents in the pockets. I have read of + such things happening.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in ‘Le Crime de l’Opéra;’ and a very good story, too,” answered the + incredulous Barton; “but I don’t fancy that the villain of real life is + quite so innocent and careless as the monster of fiction.” + </p> + <p> + “Everyone knows that murderers are generally detected through some + incredible piece of carelessness,” said Mait-land; “and why should this + elaborate scoundrel be more fortunate than the rest? If he <i>did</i> + leave the coat, he will scarcely care to go back for it; and I do not + think the chance should be lost, even if it is a poor one. Besides, I’m + doing no good here, and I can do no harm there.” + </p> + <p> + This was undeniably true; and though Barton muttered something about “a + false scent,” he no longer attempted to turn Maitland from his purpose. He + did, however, with some difficulty, prevent the Fellow of St. Gatien’s + from purchasing a blonde beard, one of those wigs which simulate baldness, + and a pair of blue spectacles. In these disguises, Maitland argued, he + would certainly avoid recognition, and so discomfit any mischief planned + by the enemies of Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but, on the other hand, you would look exactly like a German + professor, and probably be taken for a spy of Bismarck’s,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + And Maitland reluctantly gave up the idea of disguise. He retained, + however, certain astute notions of his own about his plan of operations, + and these, unfortunately, he did not communicate to his friend. The fact + is, that the long dormant romance of Maitland’s character was now + thoroughly awake, and he began, unconsciously, to enjoy the adventure. + </p> + <p> + His enjoyment did not last very long. The usual troubles of a winter + voyage, acting on a dilapidated digestive system, were not spared the + guardian of Margaret But everything—-even a period of waiting at the + Paris <i>salle d’attente</i>, and a struggle with the <i>cochers</i> at + the station (who, for some reason, always decline to take a fare)—must + come to an end at last. About dinner-time, Maitland was jolted through the + glare of the Parisian streets, to the Avenue de l’Opéra. At the Hôtel + Alsace et Lorraine he determined not to betray himself by too precipitate + eagerness. In the first place, he wrote an assumed name in the hotel book, + choosing, by an unlucky inspiration, the pseudonym of Buchanan. He then + ordered dinner in the hotel, and, by way of propitiation, it was a much + better dinner than usual that Maitland ordered. Bottles of the higher + Bordeaux wines, reposing in beautiful baskets, were brought at his + command; for he was determined favorably to impress the people of the + house. + </p> + <p> + His conduct in this matter was partly determined by the fact that, for the + moment, the English were not popular in Paris. + </p> + <p> + In fact, as the French newspapers declared, with more truth than they + suspected, “Paris was not the place for English people, especially for + English women.” + </p> + <p> + In these international circumstances, then, Maitland believed he showed + the wisdom of the serpent when he ordered dinner in the fearless old + fashion attributed by tradition to the Milords of the past But he had + reckoned without his appetite. + </p> + <p> + A consequence of sea-travel, neither uncommon nor alarming, is the putting + away of all desire to eat and drink. As the waiter carried off the + untouched <i>hors d’oeuvres</i> (whereof Maitland only nibbled the + delicious bread and butter); as he bore away the <i>huîtres</i>, + undiminished in number; as the <i>bisque</i> proved too much for the guest + of the evening; as he faltered over the soles, and failed to appreciate + the cutlets; as he turned from the noblest <i>crûs</i> (including the + widow’s <i>crûs</i>, those of La Veuve Cliquot), and asked for <i>siphon</i> + and <i>fine champagne</i>, the waiter’s countenance assumed an air of + owl-like sagacity. There was something wrong, the <i>garçon</i> felt sure, + about a man who could order a dinner like Maitland’s, and then decline to + partake thereof. However, even in a republican country, you can hardly + arrest a man merely because his intentions are better than his appetite. + The waiter, therefore, contented himself with assuming an imposing + attitude, and whispering something to the hall porter. + </p> + <p> + The Fellow of St. Gatien’s, having dined with the Barmecide regardless of + expense, went on (as he hoped) to ingratiate himself with the <i>concierge</i>. + From that official he purchased two large cigars, which he did not dream + of attempting to enjoy; and he then endeavored to enter into conversation, + selecting for a topic the state of the contemporary drama. What would + monsieur advise him to go to see? Where was Mile. Jane Hading playing? + </p> + <p> + Having in this conversation broken the ice (and almost every rule of + French grammar), Maitland began to lead up craftily to the great matter—the + affair of the bearskin coat. Did many English use the hotel? Had any of + his countrymen been there lately? He remembered that when he left England + a friend of his had asked him to inquire about an article of dress—a + great-coat—which he had left somewhere, perhaps in a cab. Could + monsieur the Porter tell him where he ought to apply for news about the + garment, a coat in <i>peau d’ours</i>? + </p> + <p> + On the mention of this raiment a clerkly-looking man, who had been + loitering in the office of the <i>concierge</i>, moved to the neighborhood + of the door, where he occupied himself in study of a railway map hanging + on the wall. + </p> + <p> + The porter now was all smiles. But, certainly! Monsieur had fallen well in + coming to him. Monsieur wanted a lost coat in skin of the bear? It had + been lost by a compatriot of monsieur’s? Would monsieur give himself the + trouble to follow the porter to the room where lost baggage was kept? + </p> + <p> + Maitland, full of excitement, and of belief that he now really was on the + trail, followed the porter, and the clerkly man (rather a liberty, thought + Maitland) followed <i>him</i>. + </p> + <p> + The porter led them to a door marked “private,” and they all three + entered. + </p> + <p> + The clerkly-looking person now courteously motioned Maitland to take a + chair. + </p> + <p> + The Englishman sat down in some surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Where,” he asked, “was the bearskin coat?” + </p> + <p> + “Would monsieur first deign to answer a few inquiries? Was the coat his + own, or a friend’s?” + </p> + <p> + “A friend’s,” said Maitland, and then, beginning to hesitate, admitted + that the garment only belonged to “a man he knew something about.” + </p> + <p> + “What is his name?” asked the clerkly man, who was taking notes. + </p> + <p> + His name, indeed! If Maitland only knew that! His French now began to grow + worse and worse in proportion to his flurry. + </p> + <p> + Well, he explained, it was very unlucky, but he did not exactly remember + the man’s name. It was quite a common name. He had met him for the first + time on board the steamer; but the man was going to Brussels, and, finding + that Maitland was on his way to Paris, had asked him to make inquiries. + </p> + <p> + Here the clerkly person, laying down his notes, asked if English gentlemen + usually spoke of persons whom they had just met for the first time on + board the steamer as their friends? + </p> + <p> + Maitland, at this, lost his temper, and observed that, as they seemed + disposed to give him more trouble than information, he would go and see + the play. + </p> + <p> + Hereupon the clerkly person requested monsieur to remember, in his + deportment, what was due to Justice; and when Maitland rose, in a stately + way, to leave the room, he also rose and stood in front of the door. + </p> + <p> + However little of human nature an Englishman may possess, he is rarely + unmoved by this kind of treatment. Maitland took the man by the collar, <i>sans + phrase</i>, and spun him round, amid the horrified clamor of the porter. + But the man, without any passion, merely produced and displayed a card, + containing a voucher that he belonged to the Secret Police, and calmly + asked Maitland for “his papers.” + </p> + <p> + Maitland had no papers. He had understood that passports were no longer + required. + </p> + <p> + The detective assured him that passports “spoil nothing.” Had monsieur + nothing stating his identity? Maitland, entirely forgetting that he had + artfully entered his name as “Buchanan” on the hotel book, produced his + card, on the lower corner of which was printed, <i>St. Gatien’s College.</i> + This address puzzled the detective a good deal, while the change of name + did not allay his suspicions, and he ended by requesting Maitland to + accompany him into the presence of Justice. As there was no choice, + Maitland obtained leave to put some linen in his travelling-bag, and was + carried off to what we should call the nearest police-station. Here he was + received in a chill bleak room by a formal man, wearing a decoration, who + (after some private talk with the detective) asked Maitland to explain his + whole conduct in the matter of the coat. In the first place, the + detective’s notes on their conversation were read aloud, and it was shown + that Maitland had given a false name; had originally spoken of the object + of his quest as “the coat of a friend;” then as “the coat of a man whom he + knew something about;” then as “the coat of a man whose name he did not + know;” and that, finally, he had attempted to go away without offering any + satisfactory account of himself. + </p> + <p> + All this the philanthropist was constrained to admit; but he was, not + unnaturally, quite unable to submit any explanation of his proceedings. + What chiefly discomfited him was the fact that his proceedings were a + matter of interest and observation. Why, he kept wondering, was all this + fuss made about a coat which had, or had not, been left by a traveller at + the hotel? It was perfectly plain that the hotel was used as a <i>souricière</i>, + as the police say, as a trap in which all inquirers after the coat could + be captured. Now, if he had been given time (and a French dictionary), + Maitland might have set before the Commissaire of Police the whole story + of his troubles. He might have begun with the discovery of Shields’ body + in the snow; he might have gone on to Margaret’s disappearance (<i>enlèvement</i>), + and to a description of the costume (bearskin coat and all) of the villain + who had carried her away. Then he might have described his relations with + Margaret, the necessity of finding her, the clew offered by the + advertisement in the <i>Times</i>, and his own too subtle and ingenious + attempt to follow up that clew. But it is improbable that this narrative, + had Maitland told it ever so movingly, would have entirely satisfied the + suspicions of the Commissaire of Police. It might even have prejudiced + that official against Maitland. Moreover, the Fellow of St. Gatien’s had + neither the presence of mind nor the linguistic resources necessary to + relate the whole plot and substance of this narrative, at a moment’s + notice, in a cold police-office, to a sceptical alien. He therefore fell + back on a demand to be allowed to communicate with the English Ambassador; + and that night Maitland of Gatien’s passed, for the first time during his + blameless career, in a police-cell. + </p> + <p> + It were superfluous to set down in detail all the humiliations endured by + Maitland. Do not the newspapers continually ring with the laments of the + British citizen who has fallen into the hands of Continental Justice? Are + not our countrymen the common butts of German, French, Spanish, and even + Greek and Portuguese Jacks in office? When an Englishman appears, do not + the foreign police usually arrest him at a venture, and inquire afterward? + </p> + <p> + Maitland had, with the best intentions, done a good deal more than most of + these innocents to deserve incarceration. His conduct, as the Juge + d’Instruction told him, without mincing matters, was undeniably <i>louche</i>. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, the suspicions of M. Dupin, of the Hôtel Alsace et + Lorraine, had been very naturally excited by seeing the advertisement + about the great-coat in the <i>Times</i>, for he made a study of “the + journal of the City.” + </p> + <p> + Here was a notice purporting to be signed by himself, and referring to a + bearskin coat, said (quite untruly) to have been left in his own hotel. A + bearskin coat! The very words breathe of Nihilism, dynamite, stratagems, + and spoils. Then the advertisement was in English, which is, at present + and till further notice, the language spoken by the brave Irish. M. Dupin, + as a Liberal, had every sympathy with the brave Irish in their noble + struggle for whatever they <i>are</i> struggling for; but he did not wish + his hostelry to become, so to speak, the mountain-cave of Freedom, and the + great secret storehouse of nitro-glycerine. With a view to elucidating the + mystery of the advertisement, he had introduced the police on his + premises, and the police had hardly settled down in its <i>affût</i>, + when, lo! a stranger had been captured, in most suspicious circumstances. + M. Dupin felt very clever indeed, and his friends envied him the + distinction and advertisement which were soon to be his. + </p> + <p> + When Maitland appeared, as he did in due course, before the Juge + d’Instruction, he attempted to fall back on the obsolete <i>Civis Romanus + sum!</i> He was an English citizen. He had written to the English + ambassador, or rather to an old St. Gatien’s man, an <i>attaché</i> of the + embassy, whom he luckily happened to know. But this great ally chanced to + be out of town, and his name availed Maitland nothing in his interview + with the Juge d’Instruction. That magistrate, sitting with his back to the + light, gazed at Maitland with steady, small gray eyes, while the scribble + of the pen of the <i>greffier</i>, as he took down the Englishman’s + deposition, sounded shrill in the bleak torture-chamber of the law. + </p> + <p> + “Your name?” asked the Juge d’Instruction. + </p> + <p> + “Maitland,” replied the Fellow of St. Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” said the Juge d’Instruction. “You entered the name of Buchanan + in the book of the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “My name is on my cards, and on that letter,” said Maitland, keeping his + temper wonderfully. + </p> + <p> + The documents in question lay on a table, as <i>pièces justificatives</i>. + </p> + <p> + “These cards, that letter, you have robbed them from some unfortunate + person, and have draped (<i>afflublé</i>) yourself in the trappings of + your victim! Where is his body?” + </p> + <p> + This was the working hypothesis which the Juge d’Instruction had formed + within himself to account for the general conduct and proceedings of the + person under examination. + </p> + <p> + “Where is <i>whose</i> body?” asked Maitland, in unspeakable surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Buchanan,” said the Juge d’Instruction. (And to hear the gallantry with + which he attacked this difficult name, of itself insured respect.) + “Buchanan, you are acting on a deplorable system. Justice is not deceived + by your falsehoods, nor eluded by your subterfuges. She is calm, stern, + but merciful. Unbosom yourself freely” (<i>répandez franchement</i>), “and + you may learn that justice can be lenient It is your interest to be + frank.” (<i>Il est de votre intérêt d’être franc</i>.) + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want me to say?” asked the prévenu, “What is all this + pother about a great-coat?” (<i>Tant de fracas pour un paletot?</i>) + </p> + <p> + Maitland was rather proud of this sentence. + </p> + <p> + “It is the part of Justice to ask questions, not to answer them,” said the + Juge d’Instruction. “Levity will avail you nothing. Tell me, Buchanan, why + did you ask for the coat at the Hôtel Alsace et Lorraine?” + </p> + <p> + “In answer to that advertisement in the Times.” + </p> + <p> + “That is false; you yourself inserted the advertisement. But, on your own + system, bad as it is, what did you want with the coat?” + </p> + <p> + “It belonged to a man who had done me an ill-turn.” + </p> + <p> + “His name?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know his name; that is just what I wanted to find out I might + have found his tailor’s name on the coat, and then have discovered for + whom the coat was made.” + </p> + <p> + “You are aware that the proprietor of the hotel did not insert the forged + advertisement?” + </p> + <p> + “So he says.” + </p> + <p> + “You doubt his word? You insult France in one of her citizens!” + </p> + <p> + Maitland apologized. + </p> + <p> + “Then whom do you suspect of inserting the advertisement, as you deny + having done it yourself, for some purpose which does not appear?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe the owner of the coat put in the advertisement.” + </p> + <p> + “That is absurd. What had he to gain by it?” + </p> + <p> + “To remove me from London, where he is probably conspiring against me at + this moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Buchanan, you trifle with Justice!” + </p> + <p> + “I have told you that my name is not Buchanan.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you forge that name in the hotel book?” + </p> + <p> + “I wrote it in the hurry and excitement of the moment; it was incorrect.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you lie?” (<i>Pourquoi avez vous menti?</i>) + </p> + <p> + Maitland made an irritable movement + </p> + <p> + “You threaten Justice. Your attitude is deplorable. You are consigned <i>au + secret</i>, and will have an opportunity of revising your situation, and + replying more fully to the inquiries of Justice.” + </p> + <p> + So ended Maitland’s first and, happily, sole interview with a Juge + d’Instruction. Lord Walter Brixton, his old St Gatien’s pupil, returned + from the country on the very day of Maitland’s examination. An interview + (during which Lord Walter laughed unfeelingly) with his old coach was not + refused to the <i>attaché</i>, and, in a few hours, after some formalities + had been complied with, Maitland was a free man. His <i>pièces + justificatives</i>, his letters, cards, and return ticket to Charing + Cross, were returned to him intact. + </p> + <p> + But Maitland determined to sacrifice the privileges of the last-named + document. + </p> + <p> + “I am going straight to Constantinople and the Greek Islands,” he wrote to + Barton. “Do you know, I don’t like Paris. My attempt at an investigation + has not been a success. I have endured considerable discomfort, and I fear + my case will get into the <i>Figaro</i>, and there will be dozens of + ‘social leaders’ and ‘descriptive headers’ about me in all the penny + papers.” + </p> + <p> + Then Maitland gave his banker’s address at Constantinople, relinquished + the quest of Margaret, and for a while, as the Sagas say, “is out of the + story.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI.—The Night of Adventures. + </h2> + <p> + A cold March wind whistled and yelled round the twisted chimneys of the <i>Hit + or Miss</i>. The day had been a trial to every sense. First there would + come a long-drawn distant moan, a sigh like that of a querulous woman; + then the sigh grew nearer and became a shriek, as if the same woman were + working herself up into a passion; and finally a gust of rainy hail, mixed + with dust and small stones, was dashed, like a parting insult, on the + windows of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + Then the shriek died away again into a wail and a moan, and so <i>da capo</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Eliza, what do you do now that the pantomime season is over?” said + Barton to Miss Gullick, who was busily dressing a doll, as she perched on + the table in the parlor of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + Barton occasionally looked into the public-house, partly to see that + Maitland’s investment was properly managed, partly because the place was + near the scene of his labors; not least, perhaps, because he had still an + unacknowledged hope that light on the mystery of Margaret would come from + the original centre of the troubles. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in no hurry to take an engagement,” answered the resolute Eliza, + holding up and examining her doll. It was a fashionable doll, in a + close-fitting tweed ulster, which covered a perfect panoply of other + female furniture, all in the latest mode. As the child worked, she looked + now and then at the illustrations in a journal of the fashions. “There’s + two or three managers in treaty with me,” said Eliza. “There’s the <i>Follies + and Frivolities</i> down Norwood way, and the <i>Varieties</i> in the + ‘Ammersmith Road. Thirty shillings a week and my dresses, that’s what I + ask for, and I’ll get it too! Just now I’m taking a vacation, and making + an honest penny with these things,” and she nodded at a little basket full + of the wardrobe of dolls. + </p> + <p> + “Do you sell the dresses to the toy-shops, Eliza?” asked Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Eliza; “I am doing well with them. I’m not sure I shan’t need + to take on some extra hands, by the job, to finish my Easter orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Pm glad you are successful,” answered Barton. “I say, Eliza!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind showing me the room up-stairs where poor old Shields was + sitting the night before he was found in the snow?” + </p> + <p> + It had suddenly occurred to Barton—it might have occurred to him + before—that this room might be worth examining. + </p> + <p> + “We ain’t using it now! Ill show you it,” said Eliza, leading the way + up-stairs, and pointing to a door. + </p> + <p> + Barton took hold of the handle. + </p> + <p> + “Ladies first,” he said, making way for Eliza, with a bow. + </p> + <p> + “No,” came the child’s voice, from half-way down the stairs; “I won’t come + in! They say he walks, I’ve heard noises there at night.” + </p> + <p> + A cold stuffy smell came out of the darkness of the unused room. Barton + struck a match, and, seeing a candle on the table, lit it The room had + been left as it was when last it was tenanted. On the table were an empty + bottle, two tumblers, and a little saucer stained with dry colors, blue + and red, part of Shields’ stock-in-trade. There were, besides, some very + sharp needles of bone, of a savage make, which Barton recognized. They + were the instruments used for tattooing in the islands of the Southern + Seas. + </p> + <p> + Barton placed the lighted candle beside the saucer, and turned over the + needles. Presently his eyes brightened: he chose one out, and examined it + closely. It was astonishingly sharp, and was not of bone like the others, + but of wood. + </p> + <p> + Barton made an incision in the hard brittle wood with his knife, and + carefully felt the point, which was slightly crusted with a dry brown + substance. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” he said aloud, as he placed the needle in a pocket + instrument-case: “the stem of the leaf of the coucourite palm!” + </p> + <p> + Then he went down-stairs with the candle. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him?” asked Eliza, with wide-open eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be childish, Eliza: there’s no one to see. Why is the room left all + untidy?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother dare not go in!” whispered the child. Then she asked in a low + voice, “Did you never hear no more of that awful big Bird I saw the night + old Shields died in the snow?” + </p> + <p> + “The Bird was a dream, Eliza. I am surprised such a clever girl as you + should go on thinking about it,” said Barton, rather sternly. “You were + tired and ill, and you fancied it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I wasn’t,” said the child, solemnly. “I never say no more about it to + mother, nor to nobody; but I did see it, ay, and heard it, too. I remember + it at night in my bed, and I am afraid. Oh, what’s that?” + </p> + <p> + She turned with a scream, in answer to a scream on the other side of the + curtained door that separated the parlor from the bar of the <i>Hit or + Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + Someone seemed to fall against the door, which at the same moment flew + open, as if the wind had burst it in. A girl, panting and holding her hand + to her breast, her face deadly white and so contorted by terror as to be + unrecognizable, flashed into the room. “Oh, come! oh, come!” she cried. + “She’s killing her!” Then the girl vanished as hurriedly as she had + appeared. It was all over in a moment: the vivid impression of a face + maddened by fear, and of a cry for help, that was all. In that moment + Barton had seized his hat, and sped, as hard as he could run, after the + girl. He found her breaking through a knot of loafers in the bar, who were + besieging her with questions. She turned and saw Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Come, doctor, come!” she screamed again, and fled out into the night, + crossing another girl who was apparently speeding on the same errand. + Barton could just see the flying skirts of the first messenger, and hear + her footfall ring on the pavement. Up a long street, down another, and + then into a back slum she flew, and, lastly, under a swinging sign of the + old-fashioned sort, and through a doorway. Barton, following, found + himself for the first time within the portals of <i>The Old English + Bun-house</i>. + </p> + <p> + The wide passage (the house was old) was crowded with girls, wildly + excited, weeping, screaming, and some of them swearing. They were pressed + so thick round a door at the end of the hall, that Barton could scarcely + thrust his way through them, dragging one aside, shouldering another: it + was a matter of life and death. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s been at the drink, and she’s killed her! she’s killed her! I + heard her fall!” one of the frightened girls was exclaiming with + hysterical iteration. + </p> + <p> + “Let me pass!” shouted Barton; and reaching the door at last, he turned + the handle and pushed. The door was locked. + </p> + <p> + “Give me room,” he cried, and the patrons of <i>The Bun-house</i> yielding + place a little, Barton took a little short run, and drove with all the + weight of his shoulders against the door. It opened reluctantly with a + crash, and he was hurled into the room by his own impetus, and by the + stress of the girls behind him. + </p> + <p> + What he beheld was more like some dreadful scene of ancient tragedy than + the spectacle of an accident or a crime of modern life. + </p> + <p> + By the windy glare of a dozen gas-jets (red and shaken like the flame of + blown torches by the rainy gusts that swept through a broken pane), Barton + saw a girl stretched bleeding on the sanded floor. + </p> + <p> + One of her arms made a pillow for her head; her soft dark hair, + unfastened, half hid her, like a veil; the other arm lay loose by her + side; her lips were white, her face was bloodless; but there was blood on + the deep-blue folds about the bosom, and on the floor. At the further side + of this girl—who was dead, or seemingly dead—sat, on a low + stool, a woman, in a crouching, cat-like attitude, quite silent and still. + The knife with which she had done the deed was dripping in her hand; the + noise of the broken door, and of the entering throng, had not disturbed + her. + </p> + <p> + For a moment even Barton’s rapidity of action and resolution were + paralyzed by the terrible and strange vision that he beheld. He stared + with all his eyes, in a mist of doubt and amazement, at a vision, dreadful + even to one who saw death every day. Then the modern spirit awoke in him. + </p> + <p> + “Fetch a policeman,” he whispered, to one of the crowding frightened troop + of girls. + </p> + <p> + “There is a copper at the door, sir; here he comes,” said Susan, the young + woman who had called Barton from the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. + </p> + <p> + The helmet of the guardian of the peace appeared welcome above the throng. + </p> + <p> + And still the pale woman in white sat as motionless as the stricken girl + at her feet—as if she had not been an actor, but a figure in a <i>tableau</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Policeman,” said Barton, “I give that woman in charge for an attempt at + murder. Take her to the station.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like the looks of her,” whispered the policeman. “I’d better get + her knife from her first, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Be quick, whatever you do, and have the house cleared. I can’t look after + the wounded girl in this crowd.” + </p> + <p> + Thus addressed, the policeman stole round toward the seated woman, whose + eyes had never deigned, all this time, to stray from the body of her + victim. Barton stealthily drew near, outflanking her on the other side. + </p> + <p> + They were just within arm’s reach of the murderess when she leaped with + incredible suddenness to her feet, and stood for one moment erect and + lovely as a statue, her fair locks lying about her shoulders. Then she + raised her right hand; the knife flashed and dropped like lightning into + her breast, and she, too, fell beside the body of the girl whom she had + stricken. + </p> + <p> + “By George, she’s gone!” cried the policeman. Barton pushed past him, and + laid his hand on the woman’s heart. She stirred once, was violently shaken + with the agony of death, and so passed away, carrying into silence her + secret and her story. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cranley’s hopes had been, at least partially, fulfilled. + </p> + <p> + “Drink, I suppose, as usual. A rummy start!” remarked the policeman, + sententiously; and then, while Barton was sounding and stanching the wound + of the housekeeper’s victim, and applying such styptics as he had within + reach, the guardian of social order succeeded in clearing __The Bunhouse__ + of its patrons, in closing the door, and in sending a message (by the + direction of the girl who had summoned Barton, and who seemed not devoid + of sense) to Mrs. St. John Deloraine. While that lady was being expected, + the girl, who now took a kind of subordinate lead, was employed by Barton + in helping to carry Margaret to her own room, and in generally restoring + order. + </p> + <p> + When the messenger arrived at Mrs. St John Delo-raine’s house with + Barton’s brief note, and with his own curt statement that “murder was + being done at <i>The Bun-house</i>,” he found the Lady Superior rehearsing + for a play. Mrs. St. John Deloraine was going to give a drawing-room + representation of “Nitouche,” and the terrible news found her in one of + the costumes of the heroine. With a very brief explanation (variously + misunderstood by her guests and fellow-amateurs) Mrs. St. John Deloraine + hurried off, “just as she was,” and astonished Barton (who had never seen + her before) by arriving at <i>The Bunhouse</i> as a rather conventional + shepherdess, in pink and gray, rouged, and with a fluffy flaxen wig. The + versatility with which Mrs. St. John Deloraine made the best of all worlds + occasionally let her into <i>inconsequences</i> of this description. + </p> + <p> + But, if she was on pleasure bent, Mrs. St. John Deloraine had also, not + only a kind heart, but a practical mind. In five minutes she had heard the + tragic history, had dried her eyes, torn off her wig, and settled herself + as nurse by the bedside of Margaret. The girl’s wound, as Barton was + happily able to assure her, was by no means really dangerous; for the + point of the weapon had been turned, and had touched no vital part. But + the prodigious force with which the blow had followed on a scene of + violent reproaches and insane threats (described by one of the young + women) had affected most perilously a constitution already weakened by + sickness and trouble. Mrs. St. John Deloraine, assisted by the most + responsible of <i>The Bun-house</i> girls, announced her intention to, sit + up all night with the patient. Barton—who was moved, perhaps, as + much by the beauty of the girl, and by the excitement of the events, as by + professional duty—remained in attendance till nearly dawn, when the + Lady Superior insisted that he should go home and take some rest. As the + danger for the patient was not immediate, but lay in the chances of fever, + Barton allowed himself to be persuaded, and, at about five in the morning, + he let himself out of <i>The Bunhouse</i>, and made sleepily for his + lodgings. But sleep that night was to be a stranger to him, and his share + of adventures—which, like sorrows, never “come as single spies, but + in battalions”—was by no means exhausted. + </p> + <p> + The night, through which the first glimpse of dawn just peered, was + extremely cold; and Barton, who had left his great-coat in the <i>Hit or + Miss</i>, stamped his way homeward, his hands deep in his pockets, his hat + tight on his head, and with his pipe for company. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the gray beginning, Zooks,” he muttered to himself, in + half-conscious quotation. He was as drowsy as a man can be who still steps + along and keeps an open eye. The streets were empty, a sandy wind was + walking them alone, and hard by the sullen river flowed on, the lamplights + dimly reflected in the growing blue of morning. Barton was just passing + the locked doors of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>—for he preferred to go + homeward by the riverside—when a singular sound, or mixture of + sounds, from behind the battered old hoarding close by, attracted his + attention. In a moment he was as alert as if he had not passed a <i>nuit + blanche</i>. The sound at first seemed not very unlike that which a + traction engine, or any other monster that murders sleep, may make before + quite getting up steam. Then there was plainly discernible a great + whirring and flapping, as if a windmill had become deranged in its + economy, and was laboring “without a conscience or an aim.” Whir, whir, + flap, thump, came the sounds, and then, mixed with and dominating them, + the choking scream of a human being in agony. But, strangely enough, the + scream appeared to be half checked and suppressed, as if the sufferer, + whoever he might be, and whatever his torment, were striving with all his + might to endure in silence. Barton had heard such cries in the rooms of + the hospital. To such sounds the Question Chambers of old prisons and + palaces must often have echoed. Barton stopped, thrilling with a + half-superstitious dread; so moving, in that urban waste, were the accents + of pain. + </p> + <p> + Then whir, flap, came the noise again, and again the human note was heard, + and was followed by a groan. The time seemed infinite, though it was only + to be reckoned by moments, or pulse-beats—the time during which the + torturing crank revolved, and was answered by the hard-wrung exclamation + of agony. Barton looked at the palings of the hoarding: they were a couple + of feet higher than his head. Then he sprung up, caught the top at a place + where the rusty-pointed nails were few and broken, and next moment, with + torn coat and a scratch on his arm, he was within the palisade. + </p> + <p> + Through the crepuscular light, bulks of things—big, black, formless—were + dimly seen; but nearer the hoarding than the middle of the waste open + ground was a spectacle that puzzled the looker-on. Great fans were + winnowing the air, a wheel was running at prodigious speed, flaming vapors + fled hissing forth, and the figure of a man, attached in some way to the + revolving fans, was now lifted several feet from the ground, now dashed to + earth again, now caught in and now torn from the teeth of the flying + wheel. + </p> + <p> + Barton did not pause long in empty speculation; he shouted, “Hold on!” or + some other such encouragement, and ran in the direction of the sufferer. + But, as he stumbled over dust-heaps, piles of wood, old baskets, outworn + hats, forsaken boots, and all the rubbish of the waste land, the movement + of the flying fans began to slacken, the wheels ran slowly down, and, with + a great throb and creak, the whole engine ceased moving, as a heart stops + beating. Then, just when all was over, a voice came from the crumpled mass + of humanity in the centre of the hideous mechanism: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come here; stop, on your peril! I am armed, and I will shoot!” + </p> + <p> + The last words were feeble, and scarcely audible. + </p> + <p> + Barton stood still. Even a brave man likes (the old Irish duelling days + being over) at least to know <i>why</i> he is to be shot at. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “What on earth are you doing? How + can <i>you</i> talk about shooting? Have you a whole bone in your body?” + </p> + <p> + To this the only reply was another groan; then silence. + </p> + <p> + By this time there was a full measure of the light “which London takes the + day to be,” and Barton had a fair view of his partner in this dialogue. + </p> + <p> + He could see the crumpled form of a man, weak and distorted like a victim + of the rack—scattered, so to speak—in a posture inconceivably + out of drawing, among the fragments of the engine. The man’s head was + lowest, and rested on an old battered box; his middle was supported by a + beam of the engine; one of his legs was elevated on one of the fans, the + other hung disjointedly in the air. The man was strangely dressed in a + close-fitting suit of cloth—something between the uniform of bicycle + clubs and the tights affected by acrobats. Long, thin, gray locks fell + back from a high yellow forehead: there was blood on his mouth and about + his beard. + </p> + <p> + Barton drew near and touched him: the man only groaned. + </p> + <p> + “How am I to help you out of this?” said the surgeon, carefully examining + his patient, as he might now be called. A little close observation showed + that the man’s arms were strapped by buckles into the fans, while one of + his legs was caught up in some elastic coils of the mechanism. + </p> + <p> + With infinite tenderness, Barton disengaged the victim, whose stifled + groans proved at once the extent of his sufferings and of his courage. + </p> + <p> + Finally, the man was free from the machine, and Barton discovered that, as + far as a rapid investigation could show, there were no fatal injuries + done, though a leg, an arm, and several ribs were fractured, and there + were many contusions. + </p> + <p> + “Now I must leave you here for a few minutes, while I go round to the + police-office and get men and a stretcher,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + The man held up one appealing hand; the other was paralyzed. + </p> + <p> + “First hide all <i>this,</i>” he murmured, moving his head so as to + indicate the fragments of his engine. They lay all confused, a heap of + spars, cogs, wheels, fans, and what not, a puzzle to the science of + mechanics. “Don’t let them know a word about it,” he said. “Say I had an + accident—that I was sleep-walking, and fell from a window—say + anything you like, but promise to keep my secret. In a week,” he murmured + dreamily, “it would have been complete. It is the second time I have just + missed success and fame.” + </p> + <p> + “I have not an idea what your secret may be,” said Barton; “but here goes + for the machine.” + </p> + <p> + And, while the wounded man watched him, with piteous and wistful eyes, he + rapidly hid different fragments of the mechanism beneath and among the + heaps of rubbish, which were many, and, for purposes of concealment, + meritorious. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you can find them all again?” asked the victim of misplaced + ingenuity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, all right,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Then you must get me to the street before you bring any help. If they + find me here they will ask questions, and my secret will come out.” + </p> + <p> + “But how on earth am I to get you to the street?” Barton inquired, very + naturally. “Even if you could bear being carried, I could not lift you + over the boarding.” + </p> + <p> + “I can bear anything—I will bear anything,” said the man. “Look in + my breast, and you will find a key of a door in the palings.” + </p> + <p> + Barton looked as directed, and, fastened round the neck of the sufferer by + a leather shoe-tie, he discovered, sure enough, a kind of skeleton-key in + strong wire. + </p> + <p> + “With that you can open the gate, and get me into the street,” said the + crushed man; “but be very careful not to open the door while anyone is + passing.” + </p> + <p> + He only got out these messages very slowly, and after intervals of silence + broken by groans. + </p> + <p> + “Wait! one thing more,” he said, as Barton stooped to take him in his + arms. “I may faint from pain. My address is, Paterson’s Kents, hard by; my + name is Winter.” Then, after a pause, “I can pay for a private room at the + infirmary, and I must have one. Lift the third plank from the end in the + left-hand corner by the window, and you will find enough. Now!” + </p> + <p> + Then Barton very carefully picked up the poor man, mere bag of bones (and + broken bones) as he was. + </p> + <p> + The horrible pain that the man endured Barton could imagine, yet he dared + not hurry, for the ground was strewn with every sort of pitfall. At last—it + seemed hours to Barton, it must have been an eternity to the sufferer—the + hoarding was reached, and, after listening earnestly, Barton opened the + door, peered out, saw that the coast was clear, deposited his burden on + the pavement, and flew to the not distant police-station. + </p> + <p> + He was not absent long, and returning with four men and a stretcher, he + found, of course, quite a large crowd grouped round the place where he had + left his charge. The milkman was there, several shabby women, one or two + puzzled policemen, three cabmen (though no wizard could have called up a + cab at that hour and place had he wanted to catch a train;) there were + riverside loafers, workmen going to their labor, and a lucky penny-a-liner + with his “tissue” and pencil. + </p> + <p> + Pushing his way through these gapers, Barton found, as he expected, that + his patient had fainted. He aided the policemen to place him on the + stretcher, accompanied him to the infirmary (how common a sight is that + motionless body on a stretcher in the streets!), explained as much of the + case as was fitting to the surgeon in attendance, and then, at last, + returned to his rooms and a bath, puzzling over the mystery. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he said, as he helped himself to a devilled wing of a chicken + at breakfast, “I believe the poor beggar had been experimenting with a + Flying-Machine!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII.—A Patient. + </h2> + <p> + A doctor, especially a doctor actively practising among the poor and + laborious, soon learns to take the incidents of his profession rather + calmly. Barton had often been called in when a revel had ended in suicide + or death; and if he had never before seen a man caught in a + flying-machine, he had been used to heal wounds quite as dreadful caused + by engines of a more familiar nature. + </p> + <p> + Though Barton, therefore, could go out to his round of visits on the day + after his adventurous vigil without unusual emotion, it may be conceived + that the distress and confusion at <i>The Bunhouse</i> were very great. + The police and the gloomy attendants on Death were in the place; Mrs. St. + John Deloraine had to see many official people, to answer many + disagreeable questions, and suffered in every way extremely from the + consequences of her beneficent enterprise. But she displayed a coolness + and businesslike common sense worthy of a less versatile philanthropist, + and found time, amid the temporary ruin of her work, to pay due attention + to Margaret. She had scarcely noticed the girl before, taking her very + much on trust, and being preoccupied with various schemes of social + enjoyment. But now she was struck by her beauty and her educated manner, + though that, to be sure, was amply accounted for by the explanations + offered by Cranley before her engagement. Already Mrs. St. John Deloraine + was conceiving a project of perpetual friendship, and had made up her mind + to adopt Margaret as a daughter, or, let us say, niece and companion. The + girl was too refined to cope with the rough-and-ready young patronesses of + <i>The Bunhouse</i>. + </p> + <p> + If the lady’s mind was even more preoccupied by the survivor in the + hideous events of the evening than by the tragedy itself and the dead + woman, Barton, too, found his thoughts straying to his new patient—not + that he was a flirt or a sentimentalist. Even in the spring Barton’s fancy + did not lightly turn to thoughts of love. He was not one of those + “amatorious” young men (as Milton says, perhaps at too great length) who + cannot see a pretty girl without losing their hearts to her. Barton was + not so prodigal of his affections; yet it were vain to deny that, as he + went his rather drowsy round of professional visits, his ideas were more + apt to stray to the girl who had been stabbed, than to the man who had + been rescued from the machinery. The man was old, yellow, withered, and, + in Barton’s private opinion, more of a lunatic charlatan than a successful + inventor. The girl was young, beautiful, and interesting enough, apart + from her wound, to demand and secure a place in any fancy absolutely free. + </p> + <p> + It was no more than Barton’s actual duty to call at <i>The Old English + Bunhouse</i> in the afternoon. Here he was welcomed by Mrs. St John + Deloraine, who was somewhat pale and shaken by the horrors of the night. + She had turned all her young customers out, and had stuck up a paper + bearing a legend to the effect that <i>The Old English Bunhouse</i> was + closed for the present and till further notice. A wistful crowd was drawn + up on the opposite side of the street, and was staring at <i>The Bunhouse</i>. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St John Deloraine welcomed Barton, it might almost be said, with open + arms. She had by this time, of course, laid aside the outward guise of <i>Nitouche</i>, + and was dressed like other ladies, but better. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mr. Barton,” she exclaimed, “your patient is doing very well + indeed. She will be crazy with delight when she hears that you have + called.” + </p> + <p> + Barton could not help being pleased at this intelligence, even when he had + discounted it as freely as even a very brief acquaintance with Mrs. Si + John Deloraine taught her friends to do. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she is able to see me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll run to her room and inquire,” said Mrs. St John Deloraine, fleeting + nimbly up the steep stairs, and leaving, like Astrsea, as described by + Charles Lamb’s friend, a kind of rosy track or glow behind her from the + chastened splendor of her very becoming hose. + </p> + <p> + Barton waited rather impatiently till the lady of <i>The Bunhouse</i> + returned with the message that he might accompany her into the presence of + the invalid. + </p> + <p> + A very brief interview satisfied him that his patient was going on even + better than he had hoped; also that she possessed very beautiful and + melancholy eyes. She said little, but that little kindly, and asked + whether Mr. Cranley had sent to inquire for her. Mrs. St. John Deloraine + answered the question, which puzzled Barton, in the negative; and when + they had left Margaret (Miss Burnside, as Mrs. St. John Deloraine called + her), he ventured to ask who the Mr. Cranley might be about whom the girl + had spoken. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” replied Mrs. St. John Deloraine, “it was through Mr. Cranley that + I engaged both Miss Burnside and that unhappy woman whom I can’t think of + without shuddering. The inquest is to be held to-morrow. It is too + dreadful when these things, that have been only names, come home to one. + Now, I really do not like to think hardly of anybody, but I must admit + that Mr. Cranley has quite misled me about the housekeeper. He gave her an + excellent character, <i>especially</i> for sobriety, and till yesterday I + had no fault to find with her. Then, the girls say, she became quite wild + and intoxicated, and it is hard to believe that this is the first time she + yielded to that horrid temptation. Don’t you think it was odd of Mr. + Cranley? And I sent round a messenger with a note to his rooms, but it was + returned, marked, ‘Has left; address not Known.’ I don’t know what has + become of him. Perhaps the housekeeper could have told us, but the + unfortunate woman is beyond reach of questions.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean the Mr. Cranley who is Rector of St. Medard’s, in Chelsea?” + asked Barton. + </p> + <p> + “No; I mean Mr. Thomas Cranley, the son of the Earl of Birkenhead. He was + a great friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thomas Cranley!” exclaimed Barton, with an expression of face which + probably spoke at least three volumes, and these of a highly sensational + character. + </p> + <p> + “Now, please,” cried Mrs. St. John Deloraine, clasping her hands in a + pretty attitude of entreaty, like a recording angel hesitating to enter + the peccadillo of a favorite saint; “please don’t say you know anything + against Mr. Cranley. I am aware that he has many enemies.” + </p> + <p> + Barton was silent for a minute. He had that good old school-boy feeling + about not telling tales out of school, which is so English and so unknown + in France; but, on the other side, <i>he</i> could scarcely think it right + to leave a lady of invincible innocence at the mercy of a confirmed + scoundrel. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, it is a very unpleasant thing to have to say; but really, + if you ask me, I should remark that Mr. Cranley’s enemies are of his own + making. I would not go to him for a girl’s character, I’m sure. But I + thought he had disappeared from society.” + </p> + <p> + “So he had. He told me that there was a conspiracy against him, and that I + was one of the few people who, he felt sure, would never desert him. And I + never would. I never turn my back on my friends.” + </p> + <p> + “If there was a conspiracy,” said Barton, “I am the ringleader in it; for, + as you ask me, I must assure you, on my honor, that I detected Mr. Cranley + in the act of trying to cheat some very young men at cards. I would not + have mentioned it for the world,” he added, almost alarmed at the + expression of pain and terror in Mrs. St John Deloraine’s face; “but you + wished to be told. And I could not honestly leave you in the belief that + he is a man to be trusted. What he did when I saw him was only what all + who knew him well would have expected. And his treatment of you, in the + matter of that woman’s character, was,” cried Barton, growing indignant as + he thought of it, “one of the very basest things I ever heard of. I had + seen that woman before; she was not fit to be entrusted with the care of + girls. She was at one time very well known.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s face had passed through every shade of + expression—doubt, shame, and indignation; but now it assumed an air + of hope. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret has always spoken so well of him,” she said, half to herself. + “He was always very kind to her, and yet she was only the poor daughter of + a humble acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he deviated into kindness for once,” said Barton; “but as to his + general character, it is certain that it was on a par with the trap he + laid for you. I wish I knew where to find him. You must never let him get + the poor girl back into his hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Si John Deloraine, with conviction in her + voice; “and now I must go back to her, and see whether she wants anything. + Do you think I may soon move her to my own house, in Cheyne Walk? It is + not far, and she will be so much more comfortable there.” + </p> + <p> + “The best thing you can do,” said Barton; “and be sure you send for me if + you want me, or if you ever hear anything more of Mr. Cranley. I am quite + ready to meet him anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “You will call to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, about this time,” said Barton; and he kept his promise + assiduously, calling often. + </p> + <p> + A fortnight went by, and Margaret, almost restored to health, and in a + black tea-gown, the property of Mrs. St. John Deloraine, was lying + indolently on a sofa in the house in Cheyne Walk. She was watching the + struggle between the waning daylight and the fire, when the door opened, + and the servant announced “Dr. Barton.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret held forth a rather languid hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so sorry Mrs. St. John Deloraine is out,” she said. “She is at a + soap-bubble party. I wish I could go. It is so long since I saw any + children, or had any fun.” + </p> + <p> + So Margaret spoke, and then she sighed, remembering the reason why she + should not attend soap-bubble parties. + </p> + <p> + “I’m selfish enough to be glad you could not go,” said Barton; “for then I + should have missed you. But why do you sigh?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a good many things to make me unhappy,” said Margaret, “in + addition to my—to my accident. You must not think I am always + bewailing myself. But perhaps you know that I lost my father, just before + I entered Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s service, and then my whole course of + life was altered.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry for you,” said Barton, simply. He did not know what else + to say; but he felt more than his conventional words indicated, and + perhaps he looked as if he felt it and more. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was still too weak to bear an expression of sympathy, and tears + came into her eyes, followed by a blush on her pale, thin cheeks. She was + on the point of breaking down. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing in the world so trying to a young man as to see a girl + crying. A wild impulse to kiss and comfort her passed through Barton’s + mind, before he said, awkwardly again: + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you how sorry I am; I wish I could do anything for you. + Can’t I help you in any way? You must not give up so early in the troubles + of life; and then, who knows but yours, having begun soon, are nearly + over?” + </p> + <p> + Barton would perhaps have liked to ask her to let him see that they <i>were</i> + over, as far as one mortal can do as much for another. + </p> + <p> + “They have been going on so long,” said Margaret “I have had such a + wandering life, and such changes.” + </p> + <p> + Barton would have given much to be able to ask for more information; but + more was not offered. + </p> + <p> + “Let us think of the future,” he said. “Have you any idea about what you + mean to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. St. John Deloraine is very kind. She wishes me to stay with her + always. But I am puzzled about Mr. Cranley. I don’t know what he would + like me to do. He seems to have gone abroad.” + </p> + <p> + Barton hated to hear her mention Cranley’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Had you known him long?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No; for a very short time only. But he was an old friend of my father’s, + and had promised him to take care of me. He took me away from school, and + he gave me a start in life.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely he might have found something more worthy of you, of your + education,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “What can a girl do?” answered Margaret. “We know so little. I could + hardly even have taught very little children. They thought me dreadfully + backward at school—at least, Miss—— I mean, the teachers + thought me backward.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you know as much as anyone should,” said Barton, indignantly. + “Were you at a nice school?” he added. + </p> + <p> + He had been puzzling himself for many days over Margaret’s history. She + seemed to have had at least the ordinary share of education and knowledge + of the world; and yet he had found her occupying a menial position at a + philanthropic bunhouse. Even now she was a mere dependent of Mrs. St. John + Deloraine, though there was a stanchness in that lady’s character which + made her patronage not precarious. + </p> + <p> + “There were some nice girls at it,” answered Margaret, without committing + herself. + </p> + <p> + Rochefoucauld declares that there are excellent marriages, but no such + thing as a delightful marriage. Perhaps school-girls may admit, as an + abstract truth, that good schools exist; but few would allow that any + place of education is “nice.” + </p> + <p> + “It is really getting quite late,” Barton observed, reluctantly. He liked + to watch the girl, whose beauty, made wan by illness, received just a + touch of becoming red from the glow of the fire. He liked to talk to her; + in fact, this was his most interesting patient by far. It would be + miserably black and dark in his lodgings, he was aware; and non-paying + patients would be importunate in proportion to their poverty. The poor are + often the most exacting of hypochondriacs. Margaret noticed his reluctance + to go contending with a sense of what he owed to propriety. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you must want tea; but I don’t like to ring. It is so short a + time since I wore an apron and a cap and the rest of it myself at <i>The + Bunhouse</i>, that I am afraid to ask the servants to do anything for me. + They must dislike me; it is very natural.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not natural at all,” said Barton, with conviction; “perfectly + monstrous, on the other hand.” This little compliment eclipsed the effect + of fire-light on the girl’s face. “Suppose I ring,” he added, “and then + you can say, when Mary says ‘Did you ring, miss?’ ‘No, I didn’t ring; but + as you <i>are</i> here, Mary, would you mind bringing tea?’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know if that would be quite honest,” said Margaret, doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “A pious fraud—a drawing-room comedy,” said Barton; “have we + rehearsed it enough?” + </p> + <p> + Then he touched the bell, and the little piece of private theatricals was + played out, though one of the artists had some difficulty (as amateurs + often have) in subduing an inclination to giggle. + </p> + <p> + “Now, this is quite perfect,” said Barton, when he had been accommodated + with a large piece of plum-cake. “This is the very kind of cake which we + specially prohibit our patients to touch; and so near dinner-time, too! + There should be a new proverb, ‘Physician, diet thyself.’ You see, we + don’t all live on a very thin slice of cold bacon and a piece of dry + toast.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. St John Deloraine has never taken up that kind of life,” said + Margaret. “She tries a good many new things,” Barton remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but she is the best woman in the world!” answered the girl. “Oh, if + you knew what a comfort it is to be with a lady again!” And she shuddered + as she remembered her late chaperon. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if some day—you won’t think me very rude?” asked Barton—“you + would mind telling me a little of your history?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Cranley ordered me to say nothing about it,” answered Margaret; “and + a great deal is very sad and hard to tell. You are all so kind, and + everything is so quiet here, and safe and peaceful, that it frightens me + to think of things that have happened, or may happen.” + </p> + <p> + “They shall never happen, if you will trust me,” cried Barton, when a + carriage was heard to stop at the gateway of the garden outside. + </p> + <p> + “Here is Mrs. St. John Deloraine at last,” cried Margaret, starting to run + to the window; but she was so weak that she tripped, and would have fallen + had Barton not caught her lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how stupid you must think me!” she said, blushing. And Barton thought + he had never seen anything so pretty. + </p> + <p> + “Once for all, I don’t think you stupid, or backward, or anything else + that you call yourself.” + </p> + <p> + But at that very moment the door opened, and Mrs. St John Deloraine + entered, magnificently comfortable in furs, and bringing a fresh air of + hospitality and content with existence into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>you</i> are here!” she cried, “and I have almost missed you. Now + you <i>must</i> stay to dinner. You need not dress; we are all alone, + Margaret and I.” + </p> + <p> + So he did stop to dine, and pauper hypochondriacs, eager for his society + (which was always cheering), knocked, and rang also, at his door in vain. + It was an excellent dinner; and, on the wings of the music Mrs. St John + Deloraine was playing in the front drawing-room, two happy hours passed + lightly over Barton and Margaret, into the backward, where all hours—good + and evil—abide, remembered or forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII.—Another Patient. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Des ailes! des ailes! des ailes! + Comme dans le chant de Ruckert.” + —Théophile Gautier. +</pre> + <p> + “So you think a flying machine impossible, sir, and me, I presume, a + fanatic? Well, well, you have Eusebius with you. ‘Such an one,’ he says—meaning + me, and inventors like me—‘is a little crazed with the humors of + melancholy.’” + </p> + <p> + The speaker was the man whom Barton had rescued from the cogs and wheels + and springs of an infuriated engine. Barton could not but be interested in + the courage and perseverance of this sufferer, whom he was visiting in + hospital. The young surgeon had gone to inspect the room in Paterson’s + Rants, and had found it, as he more or less expected, the conventional den + of the needy inventor. Our large towns are full of such persons. They are + the Treasure Hunters of cities and of civilization—the modern + seekers for the Philosopher’s Stone. At the end of a vista of dreams they + behold the great Discovery made perfect, and themselves the winners of + fame and of wealth incalculable. + </p> + <p> + For the present, most of these visionaries are occupied with electricity. + They intend to make the lightning a domestic slave in every house, and to + turn Ariel into a common carrier. But, from the aspect of Winter’s den in + Paterson’s Rents, it was easy to read that his heart was set on a more + ancient foible. The white deal book-shelves, home-made, which lined every + wall, were packed with tattered books on mechanics, and especially on the + art of flying. Here you saw the spoils of the fourpenny box of cheap + bookvendors mixed with volumes in better condition, purchased at a larger + cost. Here—among the litter of tattered pamphlets and well-thumbed + “Proceedings” of the Linnean and the Aeronautic Society of Great Britain—here + were Fredericus Hermannus’ “De Arte Volandi,” and Cayley’s works, and + Hatton Turner’s “Astra Castra,” and the “Voyage to the Moon” of Cyrano de + Bergerac, and Bishop Wilkins’s “Dædalus,” and the same sanguine prelate’s + “Mercury, The Secret Messenger.” Here were Cardan and Raymond Lully, and a + shabby set of the classics, mostly in French translations, and a score of + lucubrations by French and other inventors—Ponton d’Amocourt, + Borelli, Chabrier, Girard, and Marey. + </p> + <p> + Even if his books had not shown the direction of the new patient’s mind—(a + man is known by his books at least as much as by his companions, and + companions Winter had none)—even if the shelves had not spoken + clearly, the models and odds-and-ends in the room would have proclaimed + him an inventor. As the walls were hidden by his library, and as the + floor, also, was littered with tomes and pamphlets and periodicals, a + quantity of miscellaneous gear was hung by hooks from the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + Barton, who was more than commonly tall, found his head being buffeted by + big preserved wings of birds and other flying things—from the + sweeping pinions of the albatross to the leathery covering of the bat. + From the ceiling, too, hung models, cleverly constructed in various + materials; and here—a cork with quills stuck into it, and with a + kind of drill-bow—was the little flying model of Sir George Cayley. + The whole place, dusty and musty, with a faded smell of the oil in birds’ + feathers, was almost more noisome than curious. When Barton left it, his + mind was made up as to the nature of Winter’s secret, or delusion; and + when he visited that queer patient in hospital, he was not surprised + either by his smattered learning or by his golden dreams. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; Eusebius is against me, no doubt,” Winter went on with his + eager talk. “An acute man—rather <i>too</i> acute, don’t you think, + for a Father of the Church? That habit he got into of smashing the + arguments of the heathen, gave him a kind of flippancy in talking of high + matters.” + </p> + <p> + “Such as flying?” put in Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; such as our great aim—the aim of all the ages, I may call it. + What does Bishop Wilkins say, sir? Why, he says, (I doubt not but that + flying in the air may be easily effected by a diligent and ingenious + artificer.) ‘Diligent,’ I may say, I have been; as to ‘ingenious,’ I leave + the verdict to others.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that Peter Wilkins you were quoting?” asked Barton, to humor his man. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no sir; the Bishop was not Peter. Peter Wilkins is the hero of a + mere romance, in which, it is true, we meet with women—<i>Goories</i> + he calls them—endowed with the power of flight. But <i>they</i> were + born so. We get no help from Peter Wilkins: a mere dreamer.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t seem to be so easy as the Bishop fancies?” remarked Barton, + leading him on. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” cried Winter, all his aches and pains forgotten, and his pale + face flushed with the delight of finding a listener who did not laugh at + him. “No, sir; the Bishop, though ingenious, was not a practical man. But + look at what he says about the <i>weight</i> of your flying machine! Can + anything be more sensible? Borne out, too, by the most recent researches, + and the authority of Professor Pettigrew Bell himself. You remember the + iron fly made by Begimontanus of Nuremberg?” + </p> + <p> + “The iron fly!” murmured Barton. “I can’t say I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You will find a history of it in Bamus. This fly would leap from the + hands of the great Begimontanus, flutter and buzz round the heads of his + guests assembled at supper, and then, as if wearied, return and repose on + the finger of its maker.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you believe <i>that</i>?” asked Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, sir; why not? Did not Archytas of Tarenturn, one of Plato’s + acquaintances, construct a wooden dove, in no way less miraculous? And the + same Regimontanus, at Nuremberg, fashioned an eagle which, by way of + triumph, did fly out of the city to meet Charles V. But where was I? Oh, + at Bishop Wilkins. Cardan doubted of the iron fly of Regimontanus, because + the material was so heavy. But Bishop Wilkins argues, in accordance with + the best modern authorities, that the weight is no hindrance whatever, if + proportional to the motive power. A flying machine, says Professor Bell, + in the <i>Encyclopodia Britannica</i>—(you will not question the + authority of the <i>Encyclopodia Britannica</i>?)—a flying machine + should be ‘a compact, moderately heavy, and powerful structure.’ There, + you see, the Bishop was right.” + </p> + <p> + “Yours was deuced powerful,” remarked Barton. “I did not expect to see two + limbs of you left together.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> powerful, or rather it <i>was</i>,” answered Winter, with a + heavy sigh; “but it’s all to do over again—all to do over again! Yet + it was a noble specimen. ‘The passive surface was reduced to a minimum,’ + as the learned author in the <i>Encyclopodia</i> recommends.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! the passive surface was jolly near reduced to a mummy. <i>You</i> + were the passive surface, as far as I could see.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t laugh at me, please sir, after you’ve been so kind. All the rest + laugh at me. You can’t think what a pleasure it has been to talk to a + scholar,” and there was a new flush on the poor fellow’s cheek, and + something watery in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, my dear sir,” cried Barton, greatly ashamed of + himself. “Pray go on. The subject is entirely new to me. I had not been + aware that there were any serious modern authorities in favor of the + success of this kind of experiment.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Winter, much encouraged, and taking Barton’s hand + in his own battered claw; “thank you. But why should we run only to modern + authorities? All great inventions, all great ideas, have been present to + men’s minds and hopes from the beginning of civilization. Did not + Empedocles forestall Mr. Darwin, and hit out, at a stroke, the hypothesis + of natural selection?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he <i>did</i> make a shot at it,” admitted Barton, who remembered + as much as that from “the old coaching days,” and college lectures at St. + Gatien’s. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do we find? As soon as we get a whisper of civilization in + Greece, we find Dædalus successful in flying. The pragmatic interpreters + pretend that the fable does but point to the discovery of sails for ships; + but I put it to you, is that probable?” + </p> + <p> + “Obvious bosh,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “And the meteorological mycologists, sir, <i>they</i> maintain that + Dædalus is only the lightning flying in the breast of the storm!” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing those fellows won’t say,” replied Barton. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you are with me, sir. In Dædalus <i>I</i> see either a record of + a successful attempt at artificial flight, or at the very least, the + expression of an aspiration as old as culture. <i>You</i> wouldn’t make + Dædalus the evening clouds accompanying Minos, the sun, to his setting in + Sicily, in the west?” added Winter anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of such nonsense,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Frederick Leighton, the President of the Royal Academy, is with me, + sir, if I may judge by his picture of Dædalus.” + </p> + <p> + “Every sensible man must be with you,” answered Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, I won’t detain you with other famous flyers of antiquity, such + as Abaris, mounted on an arrow, as described by Herodotus. Doubtless the + arrow was a flying machine, a novelty to the ignorant Scythians.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>must</i> have been, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there was the Greek who flew before Nero in the circus; but he, I + admit, had a bad fall, as Seutonius recounts. That character of Lucian’s, + who employed an eagle’s wing and a vulture’s in his flight, I take to be a + mere figment of the satirist’s imagination. But what do you make of Simon + Magus? He, I cannot doubt, had invented a machine in which, like myself, + he made use of steam or naphtha. This may be gathered from Arnobius, our + earliest authority. He mentions expressly <i>currum Simonis Magi et + quadrigas igneas</i>, the chariot of Simon Magus and his <i>vehicles of + flame</i>—clearly the naphtha is alluded to—which vanished + into air at the word of the Apostle Peter. The latter circumstances being + miraculous, I take leave to doubt; but certainly Simon Magus had overcome + the difficulties of aerial navigation. But, though Petrus Crinitus rejects + the tradition as fabulous, I am prepared to believe that Simon Magus + actually flew from the Capitol to the Aventine! + </p> + <p> + “‘The world knows nothing of its greatest men,’” quoted Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Simon Magus has been the victim, sir, of theological acrimony, his + character blackened, his flying machine impugned, or ascribed, as by the + credulous Arnobius, to diabolical arts. In the dark ages, naturally, the + science of Artificial Flight was either neglected or practised in secret, + through fear of persecution. Busbequius speaks of a Turk at Constantinople + who attempted something in this way; but he (the Turk, I mean), was + untrammelled by ecclesiastical prejudice. But why should we tarry in the + past? Have we not Mr. Proctor with us, both in <i>Knowledge</i> and the <i>Cornhill</i>? + Does not the preeminent authority, Professor Pettigrew Bell, himself + declare, with the weight, too, of the <i>Encyclopodia Britannica</i>, that + ‘the number of successful flying models is considerable. It is not too + much to expect,’ he goes on, ‘that the problem of artificial flight will + be actually solved, or at least much simplified.’ What less can we expect, + as he observes, in the land of Watt and Stephenson, when the construction + of flying machines has been ‘taken up in earnest by practical men?’” + </p> + <p> + “We may indeed,” said Barton, “hope for the best when persons of your + learning and ingenuity devote their efforts to the cause.” + </p> + <p> + “As to my learning, you flatter me,” said Winter. “I am no scholar; but an + enthusiast will study the history of his subject Did I remark that the + great Dr. Johnson, in these matters so sceptical, admits (in a romance, it + is true) the possibility of artificial flight? The artisan of the Happy + Valley expected to solve the problem in one year’s time. ‘If all men were + equally virtuous,’ said this artist, ‘I should with equal alacrity teach + them all to fly.’” + </p> + <p> + “And you will keep your secret, like Dr. Johnson’s artist?” + </p> + <p> + “To <i>you</i> I do not mind revealing this much. The vans or wings of my + machine describe elliptic figures of eight.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen them do <i>that</i>, said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Like the wings of birds; and have the same forward and downward stroke, + by a direct piston action. The impetus is given, after a descent in air—which + I effected by starting from a height of six feet only—by a + combination of heated naphtha and of india rubber under torsion. By steam + alone, in 1842, Philips made a model of a flying-machine soar across two + fields. Penaud’s machine, relying only on india rubber under torsion, + flies for some fifty yards. What a model can do, as Bishop Wilkins well + observes, a properly weighted and proportioned flying-machine, capable of + carrying a man, can do also.” + </p> + <p> + “But yours, when I first had the pleasure of meeting you, was not carrying + you at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Something had gone wrong with the mechanism,” answered Winter, sighing. + “It is always so. An inventor has many things to contend against. Remember + Ark-wright, and how he was puzzled hopelessly by that trifling error in + the thickness of the valves in his spinning machine. He had to give half + his profits to Strutt, the local blacksmith, before Strutt would tell him + that he had only to chalk his valves! The thickness of a coating of chalk + made all the difference. Some trifle like that, depend on it, interfered + with my machine. You see, I am obliged to make my experiments at night, + and in the dark, for fear of being discovered and anticipated. I have been + on the verge—nay, <i>over</i> the verge—of success. ‘No + imaginable invention,’ Bishop Wilkins says, ‘could prove of greater + benefit to the world, or greater glory to the author.’ A few weeks ago + that glory was mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Why a few weeks ago?” asked Barton. “Was your machine more advanced then + than when I met you?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot explain what had happened to check its motion,” said Winter, + wearily; “but a few weeks ago my <i>machine acted</i>, and I may say that + I knew the sensations of a bird on the wing.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you actually <i>flew</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “For a very short distance, I did indeed, sir!” + </p> + <p> + Barton looked at him curiously: two currents of thought—one wild and + credulous, the other practical and professional—surged and met in + his brain. The professional current proved the stronger for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” he said. “You are tiring and over-exciting yourself. I will + call again soon.” + </p> + <p> + He <i>did</i> call again, and Winter told him a tale which will be + repeated in its proper place. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV.—Found. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All precious things, discovered late, + To those that seek them issue forth; + For Love, in sequel, works with Fate, + And draws the veil from hidden worth.” + —The Sleeping Beauty. +</pre> + <p> + That Margaret and Barton were losing their hearts to each other could not, + of course, escape the keen eye of Mrs. St. John Deloraine. She noticed + that Margaret, though perfectly restored to health, and lacking only the + clear brown over the rose of her cheeks, was by no means so light of heart + as in the very earliest days of her recovery. Love makes men and women + poor company, and, to speak plainly, takes the fun out of them. Margaret + was absent-minded, given to long intervals of silence, a bad listener—all + of them things hateful to Mrs. St. John Delo-raine, but pardoned, in this + instance, by the benevolent lady. Margaret was apt to blush without + apparent cause, to start when a knock came to the door, to leave the room + hurriedly, and need to be sought and brought back, when Barton called. Nor + was Barton himself such good company as he had been. His manner was + uncertain and constrained; his visits began to be paid at longer + intervals; he seemed to have little to say, or talked in fits and starts; + and yet he did not know how to go away. + </p> + <p> + Persons much less clear-sighted than Mrs. St John Deloraine could have + interpreted, without difficulty, this awkward position of affairs. + </p> + <p> + Now, like most women of her kindly and impulsive character (when it has + not been refined away into nothing by social hypocrisies), Mrs. St. John + Deloraine was a perfectly reckless match-maker. She believed in love with + her whole heart; it was a joy to her to mark the beginnings of inclination + in two young souls, and she simply revelled in an “engagement.” All + considerations of economy, prudence, and foresight melted away before the + ardor of her enthusiasm: to fall in love first, to get engaged next, and + to be married as soon as possible afterward, without regard to + consequences of any kind, were, in this lady’s mind, heroic actions, and + almost the whole duty of men and women. + </p> + <p> + In her position, and with her opportunities, she soon knew all that was to + be known about Margaret’s affections, and also about Barton’s. + </p> + <p> + “He’s as much in love with you as a man can be, my dear,” she said to + Margaret “Not worthy of him? Your past a barrier between you and him? + Nonsense, Daisy; that is <i>his</i> affair. I know you are as good a girl + as ever lived. Your father was poor, no doubt, and that wretched Mr. + Cranley—yes, he was a wretch—had a spite against you. I don’t + know why, and you won’t help me to guess. But Mr. Barton is too much of a + man to let that kind of thing disturb him, I’m sure. You are afraid of + something, Margaret Your nerves have been unstrung. I’m sure I don’t + wonder at it. I know what it is to lose one’s nerve. I could no more drive + now, as I used to do, or go at the fences I used to think <i>nothing</i> + of! But once you are married to a man like Mr. Barton, who is there can + frighten you? And as to being poor,” and Mrs. St. John Deloraine explained + her generous views as to arrangements on her part, which would leave + Margaret far from portionless. + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret would cry a little, and lay her head on her friend’s + shoulder, and the friend would shed some natural tears for company; and + they would have tea, and Barton would call, and look a great deal at his + boots, and fidget with his hat. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no patience with you, Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. St. John Deloraine at + last, when she had so manouvred as to have some private conversation with + him, and Barton had unpacked his heart. “I’ve no patience with you. Why, + where is your courage? ‘She has a history?’ She’s been persecuted. Well, + where’s your chivalry? Why don’t you try your fortune? There never was a + better girl, nor a pleasanter companion when she’s not—when she’s + not disturbed by the nervousness of an undecided young man. If you don’t + take your courage in both hands, I will carry Margaret off on a yachting + voyage to the Solomon Islands, or Jericho, or somewhere. Look here, I am + going to take her for a drive in Battersea Park; it is handy, and looking + very pretty, and as lonely as Tadmor in the wilderness. We will get out + and saunter among the ponds. I shall be tired and sit down; you will show + Margaret the marvels of natural history in the other pond, and when you + come back you will both have made up your minds!” + </p> + <p> + With this highly transparent ruse Barton expressed his content. The + carriage was sent for, and in less than half an hour Barton and Margaret + were standing alone, remote, isolated from the hum of men, looking at a + pond where some water-hens were diving, while a fish (“coarse,” but not + uninteresting) occasionally flopped on the surface, The trees—it was + the last week of May—were in the earliest freshness of their + foliage; the air, for a wonder, was warm and still. + </p> + <p> + “How quiet and pretty it is!” said Margaret “Who would think we were in + London?” + </p> + <p> + Barton said nothing. Like the French parrot, mentioned by Sir Walter + Scott, he thought the more. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Burnside!” he exclaimed suddenly, “we have known each other now for + some time.” + </p> + <p> + This was a self evident proposition; but Margaret felt what was coming, + and trembled. She turned for a moment, pretending to watch the movements + of one of the water-fowls. Inwardly she was nerving herself to face the + hard part of her duty, and to remind Barton of the mystery in her life. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said at last; “we have known each other for some time, and yet—you + know nothing about me.” + </p> + <p> + With these words she lifted her eyes and looked him straight in the face. + There seemed a certain pride and nobility in her he had not seen before, + though her beautiful brown eyes were troubled, and there was a mark of + pain on her brow. What was she going to tell him? + </p> + <p> + Barton felt his courage come back to him. + </p> + <p> + “I know one thing about you, and that is enough for me. I know I love + you!” he said. “Margaret, can’t you care for me a little? Don’t tell me + anything you think you should not say. I’m not curious.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret turned back again to her inspection of the pond and its inmates, + grasping the iron railing in front of her and gazing down into the waters, + so that he could not see her face. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said at last, in a very low voice; “it would not be fair.” Then, + after another pause, “There is someone—” she murmured, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + This was the last thing Barton had expected. If she did not care for <i>him</i>, + he fancied she cared for nobody. + </p> + <p> + “If you like someone better—” he was beginning. + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t like him at all,” interrupted Margaret. “He was very kind, + but—” + </p> + <p> + “Then can’t you like <i>me</i>?” asked Barton; and by this time he was + very near her, and was looking down into her face, as curiously as she was + still studying the natural history of Battersea Ponds. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I should not; it is so difficult to know,” murmured Margaret. And + yet her rosy confusion, and beautiful lowered eyes, tender and ashamed, + proved that she knew very well. Love is not always so blind but that + Barton saw his opportunity, and was assured that she had surrendered. And + he prepared, a conqueror, to march in with all the honors and rewards of + war; for the place was lonely, and a covenant is no covenant until it is + sealed. + </p> + <p> + But when he would have kissed her, Margaret disengaged herself gently, + with a little sigh, and returned to the strong defensible position by the + iron railings. + </p> + <p> + “I must tell you about myself,” she said. “I have promised never to tell, + but I must. I have been so tossed about, and so weak, and so many things + have happened.” And she sighed. + </p> + <p> + However impassioned a lover may be, he does naturally prefer that there + should be no mystery about her he adores. Barton had convinced himself + (aided by the eloquence and reposing on the feminine judgment of Mrs. St. + John Deloraine) that Margaret could have nothing that was wrong to + conceal. He could not look at her frank eyes and kind face and suspect + her; though, to anyone but a lover, these natural advantages are no + argument. He, therefore, prepared to gratify an extreme curiosity, and, by + way of comforting and aiding Margaret, was on the point of assuming an + affectionate attitude. But she moved a little away, and, still turning + toward the friendly ponds, began her story: + </p> + <p> + “The person—the gentleman whom I was thinking of was a friend of my + father’s, who, at one time, wanted him”—here Margaret paused—“wanted + me to—to be his wife some day.” + </p> + <p> + The rapid imagination of Barton conjured up the figure of a well-to-do + local pawnbroker, or captain of a trading vessel, as the selected spouse + of Margaret. He fumed at the picture in his fancy. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t like him much, though he certainly was very kind. His name—but + perhaps I should not mention his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” said Barton. “I dare say I never heard of him.” + </p> + <p> + “But I should tell you, first of all, that my own name is not that which + you, and Mrs. St. John Deloraine know me by. I had often intended to tell + her; but I have become so frightened lately, and it seemed so mean to be + living with her under a false name. But to speak of it brought so many + terrible things back to mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Margaret,” Barton whispered, taking her hand. + </p> + <p> + They were both standing, at this moment, with their backs to the pathway, + and an observer might have thought that they were greatly interested in + the water-fowl. + </p> + <p> + “My name is not Burnside,” Margaret went on, glancing over her shoulder + across the gardens and toward the river; “my name is—” + </p> + <p> + “Daisy Shields!” cried a clear voice. “Daisy, you’re found at last, and + I’ve found you! How glad Miss Marlett will be!” + </p> + <p> + But by this time the astonished Barton beheld Margaret in the impassioned + embrace of a very pretty and highly-excited young lady; while Mrs. St. + John Deloraine, who was with her, gazed with amazement in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear!” Miss Harman (for it was that enthusiast) hurried on, in a + pleasant flow of talk, like a brook, with pleasant interruptions. “Oh, my + dear! I was walking in the park with my maid, and I met Mrs. St. John + Deloraine, and she said she had lost her friends, and I came to help her + to look for them; and I’ve found <i>you!</i> It’s like Stanley finding + Livingstone. ‘How I Found Daisy.’ I’ll write a book about it. And where <i>have</i> + you been hiding yourself? None of the girls ever knew anything was the + matter—only Miss Mariett and me! And I’ve left for good; and she and + I are quite friends, and I’m to be presented next Drawing Room.” + </p> + <p> + While this address (which, at least, proved that Margaret had + acquaintances in the highest circles) was being poured forth, Mrs. St. + John Deloraine and Barton were observing all with unfeigned astonishment + and concern. + </p> + <p> + They both perceived that the mystery of Margaret’s past was about to be + dispelled, or rather, for Barton, it already <i>was</i> dispelled. The + names of Shields and Miss Marlett had told <i>him</i> all that he needed + to know. But he would rather have heard the whole story from his lady’s + lips; and Mrs. St. John Deloraine was mentally accusing Janey Harman of + having interrupted a “proposal,” and spoiled a darling scheme. + </p> + <p> + It was therefore with a certain most unfamiliar sharpness that Mrs. St + John Deloraine, observing that the day was clouded over, requested + Margaret to return to the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “And as Miss Harman seems to have <i>a great deal</i> to say to you, + Margaret,” added the philanthropic lady, “you two had better walk on as + fast as you can; for <i>you</i> must be very careful not to catch cold! I + see Miss Harman’s maid waiting for her in the distance there. And you and + I, Mr. Barton, if you will give me your arm, will follow slower; I’m not a + good walker.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Now</i>,” said Barton’s companion eagerly, when Margaret and Janey, + about three yards in advance, might be conventionally regarded as beyond + earshot—“<i>Now</i>, Mr. Barton, am I to congratulate you?” + </p> + <p> + Barton gave a little shamefaced laugh, uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I hope so—I’m not sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re not satisfactory—not at all satisfactory. Are you <i>still</i> + shilly-shallying? What is the matter with young people?” cried the veteran + of twenty-nine. “Or was it that wretched Janey, rushing in, like a cow in + a conservatory? She’s a regular school-girl!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t that exactly, or at least that’s not all. I hope—I think + she does care for me, or will care for me, a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, bother!” said Mrs. St John Deloraine. She would not, for all the + world, reveal the secrets of the confessional, and tell Barton what she + knew of the state of Margaret’s heart But she was highly provoked, and + showed it in her manners, at no time applauded for their repose. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is,” Barton admitted, “that I’m so taken by surprise I hardly + know where I am! I do think, if I may say so without seeming conceited, + that I have every reason to be happy. But, just as she was beginning to + tell me about herself, that young lady, who seems to have known her at + school, rushed in and explained the whole mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mrs. Si John Deloraine, turning a little pale and looking + anxiously at Barton, “was it anything so very dreadful?” + </p> + <p> + “She called her Daisy Shields,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose she did! I always fancied, after what happened at <i>The + Bunhouse</i>, that that dreadful Mr. Cranley sent her to me under a false + name. It was not <i>her</i> fault. The question is, What was her reason + for keeping her real name concealed?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I’m coming to,” said Barton. “I have a friend, a Mr. + Maitland.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maitland of St. Gatien’s?” asked the widow. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have often heard him speak of you,” said Barton. “Well, he had a + <i>protégée</i>—a kind of ward, to tell a long story in few words—a + girl whom he had educated, and whom he was under some kind of promise to + her father to marry. The father died suddenly; the girl disappeared + mysteriously from school at the same moment; and Maitland, after many + efforts, has never been able to find out anything about her. Now, this + girl’s name, this girl in whom my friend was interested, was Margaret + Shields. That is the very name by which your friend, Miss Harman, called + Margaret. So, you see, even if I am right, and if she <i>does</i> care for + me, what a dreadful position I am in! I want to marry the girl to whom my + friend is, more or less, engaged! My friend, after doing his best to find + his ward, and after really suffering a great deal of anxiety and + annoyance, is living abroad. What am I to say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. St John Deloraine, “perhaps you alarm yourself too + much. I think”—here she dropped her voice a little—“I think—I + don’t think Mr. Maitland’s <i>heart</i> is very deeply concerned about + Miss Shields. I may be wrong, but I know him pretty well”—she gave a + little nervous laugh—“and I don’t think he’s in <i>love</i> with + Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + By the time she reached the end of this interrupted and tentative + discourse Mrs. St. John Deloraine was blushing like a rose in June. + </p> + <p> + Barton felt an enormous weight lifted from his heart, and a flood of + welcome light poured into his mind. The two philanthropists were in love + with each other! + </p> + <p> + “He’s an awfully good fellow, Maitland,” he replied. “But you are right; + I’m <i>sure</i> you are right. You must know. He is <i>not</i> in love + with Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. John Deloraine seemed not displeased at the tribute to Maitland’s + unobtrusive virtues, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “But he will be very glad to hear that she is found at last, and quite + safe; and I’ll write to him myself, this very evening. I heard from him—about + a charity, you know—a few days ago, and I have his address.” + </p> + <p> + By this time they had reached the carriage. Janey, with many embraces, + tore herself from Margaret, and went off with her attendant; while Mrs. St + John Deloraine, with a beaming face, gave the coachman the order “Home.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see you to-morrow at luncheon,” she cried to Barton; and no + offer of hospitality had ever been more welcome. + </p> + <p> + He began to walk home, turning over his discoveries in his thoughts, when + he suddenly came to a dead halt. + </p> + <p> + “By George!” he said out loud; “I’ll go back and have it out with her at + once. I’ve had enough of this shillyshally.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and strode off in the direction of Cheyne Walk. In a few minutes + he was standing at the familiar door. + </p> + <p> + “Will you ask Miss—Miss Burnside if she can see me for one moment?” + he said to the servant “I have forgotten something she wished me to do for + her,” he added in a mumble. + </p> + <p> + Then he was taken into the boudoir, and presently Margaret appeared, still + in her bonnet and furs. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t help coming back, Margaret,” he said, as soon as she entered + the room. “I want to tell you that it is all right, that you needn’t think—I + mean, that I know all about it, and that there is nothing, <i>nothing</i> + to prevent us—I mean» Margaret, if you <i>really</i> care for me—” + </p> + <p> + Then he came to a dead stop. + </p> + <p> + It was not a very easy situation. Barton could not exactly say to + Margaret, “My dear girl, you need not worry yourself about Maitland. He + does not care a pin for you; he’ll be delighted at being released. He is + in love with Mrs. St. John Deloraine.” + </p> + <p> + That would have been a statement both adequate and explicit; but it could + not have been absolutely flattering to Margaret, and it would have been + exceedingly unfair to her hostess. + </p> + <p> + The girl came forward to the table, and stood with her hand on it, looking + at Barton. She did not help him out in any way; her attitude was safe, but + embarrassing. + </p> + <p> + He made a charge, as it were, at the position—a random, desperate + charge. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret, can you trust me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She merely put out her hand, which he seized. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, believe me when I tell you that I know everything about your + doubts; that I know more than anyone else can do; and that there is <i>nothing</i> + to prevent us from being happy. More than that, if you will only agree to + make me happy, you will make everyone else happy too. Can’t you take it on + trust? Can’t you believe me?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret said nothing; but she hid her face on Barton’s shoulder. She <i>did</i> + believe him. + </p> + <p> + The position was carried! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV.—The Mark of Cain. + </h2> + <p> + Next morning Barton entered his sitting-room in very high spirits, and + took up his letters. He had written to Maitland the night before, saying + little but, “Come home at once. Margaret is found. She is going to be my + wife. You can’t come too quickly, if you wish to hear of something very + much to your advantage.” A load was off his mind, and he felt as <i>Romeo</i> + did just before the bad news about <i>Juliet</i> reached him. + </p> + <p> + In this buoyant disposition, Barton opened his letters. The first was in a + hand he knew very well—that of a man who had been his fellow-student + in Paris and Vienna, and who was now a prosperous young physician. The + epistle ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Barton.—I’m off to the West of Ireland, for a fortnight People + are pretty fit, as the season has not run far. Most of my patients have + not yet systematically overeaten themselves. I want you to do something + for me. Martin & Wright, the lawyers, have a queer little bit of + medical jurisprudence, about which young Wright, who was at Oriel in our + time, asked my opinion. I recommended him to see you, as it is more in + your line; and <i>my</i> line will presently be attached to that eminent + general practitioner, ‘The Blue Doctor.’ May he prosper with the Galway + salmon! + </p> + <p> + “Thine, + </p> + <p> + “Alfred Franks.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky beggar!” thought Barton to himself, but he was too happy to envy + even a man who had a fortnight of salmon-fishing before him. + </p> + <p> + The next letter he opened was in a blue envelope, with the stamp of + Messrs. Martin & Wright. The brief and and formal note which it + contained requested Dr. Barton to call, that very day if possible, at the + chambers of the respectable firm, on “business of great importance.” + </p> + <p> + “What in the world can they want?” thought Barton. “Nobody can have left + <i>me</i> any money. Besides, Franks says it is a point in medical + jurisprudence. That sounds attractive. I’ll go down after breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + He walked along the sunny embankment, and that bright prospect of houses, + trees, and ships have never seemed so beautiful. In an hour he was in + Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and had shaken hands with young Wright, whom he + knew; had been introduced to old Wright, a somewhat stately man of + business, and had taken his seat in the chair sacred to clients. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Barton,” said old Mr. Wright, solemnly, “you are, I think, the author + of this book?” + </p> + <p> + He handed to Barton a copy of his own volume, in its gray paper cover, + “Les Tatouages Étude Médico-Légale”. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Barton. “I wrote it when I was in Paris I had plenty of + chances of studying tattooing in the military hospitals.” + </p> + <p> + “I have not read it myself,” said old Mr. Wright, “because I am not + acquainted with the French language; but my son tells me it is a work of + great learning.” + </p> + <p> + Barton could only bow, and mutter that he was glad Mr. Wright liked it. <i>Why</i> + he should like it, or what the old gentleman wanted, he could not even + imagine. + </p> + <p> + “We are at present engaged in a very curious case, Dr. Barton,” went on + the lawyer, “in which we think your special studies may assist us. The + position is this: Nearly eight months ago a client of ours died, a Mr. + Richard Johnson, of Linkheaton, in the North. You must excuse me if I seem + to be troubling you with a long story?” + </p> + <p> + Barton mentioned that he was delighted, and added, “Not at all,” in the + vague modern dialect. + </p> + <p> + “This Mr. Richard Johnson, then, was a somewhat singular character. He was + what is called a ‘statesman’ in the North. He had a small property of + about four hundred acres, on the marches, as they say, or boarders of the + Earl of Birkenhead’s lands. Here he lived almost alone, and in a very + quiet way. There was not even a village near him, and there were few + persons of his own position in life, because his little place was almost + embedded, if I may say so, in Lord Birkenhead’s country, which is + pastoral. You are with me, so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” said Barton. + </p> + <p> + “This Mr. Johnson, then, lived quite alone, with an old housekeeper, dead + since his decease, and with one son, called Richard, like himself. The + young man was of an adventurous character, a ne’er-do-weel in fact; and + about twenty years ago he left Linkheaton, after a violent quarrel with + his father. It was understood that he had run away to sea. Two years later + he returned; there was another quarrel, and the old man turned him out, + vowing that he would never forgive him. But, not long after that, a very + rich deposit of coal—a <i>very</i> rich deposit,” said Mr. Wright, + with the air of a man tasting most excellent claret—“was discovered + on this very estate of Linkheaton. Old Johnson, without much exertion on + his part, and simply through the payment of royalties by the company that + worked the coal, became exceedingly opulent, in what you call most + affluent circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Wright paused, as if to see whether Barton was beginning to + understand the point of the narrative, which, it is needless to remark, he + was <i>not</i>. There is no marked connection between coal mines, however + lucrative, and “Les Tatouages, Étude Médico-Légale.” + </p> + <p> + “In spite of his wealth, Mr. Johnson in no way changed his habits. He + invested his money carefully, under our advice, and he became, as I said, + an extremely warm man. But he continued to live in the old farmhouse, and + did not, in any way, court society. To tell the truth, except Lord + Birkenhead, who is our client, I never knew anyone who was at all intimate + with the old man. Lord Birkenhead had a respect for him, as a neighbor and + a person of the old-fashioned type. Yes,” Mr. Wright added, seeing that + his son was going to speak, “and, as you were about to say, Tom, they were + brought together by a common misfortune. Like old Mr. Johnson, his + lordship has a son who is very, very—unsatisfactory. His lordship + has not seen the Honorable Mr. Thomas Cranley for many years; and in that + lonely country the two boys had been companions in wild amusements, long + before. He is <i>very</i> unsatisfactory, the Honorable Thomas Cranley;” + and Mr. Wright sighed heavily, in sympathy with a client so noble and so + afflicted. + </p> + <p> + “I know the beast,” said Barton, without reflecting. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wright looked at him in amazement and horror. “The beast!” A son of + Lord Birkenhead’s called “The beast!” + </p> + <p> + “To return to our case, Dr. Barton,” he went on severely, with some stress + laid on the <i>doctor</i>. “Mr. Johnson died, leaving, by a will made on + his death-bed, all that he possessed to his son Richard, or, in case of + his decease, to the heirs of his body lawfully begotten. From that day to + this we have hunted everywhere for the man. We have traced him all over + the world; we have heard of him in Australia, Burmah, Guiana, Smyrna, but + at Smyrna we lose sight of him. This advertisement,” said the old + gentleman, taking up the outside sheet of the <i>Times</i>, and folding it + so as to bring the second column into view, “remained for more than seven + months unanswered, or only answered by impostors and idiots.” + </p> + <p> + He tapped his finger on the place as he handed the paper to Barton, who + read aloud: + </p> + <p> + “Linkheaton.—If Richard Johnson, of Linkheaton, Durham, last heard + of at Smyrna in 1875, will apply to Messrs. Martin and Wright, Lincoln’s + Inn Fields, he will hear of something very greatly to his advantage. His + father died, forgiving him. A reward of £1,000 will be paid to anyone + producing Richard Johnson, or proving his decease.” + </p> + <p> + “As a mixture of business with the home affections,” said old Mr. Wright + proudly (for the advertisement was of his own composition), “I think that + leaves little ta be desired.” + </p> + <p> + “It is admirable,” said Barton—“admirable; but may I ask——” + </p> + <p> + “Where the tattooing comes in?” said Mr. Wright. “I am just approaching <i>that</i>. + The only person from whom we received any reliable information about + Richard Johnson was an old ship-mate of his, a wandering, adventurous + character, now, I believe, in Paraguay, where we cannot readily + communicate with him. According to his account, Johnson was an ordinary + seafaring man, tanned, and wearing a black beard, but easily to be + recognized for an excellent reason. <i>He was tattooed almost all over his + whole body</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Barton nearly leaped out of his chair, the client’s chair, so sudden a + light flashed on him. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Dr. Barton! I <i>thought</i> I should interest you; + but you seem quite excited.” + </p> + <p> + “I really beg your pardon,” said Barton. “It was automatic, I think; + besides, I <i>am</i> extremely interested in tattooing.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, sir, it is a pity you could not have seen Johnson. He appears, from + what our informant tells us, to have been a most remarkable specimen. He + had been tattooed by Australian blacks, by Burmese, by Arabs, and, in a + peculiar blue tint and to a particular pattern, by the Dyacks of Borneo. + We have here a rough chart, drawn by our informant, of his principal + decorations.” + </p> + <p> + Here the lawyer solemnly unrolled a great sheet of drawing-paper, on which + was rudely outlined the naked figure of a man, filled up, on the breast, + thighs, and arms, with ornamental designs. + </p> + <p> + The guess which made Barton leap up had not been mistaken: he recognized + the tattooings he had seen on the dead body of Dicky Shields. + </p> + <p> + This confirmation of what he had conjectured, however, did not draw any + exclamation or mark of excitement from Barton, who was now on his guard. + </p> + <p> + “This is highly interesting,” he said, as he examined the diagram; “and I + am sure, Mr. Wright, that it should not be difficult to recognize a + claimant with such remarkable peculiarities.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; it is easy enough, and we have been able to dismiss scores of + sham Richard Johnsons. But one man presented himself the day before + yesterday—a rough sailor fellow, who went straight to the point; + asked if the man we wanted had any private marks; said he knew what they + were, and showed us his wrist, which exactly, as far as we could verify + the design, corresponded to that drawing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” asked Barton, controlling his excitement by a great effort, “what + did you do with him?” + </p> + <p> + “We said to him that it would be necessary to take the advice of an expert + before we could make any movement; and, though he told us things about old + Johnson and Linkheaton, which it seemed almost impossible that anyone but + the right man could have known, we put him off till we had seen you, and + could make an appointment for you to examine the tattooings. <i>They</i> + must be dealt with first, before any other identification.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you have made some other necessary inquiries? Did he say why he + was so late in answering the advertisement? It has been out for several + months.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and that is rather in his favor,” said Mr. Wright. “If he had been + an impostor on the lookout he would probably have come to us long ago. But + he has just returned from the Cape, where he had been out of the way of + newspapers, and he did not see the advertisement till he came across it + three or four days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Barton. “Make an appointment with the man for any time + to-morrow, and I will be with you.” + </p> + <p> + As he said this he looked very hard and significantly at the younger Mr. + Wright. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir; thank you. Shall we say at noon tomorrow?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” answered Barton, still with his eye on the younger + partner. + </p> + <p> + He then said good-by, and was joined, as he had hoped, in the outer office + by young Wright. + </p> + <p> + “You had something to say to me?” asked the junior member of the firm. + </p> + <p> + “Several things,” said Barton, smiling. “And first, would you mind finding + out whether the coast is clear—whether any one is watching for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Watching for you! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Just take a look round the square, and tell me whether any suspicious + character is about.” + </p> + <p> + Young Wright, much puzzled, put on his hat, and stood lighting a cigarette + on the outer steps. + </p> + <p> + “Not a soul in sight but lawyers’ clerks,” he reported. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; just tell your father that, as it is a fine morning, you are + taking a turn with me.” + </p> + <p> + Barton’s friend did as he wished, and presently the pair had some serious + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do exactly as you suggest, and explain to my father,” said the young + lawyer as they separated. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks; it is so much easier for you to explain than for a stranger like + myself,” said Barton, and strolled westward by way of Co vent Garden. + </p> + <p> + At the noted establishment of Messrs. Aminadab, theatrical costumiers, + Barton stopped, went in, was engaged some time with the Messrs. Aminadab, + and finally had a cab called for him, and drove home with a pretty bulky + parcel. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + At five minutes to twelve on the following day, a tall, burly, + mahogany-colored mariner, attired, for the occasion, in a frock-coat and + hat, appeared in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He seemed to be but ill acquainted + with those coasts, and mooned about for some minutes before he reached the + door of Messrs. Wright Then he rang, the door was opened, and he was + admitted into the presence of the partners. + </p> + <p> + “I have come, gentlemen, in answer to your letter,” he said with a + Northern burr, bowing awkwardly, and checking a disposition to salute by + touching his forelock. + </p> + <p> + His eyes wandered round the room, where he saw no one but the partners, + with whom he was already acquainted, and a foreign-looking gentleman—a + gentleman with hay-colored hair, a soft hat, spectacles, and a tow-colored + beard. He had a mild, short-sighted expression, a pasty complexion, and + the air of one who smoked too much. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning, Mr.—h’m—Mr. Johnson,” said old Mr. Wright. “As + we told you, sir, we have, as a necessary preliminary to the inquiry, + requested Professor Lieblein to step in and inspect—h’m—the + personal marks of which you spoke. Professor Lieblein, of Bonn, is a great + authority on these matters—author of ‘Die Tattuirung,’ a very + learned work, I am told.” + </p> + <p> + Thus introduced, the Professor bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Glad to meet you, sir,” said the sailor-man gruffly, “or any gentleman as + really knows what’s what.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been a great traveller, sir?” said the learned Professor, whose + Teutonic accent it is superfluous to reproduce. “You have in many lands + travelled? So!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I have seen the world.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are much tattooed: it is to me very interesting. You have by many + races been decorated?” + </p> + <p> + “Most niggers have had a turn at me, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “How happy you are to have had such experiences! Now, the Burmese—ah! + have you any little Burmese marks?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; from the elbow to the shoulder,” replied the seafaring man. + “Saving your presence, I’ll strip to the buff.” + </p> + <p> + “The buff! What is that? Oh, thank you, sir,” this was in reply to young + Mr. Wright “The naked body! why, buff! ‘Buff,’ the abstract word, the + actual stuff, the very <i>wesen</i> of man unclothed. ‘Buffer,’ the + concrete man, in the ‘buff,’ in the flesh; it is <i>sehr intéressant</i>.” + </p> + <p> + While the learned Professor muttered these metaphysical and philological + reflections, the seaman was stripping himself to the waist. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the Burmese style, sir,” he said, pointing to his shoulders and + upper arm. + </p> + <p> + These limbs were tattooed in a beautiful soft blue; the pattern was a + series of diminishing squares, from which long narrow triangles ran down + to the elbow-joints. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sehr schôn, sehr schôn</i>,” exclaimed the delighted Professor. “It is + very <i>hubsch</i>, very pretty, very well. We cannot now decorate, we + Germans. Ach, it is mournful!” and he sighed. “And now, sir, have you to + show me any <i>moko</i>? A little <i>moko</i> would be very instructive.” + </p> + <p> + “Moko? Rather! The Maori pattern, you mean; the New Zealand dodge? Just + look between my shoulders,” and the seaman turned a broad bare back, + whereon were designs of curious involuted spirals. + </p> + <p> + “That is right, that is right,” whispered the Professor. “<i>Moko, + schlange</i>, serpent-marks, so they call it in their tongue. Better <i>moko</i>, + on an European man, have I never seen. You observe,” he remarked to the + elder Mr. Wright, waving his hand as he followed the tattooed lines—“you + observe the serpentine curves? Very beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Extremely interesting,” said Mr. Wright, who, being no anthropologist, + seemed nervous and uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Corresponds, too, with the marks in the picture,” he added, comparing the + sketch of the original Shields with the body of the claimant. + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied now, governor?” asked the sailor. + </p> + <p> + “One little moment. Have you on the Red Sea coast been? Have you been at + Suakim? Have you any Arab markings?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; here you are!” and the voyager pointed to his breast. + </p> + <p> + The Professor inspected, with unconcealed delight, some small tattooings + of irregular form. + </p> + <p> + “It is, it is,” he cried, “the <i>wasm</i>, the <i>sharat</i>,* the + Semitic tribal mark, the mark with which the Arab tribes brand their + cattle! Of old time they did tattoo it on their bodies. The learned Herr + Professor Robertson Smith, in his leedle book, do you know what he calls + that very mark, my dear sir?” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * Sharat or Short.—“The shart was in old times a tattooed + mark.... In the patriarchal story of Cain...the institution + of blood revenge is connected with a ‘mark’ which Jehovah + appoints to Cain. Can this be anything else than the + <i>sharat</i>, or tribal mark, which every man bore on his + person?” + —Robertson Smith, <i>Kinship in Ancient Arabia</i>, p.215. +</pre> + <p> + “Not I,” said the sailor; “I’m no scholar.” + </p> + <p> + “He says it was—I do not say he is right,” cried the Professor, in a + loud voice, pointing a finger at his victim’s breast—“he says it was + <i>the mark of cain</i>!” + </p> + <p> + The sailor, beneath his mahogany tan, turned a livid white, and grasped at + a bookcase by which he stood. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he cried, through his chattering teeth; “what do you + mean with your damned Hebrew-Dutch and your mark of Cain? The mark’s all + right! A Hadendowa woman did it in Suakim years ago. Ain’t it on that + chart of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, good sir; it is,” answered the Professor. “Why do you so + agitate yourself? <i>The proof is complete!</i>” he added, still pointing + at the sailor’s breast. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll put on my togs, with your leave: it’s none so warm!” grumbled + the man. + </p> + <p> + He had so far completed his dressing that he was in his waistcoat, and was + just looking round for his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” said the Professor. “Hold Mr. Johnson’s coat for a moment!” + </p> + <p> + This was to young Wright, who laid his hands on the garment in question. + </p> + <p> + “You must be tired, sir,” said the Professor, in a very soft voice. “May I + offer you a leedle cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + He drew from his pocket a silver cigarette-case, and, in a thoroughly + English accent, he went on: + </p> + <p> + “I have waited long to give you back your cigarette-case, which you left + at your club, Mr. Thomas Cranley!” + </p> + <p> + The sailor’s eye fell on it. He dashed the silver box violently to the + ground, and trampled on it, then he made one rush at his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Hold it, hold it!” cried Barton, laying aside his Teutonic accent—“hold + it: there’s a revolver in the pocket!” + </p> + <p> + But there was no need to struggle for the coat. + </p> + <p> + The sailor had suddenly staggered and fallen, a crumpled but not + unconscious mass, on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Call in the police!” said Barton. “They’ll have no difficulty in taking + him.” + </p> + <p> + “This is the man against whom you have the warrant,” he went on, as young + Wright opened the door and admitted two policemen. “I charge the Honorable + Thomas Cranley with murder!” + </p> + <p> + The officers lifted the fallen man. + </p> + <p> + “Let him be,” said Barton. “He has collapsed. Lay him on the floor: he’s + better so. He needs a turn of my profession: his heart’s weak. Bring some + brandy.” + </p> + <p> + Young Wright went for the spirits, while the frightened old lawyer kept + murmuring: + </p> + <p> + “The Honorable Thomas Cranley <i>was</i> always very unsatisfactory!” + </p> + <p> + It had been explained to the old gentleman that an impostor would be + unmasked, and a criminal arrested; but he had <i>not</i> been informed + that the culprit was the son of his great client, Lord Birkenhead. + </p> + <p> + Barton picked up the cigarette-case, and as he, for the first time, + examined its interior, some broken glass fell out and tinkled on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI.—The Verdict of Fate. + </h2> + <p> + Maitland did not dally long in the Levant after getting Barton’s letter. + He was soon in a position to receive, in turn, the congratulations which + he offered to Margaret and Barton with unaffected delight. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. John Deloraine and he understood each other! + </p> + <p> + Maitland, for perhaps the first time in his life, was happy in a + thoroughly human old-fashioned way. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the preparations for Cranley’s trial dragged on. Interest, as + usual, was frittered away in examinations before the magistrates. + </p> + <p> + But at last the day of judgment shone into a court crowded as courts are + when it is the agony of a gentleman that the public has to view. + </p> + <p> + When the prisoner, uttering his last and latest falsehood, proclaimed + himself “Not Guilty,” his voice was clear and strong enough, though the + pallor of his face attested, not only the anxiety of his situation, but + the ill-health which, during his confinement, had often made it doubtful + whether he could survive to plead at the bar of any earthly judgment. + </p> + <p> + The Counsel for the Crown, opening the case, stated the theory of the + prosecution, the case against Cranley. His argument is here offered in a + condensed form: + </p> + <p> + First, Counsel explained the position of Johnson, or Shields, as the + unconscious heir of great wealth, and set forth his early and late + relations with the prisoner, a dishonored and unscrupulous outcast of + society. The prisoner had been intimately acquainted with the + circumstances of Johnson’s early life, with his history and his home. His + plan, therefore, was to kill him, and then personate him. A celebrated + case, which would be present to the minds of the jury, proved that a most + plausible attempt at the personation of a long-missing man might be made + by an uneducated impostor, who possessed none of the minute local and + personal knowledge of the prisoner. Now, to personate Johnson, a sailor + whose body was known to have been indelibly marked by the tattooing of + various barbarous races, it was necessary that the prisoner should be + similarly tattooed. It would be shown that, with unusual heartlessness, he + had persuaded his victim to reproduce on his body the distinctive marks of + Johnson, and then had destroyed him with fiendish ingenuity, in the very + act of assuming his personality. The very instrument, it might be said, + which stamped Cranley as Johnson, slew Johnson himself, and the process + which hallmarked the prisoner as the heir of vast wealth stigmatized him + with the brand of Cain. The personal marks which seemed to establish the + claimant’s case demonstrated his guilt He was detected by the medical + expert brought in to prove his identity, and was recognized by that + gentleman, Dr. Barton, who would be called, and who had once already + exposed him in a grave social offence—cheating at cards. The same + witness had made a <i>post-mortem</i> examination of the body of Richard + Johnson, and had then suspected the method by which he had been murdered. + </p> + <p> + The murder itself, according to the theory of the prosecution, was + committed in the following manner: Cranley, disguised as a sailor (the + disguise in which he was finally taken), had been in the habit of meeting + Johnson, and being tattooed by him, in a private room of the <i>Hit or + Miss</i> tavern, in Chelsea. On the night of February 7th, he met him + there for the last time. He left the tavern late, at nearly twelve + o’clock, telling the landlady that “his friend,” as he called Johnson, had + fallen asleep upstairs. On closing the establishment, the landlady, Mrs. + Gullick, found the room, an upper one, with dormer windows opening on the + roof, empty. She concluded that Johnson—or Shields, as she called + him—had wakened, and left the house by the back staircase, which led + to a side-alley. This way Johnson, who knew the house well, often took, on + leaving. On the following afternoon, however, the dead body of Johnson, + with no obvious marks of violence on it, was found in a cart belonging to + the vestry—a cart which, during the night, had remained near a shed + on the piece of waste ground adjoining the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. A coroner’s + jury had taken the view that Johnson, being intoxicated, had strayed into + the piece of waste ground (it would be proved that the door in the + palisade surrounding it was open on that night), had lain down in the + cart, and died in his sleep of cold and exposure. But evidence derived + from a later medical examination would establish the presumption, which + would be confirmed by the testimony of an eye-witness, that death had been + wilfully caused by Cranley, employing a poison which it would be shown he + had in his possession—a poison which was not swallowed by the + victim, but introduced by means of a puncture into the system. The dead + man’s body had then been removed to a place where his decease would be + accounted for as the result of cold and exhaustion. A witness would be put + in the box who, by an extraordinary circumstance, had been enabled to see + the crime committed by the prisoner, and the body carried away, though, at + the moment, he did not understand the meaning of what he saw. As the + circumstances by which this witness had been enabled to behold what was + done at dead of night, in an attic room, locked and bolted, and not + commanded from any neighboring house nor eminence, were exceedingly + peculiar, testimony would be brought to show that the witness really had + enjoyed the opportunity of observation which he claimed. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, then, as the prisoner had undeniably personated Johnson, and + claimed Johnson’s property; as he undeniably had induced Johnson, + unconsciously, to aid him in the task of personation; as the motive for + the murder was plain and obvious; as Johnson, according to the medical + evidence, had probably been murdered; and as an eye-witness professed to + have seen, without comprehending, the operation by which death, according + to the medical theory, was caused, the counsel for the prosecution + believed that the jury could find no other verdict than that the prisoner + had wilfully murdered Richard Johnson on the night of February 7th. + </p> + <p> + This opened the case for the Crown. It is unnecessary to recapitulate the + evidence of all the witnesses who proved, step by step, the statements of + the prosecution. First was demonstrated the identity of Shields with + Johnson. To do this cost enormous trouble and expense; but Johnson’s old + crony, the man who drew the chart of his tattoo marks, was at length + discovered in Paraguay, and, by his aid and the testimony he collected, + the point was satisfactorily made out. It was, of course, most important + in another respect, as establishing Margaret’s claims on the Linkheaton + estate. + </p> + <p> + The discovery of the body of Johnson (or Shields) in the snow was proved + by our old friends Bill and Tommy. + </p> + <p> + The prisoner was recognized by Mrs. Gullick as the sailor gentleman who + had been with Johnson on the last night of his life. In spite of the + difference of dress, and of appearance caused by the absence of beard—for + Cranley was now clean shaved—Mrs. Gullick was positive as to his + voice and as to his eyebrows, which were peculiarly black and mobile. + </p> + <p> + Barton, who was called next, and whose evidence excited the keenest + interest, identified the prisoner as the man whom he had caused to be + arrested in the office of Messrs. Martin and Wright, and whom he had known + as Cranley. His medical evidence was given at considerable length, and + need not be produced in full detail On examining the body of Richard + Johnson, his attention had naturally been directed chiefly to the + tattooings. He had for some years been deeply interested, as an + ethnologist, in the tattooed marks of various races. He had found many + curious examples on the body of the dead man. Most of the marks were + obviously old; but in a very unusual place, generally left blank—namely, + behind and under the right shoulder—he had discovered certain + markings of an irregular character, clearly produced by an inexperienced + hand, and perfectly fresh and recent. They had not healed, and were + slightly discolored. They could not, from their position, possibly have + been produced by the man himself. Microscopic examinations of these marks, + in which the coloring matter was brown, not red or blue, as on the rest of + the body, showed that this coloring matter was of a character familiar to + the witness as a physiologist and scientific traveller. It was the <i>Woorali</i>, + or arrow poison of the Macoushi Indians of Guiana. + </p> + <p> + Asked to explain the nature of this poison to the Court, the witness said + that its “principle” (to use the term of the old medical writers) had not + yet been disengaged by Science, nor had it ever been compounded by + Europeans. He had seen it made by the Macoushi Indians, who combined the + juice of the Woorali vine with that of certain bulbous plants, with + certain insects, and with the poison-fangs of two serpents, boiling the + whole amidst magical ceremonies, and finally straining off a thick brown + paste, which, when perfectly dry, was used to venom the points of their + arrows. The poison might be swallowed by a healthy man without fatal + results. But if introduced into the system through a wound, the poison + would act almost instantaneously, and defy analysis. Its effect was to + sever, as it were, the connection between the nerves and the muscles, and + the muscles used in respiration being thus gradually paralyzed, death + followed within a brief time, proportionate to the size of the victim, man + or animal, and the strength of the dose. + </p> + <p> + Traces of this poison, then, the witness had found in the fresh tattoo + marks on Johnson’s body. + </p> + <p> + The witness now produced the sharp wooden needle, the stem of the leaf of + the coucourite palm, which he had found among Johnson’s tattooing + materials, in the upper chamber of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. This needle had + been, he said, the tip of one of the arrows used for their blowpipes, by + the Macoushi of Guiana. + </p> + <p> + Barton also produced the Oriental silver cigarette-case, the instrument of + his cheating at baccarat, which Cranley had left in the club on the + evening of his detection. He showed that the case had contained a small + crystal receptacle, intended to hold opium. This crystal had been broken + by Cranley when he dashed down the case, in the office of Martin and + Wright. But crumbs of the poison—“Woorali,” or “Ourali”—perfectly + dry, remained in this réceptacle. It was thus clear that Cranley, himself + a great traveller, was possessed of the rare and perilous drug. + </p> + <p> + The medical evidence having been heard, and confirmed in its general + bearing by various experts, and Barton having stood the test of a severe + cross-examination, William Winter was called. + </p> + <p> + There was a flutter in the Court, as a pale and partly paralyzed man was + borne in on a kind of litter, and accommodated in the witness-box. + </p> + <p> + “Where were you,” asked the counsel for the prosecution, when the officer + had sworn the witness, “at eleven o’clock on the night of February 7th?” + </p> + <p> + “I was on the roof of the <i>Hit or Miss</i> tavern.” + </p> + <p> + “On which part of the roof?” + </p> + <p> + “On the ledge below the dormer window at the back part of the house, + facing the waste ground behind the plank fence.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell the Court what you saw while you were in that position?” + </p> + <p> + Winter’s face was flushed with excitement; but his voice, though thin, was + clear as he said: + </p> + <p> + “There was a light streaming through the dormer window beside which I was + lying, and I looked in.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you see?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw a small room, with a large fire, a table, on which were bottles and + glasses, and two men, one seated, the other standing.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you recognize either man if you saw him?” + </p> + <p> + “I recognize the man who was seated, in the prisoner at the bar; but at + that time he wore a beard.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell the Court what happened.” + </p> + <p> + “The men were facing me. One of them—the prisoner—was naked to + the waist. His breast was tattooed. The other—the man who stood up—was + touching him with a needle, which he applied, again and again, to a saucer + on the table.” + </p> + <p> + “Could you hear what they said?” + </p> + <p> + “I could; for the catch of the lattice window had not caught, and there + was a slight chink open.” + </p> + <p> + “You listened?” + </p> + <p> + “I could not help it; the scene was so strange. I heard the man with the + needle give a sigh of relief, and say, ‘There, it’s finished, and a pretty + job too, though I say it.’ The other said, ‘You have done it beautifully, + Dicky; it’s a most interesting art. Now, just out of curiosity, let <i>me</i> + tattoo <i>you</i> a bit.’ The other man laughed, and took off his coat and + shirt while the other dressed. ‘There’s scarce an inch of me plain,’ he + said, ‘but you can try your hand here,’ pointing to the lower part of his + shoulder.” + </p> + <p> + “What happened then?” + </p> + <p> + “They were both standing up now. I saw the prisoner take out something + sharp; his face was deadly pale, but the other could not see that. He + began touching him with the sharp object, and kept chaffing all the time. + This lasted, I should think, about five minutes, when the face of the man + who was being tattooed grew very red. Then he swayed a little, backward + and forward, then he stretched out his hands like a blind man, and said, + in a strange, thick voice, as if he was paralyzed, ‘I’m very cold; I can’t + shiver!’ Then he fell down heavily, and his body made one or two + convulsive movements. That was all.” + </p> + <p> + “What did the prisoner do?” + </p> + <p> + “He looked like death. He seized the bottle on the table, poured out half + a tumbler full of the stuff in it, drank it off, and then fell into a + chair, and laid his face between his hands. He appeared ill, or alarmed, + but the color came back into his cheek after a third or fourth glass. Then + I saw him go to the sleeping man and bend over him, listening apparently + to his breathing. Then he shook him several times, as if trying to arouse + him. But the man lay like a log. Finally, about half-an-hour after what I + have described, he opened the door and went out. He soon returned, took up + the sleeping man in his arms—his weight seemed lighter than you + would expect—and carried him out. From the roof I saw him push the + door in the palisade leading into the waste land, a door which I myself + had left open an hour before. It was not light enough to see what he did + there; but he soon returned alone and walked away.” + </p> + <p> + Such was the sum of Winter’s evidence, which, if accepted, entirely + corroborated Barton’s theory of the manner of the murder. + </p> + <p> + In cross-examination, Winter was asked the very natural question: + </p> + <p> + “How did you come to find yourself on the roof of the <i>Hit or Miss</i> + late at night?” + </p> + <p> + Winter nearly rose from his litter, his worn faced flushed, his eye + sparkling. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I flew!” + </p> + <p> + There was a murmur and titter through the court, which was, of course, + instantly suppressed. + </p> + <p> + “You flew! What do you mean by saying that you flew?” + </p> + <p> + “I am the inventor of a flying machine, which, for thirty years, I have + labored at and striven to bring to perfection. On that one night, as I was + experimenting with it, where I usually did, inside the waste land + bordering on the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, the machine actually worked, and I + was projected in the machine, as it were, to some height in the air, + coming down with à fluttering motion, like a falling feather, on the roof + of the <i>Hit or Miss</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Here the learned counsel for the defence smiled with infinite expression + at the jury. + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” said the counsel for the prosecution, noting the smile, and the + significant grin with which it was reflected on the countenances of the + twelve good men and true, “I may state that we are prepared to bring + forward a large mass of scientific evidence—including a well-known + man of science, the editor of <i>Wisdom</i>, a popular journal which takes + all knowledge for its province—to prove that there is nothing + physically impossible in the facts deposed to by this witness. He is at + present suffering, as you see, from a serious accident caused by the very + machine of which he speaks, and which can be exhibited, with a working + model, to the Court.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly requires corroboration,” said the judge. “At present, so far + as I am aware, it is contrary to scientific experience. You can prove, + perhaps, that, in the opinion of experts, these machines have only to take + one step further to become practical modes of locomotion. But <i>that</i> + is the very step <i>qui coûte</i>. Nothing but direct evidence that the + step has been taken—that a flying machine, on this occasion, + actually <i>flew</i> (they appear to be styled <i>volantes, a non volando</i>)—would + really help your case, and establish the credibility of this witness.” + </p> + <p> + “With your lordship’s learned remarks,” replied the counsel for the crown, + “I am not the less ready to agree, because I <i>have</i> an actual + eye-witness, who not only saw the flight deposed to by the witness, but + reported it to several persons, who are in court, on the night of its + occurrence, so that her statement, though disbelieved, was the common talk + of the neighborhood.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that is another matter,” said the judge. + </p> + <p> + “Call Eliza Gullick,” said the counsel. + </p> + <p> + Eliza was called, and in a moment was curtsying, with eagerness, but + perfect self-possession. + </p> + <p> + After displaying an almost technical appreciation of the nature of an + oath, Eliza was asked: + </p> + <p> + “You remember the night of the 7th of February?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember it very well, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you remember it so well, Eliza?” + </p> + <p> + “Becos such a mort o’ things happened, sir, that night.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell his lordship what happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lord. Mr. Toopny gave us a supper, us himps, my lord, at + the <i>Hilarity</i>; for he said—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind what he said, tell us what happened as you were coming home.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, it was about eleven o’clock at night, and I was turning the + lane into the <i>Hit or Miss</i>, when I heard an awful flapping and + hissing and whirring, like wings working by steam, in the waste ground at + the side of the lane. And, as I was listening—oh, it frightens me + now to think of it—oh, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t be alarmed, my good child! What occurred?” + </p> + <p> + “A great thing like a bird, sir, bigger than a man, flew up over my head, + higher than the houses. And then—did you ever see them Japanese + toys, my lord, them things with two feathers and a bit of India-rubber as + you twist round and round and toss them up and they fly—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my girl, I have seen them.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, just as if it had been one of them things settling down, the bird’s + wings turned round and fluttered and shook, and at last it all lighted, + quite soft like, on the roof of our house, the <i>Hit or Miss</i>. And + there I saw it crouching when I went to bed, and looked out o’ the window, + but they wouldn’t none o’ them believe me, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + There was a dead silence in the Court as Eliza finished this extraordinary + confirmation of Winter’s evidence, and wove the net inextricably round the + prisoner. + </p> + <p> + Then the silence was broken by a soft crashing sound, as if something + heavy had dropped a short distance on some hard object. + </p> + <p> + All present turned their eyes from staring at Eliza to the place whence + the sound had come. + </p> + <p> + The prisoner’s head had fallen forward on the railing in front of him. + </p> + <p> + One of the officers of the Court touched him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + He did not stir. They lifted him. He moved not. + </p> + <p> + The faint heart of the man had fluttered with its last pulsation. The + evidence had sufficed for him without verdict or sentence. As he had slain + his victim, so Fate slew him, painlessly, in a moment! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE. + </h2> + <h3> + And what became of them all? + </h3> + <p> + He who does not tell, on the plea that he is “competing with Life,” which + never knits up a plot, but leaves all the threads loose, acts unfairly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. St. John Deloraine is now Mrs. Maitland, and the happy couple are + visiting the great Colonies, seeking a site for a new settlement of the + unemployed, who should lead happy lives under the peaceful sway of happy + Mrs. Maitland. + </p> + <p> + Barton and Mrs. Barton have practised the endowment of research, in the + case of Winter, who has quite recovered from his injuries, and still hopes + to fly. But he has never trusted himself again on his machine, which, + moreover, has never flown again. Winter, like the alchemist who once made + a diamond by chance, in Balzac’s novel, has never recovered the creative + moment. But he makes very interesting models, in which Mrs. Barton’s + little boy begins to take a lively interest. + </p> + <p> + Eliza Gullick, declining all offers of advancement unconnected with the + British drama, clings to the profession for which, as Mrs. Gullick + maintains, she has a hereditary genius. + </p> + <p> + “We hear,” says the <i>Athenæum</i>, “that the long promised edition of + ‘Demetrius of Scepsis,’ by Mr. Bielby, of St. Gatien’s, is in the hands of + the delegates of the Clarendon Press.” + </p> + <p> + But Fiction herself is revolted by the improbability of the statement that + an Oxford Don has finished his <i>magnum opus!</i> + </p> + <p> + EXPLICIT. <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mark Of Cain, by Andrew Lang + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARK OF CAIN *** + +***** This file should be named 21821-h.htm or 21821-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/8/2/21821/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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