Chapter 15

Book II. Persons

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Book III. Results

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Book I. Facts.

Chapter One.

It is not generally known that the mighty city of Stirmingham owes its

existence to a water-rat. Stirmingham has a population of half a

million, and is the workshop of the earth. It is a proud city, and its

press-men have traced its origin back into the dim vista of the past,

far before Alfred the Great’s time, somewhere in the days of those

monarchs who came from Troy, and whose deeds Holinshed so minutely

chronicles.

But this is all trash and nonsense, and is a cunning device of the able

editors aforesaid, who confound—for their own purposes—the city proper

with the tiny hamlet of Wolf’s Glow. This little village or cluster of

houses, which now forms a part, and the dirtiest part, of the city, can

indeed be traced through Hundred Rolls, Domesday Book, and Saxon

Charters, almost down to the time of the Romans. But Stirmingham, the

prosperous and proud Stirmingham, which thinks that the world could not

exist without its watches and guns, its plated goods, its monster

factories and mills, which sends cargoes to Timbuctoo, and supplies

Java and Malabar with idols—this vast place, whose nickname is a

by-word for cheating, for fair outward show and no real solidity, owes

its existence to a water-rat. This is a fact. And it happened in this

way.

Once upon a time there was a wide expanse of utterly useless land, flat

as this sheet of paper, without a trace of subsoil or any kind of earth

in which so much as a blade of grass could grow. It was utterly dry and

sterile—not a tree nor a shrub to shelter a cow or a horse, and all men

avoided it as a waste and desolate place. It was the very abomination

of desolation, and no one would have been surprised to have seen satyrs

and other strange creatures diverting themselves thereon. Around one

edge of this plain there flowed a brook, so small that one could hardly

call it by that name. A dainty lady from Belgravia could have easily

stepped across it without soiling the sole of her boot.

At one spot beside this brook there grew a willow tree. This tree was a

picture in itself, and would have made the fortune of any artist who

would have condescended to make a loving study of it. The trunk had

been of very large size, but now resembled a canoe standing upon end,

for nearly one half had decayed, and the crumbling wood had

disappeared, leaving a hollow stem. The stem was itself dead and

decaying, except one thin streak of green, up which the golden sap of

life still ran, and invigorated the ancient head of the tree to send

forth yellow buds and pointed leaves. Up one side of the hollow trunk

an ivy creeper had climbed to the top, and was fast hanging festoons

from bough to bough.

In the vast mass of decaying wood at the top or head of the tree a

briar had taken root—its seed no doubt dropped by some thrush—and its

prickly shoots hung over and drooped to the ground in luxuriance of

growth. The hardy fern had also found a lodging here, and its dull

green leaves, which they say grow most by moonlight, formed a species

of crown to the dying tree.

This willow was the paradise of such birds as live upon insects, for

they abounded in the decaying wood; and at the top a wild pigeon had

built its nest. As years went by, the willow bent more and more over

the brook. The water washing the soil out from between its roots formed

a hollow space, where a slight eddy scooped out a deeper hole, in which

the vermillion—throated stickleback or minnow disported and watched the

mouth of its nest. This eddy also weakened the tree by undermining it

at its foundation. The ivy grew thicker till it formed a perfect bush

upon the top, and this in the winter afforded a hold for the wind to

shake the tree by. The wind would have passed harmlessly through the

slender branches, but the ivy, even in winter, the season of storms,

left something against which it could rage with effect. Finally came

the water-rat.

If Stirmingham objects to owe its origin to a water-rat, it may at

least congratulate itself upon the fact that it was a good old English

rat—none of your modern parvenu, grey Hanoverian rascals. It was, in

fact, before the Norwegian rat, which had been imported in the holds of

vessels, had obtained undisputed sway over the country. It had,

however, already driven the darker aboriginal inhabitants away from the

cultivated places to take refuge in the woods and streams. It is odd

that in the animal kingdom also, even in the rat economy, the darker

hued race should give way to the lighter. However, as in Stirmingham

the smoke is so great that the ladies when they walk abroad carry

parasols up to keep the blacks from falling on and disfiguring their

complexion, there can after all be no disgrace in the water-rat

ancestry.

This dark coloured water-rat, finding his position less and less secure

at the adjacent barn on account of the attacks of the grey invaders,

one fine day migrated, with Mrs Rat and all the Master and Missy rats,

down to the stream. Peeping and sniffing about for a pleasant retreat,

he chose the neighbourhood of the willow tree. I cannot stay here to

discuss whether or no he was led to the tree by some mystic beckoning

hand—some supernatural presentiment; but to the tree he went, and

Stirmingham was founded. Two or three burrows—small round

holes—sufficed to house Mr Rat and his family, but these ran right

under the willow, and of course still further weakened it.

In course of time the family flourished exceedingly, and Mr Rat became

a great-great-great-grandpapa to ever so many minor Frisky Tails. These

Frisky Tails finding the ancient quarter too much straightened for

comfort, began to scratch further tunnels, and succeeded pretty well in

opening additional honeycombs, till presently progress was stayed by a

root of the tree. Now they had gnawed through and scratched away half a

dozen other roots, and never paused to sniff more particularly at this

than the others. But it so happened that this root was the one which

supplied the green streak up the trunk of the tree with the golden sap

of life drawn by mysterious chemical processes from the earth. Frisky

Tails gnawed this root asunder, and cut off the supply of sap. The

green streak up the trunk withered and died, and the last stay of the

willow was gone. It only remained for the first savage south-wester of

winter to finish the mischief.

The south-wester came, and over went the trunk, crash across the brook.

At first this was very awkward for the rats, as thereby most of their

subterranean dwellings became torn up and exposed. But very soon a

geological change occurred.

The tree had fallen obliquely across the stream, and its ponderous

head, or top, choked up the bed, or very nearly. The sand and small

sticks, leaves, and so on, brought down by the current, filled up the

crevices left by the tree, and a perfect dam was formed.

Now, as stated before, the ground thereabout was nearly level, and so

worthless in character that no man ever troubled his head about it. No

one came to see the dam or remove it. The result was the brook

overflowed, and then finding this level plateau, instead of eating out

a new channel, it spread abroad, and formed first a good-sized puddle,

then a pond, then something like a flood, and, as time went by, a

marsh. This marsh extended over a space of ground fully a mile long,

and altogether covered some nine hundred acres.

The rats, sagacious creatures, instead of deserting their colony,

showed that they possessed that species of wisdom which the Greek sage

said was superior to all other knowledge—namely, the knowledge how to

turn an evil to a good. Exploring this shallow lake which their

carelessness had caused, they found several places still

unsubmerged—islands, in fact. To one of these they swam, dug out new

catacombs, and being now quite safe from interruption, and protected

upon all sides, the Malthusian laws of population had full play, and

soon proved its force, for the whole place swarmed with them. The

axiom, however, that at the very point when empires are apparently most

prosperous, their destruction is near at hand, to some extent applied

even to the dominion of the water-rat. They were no longer to be the

sole undisturbed possessors.

Arguing _à priori_, one would have concluded that if this waste land

was worthless before, now it was a marsh, and miasmatic vapours arose

from it, it would be still more avoided. But the facts were exactly

opposite. So soon as ever the water had spread over the level plain,

and had well soaked into the sterile soil, there began to spring up

tough aquatic grasses, commonly called bull-polls, from a supposed

resemblance between their tangled appearance and the rough hair that

hangs over the poll of a bull.

These grasses are gregarious—that is to say, they prefer to grow in

huge bunches. Each bunch increasing year after year, forms in time a

small hillock or tuft, and, the roots spreading and spreading, these

hillocks of grass almost covered the lake, leaving only narrow channels

of water between. Upon these innumerable frogs and toads crawled up out

of the water, and they were the chosen resorts of newts.

In summer time the blue dragon-fly wheeled in mazes over them, or,

while settled on the stiff blades of grass, looked like a species of

blossom. The current of the brook brought down seeds, and soon the tall

reed began to rear its slender stem, and rustle its feathery head in

the breeze. The sedges came also, and fringed the marsh with a border

of green.

Meantime, the root which the rats had gnawed asunder beneath the

ancient willow tree, felt the power of spring, and made one more

effort. Freed from the incubus of the dead trunk, it threw out a shoot

of its own. From this shoot there proceeded other shoots; and, in

short, after a while the islands in the marsh became covered with

willow trees and osier-beds. The reeds grew apace, and by the time the

islands were clothed with willow, the rest of the marsh was occupied by

them, saving only the fringe of sedge, and the almost immortal

bull-polls, which were as tough as leather, and which nothing could

kill.

Now, also, animal life began to people the once-deserted waste. With

the sedges came the sedge-warblers; with the willows came the

brook-sparrows; and above all, came the wild-fowl. The heron stalked to

and fro between the bull-polls; the ducks swam in and out; the

moor-hens took up their residence; and in winter the widgeons and

snipes visited the place in myriads.

It was now time for man. And man came. He came first in the person of

here and there a cotter, who cut himself a huge bundle of reeds for

fuel, to mend his thatch, or litter his pig; then in the person of the

poacher—if it could be called poaching to hunt where no one

preserved—who, with long-barrelled gun, brass-fitted and flint-locked,

brought down half a dozen ducks at once, and then waded in after them.

One day a travelling gipsy tribe came by, and encamped for the night

close to the marsh. In this tribe there was a man who, in his way,

possessed the genius of Alexander the Great. Alexander chancing to pass

a landlocked harbour utterly neglected, saw at a glance its

capabilities, and built a city which is renowned to this day.

This gipsy fellow, who was only a gipsy by marriage, saw this

unoccupied marsh, with its wild-fowl, its fish, and, above all, its

willows, and at once fixed upon it as a promising spot.

He was a basket-maker by trade.

He waded in to one of the islets, carrying his infant in his arms, and

followed by his wife, who carried his tools. He set up his tent-pole,

and in time superseded it with a cottage of sod, roofed with reeds. All

day he made baskets of willow and flags, in the evening he shot ducks

and widgeon. The baskets he sold in the towns, the ducks he ate. One or

two others followed his example.

The gipsy tribe made it a rule to come that way twice a year to

purchase the baskets and retail them all over the country. The original

settlers had sons, and the sons took possession of other islets, built

sod cottages, of wattle-and-daub, and married wives, till there were

ten or twelve settlements upon the islands; and these ten or twelve,

all in a rude sort of way, gave the chieftainship to the original

basket-maker, whose name happened to be Baskette.

These people, in the heart of a midland county, lived almost exactly

the life that was led at the same period by the dwellers in the fen

countries to the eastward. It was a rude existence, but it was free and

independent, and not without a charm to those who had been born and

bred in it. Even this unenviable life was, however, to be disturbed.

Two mighty giants were preparing, like the ogres in the fairy tales, to

eat up the defenceless population. The lid of a certain tea-kettle had

puffed up and down, and Steam had been born. The other ogre was called

Legal Rights, and began to bite first.

Chapter Two.

So long as this waste land was tenanted only by the “owl and the

bittern,” Legal Rights slumbered. The moment man put his foot upon it

the ogre woke up, for it is not permitted to that miserable two-legged

creature to rest in peace anywhere in this realm.

The village of Wolf’s Glow was distant about a mile and a quarter from

the old willow tree whose fall had dammed up the brook and caused the

marsh. The brook, in fact, ran past the village, and supplied more than

one farmhouse with water. These farms were of the poorest class—mere

stretches of pasture-land, and such pasture which a well-fed donkey

would despise!

The poorest farm, in appearance at all events, was Wick—a large but

tumbledown place, roofed with grey slates, which, stood apart from the

village. It was the largest house in the place, and yet seemed the most

poverty-stricken. The grey slates were falling off. The roof-tree had

cracked and bent, the lattice windows were broken, and the holes

stuffed up with bundles of hay and straw. The garden was choked with

weeds, and the very apple trees in the orchard were withering away.

Old Sibbold, the owner and occupier, was detested by the entire

village, and by no one more than his two sons. He was a miser, and yet

nothing seemed to prosper with him; and pare and save as much as he

would he could make no accumulation. His sons were the only labourers

he employed, though his farm was the largest thereabouts, and he paid

them only in lodging and food, and not much of the latter.

The eldest, Arthur, chafed bitterly under this treatment, for he

appears, from the scanty records that remain of him, to have been a lad

of spirit and energy.

The second son, James, was of a grosser nature, and his mind was

chiefly occupied with eating and drinking. He had an implicit faith in

the wealth of his father, and submitted patiently to all these

hardships and rough treatment in the hope of ingratiating himself with

the old man, and perhaps supplanting Arthur in his will—that is, so far

as his money was concerned, for the land, as the villagers said, “went

by heirship”—i.e. was entailed—but who would care for such land?

Arthur saw the game and did nothing to prevent it; on the contrary, he

took a certain pleasure in irritating the savage and morose old man,

whom he thoroughly despised. Perhaps what happened in the future was a

punishment for this unfilial conduct, however much it was provoked.

The mother, it must be understood, had long been dead, and there was no

mediator between the stern old man and his fiery-tempered son. Old

Sibbold was descended of a good family—one that had once held a

position, not only in the county but in the country—and he dwelt much

on the past, recalling the time when a Sibbold had held a bishop a

prisoner for King John.

He pored over the deeds in his old oak chest—a press, which stood on

four carved legs, and was closed with a ponderous padlock. That chest,

if it could be found now, would be worth its weight, not in gold

merely, but in diamonds. At that time these deeds and parchments were

of little value; they related mostly to by-gone days, and Arthur

ridiculed his father’s patient study of their crabbed handwriting.

What was the use of dwelling on the past?—up and speculate on the

present!

Irritated beyond measure, old Sibbold would reply that half the county

belonged to him, and he could prove it. All that they could see from

that window was his.

“Why,” said Arthur, “all we can see is the Lea, which is as barren as

the crown of my hat, except in weeds and bulrushes!”

“Barren or not, they’re mine,” said Sibbold, closing his chest; “and I

will make those squatters pay!”

For the Lea was that piece of waste ground which the brook had

overflowed, and in a sense rendered fertile.

From that hour began a persecution of the basket-makers who had settled

on the little islets in the marsh. Sibbold had an undoubted parchment

right—whether he had a moral and true right to a place he had never

touched with spade or plough is a different matter. He claimed a rent.

The cotters refused to pay. Their chieftain, old Will Baskette, wanted

to compromise matters, and offered a small quit-rent.

Now every one knows that quit-rent and rent are very different things

in a legal point of view. A man who pays rent can be served with notice

to quit. A man who pays quit-rent has a claim upon the soil, and cannot

be ejected. Sibbold refused the quit-rent, and had the squatters served

with a notice. They went on cutting reeds, weaving baskets, and

shooting wild-fowl, just the same; till one day old Sibbold,

accompanied with a posse of constables (there were no police in those

days), walked into the marsh with his jack-boots on; and, while one of

the cotters was absent selling his baskets, began to tear the little

hut down, despite the curses of the women and the wailing of the

children. But the hut, as it happened, was stronger in reality than

appearance, and resisted the attack, till one of the constables

suggested fire.

A burning brand from the cottage hearth was applied by old Sibbold

himself to the reed thatch, and in a moment up shot a fierce blaze

which left nothing but ashes, and sod walls two feet high. One can

imagine the temper a man of gipsy blood would be in when, on returning

home, he found his children crying and the women silent, sitting among

the ruins. From that hour a spirit of revenge took possession of the

dwellers in this Dismal Swamp of hostility to the village.

Hitherto these half savage people had paid of their own free will a

kind of tribute to the regular house-folk of Wolf’s Glow. The farmers’

wives received useful presents of baskets and clothes-pegs, and every

now and then half a dozen wild ducks were found on the threshold in the

morning. The clergyman was treated in a similar manner; and being known

to have a penchant for snipes and woodcocks, his table was well

supplied in the season. Sometimes there were other things left in a

mysterious way at the door—such as a bladder full of the finest brandy

or Hollands gin, or a packet of tobacco or snuff.

This was generally after the visit of the gipsy tribe, who were

smugglers to a considerable extent. No farmer ever missed a lamb or a

horse: such property was far safer since the settlement of the Dismal

Swamp.

But now the village had attacked the Swamp, the Swamp retaliated on the

village, and a regular war commenced. The farmers’ sheep began to

disappear—none so often as old Sibbold’s. Once a valuable horse of his

was lost. This drove him to the verge of frenzy. He went down to the

Swamp, and presently returned swearing and vowing vengeance—he had been

shot at. This aroused the clergyman into action. He went to the Swamp,

and was received with respect. He talked of conciliation, and reproved

them, especially speaking of the sin of murder. They listened, but

utterly scouted the idea.

“We steal,” they said, openly. “It is our revenge; but we do not

murder. Sibbold was not fired at. One of our young men was seeking

ducks—he did not know that Sibbold at the same moment was creeping

noiselessly through the reeds to fire our huts. He shot at the ducks,

and some of the pellets glanced off Sibbold’s jack-boots. That’s the

truth.”

And it was the truth. But Sibbold vowed vengeance, and was heard to say

that he would have their blood. He refused to see the clergyman who

came to mediate and explain. He accused him of complicity, and reviled

him.

James, as usual, agreed with and seconded him. Arthur sided with the

squatters, and said so openly. Sibbold cursed him. Arthur said

pointedly that when he inherited the land the squatters should be

unmolested. Sibbold struck him with an ash stick.

Arthur left the house and went to the Swamp. He called on old Will

Baskette, and expressed his hatred of his father’s tyranny. He asked to

be taught to make baskets, and to be initiated into the gipsy

mysteries. He was a quick lad, and they took an interest in teaching

him. He soon knew how to make two or three kinds of baskets, learnt the

gipsy language, and imbibed their singular traditions.

Meantime the war continued. At first the farmers and villagers put up

with patience with their thefts, considering that it was Sibbold’s

fault. But repeated losses exasperated them. If one of the Dismal Swamp

people was seen abroad he was set upon and maltreated, beaten black and

blue. Savage dogs were hounded at them. Sibbold was encouraged to eject

them. He tried to get a posse of constables to do so, but the

constables hung back. They had heard the story of the shooting at

Sibbold; they knew these men to be desperate characters; and most of

them had had presents of brandy and tobacco, and ribbons for their

wives.

They could not be got to move. That was a lawless age in outlying

places. Finding this, the village began to contemplate a raid _en

masse_ upon the Swamp. Nothing was talked of in the alehouse but

fighting. Men compared the length of their gun-barrels, and put up

marks to prove the range of their shot. The younger men were ready for

the fray, the elders hesitated. They looked at their thatched houses,

at their barns and ricks. The insurance companies had not then

penetrated into the most obscure nooks and corners.

After all, the Swamp people were not unsupported: they were a branch of

a tribe. If they were seriously injured the tribe might return, and no

one could calculate the consequences.

So the foray was put off from day to day. But the news that it was

meditated soon reached the Swamp, and made the dwellers there more

desperate than ever. Their thefts grew to such a height that nothing

was safe. The geese and turkeys disappeared; wheat was stolen from the

barns; sheep were taken by the dozen, and no trace could be found. Now

and then a horse disappeared. It came to such a pitch that the very

beer in the barrels, the cider in the cellar, was not safe, but was

taken nightly.

Old Sibbold, of course, suffered most. Tapping a cider barrel, he found

it quite empty. The old man was beside himself with rage; but he said

nothing. He studied retaliation. He watched his barns—the wheat seemed

to disappear under his very eyes. One night as he was returning from

his barn, carrying his long-barrelled flint-lock under his arm, he

fancied he saw a gleam of light in the ivy, which almost hid the cellar

window. Stealthily he peeped through. There was a man stooping down,

drawing off the cider from a barrel into a bucket.

Old Sibbold’s lips compressed; a fire came into his eyes. He grasped

his gun. Just then the thief held up the candle in his left hand, and

revealed the features of old Will Baskette, the very chief of the

Swamp. Sibbold hated him more particularly because he knew that Arthur

frequented his hut. Up went the long gun. The gleam of light from the

candle guided the aim. The muzzle was close to the lattice window. A

cruel eye glanced along the barrel, a finger was on the trigger. The

flint struck the steel with a sharp snick—a spark flew out—an

explosion—the window-glass smashed—a cloud of smoke—one groan, and all

was still.

Sibbold rushed round the house, opened the door gently, locked it

behind him, and stole upstairs. On the landing he met his youngest son

James. For a moment they looked at one another. The young man spoke

first.

“Quick, and load your gun,” he said. “Then put it in the rack and get

into bed. Give me your breeches.”

They wore breeches and gaiters in those days.

The old man did as he was bid. The gun was put in the rack; old Sibbold

got into bed. James took his breeches, poured a bucket of water on

them, and hung them up in the wide chimney—the embers still glowed on

the hearth. Then he stole upstairs.

“Arthur is out,” he whispered, as he passed the old man’s bedroom.

Ten minutes passed. Then there arose clatter of feet and a shouting.

“Farmer! farmer! your house is a-fire. The thatch be caught alight.”

James opened the window, yawned, and asked what was the matter.

“Father’s asleep,” he said, as if not comprehending them. “He got wet

in the brook, and went to bed early. Can’t ye come in the morning?”

But the others soon roused the house.

The thatch had indeed caught over the cellar window; but fortunately it

was nearly covered with moss and weeds, and was easily put out.

Then some one noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they

asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were

watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and

ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came

the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had

heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on

fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been

for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his

shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in.

“I’ll go upstairs and fetch father a blanket to wrap his knees in,”

said James. “Father, thee blow the embers up; John Andrews, thee knows

where the cellar is: give ’em the key, father, and do you go, John, and

draw some cider.”

Away went John Andrews with the lantern, and came back with a face

white as a sheet, just as James got downstairs. There was a dead man in

the cellar, in a flood of gore and cider!

The result was a coroner’s inquiry; the thefts and so forth might have

gone on for ever, but death could not be disregarded. Even in that

lawless age, death was attended to. An inquest was held, and the jury

was composed of the farmers of the village. Suspicion fell very

strongly upon old Sibbold. The Swamp people openly denounced him as the

murderer. His neighbours, much as they hated the Swamp, believed in

their hearts that they were right; and not all their class prejudice

could overcome the innate horror they felt in his presence. More than

one had heard him say he would have blood. Now there was blood enough.

Still there was not enough evidence to arrest Sibbold. The Swamp people

said he would run away, and if he did they would watch him and bring

him back. But Sibbold did nothing of the kind. He faced the inquiry

with a stern dignity which imposed on some.

First came the medical evidence. The doctor proved that the shot had

entered the left side, just below the heart, and had passed downwards.

It had entered all together—the pellets not spread about, but close

together, like a bullet, which proved that the gun had been fired very

close. Death must have been absolutely instantaneous. Deceased was in a

stooping posture when he received the charge.

The constable who had examined the premises, declared it as his

belief—as, indeed, it was the belief of everyone present—that the shot

had been fired from without the window. The shot itself could not have

smashed every pane—that was the concussion. The thatch had been

doubtless set on fire by a piece of the paper which had been used as

wadding.

When this had been said there was nothing more to be done, at least so

the jury thought. Suspect Sibbold as much as they would, they were

determined to protect him if possible. This was partly class-feeling,

and partly remembrance of the provocation.

But the Coroner was not to be put off so easily. He had Sibbold called,

and questioned him closely. He called James also, but they both stuck

to their tale; they had never heard the shot, etc. The Coroner sent for

Sibbold’s gun, keeping Sibbold and James at the inn where the inquest

was held meantime. It was brought. It told no tales: it was loaded.

Finally, the Coroner, still dissatisfied and vaguely suspicious, called

_Arthur_ Sibbold, who, white as a sheet, was sitting near on a bench

watching the proceedings.

He started at his name and looked round, but finally came forward.

Where had he been that night? He was at Bassett, a small town six miles

distant. What was his business there? what time did he leave? and so

on. Arthur answered, but not so clearly as was desired. He contradicted

himself as to the time at which he left Bassett, and got confused.

The Coroner’s suspicions shifted upon him. He must have arrived about

the time the shot was heard, yet he did not go indoors, did not show

himself till breakfast-time next morning. James vouched for that,

unasked. What was he doing all night?

Suspicion fell very strong on Arthur. But at this moment the wife of

the deceased started forward and declared her belief in his innocence,

recounting how he had learnt basket-making, etc, of the dead man, and

they had been on the most friendly terms.

Still, said the Coroner, he might have mistaken his man in the

uncertain light. Had he a gun? It was shown that the three Sibbolds had

but one gun; that Arthur never used a gun, being of a tender nature,

and often expressing his dislike to see birds wantonly slaughtered.

The Sibbolds were then, with the other witnesses, ordered out, and the

Coroner addressed the jury.

He told them plainly where his suspicions lay: one of the Sibbolds, he

was certain, did the deed, but which? Two were in bed, or at least were

to all appearance in bed, and one point in their favour was that the

thatch was alight. Now, if they had known that, they would hardly have

lain till the neighbours came up. The third was out that night, and,

according to his own showing, must have returned about the time the

murder was committed. But in his favour it was urged that he was on the

best of terms with the deceased; that he had no gun of his own; that he

disliked the use of a gun. He said much more, but these were the chief

points, and particularly he laid down the law. They must not imagine

because a man was stealing that thereby his life was at any one’s

mercy. If a struggle took place, and the thief was killed in the

struggle, there were then several loopholes of escape from the penalty

of the law. First, it might be called chance-medley; next, there would

be a doubt whether the stab or shot was not given in self-defence, and

was not intended to kill. But in this case there was every appearance

of deliberate murder. The thief had been spied at the cask; the

murderer had coolly aimed along his gun and fired, hitting his man in a

vital part, evidently of design and aforethought.

He then left the jury to their deliberations. They talked it over half

an hour in a sullen manner, and then _returned an open verdict_—“Found

dead.” The Coroner remonstrated, and recommended that at least it

should be “Wilful murder against persons unknown,” but they were

obstinate.

That verdict stands to this day. The dread spectre of the gallows

vanished from Wolf’s Glow. Old Will Baskette was buried in the

churchyard, and his funeral was attended by the whole of the Swamp

people and half the village. And over their ale the farmers whispered

that it served the old thief right, but they avoided old Sibbold. The

work of the rats had already brought fruit in bloodshed.

Chapter Three.

In these days such a verdict and such an ending to a tragedy would be

out of the question; but there were no police in those times to take up

a case if it chanced to slip by the Coroner. Once past the Coroner, and

the criminal was practically safe. The county officers were never in a

hurry for such prosecutions, for a gallows cost at least 300 pounds.

They wanted a public prosecutor then ten times more than we do now.

Sibbold was shunned by the very men who had acquitted him; but there is

no reason to suppose he ever felt remorse. He was made of that kind of

stuff of which the men in armour, his ancestors, were composed, who

thought little or nothing of human life. But one day he met Arthur, his

eldest son, face to face upon the stairs. It was the first time they

had met since the inquest—Arthur had avoided the place, and wandered

about a good deal by himself, till some simple folk began to think that

it was he who had committed the deed, and that his conscience was

troubling him.

This meeting on the stairs took place by accident one morning—Sibbold

was going to pass, but Arthur put his hand on his shoulder, “I saw you

do it,” he said. He had just entered the rick yard when the shot was

fired. He had held his peace, but his mind could not rest. “I cannot

stay here,” he said, “I am going. I shall never see you again.”

Old Sibbold stood like a stone; but presently put his hand in his

pocket and held out his purse.

“No,” said Arthur; “not a penny of that, it would be blood money.”

He went, and evil report went after him. Perhaps it was James who

fanned the flame, but for years afterwards it was always believed that

Arthur had shot the basket-maker. Only the Swamp people combated the

notion. Arthur was one of them, and understood their language—it was

impossible. Not to have to return to these times, it will be, perhaps,

best to at once finish with old Sibbold; though the event did not

really happen till some time after Arthur’s departure.

Sibbold went to a fair at some twenty miles distance—a yearly custom of

his; and returning home in the evening, he was met by highwaymen, it is

supposed, and refusing to give up his money bag, was shot. At all

events his horse came home riderless, and the body of the old man was

found on the heath divested of every article of value. Suspicion at

once fell on his known enemies, the Swamp people. Their cottages were

searched and nothing found. Their men were interrogated, but had all

been either at home or in another direction. Calm reason put down

Sibbold’s death to misadventure with highwaymen, common enough in those

times; but there were those who always held that it was done in

revenge, as it was believed that the gipsies retained the old vendetta

creed.

As Arthur did not return, James took possession, and went on as usual;

but he did not disturb the Swamp settlement. He avoided them, and they

avoided him.

When Will Baskette was shot he left a widow and two sons, one of them

was strong and hardy, the other, about sixteen, was delicate and unfit

for rough outdoor life. This fact was well-known to the clergyman at

Wolf’s Glow, the Rev. Ralph Boteler, who was really a

benevolently-minded man.

The widow and her eldest son joined the gipsy tribe and abandoned the

Swamp. The Rev. Ralph Boteler took the delicate Romy Baskette into his

service as man of all work, meaning to help in the garden and clean the

parson’s nag. Romy could not read, and the parson taught him—also to

write. Being quiet and good-looking, the lad won on the vicar, who

after a time found himself taking a deep interest in the friendless

orphan. It ended in Romy leaving the garden and the stable, and being

domiciled in the studio, where the parson filled his head with

learning, not forgetting Latin and Greek.

The vicar was a single man, middle-aged, with very little thought

beyond his own personal comfort, except that he liked to see the hounds

throw off, being too stout to follow them. He had, however, one hobby;

and, like other men who are moderate enough upon other topics, he was

violence itself upon this. Of all the hobbies in the world, this

parson’s fancy was geology—then just beginning to emerge as a real

science.

The neighbours thought the vicar was as mad as a March hare on this one

point. He grubbed up the earth in forty places with a small mattock he

had made on purpose at the village blacksmith’s. He broke every stone

in the district with a hammer which the same artisan made for him.

His craze was that the neighbourhood of Wolf’s Glow was rich in the two

great stores of nature which make countries powerful—i.e. in Coal and

Iron. He proved it in twenty ways. First, the very taste of the water,

and the colour of the earth in the streams; by the nodules of dark,

heavy stone which abounded; by the oily substance often found floating

on the surface of ponds—rock oil; by the strata and the character of

the fossils; by actual analysis of materials picked up by himself;

lastly, by archaeology.

Wolf’s Glow! What was the meaning of that singular name? The only Glow

in the county. Wolf was, perhaps, a man’s name in the centuries since.

But Glow? Glow was, without a doubt, the ancient British for _coal_.

The people who argued against him—and they were all he met—ridiculed

the idea of the ancient Britons knowing anything of coal. Boteler

produced his authorities to show that they, and their conquerors the

Romans, were perfectly familiar with that mineral. Wolf’s Glow was, in

fact, Wolf’s Coal Pit. “Very well,” said the Objectors, “show us the

coal pit, and we’ll believe.” This the vicar could not do, and was held

to be mad accordingly.

But all this talking, and searching, and analysing made a deep

impression upon the mind of young Romy Baskette, who was now hard upon

twenty years of age. Boteler, really desirous of pushing the lad on,

sent him to London, whither Arthur Sibbold had preceded him, and placed

him, at a high premium, in the care of a friend of his, who was in the

iron trade. Romy grew and prospered, and being of a serious disposition

saved all the money he could lay hands on. Presently old Boteler died,

and left him, not all, but a great share of his worldly wealth. With

this he bought a share in the iron business, and became a partner.

Wealth rolled in upon him, and at an early period of life he retired

from active labour, married, and bought an estate a few miles from

Wolf’s Glow.

In his leisure hours the memory of the old days with the vicar

returned. He resolved to test the vicar’s theory. He purchased a small

piece of land in Wolf’s Glow parish, sank a shaft, and sure enough came

upon _coal_.

This discovery revivified the whole man. He cast off sloth, forgot all

about retirement, and plunged into business again. Another search,

conducted by practical hands, proved the existence of iron.

There was a _furore_. Collieries were started; iron furnaces set going.

It was just at the dawn of the great iron and coal trade. The railways

had been started, and the demand was greater than the supply. Romy

Baskette and Company soon employed two thousand hands coal-digging and

iron-smelting. The man, in fact, wore himself out at the trade of

money-making. He could not rest. Night and day his brain was at work:

An accidental conversation with one of his workmen suggested to him a

new idea. The smiths of the time could not make nails fast enough for

all the building that was going on. This workman had been a sailor in

his day, and had seen nails abroad which were made in batches by

machinery, instead of slowly and laboriously, one by one, by hand.

Baskette caught at the idea. He studied and learnt what he could. He

made a voyage himself abroad, and soon mastered the secret. He erected

machinery, and _cut_ nails were first made. The consumption was

enormous. The business of this Baskette and Company became so large

that it almost passed out of control. Meantime other firms had come and

settled, bought land, dug up coal, and set up smelting furnaces. In ten

years the population from being absolutely nil rose to thirty-five

thousand people. By this time Romy had killed himself. But that

mattered little, for he had left a son, and a son who inherited all his

genius, and was—if anything still “harder in the mouth.” He was named,

from his mother’s family, Sternhold Baskette.

Sternhold picked up the plough-handle which had dropped from his

father’s grasp, and continued the good work, never once looking back.

But although equally clever, the bent of his genius was different from

that of old Romy. Romy was at heart a speculator, and believed in

personal property. Sternhold was a Conservative, and put his faith in

real property, houses, and land. He kept up the old forges and

collieries, but he started no new ones. He invested the money in land

and houses, particularly the latter. His life may be summed up in two

strokes of genius—the first was bringing the iron horse to Stirmingham,

as the new town was called; the second was the building lease

investment.

It is hard to give the pre-eminence to either. They were both profound

schemes—neither would have been complete without the other. He did not

originate the idea of the railway—that was done for him—but he put it

on its legs, and he brought it to the centre of the town.

The original scheme almost omitted Stirmingham. Railways were not then

fully understood; their projectors had such vast ideas in their heads,

they aimed at long trunk lines, and so this railroad was to connect

London, the sea, and a certain large town—larger than Stirmingham then,

but now nothing beside the modern city.

Sternhold, as the largest shareholder, and as finding the capital to

get through Parliament, prevailed to have the course altered so as to

sweep by Stirmingham. He knew that this would improve his property

there at least fifty per cent. But he had other ideas in his head. The

line could not be finished under three years, and in those three years

it was his intention to become possessed of the whole ground upon which

the town of Stirmingham stood. He foresaw that it would become a mighty

centre. He braced up his nerves, and prepared to spend his darling

hoards like water.

One by one the fields, the plots, the houses, became his; and the greed

growing on him, he cast longing eyes on the adjacent marsh, now called

Glow’s Lea.

The solicitors he employed tried to restrain his infatuation. They

represented to him that even his vast wealth could not sustain this

more than kingly expenditure, and as to the marsh, it was sheer madness

to purchase it. In vain. Perhaps a tinge of pride had something to do

with it. He would buy up the rotten old Swamp where his progenitor had

dwelt, drain it, and cover it with mansions.

But now came a difficulty—the title to the ground was not all that

could be wished. James had been dead some years, but it was well-known

that had Arthur returned—if Arthur still lived, or his heirs—that James

had no right. He had enjoyed the farm and the land, such as it was,

unmolested, all his life. He had married, and had eight sons. Six of

these had married since, and most of them had children.

As none could claim the property, they all found a miserable livelihood

upon it, somehow or other. They had degenerated into a condition little

better than that of the squatters in the Swamp.

Three families lived in the farmhouse, constantly quarrelling; two made

their dwelling in the cowsheds, slightly improved; one boiled the pot

in the great carthouse, and the two single men slept in the barn. Such

a condition of slovenliness and dirt it would be hard to equal. And the

language, the fighting, and the immorality are better left undescribed!

The clergyman of Wolfs Glow wished them further.

To these wretches the offers of Sternhold Baskette came like the

promised land. He held out 300 pounds apiece, on condition that they

would jointly sign the deed and then go to America. They jumped at it.

The solicitor warned Baskette that the contract was not sound. He

asked, in reply, if any one could produce the deed under which the

property descended by “heirship.” No one could. Somehow or other it had

been lost.

In less than a month eight Sibbolds, with their wives and families,

were _en route_ to the United States, and Sternhold took possession.

Then came the Swamp settlement difficulty.

At first Baskette thought of carrying matters with a high hand. The

squatters said they had lived there for two generations, or nearly so,

and had paid no rent. They had a right. Sternhold remembered that they

were of his clan. He gave them the same terms as the Sibbolds—and they

took them. Three hundred pounds to such miserable wretches seemed an El

Dorado.

They signed a deed, and went to America, filling up half a vessel, for

there were seventeen heads of families, and children _ad libitum_.

Thus Sternhold bought the farm and the Swamp for 7500 pounds. His aim

in getting them to America was that no question of right might crop

up—for the Cunard line was not then what it is now, and the passage was

expensive and protracted. He reckoned that they would spend the money

soon after landing, and never have a chance of returning.

Meantime the railway came to a standstill. There had been

inflation—vast sums of promotion money had been squandered in the usual

reckless manner, and ruin stared the shareholders in the face. To

Sternhold it meant absolute loss of all, and above everything, of

prestige.

Already the keen business men of the place began to sneer at him. At

any cost the railway must be kept on its legs. He sacrificed a large

share of his wealth, and the works recommenced. The old swamp, or

marsh, was drained.

Sternhold had determined to make this the Belgravia of Stirmingham, and

had the plans prepared accordingly. They were something gigantic in

costliness and magnificence. His best friends warned and begged him to

desist. No; he would go on. Stirmingham would become the finest city in

England, and he should be the richest man in Europe. Up rose palatial

mansions, broad streets, splendid club-houses—even the foundations of a

theatre were laid. And all this was begun at once. Otherwise, Sternhold

was afraid that the compass of an ordinary life would not enable him to

see these vast designs finished. So that one might walk through streets

with whole blocks of houses only one story high.

Everything went on swimmingly, till suddenly the mania for speculation

which had taken possession of all the kingdom received a sudden check

by the failure of a certain famous railway king.

As if by magic, all the mighty works at Stirmingham ceased, and

Sternhold grew sombre, and wandered about with dejected step. His

friends, men of business, reminded him of their former warnings. He

bent his head, bit his lip, and said only, “Wait!”

Meantime the line had been constructed, but was not opened. The metals

were down, but the stations were not built, and the locomotives had not

arrived. Everybody was going smash. Several collieries failed; land and

houses became cheap. Sternhold invested his uttermost in the same

property—bought houses, till he had barely enough to keep him in bread

and cheese. Still they laughed and jeered at him, and still he said

only, “Wait!”

This place, this swamp, seemed to be fated to demonstrate over and over

again at one time the futility of human calculation, and at another

what enormous things can be accomplished by the efforts of a clever

man.

Chapter Four.

The owner of three parts of Stirmingham—now a monstrous overgrown city,

just building a cathedral—actually had nothing but a little bread and

cheese for supper. There were people who condoled with him, and offered

to lend him sums of money—not large, but very useful to a starving man,

one would have thought. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thank you;

I’ll wait.”

Certain keen speculators tried to come round him in twenty different

ways. They represented that all this mass of bricks and mortar—this

unfinished Belgravia—really was not worth owning; no one could ever

find the coin to finish the plans, and house property had depreciated

ninety per cent.

“Very true,” said Sternhold. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

He held on like grim death. Men of genius always do—mark Caesar, and

all of them. ’Tis the bulldog that wins.

By-and-by things began to take a turn. The markets looked up. Iron and

coal got brisker. The first locomotive was put on the line, then

another, and another; London could be reached in two hours, goods could

be transmitted in six, instead of thirty by the old canal or turnpike.

The Stock Exchange got busy again. You could hear the masons and

bricklayers—chink, tink, tinkle, as their trowels chipped off the

edges—singing away in chorus. The whistle of the engines was never

silent. Vast clouds of smoke hung over the country from the factories

and furnaces. Two or three new trades were introduced—among others, the

placed goods, cheap jewellery, and idol-making businesses, and

trade-guns for Africa. Rents began to rise; in two years they went up

forty per cent. The place got a name throughout the length and breadth

of the kingdom, and a Name is everything to a town as well as to an

individual.

But by a curious contradiction, just as his property began to rise in

value, and his investment looked promising, Sternhold grew melancholy

and walked about more wretched than ever. The truth soon leaked out—he

had no money to complete his half-finished streets and blocks of

houses. Nothing could induce him to borrow; not a halfpenny would he

take from any man.

There the streets and houses, the theatres, club-houses, magnificent

mansions, huge hotels, languished, half-finished, some a story, some

two stories high, exposed to wind and weather. In the midst of a great

city there was all this desolation, as if an enemy had wreaked his

vengeance on this quarter only.

Large as were the sums derived from his other properties—houses and

shops and land, which were occupied—it was all eaten up in the attempt

to finish this _marble_ Rome in the middle of a brick Babylon. Heavy

amounts too had to be disbursed to keep the railway going, for it did

not pay a fraction of dividend yet. Men of business pressed on

Sternhold. “Let us complete the place,” they said. “Sell it to us on

building leases; no one man can do the whole. Then we will form three

or four companies or syndicates, lease it of you, complete the

buildings, and after seventy years the whole will revert to you or your

heirs.”

Still Sternhold hesitated. At last he did lease a street or two in this

way to a company, who went to work like mad, paid the masons and

bricklayers double wages, kept them at it day and night, and speedily

were paying twenty per cent, dividends on their shares out of the rents

of the completed buildings. This caused a rush. Company after company

was formed. They gave Sternhold heavy premiums for the privilege to buy

of him; even then it was difficult to get him to grant the leases. When

he did accept the terms and the ready cash, every halfpenny of it went

to complete streets on his own account; and so he lived, as it were,

from hand to mouth.

After all this excitement and rush, after some thousands of workmen

were put at it, they did not seem to make much impression upon the huge

desolation of brick and mortar. Streets and squares rose up, and still

there were acres upon acres of wilderness, foundations half-dug out and

full of dirty water, walls three feet high, cellars extending heaven

only knew where.

People came for miles to see it, and called it “Baskette’s Folly.”

After a while, however, they carefully avoided it, and called it

something worse—i.e. “The Rookery;” for all the scum and ruffianism of

an exceptionally scummy and ruffianly residuum chose it as their

stronghold. Thieves and worse—ill-conditioned women—crowds of lads,

gipsies, pedlars—the catalogue would be as long as Homer’s—took up

their residence in these foundations and cellars. They seized on the

planks which were lying about in enormous piles, and roofed over the

low walls; and where planks would not do they got canvas.

Now, it is well-known that this class of people do not do much harm

when they are scattered about and separated here, there, and everywhere

over a city; but as soon as they are concentrated in one spot, then it

becomes serious. Gangs are formed, they increase in boldness; the

police are defied, and not a house is safe.

This place became a crying evil. The papers raved about it, the police

(there were police now) complained and reported it to head-quarters.

There was a universal clamour. By this time Stirmingham had got a

corporation, aldermen, and mayor, who met in a gorgeous Guildhall, and

were all sharp men of business. Now the corporation began to move in

this matter of “Baskette’s Folly.” Outside people gave them the credit

of being good citizens, animated by patriotic motives, anxious for the

honour of their town, and desirous of repressing crime. Keen thinkers

knew better—the Corporation was not above a good stroke of business.

However, what they did was this: After a great deal of talk and

palaver, and passing resolutions, and consulting attorneys, and

goodness knows what, one morning a deputation waited upon Sternhold

Baskette, Esq, at his hotel (he always lived at an hotel), and laid

before him a handsome proposition. It was to the effect that he should

lease them the said “Folly,” or incomplete embryo city, for a term of

years, in consideration whereof they would pay down a certain sum, and

contract to erect buildings according to plans and specifications

agreed upon, the whole to revert in seventy years to Sternhold or his

heirs.

Sternhold fought hard—he asked for extravagant terms, and had to be

brought to reason by a threat of an appeal by the Corporation to

Parliament for a private Act.

This sobered him, for he was never quite happy in his secret mind about

his title. Terms were agreed upon, the earnest money paid, and the

masons began to work. Then suddenly there was an uproar. The companies

or syndicates who had leased portions of the estate grew alarmed lest

this enormous undertaking should, when finished, depreciate their

property. They cast about for means of opposing it. It is said—but I

cannot believe it—that they gave secret pay to the thieves and ruffians

in the cellars to fight the masons and bricklayers, and drive them off.

At all events serious collisions occurred. But the Corporation was too

strong. They telegraphed to London and got reinforcements, and carried

the entrenchments by storm.

Then, so goes the discreditable rumour, the companies bribed the masons

and bricklayers, who built so badly that every now and then houses fell

in, and there was a fine loss! Finally they got up an agitation, cried

down the Corporation for wasting public funds, and, what was far more

serious, brought high legal authority to prove that _as a Corporation_

they had no power to pledge themselves to such terms as they had, or

indeed to enter into such a contract without polling the whole city.

This alarmed the Corporation. There were secret meetings and long

faces. But if one lawyer discovers a difficulty, another can always

suggest a way round the corner. The Corporation went to Parliament, and

got a private Act; but they did not go as a body. They went through

Sternhold, who was persuaded; and indeed it looked plausible, that by

so doing, and by getting the sanction of the House of Commons, he

improved his own title.

Then the Corporation smiled, and built away faster than ever. In the

course of an almost incredibly short time the vast plans of Sternhold

were completed by the various companies, by the Corporation, and by

himself; for every penny he got as premium, every penny of ground-rent,

every penny from his collieries, iron furnaces, and cut-nail factories,

went in bricks and mortar. It was the most magnificent scheme, perhaps,

ever started by a single man. The city was proud of it. Like Augustus,

he had found it brick, and left it marble.

Yet, in reality, he was no richer. The largest owner, probably, of

house property in the world, he could but just pay his way at his

hotel. Although he had a fine country house (which old Romy had

purchased) in the suburbs, he never used it—it was let. He preferred a

hotel as a single man because there was no trouble to look after

servants, etc. He lived in the most economical manner—being obliged to,

in fact.

Yet this very economy increased the popular belief in his riches. He

was a miser. Give a man that name, let it once stick to him, and there

is no limit to the fables that will be eagerly received as truth. Give

a dog a bad name and hang him. Call a man a miser, and, if he is so

inclined, he can roll in borrowed money, dine every day on presents of

game and fish, and marry any one he chooses. I only wish I had the

reputation.

No one listened to Sternhold’s constant reiteration of what was

true—that he was really poor. It was looked upon as the usual

stock-in-trade language of a miser. His fame spread. Popular rumour

magnified and magnified the tale till it became like a chapter from the

Arabian Nights.

After all, there was some grain of truth in it. If he could have

grasped all that was his, he would have surpassed all that was said

about his riches.

At last the _Stirmingham Daily News_ hit upon a good idea to

out-distance its great rival the _Stirmingham Daily Post_. This idea

was a “Life of Sternhold Baskette, the Miser of Stirmingham.” After,

the editor had considered a little, he struck out “miser,” and wrote

“capitalist”—it had a bigger sound.

The manuscript was carefully got up in secret by the able editor and

two of his staff, who watched Sternhold like detectives, and noted all

his peculiarities of physiognomy and manner. They knew—these able

editors know everything—that the public are particularly curious how

much salt and pepper their heroes use, what colour necktie they wear,

and so on. As the editor said, they wanted to make Sternhold the one

grand central figure—perfect, complete in every detail. And they did

it.

They traced his origin and pedigree—this last was not quite accurate,

but near enough. They devoted 150 pages to a mere catalogue of his

houses, his streets, his squares, club-houses, theatres, hotels,

railways, collieries, ironworks, nail factories, estates, country

mansions, etc. They wrote 200 pages of speculations as to the actual

value of this enormous property; and modestly put the total figure at

“something under twenty millions, and will be worth half as much again

in ten years.” They did not forget the building leases; when these fell

in, said the memoir, he or his heirs would have an income of 750,000

pounds per annum.

They carefully chronicled the fact that the capitalist had never

married, that he had no son or daughter, that he was growing old, or,

at least, past middle age, and had never been known to recognise any

one as his relation (having, in fact, shipped the whole family to

America). What a glorious thing this would be for some lucky fellow!

They finished up with a photograph of Sternhold himself. This was

difficult to obtain. He was a morose, retiring man—he had never, so far

as was known, had his portrait taken. It was quite certain that no

persuasion would induce him to sit for it. The able editor, however,

was not to be done. On some pretext or other Sternhold was got to the

office of the paper, and while he sat conversing with the editor, the

photographer “took him” through a hole made for the purpose in the

wooden partition between the editor’s and sub-editor’s room. As

Sternhold was quite unconscious, the portrait was really a very good

one. Suddenly the world was taken by storm with a “Life of Sternhold

Baskette, the Capitalist of Stirmingham. His enormous riches, pedigree,

etc, 500 pages, post octavo, illustrated, price 7 shillings 6 pence.”

The able editor did not confine himself to Stirmingham. Before the book

was announced he made his London arrangements, also with the lessees of

the railway bookstalls. At one and the same moment of time, one morning

Stirmingham woke up to find itself placarded with huge yellow bills

(the _News_ was Liberal then—it turned its coat later on—and boasted

that John Bright had been to the office), boys ran about distributing

handbills at every door, men stood at the street corners handing them

to everybody who passed.

Flaring posters were stuck up at every railway station in the kingdom;

ditto in London. The dead walls and hoardings were covered with yellow

paper printed in letters a foot long. Three hundred agents, boys,

girls, and men, walked all over the metropolis crying incessantly

“Twenty Millions of Money,” and handing bills and cards to every one.

The _Athenaeum, Saturday Review, Spectator_, and _Times_; every paper,

magazine, review; every large paper in the country had an

advertisement. The result was something extraordinary.

The name of Sternhold Baskette was on everybody’s lips. His “Twenty

Millions of Money” echoed from mouth to mouth, from Land’s End to John

o’ Groats. It crossed the Channel, it crossed the Alps, it crossed the

Atlantic and the Pacific. It was heard on the Peak of Teneriffe, and in

the cities of India.

The New York firms seized on it as a mine of wealth. The book,

reprinted, was sold from the Hudson River to the Rocky Mountains, and

to the mouth of the Mississippi for twenty cents. The circulation was

even larger in the United States than in Britain, for there everybody

worshipped the dollar. The able editor made his fortune. The book ran

through thirty editions, and wore out two printing machines and three

sets of type. The two gentlemen of the staff who had assisted in the

compilation had a fair share, and speedily put on airs. They claimed

the authorship, though the idea had certainly originated with the

editor. There was a quarrel. They left, being offered higher salaries

in this way:—The other paper, the _Post_, though blue in principles,

grew green with envy, and tried to disparage as much as possible. They

offered these respectable gentlemen large incomes to cut the book to

pieces that they themselves had written. No one could do it better—no

one understood the weak points, and the humbug of the thing so well.

The fellows went to work with a will. The upshot was a little warfare

between the Sternholders and the anti-Sternholders. The _News_ upheld

Sternhold, stuck to everything it had stated, and added more. The

_Post_ disparaged him in every possible way. This newspaper war had its

results, as we shall presently see. For the present these two noble

principled young men, who first wrote a book for pay and then engaged

to chop it into mincemeat for pay, may be left to search and search

into the Baskette by-gone history for fresh foul matter to pour forth

on the hero of Stirmingham.

Chapter Five.

“The Hero of Stirmingham;” so the _News_ dubbed him; so it became the

fashion, either in ridicule or in earnest, to call him. People came

from all parts to see him. Every one who, on business or pleasure, came

to the city, tried to lodge at the hotel where he lived, or at least

called there on the chance of meeting the mortal representative of

Twenty Millions Sterling. The hotel proprietor, who had previously lost

money by him, and execrated his economy, now reaped a golden harvest,

and found his business so large that he set about building a monster

place at one side of the original premises, for he was afraid to pull

it down lest the capitalist should leave.

Now a curious psychological change was wrought by all this in old

Sternhold’s character. Up till this period of his life he had been one

of the most retiring and reserved of men, morose, self-absorbed,

shrinking from observation. He now became devoured with an insatiable

vanity. He could not shake off the habit of economy, the frugal manner

of living, which, he had so long practised; but his mind underwent a

complete revolution.

It has often been observed that when a man makes one particular subject

his study, in course of time that which was once clear grows obscure,

and instead of acquiring extraordinary insight, he loses all method,

and wanders.

Something of the kind was the case with Sternhold. All his life had

been devoted to the one great object of owning a city, of being the

largest proprietor of houses and streets in the world. His whole

thought, energy, strength, patience—his entire being—had been

concentrated upon this end. In actual fact, it was not attained yet,

for he was practically only the nominal owner; but the publication of

this book acted in a singular manner upon his brain. He grew to believe

that he really was all that the “Life” represented him to be—i.e. the

most extraordinary man the world had ever seen.

He attempted no state, he set up no carriage; he stuck to his old

confined apartments at the hotel he had always frequented; but he lived

in an ideal life of sovereign grandeur. He talked as though he were a

monarch—an absolute autocrat—as if all the inhabitants of Stirmingham

were his subjects; and boasted that he could turn two hundred thousand

people out of doors by a single word.

In plain language, he lost his head; in still plainer language, he went

harmlessly mad—not so mad that any one even hinted at such a thing.

There was no lunacy in his appearance or daily life; but the great

chords of the mind were undoubtedly at this period of his existence

quite deranged.

He really was getting rich now. The houses he had himself completed,

with the premiums paid for building leases, began to return a

considerable profit. The income from his collieries and factories was

so large, that even bricks and mortar could not altogether absorb it.

Perhaps he was in receipt of three thousand pounds per annum, or more.

But now, unfortunately, just as the fruits of his labour were fast

ripening, this abominable book upset it all.

There can be no doubt that the editor of the _Stirmingham Daily News_,

with the best intentions in the world, dealt his Hero two mortal

wounds. In the first place, he drove him mad. Sternhold spent days and

nights studying how he could exceed what he had already done.

Dressed in a workman’s garb for disguise, he explored the whole

neighbourhood of Stirmingham, seeking fresh land to purchase. His

object was to get it cheap, for he knew that if there was the slightest

suspicion that he was after it, a high price would be asked. In some

instances he succeeded. One or two cases are known where he bought,

with singular judgment and remarkable shrewdness, large tracts for very

small sums. He paid only one-fifth on completion, leaving the remainder

on mortgage. This enabled him to buy five times as much at once as

would have otherwise been possible.

But there were sharp fellows in Stirmingham, who watched the capitalist

like hawks, and soon spied out what was going on. Their game was to

first discover in what direction Sternhold was buying in secret, then

to forestall him, and nearly double the price when he arrived.

In this way Sternhold got rid of every shilling of his income. Even

then he might have prospered; but, as bad luck would have it, the

railway, after two millions of money had been sunk on it, actually

began to pay dividends of three and a half per cent, then four, then

six; for a clever fellow had got at the helm, and was forcing up the

market so as to make hay while the sun shone.

Sternhold was in raptures with railways. Some sharp young men of

forty-five and fifty immediately laid their heads together, and

projected a second railway at almost right angles—not such a bad idea,

but one likely to cause enormous outlay. They represented to Sternhold

that this new line would treble the value of the property he had

recently bought, extending for some miles beyond the city. He jumped at

it. The Bill was got through Parliament. One half of these sharp young

men were lawyers, the other half engineers and contractors.

Sternhold deposited the money, and they shared it between them. When

the money was exhausted the railway languished. This exasperated old

Baskette. For the first time in his life he borrowed money, and did it

on a royal scale;—I am almost afraid to say how much, and certainly it

seems odd how people could advance so much knowing his circumstances.

However, he got it. He bought up all the shares, and became practically

owner of the new line. He completed it, and rode on the first

locomotive in triumph, surrounded by his parasites. For alas! he had

yielded to parasites at last, who flattered and fooled him to

perfection. This was the state of affairs when the second mortal wound

was given.

It happened in this way. The “Life of Sternhold Baskette, Esq,” had, as

was stated, got abroad, and penetrated even to the Rocky Mountains. It

was quoted, and long extracts made from it in the cheap press—they had

a cheap press in the United States thirty years before we had, which

accounts for the larger proportion of educated or partly educated

people, and the wider spread of intelligence. After a while, somehow or

other, the marvellous story reached the ears of one or two persons who

happened to sign their names Baskette, and they began to say to

themselves, “What the deuce is this? We rather guess we come from

Stirmingham or somewhere thereabouts. Now, why shouldn’t we share in

this mine of wealth?”

The sharp Yankee intellect began to have “idees.” Most of the cotters

whom Sternhold had transhipped to America thirty years or more

previous, were dead and buried—that is to say, the old people were.

The air of America is too thin and fine, and the life too fast, for

middle-aged men who have been accustomed to the foggy atmosphere and

the slow passage of events in the Old Country. But it is a tremendous

place for increase of population.

The United States are only just a century old, and they have a

population larger than Great Britain, which has a history of twenty

centuries, or nearly so.

So it happened that, although the old people were dead, the tribe had

marvellously increased. Half who were transhipped had borne the name of

Baskette. This same question was asked in forty or fifty places at

once—“My name is Baskette; why should not I share?”

These people had, of course, little or no recollection of the deed

signed by their forefathers: and if they had had a perfect knowledge,

such a trifling difficulty as that was not one calculated to appal a

Yankee’s ingenuity. When once the question had been asked it was

repeated, and grew and grew, and passed from man to man, made its

appearance in the newspapers, who even went so far as to say that the

finest city in England, the very workshop of the Britishers, belonged

to United States citizens.

Some editor keener than the rest, or who had read the book more

carefully, pointed out that the capitalist had no heirs living, that he

had never been married, and no one knew to whom all this vast wealth

would descend.

Twenty millions sterling begging a heir! This was enough to set the

American mind aflame. It was just like applying a lighted match to one

of their petroleum wells.

The paragraph flew from paper to paper, was quoted, conned, and talked

over. Men grew excited. Presently, here and there one who considered

that he had some claim began to steal off to England to make inquiries.

The Cunard were running now, though they had not yet invented the

“ocean highway,” by keeping to a course nothing to the north or south

of a certain line. Passage was very quick, and not dear. In a little

time the fact that one or two had started oozed out, then others

followed, and were joined by a lawyer or so, till at last fourteen or

fifteen keen fellows reached Stirmingham.

Now mark the acuteness of the American mind! Instead of announcing

their arrival, every one of these fellows kept quiet, and said not a

word! When they met each other in the streets they only smiled. They

were not going to alarm the game.

These gentlemen were not long in Stirmingham before they found out that

the _Stirmingham Daily Post_ was a deadly enemy of old Sternhold. To

the office of the second able editor they tramped accordingly.

There they learnt a good deal; but in return the editor pumped

something out of them, and, being well up in the matter, sniffed out

their objects. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Here was a

chance for an awful smash at the _News_.

One fine morning out came a leading article referring also to several

columns of other matter on the same subject, headed “The Heirs of

Stirmingham.”

Being Blue, you see, the _Post_ affected to abominate United States’

Republicanism and all the American institutions. This article recounted

the visit of the dozen or so of possible claimants, described them so

minutely that no one could help recognising them, and wound up with a

tremendous peroration calling upon all good citizens to do their best

to prevent the renowned city of Stirmingham falling into the hands of

the Yankees!

Such property as Sternhold’s, the article argued, was of national

importance; and although the individual should not be interfered with,

the nation should see that its rights were not tampered with. There was

danger of such tampering, for who knew what an _infirm, old_ man like

Sternhold might not be led to sign by interested parties? At his age he

could not be expected to possess the decision and mental firmness of

earlier years. This was a cruel hit at Sternhold’s mental weakness,

which had begun to grow apparent.

An endeavour should be made to find an English heir, and that there was

such an heir they (the staff of the _Post_) firmly believed. Two

gentlemen of the staff (meaning thereby the late writers for the

_News_), who had devoted some time to the matter, had made a certain

important discovery. This was nothing less than the fact that Sternhold

had had an uncle! This in big capital letters.

An Uncle. Then followed a little bit of genealogy, in approved fashion,

with dashes, lines, etc—the meaning of which was that Sternhold’s

father, old Romy Baskette, had had a brother, who, when the original

Will Baskette was shot, had departed into the unknown with his mother.

What had become of Romy’s brother? The probability was that by this

time he was dead and buried. But there was also the probability that he

had married and had children. Those children, if they existed, were

undoubtedly the nearest heirs of Sternhold Baskette, Esq, now residing

at Dodd’s Hotel, South Street. As an earnest of the anxiety of the

_Post_ to preserve the good city of Stirmingham from Yankee

contamination, they now offered three rewards:—First, fifty pounds for

proof of Romy’s brother’s death; secondly, one hundred pounds for proof

of Romy’s brother’s marriage, if he had married; thirdly, one hundred

and fifty pounds for the identification of his child or children. This

was repeated as an advertisement in the outer sheet, and was kept in

type for months.

It deserves notice as being the first advertisement which appeared in

the Great Baskette Claim Case—the first of a crop of advertisements

which in time became a regular source of income to newspaper

proprietors.

When this leading article and advertisement, supported by several

columns of descriptive matter and genealogies was laid on the breakfast

tables of half Stirmingham, it caused a sensation. The city suddenly

woke up to the fact that as soon as old Sternhold died half the place

would have no owner.

The Yankee visitors now had no further reason for concealment. They

went about openly making inquiries. They were fêted at hotel bars and

in billiard rooms. They called upon Sternhold bodily—_en masse_—forced

themselves into his apartment, though, he shut the door with his own

hands in their faces, shook him by the hand, patted him on the

shoulder, called him “Colonel,” and asked him what he would take to

drink!

They walked round him, admired him from every point of view, stuck

their fingers in his ribs, and really meant no harm, though their

manners were not quite of the drawing-room order.

They cut up the old man’s favourite armchair, whittled it up, to carry

away as souvenirs. They appropriated his books—his own particular

penholder, with which he had written every letter and signed every deed

for fifty years, disappeared, and was afterwards advertised as on show

at Barnum’s in New York City, as the Pen which could sign a cheque for

Twenty Millions!

When at last they did leave, one popped back, and asked if the

“Colonel” believed this story about his _Uncle_? He was sure he had

never had an uncle, wasn’t he? The old man sat silent, which the

inquirer took for once as a negative, and wrote a letter to the _News_,

denying the existence of Romy’s brother.

Poor old Sternhold was found by the landlord, old Dodd, sitting in his

chair, which was all cut and slashed, two hours afterwards, staring

straight at the wall.

Dodd feared he had an attack of paralysis, and ran for the nearest

doctor; but it was nothing but literally speechless indignation. After

a while he got up and walked about the room, and took a little dry

sherry—his favourite wine. But the mortal wound Number 2 had been

given. Henceforth the one great question in Sternhold’s mind was his

heir.

Chapter Six.

His heir! Sternhold seriously believed that he had no living relations.

It is often said that poor people have plenty of children, while the

rich, to whom they would be welcome, have few or none. This was

certainly a case in point. The poor Baskettes, who had been shipped to

America, had a whole tribe of descendants. Here was a man who,

nominally at least, was the largest owner of property known, who was

childless, and had already reached and exceeded the allotted age of

man.

Sternhold was seventy-two. He looked back and ransacked his memory. He

had never heard anything of this uncle, his father’s brother; his

mother’s friends were all dead. There was not a soul for whom he cared

a snap of his fingers. Firstly, he had no relations; secondly, he had

no friends, for Sternhold, wide as was his circle of acquaintances, had

never been known to visit any one. His life had been solitary and

self-absorbed.

Now, for the first time, he felt his loneliness, and understood that he

was a solitary being. Who should be his heir? Who should succeed to

that mighty edifice he had slowly built up? The architect had been

obliged to be content with gazing upon the outside of his work only;

but the successor, if he only lived the usual time, would revel in

realised magnificence unsurpassed. The old man was quite staggered, and

went about as in a dream.

The idea once started, there were plenty who improved upon it. The

Corporation at their meetings incidentally alluded to the matter, and

it was delicately suggested that Sternhold would crown his memory with

ineffable glory if he devised his vast estate to the city. Such a

bequest in a few years would make the place absolutely free from

taxation. The rents would meet poor’s-rates, gas-rates, water-rates,

sanitary-rates, and all. One gentleman read an elaborate series of

statistics, proving that the income from the property, when once the

building leases fell in, would not only free the city from local, but

almost, if not quite, from imperial taxation. There were many instances

in history of kings, as rewards for great services, issuing an order

that certain towns should be exempt from the payment of taxes for a

series of years. Sternhold had it thus in his power to display really

regal munificence.

Other gentlemen of more radical leanings cried “Shame!” on the mere

fact of one man being permitted to attain such powers. It was absurd

for one man to possess such gigantic wealth, and for several hundred

thousand to live from hand to mouth. The people should share it, not as

a gift, but as a right; it should be seized for the benefit of the

community.

The Corporation people were much too knowing to talk like this. They

went to work in a clever way. First, they contrived various great

banquets, to which Sternhold was invited, and at which he was put in

the seat of honour and lauded to the skies. Next, they formed a

committee and erected a statue in a prominent place to the founder of

Stirmingham, and unveiled it with immense ceremony. Certain funds had

been previously set apart for the building of a public library; this

being completed about that time, was named the Sternhold Institute. An

open space or “park,” which the Corporation had been obliged to provide

for the seething multitudes who were so closely crowded together, was

called the Sternhold Public Park. Yet Sternhold never subscribed a

farthing to either of these.

Nothing was left undone to turn his head. His portrait, life-size,

painted in oil, was hung up in the Council-hall; medals were struck to

commemorate his birthday. The Corporation were not alone in their

endeavours; other disinterested parties were hard at work. Most

energetic of all were the religious people. Chapel projectors,

preachers, church extension societies, missionary associations, flew at

his throat. His letter-box was flooded; his door was for ever

resounding with knocking and ringing. The sound of the true clerical

nasal twang was never silent in his anteroom. The hospitals came down

on him flat in one lump, more particularly those establishments which

publicly boast that they never solicit assistance, and are supported by

voluntary contributions caused by prayer.

The dodge is to publish the _fact_ as loudly as possible. To proclaim

that the institution urgently wants a few thousands is not begging. A

list of all the charities that recommended themselves to his notice

would fill three chapters: then the patentees—the literary people who

were prepared to write memoirs, biographies, etc—would have to be

omitted.

Now here is a singular paradox. If a poor wretched mortal, barely

clothed in rags, his shoes off his feet, starring with hunger,

houseless, homeless, who hath not where to lay his head, asks you for a

copper, it means seven days’ imprisonment as a rogue. If all the

clergymen and ministers, the secretaries, and so forth, come in crowds

begging for hundreds and thousands, it is meritorious, and is

applauded.

Now this is worthy of study as a phenomenon of society. But these were

not all. Sternhold had another class of applicants, whom we will not

call ladies, or even women, but _females_ (what a hateful word female

is), who approached him pretty much as the Shah was approached by every

post while in London and Paris.

He was deluged with photographs of females. Not disreputable characters

either—not of Drury Lane or Haymarket distinction, but of that class

who use the columns of the newspapers to advertise their matrimonial

propensities. Tall, short, dark, light, stout, thin, they poured in

upon him by hundreds; all ready, willing, and waiting.

Most were “thoroughly domesticated and musical;” some were penetrated

with the serious responsibilities of the position of a wife; others

were filled with hopes of the life to come (having failed in this).

Some men would have enjoyed all this; some would have smiled; others

would have flung the lot into the waste-basket. Sternhold was too

methodical and too much imbued with business habits to take anything as

a good joke. He read every letter, looked at every photograph, numbered

and docketed them, and carefully put them away.

Other efforts were made to get at him. He had parasites—men who hung on

him—lickspittles. To a certain extent he yielded to the titillation of

incessant laudation; and, if he did not encourage, did not repel them.

They never ceased to fan his now predominant vanity. They argued that

the Corporation and all the rest were influenced by selfish motives

(which was true). They begged him not to forget what was due to

himself—not to annihilate and obliterate himself. It was true he was

aged; but aged men—especially men who had led temperate lives like

himself—frequently had children. In plain words, they one and all

persuaded him to marry; and they one and all had a petticoated friend

who would just suit him.

Sternhold seemed very impassive and immoveable; but the fact was that

all this had stirred him deeply. He began to seriously contemplate

marriage. He brooded over the idea. He was not a sentimental man; he

had not even a spark of what is called human nature in the sense of

desiring to see merry children playing around him. But he looked upon

himself as a mighty monarch; and as a mighty monarch he wished more and

more every day to found not only a kingdom, but a dynasty.

This appears to be a weakness from which even the greatest of men are

not exempt. Napoleon the Great could not resist the idea. It is the one

sole object of almost all such men whose history is recorded.

Occasionally they succeed; more often it destroys them. Some say

Cromwell had hopes in that direction.

So far the parasites, the photographs, the stir that was made about it,

affected Sternhold. But if he was mad, he was mad in his own way. He

was not to be led by the nose; but those who knew him best could see

that he was meditating action.

Dodd, the landlord of the hotel, was constantly bothered and worried

for his opinion on the subject. At last, said Dodd, “I think the

Corporation have wasted their money.” And they had.

In this unromantic country the human form divine has not that

opportunity to display itself which was graciously afforded to the

youth of both sexes in the classic days of Greece, when the virgins of

Sparta, their lovely limbs anointed with oil, wrestled nude in the

arena.

The nearest approach to those “good old times” which our modern prudery

admits, is the short skirts and the “tights” of the ballet.

Sternhold, deeply pondering, arrived at the notion, true or false, that

the wife for him must possess physical development.

This is a delicate subject to dwell on; but I think he was mistaken

when he visited the theatres seeking such a person. He might have found

ladies, not _females_ nor women, but ladies in a rank of life nearer or

above his own, who exulted in the beauty of their form, and were

endowed with Nature’s richest gifts of shape. But he was a child in

such a search: his ideas were rude and primitive to the last degree. At

all events, the fact remains.

It was found out afterwards that he had visited every theatre in

London, but finally was suited on the boards of a fourth-rate “gaff” in

Stirmingham itself.

There was a girl there—or rather a woman, for she was all

five-and-twenty—who was certainly as fine a specimen of _female_

humanity as ever walked. Tall, but not too tall, she presented a

splendid development of bust, torso, and limbs. Her skin was of that

peculiar dusky hue—not dark, but dusky—which gives the idea of intense

vitality. Her eyes were as coals of fire—large, black, deep-set, under

heavy eyebrows. Her hair at a distance was superb—like night in hue,

and glossy, curling in rich masses. Examined closer it was coarse, like

wire. Her nose was the worse feature; it wanted shape, definition. It

was a decided _retroussé_, and _thick_; but in the flush of her

brilliant colour, her really grand carriage, this was passed over. Her

lips were scarlet, and pouted with a tempting impudence.

This was the very woman Sternhold sought. She was vitality itself

impersonified. He saw her, offered his hand, and was instantly

accepted. He wished her to keep it quiet; and notwithstanding her

feminine triumph she managed to do so, and not a soul in Stirmingham

guessed what was in the wind.

Sternhold went to London, got a special licence, and the pair were

married in Sternhold’s private apartments at his hotel in the presence

of three people only, one of whom was the astounded Dodd. They left by

the next train for London, where the bride went to Regent Street to

choose her trousseau, with her husband at her side.

Not a bell was rung in Stirmingham. The news spread like wildfire, and

confounded the city. People gathered at the corners of the streets.

“He is certainly mad,” they said. Most of them were in some way

disappointed.

“He may be,” said a keener one than the rest; “he may be—but _she_ is

not.”

Chapter Seven.

Lucia Marese, now Mrs Sternhold Baskette, was the daughter of an

Italian father and an English mother, and had a tolerably accurate

acquaintance with Leicester Square and Soho. She was not an absolutely

bad woman in the coarsest sense of the term—at least not at that time,

she had far too much ambition to destroy her chance so early in life.

Physiologists may here discuss the question as to whether any latent

trace of the old gipsy blood of the Baskettes had in any way influenced

Sternhold in his choice. Ambitious as she was, and possessed of that

species of beauty which always takes with the multitude, Lucia had

hitherto been a failure. Just as in literature and in art, the greatest

genius has to wait till opportunity offers, and often eats its own

heart in the misery of waiting, so she had striven and fought to get to

the front, and yet was still a stroller when Sternhold saw her. She

knew that if only once she could have made her appearance on the London

boards, with her gorgeous beauty fully displayed, and assisted by dress

and music, that she should certainly triumph. But she could not get

there.

Other girls less favoured by Nature, but more by circumstance, and by

the fickle and unaccountable tastes of certain wealthy individuals, had

forestalled her, and she stored up in her mind bitter hatred of several

of these who had snubbed and sneered at her.

The fairy prince of her dream, however, came at last in the person of

an old man of three score years and ten, and she snapped him up in a

trice. No doubt, like all Stirmingham, she entertained the most

fabulous ideas of Sternhold’s wealth.

These dreams were destined to be rudely shattered. She seems to have

had pretty much her own way at first. Doubtless the old man was as wax

in her hands, till his former habits began to pull at him. She had one

good trait at all events, if it could be called good—the first use she

made of her new position was to provide for her family, or rather for

the only member of it in England.

This was Aurelian Marese, her brother, who must have been a man of some

talent and energy, for despite all obstacles of poverty he contrived to

pass his examination and obtain a diploma from the College of Surgeons.

He came to Stirmingham, and with the assistance of Sternhold’s purse

set up as a mad doctor, in plain parlance, or in softer language,

established a private lunatic asylum. Oddly enough, it would seem that

notwithstanding the immense population of the city, there was not till

that time any establishment of the kind in the place, and the result

was that Aurelian prospered. He certainly was a clever fellow, as will

be presently seen, though some fancy he over-reached himself. When at

last Sternhold, worn out with the unwonted gaieties into which Lucia

plunged him, showed unmistakable signs of weariness, and desired to

return to Stirmingham, she yielded with a good grace. She reckoned that

he could not last long, and it was her game to keep him in good temper;

for she had learnt by this time that he had the power to dispose of his

property just as he chose.

We can easily imagine the restlessness of this creature confined in the

dull atmosphere of three or four rooms at Dodd’s Hotel, South Street.

But she bore it, and to her it was a species of martyrdom—the very

reverse of what she had pictured.

After a while, as time went on, whispers began to fly about—people

elevated their eyebrows and asked questions under their breath,

exchanged nods and winks. The fact was apparent; Sternhold could scarce

contain himself for joy. There was an undoubted prospect of The Heir.

The old man got madder than ever—that is, in the sense of

self-laudation. He could not admire himself sufficiently. The artful

woman played upon him, you may be sure; at all events there was a deed

of gift executed at this time conveying to her certain valuable estates

lying outside the city, and tolerably unencumbered. Why she came to

select those particular estates which were not half so valuable as

others she might have had, was known only to herself then; but

doubtless Aurelian had heard about the Yankee claims, and advised her

to take what was safe. These estates were, in fact, bought with old

Romy’s money made by the nail factory, and were quite apart from the

rest.

About this time, also, Sternhold left Dodd’s Hotel. This was another

evidence of her power over him. The best joke was, that although there

was old Romy’s country mansion about five miles from Stirmingham,

although Sternhold had since purchased four other mansions, and had

nominally street upon street of houses in the town, he had not a place

to take his wife to. He was obliged to rent one of his own houses of

the company who had built it on a building lease.

Mrs Sternhold now had her great wish gratified to some extent. She was

the observed of all observers. They tell you tales now in Stirmingham

of her extravagance, and the lengths she went. Her carriages, her

horses, her servants, her dinners, parties, and what not, were the one

topic of conversation. Even old-fashioned, straitlaced people found

their objections overcome by curiosity, and accepted her invitations.

Old Sternhold was never visible at these gatherings; but he rejoiced in

them. He was proud of his wife. He looked upon her as a prodigy. He

gave her the reins. But personally he practically returned to his old

habits. He still retained his old apartments at Dodd’s; and there he

might be found, at almost all hours, sitting at his desk, and eagerly,

joyously receiving every visitor who came to tell him of some fresh

extravagance, some fresh frolic of his wife’s!

How was all this expenditure supported, since his actual income was so

small? By a series of loans, which there were always men ready to

offer, and whose terms Sternhold always signed. Once or twice he did

remonstrate, but darling Lucia went into tears, and her brother

Aurelian assured him that, in her state of health, any vexation was

dangerous, etc. Aurelian, through the Sternhold connexion, was now a

fashionable physician.

At last the event happened, and a son was born. The memory of the week

succeeding that day will not soon pass away in Stirmingham.

Old Sternhold, himself a most temperate man, declared that he would

make every one in the city tipsy; and he practically succeeded. He had

barrels of ale and gallons of spirits and wine offered free to all

comers at every public-house and tavern. He had booths erected in an

open field just outside the town, for dancing and other amusements, and

here refreshments of all kinds were served out gratis.

The police were in despair. The cells overflowed, and would hold no

more, and the streets reeled with drunken men, and still more drunken

women.

This saturnalia reigned for four days, and would soon have

culminated—at least, so the police declared—in a general sack of the

city by the congregated ruffians. A detachment of dragoons was actually

sent for, and encamped in Saint George’s Square, with their horses and

arms ready at a moment’s notice. But it all passed off quietly; and

from that hour Sternhold, and more particularly the infant son, became

the idol of the populace.

They still look back with regret to those four days of unlimited

licence, and swear by the son of Sternhold.

This boy was named John Marese Baskette, but was always called Marese.

Singularly enough, the birth of this child, which one would have

prophesied would have completed the hold Lucia had over the father, was

the beginning of the difficulties between them. It began in his very

nursery. Proud of her handsome figure, and still looking forward to

popular triumphs, Lucia flatly refused to nurse the infant herself.

This caused a terrible quarrel. Old Sternhold had old-fashioned ideas.

But there is no need to linger on this. Lucia, of course, had her own

way, and Sternhold retired to sulk at Dodd’s Hotel. From that time the

chink widened, and the mutual distrust strengthened.

There never was any real doubt that the boy was legitimate; but some

devil whispered the question in Sternhold’s mind, and, he brooded over

it. I say some devil, but, in actual fact, it was one of those

parasites who have been once or twice alluded to. Is there anything

that class will stop at in the hope of a few formal lines in a rich

man’s will?

It was their game to destroy Lucia. The plan was cunningly formed. As

if by accident, passages in Lucia’s previous life, when she was a

stroller, were alluded to in Sternhold’s presence.

He grew excited, and eager to hear more; to probe her supposed

dishonour. The parasites distinctly refused; it was too serious a

matter. Still, if he wished to hear—it was common talk—all he had to do

was to go into the billiard rooms. Some of the fellows there did not

know him by sight, and they were sure to talk about it.

Sternhold went. Of all the sights in the world, to see that old man

making a miserable attempt to play billiards while his ears were

acutely listening to the infamous tales purposely started to inflame

him, nothing could be more deplorable. The upshot was he grew downright

mad, but not so mad that anything could be done with him. He watched

over Lucia like a hawk. She could not move; her life became really

burdensome.

It must be remembered that at that time she really was, though wild

enough in blood, perfectly stainless in fact. The temper in the woman

was long restrained. In the first place, she wanted his money; in the

next place, there was her son, whom she loved with all the vigour of

her nature. She bore it for a year or two, then the devil in her began

to stir.

Old Sternhold, who had watched and inquired hour by hour all this time,

had found nothing wrong; but this very fact was turned against her by

those devils, his lickspittles. They represented that this was part of

her cunning—that she had determined he should have no hold upon her, in

order that her son might inherit. They reminded Sternhold that,

although he could not divorce her, he could alter his will. Here they

rather overshot the mark, because he began to reflect that if he cut

off his son the old question would arise—To whom should he leave his

city, as he called it?

The miserable dilemma haunted and worried his already weakened brain

and body till he grew a shadow, and Lucia had hopes that he would die.

But he did not; in a month or two the natural strength of his

constitution brought him round.

All this time Lucia was in dread about his will. Aurelian astute and

cunning as he was hardly knew what to advise or how to act. He had his

spies—for he was wealthy now to a certain degree, and could afford it.

He had his strong suspicions that some of the companies who had leased

the property for building had a hand in the persecution of Lucia, and

in the inflammation of Sternhold’s jealousy. It was certainly their

interest to get the boy disinherited. Aurelian began to grow seriously

alarmed. Sternhold was stronger and better—perhaps if he had had

Aurelian for physician he would not have recovered so fast; but with

his distrust of Lucia, came an equal distrust of her brother, and he

would not acknowledge him.

Aurelian looked at it like this: Sternhold was now about seventy-five,

and had no organic disease. His father, Romy, had lived to a ripe old

age; his grandfather, the basket-maker, though shot in the prime of

life, came of a hardy, half-gipsy stock. The chances were that

Sternhold, with all the comforts that money could buy, would live

another ten years. This very worry, this jealousy, by keeping his

mental faculties alive, might contribute to longevity. In ten years, in

a year, in a month, what might not happen?

His greatest fear was in Lucia herself, who had shown signs of late

that she must burst forth. If she did, and without his being near her,

there was no knowing what indiscretion she might not commit. It was

even suspicious that Sternhold had recovered. It looked as if he had

made up his mind, and had signed a will averse to Lucia’s interest and

his son’s—had settled it and dismissed it. This was a terrible thought,

this last. When he suggested the possibility of it to Lucia, you should

have seen her. She raved; her features swelled up and grew inflamed;

her frame dilated; her blood seemed as if it would burst the veins:

till at last she hissed out, “I’ll kill him!” and fell fainting.

Aurelian determined one point at once. There must be no more delay;

action was the order. But what? Suppose the worst. Suppose the will

already made, and against Lucia’s interests, what was the course to be

taken? Why, to accumulate evidence to invalidate it. _Prove him mad_!

Chapter Eight.

The idea having been once entertained, grew and grew, till it

overshadowed everything else. The singular circumstance then happened

of one man slowly and carefully collecting evidence during another’s

lifetime to prove him insane the moment he died.

Aurelian placed his principal reliance upon the violent jealousy

Sternhold had exhibited. So vehement and irregulated a passion founded

upon mere phantasms of the imagination, was in itself strong

presumptive proof of an unsound mind. He had no difficulty in finding

witnesses to Sternhold’s outrageous conduct. The old man had been seen

walking up and down the street, on the opposite side of the pavement to

the house in which Lucia lived, for hours and hours at a time, simply

watching. He had been heard to use violent and threatening language. He

had made himself ill. The mind was so overwrought by excitement that it

reacted upon the body, and it was some time before the balance was

restored—if indeed it could ever be restored.

There were many trifling little things of manner—of fidgetiness—absurd

personal habits—which, taken in conjunction with the bad temper he had

displayed, went to make up the case. Aurelian added to this the vanity

Sternhold had of late openly indulged in. This was notorious, and had

become a by-word.

But when Aurelian had written all this out upon paper—when he had, as

it were, prepared his brief—his shrewd sense told him that in truth it

was very weak evidence. Any lawyer employed for the defence could

easily find arguments to upset the whole.

Day by day, as he thought it over, his reliance upon the insanity

resource grew less and less—and yet he could not see what else there

was to do. He racked his brain. The man, like others, was in fact

fascinated by the enormous property at stake: he could not get it out

of his mind. It haunted him day and night. He ransacked his memory,

called up all his reading, all his observation, all that he had

heard—every expedient and plan that had come under his notice for

gaining an end.

For a time, however, it was in vain. It is often the case that when we

seek an idea it flies from us, and will not be constrained, not even by

weeks of the deeply-pondering state. Often the more we think upon a

subject, the less we seem to see our way clear. And so it was with him.

Sometimes a little change of scene, even a little manual exercise, will

stimulate the imagination. So it was with him.

He had an important and serious case to attend—a rich patient underwent

an operation at his hands, and the physician grew so absorbed with his

delicate manipulation and in genuine delight in his own skill, that

Lucia and the property passed for a day or two completely out of his

memory. This was followed by profound slumber, and next morning he

awoke with the answer to the great question staring him in the face.

If Sternhold was not mad enough now, why not drive him mad? If he was

driven frantic and shut up in an asylum, Lucia’s son would to a

certainty inherit the property. Possibly he (Aurelian) might be

appointed trustee—he, as uncle, would be a guardian, and probably the

only one. He might also have the pleasure of receiving Sternhold into

his own retreat for lunatics; and so, while furthering the interests of

his sister and nephew, do himself a good turn. The idea enraptured him.

Aurelian possessed the true scientific mind which is incapable of

feeling. Some thinkers believe that the true artistic mind, the highest

artistic mind, is also incapable of feeling. It is so absorbed in its

own realisation of one idea, that it loses all consciousness of

possible suffering in others. He never doubted for an instant that it

was in his power to attain the proposed object—it was only to _let

Lucia loose_. Let her loose—a little way. Let her loose under strict

supervision—under the constant surveillance of himself, his son, a

youth of twenty whom he was training up in the right road, and perhaps

of other witnesses.

There was such a thing as divorce—this might not destroy the child’s

right, but it would place him out of Lucia’s hands. There must be no

handle for Lucia’s enemies to grasp at. She must be manoeuvred so as to

make Sternhold frantic without committing herself.

Lucia was aflame for such a course. She had restrained herself for

years. She was burning to be free, on fire for “life” and excitement;

above all, for admiration, for praise—the intoxicating breath of the

multitude that cheers to the echo! The Stage! the dance—music—the fiery

gaze of a thousand eyes following each motion! There must have been

something of the true artist in her. The grandest position, the most

unlimited wealth, would not have satisfied her without the stage.

She had married Sternhold in the hope of appearing as other women did

in the theatres owned by their lovers. She had tried to broach the

subject to Sternhold; he had held up his hands in horror, and she

constrained herself and bided her time.

Nearly four years now—four years! The coarse jests, the loud laughter,

the shouts and screams and cat-calls of the low threepenny gaff or

music hall from which she had been snatched—even such a life as that

seemed to her far, far superior to this irksome confinement, this

slavery which was not even gilded. Aurelian was right in his conjecture

that she could not be much longer held in—she must burst out.

Half-formed schemes had been working themselves into shape in her mind

for months past. She would leave her boy with Aurelian, take her jewels

and sables, sell them, borrow money upon the estate which Sternhold had

made hers by deed of gift, go to London or Paris, and plunge headlong

into “life,” paying any price for the one grand ambition of her

existence.

The craving—the _fury_, it might almost be called—the furious desire

for admiration from men which seized upon her at times, would

certainly, sooner or later, have hurled her on to a desperate step.

At this moment Aurelian came with his carefully-considered plan. She

met him open-armed. With one blow she could avenge herself upon

Sternhold, with one blow gratify herself and destroy him—destroy him

body and soul. This moment—this hour!

But not so fast. First, Aurelian obtained the money—no small sum. Next,

said he, this thing must not be done by halves. It was useless for her

to appear on some small stage; she must at one bound become the talk of

all the town. This required care, thought, and organisation. Those

great successes that seemed so suddenly attained without an effort, as

by a wave of the hand, had really been preceded by months and months of

preparation, and depended in great part upon the matured judgment and

clever advice of men who had watched the public for years.

Impatient as she was, Lucia again controlled herself, and did as she

was bid. Aurelian made it his business first to discover where she

could appear with most effect. He soon selected the place, Paris! he

obtained an interview with the proper authorities, and confided to them

a part of his secret. They saw their way to profit, and agreed.

The next thing was the character she should take, and the second, the

season. This last the manager, or rather owner, who was in raptures

with the thing, easily decided. It must be at the height of the Paris

season. He was a popular man, who could gather together a mighty crowd

of his own acquaintances.

If poor Sternhold, sitting in his apartment at Dodd’s Hotel, could have

heard these “fast” young men discussing the approaching appearance of

his wife, Aurelian would have gone no further.

The choice of character Aurelian insisted upon deciding, and he chose

Lady Godiva. As has been stated, Lucia had extraordinary hair, both for

length and abundance, and, unlike long hair generally, it was curly.

Had it been fine and delicate hair she could have boasted that few

women in Europe could equal her. The coarseness of its texture would

not be visible upon the stage.

She had really a magnificent figure. The character of Lady Godiva was

one exactly fitted for her. It is needless to say that there was little

or no acting—no study of parts, no insight into the meaning required,

as in the case of Shakespeare’s heroines. The piece was simply a

spectacle devised to bring out one central figure into the boldest

relief.

The greatest difficulty the conspirators—for so they may be fairly

called—had to contend with was the necessity of keeping Sternhold

completely in the dark, and yet at the same time getting together a

large audience, which could only be done by advertising. But Aurelian

was capable of dealing with more difficult dilemmas than this. His plan

was very simple and yet effective. The manager had a piece in his

_répertoire_ which, owing to the fame or infamy of a certain

fascinating lady, was the rage of the town. Suddenly this creature

disappeared—went off to Vienna with a titled gentleman—and after

blazing as a meteor of the first water there for a short time, as

suddenly dropped out of sight altogether.

The manager, at Aurelian’s suggestion, gave out that this lady had

turned up, and was going to again act at his house on a certain night.

The excitement was intense. It was an awful falsehood, for the poor

girl was in reality dead. (She met with her death under some strange

and suspicious circumstances, which were, by influence, suppressed.)

Her beauty, great as it was, had lost its charm in the tomb; yet her

name, in flaring letters, was prominent all over Paris.

The deception was kept up to the very end; and the company of the

theatre, by dint of double pay, were got to carry it out to perfection.

An exceptional number of waiters were, however, hired, and no one but

the manager and Aurelian had any idea what the object of this troop of

apparently idle fellows could be.

The house filled to the last seat. The poor dead girl’s name was on

every lip—her frailties were discussed with horrid flippancy; the

orchestra began, and Lucia Marese Baskette robed, or rather unrobed, as

Lady Godiva.

The owner of the theatre was there, and with him a whole host of men

about town, most of whom were partly in the secret, but not quite.

Just before the time arrived for the curtain to rise, this troop of

idle waiters entered the arena, swarmed into the boxes, into the

galleries and pit, distributing to every single individual who had

entered a handbill, announcing that, instead of Miss, “Mrs Sternhold

Baskette, the beautiful wife of Sternhold Baskette, Esq, the richest

man in the world, the owner of twenty millions sterling worth of

property, would appear as Lady Godiva; a part for which her splendid

physique and magnificent hair peculiarly fitted her.” At the same

moment a large poster was put out in front of the curtain, bearing the

same announcement.

The effect was singular. The house, which had been full of noise

before, became as still as death. People were astounded. They could not

believe it possible; yet, at the same time, they knew that the manager

dared not play a trick. Theatres had been wrecked before now by

indignant audiences. They waited in silence.

The curtain rose. I cannot pause to describe the gradual enthusiasm

which arose, nor to draw a picture of the grand _tableau_. But there

are many living who remember that memorable night, who declare that

anything equal to it has never been seen upon the stage.

Lucia rode on a milk-white palfrey, and looked extraordinarily

handsome. The house rose—the audience went mad. Recalled and recalled,

again and again that white palfrey paced to and fro, and the mighty

multitude would not allow the scene to pass.

The mesmeric influence of the excitement filled Lucia with a glowing

beauty; with a brilliance which made her seem a goddess—of her order.

No one remarked whether the piece was properly gone through after this.

I think it was not. From all that I can learn, I believe the audience

watched Godiva to and fro till the palfrey or its rider grew exhausted,

and then left _en masse_.

Paris was aflame next day. The papers said nothing—they were wise.

There is, however, something more powerful even than the newspaper—it

is conversation. Lucia had got conversation—her name was heard

everywhere. It was not only the acting, or show—it could not be called

acting—it was the fact of her position as Sternhold’s wife. She stood

upon the pinnacle of his fame for wealth, brazen and shameless in the

eyes of the world. Brazen and shameless, yet secure; for Aurelian never

left her. He watched her himself. His son—his paid servants—did the

same; not from fear of her indiscretion, but in order to appear as

witnesses if any proceedings should take place.

Next night and next night, and again on the third night, this

extraordinary spectacle was repeated. The crowds that came to the doors

could not be admitted. But by this time the leading papers had felt the

pulse of the people—not the excitable populace, but the steady

_people_. With one consent they rushed at the exhibition with lance in

rest. Improper was the softest insinuation. They were undoubtedly

right. The moment they took this tone all the press followed, and

before the week was over those who had the power had prohibited the

performance.

Chapter Nine.

The exhibition was stopped, but the end had been attained—Lucia was

famous. The manager and Aurelian had foreseen the inevitable official

veto, and had prepared for it. They had arranged for her to appear as

Cleopatra; it was a part which could be made to suit her admirably by

leaving Shakespeare’s text out of the question, and studying spectacle

instead.

It is a singular fact that Sternhold had no idea of what was going on

until the fourth or fifth day. He was told that Lucia had left

Stirmingham with her brother for a short visit to Paris, and paid

little or no attention to it. For the first day or two the papers had

been silent. At last the news reached him.

What Dodd had previously feared now happened—he was struck down with a

slight attack of paralysis, which affected one side. Some persons said

it was a merciful infliction, as it prevented him from witnessing his

wife’s disgrace with his own eyes. They were wrong. His body was bent,

but his mind was torn with contending and frenzied passions. The sense

of outrage—of outrage upon his dignity—was perhaps the strongest. That

after all his labour and self-denial, after long, long years of slowly

building up a property such as his, which rendered him in his own

estimation not one whit inferior to a king; that he should be insulted,

his name dragged in the dirt, his wife a spectacle for all Paris!

Sternhold had the vaguest ideas of stage proprieties and theatrical

morality. He had not a doubt but that Lucia was already an abandoned

woman. There were plenty who urged upon him to commence a suit for

divorce, though in reality it was extremely doubtful whether there were

sufficient grounds for anything beyond a judicial separation.

But Sternhold was filled with one consuming desire—to see her with his

own eyes. Whether it was this passion, or whether it was the natural

strength of his constitution, certain it is that in a marvellously

short time after the attack, he had himself conveyed to Paris, and sat,

a miserable, haggard, broken-down old man, in a box at the theatre the

same night, watching his wife upon the stage. He did this night after

night. A species of fascination seemed to carry him there to sit

silent, brooding over the utter wreck of his great schemes.