After a while he went suddenly back to Stirmingham without a word,

without so much as seeking an interview with Lucia, or issuing any

instructions as to what was to be done. He went back to his old

apartments at Dodd’s Hotel. He shut himself up, refusing to see even

the wretched parasites who had sown the seed of this mischief. It was

an instinctive attempt to return to the old, old habit, the ancient

self-concentration, apart from the world. But it failed. So soon as

ever he began to read his letters, to look into his accounts, every

figure, every transaction reminded him of Lucia and her extravagance;

the follies she had been guilty of, and the no less greater folly he

had himself yielded to in granting her every wish, thereby involving

his affairs in the most hopeless confusion. The attempt failed. He

rushed again from his retreat to seek her. Then he heard that she was

in Vienna performing. He got there, supported by his attendants.

Doubtless the physical fatigue of the journey irritated his nerves; at

all events, there seems no doubt that when he reached Vienna he was for

the time absolutely mad.

He went to the theatre. He saw Lucia as Godiva, just as she had been

seen in Paris. He was alone in his box. Deliberately he levelled a

pistol, resting the barrel upon the edge of the balustrade. As the

incense of praise and adulation rose up, as the pageant moved to and

fro, the deadly weapon was aimed at the central figure. He fired, and

the house was in commotion.

Those who know what happens when a full theatre is alarmed and excited

will require no description; those who have not seen it cannot imagine

it.

A second report, and the curling smoke caused a rush to the box, and

the occupant was found upon the floor, as was thought, dead. Lucia

alone was calm and cool. The bullet had not passed even near her; the

distance was great and the aim unsteady; the ball had struck a screen,

and did no injury. She dismounted and advanced to the footlights,

extended her hands, and in a few words begged the audience to be calm.

Speedily they saw her thus, as it were, in their very arms.

The theatre rang with acclamation. If it had been a scene prepared it

could not have succeeded better.

There were threats and loud cries of rage against the man who had fired

at her.

“Do not injure him,” she said, at the top of her full, deep voice; “he

is mad!” For she guessed in a moment who it was.

In a few minutes the whole thing was understood. Continental people are

quick at comprehending—an old husband, a young wife—bah! An attempt

first at murder, then at suicide—bah! What could he have done better

calculated to put Lucia upon the pedestal of fame?

Sternhold was not dead; not even injured. The ball he had fired at

himself had not touched him. He had fallen exhausted. When he became

physically conscious, he was raving mad.

There was no doubt about it this time. It was a pitiable sight.

Aurelian insisted upon seeing him: even he shuddered. The old man was

muttering gibberish to himself. Half his grey hair was gone, for before

he could be stayed he had dragged it out. His arms and limbs were

pinioned, but his body shook with a trembling convulsive movement. The

deed was done.

Aurelian braced himself up, and hastened at once to Lucia. He knew he

should have a struggle with her, and hoped that in the conflict he

should forget the sight he had left. He had determined to at once

withdraw her from the stage. The victory was won; there must be no more

risk.

The conflict between the brother and sister was terrible. She raged,

her frame swelled; she had tasted triumph, and the draught is more

intoxicating even than the taste of blood. She would go on.

But he was resolute, and he won. That very day he took her to

England—took is the right word, for it was necessary to use physical

force at times. He got her to her house at Stirmingham, and never left

her till she had grown more composed.

Sternhold was in an asylum. Aurelian thought that he would surely die;

but he did not.

Aurelian then began to scheme to get him in his own “retreat.”

Possession was nine points of the law. He went to Vienna at once before

any one guessed his object, obtained the proper permit, and in six days

deposited the wretched being in his asylum in the suburbs of

Stirmingham. Once there, thought Aurelian, let them get him out if they

can.

The fact was soon known; and there was an excitement. The parasites,

disappointed and raging, did their best to inflame the populace. There

was a growl, and the police began to prepare for an attack upon the

asylum; but, after all, the moment any of them reflected, they said,

“Why, it’s all right; the poor fellow is mad. He could not be in better

hands.” The plan of a popular tumult fell through.

The parasites next tried the law, but found that Aurelian had been

before them: he had all the proper documents; he could not be touched.

Next the companies began to stir. They were uncertain what to do, and

whether it was better for their interests that Sternhold should be in

his brother-in-law’s custody or not.

That astute gentleman very soon learnt what was passing in their minds,

and he had a very good conception of what could be effected by powerful

combination.

He opened negotiations with them. He pointed out to them privately that

the real point at issue was not Sternhold, but the boy—the heir—for no

one doubted the legitimacy. Who was to have the custody of the heir?

Clever Aurelian hoped that by making friends with the companies who

held the building leases that there would be no opposition to his

holding the boy—to his guardianship of the estate. He had strong

grounds to go upon. To all intents and purposes he was the nearest

relation. If the boy died, and no son of the phantom brother of Romy

turned up, _perhaps_ he might have a claim to the estate.

He gave the companies to understand that if he had the guardianship of

the boy their interests should be most carefully studied.

They appeared favourable. The step was taken. The boy remained with his

mother; his mother remained in her house, seeing Aurelian daily, and

indeed watched by his _employés_.

No change took place. Aurelian congratulated himself that all was going

on favourably. The boy, who had little or no idea of the meaning of the

word “father,” was constantly at Aurelian’s residence—the asylum where

his parent was confined—playing with Aurelian’s son, who was carefully

instructed to please him, and indeed was sharp enough already to

require little instruction.

Sternhold lingered in his melancholy state. He was no longer

violent—simply dejected. He did not seem able to answer the simplest

question. If asked if he was hungry, he would stare, and say something

relating to his school-days.

And this was the man who had built Stirmingham. For five years he

remained in this state, and then suddenly brightened up; and it was

thought and _feared_ that he would recover the use of his faculties. It

lasted but three days. In that short time he wrote three important

documents.

The first was a statement to the effect that he had wronged Lucia. He

now saw his folly—he had been led into his persecution of her by

designing people, and blamed himself for his subsequent conduct. He

earnestly entreated her forgiveness. The second was a species of family

history, short but complete, refuting the claims of the American

Baskettes. They were indeed of the same name, he wrote, but not of the

same blood. The truth was that the cotters who had lived in the Swamp,

now covered with mansions, had no name. They were half gipsies; they

had no registered or baptismal name.

Will Baskette, who had been shot, was the chief man among them, and

gradually they came by the country people to be called by his name.

They were not blood relations in any sense of the term. This paper also

gave the writer’s views of his transactions with the Sibbolds and the

cotters or “Baskettes,” and concluded with the firmly expressed

conviction—the honest statement of a man near his end—that his title

was irrefutable, and he knew of no genuine claim.

The third document was his Will. For now it appeared that hitherto he

had never made a will at all. It was extremely short, but terse and

unmistakable. It left the whole of his property, real and personal

(with the single exception of the gift to Lucia), to his son, John

Marese Baskette.

The will Aurelian took care was properly attested, and by independent

witnesses whom he sent for.

On the fourth day old Sternhold died, quietly and without a word. He

was buried, and hardly was he in the tomb before the battle began. The

companies at once cut off all connection with Aurelian. They had

reckoned upon his managing to get their terms at all events extended,

as he had promised. The Corporation refused any honours to the dead

king, and all eagerly sought about for the means of dividing the spoil.

After all their consultations, not all the subtlety of twenty

solicitors could suggest any feasible plan—the old man had baffled them

at last. It was useless to plead that he was insane, and actually in an

asylum at the moment of executing the will. What was the good even if

such a plea was successful—if the will was upset, the property would

descend to the boy just the same. There seemed no way of getting at it.

But at last a weak point was found. It was a time when a great deal of

commotion was made about the Roman Catholic question and the religious

education of minors. Now Lucia was certainly half a foreigner, and it

was believed she was a Catholic. Aurelian was certainly a Catholic.

With all his cunning he had not foreseen this, and he had allowed

himself to become a somewhat prominent member of the Catholic community

in Stirmingham. He had no religion, but it paid him. Catholics are rich

people, and when rich people go insane they are profitable. So he was

caught in his own trap.

There was an agitation got up among the ultra-Protestant community.

Funds were started to release the heir from the clasp of Rome. The

companies, the Corporation, all joined in the outcry. The question was

made a national one by the newspapers. But there was one difficulty:

the law required that there should be a person to sue. After much

trouble this person was selected in one of the Baskettes of American

origin, who had settled in Stirmingham, and claimed to be a nearer

relation than Aurelian.

The battle was long and furious, and cost heavy sums. No expense was

spared on either side, and the estate got still further encumbered. It

promised to be a drawn battle; but at last, having passed all the

tribunals, it began to approach the place of power, and to be discussed

in the Ministerial Cabinet. There was a man there who desired to obtain

the Catholic vote of Ireland, and the Aurelian party began to boast

already of success. But this very boasting spoilt their game. The

Ministry lost the confidence of the people, the House followed suit, a

new Ministry came into place, and the final decision was against the

Catholic, or, as they termed themselves, legitimate party—for they said

the uncle and the mother were the legitimate guardians.

The result was in truth disappointing to all the parties. The boy was

made a ward of Chancery, proper receivers of the estate were appointed,

and the companies who had begun to exult were entrapped. The lad was

taken from his mother and uncle, and sent to Eton to prepare for

college.

Thus a new element of complexity was added to the already chaotic state

of this vast estate.

Chapter Ten.

If ever there was a life that illustrated the oft-quoted phrase “poor

humanity,” it was that of Sternhold Baskette. But this is not the place

to moralise—we must hasten on. The orchestra has nearly finished the

overture; the play will soon begin.

Lucia had now no longer any reason for restraint. Her boy was safe—safe

as the laws of a great country could make him—certain to inherit a

property which by the time he was forty would be of value surpassing

calculation. She rejoiced in it, gloried in it. To her it was more

welcome than the confirmed guardianship of Aurelian would have been,

because it left her free.

The lad was at Eton, and happy—far happier than he could have been

elsewhere. His mother immediately commenced a course which led her by a

rapid descent to the lowest degradation.

She returned to Paris. Aurelian felt it was useless now to interfere,

neither could he afford more expense.

She easily got upon the stage again, and became more popular than ever.

At the age of forty she was even more handsome than in her youth. Her

features had been refined by the passage of time and by the restraint

to which she had been subjected. Her form was more fully developed.

It is unpleasant to linger on this woman’s disgrace. She formed a

_liaison_ with a rich foreign gentleman, retired with him from Paris

after a time, and the _Stirmingham Daily Post_, which pursued the

Baskettes with unmitigated hatred year after year, did not fail to

chronicle the birth of a son.

Aurelian, baffled, was not beaten. He was a resolute and patient man.

Like the famous Carthaginian father, he brought up his son and educated

him to consider the Baskette estates as the one object of his

attention—only in this case it was not for destruction, but for

preservation.

When young John Marese Baskette, the heir, after distinguishing himself

at Eton, was sent higher up the Thames to Oxford, Aurelian immediately

placed his son, Theodore Marese, at the same college.

The result was exactly as he had foreseen. The heir formed a bond of

friendship—such as it is in these days—with Theodore. Their one topic

of conversation was the estate.

John was full of the most romantic notions. He was in youth a really

exemplary lad—clever, hard-working, winning to himself the good will of

all men. Theodore had a genuine liking for his cousin—then, at all

events, though probably in after life the attachment he professed was

chiefly caused by self interest.

John was full of ambitious dreams. His vivid imagination had been

worked upon by the talk among his companions about the famous owner of

twenty millions sterling—his father. Upon an old bookstall he obtained

a copy of “The Life of Sternhold Baskette,” now out of print. It

inflamed him to the uttermost. There was good metal in the boy if he

had only had friends and parents to put it to proper use. He formed the

most extraordinary schemes as to what he would do with this wealth when

he became of age, and stepped at one bound into the full enjoyment of

it, as he supposed he should.

It was all to be used for the alleviation of the misery of the world,

for the relief of the poor, for the succouring of the afflicted, the

advancement of all means that could mitigate the penalties attaching to

human existence.

As time wore on, however, these benevolent intentions received their

first check.

He reached his twenty-first birthday. He claimed his birthright, and

was refused. Briefly, the reason was because the companies and the

American claimants had entered pleas, and because also the property was

terribly encumbered, and would require long years of nursing yet before

it could be cleared, and this nursing the higher Courts insisted upon.

Instead of the magnificent income he expected, the young man received

two thousand pounds per annum only. It struck his nature a heavy blow,

and did much to pervert it, for he looked upon it in the sense of a

shameful injustice. With Theodore he left college; at all events he was

now his own master, and entered “life.”

Every one knows what “life” is to a young man of twenty-one with two

thousand a year certain—the power of borrowing to a wide margin, and no

monitor to check and retard the inevitable course.

Theodore was much older—fully thirty at this time; but he was as eager

for enjoyment, and perhaps more so.

To make the story short, they ran through every species of

extravagance—visited Paris, Vienna, and all the continental centres of

dissipation.

Ten whole years passed away. John Marese Baskette was by this time a

thorough man of the world, deeply in debt, brilliant and fascinating in

manner, false and selfish to the backbone. He inherited his mother’s

beauty. A tall, broad, well-made man, dark curling hair, large dark

eyes, and large eyelashes, bronzed complexion, which, when he was

excited, glowed with almost womanly brilliance; strong as a lion,

gentle in manner, and fierce as a tiger under the velvet glove.

Polished and plausible, there were those who deemed him shallow and

wholly concerned with the pleasure of the hour; but they were mistaken.

John Marese Baskette had rubbed off all the soft and good aspirations

of his boyhood; but the ambition which was at the bottom of those

schemes remained, and had intensified tenfold. He was burning with

ambition. The hereditary mind of the Baskettes, their brain power, had

descended to him in full vigour (though hitherto he had wasted it), and

he also inherited their thirst for wealth. But his idea of obtaining it

was totally opposed to the family tradition. The family tradition was a

private life devoted with the patience and self-denial of a martyr to

the accumulation of gold.

Marese’s one absorbing idea was power. To be a ruler, a statesman, a

leader, was his one consuming desire. As a ruler he thought, as a

member of the Cabinet, it would be easy for him to affect the market in

his favour, for Marese was a gambler already upon a gigantic scale. The

Stock Exchange and the Bourse were his arena.

The intense vanity of the man, which led him to seriously hope even for

the English Premiership, was, doubtless, a _trait_ derived from his

mother. “If I had my rights,” he was accustomed to say to Theodore, “I

should be not only the wealthiest man in England, but in Europe and

America. My father’s property has more than doubled in value. In

England the wealthiest man at once takes a position above crowds of

clever people who have nothing but their talents. Without any conceit,

I can safely say that I am clever. A clever, wealthy man is so great a

rarity that my elevation is a certainty. But nothing can be done

without money. At present my wealth is a shadow only. The one thing,

Theodore, is money. Our Stock Exchange labour is, in a sense, wasted;

our operations are not large enough. What we make is barely sufficient

to provide us with common luxuries (he did not pretend to say

necessities) and to keep our creditors quiet. Nothing remains for

bolder actions. I am thirty, and I have not yet entered the House.”

This last remark was always the conclusion of his reflections. In a

sense, it was like Caesar lamenting upon seeing a statue of

Alexander—that he had done nothing at an age when Alexander had

conquered the world. He had not even the means to fight the enemies who

withheld his birthright from him. The bitterness engendered of these

wrongs, the constant brooding over the career that was lost to him,

obscured what little moral sense had been left in him after the course

of life he had been through; and the once gentle boy was now ripe for

any guilt. The verse so often upon the lips of the tyrant was for ever

in his mind, and perpetually escaped him unconsciously—

Be just, unless a kingdom tempt to break the laws,

For sovereign power alone can justify the cause.

Like his father Sternhold, he looked upon the undisputed possession of

such an estate as conferring powers and position nothing inferior to

that of a monarch. His dislike to all things American—in consequence of

the claims, now more loudly proclaimed than ever, of the Baskettes from

the States—grew to be almost a monomania. He wished that the United

States people had but one neck, that he might destroy them all at

once—applying the Roman emperor’s saying to his own affairs.

His especially favourite study was “The Prince” of Machiavelli, which

he always carried with him. His copy was annotated with a scheme for

applying the instructions therein given to modern times—the outline of

the original requiring much modification to suit the changes in the

constitution of society. Some day he hoped to utilise the labours of

the man whose name has become the familiar soubriquet of the Devil.

Theodore, whom Aurelian had made qualify as a surgeon, was imbued with

an inherited taste for recondite research. He would return from a wild

scene of debauchery at early dawn, and drawing the curtains and

lighting his lamp to exclude daylight, plunge into the devious paths of

forbidden science. Keen and shrewd as he was, he did not disdain even

alchemy, bringing to the crude ideas of the ancients all the knowledge

of the moderns. Cruel by nature, he excelled in the manipulation of the

dissecting knife, and in the cities upon the Continent where their

wanderings led them, lost no opportunity of practising with the

resident medical men, or of studying those wonderful museums which are

concealed in certain places abroad. Marese was the fiery charger, ready

to dash at every obstacle Theodore was the charioteer—the head which

guided and suggested. Yet all their concentrated thought could not

devise a method by which Marese might obtain the full enjoyment of his

estate. Briefly, this was the condition of Marese’s mind and his

position, when the death of Aurelian took place, and a letter reached

them written by him in his last hours, entreating their return to

Stirmingham for reasons connected with the estate. They went, and a

woman went with them as far as London—a woman whom we must meet

hereafter, but who shall be avoided as much as possible.

They arrived at Stirmingham unannounced, and examined the papers which

the deceased had particularly recommended to their study. Aurelian, as

has been said, was baffled but not beaten. The fascination of the vast

estate held his mind, as it held so many others, in an iron vice. The

whole of his life was devoted to it. He had searched and searched back

into the past, groping from point to point, and he had accumulated such

a mass of evidence as had never been suspected.

He knew far more even than poor Sternhold, who had occupied himself

exclusively with the future.

Marese and Theodore, living quietly in the residence attached to the

asylum for the insane, which Aurelian had continued to keep, carefully

studied these papers by the light of the lucid commentary the dead man

had left. It is needless to recount the whole of the contents—most of

them are known already to the reader. But the substance of it all was

that three great dangers menaced the estate. The first was the claims

of the Baskettes from America.

The evidence which Aurelian had collected was clear that the land they

had occupied in the Swamp had been practically theirs, since they had

paid no rent; but as to their power of handing it over to Sternhold, it

was extremely questionable. The second great danger was the claim of a

new tribe that had recently started up—the descendants of James

Sibbold, who had also expatriated themselves.

It was doubtful if the transfer made by their ancestors could be

maintained, and for this simple reason—it was doubtful whether James

Sibbold himself had any right to the property his sons sold to

Sternhold. He was not the eldest son. The eldest son, Arthur, had

disappeared for a number of years; but there was not the slightest

proof that he had died childless. Far from it. Aurelian, incessantly

searching, had found out what no one else yet knew—that Arthur had

married, had had children, and that one at least of his descendants was

living but a short time since.

When Marese had read thus far his countenance turned livid, and

Theodore feared he would have fallen in a fit. The savage passions

inherited from his mother surged up in his frame, and overmastered him.

He was ill for days, almost unconscious—the shock was so great, his

passion so fierce—but presently recovering, read on.

Aurelian had traced Arthur in his wanderings, had traced his

marriage—but there was one loophole. Do what he might, Aurelian could

not discover _where_ Arthur had married. It was in London, but a minute

search failed to discover the church, and the register could not be

found.

This fact, and the fact of the long silence, the absence of any claim

being put forward, led Aurelian to believe that there really was no

legal marriage—that it was only reputed. He hoped as much, at all

events.

There was another loophole—the deed which old Sibbold had so treasured

in his padlocked oaken chest—the deed which settled the inheritance (on

the female as well as the male)—had disappeared. Sternhold had searched

for it and failed. It was lost. If the marriage could not be proved,

and if the deed was really lost, then there was no danger from Arthur

Sibbold’s descendants; but there remained those “ifs.” Also, if

Arthur’s claim was put aside, then the succession would of course

belong to his brother James Sibbold’s descendants: but then again came

in the question—Could these Sibbolds sign away (to Sternhold) an

inheritance which at the time was _entailed_?

Aurelian finished with several hints and schemes which need not be gone

into here, and indeed were never carried out. But his one great point

throughout was a warning against the living descendant of Arthur

Sibbold, whose name and present address he had discovered and left for

Marese, and against the companies who held the leases. “For,” said he,

“these companies would foster any and every claim against the estate;

anything to bar the succession of Marese, the heir, in order to obtain

a grant or extension of time from the courts of law, to enable them to

hold the property till the succession to the estate was established.”

These companies were so rich and powerful that it was difficult to

contend against them. Their strength was money, their weapons were the

various claimants.

“Therefore,” wrote Aurelian, “the first thing is money, and I wish my

property to be used freely for this end, convinced that you will do

Theodore full justice; and I bid you, if possible, to take the

_weapons_ of the companies out of their hands. Without the claimants

they are powerless.”

These papers, and the facts and reflections they contained, made the

deepest impression upon Marese and Theodore. In secret they walked

through the city of Stirmingham, and marked its wealth, its vastness,

its trade and population.

“And nearly all this is mine,” whispered Marese, pale as death in his

subdued excitement. He had to hold Theodore’s arm to sustain his body,

for, strong as he was, he trembled.

Next day they left for London, for Marese could not bear the

Tantalus-like view of the wealth which was and was not his. In London

they thought and planned as only such men seeking such an end can think

and plan.

Chapter Eleven.

While Marese and Theodore are maturing their plans, it will conduce to

the easier comprehension of the horrible, complicated events which

followed, if the past history of the estate be briefly summed up in

such a manner that this chapter can be used for reference.

In the commencement, nearly a century previous to the present time, we

have seen old Sibbold, the morose miser, gloating over his money, and

studying his title-deeds. These gave him an unquestioned right to the

farm he occupied, and to the Swamp, or waste land, which had been

squatted on by Will Baskette and his companions. This right mainly

depended, though not entirely, upon a certain deed of entail. Without

that deed Sibbold had still sufficient evidence to prove his right to

his farm, but not to the Swamp; without that deed there was no fixed

succession—that is to say, he could have devised it to any one he

chose.

There was, therefore, just the possibility that, hating his eldest son

Arthur, he had himself destroyed this deed, in order to prepare the way

for his second son, James. But against this supposition there was the

known character of the man, which led one to imagine that he would

rather have died than give up the smallest fraction of his possessions.

At all events, this deed was missing, as were several others of little

or no value, such as expired leases of fields to tenants, which had

once been kept in Sibbold’s oaken press, under padlock and key.

When Sibbold met with his death at the hands of highwaymen, the farm

and waste lands, in the natural course of things, would have passed to

his eldest son, Arthur, but he having disappeared, and not appearing to

make a claim, James Sibbold, the younger son, took the property. The

majority of people always thought, from the fact of Arthur’s not

returning to claim his birthright, that he had had a hand in the

slaughter of old Will Baskette, and that his conscience drove him away.

James Sibbold, after a while, married, and had several sons. In time he

died, and these sons, though married, still all remained living on the

farmstead, or in the outhouses; for as it was known that James’ right

was doubtful, they could not agree about the succession, and preferred

to live like pigs rather than go to law and have it settled, since the

result was so uncertain. At the same time the squatters, basket-makers,

reed-cutters, clothes-peg makers, etc, who resided in the Swamp which

the rat had caused, had considerably increased in numbers, and were

always called, after their former chief, by the name of Baskette.

This chief at the date of his death had two sons. The eldest went off

with his mother, and joined the original gipsy tribe; the youngest,

whose name or nickname was Romy, entered the service of the clergyman.

The eldest was never heard of more; but Romy prospered, and in early

middle age bought an estate and country mansion, not far from his

birthplace.

It was he who opened up the concealed mineral wealth of coal and iron,

and thus, as everything goes by contradiction in this world, it

happened that the descendant of gipsies, notorious for their wandering

habits and dislike of houses, was the founder of one of the largest

cities in the world.

He married with every legal formality, and his son, Sternhold Baskette,

imbued with the firmest convictions that in the future the young city

would prosper to an unprecedented extent, employed the whole of the

wealth he inherited in purchasing land and erecting houses.

In the course of his transactions he desired to purchase the Wick Farm,

where old Sibbold had dwelt, and the Swamp where the Baskette tribe

flourished. Finding the title of the vendors imperfect, he devised the

strongest safeguard he could think of, which was to make all the

Sibbolds then living or known, to sign one document, and all the

reputed Baskettes to sign another. He then transhipped them all to

America—first, to get complete possession; secondly, in the hope that

they would never return to trouble him.

He proceeded to drain the Swamp, and to convert it into the Belgravia

of Stirmingham. But this project required an enormous expenditure, and

just at that moment the first railway to the place, which he had

largely supported, came to a standstill, and ate up all his available

capital. When, therefore, a return of commercial prosperity took place,

he found it impossible alone to complete the vast scheme of streets,

squares, etc, which had been commenced.

Then the building lease plan was resorted to—the very keystone of all

this curious history. First, the Corporation of the city took a large

slice of the uncompleted property of him on a building lease for a term

of years, on the expiration of which the whole reverted to him or his

heirs (practically his heirs, as he was not likely to live to the age

of 120 years).

After they had commenced building some uncertainty arose as to whether

or no they had the power to enter into such an agreement; they could

bind themselves, but could they bind their successors in office? This

took place, it must be remembered, long, long before the recent

sanitary legislation, which gives such extensive powers to local

bodies.

In order to confirm their proceedings they obtained a private Act of

Parliament, which, when it was drawn up, seemed to be worded clearly

enough. But every one knows that after the lapse of thirty years or

less, words in an inexplicable manner seem to lose their meaning, and

to become capable of more than one interpretation. This is perhaps

because the persons who read them are influenced unconsciously by a

series of circumstances which did not exist at the time the document

was composed.

At any rate, at the date when Marese and Theodore were thinking and

scheming, there had already been a great deal of contention over the

precise scope of several sentences in this Act: a part of which arose

over the question of repairs to the buildings, and partly as to

whether, by a little straining, the seventy years of the lease might

not be construed to mean practically for ever.

This little straining was managed in this way. When did the lease

commence? Had not each successive Mayor got the right to say, “This

lease, as interpreted by the Private Act, means, not seventy years from

the days of my predecessor, but seventy years from the commencement of

my term of office.” By this way of looking at it, so long as there was

a Mayor the Corporation would always have seventy years to look forward

to.

Of course all such reasoning was nothing but pure sophistry; but then

most law is sophistry, and sophistry when supported by a rich body of

men and called Vested Interest, is often much stronger than the highly

belauded and really feeble truth.

Here was a tough Gordian knot, to add to the already difficult question

of original title. But this was only the preface to the complications

to follow. There still remained, after the Corporation had taken a

part, a huge howling wilderness of streets with walls two feet high.

Companies or syndicates were formed (eight companies in all)—perhaps

they had better be called in modern parlance building societies—who

took this howling wilderness on the same system of building leases, to

fall in at a certain date.

Apparently in this case it was all plain, straightforward sailing; but

not so. Sternhold Baskette got into difficulties over Railway Number 2,

and had to borrow money. He also had to borrow money to complete

portions of the estate which he had kept in his own hands, and to

acquire lands just outside the city. Lastly, he had to borrow money to

support the extravagance of his wife. In the aggregate these sums were

something enormous.

At the moment of borrowing he was under the impression that he had

dealt with independent persons—with financiers, in fact, of London,

being so assured by his solicitors. These solicitors had had a pretty

picking out of his railways and estates; they had grown fat and

prosperous upon him, and might, one would have thought, have been

trusted to serve him honestly.

But no—whenever was there a friendship formed in business? Ostensibly,

the financiers who advanced the cash were independent; in reality, they

acted for certain of these very aforesaid building societies who had

taken the building leases! Four at least of them had their money thus

out upon good security; and Sternhold, unknowingly at first, owed them

a large fortune.

For their own interest they had proved easy creditors. They had not

called in the loans; not a fraction of the original sums borrowed from

them to complete Railway Number 2, to finish houses, buy fresh lands,

to pay for Lucia’s extravagance, had been repaid. Very little of the

interest had been cleared off; none while Sternhold lived. They knew

that they were safe. The railway was now paying a fair dividend, the

houses and lands had trebled in value; as for Lucia’s waste it was

small in comparison—when they chose to call in their money they could

seize upon property to twice the amount due, even with added interest.

But they did not choose to call in their money. The leases were now

approaching the day of expiration. They knew that the trustees of

Sternhold’s estate had not one tithe of the cash required to meet their

demands: they would be compelled to submit to one of two things—first,

they must yield up a good part of the estate, or they must grant an

extension of the leases—either of which would suit the societies

exactly.

They intended to push matters in such a way as to compel the trustees

to extend the term, in order to retain both halves, as it were, of the

estate under their control. This was Gordian knot Number 3. How was the

heir to come by his own through all this? It was impossible, unless he

could scrape together sufficient money to pay off the loans which had

been contracted by his father. He would then be in a position to claim

the property held by the trustees at the expiration of the leases,

which was now fast approaching.

The other four companies had got wind of this nice little arrangement,

and it upset them extremely. They had not been half so shrewd as their

fellows, and that was a bitter reflection. They foresaw their valuable

properties passing away from them, while the other societies held fast

to their share. It was gall and wormwood.

But they were not to be outdone in the Art of Entanglement. Sternhold

was dead; they could not lend him money. But the heir, our friend

Marese, was living, and living “fast;” and not only that, he was

speculating heavily upon the Stock Exchange. Here was a fine opening.

With careful and judicious management they bought up all Marese’s

debts; they lent him money to a large amount through their agents,

keeping themselves in the background out of sight; and they had

gentlemen always on the watch on the Exchange, whose business it was to

tempt Marese into apparently good bargains with floating paper.

Not content with this, they had still further secured themselves. They

had allied themselves with a certain powerful and enterprising railway

company. This company had hitherto been shut out of Stirmingham, and

were extremely desirous of getting access to it. These second four

societies combined, and declared that in the interests of the

properties committed to their charge (save the mark!) it was essential

that there should be more direct railway communication with a certain

district which it is immaterial to name, and that there should be a

station close to their portion of the estate, the other stations being

at some distance. The enterprising railway company would guarantee good

terms if the trustees of the estate would enter into agreement with

them.

The upshot was that another Act of Parliament was obtained by the

influence of the said powerful railway company, authorising this line,

station, and agreement. It was now argued that this Act and agreement

would override the original building leases; especially as the railway

company were prepared to prove that they had not yet reaped any

reasonable benefit, and, unless the leases were extended, would be

serious losers. As they had immense interest in the House, they were

likely enough to gain their point. Here were two more Gordian knots,

Numbers 4 and 5!

Then there was the list of claimants to the estate, which had now been

swelled from all parts of the world, and the series of suits and pleas,

and Heaven knows what other litigation threatened by them, making

Gordian knot Number 6. Finally, the estate was in Chancery. Knot Number

7.

Here was a pleasant prospect for the heir! To put all the rest on one

side, on the day that the building leases expired, and he stepped

forward to claim his rights, the building societies would present him

with the following neat little bill:—

“After all,” said Marese to Theodore, as they planned and schemed, and

smoked cigars at 120 shillings the hundred, “after all, old fellow,

this is but one year’s income if I could only get possession. And I

believe we could finance the thing and raise the money without

difficulty, if it were not for those cursed, hateful claimants from

America and elsewhere. The Jews fight shy on account of the title

difficulty. If we could but get rid of those claimants!”

Chapter Twelve.

There was once a very wise man who invented what was considered a

saying almost inspired, which was afterwards inculcated as a most

important lesson by mighty princes upon their sons, and continues to be

constantly quoted in our day with approval—it is, that “Unity is

strength.” But the strength of the claimants to the Baskette estate

consisted in the number of their scattered forces.

All that Marese, the heir, could have desired was that by some means

they could be condensed into one person, and thus destroyed at a blow.

They had increased as the years went by in a geometrical ratio, till

the total formed a small battalion.

When the idea of making claims upon the estate first arose in America,

there were already quite fifty families who in one way or another

thought they had “rights.” About a dozen visited Stirmingham, and all

but drove poor old Sternhold frantic. That was a generation ago, and

the tribe had nearly trebled. Mothers of children who had the remotest

possible chance of a share in the prize took care to have them

christened Baskette or Sternhold. There were Sternhold Baskette Browns,

Baskette Johnsons, Baskette Stirmingham Slicks, English Baskette

Williamsons, and every possible combination of Baskette.

Those who, either by the male or female side, really could show some

species of proof that they were descended from the seventeen squatters

who were transhipped to the States now numbered no less than one

hundred and forty-three individuals—men, women, and children. To

distinguish themselves from other claimants, they called themselves

“The True Swampers.”

But in addition to these, there was a host of other Baskettes, who in

one way or another foisted in their names. There were Baskets, Bascots,

Buscots, Biscuits, Buschcotts, Bosquettes—every conceivable variation

of spelling from every State and territory, who declared that they were

related to the parent stem of Will Baskette, the squatter, who was shot

by old Sibbold. These might be called for distinction the

pseudo-Baskettes.

Then among the True Swampers there was an inner circle, who professed

to have prominent “rights” on account of their progenitors having been

more nearly related to the original Will Baskette. They argued that the

others were not true Baskettes, and had only adopted that name from the

chief, while they were real blood Baskettes.

In addition, there was another host of people who made a virtue of

proclaiming that they were not named Baskette. They did not profess to

be named Baskette—they did not take a name which was not theirs! They

were Washingtons, Curries, Bolters, Gregorys, Jamesons, and so on. But

they had claims because their father’s wives were of the Baskette

blood.

Finally, there was another sub-division who loudly maintained that half

of the original cotters who landed in New York were not Baskettes, but

Gibbs, Webbes, Colborns, and so on, and that they were the descendants

of these people. And there were some who went the length of declaring

that they were descended from two alleged illegitimate sons of old Romy

Baskette!

The Baskette Battalion was therefore made up of—1st. The Pure Blood

Baskettes; 2nd. The True Swampers; 3rd. Demi-Baskettes, who had that

name added to another; 4th. Nominal Baskettes, whose names had an

accidental resemblance; 5th. The Feminine Baskettes, descended from

women of Baskette strain; 6th. Independent Squatters, not Baskettes,

but companions; 7th. Illegitimate Baskettes!

Then there were the Sibbolds—such a catalogue! These had been slower to

wake up to their “rights” than the Baskettes, but when they did

discover them they came in crowds. First, there were the descendants,

in a straight line, of the eight sons of James Sibbold, shipped (six

with families) to New York. They had multiplied exceedingly, and there

was no end to them. The simply Sibbolds, as we may call them, numbered

no less than two hundred and eighteen, all told—men, women, and

children. Every one of these had some register, some old book—many of

these books were worm-eaten copies of Tom Paine’s “Rights of Man”—some

piece of paper or other to prove that they had the blood of James

Sibbold in their veins.

Then there were all the ramifications, pretty much like the Baskette

branches; innumerable cadets distantly related, innumerable people

whose wife’s uncle’s mother or cousin’s name was Sibbold; and all the

various Sibbolde, Sibboldes, Sibald, Sigbeld, Sybels, Sibils, Sibelus,

Sibilsons, _ad libitum_. Illegitimate Sibbolds were as plentiful as

blackberries, and all ready to argue the merits of the case with

revolver and bowie. If the Baskettes made up a battalion, the Sibbolds

formed an army!

Between these two great divisions there was the bitterest enmity. The

Baskettes derided the claims of the Sibbolds; the Sibbolds derided

those of the Baskettes. The Sibbolds told the Baskettes that they were

an ill-conditioned lot; if they had been respectable people, and really

his relations, old Sternhold would never have shipped them to America

out of his sight. The Baskettes retorted that the Sibbolds were ashamed

to stay in England, for they were the sons of a murderer; they were the

descendants of a dastardly coward, who shot a man through a window. The

Sibbolds snarled, and pointed out that the great chief of the Baskettes

was nothing but a thief, caught in the act and deservedly punished; a

lot of semi-gipsies, rogues, and vagabonds. Their very name showed that

they were but basket-makers; they were not even pure gipsy

blood—miserable squatters on another man’s property.

Blows were not unfrequently exchanged in the saloons and

drinking-stores over these quarrels. The result was the formation of

two distinct societies, each determined to prosecute its own claim and

to oust the other at all hazards. The Baskette battalion relied upon

the admitted non-payment of rent by their forefathers to upset all

subsequent agreements, and they agreed also that this agreement which

their forefathers had signed was not binding on the remote descendants.

The document was obtained by trickery, and the land was not put to the

use the vendors had understood it was to be put, as the representatives

now alleged, to simple agricultural purposes. Further, each of those

who signed the document only gave up his cottage and the small plot of

garden round it; they did not sell the waste land between the islands.

The Sibbolds principal argument was that their forefathers could not

sign away an entailed estate without previously cutting off the entail,

and it was acknowledged that this had not been done. But, said the

Baskettes, there was a question if the land ever was entailed; let the

Sibbolds produce the deed, and if it was not entailed, where was their

claim?

Each of these divisions formed itself into a society, with a regular

committee and place of meeting, a minute-book to record accumulated

evidence, legal gentlemen to advise, corresponding secretaries, and

Heaven knows what. They actually issued gazettes—printed sheets of

intelligence. There was the _Baskette Gazette_ and the _Sibbold

Gazette_, which papers carefully recorded all deaths, marriages, and

new claims. There was a complete organisation, and a—fine thing it was

for the lawyers and some few sharp young men.

Of late these societies had received more or less cordial overtures

from the eight building societies at Stirmingham who held the leases.

The first four societies encouraged the Baskette battalion, the second

held out hopes to the Sibbolds. The cunning building societies, without

committing themselves, desired nothing better than protracted

litigation between these claimants and the heir, in the certainty that

meantime they should reap the benefit.

Among the American corps of claimants there were men of all

classes—from common labourers, saloon-keepers, etc, up to judges,

editors, financiers, merchants; and many of them were clever,

far-seeing persons, who, without putting any weight upon the somewhat

strained “rights” they professed to believe in, still thought that

there was “something in it, you know,” and money might be got by

persistent agitation, if it was only hush-money.

Throughout many turbulent States there was at one time quite a feeling

aroused against England (which added its venom to the unfortunate

_Alabama_ business), as having unjustly kept what was due to American

citizens. These societies had their regular agents in Stirmingham and

London, whose duty it was to report every change that took place, every

variation of the case, and to accumulate evidence and transmit it.

These bulletins were received by the “caucuses,” and sometimes printed

in the _Gazettes_.

Besides these regular organisations, who had money at disposal and were

really formidable, there were several free lances careering over the

country, representing themselves as the sons of the elder brother of

Romy Baskette, the brother who had disappeared with the gipsies. These

were downright impostors, and yet got a living out of the case. Several

lecturers also promenaded the States, who made a good thing of it by

giving a popular version of the story, illustrated by a diorama of

incidents in the lives of the principal actors, from the shooting of

Will Baskette to the appearance of Lucia Marese as Lady Godiva. It was

singular that no one presented himself as a descendant of Arthur

Sibbold; he seemed to have been quite forgotten. So much for America.

From Australia there came, time after time, the most startling reports,

as is usual when any _cause célèbre_ is proceeding in the Old World.

Now, it was a miner at the diggings who had made extraordinary

disclosures; now, some shepherd on a sheep-run, after a fit of illness,

found his memory returned, and recollected where important deeds were

deposited.

Nothing, however, came of it. The principal seats of disturbance were

America and England; for England produced a crop of what we may call

Provisional, or Partial Claimants. Here and there, scattered all over

the country—from Kent to Cornwall, from Hampshire to

Northumberland—were people of the name of Baskette, which is a very

ancient English cognomen, and to be found in every collection of

surnames.

Most of these were of little or no consequence, but one or two held

good positions as gentlemen or merchants. None of these latter made the

shadow of a pretence to the estate, but they were fond of speculating

as to their possible remote connection with the now famous Baskette

stock; and some said that if anything did turn up, if any practical

results followed the American attempt, it would be as well to be

prepared to take a share in the spoil.

There were also at least three impostors—utter scoundrels, who obtained

a profusion of drink and some sustenance from credulous fools in

tap-rooms by pretending that they were descendants of the elder brother

of Romy Baskette. They had not the shadow of a proof, and ought to have

been treated to a dose of “cell.”

A gipsy tribe, a travelling clan which went about the country with

shooting galleries, merry-go-rounds, peep-shows, and so on, were in the

habit of proclaiming that they were the very identical tribe from whom

offshoots settled in the historical swamp at Wolf’s Glow, in order to

attract custom.

Certain persons in and around Stirmingham, whose fathers or ancestors

had sold lands to Sternhold Baskette—lands now worth ten, and in some

cases a thousand, times the price he had given for them—had a

fallacious idea that if the title of the heir was upset, they would

have a chance of regaining possession, or at least of an additional

payment for the property.

They formed themselves into a loosely-compacted society to protect

their interest. It was remarkable that in England, as in America, no

one set up a claim to be the descendant of Arthur Sibbold. The real

danger was from America, the land of organisation.

But in England there was a class of persons who, without possessing any

personal interest in the matter, made it their especial business to

collect all the “ana” that could be discovered, and gained a livelihood

out of their study of the case. More than one private inquiry office in

London received large fees from New York clients to make special

investigations. The credulity of mankind is exhibited in a striking

manner in the support given to these offices. How should they be

supposed to be so devotedly attached to the cause of one client? What

is to prevent them having fifty, all with the same end, and from

selling the information gained from one to the other?

There were men who made it a speciality of their trade to collect all

books, pamphlets, pictures, lectures, genealogies, deeds, documents,

letters, papers, _souvenirs_—anything and everything, from Sternhold

Baskette’s old hat upwards, that could be twisted into relation with

the case.

Those who have never had any leaning towards antiquarian research have

no idea of the enormous business done in this way—not only in reference

to great cases of this kind, but in reference to matters that would

appear to an outsider as absolutely not worth a thought. There is

scarcely a scrap of written or printed paper of the last century, or up

to within fifty years of the present date, which has not got its value

to such a collector, for he knows there will be fools to buy them.

Sometimes it happens that an apparently worthless piece of paper or

parchment, bought as waste, turns out, under his sharp eye, to be a

really awkward thing for some owner of property unless he purchases it.

There were lawyers in a peculiar way of business who did not disdain

this species of work, and presently they may cross our path. Such men

were in constant communication with people on the other side of the

Atlantic, where there is, year by year, an increasing desire manifested

to trace out genealogies.

The year in which, in the ordinary course of events, the building

societies and the Corporation must relinquish their expired leases was

now fast approaching. Some such person as has been described was seized

with a brilliant idea, and made haste to advertise it. Why should not

all the claimants to the estate meet on the disputed spot at this

critical moment? Why should there not be a regular family council, the

largest and most important that had ever taken place? The idea was a

good one, and spread like wildfire. The newspapers took it up; the

American societies thought highly of it. Nothing like a grand

demonstration.

The upshot was that Stirmingham began to look forward to the assembling

of these would-be monarchs of the city, which was finally, after much

discussion, fixed for the next New Year’s Day.

This New Year’s Day was fast approaching, while Marese and Theodore

planned.

Chapter Thirteen.

The grand family council was to be held at Stirmingham on the coming

New Year’s Day. How difficult it is to trace the genesis of an idea! It

does not seem to have any regular growth—to begin with a seed and cast

out roots, a stem, branches, leaves; it shoots now one way, now this,

like those curious creatures revealed by the microscope, or like the

germs of fungi. Upon the original thought odd branches are engrafted,

accidental circumstances suggest new developments, till at last the

full completed idea bears no sort of resemblance to what might have

been expected from the embryo.

How the idea was first started neither Marese nor Theodore could tell,

nor how it was communicated from one to the other. There is a method of

communication which is not dependent upon direct speech; there is a way

of talking at a subject without mentioning it. When two clever men’s

minds are full of one absorbing topic it does not require formal

sentences to convey their conceptions. They did not seem even to

actually talk of it, and yet it grew and grew, till it overshadowed

them like a vast gloomy mountain.

It would not be just to so much as hint at a latent insanity in these

men’s minds, for it would partly absolve them from responsibility, and

would dispose their judges to regard their crimes leniently. Certainly

no one, if asked to do so, could have pointed out two keener men of the

world than these. Yet, somehow, despite one’s reluctance to afford them

the shadow of an excuse, there does creep in the conviction that such a

ghastly conception could only be formed in a brain lacking the moral

organs, if such an expression may be used, in a brain unbalanced with

natural human sympathy.

Marese’s father, old Sternhold, had certainly been mad at one period of

his career. His mother, Lucia, had exhibited a vanity so overweening,

and a temper so intense, that at times it resembled lunacy. It may have

been that, along with the mental powers of calculation and invention

which distinguished old Romy and Sternhold, Marese had also inherited

the mental weakness of Sternhold and Lucia.

Theodore had shown a taste for extraordinary studies usually avoided by

healthy-minded men. His father, Aurelian, had passed the whole of his

time with insane patients, and it is said that too much contact with

mad people reacts upon the sane. He had early initiated his son into

the mysteries of that sad science of the mind which deals with its

deficiencies. The son’s youth had been passed in constant intercourse

with those harmless and, so to say, _reasonable_ lunatics who are to be

met with in the homes and at the dinner-tables of medical men, and

whose partial sanity and occasional singular flashes of unnatural

intelligence are perhaps more calculated to affect the minds of others

than the vagaries of the downright mad.

In one short sentence, this terrible crime, which was looming over

Marese and Theodore, was nothing less than the deliberate intention to

destroy the whole of the claimants to the estate at once. How it

originated it is difficult to imagine, but it did. It might perhaps be

partly traced to the injunction in Aurelian’s papers to take the

weapons out of the hands of the companies; or partly to the

oft-expressed wish of Marese’s, after the Roman emperor, that all the

claimants had but one neck, so that he might cut it. The said emperor

has much to answer for.

The announced gathering of the claimants at Stirmingham certainly

seemed to bring them all within the reach of the fowler’s net, if he

could but cast it aright. Marese and Theodore had half-formed ideas of

blowing the whole company into the air as they sat at council in the

Sternhold Hall on New Year’s Day, something after the fashion of Guy

Fawkes, but with a deadlier compound than he had at his

disposal—nitro-glycerine or dynamite; especially the first might be

trusted to do the work much more effectually than gunpowder, which was

also more difficult to conceal on account of its bulk.

It will barely be believed that these two men, in the height of the

nineteenth century, calmly examined the vault under that famous hall,

in order to see if it was fitted for the purpose. This hall or

assembly-room had been finished about the time that the agitation

commenced over the heir to the estate, just before Sternhold had

married, when the Corporation heaped flattery upon him. It had been

named after him.

It was a fine room, not too large, and yet of sufficient size to seat

an audience. The object was to afford a concert-room for dramatic and

theatrical performances, and also for balls. As the site was valuable,

and every particle of space had to be utilised in the centre of this

mighty city, it had been built over vaults, which were intended for

bonded warehouses; but partly on account of the high rent asked, and

partly because of the dampness of the cellars—the site was the very

centre of the old Swamp—had never been occupied. The access was bad,

and there was no place for a display or advertisement, which was

another reason why the cellars had not let. There was a certain amount

of propriety in holding what was to be called “The Grand Centennial

Family Council” in this hall, built upon the centre of the ancient

Swamp, and named after the founder of the city.

Marese and Theodore, in disguise, examined the vaults, under the

pretence of being agents for London merchants desirous of opening

business in Stirmingham. There was hardly any necessity for this

precaution, for it was so many years since they had openly resided in

the place that few would have recognised them.

To their great surprise, these vaults, whose gloomy darkness they

explored by the light of lanterns, extended in one vast cavern, under

the whole of the hall. Instead of a series of cellars, there was one

huge cavern. This was occasioned by the flooring not being supported

upon brick arches, as would have been architecturally preferable, but

upon timber posts, or pillars. The place had, in fact, been put up

hastily, and the vaults were never completed. The timber pillars were

placed in regular order, and it had been intended to build brick

partitions; but as no one seemed to care to occupy the cellars, this

had never been done. The floor was extremely damp, and the whole

appearance of the place repulsive. Snails, toads, and slimy reptiles

crawled about, and this under the very stage above, upon which music,

song, and dance were wont to enliven the gay hearts of the audiences.

One great obstacle to the idea of blowing up the place was the height

of these timber posts, which was full eighteen feet, so that the roof

of the vault was high over head, and any explosives, to produce the

full effect, would have to be piled up on casks or stands. Then the

hall was larger than they had supposed, and it was apparent that the

coming council would occupy but a portion of it, and perhaps change

that portion now and then, so that it would be uncertain where to place

the nitro-glycerine.

The idea, looked at from a distance and in the abstract, seemed

feasible enough; but when they came to face the physical difficulties,

it was found to be hard of realisation. There was the danger of getting

the explosives into the place, the danger of detection, and, finally,

the chance of an accident hoisting the engineer with his own petard,

especially at that time of the year when nitro-glycerine was

notoriously dangerous on account of the crystals which cold formed upon

its surface, and the least jar or shake was sufficient to cause an

explosion. Obviously, the plan was a cumbrous one, and without

hesitation it was abandoned.

But the main idea, that of getting rid of the claimants at one blow,

was not abandoned; it grew and grew, and occupied their minds day and

night. At last the thought of transferring the Guy Fawkes expedient

from the land to the ocean, which, once the deed was successfully

accomplished, would tell no tale, occurred to them.

The claimants must come over on shipboard, if only they could be got

into one or even two ships; and if these vessels sank upon the voyage

suddenly without a warning! This was certainly much safer for the

conspirators, as no trace would be left, and it was surer of success,

because in the hall some of the victims might escape—at sea they could

scarcely do so. They ran over in their minds the various methods of

scuttling ships which have been invented from time to time.

There was the good old simple plan of boring holes in the bottom with

augurs. There was the devilish coal-shell. A box painted to resemble

coal, but really containing powder, was thrown among the coal, and when

placed in the furnace blew up the boiler, and destroyed the ship. There

was the ship-rat—a contrivance by which the very motion of the vessel

caused an augur in a box to bore its way through, and so cause a leak.

Some benevolent socialists, anxious for the welfare of man, had also

promulgated a notion of exploding nitro-glycerine by clockwork,

arranged to go so long, and set to act just as the vessel was farthest

from land.

But all these seemed to Marese and Theodore clumsy, risky, and, what

was worse, uncertain of operation. It was reserved for Marese to

suggest the deadliest of all destructive engines, and he arrived at its

conception in this way. He had, as it were, a double mind. He was

liable to flashes of inspiration—such as it was—to sudden ideas which

shot through him without endeavour. He had also the power of

concentrating his thoughts, and bringing the regular forms of logic to

his assistance. But this latter method he could only practise with the

aid of pen and ink; and it was his constant habit, whenever

contemplating an important step, such as a coup upon the Exchange, to

write out his plans in a regular sequence, just as he wished them to

take place.

This written guide he corrected and enlarged until it seemed beyond any

further improvement; and then shutting his eyes to all consequences,

resolutely avoiding those secret promptings which suggest that

something has been left undone, he was accustomed to rush at the matter

in hand, and dispose of it with bold, unhesitating strokes. This method

certainly had its advantages, but it had also the disadvantage that if

by any accident his notes fell into other hands, he was lost.

Nevertheless, after thinking and thinking in vain over this great

problem, and failing of any very brilliant flash of intelligence,

Marese at last resorted to his favourite system, and sought the

solution by the aid of pen and ink. First he wrote at the top of his

rough draft—

“What is it that I desire? Define it. Definition: to destroy the

claimants. Who are the claimants? A body of men. How is a body of men

to be destroyed? In the same way as a single person. How is man

destroyed? By the knife, by bullets, by explosives, by garotting, by

fire, by water, by poison, narcotics.”

Such were his rough premises. Then he laid the pen down and thought.

Why not set the vessels these men were coming over in on fire? That at

first seemed to him a most feasible plan, far superior to the uncertain

action of explosives. It required some arrangement, which he felt

confident the scientific knowledge of Theodore could easily supply, to

cause the flames to break out at the proper moment.

He began to grow enraptured with it. It seemed so easy and sure. Then,

picturing in his mind the vessel sinking, the thought occurred to him

that if the risk was to be run, something might as well be got out of

it. Why not put a cargo on board insured far beyond its value, and so

kill two birds with one stone?

At one blow to destroy his enemies and fill his own pockets was superb

triumph! He called Theodore and explained the idea to him. Theodore was

struck with it—especially with the notion of making a profit out of the

risk. He was, however, considerably opposed to the insurance dodge, on

the ground that it had been tried so often, and people had got so keen

that it was ten to one if some suspicion did not arise, especially when

it was seen what an object it would be to Marese to secure the

destruction of the passengers. Some other plan must be adopted.

Suppose, for instance, they took Marese’s yacht and followed the

vessel, and after its partial destruction, if they could secure only

partial destruction, put in a claim for salvage. To do this they must

encounter serious difficulties, but it would be far less risky.

Marese wished to know what substances they could employ to produce a

fire which could not be extinguished without some special chemical

composition. Theodore produced a series of manuscript volumes

containing the notes which he had accumulated during his long and

curious studies. He turned them over one by one, extracting such

information as appeared applicable to their purpose, while Marese,

waiting for his friend’s reply, amused himself by reading pieces here

and there. It was while thus employed that the devilish means by which

their end could be obtained occurred to him.

Chapter Fourteen.

He happened to light on a volume of notes made upon the remarkable

properties of gases. They began with a description of those curious

caves and even meadows abroad wherein no animal can live, and the place

is strewn with the bones of birds and beasts who have incautiously

entered the infected circle. This effect was proved to proceed from a

vapour which rose up from the earth, and was no sooner breathed than it

produced asphyxiation. Animals who inhaled it fell as if shot, so

sudden was the action.

Gases as deleterious were often generated in wells, caves, and confined

places, such as the huge tuns or casks used by brewers to keep their

beer in, and which had often proved fatal to the men who attempted to

scour them out.

Theodore believed that the cold shiver which some persons affected to

feel upon entering a churchyard and passing over the graves of the

dead, was caused by the presence of a gas in small quantities, evolved

from the decaying remains beneath the feet. Then there were gases which

upon inhalation caused a profound slumber; others which had precisely

an opposite result, and made the patient lively and brisk; and others

which rendered the person who took them perfectly insensible to

surgical operations.

Marese, a man who had never paid the least regard to science, was

deeply struck with these facts, with which the veriest tyro in

chemistry is well acquainted. But he did what no tyro or even advanced

student would perhaps have done—he applied his discovery—for so it was

to him—to his own circumstances.

There are, says Bacon, three modes of reading—one to pass away an idle

hour, one to acquire a knowledge of a subject, and the third and the

most advantageous method is always to keep your own ends in view, and

to apply everything to your object.

In these gases Marese found his desideratum. His engine of destruction

burst upon his mind, as it were, complete in a moment. Some such

poisonous gas should be shipped on board these vessels, closely

confined in a box or other receptacle, and at the proper moment

liberated, to spread throughout the steamer a subtle vapour which no

man could see coming, and against which strength, skill, and discipline

would be perfectly powerless.

Theodore, looking up, saw a change upon Marese’s countenance, and

immediately knew that something had occurred to him. The heir was pale

as death; his own conception, so ghastly and treacherous, filled him

with a nameless horror at the same moment that he never hesitated in

his purpose.

After a while he took up a pen and added to his already written

premises the conclusion—his idea in a few brief sentences—and handed it

to Theodore. He left it to Theodore to select the gas, and to arrange

the mechanical details. He had sown the seed, the other must patiently

tend it. And the other did patiently tend it; and this is what it grew

to.

The name of the gas which Theodore at last, after much thought, fixed

upon shall not be here disclosed; for although it is well-known to

chemists, and any one who can read could easily find it, there is no

knowing what imitations might not spring up if they were aware of the

means being so ready at hand.

Though suicide is such a simple and obvious expedient in difficulties,

yet there are scores who do not commit it because they never think of

it. If some kind friend suggested the pistol or the knife they would at

once employ it.

Gas had one property which rendered it peculiarly fitted for the

purpose in view. Being elastic, it could be compressed to a great

extent, and thus an immense volume might be contained in a small

compass. Therefore the case or receptacle to hold the vapour poison

need not be of large dimensions; and this was a matter of some

importance.

The gas chosen was not in any way explosive; on the contrary, it had

the property of extinguishing any light which was placed in it—there

was thus no danger of any accidental circumstance causing an explosion

at an awkward moment. It was absolutely safe—the operator ran no risk,

provided always that he did not inhale the vapour.

Theodore sketched out a case about three feet square, which was to be

formed of an outer box of deal, and an inner skin of thin iron. Into

this case, which would be tolerably strong, he proposed to pump a vast

volume of gas, taking care that the pressure should not exceed the

power of the box to withstand. The aperture through which it had been

pumped was then to be hermetically sealed with molten lead.

The greatest difficulty was to provide for the escape of the devilish

vapour at the proper moment; and this caused the projectors much

reflection. Clockwork was objectionable; it was liable to injury from

jars and shakes. Cases of this character, which looked strong and

substantial, and would be placed in the hold, would be certain to

receive the roughest of usage.

At one time he conceived the idea of relying upon the cupidity of the

seamen. It was suspected that many of the accidents which had taken

place at sea, and caused the destruction of hundreds by fire, had

arisen through dishonest seamen or _employés_ on board going at night

with a candle into the compartment where valuable goods were stowed,

and dropping sparks.

Why not utilise this propensity? Mark the case “watches,” “jewellery,”

or “bullion,” cause it to be surrounded with a certain amount of

mystery and precaution enough to engender suspicion; and leave the rest

to the chisel and drill of the would-be thief.

But this, though clever, was too uncertain. Another idea which occurred

to him was to have a wooden case only, but a strong one, and to confine

in a small hole prepared for the purpose one of the boring insects,

which in a certain time would be sure to eat its way through and leave

an aperture.

This, too, was more ingenious than practicable. He was delayed for a

time. Accident solved the difficulty. Passing through the streets, he

was stopped by a crowd which had collected around a quack doctor.

“See,” cried the vendor of patent vegetable pills, “here is the horrid

stuff the allopathists, the doctors and physicians sell to you at high

prices. Here is a common drug used by them in this phial. I will pour

some of the liquid upon the hard stone pavement—just see how it acts

upon the granite, and then guess how your wretched stomachs must be

abused.”

He poured it on the stone—the crowd pressed forward, and saw it eat a

hole. “Aquafortis,” thought Theodore, and the idea was his—aquafortis

was the agent he wanted.

He passed on, and left the crowd thoroughly convinced of the tricks

played by the medical faculty, and purchasing largely of the vegetable

pills. Theodore had found a substance which would eat through his iron

and wood cases, and leave an aperture—a substance, too, whose action

was equal, and could be regulated to a sufficiently accurate extent.

Upon reflection, however, and after making several experiments, he did

not employ ordinary aquafortis, but another acid equally powerful, and

which was still more regular in its action. He tried the experiment

time after time, till at last he obtained the proper strength, and

fixed the requisite amount of acid to eat through a given thickness of

iron and wood in a certain time. He repeated the experiment till he was

absolutely certain of the result.

The plan had now grown delightfully clear and well-defined—the infernal

machine became of the simplest construction. All that had to be done

was to place the acid in the case confined in a small and very thin

copper vessel (lined with an enamel to resist it), which was to be

screwed to one side of the case, then pump the gas in, hermetically

seal it, heave the whole thing on board the steamer, and leave it to

work its way. Delightfully simple!

He called Marese to look over his drawings, and to witness his

experiments with the acid. Marese was enchanted; his confidence in

Theodore’s scientific resources was confirmed. There was, however, one

question he asked—Was the gas so strong and so poisonous that the small

quantity confined in a case three feet square would destroy a whole

ship’s company? Would not the gas escape, rise up, and dissipate itself

through the port-holes, up the hatchways, and be further weakened by

the breezes that blew and caused draught in various places between

decks? These ocean steamers were very roomy.

Theodore was delighted to have an opportunity of explaining the

properties and nature of the vapour to his friend. The peculiarity of

this gas was that, although an invisible fluid, it was extremely

heavy—it was heavier far than atmospheric air. He easily proved that a

gas might be heavier than air by a well-known experiment with a vapour

(not the one to be used in this case) which he poured out of a glass

phial over a candle. The invisible gas descended and extinguished the

candle; There was not the slightest chance of the poison-vapour

escaping quickly through ports or up hatchways. It would, as it were,

cling to the vessel. The pressure inside the case would cause it to

issue rapidly from the aperture eaten out by the acid. It would then

diffuse itself laterally, and gradually penetrate into every crevice

and corner of the ship. The effect would be that one by one every

person on board would inhale it, and in an instant, let the quantity

breathed be never so small, down he would drop, or grow rigid as he

sat—unconscious was the word Theodore used as an euphemism for death.

He did not mention another effect it would have, lest the horror of it

should cause even Marese to falter.

Theodore traced out the probable course of events on board the fated

vessel. First, the persons working or living in the cabins and places

nearest the case would feel the effect and succumb. Then there would be

alarm and excitement—others would rush to the spot, and they would

immediately fall, just as the birds and beast did who entered those

fatal caves abroad. One man on board, perhaps, might detect the

cause—the surgeon, or any doctor who chanced to be a passenger—and

might cry out to man the boats and escape; but who, in the hurry and

excitement, would heed him?—he would not have time to escape himself,

much less to explain the danger to others. It was doubtful whether even

so much as a signal of distress would be hoisted. The crew, the

officers, the passengers would be so completely puzzled, so utterly at

their wit’s end, that no course would suggest itself to them before it

was too late.

In this respect the gas had an immense advantage over any apparatus

which would set the ship on fire. Let the fire be never so rapid, one

boat at least might get away, and on that boat the very person whom it

was most desirable should seek the floor of the ocean. Moreover, fire

could be seen from a vast distance, and might attract attention from

other vessels, who by day would observe the smoke, and by night the

glare of the flames.

But in this case probably not so much as a flag would be hoisted. One

by one the seamen and passengers, the captain and officers, would

succumb to the invisible vapour, first becoming weak and helpless, and

next “unconscious.” The steersman would fall at the wheel. The engineer

would drop at his engine; the stoker as he shovelled up the coal; the

passenger would lie in his berth. And the steamer, so long as the fuel

in the furnace lasted, would pursue her way unguided over the waves;

finally, after a few hours, to float a derelict at the mercy of the

wind.

There was a completeness, a finish, an elaboration of detail about this

scheme which fascinated the conspirators. It was so novel, daring, and

yet safe, it enchanted them. When at last the great horror was

discovered, what risk would there be? Nothing on board would excite

suspicion. The gas had actually no smell; besides, long before anything

was discovered, it would have dissipated itself.

Even if the whole of the cargo was examined, the case itself would

offer, no handle to an inquirer. The powerful acid would have eaten its

way out, and nothing would be left but a small empty case with a hole

in it. Nothing need show who consigned the case. Better still: Marese’s

yacht would follow the doomed steamer, keeping close on pretence of the

safety of having company in a voyage across the Atlantic.

They would easily know when the desired result was obtained by the view

of the steamer rolling helplessly in the trough of the waves. By the

time that was the case some hours would have elapsed after the

catastrophe, and various pretences could be arranged to avoid

immediately proceeding on board—especially as from a distance nothing

would look the matter—and by then the poisonous vapour would have

dissipated itself, or so mixed with the air as to have lost its fatal

power. They would then take charge of the vessel and bring it into

port, and claim the salvage.

If they contrived to select a vessel which carried a valuable cargo,

that salvage money would be something extremely large in amount, added

to the value of the steamer itself. They might manoeuvre to get such a

cargo stored. This would be far superior to the clumsy dodge of sinking

the ship and claiming the insurance money.

As to getting the case on board, it was as easy as could be. Having

proceeded to New York in Marese’s yacht, taking with them the necessary

apparatus for producing the gas (which was very simple), and pumping it

into the case, they could ascertain the hour of the steamer’s

departure, fill the case, regulate the acid for say four, or perhaps

three days, and send it on board only a little while before she

started. They would then, on board the yacht, proceed to sea on a

cruise and keep the steamer in sight.

Delightfully simple! Perfectly complete and scientific in every detail!

Marese once again asked if the gas was really so powerful? Theodore

referred to his note-books, and showed him an extract from a newspaper

not of so very remote a date, wherein it was stated that at a

conference of the various leading European Powers it had been resolved

not to employ certain implements in warfare, such as explosive shells

or bullets under a certain size, and poisonous gases or vapours which

could be thrown into a fortress or town in shells. Marese was

convinced, and regarded the engine as perfect.

Thus did two men deliberately plan out the destruction of several

hundreds of their fellow-beings without one single thought or

reflection upon the misery and suffering they would cause, or upon the

intrinsic villainy of the act.

Well was it suggested by a French thinker that certain natures are

incapable of feeling, incapable of remorse so long as they remain

“faithful to the logic of their type”—i.e. faithful to their own

selfish interests and passions.

Chapter Fifteen.

With his own hands Theodore constructed the infernal machine and

prepared the materials for generating the deadly vapour at the shortest

notice. This, the first part of the scheme, having been settled, there

remained two great difficulties to overcome. The first was to get the

claimants on board one vessel—travelling in a body; and the second was

to secure their passage by a steamer carrying a valuable cargo, so as

to increase the gain of salvage money to the utmost.

It was not easy to manage the first matter; the latter Marese thought

he saw his way through. It happened just then that the payment of the

war indemnity to Germany caused a great drain of gold from this

country; the value of the precious metals consequently rose, and the

imports increased to meet the demand. Gold and silver came in large

quantities from New York, both in coin and bullion—especially silver.

Marese intended to take advantage of this fact. By means of certain

Stock Exchange operations, with which he was perfectly familiar, having

employed them previously on several occasions, he arranged that a very

large amount of bullion should be transmitted to London from New York

by the splendid steamer _Lucca_, due to start on December 3rd.

It must be understood that this bullion was not to be despatched to

Marese, and that he did not appear in the transaction as having any

direct connection with it. He had, in fact, arranged to lose a small

sum of money, in order to render the importation of bullion

particularly profitable in the week ending December 17th—profitable not

to him, but to those speculators who deal in precious metal just as

others do in corn or calico. Marese omitted no precaution, Spared no

pains, and used the whole of his natural and acquired cunning to render

this operation a certainty.

The next thing was to tempt the claimants to travel by the steamer

_Lucca_. After considerable hesitation, Marese at last determined to

open negotiations with the leading men amongst them. He did not do this

in his own person, but through his solicitors. It was represented to

the managers of the Baskette and Sibbold Lodges that really their

claims and the interests of the heir—i.e. Marese—were not so divergent

as had been supposed. The heir was quite as much excluded from the

enjoyment of the property as they were, and finding the building

societies determined, by every means in their power, to put off the day

when they must yield up possession, he wished to make common cause

against these companies.

Nor was this statement altogether fictitious. The idea of strengthening

the hands of the claimants, and making common cause with them, had

often occurred to Marese, for the sole purpose of taking the weapons of

the companies out of their hands, as Aurelian had advised.

No sooner was this overture on the part of the heir received in America

than both Lodges at once responded, and without a moment’s hesitation

fell into the snare laid for them. To us, who are acquainted with the

infamous designs of Marese, such conduct seems almost senile; but it

must be remembered that these men on the other side of the Atlantic had

not the slightest suspicion of the deadly engine which had been

preparing.

To some extent the sudden overture of the heir caused a cessation of

hostilities between the two Lodges, and when Marese’s second offer

arrived they held a species of jubilee. This offer was nothing less

than to convey the whole of the claimants at his own expense, and added

that he had already notified to the owners of the _Lucca_ that he might

require the entire passage accommodation, or nearly, of that vessel. To

the Americans this came as an immense boon. There were many of them

comparatively poor men, to whom the cost of the voyage was a serious

matter, and who had already begun to hesitate at the prospect before

them.

The diabolical foresight of Marese and Theodore had guessed as much.

They said to each other, “Half the claimants will not come—only those

who are tolerably well off. Then what will be the use of our scheme? We

shall destroy only a few, and from the remaining individuals a new crop

will spring up to vex us. We must get them all—all!”

This offer was accepted with a _fanfaronnade_ of gratitude. It had one

inestimable advantage—it secured the passage of the claimants by the

vessel Marese had chosen. The enthusiasm on the other side of the

Atlantic was raised to its highest pitch when the heir announced his

intention of coming to New York in his yacht, to see that the

arrangements, for his friends were properly carried out.

Preparations were at once made to give him an ovation. The authorities

of New York city gave orders to do him honour. The papers published

biographies of “this distinguished man, upon whom the eyes of all the

world were fixed,” and who had lately “covered himself with glory by

displaying a grand generosity towards the offshoots of the parent

stem.”

It often happens that in America the descendants of particular families

are gathered in and around certain districts, where they form the main

part of the population. This was the case with the Baskettes and

Sibbolds. The Baskettes chiefly inhabited Caben, a small township west

of Philadelphia, and the Sibbolds were mostly to be found at Tandanap,

near the shores of Lake Michigan. Numbers of both tribes of course were

scattered over the whole country, but these were the strongholds. To

suit both parties, and to tend to remove the jealousies which had so

long raged, it was arranged that all should meet at Imola, a place

about midway and within a hundred and twenty miles of New York, about a

week previous to the embarkation.

At Imola (named after a Continental town) there resided perhaps the

wealthiest member of the Baskette and Sibbold tribes, for he could

claim relationship with both—he offered hospitality to them all; and in

return it was agreed that this Reginald Bunker Sibbold Baskette, Esq,

should be instituted the leader or president of the expedition. After

the mobilisation of the forces at Imola, the army was to move on New

York on the 2nd December, and embark the same evening on board the

_Lucca_ steamship.

The whole scheme was now complete, and extremely promising it looked;

everything had turned out well. Marese had ascertained by secret

inquiries that the bullion had been ordered, and that the owners of the

_Lucca_ had contracted, under a heavy bond, to deliver it at a certain

date. The Lodges had, for a time at least, fused their differences. The

engine of destruction was finished, together with a duplicate in case

of accident. How extremely simple it looked! Nothing in the world but a

strong deal box, apparently nailed together in the usual manner, about

a yard square, or a little less. Just such a box as a seaman or

passenger, if it chanced to lie about, would choose to sit down on and

smoke a pipe. The rough deal planks of which it was made were not even

planed smooth—simply a strong packing-case. The conspirators

congratulated themselves upon the approaching execution of their

schemes, and the success which seemed certain to attend them.

But now Theodore discovered a serious oversight. Reading through

Aurelian’s papers a second time, he came upon that passage which

detailed all that could be learnt of the descendants of Arthur Sibbold.

This Arthur, Aurelian wrote, or his descendants, was the most dangerous

of all. He was the man who ought to have succeeded to the farm which

James Sibbold took possession of. James, or James’s sons, had not the

slightest right to dispose of the farm to Sternhold Baskette; they were

selling what did not belong to them. Arthur was of course dead, but

Arthur’s heirs still lived; and then followed the address and further

particulars.

These heirs were at present quiet; but if they discovered the register

of Arthur’s marriage, Aurelian could not see what was to prevent them

from putting in a claim far superior either to Marese’s or to that of

any other person. Even if they could not get possession, the Courts

would certainly order an immense sum to be paid to them, as

compensation; and Aurelian thought himself that nothing in the world

could prevent them taking the property which stood on the site of the

farm, if not the Swamp. The property on the site of the farm, he

thought, must go.

“Now,” said Theodore, “what is the use of destroying the American

claimants _en masse_ if this even greater danger is to be allowed to

remain close at home, within easy reach of the estate, ready at any

moment to burst upon us and render nugatory all our risk and labour?”

Marese was thunderstruck. For a time it seemed that their enemies were

hydra-headed—no sooner was one head cut off than three sprouted up in

the place. But the man was not one to be daunted. This also must be

done, he said. They had not much time now to lose. It was already the

middle of September, and a fortnight must be reckoned for the passage

of the yacht to New York. They spent anxious days and nights

considering a variety of plans. There is not time to unravel the

strange mazes of the mind and trace the genesis of the idea which at

last suggested itself to Theodore. It was only one degree less

ingenious, and if anything still more horrible, than the infernal

machine of Marese.

Theodore still continued the asylum at Stirmingham. It was an important

source of income, in fact. In that asylum there were confined lunatics

of all degrees of insanity, most of them having wealthy friends, and

some the representatives of large properties. Among these was one more

remarkable than the rest. He was the representative of a long line of

lunatics, or semi-lunatics. Popular tradition accused a progenitor

living two centuries before of a crime too dark to be mentioned, and

believed that the lunacy of his descendants was a special punishment

from heaven. This particular individual had seemed tolerably sane till

he was permitted to marry—a cruel thing. He then rapidly developed his

inherited tendencies, living as a married man, left more free from

restraint by friends and others.

Though the owner of broad acres and lovely woodlands, he delighted in

the society of tinkers, and was himself a clever hand at mending pots

and kettles. He had such a fancy for tinkering that he actually

promenaded the country for miles in company with gipsies, calling at

the farmhouses—on his own tenants—asking for things to mend.

He was also absurdly fond of dogs, and filled the house with

them—especially the large mastiff breed, of which he was particularly

enraptured, till no one could approach it, and his poor wife was

frightened out of her senses. Tinkering, fondling these dogs, and

playing the tin whistle occupied his time. His money he scattered far

and wide among the gipsies, pedlars, and tinkers, and gave enormous

sums for the pure-bred mastiffs.

The countenance of the man expressed the most intense melancholy—that

hopeless incurable vacancy of look which is seen on the features of

some monkeys while in captivity. His face, and the shape of his head,

in fact, much resembled a monkey’s; and the ears protruding from the

side of the skull, very large and ill-formed, completed the

resemblance. He had a favourite resort in one of the woods surrounding

the family mansion. Through this wood there ran a stream, and a tree

had fallen across it, making a natural bridge.

On this tree, over the stream, he would perch himself astride, his feet

nearly in the water, and play for hours upon the tin whistle, while his

troop of dogs disported in the woods around. He had a wonderful

instinct of music, and really played in a marvellous manner upon this

simple instrument, exhibiting skill even in the choice of the

whistle—for it is difficult to find one that has a mellow tone.

The spectacle of this being, sitting on the tree trunk in the gloom of

the woods, his long legs dangling down to the water, with his

melancholy baboon face, performing extraordinary fantasias upon a tin

whistle, could hardly be matched.

But he was as cunning as he was mad. Probably from his companions, the

gipsies, he had learnt that his ancestors had all been confined in the

madhouse. He had sufficient sense to foresee that the moment a son was

born to his wife he would himself be confined. But, with the inherent

insanity of his nature, he thought that by killing the wife or the son

he should escape this danger.

So soon as ever the wretched wife’s confinement approached he slew

her—and slew her in true fantastic fashion. With his tinker’s hammer he

drove a nail into her head as she slept. He fled from the place, but

was captured; and that was the last time Odo Lechester used his

tinker’s hammer for some time to come. The dreadful deed, the sight of

blood, had developed in him the homicidal tendency—he tried hard to

stab his captors. In Aurelian’s asylum at Stirmingham he desperately

wounded a warder.

This was the being Theodore selected for his purpose. The man had made

many violent attempts to escape—he was like a wild beast in a cage,

pacing to and fro.

Theodore went down to Stirmingham to his private residence, which

adjoined the asylum, to prepare his tool for the deed. It was easy for

him, as a physician and the owner of the establishment, to have full

and private access to Odo Lechester. He had a fortnight for his task.

In that time he succeeded in impressing upon Odo’s mind that the

persons whose name and address he gave him were those who were

responsible for his confinement.

It was not his (Theodore’s) fault that he was confined—it was the fault

of these persons, and upon them the punishment should fall. The man

imbibed the idea thoroughly: he brooded over revenge if ever he should

get free. His one-sided mind became absorbed in two great overmastering

passions—to revenge his captivity, and to recover his favourite dogs.

Theodore assured him that if ever these persons were out of the way he

would be at once reinstalled in his position, and might wander at his

sweet will, tinkering and playing his whistle.

Theodore’s plan was to let this irresponsible murderer out at large

upon the world. The obnoxious persons would be removed, and no one

could be punished. He arranged for the escape of Odo Lechester at about

the date he and Marese would start for New York.

Their plans were now complete. Theodore, in order to obtain the

lunatic’s goodwill, had restored to him his whistle; and he roamed to

and fro in the court of the asylum, examining the high walls, stone by

stone, for a crevice of escape, while his rapid fingers manipulated

interminable airs of the merriest kind.

When the engineer approached the ancient Swamp with his level and

theodolite, and was followed by an army of workmen in short corduroys

and slops, who cleared away the rushes and bull-polls, swept off the

willow-beds and watercress, drove the waterfowl away and plucked up the

reeds and sedges, then the water-rat knew that his time was come. The

teeth that had nibbled away at the willow-tree root till it fell and

blocked up the stream, would nibble no more. The nimble feet and black

eyes would be seen no more biding among the flags, or plunging out of

sight into the water as a footstep was heard.

The lake which the water-rat had made, with its islands and its

cotters, was in its way useful, and not altogether despicable. The poor

basket-makers, humble as they were, made good and useful baskets,

mended pots and pans, split good clothes-pegs, and injured no man till

Sibbold fired that fatal shot.

From that hour a curse seemed to hang over the place. A vast city, full

of seething human life, had taken the place of the swamp and the

bullrushes; the hearths of the poor cotters were gone, and huge hotels,

club-houses, theatres, were there instead. Progress and

development—yes; but with development came crime.

Under that overgrown city there extended a system of tunnels,

sewers—some large enough to drive a horse and cart down them, others

hardly large enough to admit the band. But they extended everywhere.

Under the busy street, under the quiet office where the only sound was

the scratching of the pen, or the buzz of a fly “in th’ pane;” under

the gay theatre and the gossiping club-house there was not a spot that

was not undermined.

And in these subterranean catacombs there dwelt a race nearly as

numerous as the human hive above, who worked and gnawed in the dark;

they were the domains of the successors of the little furred creatures

which nibbled down the ancient willow tree. The grey sewer-rat worked

and multiplied exceedingly beneath this mighty city. The grey rat was

worse than the water-rat.

He had his human prototypes. What were Marese and Theodore but

sewer-rats working in secret, in the dark underground, out of sight,

whose presence could hardly be detected by a faint occasional

scratching or rustle?

Beside these there were a numerous company of lesser men and masculine

brutes, and female fiends, burrowing, fighting in the dark places of

this mighty city, whose presence was made known at times by faint

sounds of shrieking or devilish glee which rose up, as it were, from

the bowels of the earth. The reign of the harmless water-rat was over.

The rule of the sewer-rat was now in full force.

End of Volume One.

Book II.—Persons.

Chapter One.

Forty-three miles as the crow flies, south of Stirmingham, there stands

upon the lonely Downs a solitary, lichen-grown post, originally

intended to direct wayfarers upon those trackless wastes.

In winter, when the herbage, always short, was shortest, and when the

ground was softened by rain, there might be detected the ruts left by

waggon wheels crossing each other in various directions; but road, or

path properly so-called, there was none, and a stranger might as well

have been placed on the desert of the Sahara. For time, and the rain

blown with tremendous force across these open Downs by the wind, had

all but obliterated the painted letters upon the cross-arms, and none

but those acquainted with the country could have understood the

fragmentary inscriptions.

Some mischievous ploughboys or shepherd lads, tired of arranging flints

in fanciful rows, or cutting their names upon the turf, had improved

the shining hour by climbing up this post, pulling out the arms, and

inserting them in the opposite mortices, thereby making the poor post

an unwitting liar. This same section of the population had also

energetically pelted all the milestones for far around with flints,

till the graven letters upon them were beaten out. Such wooden wit was

their only resource in a place where _Punch_ never penetrated; for this

lonesome spot was appropriately named World’s End, or, it was locally

pronounced, Wurdel’s End.

The undulating downs surrounded it upon every side, dotted here and

there at long distances with farmsteads and a few cottages, and now and

then a small village or hamlet of ten or a dozen houses grouped

together in a “combe,” or narrow valley, where there happened to be a

spring of water and a “bourne” or stream. Yet World’s End was not

altogether to be despised. In this out-of-the-way place there was

perhaps the finest natural racecourse in England, to which the uneven

uphill course at Epsom, made famous by the Derby, was but an exercise

ground.

A level stretch of sweet, elastic turf, half a mile wide, ran in a line

something like half a horse-shoe, under the steep Downs, for a distance

of two miles, unimpeded by hedge, ditch, or enclosed field, and

obstructed only in a few spots by thick bushes of furze and a few

scattered hawthorn trees.

A spectator standing upon the Downs had the whole of this Plain, as it

was called, at once under his eye; could see a horse start and watch it

gallop to the goal. From an ancient earthwork camp or “castle,” this

Down was known as Berbury Hill, and the level plain was often called

Berbury racecourse.

For from time immemorial rustic sports, and local races between the

horses of the neighbouring farmers, had taken place twice a year under

the Berbury Hill. The sports were held in the early spring; the races

proper, according to custom, came off in October. They were of the most

primitive character, as may be judged from the following poster, which

the kindness of a printer and bookbinder at Barnham—the nearest

town—enables us to present to the reader. He had preserved a copy of

it, having returned the original to the committee, who sat at the

Shepherd’s Bush Inn upon the Downs:—

“Take Notiss. The Public is hereby Invite to the Grand open and Hurdle

Rases and Steple-Chaces at Wurdel’s End which is to come off on Wensday

after old Michelmuss Day. All particlars of the Stewards which is

Martin Brown, William Smith, Philip Lewis, Ted Pontin. Illegul Beting

is stoped.”

This copy had in the corner, “Please print two Score and send by

Carrier,” and the unfortunate printer, ashamed to issue such a

circular, sent it back with an amended form for approval; but the

carrier forgot the letter, and it was not delivered till a week after

the event—not that much was lost by the failure to give this species of

publicity to the races. The day was well-known to all those who were

likely to attend. The half-dozen gipsies, with the cocoanut sticks and

gingerbread stall, duly arrived, and took up their quarters in a fir

copse where the ground was dry, and the tree-trunks sheltered them

somewhat from the breeze which always blows over the Downs.

Most of the spectators were hill men. There still lingers the old feud

between the hill and vale—not so fierce, toned down to an occasional

growl—but Nature herself seems to have provided a never-ceasing ground

of quarrel. These two races, the hill and the vale men, must always put

up opposing prayers to heaven. The vale prays for fine and dry weather;

the hill prays for wet. How then can they possibly agree? Not more than

three knots of men and half a dozen wenches came up from the vale, and

these gave pretty good evidence that they had called _en route_ at the

Shepherd’s Bush, for they were singing in chorus the lament of the

young woman who went to the trysting place to meet her faithless

swain:—

But what was there to make her sad?

The gate was there, but not the lad;

Which made poor Mary to sigh and to say

Young William shan’t be mine!

The committee were in a moveable shepherd’s hut on wheels, where also

was the weighing-room and the weights, some of which were stone

“quarters.”

Just where the judges post was erected the course was roped for a

hundred yards to ensure the horses arriving at the right place, but

otherwise it was open. By the side of these ropes the traps and

four-wheelers and ramshackle gigs of the farmers were drawn up, with

their wives and daughters, who had come to see the fun.

Among these there was one pony-carriage drawn by two handsome ponies,

with a peacock’s feather behind their ears and silver bells on the

harness, which, simple enough in itself, had a stylish look beside

these battered and worn-out vehicles. It belonged to Jason Waldron, who

was generally credited with “Esquire” after his name, and the lady who

sat alone in it was his daughter Violet. Mr Waldron was not there.

Violet was attended by a young man, plainly dressed, very pale, whose

slight frame gave him an effeminate appearance in contrast with the

burly forms, and weather-beaten faces of those acquaintances who from

time to time nodded and spoke as they passed. The pony-carriage was

drawn up under an ancient hawthorn tree, whose gnarled and twisted

trunk, slow in growth, may have witnessed the formation of the

entrenchment on the hill by the Britons themselves. The first frosts of

autumn had blackened the leaves, and the mingling of the grey of the

trunk and its lichen with the dark colour of the leaves and the red

peggles or berries, under a warm, glowing, mellow sunshine, caused the

tree to assume a peculiar bronze-like tint.

It may be that the sun in all his broad domains did not shine that day

upon a more lovely being than Violet Waldron. Aymer Malet, the young

man at her side—whose Norman name ill-assorted with his coarse

garments, too plainly speaking of poverty—would have sworn that her

equal did not walk the earth, and he would have had good warrant for

his belief.

Poor Aymer was out of place in that rude throng, and tormented himself

with fears lest he should appear despicable in her eyes, as so inferior

to those stalwart men in size and strength. He should have known

better; but he was young and had lived so long with those who despised

him that a habit of self-depreciation had insensibly grown upon him. It

is needless to go back into his pedigree. He was well descended, but an

orphan and friendless, except for the single uncle who had given a roof

and a bed to lie on to his sister’s child.

Martin Brown was a well-meaning man, honest and sturdy, but totally

incapable of comprehending that all men are not absorbed in sheep and

turnips. He was moderately well off, but, like all true farmers, frugal

to the extreme. Never a penny did Aymer get from him. Martin would have

said: “Thee doesn’t work; thee doesn’t even mind a few ewes. If thee’ll

go bird-keeping I’ll pay thee.”

Aymer wished for work, but not work of that class. He remembered one

golden year spent in London with a friend of his dead father (who had

lost his all by horse-racing), where he was permitted to read at will

in a magnificent library, and was supplied with money to visit those

art-galleries and collections in which his heart delighted. The friend

died; the widow had no interest in him, and Aymer returned to the

turnips, and sheep. But even in that brief period the impulse had been

given; the seed had been sown and had fallen in fertile ground, which

gave increase a hundredfold.

The boy—he was but twenty then—was a born genius. He could not help it;

it would force him on. What he wanted was books. He could get no money

to purchase them; circulating libraries had not yet established

agencies upon the open Downs. By a strange contradiction he became a

poacher, and the cleverest hand at setting a wire for miles. Tenants

were not allowed to shoot in that district, but they might course hares

as much as they pleased.

Aymer wired the ground game, sold them to the carriers who went by, and

through the carriers got books slowly and one by one from the county

town. In this way he bought many of Bohn’s fine series—the finest and

most useful, perhaps, ever issued—he read Plato and Aristotle, Livy,

Xenophon—the poets, the philosophers, the dramatists of ancient Rome

and Greece; and although it was not in their original tongue, the vivid

imagination of the man carried him back to their day, and enabled him

to realise those stirring scenes, to feel their passions, and

comprehend their arguments. He bought also most of the English poets, a

few historians, and a large number of scientific works, for he was

devoured with an eager curiosity to understand the stars that shone so

brilliantly upon those hills—the phenomena of Nature with which he was

brought in daily contact. When he had mastered a book, his friends the

carriers, who called at the Shepherd’s Bush, took it back to the county

town and resold it for half-price, and these small sums went towards

fresh purchases.

It may have been that these very untoward circumstances which would, to

all appearance, have checked the growth of his mind, actually tended to

assist it. He saw—he felt Nature. The wind, that whistled through the

grass and sighed in the tops of the dark fir trees, spoke to him in a

mystic language. The great sun, in unclouded splendour slowly passing

over the wide, endless hills, told him a part of the secret. His books

were not read, in the common sense of the term: they were _thought_

through. Not a sentence but was thought over, examined, and its full

meaning grasped and firmly imprinted on the memory.

Poor Aymer! How desperately he longed to escape! How the soft summer

breeze seemed to woo him onwards he knew not whither! How the sun

seemed to beckon, till he fancied he could hear the echo of the surge

as it roared on the far-distant beach!

He did escape once—only for a little while, to be forced ignominiously

back again, amid the jeers of his acquaintances. This happened before

he knew Violet. By dint of catching hares and rabbits, and by selling

off an accumulation of books, and by disposing of his gold watch—his

only property—he managed to get some twenty pounds, and with that sum

went straight to Florence.

It was in spring, just before the warm summer comes, and he revelled in

the beauty of Italian skies and landscapes as he travelled. But his

destination was the Palazzo, which contains the statue of ideal woman,

known as the Venus de Medici. He stood before the living marble, rapt

in thought, and then suddenly burst into tears.

This was perhaps childish. He had his faults; he was extremely proud

and oversensitive. The sudden transition from the harsh and rude life

at World’s End, among the weather-beaten and rough-speaking rustics, to

this new world of inexpressible beauty, overcame him. Hastily he

brushed those tears away, and recovered himself; but not so quickly as

to escape the observation of two sad grey eyes. Inadvertently, as he

stood before the statue, he had interfered with the line of sight of a

lady who was engaged in sketching. She had paused, and noticing his

rapt attention, made no sign that he had interrupted her work. Thus she

witnessed his weakness; and being a person of a thoughtful, perhaps too

thoughtful, turn, she wondered at and pondered over it.

Day by day Aymer, while his funds lasted and he could stay in Florence,

came and stood before the statue, lingering for hours in its close

vicinity; so that the artist, as she sketched, had the fullest

opportunity of noting the strong contrast between his delicate,

intellectual features and slight, tall frame, and the coarse dress he

wore. Growing interested, she instructed her attendants to make

inquiries, and they easily elicited the name of the stranger, and the

place from which he had come.

By a curious coincidence, it so happened that the lady-artist herself

was the owner of a family mansion, and moderately large estate but a

few miles from Aymer’s home. He was, in fact, perfectly familiar with

her name, which was a household word at World’s End, where

distinguished names were few; but moving in his low sphere he had never

seen her face.

Lady Lechester—Agnes Lechester to her friends—was “lord of herself,

that heritage of woe,” and being of an artistic turn of mind, had spent

much of her time upon the Continent; another reason being certain

unhappy matters connected with the history of the family mansion. She

was much struck with the singularity of a mere lad of low and poor

estate thus coming to Florence, obviously from pure love of the

beautiful. Nothing approaching to affection sprang up in her mind; it

must be distinctly understood that her interest was of a different

character entirely. But from that moment Aymer unconsciously became the

subject of a certain amount of surveillance. He deemed himself despised

and unnoticed by all; but there was one who had not forgotten him.

Those happy days in lovely Florence passed like a dream. Even by living

on a few fruits and a little bread alone, the scanty stock of money he

had carried with him could not be made to last for ever. Barely a month

of pure, unalloyed pleasure—pure in every sense of the term—and poor

Aymer, who knew not how to get employment in a foreign city, was

obliged to return, and Agnes Lechester saw him no more standing in rapt

admiration before the famous statue.

Aymer reached Dover with five shillings in his pocket, and walked the

whole of the distance, one hundred and fifty miles, to World’s End,

often sleeping out at night under a rick. Slight as he was in frame, he

possessed considerable power of enduring fatigue, and had a way of

lounging idly along the road, abstracted in thought, and so walking

mile after mile, till he woke up at his destination.

They laughed him to scorn at World’s End. The poor fellow wandered

about in the daytime on the Downs, hiding in the fir copses, lying on

the ancient earthwork entrenchment, and dreaming of his fair Florence,

so many hundreds of miles away. He grew dejected and hopeless till he

saw Violet. Then in time, the very destiny he deemed so harsh in

confining him to that rude spot seemed even superior to the glorious

possibilities he had hoped for. For Violet took the place of the marble

goddess; yet there never was a beauty less like the Venus de Medici.

Lovely as are the ideals men have created for themselves, it sometimes

happens that Nature presents us with a rare gem, surpassing those cold

conceptions of the mind as far as the sun is above the earth.

Chapter Two.

Violet returned from a long visit to friends near London just about the

time that Aymer reached home, weary and footsore, from Dover. Although

The Place, as Jason Waldron’s house was called, was but two miles from

World’s End, Aymer had never seen her. She was but rarely at home, for

Waldron had given her the best education money could buy, and this

necessitated much absence from her native hills. But, education and

visits over, Violet, with a happy heart, returned to the dear old home

at last.

It was on one lovely afternoon in May that Aymer saw her for the first

time. He was lying upon the ground hidden in the brake which grew round

the hedge of a fir copse on the Downs. Through this copse there ran a

narrow green lane or track. He was reading his favourite little book of

poetry—one that he always carried in his pocket—the tiny edition of

Shakespeare’s Poems and Sonnets, published by William James Brown,

thirty years since, and now out of print.

Somehow the spirit of those sonnets and that peculiar poetry had

penetrated into his mind. The little book was annotated on its narrow

margin with notes in his own handwriting, and he knew the greater part

of it by heart. He had just read the sonnet beginning—

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.

* * * * *

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As she belied with false compare,

when the sound of horse’s hoofs made him look up.

A lady, riding on a black horse, had entered the green lane, and was

passing slowly at a walk. It was Violet. Waldron. All that English

beauty which seemed to pervade the poetry of wonderful Will, to Aymer’s

fancy appeared to be hers. She passed him, and was gone, but her

presence was left behind.

Aymer could not have analysed her then—if asked, he could have barely

recounted the colour of her hair. Yet she dwelt with him—hovered about

him; he fed upon the remembrance of her until he had seen her again. By

slow degrees he grew to understand the reason of her surpassing

loveliness—to note the separate features, to examine the colours and

the lines that composed this enchanting picture. A new life dawned upon

him—a new worship, so to say.

It happened that Martin Brown had some business to transact with Jason

Waldron. Waldron bore the reputation of being a “scholard;” he was

known to be comparatively wealthy; he did not mix with the society of

World’s End; and he was held in some sort of awe by the rude and

uneducated residents in the locality.

Much as he despised that useless Aymer Malet, Martin in his secret

heart felt that he was better fitted to meet and talk with Mr Waldron

than himself. Aymer was, therefore, accredited to The Place. He went

with no little trepidation, knowing that it was Violet’s home, and

sharing to some extent the local hesitation to meet Waldron, who, being

an invalid, he had never seen. Mr Waldron received him with a cordial

courtesy, which quickly put him at his ease. When the grey-haired,

handsome old man, sitting in his Bath-chair in the shadow of a sycamore

tree, extended his hand and said: “I had some slight knowledge of your

father, Mr Malet—he came of a good family,” poor Aymer forgot his

coarse dress, and exhibited the bearing of a born gentleman. He could

not help admiring the garden in which he found his host. This evidently

genuine admiration pleased Waldron extremely, for the garden had been

the solace of his retired manhood, and of his helpless age. He began to

talk about it directly.