He lingered long with her that evening, longer than he had ever done

before; it was the last, perhaps, they should ever spend together in

that house, which was still very dear to them, notwithstanding the

tragedy it had witnessed. The time came at last when they must

separate. It was the saddest walk that night that he had ever had

across the Downs. They were enveloped in a thick mist—only instinct and

long use kept him in the path—an impenetrable gloom hung over him. Even

the fir trees were silent; there was no breeze to stir them, to produce

that low sighing sound that seems to mean so much to those who will

pause and listen.

The morrow was brighter; there was a little sunshine, clouded and

feeble, but still there was a little. It would be difficult to explain

the process by which it came about. There are means of communication

between persons without direct words. Thus it happened that almost by a

species of volition, Agnes Lechester, Violet, and Aymer, before the

hour to depart arrived, walked slowly and mournfully to the old, old

church, across the meadows by the well-worn path, which the morning’s

frost had left hard and dry. Since that terrible day Violet had never

been—she could not. But now, somehow, with this newly-found companion,

strengthened by two loving hearts, one on either side, it seemed to her

as if a holy peace might perhaps descend upon her if she could visit

her father’s tomb.

With her face hidden by a thick veil, the tears standing in her eyes,

the poor girl walked between them. Few words passed—silence was more

natural and fitting than speech. They met two or three persons, all of

whom knew Violet and Aymer; but these paid the homage to sorrow which

the rudest tender, and went by silently, raising their hats. No one

interrupted them; no one stared with vulgar curiosity. These three were

alone—alone with the memory of the dead. And strangely enough, all

three were orphans. It was Agnes Lechester who reminded them of that

fact as they stood before the tomb; it was, she said in a low voice,

another bond of union between them.

The inscription had not yet been put up; the slab was plain. Their

visit was very short; it was more than Violet could bear. The tomb was

just without the church. Agnes motioned to Aymer to leave them; he

walked away a few paces. Together the two women entered the church;

they were alone in the sacred edifice. With slow steps poor Violet,

leaning on Agnes’s arm and sobbing bitterly, walked up that very aisle,

over that very figure of the ancient knight in brass, past the antique

font—the very aisle where she had gone in all her wedding splendour

amid the admiration of the gathered crowd. And now she came again—came

with a stranger—in silence and sorrow, to kneel on the steps that led

up to the chancel to pray as best her throbbing heart would permit. Was

that prayer more for the living, or the dead?

Violet had been reared a Protestant in the Articles of the Church of

England, yet I question whether in that supreme moment her soul was not

fuller of prayer for him who had gone before, than for herself and

those who still lingered on earth. Those among us who can remember

bitter hours of agony, say truly for whom have _they_ prayed? Let us

not penetrate further into the sanctuary of sorrow.

The carriage rolled away, and Aymer was alone. He watched it go down

into the valley out of sight. He turned and ascended the Downs, not

daring to look back upon the old, old house. At the summit he could

command an extended view. Far away the white road ran up over a hill,

and he could see a black dot crawling slowly up it. He knew it was the

carriage; he watched it reach the top and disappear over the brow—then

she was gone.

For the first time since love had arisen in his heart he was separated

from her. It was true that it was not total separation. They were bound

together by ties which nothing could sever, and yet—the happy past was

gone, to return no more. He was at liberty to see her at The Towers;

Agnes Lechester had done her best to impress upon him that he could

come whenever he chose, and would be always welcome. But Aymer had the

vaguest ideas of what life with the upper ranks was like; he had a

vague shrinking from entering this house; he felt that he should be

restrained and at a loss. There could never be that free intercourse

between him and Violet that had existed. He felt in his heart that she

would never more return to The Place. The house was to be closed that

evening; would it ever be opened again?

He crushed back his despair as best he could, and went home to his

cold, lonely room at the Wick Farm. Martin grudged him a fire even.

Aymer crushed back his heart, and tried to work. It was very difficult.

When the hand and the body are numbed with physical cold, when the

heart is chilled with grief, it is hard indeed to call the fancy into

play and to amuse others. Was it not Goldsmith who wrote the “Vicar of

Wakefield” to pay the expenses of his parent’s funeral?

Perhaps no greater proof of his wonderful genius could be given than is

presented by that oft-repeated and simple anecdote. Only a transcendant

genius could have forced itself out under such miserable circumstances.

Aymer certainly had talent, perhaps even genius, but he had not yet

found his opportunity—he was not quite certain wherein his ability

really lay. All his efforts were tentative. They failed one and

all—failed just at the moment when what he most wanted was a little

encouragement. He did not spare himself; he worked the whole day,

saving only an hour put aside to walk upon the Downs for health’s sake.

He had still fifteen pounds remaining of the munificent, and anonymous

present he had received. This he husbanded with the utmost care; it was

his capital, his all. With it he formed schemes of reaching London, and

finding employment. He only waited till a work upon which he was now

engaged was finished before he started. Now Violet was gone, there was

no inducement to remain at World’s End; far better to go out and face

hard facts, and conquer them.

But as the days went by, and the work was half finished, a deadly

despair seemed to seize him. Of what use was it? Every slow post that

reached that almost forgotten spot returned to him work rejected and

despised. His sketches, he was told, “wanted spirit;” his literary

labours “wanted finish, and bore marks of haste.”

If these were useless, of what good was it to complete this book he was

writing? It would only end in another disappointment. He ceased to open

his letters; he flung them on one side. For a day or two he did

nothing—he wandered about on the open Downs, seeking consolation from

Nature, and finding none. At last, accusing himself of a lack of energy

and fortitude, he set to work again. So it was not till two days after

date that he read the following letter, which had been cast upon one

side with the rest:—

“2, Market Cross, Barnham.

“Dear Sir,—I am requested by Mr Broughton to ask you to call upon

him at your earliest convenience. He has some employment to offer

you.

“With esteem, etc, etc.”

He went. Broughton received him kindly, and explained that he wanted a

clerk, not so much for technical work as for correspondence, and to

give general assistance. Aymer being a novice and completely ignorant

of such duties, could not of course expect much salary. However, he

would have thirty-five shillings per week. This offer was made partly

through Lady Lechester’s influence, partly out of the interest he

himself took in Aymer. But a true lawyer, he could not help doing even

good as cheaply as possible. Aymer thanked him, and accepted the post.

Chapter Ten.

Aymer would in times gone by have regarded the employment he had now

obtained as a great step in advance, and have rejoiced accordingly. But

he had been too near the prize for it to give him even so much as hope

for the future. He _wished_ to be grateful for what he had got; he

tried to look upon it as a wonderful thing, but it was impossible. The

contrast between the actual, and what had been within his very grasp

was too intense.

It was an easy place. Beyond a little correspondence to write for Mr

Broughton, and sometimes a little copying, he had practically nothing

to do. His hours were short for the business—only from ten till four;

he had plenty of time at his own disposal.

The fact was that his salary came, not directly, but indirectly from

Lady Lechester, and he was favoured accordingly. If he had known this

he would have been still more dissatisfied.

The office in which he was placed was a kind of library or retiring

apartment, opening by double doors into Mr Broughton’s private room;

and he was often called upon to bear witness to certain transactions of

a strictly private nature, and in which the solicitor told him he

relied upon his honour as a gentleman, to preserve secrecy.

Broughton really meant him well, and did his best now and then to start

him on in the acquisition of a knowledge of the law. Books were put

into his hands, and he was told what parts of them to study, and had to

prepare extracts from them occasionally. Aymer did his best,

conscientiously, but he hated it—he hated it most thoroughly. It was

not altogether that the reading in these books was dry and

uninteresting to the last degree. Flat, tame, spiritless,

meaningless,—a mere collection of decisions, interpretations,

precedents—such they appeared at first. Aymer had talent and insight

sufficient to speedily observe that this forbidding aspect was not the

true one.

All these precedents, rules, decisions—these ten thousand subtle

distinctions—were much like the laws or rules of a game at chess. They

decided in what way a pawn should be moved or a bishop replaced. The

science of law seemed to him like a momentous game at chess, only the

pieces were living human creatures.

These subtle distinctions and technical divisions, formalities though

they appeared, had a meaning, and a deep one. Following his employer,

Mr Broughton, into the petty law courts at Barnham, he saw how the

right and the wrong, the sorrow or the joy of human beings depended

almost upon the quibble of a word, the incident of a slip of the pen.

It was a game—a game requiring long study, an iron memory, quick

observation, and quicker decision; and he hated it—hated it because the

right appeared to be of no consequence. Truth, and what he had always

thought was meant by justice, were left entirely out of sight.

It was not the man who had the right upon his side who won. If that was

the case, what use would there be for lawyers? Too often it was the man

who had the law upon his side, and the law only. He actually heard

magistrates, and even judges, expressing their regret that the law

compelled them to give decisions contrary to the true justice of the

cause before them.

By degrees he became aware of the extraordinary fact, that with all the

cumbrous system of law phrases—a system that requires a special

dictionary—there was not even a word to express what he understood as

justice; not even a word to express it!

Justice meant a decision according to the law, and not according to the

right or wrong of the particular case proceeding; equity meant a

decision based upon a complex, antiquated, unreasonable jumble of

obsolete customs. The sense of the word “equity”—as it is used in the

sublime prophecy, “With equity shall he judge the world”—was entirely

lost.

In the brief time that he had sat beside Mr Broughton in these Courts,

Aymer conceived an intense loathing for the whole system. After all,

what was the law, upon which so much was based, which over-rode equity,

justice, truth, and even conscience? What was this great fetish to

which every one bowed the knee—from the distinguished and learned judge

downwards, the judge who, in point of fact, admitted and regretted that

he decided against his conscience? It was principally precedent.

Because a man had once been hung for a murder committed in a certain

manner, men must always be hung for murder. Because a judge had once

given a verdict which, under the circumstances, was as _near the right_

as he dared to go (and our judges do this), then every one who came

after must be dealt with by this immovable standard.

The very passage of time itself—the changes introduced into society,

custom, and modes of thought in the course of the years—was in itself a

strong and all-sufficient argument against this fetish precedent.

That was not all. Aymer in his position—to a certain extent

confidential—had a glimpse behind the scenes. Quick of observation and

comprehension, he saw that even this game of argument, and precedent,

and quibble was not conducted honestly. He had heard and read so much

of the freedom, the liberty of England, the safety of the subject, the

equal justice meted out to all, that he was literally confounded when

the bare facts stared him in the face.

There was jobbery, corruption under the whole of it; there was class

prejudice operating in the minds of those on the judgment-seat; there

were a thousand-and-one small, invisible strings, which palled this way

and that behind the scenes. It was, after all, a species of Punch and

Judy show, moved by wires, and learnt by rote by the exhibitor.

It sickened and wearied him. Sitting on those hard benches, he longed

for liberty—longed to escape from the depressing influence of the

atmosphere of chicanery in which he was plunged. The very sight of

those hideous faces which are sure to congregate in the criminal

justice-room, seemed to weaken the fresh young spirit within him.

Yet, as said before, Mr Broughton used him kindly. He found Aymer

lodgings cheap and fairly comfortable. Aymer had often desired to

escape from his solitary room at Wick Farm; but even that cold, lonely

apartment was better than this. These four walls had no

association—they were walls only—partly concealed with a few common

prints. One of these, over the mantelpiece, looked down upon him as he

sat by his fire in the evening. He saw it night after night, till at

last that engraving seemed to almost live, and he watched to see when

the labour of the prisoner should be completed. For it was the picture

of the prisoner sitting in his cell upon a stone bench, painfully

chiselling out upon the stone wall—just where a single beam of sunlight

fell—the figure of Christ upon the Cross, with the rude tool of a

common iron nail.

He grew to understand the feelings and the thought, to sympathise in

the work of the prisoner in his dungeon. The solitary ray of sunshine

that fell upon his life was the love of Violet. He was himself

confined, imprisoned by the iron bars and the strong walls of poverty,

and the tools he had at hand for his labour of love were scanty and

rude. How could he in that contracted sphere, without travel, without

change of scene and conversation with other men, ever hope to find

materials for works with which to please the world, and obtain for

himself fame and position? He understood now the deep meaning of the

words put in Ulysses’ mouth—“I am a part of all that I have met.” They

applied with tenfold force to the artistic, and to the literary career.

It was only by extended experience, by contact with the wide, wide

world, that he could hope to comprehend what it wanted. Yet it

sometimes happened that even the prisoner in his cell, by sheer

self-concentration, and with the aid of the rude tools and material

within his reach, produced a work which could not be surpassed. The

poor prisoner of the picture reminded him constantly of this. He tried.

He thought and thought, till at last, in the quiet and solitude of his

lonely room, an idea did occur to him—not a very great or remarkable

idea either, but still one which, he felt, if properly carried out,

might produce substantial results.

Evening after evening, upon leaving the office, he laboured at his new

conception, illustrating his book with his own pencil, spending hour

after hour upon it far into the night. So absorbed was he upon it, that

he almost neglected Violet’s letters—almost, he could not quite—but his

notes were so short and so unlike his usual style, that she, with her

knowledge of his character, saw at once what he was doing, and kept

begging him not to overwork himself.

“Circumstances over which we have no control.” There are other

circumstances still more powerful—i.e., those circumstances which we

never even think of controlling, which happen so quietly and whose true

significance is so little apparent at the time, that we pass them by

without a thought.

It happened that Mr Broughton was engaged in a cause which necessitated

extracts to be made from a file of old newspapers. Being overworked

himself, and his staff also in full employment, he asked Aymer to do

this, and to do it especially well and carefully. Aymer began the work,

and at first found it dry enough, but as he got deeper into it, the

strange contrast presented by this contemporary chronicle with the

present day gradually forced itself upon him, and he ceased to cast

aside the papers so soon as the particular extract required was made.

Presently the idea occurred to him of writing an article for the London

papers, founded upon the curiosities of these old sheets of news. With

this view, after he had finished the work he was set to do, he got into

the habit of carrying two or three of the papers home, and re-reading

and studying them, and making notes by his own fireside. The file was

really interesting. It began in the year 1710. The _Barnham Chronicle_

was one of those extremely old papers published in county towns, which

live on from year to year without an effort, because they meet with no

opposition. The circle of its readers, in all probability, at that

date—more than a century and a half after its establishment—was

scarcely larger than in the first year of publication. It had been

taken and read by whole generations. The son found it taken by his

father, and when he succeeded to the farm, to the mill, or to the shop,

continued the old subscription.

Looked at in the light of the present day, when intelligence is flashed

from end to end of the kingdom in a few hours, the _Barnham Chronicle_

was all but ridiculous. Its news was a week old or more, stale and

unprofitable. It did not even advance so far as to have a London

letter; but perhaps that was no great loss to its readers.

Yet the _Barnham Chronicle_ was a “property” in more than one sense; it

paid, as well it might, at fourpence per copy, and with the monopoly of

auctioneer’s and lawyer’s advertisements in that district. And it could

boast of a more than patriarchal age.

Reading slowly, paragraph by paragraph, through this enormous file, his

note-book at his side, Aymer came upon one advertisement, simply

worded, and with no meretricious advantage given to it by large type or

other printer’s resource, yet which he read with a special interest. It

contained the name of Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick; and that name

was sufficient to attract him. It ran thus:—

“Notice of Change of Name.—I, Arthur Sibbold, tea-dealer, of the City

of London, in the county of Middlesex, do hereby give notice, that it

is my intention to apply for permission to add to my present baptismal

names the name of Waldron, upon the occasion of my approaching marriage

with Miss Annica Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick, co. B—, etc, etc.

And that I shall be henceforward known, called, and designated by the

name of Arthur Sibbold Waldron in all deeds, writings, etc, etc.”

To us who are acquainted with the history of the city of Stirmingham,

this entry has a wide significance; to Aymer it had none beyond the

mere fact of the mention of Waldron. He copied it into his note-book

with a mental resolve to show it to Violet, and thought no more of it.

An event that happened about this time made him forget all about what

appeared to him a trivial matter. This was the trial of Jenkins, the

gardener, for the murder of Jason Waldron. Mr Broughton, who was

engaged for the defence, to instruct counsel, naturally made much use

of Aymer’s local knowledge and perfect acquaintance with the details of

that terrible day, and was thereby furnished with fresh and

overwhelming arguments.

Aymer worked with a will, for he knew that Violet was much concerned

and extremely anxious as to the result, and he watched the proceedings

on the fateful day with intense interest. It is needless to

recapitulate the details of the case, which have been already given.

The result was an acquittal. The Judge summed up in favour of the

prisoner, observing that it was monstrous if a man must be condemned to

the last penalty of the law, because it so chanced that a tool

belonging to him had been snatched up as the readiest instrument for a

murderous attack. To his experience the murder did not appear at all in

the light of an ordinary crime. In the first place, there was an

apparent absence of motive. So far as was known, Waldron had no enemies

and no quarrel with any man. Evidently it was not committed with the

intention of theft, as not a single article had been missed. It

appeared to him like the unaccountable impulse of an unreasoning being;

in plain words, like the act of _a lunatic with homicidal tendencies_.

The jury unanimously acquitted the prisoner, and Aymer hastened to send

the news to Violet. He could not post with it himself, as Mr Broughton

had other cases to attend to.

Poor Jenkins was free—and lost. The shock had stunned him, and he was

too old and too much weakened by disease to ever recover from it. He

could not face his native village, the place where his family, though

humble, had for generations borne a good character. He had an almost

childish dread of meeting any one from Bury Wick or World’s End, and

even avoided Aymer, who sought him in the crowd.

How truly was it said that “service is no inheritance!” After two

generations of faithful service, these poor people were practically

exiled from home and friends, and this without fault of their own.

Violet would have gladly done what she could for the aged couple. They

might have, at all events, lived at The Place and taken care of the old

house, but she and Aymer lost sight of them entirely.

All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a waggon

came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was

heard of no more—for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried

himself, as he hoped, for ever out of sight. There was a certain

natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer

what he might, he would not ask for aid—not even from Violet. And he

did suffer—he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad

character, but the stigma of “murder” clinging to him, he wandered

about seeking work, and nearly starved.

Even in Bury Wick, where he was so well-known, had he returned, he

would have found a certain amount of reluctance to receive him into the

old grooves. In distant villages where the dreadful tale of blood had

penetrated, and where the people had had little or no opportunity of

hearing the facts, there was still a strong prejudice against him; and

it must be owned that from an outsider’s point of view, it _did_ look

suspicious that he should have been alone near the house when the deed

was committed. So it was that he found it hard to get employment,

especially now the winter was come, and labour less in demand.

At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he

accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a waggon was sent

to fetch his goods.

Albert Herring had the reputation of being a hard master, and it was

well deserved. Hard work, long hours, small pay, and that given

grudgingly, and withheld on trivial pretences—these were the practices

which gained for him the hatred of the labouring population. Yet with

singular inconsistency they were always willing to work for him. This

is a phenomenon commonly to be observed—the worst of masters can always

command plenty of men.

With Jenkins it was a matter of necessity. If he could not get work he

must starve or go into the union—dreaded almost as much as the prison.

Albert kept him several days after his application—he would see about

it—he was in no hurry. He laid much stress upon the gardener’s age,

though the other assured him that willingness would compensate for that

Jenkins had been a gardener, not a labourer. It was doubtful if he

would understand his duties if he was put on to cut a hedge.

“Oh, yes!” said the old man, eagerly; “I can use an axe or a

bill-hook.”

“Ay, ay,” said Albert, brutally. “Thee can _use a bill-hook_, so I’ve

heard say.”

Jenkins bowed his head, and his lip quivered.

The upshot was that he was put on at nine shillings per week—one

shilling to be deducted for rent of a small cottage.

Chapter Eleven.

This trial of poor Jenkins took up Aymer’s time, so that he had no

leisure for his new book, which had to be laid aside; and when he was

in hopes of returning to it, another incident again interrupted him.

The work he had to do was very little after all; it was not the amount,

but the character of it, that he disliked.

Yet, notwithstanding his hatred of the law, he could not help imbibing

some small smattering which afterwards proved extremely serviceable.

The change from World’s End was also beneficial in another manner—it

opened his eyes to much that he had never suspected. If anything, his

inclination hitherto would have been to have taken most people pretty

much at their word. This may sound childish to the young men of the

period, who—in the habit of frequenting billiard saloons, horse-races,

card parties, hotels, and all places where people congregate—naturally

pick up a good deal of knowledge of the world sufficient to astonish

their parents, at all events.

Aymer certainly was not a model young man. Without a doubt, if he had

been placed where such amusements were easily accessible, he would have

done much as others of his age did; but it so happened that living at

World’s End, entirely out of society, he had no such opportunities.

After a month or so at Broughton’s office his eyes began to open, and

he saw that things are very different under the surface to what they

appear outwardly. He became less ready to accept what people said, or

did in the sense they wished others to see them, and commenced a habit

of deducting a large percentage from the price they put upon

themselves.

He had been three times to see Violet—staying only a few hours—and was

agreeably surprised with the pleasant reception he received from Lady

Lechester, who took an opportunity of informing him privately that she

wished Violet to continue with her. Violet was well, but dull. She was

no sentimental heroine to pine away at separation from Aymer; but it

was only natural that she should miss the old associations.

Particularly she begged Aymer not to overwork himself at night with his

private labour.

Lady Lechester seconded this, saying that she had known a gentleman

who, much of the same disposition as Aymer, had lost his wits through

incessant application. He was a relation of hers, and was now confined

in an asylum at Stirmingham. To save speculation, it will be as well to

at once mention that this person was not Odo Lechester.

Aymer’s reply was that he feared he should never complete his book, for

something always seemed to happen to delay it, and now he should soon

have to accompany Mr Broughton to Stirmingham.

It was in this way. Mr Broughton, before removing to Barnham, where he

inherited the practice and most of the fortune of a deceased uncle, had

lived in Stirmingham, working as the junior partner in a firm there. He

was no longer a partner, but still continued on friendly relations with

the firm; and having much confidence in his ability, they frequently

sent for him in difficult cases.

Now this firm—Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson—had one very good client,

who had been to them almost equal to an estate, bringing in a yearly

income, and paying cash without dispute. This client, or rather these

clients, was one of those very building societies which had leased old

Sternhold Baskette’s incomplete houses for a term of years.

House property is, as every one knows, fruitful in causes of

litigation—repairs, defaulting tenants, disputes, and what not; and, in

addition, there is the task of collecting the rents, and a vast variety

of smaller pickings. All these Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had enjoyed for

fully half a century, till they had come to look upon them as their

legitimate right, and as certain to descend into the hands of their

successors. But as time went on, they began to get anxious, and to

perceive that there was a great deal of truth in the ancient maxim,

“This too shall pass away,” for the term of the lease, long as it was,

rapidly approached expiration.

Obviously, it was their interest to delay the delivering up of the

property to the heir, John Marese Baskette, as long as possible; and

they felt the stake to be so great, that they did not spare their own

money in the effort to oust him from his just claim.

Messrs Shaw, Shaw, and Simson were all three old and experienced

men—safe men, in every sense; but they hesitated to trust entirely to

their own ingenuity in this complicated business. They had, in fact,

entrusted it to Mr Broughton, who was not only more energetic, but was

full of resources which would never have occurred to such steady

persons as the three partners.

So it happened that, as the fall of the year advanced, Broughton had

his hands full of the building societies’ business, and had engaged to

proceed to Stirmingham as their legal representative, at the great

family council of the claimants in the Sternhold Hall, which was to

open in three or four days.

Another circumstance that brought Aymer into still closer contact with

the great case, was the fact that this firm of Shaw, Shaw, and Simson

had an American client, who was himself one of the claimants. His name

was another variation upon the old stem.

Anthony Baskelette was tolerably well to do. He had a great business,

and had large transactions with manufacturers in Stirmingham. These

necessitated an agent there, and Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had for years

looked after his affairs. He was one of the Original Swampers. He

really could prove his direct descent from one of old Will Baskette’s

cousins, and held ample documentary evidence; and being moderately

wealthy, thought he would have a trial at the monster estate at

Stirmingham. He instructed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson to get up his claim

in a legal form, and announced his intention of accompanying the body

of the claimants to England in the steamer _Lucca_, which had been so

generously chartered by Marese.

All the correspondence from him to Shaw and Company was sent on to

Barnham; and in this way Aymer, who had much to do with Broughton’s

correspondence, began to have some idea of the magnitude of the

interests at stake. Though constitutionally averse to the law, and

hating its formalities, he could not help feeling some considerable

excitement about this tremendous case, and perhaps showed more genuine

alacrity in executing Broughton’s instructions relating to it, than he

had with other matters.

At all events, Broughton told him that he should want him to act as his

clerk, or notary, during his approaching visit to Stirmingham. The

lawyer had begun to feel a certain amount of trust and confidence in

Aymer, who never failed to fulfil his orders, though obviously against

the grain, and especially as Aymer’s demeanour was quiet and

gentlemanly. If he did venture to throw out a suggestion, it was in the

most respectful and diffident manner.

In this way it happened that Aymer became well up in the _latter_ part

of the history of Stirmingham, especially in that section of the case

which concerned the Baskettes, and in time it grew to be almost the

leading thought in his mind. His letters to Violet were full of it. The

history was so romantic—so extraordinary, and yet so true—that it took

strong hold upon his imagination.

He looked forward with pleasure to his approaching visit to

Stirmingham. Like all men with any pretence to brains, though he

delighted in Nature and loved the country, there was a strong, almost

irresistible, desire within him to mingle in the vast crowds of cities,

to feel that indefinable “life” which animates the mass. A great city

to such a man as Aymer was like a wonderful book—an Arabian Night’s

tale, an endless romance which would afford inexhaustible pleasure in

the study of its characteristics.

Though it would involve at least a month’s absence from Violet, he

looked forward to the visit with impatience—not without a secret hope

that he might in some unexpected manner find a chance of rising in the

scale, and getting a little nearer to the object of his life.

He had a number of commissions to execute for Lady

Lechester—particularly one. This was to search the old bookstalls and

the curiosity shops, in out-of-the-way corners, for antique Bibles.

Agnes had a weakness, if it may be so-called, for collecting old

editions of the Bible, and possessed a large and extremely interesting

library filled with them. One or two particularly rare copies had

hitherto escaped her search, and if there was such a thing to be found

in Stirmingham she felt sure that Aymer would be precisely the man to

find it.

He had also a commission to purchase for her a few pictures, with which

to decorate the walls of a new wing she was adding to The Towers. She

had a curious dislike to the old family mansion, and yet wished to live

in the neighbourhood from a sense of duty. She held it as a doctrine

that the owners of large estates should pass a part of their time, at

all events, at home—there were so many ways in which they could do

good, not only by charity, but by encouraging local industries.

The new wing was being built to enable her to reside at home, and yet

gratify the innate dislike to The Towers which she cherished. Aymer’s

artistic taste was so marked that she felt confident he would select

her suitable pictures. There were plenty of old paintings in the

galleries of The Towers which could have been spared for the new wing,

but she preferred to be surrounded with fresh objects, even down to the

very footstool.

The day for the assembling of the great family council came nearer and

nearer, and the letters from Anthony Baskelette more frequent. The

daily papers, which Aymer saw now and read with the closest attention,

began to devote a space to notes upon the preparations, and some sent

specials to Stirmingham in advance, who described the city in a series

of sketches, which excited Aymer’s curiosity to the highest pitch.

News came at last that the claimants were assembling at Imola; then the

date of the sailing of the _Lucca_ came and passed. They knew that she

must sail upon that day, because her owners were under contract to

deliver the bullion entrusted to them on a fixed date in London, where

its approaching arrival had already had an appreciable effect upon the

money-market. Seven hundred thousand pounds in coin, in gold bars and

Mexican dollars, is a sum which cannot be transferred from one country

to another at once, without causing some fluctuations upon the

Exchange. The owners of the _Lucca_ were under a bond by which they

forfeited a heavy sum if the vessel did not start to time. Therefore

there was no doubt that the _Lucca_ had sailed, though no announcement

had reached London of the event, for it happened that the Atlantic

cables were out of order, and there were not then such a number of

cables as at present. Still, no one doubted for an instant that she was

upon the seas; and one well-known illustrated paper announced that a

special artist of theirs was on board, who, the moment he landed, would

present the public with sketches of the incidents of the voyage,

portraits of the claimants, and other subjects of interest. It was also

generally understood that the heir, in his yacht, had started from New

York to accompany the steamer.

What was Aymer’s surprise and regret, upon opening the paper on the

second morning after, to see the following telegram, one of the cables

having got into partial working order again:—

“New York, Tuesday Night.

“The _Lucca_ sailed on Friday at noon, but _without_ the claimants.

She brings the specie announced.”

Then there was an editorial note to the effect that several other words

of the telegram could not be read, on account of the unsatisfactory

state of the wires. The evening papers had further particulars:—

“The _Lucca_, and the yacht of John Marese Baskette, Esq, have passed

Sandy Hook. All well. A snow-storm blocked the line from Imola to New

York, and the claimants could not arrive in time. They follow per

_Saskatchewan_.”

Next day additional particulars came to hand. It appeared that the

heir, Marese, had on the Wednesday gone to Imola, and received an

ovation from the assembled claimants. He was to accompany them to New

York on the Friday, and to follow the _Lucca_ in his yacht. On Thursday

night there came a heavy fall of snow—and a strong wind, which caused

immense drifts. Notwithstanding these the special train, with Marese

and one hundred and fifty claimants, started from Imola with a

pilot-engine in front, the station-masters along the line having

telegraphed that they would clear it in time. They did partially

succeed in the attempt; but the storm came on again, the wires were

blown down; and telegraphic communication for a part of the way

interrupted.

In the thick snow the special crept along, with the pilot in front;

but, despite of all their caution, the pilot-engine ran into a drift

and stuck fast. The special came up, but there was no collision. To

proceed was, however, impossible; every moment made it more so, and

they began to fear lest the return to Imola should be also blocked up.

After much consultation it was decided to run back to Imola, and

proceed by a more circuitous route. There was just a chance that, if

this other route was clear of snow, they might get to New York in time.

They put on steam and pushed as fast as possible, and the consequence

was a narrow escape from a serious disaster. The wind, since they had

passed, had blown down a large pine tree, which fell across the line.

The engine of the special struck this tree, but being provided with

cow-guards, was not thrown off the line. Some of the machinery was,

however, damaged, and the special came to a standstill. After a long

delay, consequent on the interruption of telegraphic communication, a

second train was sent up, and the passengers re-embarked in it, and at

last got back to Imola. It was now, however, too late to reach New York

in time, especially as the longer route was equally encumbered with

drifts of snow. The result was that the _Lucca_ was obliged to start

without them.

Chapter Twelve.

The _Saskatchewan_ was to start on the next Friday. The claimants had

arrived at New York on the Sunday, after much trouble and a long

journey, having to make an immense détour. The council could not now

hold its first meeting on New Year’s Day, but was expected to assemble

on the 6th January (Twelfth Day).

For two days they were without intelligence at Barnham and Stirmingham,

the cables being wrong again, but on the third Aymer was sent for to

the private residence of Mr Broughton at seven in the morning. The

London dailies had not yet arrived, but he had received a private

telegram from Shaw, Shaw, and Simson, with the most extraordinary news.

The yacht of Mr Marese Baskette had brought the steamship _Lucca_ back

to port a derelict, having found her helpless on the high seas, with

every passenger and every one of the crew dead.

Presently the papers came and contained the same announcement, though

they one and all expressed a strong doubt as to the accuracy of the

news. By-and-by down came a second edition of the _Telegraph_,

repeating the former telegram, with additional particulars. By night it

was known as a fact over the length and breadth of the world, that the

_Lucca_ had been found lying like a log upon the waste of waters with a

crew of corpses—a veritable ship of the Dead. The ghastly news was only

too true. Excitement rose to the highest pitch; edition after edition

of the papers sold out; men congregated in groups, discussing this new

horror which had saddened civilisation. All were completely in the dark

as to how it had happened, and in the eagerness for further insight the

brief telegram announcing that the claimants had started on board the

_Saskatchewan_ was overlooked. There were plenty, however, who pointed

out to each other the fortunate escape the claimants had had. If the

snow had not fallen on that particular night; if the wires had not been

broken by the falling posts; if the pine tree had fallen on one side

instead of crossing the line, they would in all human probability have

one and all shared the fate of those on board the _Lucca_.

Only one circumstance caused any abatement of the intense alarm which

this fearful occurrence created. It was this: The greater portion of

the space allotted for passenger accommodation on the _Lucca_ had been

taken by Marese for the claimants, and as it was not certain up to the

last moment whether they would come or not, the ship started with less

than a third of her full complement of passengers. There was not,

therefore, such a death-roll as might have been; but, even as it was,

it was extended enough.

No one could understand how it had happened; not the slightest

explanation was given, and the public mind was exercised in speculating

upon the cause of the disaster. The passage from America to England had

long lost the character of a voyage. The height to which perfection had

been carried in the great steamship lines, was such that it had become

a mere ocean promenade. No one thought of danger; the perils of the

deep had been so thoroughly overcome. In the midst of this security

came a shattering blow, which dispelled the confidence slowly built up

by such an expenditure of skill and money as had perhaps never been

equalled in the history of the world. The mystery seemed impenetrable.

If the vessel had disappeared like the _City of Boston_; if it had

sunk, there would have been several explanations possible. But to be

brought back into port perfect, uninjured, and yet a derelict, with a

dead crew—it was inexplicable.

The _Saskatchewan_ arrived on the 2nd January, and with her came the

claimants—all but Marese—and these immediately proceeded to

Stirmingham. It was hoped that she would have brought fuller

particulars as to the fate of the _Lucca_; but having started on the

very day that the _Lucca_ returned to port, nothing more was known on

board than the simple fact.

On the 4th, however, another steamer came into Liverpool, bringing the

New York papers up to date, and the contents of these were at once

published in London.

By the steamer came a letter from Anthony Baskelette. He had left the

_Saskatchewan_ on hearing of the _Lucca’s_ return, in great anxiety

about some consignment he had made by her to his agent in Stirmingham.

He had met the heir, and had been invited to accompany him to England

on board his yacht, which would not reach Liverpool till the 9th. He

was full of the _Lucca_ catastrophe, and his long letter contained more

particulars than four papers.

Aymer read it with the deepest interest. It ran:—

“You will of course attend the council on the 6th, both in the interest

of the building society and of myself. I am delayed by the necessity of

seeing after the consignment I had made on board the unfortunate

_Lucca_, which consignment is too valuable to be left to agents. I am

in the greatest anxiety, because it is uncertain yet in what light the

rescue of the _Lucca_ will be regarded.

“There can be no doubt that if the owner of the yacht—Mr Marese

Baskette—likes, he can put in a heavy claim for salvage. The question

is—whether in his position as the ostensible heir, and as a gentleman,

he will insist upon his right, or, at all events, moderate his demands?

“I have met and conversed with him, and I gather from him that

personally he is averse to making any claim at all. He considers that

his yacht simply performed a duly, and a duly that was imperative upon

her captain. To take money from those unfortunate persons who had

consigned goods, or bullion in the _Lucca_ he thought would be contrary

to every sentiment of honour and humanity.

“But, unfortunately, he is not altogether a free agent. It appears that

at the time when the salvage of the _Lucca_ was effected, there was on

board the yacht a certain Mr Theodore Marese—a cousin of Mr Baskette’s,

who is only in moderate circumstances, and naturally looks upon the

event as a windfall which may never occur again—as I hope and pray it

never will.

“Mr Theodore Marese, it seems, performed some personal service in

rescuing the _Lucca_, and was considered to have run considerable risk

to his life.

“A certain sum will have no doubt to be paid to Mr Theodore, and I

cannot blame him if he insists upon his right. He was practically the

master of the yacht at the time, and it seems was on his way—with Mr

Baskette’s permission—to London, to attend to some very urgent business

there, which the catastrophe of the _Lucca_ has delayed and greatly

injured, causing him pecuniary loss.

“Then there is the captain of the yacht, and the crew. It is a fine

vessel—some 300 tons or more, I should think—a screw steamer, and very

fast. She carries a rather numerous crew, and all these are ravenous

for plunder, and it is hard to see how these claims are to be avoided.

Still further, it seems that Mr Baskette himself is not altogether a

free agent. He freely admitted to me that he was not without his

debts—as is probable enough to a man of fashion, with a certain

position to maintain.

“These creditors may take advantage of the _Lucca_ business to push

him, and say that he must take the salvage in order to meet their

demands. Of this he is greatly afraid.

“Baskette is a most pleasant man, easy to converse with, very open and

straightforward—quite a different person to what I should have

expected. He has been particularly agreeable to me, promising his best

efforts to curtail my loss, and has given me a cabin in his now famous

yacht, the _Gloire de Dijon_.

“I cannot drive the subject of the salvage from my mind. The saloons,

bars, hotels—everywhere people talk of nothing else. It has quite

eclipsed the tragedy, as well it might, from the magnitude of the sums

involved.

“First of all, there is the vessel herself—found upon the high seas, a

derelict, without a hand at the wheel or at the engines. She is a

splendid steamer, fully 3000 tons, and estimated at half a million of

dollars, or, say, 100,000 pounds. The cargo she carried was immensely

valuable—the bullion you know about: it was 718,000 pounds in exact

figures—but the cargo must be worth at least another 75,000 pounds.

“Then there is a very large amount of personal property, for half the

claimants who were to go by her had forwarded their luggage previously;

and there are the effects of the poor creatures who died. But these

last, Mr Baskette declares, shall under no circumstances be touched.

Happen what may, they are to be returned to the owners of their heirs

undiminished.

“Putting it all at the lowest estimate, the value of the vessel, the

bullion, and cargo cannot be less than 893,000 pounds; and the salvage

will equal a gigantic fortune.

“So far I have dealt only with the salvage question. I will now proceed

to give you a more detailed account than you will be able to get from

the papers, of the terrible fate which overtook the _Lucca_. These I

have learnt from Mr Baskette and from Mr Theodore Marese, who was on

the yacht.

“The reporters are, of course, incessant in their inquiries, but there

is much that has escaped them, as a certain amount of reticence must of

necessity be observed. These gentlemen have, however, made no reserve

to me—I must beg of you not to publish this letter, or any part of it,

lest there should appear to be a breach of confidence.

“It appears that the _Lucca_ started at noon on the Friday, as per

bond, with a full complement of crew, but a short list of passengers.

About two hours after she had left, the _Gloire de Dijon_ put out to

sea. Mr Baskette was at that time still at Imola, unable to get to New

York. He and his cousin, Mr T. Marese, were to have gone together in

the yacht to London, where Mr Theodore’s business was very pressing.

“When Mr Baskette found himself unable to reach New York, he

telegraphed to Mr Theodore telling him to take the yacht and go on to

London as had been previously arranged, thereby showing the same

character of consideration for others which he has since exhibited to

me.

“Mr Theodore put to sea in the _Gloire de Dijon_, and says that next

morning they overtook the _Lucca_, or nearly so, the yacht being

extremely swift. It occurred to him that, after all, as the Atlantic is

still the Atlantic, notwithstanding steam, and there are such things as

breaking machinery, it would be well to keep in company with a powerful

vessel like the _Lucca_ as far as the coast of Ireland.

“They did so, and even once spoke the steamship, which replied, ‘All

well.’ All that day the two ships were not half a mile apart, and the

night being moonlit, the _Gloire de Dijon_ followed close in the

other’s wake till about four in the morning, when, as often happens at

thick fog came on. Afraid of collision, the captain of the yacht now

slackened speed to about six knots, and kept a course a little to the

starboard of the steamer ahead.

“The fog continued very thick till past noon, and then suddenly lifted,

and they saw seven or eight sail in sight, one of which was the _Lucca_

on their port bow, and about four miles off. She was running, as usual,

at a good pace, and the sea being quiet, was making all thirteen knots.

The _Gloire de Dijon_ increased speed, and drew up to within a mile and

a half by three in the afternoon. The _Lucca_ then bore due east, and

they were in her wake. The wind was west, with a little southerly, and

just ahead of the _Lucca_ was a large square-rigged ship, with all sail

set, but making very little way on account of the trifling breeze.

“An extraordinary thing now happened. The _Lucca_ was observed by the

captain of the yacht to be making straight for the sailing ship ahead,

and had now got so close that a collision appeared inevitable. He

called to Mr Theodore, who came up from below. The _Lucca_ ran dead at

the sailing ship, though she was making thirteen knots to the other’s

four, and the slightest turn of her wheel would have carried her free.

On account of the direction of the wind, the ship was sailing almost

right before it, and the steamer appeared to be aiming at her stern.

“On the yacht they could see the crew of the sailing ship making

frantic signs over the quarter to the steamer, but not the slightest

notice was taken. The captain of the sailing ship had relied upon the

steamer giving way, as is usual, and had allowed her to come so close

that, it seems, he lost his head. Seeing this, the mate sang out to put

the helm a-starboard, and run straight before the wind. This was done,

and only just in time, for the steamer actually grazed her quarter, and

carried away their boom. Knowing that the captain of the _Lucca_ was an

old sailor, and a steady, experienced man, they were astonished at this

behaviour, especially as, without staying to inquire what damage had

been done, she kept on her course at still greater speed.

“The captain of the yacht now put on speed, being desirous of speaking

the steamer; but after an hour or two it was evident that the _Lucca_

was drawing ahead, and had increased her lead by at least a mile. They

could not understand this, as the yacht was notoriously faster, and it

became evident that the engineer of the _Lucca_ must have got his

safety-valve screwed-down.

“Night, as every one knows, falls rapidly at this time of the year, and

the darkness was increased by the fog, which now came on again. During

the evening all their conversation was upon the _Lucca_. Surely she

would not keep up her speed in such a fog as this? The yacht had

slackened, and was doing, as before, about six knots.

“The night wore on, till about two o’clock, when the wind freshened,

and blew half a gale. At four the fog cleared, and the watch reported

that the _Lucca_ was on their starboard quarter, a mile astern, with

her engines stopped. Mr Theodore was called, and came on deck. There

lay the steamer in the trough of the sea, rolling, heaving—so much so

that they wondered her sticks did not go. No smoke issued from her

funnel, and the steam-pipe gave no sign. The usual flag was flying, but

no signal was shown in answer to the _Gloire de Dijon’s_ inquiry. There

was no sail on her.

“It was at once evident that something was wrong, and Mr Theodore

ordered the yacht to be put about. They tried the signals, but, as I

said, no notice was taken. On approaching the _Lucca_, which had to be

done with some caution, as she slewed about in a helpless manner, and

was drifting before the sea, an extraordinary spectacle presented

itself. As she rolled, her deck came partly into view, and they saw,

with what feelings may be imagined, several men lying on the deck, and

thrown now this way, now that, as the rollers went under her, evidently

either dead or unconscious.

“Filled with alarm and excitement, they attempted to board the vessel,

but found it impossible. The waves made all but a clean breach over

her. She staggered like a drunken man, and swung now this way, now

that. Some of the standing rigging had given way, and they could hear

the masts creak. They were afraid to get under her lee in case they

should fall.

“At length the captain of the yacht thought of a plan. He got a hawser

ready with a loop, and watching his opportunity, ran the yacht close to

her bow, and with his own hand, at great risk, hurled the rope, and by

good luck the loop caught in the fluke of one of her anchors. They paid

the hawser out over the yacht’s stern, and gradually got her in tow. It

strained fearfully; but as soon as they had got the _Lucca_ before the

wind, they had her right enough, though there was even then some danger

of being pooped. The sea was high, but not so high that the jolly-boat

could live, and they manned her and boarded the _Lucca_.

“The sailors were eager enough to get on board, but so soon as they

were on deck the superstition of the sea seemed to seize them, and not

one would venture from the gangway; for towards the stern there lay the

bodies that they had seen, still and motionless, and evidently dead.

“A terrible mystery hung over the ship—terrible, indeed!”

Chapter Thirteen.

“Not one of the seamen could be got to go below, or to approach the

corpses on the deck; and even the mate, who did touch these last, had a

reluctance to descend. It was, however, necessary to get another hawser

attached to the _Lucca_, and this occupied some little time; and by

then the men became more accustomed to the ship, and at last, led by

the mate, they went down.

“At the foot of the staircase a terrible sight met their gaze. A heap

of people—seamen, passengers, all classes—lay huddled up together—dead.

They were piled one over the other in ghastly profusion, having been

probably flung about by the rolling of the ship when she got broadside

on. So great was the heap that they could not advance without either

stepping upon the bodies, or removing them; and in this emergency they

signalled to the yacht, which sent another boat, and in it came Mr

Theodore.

“He at once gave orders to make a passage and to explore the steamer

thoroughly, which was done, and done speedily, for the sailors, having

now conquered their superstitious fears, worked with a will. From that

heap thirty-five bodies were carried up on deck, and laid upon one side

in an awful row. They exhibited no traces of violence whatever. Their

faces were quite calm; though one or two had the eyeballs staring from

the head, as if they had struggled to escape suffocation.

“A search through the steamer revealed a cargo of the dead. Passengers

lay at the doors of their berths, some half-dressed; and five or six

were discovered in their berths, having evidently died while asleep.

The engineer lay on the floor of the engine-room with three

assistants—stiff, and with features grimly distorted. They had

apparently suffered more than the rest.

“The crew were found in various places. The captain lay near the

engine-room, as if he had been on his way to consult with the engineer

when death overtook him. Bodies were found all over the ship, and

exclamations constantly arose as the men discovered fresh corpses. The

air between decks was close and confined, and there was a fetid odour

which they supposed to arise from the bodies, and which forced them

sometimes to run on deck to breathe. This odour caused many of the

sailors to vomit, and one or two were really ill for a time.

“It appeared that the whole ship’s crew and all the passengers had

perished; but one of the sailors searching about found a man in the

wheelhouse on deck, who on being lifted up showed some slight trace of

life. The sailors crowded round, and the excitement was intense. Mr

Theodore, who is a physician by profession, lent the aid of his skill,

and after a while the man began to come round, though unable to speak.

“The captain of the yacht had now come on board, and a consultation was

held, at which it was decided to run back to New York. But as the wind

was strong and the sea high, and the hawsers strained a good deal, it

was arranged to put a part of the crew of the yacht on board the

_Lucca_, to get up steam in her boilers, and shape a course for the

States. To this the crew of the yacht strongly objected—they came aft

in a body and respectfully begged not to be asked to stay on board the

_Lucca_. They dreaded a similar fate to that which befel the crew and

passengers of that unfortunate steamer.

“The end of it was that Mr Theodore ordered the hawsers to be kept

attached, and the yacht was to partly tow the steamer and she was to

partly steam ahead herself—the steam was to be got up, and the engines

driven at half speed. This would ease the hawsers and the yacht, and at

the same time the crew on board the _Lucca_ would be in communication

with the yacht, and able to convey their wishes at once.

“All agreed to this. Steam was easily got up, and the _Lucca’s_ boilers

and her engines were soon working, for the machinery was found to be in

perfect order. By the time that this arrangement was perfected, and the

ships were, got well under weigh, the short day was nearly over, and

with the night came anew the superstitions of the sailors. They

murmured, and demurred to working a ship with a whole cargo of dead

bodies. They would not move even across the deck alone, and as to going

below it required them at once to face the mystery.

“After an hour or so a clamour arose to pitch the dead overboard. What

on earth was the use of keeping them? An abominable stench came up from

between decks, and many of them could barely stand it. Mr Theodore and

the captain begged them to be calm, but it was in vain. They rose _en

masse_, and in a short space of time every one of these dead bodies had

been heaved overboard.

“The gale had moderated, and the splash of each corpse as it fell into

the water could be distinctly heard on board the yacht ahead. Such

conduct cannot be too much deplored, and there was a talk of

prosecuting the men for mutiny; but, on the other hand, there appears

to be some excuse in the extraordinary and unprecedented horrors of the

situation.

“Mr Theodore remained on board the _Lucca_, doing all that science and

patience could do for the sole survivor, who proved to be the third

officer. Towards sunrise he rallied considerably, but Mr Theodore never

had any hopes, and advised the captain to take a note of his

depositions, which was done.

“His name, he said, was William Burrows, of Maine. He could only speak

a few sentences at a time, and that very faintly, but the substance of

it was that all went well with the _Lucca_ up till early that morning,

when first the fog came on. Very soon after the mist settled down, and

speed was reduced, there was a commotion below, and a report spread

through the ship that three men were dying. In ten minutes half a dozen

more were taken in this manner. They complained merely of inability to

breathe, and of a deadly weakness, and prayed to be taken on deck. This

was done; but then ten or twelve more were affected, and those who went

below to assist them up on deck fell victims at once to the same

strange disorder. Every one throughout the ship complained of a faint,

sickly odour, and no sooner was this inhaled than a deadly lethargy

seized upon them, and increased till they fell down and died. He

happened to be on deck in the wheelhouse at the time, and saw half a

dozen sailors and three of the passengers brought up, but remembered no

more, for the sickly smell invaded the deck. He heard a singing in his

ears, and the blood seemed to press heavily, as if driven upwards

against the roof of his skull. He remembered no more for some hours.

Then he, as it were, awoke, and got up on his legs, but again felt the

same lethargy, and fell. When the disorder first attacked the ship’s

company, the captain talked of stopping the steamer and signalling for

assistance; but it appeared to be useless, for the fog was so thick

that any flag, or rocket, or light would have been unnoticed at half a

cable’s distance. Preparations were made to fire a gun, and the steam

blast was ordered, but the engineer was dead, and no one would go

below. The captain then descended to go to the engine-room, and was

seen no more. Meantime the steamer continued her way. When he got on

his legs in the wheelhouse, it was just after the bow of the _Lucca_

had carried away the boom of an unknown sailing ship, and he could feel

that she was then going at a tremendous speed. The fog had cleared, and

if he had had strength enough he could have made signals, but the

deadly sleep came over him again, and he was unconscious till picked up

by the crew of the _Gloire de Dijon_.

“This was all he could tell, and it threw no light upon the cause of

the disaster. After he had signed this in a shaky hand—I have seen the

original document—he sank rapidly, and, despite of every remedy and

stimulant, died before noon. His body was the only one brought into

port, and it was interred yesterday in the presence of a vast assembly.

A _post-mortem_ examination failed to detect the slightest trace of

poison or indication of disease; and all those who assisted in removing

the dead bodies on board the _Lucca_, declare that they presented no

known symptoms of any epidemic—for the prevailing belief in New York at

first was that some epidemic had broken out—a kind of plague, which

destroyed its victims almost as soon as attacked. But for this there

seems no foundation whatever. None of the sailors of the yacht caught

the epidemic. One or two were unwell for a day or so, but are now well

and hearty.

“I think Mr Theodore’s suggestion the best that has been made—and it

gradually gains ground with educated men, though the mass cling to the

fanciful notion of foul play in some unheard-of way—Mr Theodore thinks

that it was caused by the generation of coal-damp, or some similar and

fatal gas, in the coal-bunkers of the _Lucca_; and everything seems to

favour this supposition. It is well-known that in cold

weather—especially in cold weather accompanied by fog—coal-damp in

mines is especially active and fatal. Most of the great explosions

which have destroyed hundreds at once have occurred in such a state of

the atmosphere.

“Now the fog which came on that fatal morning was peculiarly thick and

heavy, and it so happens that the coal in the _Lucca’s_ bunkers came

from a colliery where, only a fortnight ago, there was an explosion.

The vapour, or gas, or whatever it was that was thus generated, was not

the true coal-damp, or it would have been ignited by the furnaces of

the boilers, or at the cook’s fires; but in all probability it was

something very near akin to it. All the symptoms described by poor

Burrows, are those of blood-poisoning combined with suffocation, and

such would be the effects of a gas or vapour arising from coal. Fatal

effects arising from damp coal in close bunkers are on record; but this

is the worst ever heard of.

“It would seem that after the engineer and the crew fell into their

fatal slumbers, the steam in the boilers must have reached almost a

bursting pressure—the boilers being untended—and the engineer, in

falling, had opened the valve to the full, which accounts for the

extraordinary speed of the _Lucca_ when pursued by the yacht. Being a

very long vessel and sharp in the bows, and going at a very high speed,

she would naturally keep nearly a direct course, as there was little

wind or sea to interfere with her rudder. So soon as the fires burned

out the engines stopped, and the sea rising, she became entirely at the

mercy of the waves.

“When Burrows fell a victim he saw nine or ten men on deck lying prone

in a fatal sleep—when the _Gloire de Dijon_ sent a boat’s crew on board

there were but three bodies on deck; the rest had rolled, or been

washed, overboard.

“These are the principal particulars of this unprecedented catastrophe.

This is a long letter, but I am sure that you will be eager for news

upon the subject, and, to tell the truth, I cannot get it out of my

mind, and it relieves me to write it down.

“What a narrow escape we have all had. And especially me, for I came on

to New York from Imola before the rest started, and got clear through

without any snow. When it was found that they could not reach New York

in time, I was in doubt whether to go by the _Lucca_, or remain and

accompany the main body in the _Saskatchewan_. Accident decided. I met

an old friend whom I had not seen for years, and resolved to take

advantage of the delay, and spend a day or two with him. So I escaped.

“But had it not been for the snow-storm, which caused so much cursing

at the time, we should one and all have perished miserably. The

impression made upon us was so deep that just before the _Saskatchewan_

started the whole body of the claimants attended a special service at a

church here, when thanksgivings were offered for the escape they had

had, and prayers offered up for future safety.

“I look forward with much pleasure to my voyage in the _Gloire de

Dijon_ yacht, at Mr Baskette’s invitation. A finer, more gentlemanly

man does not exist; and I am greatly impressed with the learning of Mr

Theodore.”

Aymer was much struck with the contents of this letter of Anthony

Baskelette’s. The whole tragedy seemed to pass before his mind; his

vivid imagination called up a picture of the _Lucca_, steaming as fast

as bursting pressure could drive her with a crew of corpses across the

winter sea. He made an extract from it, and sent it to Violet. Next day

they were _en route_ for Stirmingham.

At the same moment the designer of this horrible event was steaming

across the Atlantic in his splendid yacht, gulling weak-minded, simple

Baskelette with highest notions of honour, and what not. When Marese

found that the snow had blocked the line and prevented access to New

York, his rage and disappointment knew no bounds; but he was

sufficiently master of himself to think and decide upon the course to

be pursued.

Although that part of the diabolical scheme which aimed at the

wholesale destruction of the claimants had failed, all the other

sections of it were in train to succeed. The bullion was shipped, the

cargo a rich one, the steamer herself valuable—no better prize could

ever fall to him. Therefore he telegraphed to Theodore in cypher to

proceed as had been arranged.

The infernal machine, concealed in the simple aspect of an ordinary

strong deal-box, was sent on board the _Lucca_, and everything happened

just as Theodore had foreseen. If the conspirators were somewhat

disturbed in their calculations by the snow-storm, on the other hand

their designs were assisted by the heavy fog which had occurred at sea.

Undoubtedly this fog rendered the poisonous gas escaping from the case

still more effective, as it would prevent it dispersing so rapidly, and

at the same time it hid any signals the _Lucca_ might have made.

Nothing more fortunate for the conspirators than this fog could have

happened, for its service did not end here—it furnished a plausible

explanation of what would have otherwise been inexplicable.

Theodore easily contrived the removal of the fatal case, now empty, on

board the _Gloire de Dijon_ after the _Lucca_ had returned to port. The

case had been consigned to Liverpool, which was the port the _Lucca_

was bound for, and the excuse for sending it by the _Lucca_ was all cut

and dried—i.e., that the _Gloire de Dijon_ was for London.

Nothing was more natural than that, after this narrow escape, it should

be wished to transfer the case to the _Gloire de Dijon_. This was done;

and while at sea Theodore quietly removed his machine and pitched it

into the water at night, and it sank in the abyss, being lined with

iron inside.

The question of salvage bid fair to occupy the Courts in New York for

some considerable time, and to be a boon to the lawyers; but the two

conspirators were far too keen to let their prize slip from them in

that way. They managed to have the matter referred to arbitration, and

the final result was that 400,000 pounds was awarded. This amount they

at once transferred to London, and with it plunged at once into fresh

schemes.

Chapter Fourteen.

The great city whose ownership was at stake, knew that the eagles were

gathered to the living carcase, and yet did not feel their presence.

What are one hundred and fifty people in a population of half a

million? They are lost, unless they march in order and attract

attention by blocking up the streets. Disband a regiment of the Line in

Saint Paul’s Churchyard at London, and in ten minutes it would

disappear, and no one would notice any unusual prevalence of red coats

on the pavements.

The newspaper people were woefully disappointed, for the Press were not

admitted. They revenged themselves with caricature portraits of the

claimants, and grotesque sketches of their manners and conduct.

Although the Press were excluded; there were several present who could

write shorthand, and amongst these was a clerk from the office of Shaw,

Shaw, and Simson, whose notes I have had the opportunity of consulting.

The Sternhold Hall, in which the council was held, was built, as has

been stated, upon a spot once the very centre of the Swamp, now

surrounded with noble streets of mansions and club-houses, theatres,

picture-galleries—the social centre of Stirmingham. The front—you can

buy a photograph of it for a shilling—is of the Ionic order of

architecture—that is, the modern mock Ionic—i.e., the basement is

supported by columns of that order, and above these the _façade_

consists of windows in the Gothic style, which are, after all, dumb

windows only. The guide-books call it magnificent; it is really simply

incongruous.

The whole of the first two days was spent by the one hundred and fifty

claimants in wrangling as to who should take the chair, how the

business should be conducted, who should be admitted and who should

not. All the minor differences suppressed while on the voyage broke out

afresh, the moment the eagles had scented the carcase. Two days’

glimpse at the wealth of Stirmingham, was sufficient to upset all the

artificial calm and friendship, which had been introduced by the

generous offers of Marese Baskette. One gentleman proposed that a

certain section of claimants should be wholly excluded from the hall.

This caused a hubbub, and if the incident had happened in the States

revolvers might have been used. The Original Swampers declared that

they would not sit under a chairman drawn from any other body but

themselves. The outer circle of Baskettes considered that the conceit

of the Swampers was something unbearable, and declined to support them

in any way. The Illegitimate Swampers alone supported the Originals, in

the hope of getting up by clinging to their coat-tails. The Primitive

Sibbolds were quite as determined to sit under no president but their

own, and, the ranks of the other Sibbolds were split up into twenty

parties. The clamour of tongues, the excitement, the hubbub was

astounding.

Aymer, as clerk to Mr Broughton, had a first-rate view of the whole,

for Shaw, Shaw, and Simson had provided for the comfort of their

representative by purchasing for the time the right to use the stage

entrance of the room. Their offices were for the nonce established in

the green-room. Their clients mounted upon the platform or stage, and

passed behind the curtain to private consultation. This astute

management upset the other seven companies, whose representatives had

to locate themselves as best they might in the midst of a stormy sea of

contending people. From the rear of the stage, just where the

stage-manager was accustomed to look out upon the audience and watch

the effect upon them of the play, Aymer had a good view of the crowd

below, and beheld men in every shade of cloth, with rolls of paper,

yellow deeds, or old books and quill pens in their hands, gesticulating

and chattering like the starlings at World’s End.

For two whole days the storm continued, till at last Mr Broughton

suggested that the debate should be conducted in sections; each party

to have its own president, secretary, committee, and reporter of

progress; each to sit apart from the others by means of screens, and

that there should be a central committee-room, to receive the reports

and tabulate them in order. This scheme was adopted, and something like

order began to prevail. Anthony Baskelette, Esq, who had now arrived

per the _Gloire de Dijon_, was pretty unanimously voted to the

presidentship of the central committee, or section, the members of

which were composed of representatives from every party. Screens were

provided at no little expense, and the great hall was portioned out

into thirty or forty pens, not unlike the high pews used of old in

village churches.

Aymer was intensely interested and amused, as he stood at his peep-hole

on the stage, from which he could see into every one of these pens, or

pews, and watch the eagerness of the disputes going on between the

actors in each.

The first great object the sections had in view was to reduce their

claims to something like shape and order; for this purpose each section

was numbered from 1 to 37, and was to deliver to the central section,

Number 38, a report or summary of the general principles and facts upon

which the members of the section based their claim. This summary of

claim, as it was called, was to be short, succinct, and clear; and to

be supported by minute extracts of evidence, by the vouchers of the

separate individuals, so to say, showing that the summary was correct.

These extracts of evidence attached to the summary were really not

extracts, but full copies, and had to contain the dates, names, method

of identification, and references to church registers, tombstones,

family Bibles, and so forth.

Aymer was astounded at the magnitude of these volumes of evidence—for

such, in fact, they were. He had an opportunity of just glancing at

them, as they were laid upon the table of the central section one after

another. The summaries were reasonable and tolerably well expressed.

The minutes of evidence were something overwhelming. A section would

send up in the course of a day—first, its summary and a pile of

folios—seventy or eighty large lawyer’s folios of evidence to be

attached to it. On the morrow it would beg for permission to add to its

evidence, and towards the afternoon up would come another huge bundle

of closely-written manuscript.

This would go on for several days, till the central committee at last

issued an order to receive no more evidence from section Number —.

Then section Number — would hold an indignation meeting and protest,

till the central committee was obliged to receive additional bundles of

so-called evidence. Half of this evidence was nothing better than

personal recollection.

The method pursued in the sections was delightfully simple and

gratifying to every member’s vanity. He was supplied with pen and ink,

and told to put down all he could recollect about his family. The

result was that in each section there were five or six people—and in

some more—all busily at work, writing autobiographies; and as everybody

considered himself of quite as much consequence as his neighbour, the

bulk of these autobiographies can easily be imagined.

If any one had taken the trouble to wade through these personal

histories, he would have been highly gratified with the fertility of

the United States in breeding truly benevolent, upright, and

distinguished men!

Out of all that one hundred and fifty there was not one who did not

merit the gratitude of his township at least, and some were fully

worthy of the President’s chair at the White House. Their labours for

the good of others were most carefully recorded—the subscriptions they

had made to local charities far away on the other side of the Atlantic,

to schoolhouses, and chapels, town-halls, and what not.

“There,” ran many a proud record,—“you will see my initials upon the

corner-stone—‘J.I.B.,’ for ‘Jonathan Ithuriel Baskette,’ and the date

(186-), which is in itself good evidence towards my case.”

All this mass of rubbish had to be sifted by the central, committee, to

be docketed, indexed, arranged, and a general analysis made of it.

They worked for a while without a murmur, and suddenly collapsed. It

was impossible to meet the flood of writing. Fancy one hundred and

fifty people writing their autobiographies all at once, and each

determined to do himself justice! Such a spectacle was never witnessed

since the world began, and was worthy of the nineteenth century. The

central committee flung up their hands in despair. A resource was

presently found in the printing-press.

When once the idea was started, the cry spread to all corners of the

hall, and rose in a volume of sound to be echoed from the roof. The

Press! The Spirit evoked by Faust which he could not control, nor any

who have followed him.

It was unanimously decided that everything should be printed—sectional

summaries, minutes of evidence, central committees analysis, solicitors

arguments, references and all. There was rejoicing in the printing

offices at Stirmingham that day. Now the _Stirmingham Daily Post_

reaped the reward of its long attack upon the family of the heir, upon

Sternhold Baskette, and Marese, his son. The contract was offered to

the _Daily Post_, the _Daily Post_ accepted it, and set to work, but

soon found it necessary to obtain the aid of other local printers.

Now a new source of delay and worry arose. The moment everybody knew

they were going into print—why is it print sounds so much better than

manuscript?—each and all wanted to revise and add to their histories.

First, all the sections had to receive back their summaries and minutes

of evidence, to be re-written, corrected, revised, and above all

extended. The scribbling of pens recommenced with redoubled vigour, and

now the printer’s devils appeared upon the scene. The cost of printing

the enormous mass of verbiage must have been something immense, but it

was cheerfully submitted to—because each man looked forward to the

pleasure of seeing himself in print.

Acres upon acres of proofs went in and out of the Sternhold Hall, and

meantime Aymer grew impatient and weary of it. His time was much more

occupied than at Barnham. He had to conduct all Broughton’s

correspondence, and when that was finished lend a hand in arranging the

minutes of evidence for the committee, who had applied for assistance

to the solicitors. He had only reckoned on a month at Stirmingham at

the outside. Already a fortnight had elapsed, and there seemed no sign

of the end.

His letters to Violet became tinged with a species of dull despair. All

this scribbling was to him the very acme of misery, the very winter of

discontent—meaningless, insufferable. There was no progress in it for

him: he could not find a minute’s spare time now to proceed with his

private work. Not a step was gained nearer Violet.

When at last the scribbling was over; when the proofs had been read and

re-read and corrected till the compositors went mad; then the

speechifying had to begin. This to Aymer was even more wearisome than

the other. For Mr Broughton having discovered his literary talent,

employed him to listen to the debate and write a daily _précis_ of its

progress, which it would be less trouble to him to read than the

copious and interminable notes of the shorthand writer.

This order compelled Aymer to pay close attention to every speech from

first to last; and as they one and all followed the American plan of

writing out their speeches and reading them, most were of inordinate

length. To suit the speakers a new arrangement of the hall had to be

made. The screens were now removed, and the sections placed in a kind

of semi-circle, with the central section in front. Those who desired to

speak gave in their names, and were called upon by the president in

regular rotation.

The first subject discussed was the method to be pursued. Some

recommended that the whole body of claimants should combine and present

their claims _en masse_. Others thought that this plan might sacrifice

those who had good claims to those who had bad ones. Many were for

forming a committee, chosen from the various sections, to remain in

England and instruct the solicitors; others were for forming at once a

committee of solicitors.

After four or five days of fierce discussion the subject was still

unsettled, and a new one occupied its place. This was—how should the

plunder be divided? Such a topic seemed to outsiders very much like

reckoning the chickens before they were hatched. But not so to these

enthusiastic gentlemen. They were certain of wresting the properly from

the hands of the “Britishers,” who had so long kept them out of their

rights—the Stars and Stripes would yet float over the city of

Stirmingham, and the President of the United States should be invited

to a grand dinner in that very hall!

The division of the property caused more dissension than everything

else taken together. One section—that of the Original Swampers—declared

that it _would_ have, nothing should prevent its having, the whole of

the streets, etc, built on the site of the Swamp. The Sibbolds cared

not a rap for the Swamp; they _would_ have all the property which had

grown upon the site of old Sibbold’s farm at Wolfs Glow. The

Illegitimates claimed pieces here and there, corresponding to the

islands of the Swamp. Some one proposed that the meeting should be

provided with maps of Stirmingham, and the idea was unanimously

adopted.

Then came the day of the surveyors. One vast map was ordered—it had to

be made in sections—and was estimated to cover, when extended, a mile

in length by three hundred yards in breadth; and then it did not

satisfy some of the claimants. Then followed a terrible wrangle over

the maps. Everybody wanted to mark his possession upon it with red ink,

and these red ink lines invariably interfered with one another. One

gentleman proposed, with true American ingenuity, to have the map

traced in squares—like the outlying territories and backwoods of

America—and to assign to each section a square! But this was too equal

a mode to satisfy the more grasping.

Finally, it was resolved that all the minutes of evidence should be

gone through by the central committee, and that they should sketch out

those portions of the city to which each section was entitled. This

took some time. At the end of that time the great Sternhold Hall

presented an extraordinary spectacle. The walls of the hall, from the

ceiling to the floor, and all round, and the very ceiling itself, were

papered with these sections of the map, each strongly marked with lines

in red ink. Near the stage there was a vast library of books, reaching

half-way to the ceiling; this was composed of the summaries, minutes of

evidence, etc.

All round the room wandered the claimants in knots of two or three,

examining their claims as marked upon the sections of the map. Many had

opera-glasses to distinguish the claims which were “skyed;” some

affected to lie down on their backs and examine the ceiling with

telescopes; scores had their volume of evidence in their hands, and

were trying to discover upon what principle the central committee had

apportioned out the city.

Of course there was a general outcry of dissatisfaction—one section had

too much, another too little, and some sections, it was contended, had

no right to any. The meeting then resolved that each section should

visit the spaces marked out for its claim, and should report to the

central committee upon its value. Away went the sections, and there

might have been seen five or six gentlemen in one street, and ten or

twelve round the corner, with maps and pencils, talking eagerly, and

curiously scanning the shops and houses—poking their noses into back

courts and alleys—measuring the frontage of club-houses and theatres.

The result was an uproar, for each section declared that the other had

had a more valuable portion of the city given to it; and one utterly

rejected its section, for it had got the Wolf’s Glow district—the

lowest den in Stirmingham!

After a long discussion, it was at last arranged that each section

should retain, _pro tem_, its claim as marked out, and that _token the

property was realised_, any excess of one section over the other should

be equally divided. These people actually contemplated the possibility

of putting the city up to auction! To such lengths will the desire of

wealth drive the astutest of men, blinding their eyes to their own

absurdity.

After these preliminary points were settled, the meeting at last

resolved itself into a committee of the whole house, and proceeded to

business. The first business was to verify the evidence. This

necessitated visits to the churches, and public record office to make

extracts, etc, and two days were set apart for that purpose. It was a

rich harvest for the parish clerks of Stirmingham, and especially for

the fortunate clerk at Wolf’s Glow. After this the meeting, beginning

to be alarmed at the enormous expense it had incurred, resolved on

action, and with that object it decided to hold a secret session, and

to exclude all persons not strictly claimants.

This relieved Aymer from his wearisome task of chronicling the

proceedings; but he could not leave or get a day to visit Violet. As he

left the hall he stopped a moment to look at the stock-in-trade of an

itinerant bookseller, who had established his track in front of the

building since the family congress began. His stock was principally

genealogical, antiquarian, and topographical—mostly old rubbish, that

no one would imagine to be worth a sixpence, and yet which, among a

certain class, commands a good sale.

The title of a more modern-looking volume caught Aymer’s eye. It was “A

Fortune for a Shilling,” and consisted of a list of unclaimed estates,

next of kin, persons advertised for, etc. He weighed it in his hand—it

tempted him; yet he despised himself for his weakness. But Violet? He

should serve her best by saving his shilling. He put it down, and went

his way.

Chapter Fifteen.

Their mouths watered for the great city, yet it seemed no nearer to

them than when three thousand miles away on the other side of the

Atlantic. They talked loudly of their rights, but there was the little

difficulty of possession, which is sometimes a trifle more than nine

points of the law. I have conversed with unreasonable members of a

certain Church, which claims to be universal, who considered that half

England—half the vast domains owned by lords and ladies, by the two

hundred and fifty proprietors of Great Britain—was really the property

of the Church, if she had her rights.

There are those who consider that Algeria ought to belong to the Arabs,

that Africa belongs to the blacks, and India to the Hindoos. Sat there

comes this awkward item of possession. You have to buy the man in

possession out, or else pitch him out; and the difficulty in this case

was that there were so many in possession. Eight companies and a

Corporation are not easily ejected.

The fact was, the grand family council was a farce, and fell through.

Even as a demonstration it completely failed. The members of it might

just as well have stayed at home, and sent a monster petition to the

House of Lords, several hundred yards long (as per the usual custom

now-a-days), and their progress would have been about as great.

The _Stirmingham Daily News_, which had published the life of Sternhold

Baskette, and defended his legitimate line, poured bitter satire upon

it, and held the whole business up to ridicule—as well it might. The

_News_ was now Conservative. The intense self-conceit of the Yankees—to

imagine that they were going to quietly take possession of a great

English city, and hoist the Stars and Stripes on Saint George’s

Cathedral at Stirmingham!

The American gentlemen fumed and fussed, and uttered threats of making

the Stirmingham claim a feature in the next Presidential election—it

should “leave the low sphere of personal contention, and enter the

arena of political discussion;” so they said. It should be a new

_Alabama_ case; and if they could not have Stirmingham, they would

have—the Dollars!

Meantime the dollars disappeared rather rapidly, and, after a month or

six weeks of these endless wranglings in the Sternhold Hall, there

began to be symptoms of an early break-up. First, three or four, then

ten, then a dozen, crept off, and quietly sailed for New York, lighter

in pocket, and looking rather foolish. The body, however, of the

claimants could not break up in that ignominious manner. It was

necessary for them to do something to mark the fact that they had been

there, at all events.

The final result was that they appointed a committee of solicitors—one

for each section that chose to be represented. Twenty-two sections did

choose, and twenty-two solicitors formed the English committee who were

to promote the claims of one hundred and fifty able-bodied Baskettes

and Sibboldians, who represented about three times that number of women

and children. Then they held a banquet in the Sternhold Hall, and

invited the Mayor of Stirmingham, who, however, was very busy that

evening, and “deeply regretted” his inability to be present. The

council then broke up, and departed for New York.

Aymer was indeed glad; now he should be able to see Violet again, and

resume his book so long laid aside. But no; there came a new surprise.

A certain recalcitrant borough in the West returned unexpectedly a

member of the wrong colour to Parliament, and the House was dissolved,

and writs were issued for a general election. Three days afterwards an

address appeared in the _Stirmingham Daily News_, announcing Marese

Baskette as a candidate for that place in the Conservative interest.

The heir had resolved to enter the House if possible, and his

proclamation fell on Stirmingham, not like a thunderbolt, but like the

very apple of discord dropped from heaven.

First, it upset poor Aymer’s little plans and hopes. The companies were

desperately alarmed, and not without reason; for if Marese got into

Parliament he would, no doubt, very quickly become in himself a power,

and would be supported by his party in his claim upon the building

societies. It would be to the interest of his party that he should

obtain his property—it would be so much substantial gain to them.

Practically, Marese Baskette would have the important borough of

Stirmingham in his pocket; therefore the party would be sure to do all

they could to get his claim fully admitted. Imagine that party in

power; fancy the chief at the head of Government!

Every one knows that justice and equity are immaculate in England, and

that no strain is ever put upon them for political purposes, or to

gratify political supporters. The fact is so well understood, so

patent, that it is unnecessary to adduce any proof of it. But there is,

nevertheless, a certain indefinite feeling that the complexion of the

political party in power extends very widely, and penetrates into

quarters supposed to be remote from its centre. Whichever happens to be

uppermost—but let us not even think such treasonable things.

At all events the companies had a real dread—a heartfelt fear—lest

Marese Baskette should get into Parliament, and so obtain political

support to his claim. They had foreseen something of the kind; they had

dreaded its happening any time ever since he came of age; but they had

reckoned that his known poverty would keep him out, especially as there

was a very popular landlord in the county, Sir Jasper Norton, who, with

another prominent supporter of the Liberal Government, had hitherto

proved invincible. It had hung over their heads for years; now it had

fallen, and fallen, of all other times, just at the very moment when

their leases were on the point of expiring. A more unfortunate moment

for them could not have been chosen. With one consent they resolved to

fight him tooth and nail. This was fatal to poor Aymer’s hopes. For the

company (Number 6) which employed Shaw, Shaw, and Simson could not

possibly spare Mr Broughton’s energetic spirit; he must help them fight

the coming man. Broughton, seeing good fees and some sport, resolved,

to stay, and with him poor Aymer had to remain.

The whole city was in a ferment. Marese Baskette’s name was upon every

lip, and as the murmur swelled into a roar it grew into something very

like a cheer for the heir. That cheer penetrated the thick walls of

many a fashionable villa and mansion, and was listened to with

ill-concealed anxiety. Many a portly gentleman, dressed in the tailor’s

best, with broad shirt-front, gold studs, and heavy ring, rubicund with

good living, as he stood upon his hearth-rug, with his back to the

fire, in the midst of his family circle, surrounded with luxury, grew

thoughtful and absent as that dull distant roar reached his ears.

Banker and speculator, city man, merchant, ironworker, coalowner,

millowner, heard and trembled. For the first time they began to

comprehend the meaning of the word Mob.

That word is well understood in America; twice it has been thoroughly

spelt and learnt by heart in France. Will it ever be learnt in England?

Outside those thick walls and strong shutters in the dingy street or

dimly-lit suburban road, where the bitter winter wind drove the cold

rain and sleet along, there roamed abroad a mighty monster roused from

his den. They heard and trembled. Before that monster the safeguards of

civilisation are as cobwebs. He may be scotched with Horse Guards and

Snider rifles, beaten back into his caverns; but of what avail is that

after the mischief is done? In sober earnest, the middle classes began

to fear for the safety of Stirmingham. You see, the grey sewer-rats had

undermined it from end to end!

It happened that the ironmasters and the coalowners, and some of the

millowners, had held out long and successfully against a mighty strike:

a strike that extended almost to a million of hearths and homes. They

had won in the struggle, but the mind of the monster was bitter against

them. They were Liberal—nearly all. Let them and their candidates keep

a good look-out!

It happened also that the winter was hard and cold, work scarce,

provisions dear; everything was wrong. It is at such times that, in

exact opposition to all rules, the grey rat flourishes!

Finally, it happened that the party who had so strangely abdicated

power just at the time when they seemed so firmly fixed, had committed

a singularly, an exceptionally, unpopular act. They had robbed the poor

man of his beer! They had curtailed his hours for drinking it, and to

all appearance in an arbitrary way. Rumour said that they contemplated

an alliance with the Cold Water Pump—that horror of horrors, the

Temperance party. They had robbed the poor man of his beer! And the

grey rat showed his teeth.

Marese Baskette issued his _pronunciamento_, and at once opened the

campaign. Everybody read it, from the club-house to the grimy bar of

the lowest public-house. The club-house smiled, and said, “Clever;” the

pot-house cheered, and cried, “He’s our man.” He _was_ their man. Even

yet, at this distance of time, there lingered in the minds of the

populace a distinct recollection of the great saturnalia which had been

held in the days of old Sternhold Baskette, when their candidate was

born.

History magnifies itself as time rolls on; the memory of that brief

hour of unlimited riot had grown till it remained the one green spot in

the life of the Stirmingham populace. This was the very man—this was

the very infant whose advent, almost a generation ago, had been

celebrated with rejoicings such as no king or queen in these degenerate

days ever offered to the people.

When old Sternhold Baskette in the joy of his heart poured out wine in

gallons, spirits in casks, and beer in rivers, he baptised his son

Marese, the Child of the People. And it bore fruit at this great

distance of time.

John Marese Baskette was, as we know, a clever man; he had a still more

subtle man at his elbow. Between them they composed his address and his

first oration. Be sure they did not forget the memory so dear to the

people. Not one single thing was omitted which could tend to identify

Marese Baskette with the populace. The combination of capital against

them, the hard winter and price of provisions, all were skilfully

turned to advantage; and, above all, the beer. When the publicans had

read his address they one and all said, “He’s our man.” Licensed

victuallers, beer-house keepers, “off the premises” men, gin-palace,

eating-house, restaurant, hotel—all joined hands and marched in chorus,

praising the man who promised to turn on the beer.

For he’s a jolly good fellow,

And so say all of us!

But Marese Baskette did not wholly rely upon the poorer classes: he

gained the goodwill, or at least the neutrality, of two-thirds of the

middle classes, by openly declaring that when he came into his

property, as he grandly designated half the city, he should devote

one-third of it to the relief of local taxation, to form a kind of

common fund for sewers, gas, water, poor-rates, paving, etc. He went

further—this he did not promulgate openly, but he caused it to be

spread industriously abroad from house to house—and said that, when he

inherited his rights, the house rents should be reduced from their

present exorbitant figure.

Now it was notorious that the companies only waited to see whether they

could tide over the year of expiration of their leases before they

raised the rents. The arrow therefore went home. Baskette had hit the

nail upon the head. The other party began to threaten petitions for

bribery—contending that these promises were nothing short of it.

The _Daily Post_ published a leader on “Glaring Corruption and

Wholesale Venality.” Baskette and Theodore smiled. What would be the

use of unseating him if, as they clearly saw, the opposite party was

gone to utter destruction?

Baskette met with a triumphant reception at his first meeting. Whenever

he appeared in the streets he was cheered to the echo.

The building societies and the Corporation were desperately alarmed.

Though so bitterly opposed to each other at ordinary times, a common

fear gave them unity. They held a secret meeting—at least they thought

it was secret, but such things are impossible in our time. The pen is

everywhere—its sharp point penetrates through the thickest wall. They

united, formed themselves into an association, voted funds—secret

also—hired speakers and hired roughs.

It all leaked out. The _Stirmingham Daily News_—Baskette’s paper—came

out with a report and a leader, and held up the poor heir to the

commiseration of the people. See what a combination against

him!—anything to keep him out of his rights. Hired speakers to talk him

down—hired roughs to knock him on the head. Vested interests arrayed

against him—poor heir! How deeply to be pitied! How greatly to be

sympathised with! The paper used stronger language than this, and

hinted at “gangs of foul conspirators,” but that was not gentlemanly.

The exposure was worth a thousand votes to Baskette. But though

exposed, the Corporation and the companies never ceased their efforts.

Between them they comprised almost all of the rich employers of labour.

They had one terrible engine—a fearful instrument of oppression and

torture—invented in our modern days, in order that we may not get free

and “become as gods.” They put on the screw.

There is not a working man in England, from the hedger and ditcher, and

the wretch who breaks the flints by the roadside, up to the best paid

clerk or manager of a bank—not one single man who receives wages from

another—who does not know the meaning of that word.

Let no one imagine that the “screw” is confined in its operation to the

needy artisan or the labourer. It extends into all ranks of society,

poisons every family circle, tortures every tenant and householder—all

who in any way depend for comfort, luxury, or peace upon another

person. There is but one rank who are free—the few who, whether for

wages or as tenants, never have to look to others.

Society is divided into two sections—the first, infinitely numerous,

and the second, infinitely few—i.e., the Screwed-down, and the

Screw-drivers. Now, the Corporation and the companies were the

screw-drivers, and they twisted the horrible engine up tight.

Perhaps they gave it one turn too many; at all events the mob set up a

yell. They formed processions and marched about the streets with

bundles of screws, strung like bunches of keys, at the end of poles.

Squibs flew in all directions—too personal to be quoted here. Somebody

wrote a parody on “John Brown’s Knapsack”—representing old Sternhold

Baskette as John Brown, and his soul as marching on. This, set to

music, resounded in every corner.

It is sad, but it is true. Everything might still have gone off pretty

quiet, had it not been for religion, or rather pseudo-religion. There

were in the city vast numbers of workmen of the lowest class from

Ireland, and when the watchwords “Orangemen” and “Papists” are

mentioned, every one will understand. Fights occurred hourly—a grand

battle-royal was imminent. The grey rats did all they could to foster

the animosity, and got up sham quarrels to set fire to the excited

passions of the mob. Their game was riot, in order that they might

plunder. While the fools were fighting and the wise men trying to put

them down, the grey rats meant to make off with all they could get.

Aymer, having by this time made for himself some little reputation for

intelligence and quick observation, was sent out by the committee, of

which Broughton was chairman, to watch the temper of the people; to

penetrate into all the corners and out-of-the-way places; to hang on

the skirts of the crowd and pick up their hopes and wishes, and to make

reports from time to time as anything struck him. He was even to bring

in the lampoons and squibs that were circulated, and, if possible, to

spy out the secret doings of the other party—a commission which gave

him liberty to roam. He wished to be gone, but this was better than the

close office-work. He should see something of life; he should see man

face to face. (In gilded salons and well-bred society it is only the

profile one sees—the full face is averted.) He put on his roughest

suit, took his note-book, and strolled out into the city.

The first thing he had to report was that an insinuation which had been

spread abroad against Baskette was actually working in his favour. It

had been thrown out that he was upon too familiar terms with a certain

lady, singer and actress, the fame of whose wonderful beauty was

sullied with suspicions of her frailty. With a certain section of the

people, who prided themselves upon being “English to the backbone,”

this was resented as unfair. With a far larger portion it was at once

believed, and, amid sly nods and winks, taken as another proof that

Baskette was one of themselves.

Aymer wandered about the city; he saw its horrors, its crime. At such a

period the sin, the wickedness and misery which commonly lurks in

corners, came out and flaunted in the daylight. A great horror fell

upon him—a horror of the drunkenness, the cursing, the immorality, the

fierce brutishness. He shuddered. Not that he was himself pure, but he

was sensitive and quick to understand, to see beneath the surface. He

was of an age when the mind deals with broad generalities. If this was

the state of one city only—then, poor England!

His imagination pictured a time when this monster might be uppermost.

One night he ascended the tower of a great brewery and looked down upon

the city, all flaring with gas. Up from the depth came the shouting,

the hum of thousands, the tramp of the multitudes. He looked afar. The

horizon was bright with blazing fires—the sky red with a crimson and

yellow glow. Not a star, was visible, a dense cloud of smoke hid

everything. The iron furnaces shot forth their glowing flames, the

engines puffed and snorted. He thought of Violet and trembled: when the

monster was let loose, what then?

He descended and wandered away he knew not exactly whither, but he

found himself towards midnight mixed in a crowd around the police

station. Jammed in amid, the throng he was shoved against the wall, but

fortunately a lamp-post preserved him from the crush. However, he could

not move. The gas-light fell upon the wall and lit up the proclamations

of “V.R.”—the advertisements of missing and lost, the descriptions of

persons who were wanted, etc.

One sheet, half-defaced with the wind and rain and mud splashed against

it, caught his eye—

“Escaped,” so ran the fragment, “from... mingham Asylum, a lunatic of

homicidal tendencies... Stabbed a warder... killed his wife by driving

a nail into her head... Is at large. His description—Long grey hair,

restless eye, peculiar ears, walks with a shambling gait, and has a

melancholy expression of countenance. Plays fantastic airs upon a tin

whistle, and is particularly fond of tinkering.”

A new bill, “Two Hundred Pounds Reward,” for the apprehension of a

defaulting bank manager, blotted out the rest.

But Aymer had read enough. A sickening sensation seized him—this

horrible being loose upon society, tinkering, playing upon a tin

whistle, and driving nails into women’s heads! In his ears sounded the

din of tremendous shouts, “Baskette for ever!” and he saw a carriage go

by from which the horses had been taken, and in which a man was

standing upright, with his hat off, bowing. It was Marese Baskette

returning from an evening meeting, and dragged in his carriage by the

mob to his hotel.

Aymer caught a glance of his dark eye flashing with triumph, and it

left an unpleasant impression upon him. But the shouts rose up to the

thick cloud of smoke overhead—“Baskette for ever! Baskette for ever!”

“Oh! my love,” wrote Aymer to Violet, “this is, indeed, an awful place.

I begin to live in dread of my fellow-creatures. Not for worlds—no, not

for worlds, would I be the owner of this city (as so many are striving

to be), lest I should be held, partly at least, responsible hereafter

for its miseries, its crimes, its drunkenness, its nameless,

indefinable horrors.”

These words, read by what afterwards happened, are remarkable. Aymer’s

last vision of Stirmingham was the same man drawn again in his carriage

amid tenfold louder shouts than before, “Baskette for ever!” He headed

the poll by over 1000 votes.

The grey rats were triumphant.

End of Volume Two.

Book III.—Results.

Chapter One.

After a life in which each day was spent in happy anticipation of the

pleasures of the next, the calm, quiet existence at The Towers would

have been dull and cheerless to Violet. But following so soon upon the

death of Waldron, under such awful circumstances, the life with Lady

Lechester seemed to her, for a while at least, like that in a haven of

refuge where the storm without could not reach. And had Aymer been

there, or near at hand, she would in a quiet way have been happy.

For Lady Lechester was singularly kind. She made no show of sympathy,

she did not ask, as some pretentiously hospitable people do every

morning, if she were comfortable and had all she wished. But Agnes

possessed a rare and delicate tact, the power of perceiving what others

felt, of anticipating their smallest fancies.

She accommodated herself and her habits to Violet, and there grew up

between them a firm friendship, and more than that—a companionship.

Agnes kept no secret from Violet. Violet had none to hide from her.

There was one topic only which Violet never of her own volition

approached, but she was perfectly aware that something of the kind was

going on. In an indefinable manner she had learnt that Agnes had a

suitor. It came to her knowledge that he was extremely wealthy, but low

born in comparison with her long descent. How Agnes looked upon him it

was hard to say. She was fully five-and-thirty, and that is an age at

which women begin to feel that now, if ever, is the time when they must

choose a companion.

On the other hand it is an age when the glamour of early hope and

youthful fancy, are hardly likely to gild the first figure that

approaches with a beauty not really its own. It is an age when the mind

can choose calmly and deliberately, in the true sense of the word.

Violet had never seen this man, or heard his name, but she knew that

there was correspondence between them, for she had seen the letters

with a foreign postmark. She gathered that he was in America. After

which Agnes whispered that he would shortly be home, and would visit

her.

“He is very handsome,” she said, for the first time speaking directly

upon the subject. “He is a man who could not be passed in a crowd, even

were it not for exceptional circumstances surrounding him. And yet. I

do not know—I do not know.”

Then she was silent again for several days, but presently approached

the inevitable topic again.

Would it be possible for a woman to really banish that topic from her

mind? Agnes could the more easily confide in Violet, because she was

fully aware of her love for Aymer. It is easier to speak to those who

have had similar experiences, than to those who are as yet ignorant.

“He is in England, now,” said Agnes, one day. “He is not far distant.

Why should I conceal it any longer? Your friend Mr Malet meets him

daily, I daresay; he is a candidate for Stirmingham. It is Mr Marese

Baskette.”

“I must congratulate you,” said Violet. “He is the richest man in the

world, is he not?”

“He will be if he succeeds in obtaining his rights. To tell you the

truth, I think the great battle he is fighting with these companies and

claimants, gives me more interest in him than—than—well, I don’t know.

You will see him soon. He will come directly the election is over. Now

you know why I took so much interest in your letters from Mr Malet,

describing the course of the family council. But I think he is wrong,

dear, in the last that you showed me. I think I should like to be the

owner of that great city—it is true there would be responsibilities,

but then there would be opportunities, he forgets that. Think what one

could do—the misery to be alleviated, the crime to be hunted out, the

great work that would be possible.”

Her eyes flashed, her form dilated. It was easy to see that to the

ambition innate in her nature, the idea of having an immense city to

reign over, as it were, like the princesses of old, was almost

irresistible. A true, good woman she was, but it would have been

impossible for her not to have been ambitions.

“With _his_ talent,” she said—becoming freer upon the subject the

longer she dwelt upon it—“with _his_ talent, for he is undoubtedly a

clever man, with the love the populace there have for him, with my long

descent—perhaps the longest in the county—which enables me to claim

kindred with powerful families, with a seat in Parliament, there seems

no reasonable limit to what we might not do. That is the way to put it.

You shall see his letters.”

Violet read them. Marese Baskette was gifted with the power of

detecting the points which pleased those he conversed or corresponded

with, and upon these he dwelt and dilated. It was this that made his

speeches so successful in Stirmingham. As he spoke he noted those

passages and allusions which awoke the enthusiasm of the audience. Next

time he omitted those sentiments which had failed to attract attention,

and confined himself to those which were applauded. In half a dozen

trials he produced a speech, every word of which was cheered to the

echo.

So, in his intercourse with Agnes Lechester, the same faculty of

perceiving what pleased, led him to disregard the ordinary method of

lovers; he avoided all mention, or almost avoided, expressions of

affection, or of love, and harped upon the string which he had found

vibrated most willingly in her breast. The theme was ample and he did

not hesitate to work upon it. He compared his position and that of

Agnes when united, and when his rights were conceded, to that of the

royal reigning dukes of Italy a hundred years ago—dukes whose territory

in area was not large, but whose power within that area was absolute.

The city of Stirmingham was in effect a grander possession than Parma

or Milan; far more valuable estimated in coin, far more influential

estimated by the extent of its commerce. Without a doubt, when once he

had obtained possession, the Government would soon recognise his claims

and confer upon him a coronet, unless indeed Agnes preferred a career

of perhaps greater power in the House of Commons. He candidly admitted

his ignoble descent.

“My ancestor,” he wrote, “was a poor basket-maker; there is no attempt

on my part to conceal the fact. I am perfectly well aware that upon the

score of blood I am far, far, your inferior, and unable to offer a

single claim to equality. The Lechesters, I know, were powerful

auxiliaries of William, the Conqueror of England. The name is preserved

in the Roll of Battle Abbey; it occupies an important place in the

‘early chronicles.’ Heralds have blazoned its arms, genealogists

recorded its descent, poets have sung its fame. Yet remember, even in

this view of the matter, that the great William himself, the feudal

lord of the Lechesters, was descended upon the mother’s side from a

tanner. I cannot compare my father, grand old Sternhold, with William

the Conqueror; and yet, in this age when wealth is what provinces and

conquered countries used to be, perhaps there may be some faint

resemblance.”

Then he went on:—“I will not disguise from you the fact that in your

long descent, and in your connections with the highest families in the

land—not even excepting ancient royalty—I place much of my hope for

recovering my legitimate possessions and for fighting my myriad

enemies. To me the alliance is simply invaluable. To yourself I would

fain hope it would not be without its charms. I do not approach you

with a boy’s silly affection expressed in rhyme and love-sick glances.

I do not follow your footsteps from place to place. It is long since I

have had even ten minutes conversation with you. I have treated you as

I should an equal (not in position, for there you are superior), but as

my equal in mind and ability; not as your sex is commonly treated. I

have not wooed you as a woman. I have asked you to be my partner,

something more than my partner in the kingdom—for so in fact it

is—which is mine by right.”

This tone was exactly fitted to the mind of the person he addressed.

Delicate and full of benevolence, kind, thoughtful, anxious always for

others good, there was still at the root of Agnes Lechester’s mind a

strong vaulting ambition. An ambition which some said had warped her

mind with overweening pride, which had cut her off from the natural

sphere in which she should have moved, leaving her with little or no

society, and which, if rumour spoke correctly, had in earlier days

forced her to stifle the heart that beat responsive to another’s love.

To Violet, this calm, reasoning courtship, full of coronets and crowns,

thinking of nothing but power, was inexplicable. Her heart wrapped up

in Aymer, she could not understand this species of barter—of long

descent and good family against wealth and property. It seemed

unnatural—almost a kind of sacrilege. She fancied that Agnes was not

without twinges of conscience, not without hesitation, and naturally

put down her apparent vacillation to feelings, similar to those which

would have animated herself under the same circumstances.

This is not the place to argue upon marriage; but in passing it does

appear that both sides are right and both wrong. It does not of

necessity follow that marriage must be for love only; but on the other

hand it does not follow that marriage should be for convenience always,

and never for affection. In the present instance, to all appearance the

parties were exactly fitted to each other. It was notorious that

although Lady Lechester had a sufficient income for all her purposes,

and even a superfluity, that the revenue from her large estates was

greatly reduced by encumbrances upon it. There were surmises that this

comparatively inadequate income was one reason why Agnes saw so little

society; she was too proud to mingle in a circle for which her purse

was unfitted.

Marese, the moment he had an opportunity, did not lose this chance

either. In a letter, which Violet was permitted to read, he gradually

and by degrees approached the subject of the mortgages and other

encumbrances upon the Lechester estates. Instead of being an obstacle,

this very fact, he argued, was one reason why their union was

singularly appropriate. At the same moment that her family and

connections gave him a position for which otherwise he might have

striven in vain, his wealth (Marese always kept up the belief in others

that he was, even at present, extremely wealthy) would free those

ancient estates, and restore them to their pristine splendour.

Then came a brief telegram, announcing that he had won the

representation of Stirmingham by a majority of 1000 votes. Agnes was

visibly elated. She moved with a prouder step—there was a slight flush

upon her usually pale cheek. It was a proof of his genius—of that

godlike genius which commands men. He possessed the same qualities

which in the ages past had made the Lechesters members of the ruling

race.

Violet saw that the balance bowed in his favour. If he were to come

now—and he did come.

Scarcely three days after the election, Marese drove up to The Towers,

and was received with a stately courtesy—a proud indifference which

bewildered Violet. She knew, or thought she knew, that Agnes’s heart

was beating with excitement—yet how calm, how distant and formal she

appeared.

Violet looked with interest upon Marese, having heard so much of him

from Aymer and Agnes.

On his part, meeting her attentive gaze and hearing her name, Marese

slightly started, recovered himself, and bowed profoundly. His

attention was wholly bestowed upon Lechester; the conversation between

them seemed to Violet constrained and cold to the last degree. She

could not help acknowledging that Marese was a handsome man—far

handsomer in features and figure than was Aymer. But how different! In

her heart of hearts she pitied poor Agnes if such was her choice.

They betrayed no desire whatever to be alone; on the contrary, Agnes

particularly desired Violet to remain in the apartment with them. Their

talk was of distant things, till it travelled round to the scene of

Marese’s candidature, and finally fixed itself upon the great case.

Marese was extremely sanguine in his language, and indeed he was so in

reality. He had gained two important steps he said. In the first place

he had partly paid off the claims of the companies for expenses

incurred during their tenure of the leases, on the pretence of

improving the estate. These expenses reached a preposterous figure; he

had succeeded in getting them taxed and considerably reduced, and he

had also succeeded in obtaining an order from the Court of Chancery

that the payment of these claims should be made by instalments. He

casually mentioned that the first instalment of 100,000 pounds had been

paid yesterday. The second step was his admittance to Parliament,

which, properly worked, would enable him to obtain the support of the

party now in power.

Still further, the great family council had blown over without result.

The mountain had been in labour, and a mouse had sprung forth. That

spectre which had hovered over the city of Stirmingham so long—the

spectre of the American claims—had at last put in its appearance, and

was found to be hollow and unsubstantial. He did not think there was

anything more to be dreaded from that spectral host. The building

societies even, despaired of being able to prolong the contest by

supporting the American claims. They could no longer refuse to give up

possession on the ground that they did not know who was the true heir.

It could not be denied who was the heir.

Marese stayed but one afternoon. He was too wise to make himself

common. Before he went he formally asked for a private interview. What

passed Violet easily gathered from what Agnes said to her afterwards.