“Mr Broughton will be here in a day or two,” she said; “tell Mr Malet

to come with him. The mortgages I have told you of are to be paid off;

Broughton will manage it.”

From which it was evident that a definite understanding had been come

to with Marese. Agnes was silent and thoughtful all the evening.

Towards the hour when they usually retired, she called Violet to the

window, and put her arm round her neck.

“Suppose,” she said, “all the meadows and hills you see out there were

yours, and had been your ancestors for so many centuries—remember, too,

that we may die however well we feel—should you like to think that the

estate would then fall into the helpless hands of one of two lunatics?”

It was clear that the natural hope of children to inherit had

influenced her. Violet had heard something of the lunacy inherent in

certain branches of the Lechester family:

Chapter Two.

The manner in which Marese Baskette became acquainted with Lady

Lechester affords another instance of those “circumstances over which

we have no control,” which have already been so strongly illustrated in

this history. In the course of his purchases of land and property, old

Sternhold Baskette was so shrewd and far-seeing, and so difficult to

impose upon, that only once did he make any considerable mistake.

It happened that among other land which he bought at no great distance

from Stirmingham, there was a small plot of not much more than two

acres, which was included in a large area, and not specified

particularly in the agreement. This plot had been in the hands of

tenants who had lived so long upon it that they believed they had

acquired a prescriptive right. They sold their right to a person whom

we may call A, and A sold it in common with other property to Sternhold

Baskette. The thing was done, no questions asked, and apparently no one

thought anything more about it. But what piece of land is there so

small that it can escape the eagle eye of an English lawyer? And

especially when that lawyer is a new broom, and a rising man determined

to make his mark.

So it happened that Mr Broughton, Lady Lechester’s new solicitor (and

successor to his uncle’s practice), in going over the map of the

estate, and comparing it with older maps, found out that there was a

certain two-acre piece missing; and being anxious to recommend himself

to so good a client as Lady Agnes, lost no time in tracing out the clue

to it.

He had not much difficulty in discovering the facts of the case, but it

was very soon apparent to his legal knowledge that although the

documentary claim of Lady Agnes, and her moral right, were

indisputable, yet the whole value of the little property would probably

be swallowed up in costs, if an attempt was made to recover it. He

represented the fact to her, but Lady Agnes at once instructed him to

proceed.

The same over-mastering pride which was the one fault of her character,

lent an almost sacred value to every piece of land, however small,

which had once formed part of the estate of her ancestors. Not one rood

of ground would she have parted with, not one perch should remain in

the hands of strangers whilst she had the means of disputing

possession. Yet this was the very woman who, with open-handed

generosity, was ever ready to succour or assist the poor, and would not

hesitate to spend large sums of money to give another person a

pleasure.

Mr Broughton went to law and quickly found it a tough job, for this was

one of those small properties which old Sternhold had been able to keep

in his own hands, and his son Marese was not disposed to part with it,

especially as with lapse of time—although situated far from the city

proper—it had increased in value some twenty-five per cent.

Broughton advised Lady Agnes not to go to the inevitable expense of

protracted litigation; but she was firm, and the battle began in the

Courts, when suddenly, as the forces advanced to the fight, the enemy

gave in and surrendered without firing a shot.

It was a piece of Theodore’s work. That subtle brain of his had

perceived a means by which Marese might, if he played his cards

rightly, obtain the value of this little plot of land ten times over.

Why not marry this Lady Lechester? She would give him exactly what he

wanted—a position and connections among the nobility which all the

wealth of old Sternhold could not buy.

“Who is Lady Lechester?” asked Marese.

Theodore told him. He knew, because in the asylum at Stirmingham there

were two lunatics of that family, the most profitable of the patients

the asylum contained.

“If any accident should happen to either of those patients,” said

Theodore, “Lady Lechester’s property would be doubled; if an accident

happen to both of them, it would be trebled. Accidents sometimes happen

in the best regulated asylums. The easiest way to get rid of a lunatic

who exhibits homicidal tendencies is—to let him escape. He kills two or

three, and then—he cuts his own throat. With a lunatic who has not got

homicidal tendencies, and whose madness is, between ourselves, a

_matter of opinion_—with such persons there are other methods; but no

matter, get Lady Lechester first.” And Marese, seeing that his

(Theodore’s) words were good, did as he was advised.

One day there called at The Towers a gentleman, who was received by

Lady Agnes in the most distant manner, for she recognised his name as

that of her opponent. Marese met her with a species of mingled

deference and pride, exactly suited to the person he addressed. He

begged pardon for his intrusion; he felt that an apology was due to

Lady Lechester which written words could not convey. His lawyers had

involved him in a mistaken and ungentlemanly contest. When he had

learnt that his antagonist was a lady, and a lady of distinguished

position, he had looked into the matter personally, and at once saw

that whatever claim the chicanery of the law gave him, was far

over-balanced by the moral and social right of Lady Lechester. He had

at once stayed proceedings, had ordered his solicitors to immediately

restore possession to Lady Lechester, and had come in person to offer

his sincere apology for the trouble he had inadvertently caused.

Be sure that Marese’s personal appearance had something to do with his

success. At all events Lady Agnes was deeply impressed with his

conduct, which she easily ascribed to a nobility of mind; and not to be

outdone, while she freely accepted the land, she insisted upon

disbursing a sum sufficient to cover the money that had been spent on

it.

From that hour Marese was a favoured visitor at The Towers. He came but

rarely, but when he came his presence lingered after him. His name, as

the heir of Stirmingham, was constantly before her in the papers and on

everyone’s lips. Add to this his own deep artifice, and it is not to be

wondered at that he made progress.

At last it came to pass that Broughton was engaged in arranging the

clearing off of certain heavy incumbrances upon the Lechester estate,

with money which Marese had received for salvage of the _Lucca_. Such

an arrangement could only mean marriage.

Not long after Marese’s visit to The Towers, Aymer arrived with

Broughton, bringing with him a collection of pictures, old Bibles, and

some few bronzes for Lady Lechester, and a heart full of affection for

Violet. He was invited to stay several days, and did so, and for that

brief time the joys they had shared at The Place seemed to return. The

weather of early spring was too chilly for much out-of-door exercise;

but they had all the vast structure of The Towers to wander

over—galleries and corridors, vast rooms where they were unlikely to be

interrupted, for now the new wing had been built, very few of the

servants ever entered the old rooms, and Lady Agnes never. Aymer had

come with his mind full of a thousand things he had to say—of love, of

hope, of projects that he had formed, and yet when they were together,

and the silent rooms invited him to speak, he found himself instead

listening to Violet’s low voice as she told him all about her life at

The Towers, and her feelings for him. It was natural that, the first

pleasures of their meeting over, Violet should speak of Lady Agnes, and

Aymer of the heir, with whose fortunes he had of late seemed to be

mixed up. Violet was full of a subject which she had long wanted to

confide to Aymer, and yet hardly liked to write. It was about some

singularities of Lady Agnes.

She was very kind, very affectionate and considerate, and yet, Violet

said, it seemed to those who lived with her constantly that she had

something for ever preying upon her mind. She was subject to fits of

silence and abstraction, which would seize her at unaccountable times,

and she would then rise and withdraw, and shut herself up in her own

room for hours; and once for as long an two days she remained thus

secluded.

At such times she generally used a small room in the new wing, the key

of which never left her hands, and which no one entered but herself.

Another singular habit which she had was going out at night, or after

dusk, into the most unfrequented portion of the park. She would seem to

be seized with a sudden desire to escape all notice and observation,

would put on her hat, wrap herself in a plain shawl, and let the

weather be what it might, go forth alone. The servants were so well

acquainted with this habit that they never offered to accompany

her—indeed, it was part of the household etiquette to affect not to

notice her at these times. Her absence rarely exceeded an hour, but

knowing that poachers were often abroad, Violet owned that these

nocturnal rambles filled her with alarm while they lasted. Another

peculiar thing was that Lady Agnes seemed at times as if she believed

there was a third person in the room, invisible to others. Once, Violet

going into her apartment, surprised her talking in an excited tone, and

found to her astonishment that there was no one near her. She was about

to retire, when she was transfixed with astonishment to see that Agnes

held a naked sword in her hand, which she would point at some invisible

object, and then speak softly in a tongue that Violet did not

understand, but believed to be Latin. Violet saw that she was not

perceived. Agnes’ eyes were wide open, but fixed and staring, as if she

saw and yet did not see. Afraid, and yet unwilling to call assistance,

Violet remained in the ante-chamber, and presently there was a profound

silence. She cautiously went in and found the sword returned to its

position over the mantelpiece, and Lady Agnes fast asleep in her

armchair.

What ought she to do? Ought the family physician, Dr Parker, to be made

acquainted with these facts, or was it best to pass them unnoticed?

Violet was half afraid to say so, but at these times an ill-defined

dread would arise lest Agnes’ mind was partly affected. Insanity was

well known to run in the Lechester family. Violet’s gentle and

affectionate mind was filled with fear lest her benefactress should

suffer some injury. What had she better do?

It was a difficult question, and Aymer could not answer it. To him,

Lady Lechester appeared to be of perfectly sound mind; he could hardly

believe the strange things Violet had told him. At all events it would

be best not to take any action at present; better wait and watch if

these symptoms developed themselves. Violet should keep as close a

watch upon Lady Agnes as was compatible with not arousing her

suspicions, and yet—

The selfishness of the true lover came to the surface. He did not like

to leave his love in a house where the mistress was certainly given to

odd habits, and might possibly be really insane—not even though that

mistress had shown the most disinterested and affectionate interest in

her. But what could he do? His time was up, he must return to Broughton

and recommence the old dreary round of labour, to recommence the book

he was writing in his solitary apartments. The poor fellow was very

miserable at parting, though Agnes asked him to come when he chose.

Violet was less moved than her lover. The truth was she had an

unlimited confidence in Aymer’s genius, and believed it would triumph

over every obstacle.

It was very strange, but these symptoms she had described to Aymer,

seemed to increase and strengthen directly afterwards. Lady Lechester

seemed to desire more and more to be alone: she wandered more

frequently out into the park, not only by night but in the open

daylight; and Violet watching her, and yet ashamed to watch, learnt

which way her steps tended, and was always prepared, if any alarm was

given, to start at once for the spot.

That spot was about half-a-mile, perhaps a little more, from The

Towers, and just within the park walls. It was concealed from The

Towers by the intervening trees which dotted the park, but there was no

wood or copse to pass through in reaching it.

Wherever a rapid river eats its way through a hilly country, and where

streams dash down from the hills to join it, there singular tunnels, or

whatever the proper name may be, are often found. The Ise (obviously a

corruption of Ouse) was a narrow, clear stream, extremely rapid, and

confined between high banks, which made it, for two-thirds of its

career, practically inaccessible.

At this particular place, in days gone by, it appeared as if a stream,

perhaps flowing from some long extinct glacier, had cut its way down to

the river by boring a narrow, circular tunnel through the bank of the

river. This tunnel was narrow at the top, not larger than would admit

the body of a man, but widened as it descended, till where it reached

the river there was a considerable cave, and any one kneeling on the

sward above could look down upon the water of the river in the dim

light, and hear its gurgling, murmuring sound rise up, greatly

increased in volume by the acoustic properties of the tunnel, which

somewhat resembled the famed Ear of Dionysius, though of course

irregular in shape. When the river was swollen with rain or snow, the

water came halfway up the tunnel, and the gurgling noise then rose into

a hissing, bubbling sound, like that from a huge cauldron of boiling

water. Hence, perhaps, its popular name of “Pot.” Such “Pots” are to be

found, more or less varied in construction, in many parts of England,

and generally associated with some local tradition of supernatural

beings, or of ancient heroes.

This particular funnel was known as Kickwell Pot—an apparently

unmeaning name. The antiquaries, however, would have it that Kickwell

was a degenerate form of Cwichhelm, the name of a famous chieftain in

the days when the Saxons and Britons fought for the fairest isle of the

sea. Probably, they added, Cwichhelm, in one of his numerous battles,

was defeated, and perhaps forced to take refuge in this very cave,

which was accessible in a canoe or small boat from below, and may have

been larger and more capable of habitation then than in our time. At

all events, Kickwell Pot had a bad name in the neighbourhood, and there

were traditions that more than one man had lost his life, by attempting

to descend its precipitous sides in search of treasure temptingly

displayed by a dwarf. This may or may not have been founded upon some

old worship of a water-spirit or cave-god. The effect was that the

common people shunned the spot.

It was a wild place. The beech trees and the great hawthorns, which

half-filled that side of the park, completely hid all view of the

mansion, and on the right and left were steep downs, so thinly clad

with vegetation that the chalk was bare in places. In front swirled

along the dark river, whose bank rose twenty feet almost sheer cliff,

and opposite was a plantation of fir. On the left hand, facing the fir

plantation, was the low stone wall of the park which ended here. Near

the mouth of “The Pot,” round which some one had built up a

loosely-compacted wall of a few stones without mortar, to keep sheep

from falling in, was the trunk of a decayed oak tree, once vast in size

and reaching to a noble height, now a mere stump, but still retaining a

certain weird grandeur. Its hollow trunk formed a natural hut, facing

“The Pot” and the dark fir plantation.

This was a singular spot for the mistress of that fair estate to

frequent almost at all hours of the day and night. No wonder that

Violet, having ascertained its character, grew more and more alarmed,

and kept a closer watch.

Chapter Three.

When even the most strictly logical mind looks round and investigates

the phenomena attending its own existence, perhaps the first fact to

attract attention by its strongly marked prominence, is the remarkable

loneliness of man. He stands alone. He may have brethren, but they are

far below, and like Joseph’s seen in the dream, must bow the knee to

his state. There extends, as it were, behind him a vast army of bird,

beast, reptile, fish, and insect, thronging the broad earth in

countless myriads, whose ancestry goes back into periods of time which

cannot be expressed by notation. And every one of these, from the

tiniest insect to the majestic elephant, is man’s intellectual

inferior; so that he stands alone on a pedestal on the apex of a huge

pyramid of animal life. He looks back—there are millions of inferior

creatures. He looks forward—where is his superior? His mind easily

grasps the idea of a superior, but where is it? He cannot see, feel,

touch, or in any way indisputably prove the existence of a superior

being, or race of beings. Yet the mind within is so wonderful and so

complex, that it _will_ not accept the conclusion that he really stands

alone; that he is the completion and the keystone of creation. A little

thought convinces him of his own shortcomings, tells him how far he is

from perfection, and the analogy of all things teaches him almost

instinctively to look above into the Unknown for a superior being, or a

race of beings. It is contrary to all reason and logic, to all analogy

and all imagination, that there should be so many myriads behind, and

nothing in _front_. There must be beings in front of him in the scale

of existence, just as he is in front of the beings in his rear. Where

are they?

The answer to that question has peopled the whole universe with

invisible beings. The solid earth beneath our feet has, according to

one form of mythology, its gnomes and dwarfs, low of stature, grimy of

aspect, but mighty in strength; or it has its Pluto and its Proserpine,

its Titans struggling under Etna. The air and the sky above us teem

with such shapes; they follow us night and day as our good and evil

genii, or they engage in mighty battles—Armageddons of the angels in

the empyrean, echoes of whose thundering charges reach our ears on

earth.

Such a belief has existed from the earliest days; it has spread over

the whole world, it dwells in our midst at this very hour; for what is

the so-called spiritualism but a new development of the oldest of all

creeds? Even the very atheists, or those who deny the existence of a

Supreme Deity—all-creating, all-sustaining—even these admit that there

is no logical argument conclusively proving that there are not races of

beings superior to our imperfect bodies. Modern science goes a step

farther, and all but positively asserts that there are such creatures.

It has long speculated as to the possibility of life in some shape or

another in the stars and suns of the firmament. One grey-headed

veteran, foremost in the ranks of the hardest of all science (anatomy),

gravely, and step by step, argues out and demonstrates the fact, that

all known living beings are developed, as it were, from one archetypal

skeleton. And he concludes with the remarkable statement that,

according to all laws of geometry (another hard science), this

archetypal skeleton is not exhausted yet; it is still capable of

further modification, of fresh development—nay, even that the strange

beings with wings and wheels seen by Ezekiel in his vision, are

possibilities of the same skeleton. The belief in itself is therefore

not a matter for ridicule, however much we may deplore some of the

forms which it has taken.

Violet, watch how she might, never learnt the whole secret of Agnes

Lechester’s apparent vagaries. The genesis of an idea in the mind is

difficult to trace; but substantially the circumstances were these.

Fifteen years since, Lady Agnes Lechester was seen and loved by a

certain Walter de Warren, a cornet in a dragoon regiment: a lad of good

family but miserably poor. Agnes returned his affection: her heart

responded to his love, but her pride forbade a marriage. He was not

only poor, but had no kind of distinction: nothing whatever to mark him

out from the common herd of men except a handsome face and figure. Even

then the innate pride of the Lechesters was stirring in Agnes’s inner

mind, and love as she might, nothing would induce her to listen to him.

This disposition on her part was encouraged by the trustees of the

estate, or rather guardians, who, under pretence of keeping up the

dignity of the family, represented to her that such a union would be

disgraceful. Let the young man win his spurs, and then his poverty

would be no obstacle in their sight. They had an object in view in

retarding the marriage of their ward. It was true that no salary or

commission was allowed for the management of the estate; but all wise

men know that there are ways and means of making a profit in an

indirect manner. Evil report said that more than one of the mortgages

which encumbered the property had been incurred, not from necessity, or

from the consequences of extravagance, but simply in order that these

parties might receive a handsome gratuity for the permission given to

put out large sums at a safe interest.

De Warren was deeply affected when Agnes calmly told him her view of

the matter, admitted without reserve that she liked him—loved she could

not say, though that was the truth—but added that marriage or further

intercourse was impossible, so long as he remained unknown and unheard

of among men.

He kissed her hand, and swore to win distinction or to perish. He at

once exchanged or volunteered—I forget which, but I think the

latter—into a detachment going to China.

When once Agnes had received a letter, which had travelled with its

message of love and admiration over those thousands and thousands of

miles of ocean, then she realised how she had cut herself off from her

own darling; and her heart, before so cold and hard, softened, and was

full of miserable forebodings. She lost much of her youthful beauty—the

incessant anxiety that gnawed at her heart deprived her cheeks of their

bloom, and her form of its graceful lines. She grew pale, even haggard,

and people whispered that the heiress was fast going into a decline.

Hours and hours she spent alone in the room of the old mansion where

the parting had taken place. Sitting there in the Blue Room, as it was

called, her mind filled with pictures of war and its dangers, her soul

ever strung up to the highest pitch of anxious waiting, what wonder was

it that Agnes began to see visions and to dream dreams—visions that she

never mentioned, dreams that she never told. It would be easy to argue

that what happened was a mere coincidence; that her fears had excited

her mind; and that if the actual event had not lent a factitious

importance to the affair, it would have passed as a mental delusion.

Certain it was that in May, about ten months after De Warren’s

departure, Agnes grew suddenly cheerful—the very opposite to what she

had been. She sang and played, and danced about the old house. She said

that something had told her that De Warren was coming home. No letter

had reached her to that effect; the war was still going on, and yet she

was perfectly certain that for some reason or other the cornet was

returning—and, what was better, was returning covered with honours.

Those in the house looked upon this sudden change of spirits and manner

as a certain sign that something would happen to the heiress, and her

faithful old nurse (dead before Violet’s advent) kept a close watch

upon her.

One day, a curious thing happened. In the midst of lunch, Lady Agnes

sprang up from table with a joyful but hysterical laugh, and declared

that Walter was coming on horseback, and she must go and meet him.

Quick as thought she had her hat on, and rushed out of the house, the

nurse following at a little distance, anxious to see what would happen.

Lady Agnes walked swiftly across the park to a little wicket-gate in

the wall, where Warren used to meet her. Then she stopped and looked

along the path, while the nurse hid behind the trunk of a beech tree at

a short distance. In a few minutes Agnes cried out, “I hear him—I hear

him; it is his footstep.” Then a minute afterwards she flung out her

arms as if embracing some one, and cried, and seemed to kiss the air,

uttering warm words of affection. The nurse saw nothing—only a light

puff of wind stirred the leaves and caused a rustling.

Agnes in a few moments turned to the right, and began to walk, or

rather glide, as it seemed to the excited fancy of the nurse, at a

swift pace, all the while talking as if to some person who accompanied

her, and every now and then pausing to throw her arms round his neck,

and uttering an hysterical sob. She made straight for “The Pot,” and

went quickly round the oak stump. The nurse followed rapidly, and as

she peeped round the oak there was Lady Agnes facing her on the other

side of “The Pot,” with both arms extended and her face white as death.

“Walter,” she said, distinctly; “Walter, what does that red spot on

your forehead mean? Are you angry?” Then she fell prone on the grass in

a dead faint, and the nurse had immense trouble to get her home again.

Just a month afterwards came the news that Walter was dead, having been

shot in the _forehead_ with a ball from a matchlock while leading on

his men. He had won much praise by his desperate courage, and the last

despatch recommended him for promotion, and for the Cross for saving

life under heavy fire.

Now, looked at dispassionately by others, the whole incident resolves

itself into a case of excitement and over-anxiety acting upon a

naturally sensitive organisation. But it was easy to see how to Lady

Agnes the affair wore a very different light. To her the imaginary

shape, invisible to others, which had met her at the little

wicket-gate, was real—the spirit of her lover, which had come from the

wilds of China, over thousands of miles, to acquaint her in dumb show

of the destruction of its body.

From that moment she became a devout believer in the power of the dead

to revisit their friends. She was not alarmed. On the contrary, the

thought soothed her. She expected and waited for Walter’s second

approach, and spoke lovingly when he came again. For he, or the

unsubstantial vision in his form, did come again and again, and always

in one of two places—in the Blue Room, or beside “The Pot.” That

strange freak of Nature had been the favourite resort of the lovers in

the bygone time. Agnes counted the time for the approach of the spirit;

those who waited upon her could tell when she believed the time for the

appearance was near, by the peculiar light in her eyes, and the glow

upon her cheek. At such times the superstitious servants hastened to

get out of the room. After a while Agnes became conscious that these

things were noticed and commented upon, and it became her practice,

when she felt the time coming, to retire to her own room and lock

herself in.

Reflecting upon these periodical visits of what she really believed was

the spirit of her dead lover, Agnes naturally went on to consider the

whole question of the existence of supernatural beings. She purchased

works upon demonology and witchcraft, and being an accomplished scholar

did not confine her studies to her own language, but read deeply in

Agrippa, and the necromancers of the Middle Ages. There were those who

said that while upon the Continent she plunged into these forbidden

mysteries, and found in the recesses of foreign capitals, men with whom

there still lingered the knowledge how to control the spirits of the

air. In part this was true; whether self-deceived or not, it was

certain that Agnes really believed there were genii with whom she could

converse almost at pleasure. How was it then that, always anxious for

Warren’s presence, she yet disliked The Towers?

Soon after she began to study these magical books, and to attempt to

penetrate the veil which covers the ethereal world from the eyes of

poor humanity, it appeared to her that whenever Walter came, his face

wore a sad aspect, almost of upbraiding. And beside him there rose up a

Darkness: something without form and void, and yet which was

there—something which chilled her blood. After a while it began to take

the shape of a thin column of darkness; even in the broad sunlight

there was this spot where no light would penetrate. It came too without

Walter; it rose up in the middle of the room where she sat—a dark

presence, a shadow which haunted her everywhere.

I cannot explain this; I can only record that it was the case. It was

this that made Agnes dislike The Towers, and live in the new wing. Yet

even there she did not escape. The shadow took a shape.

There is a sentence in a certain grand old book, which prays that we

may be delivered from the pestilence which walketh in darkness. The

thought of that is awful enough. But there is something more awful

still. Ancient books, which mention such things in a far-off manner, as

if one were speaking under the breath, refer in a dim way to the

noonday phantom—the phantom which meets the huntsman at midday in the

green and shady wood; which stops the maiden at the fountain with her

pitcher, in the glare of the sunbeams; which addresses the shepherd

suddenly upon the hillside as he watches his sheep under the blue vault

of the sky. To the darkness and the night, the spirits seem to have a

natural claim—it is their realm; the boldest of us have sometimes felt

an unaccountable creeping in the thick darkness. But at noonday, when

one would naturally feel safe, by one’s side in the daylight, this is a

thousand times worse. The noonday phantom came to Agnes. The dark

shadow, the thin column of darkness like smoke, took to itself a shape.

Chapter Four.

Ever since the world began it has been the belief of mankind that

desolate places are the special haunt of supernatural beings. To this

day the merchants who travel upon camels across the deserts of the

East, are firmly persuaded that they can hear strange voices calling

them from among the sandhills, and that at dusk wild figures may be

seen gliding over the ruins of long-lost cities. It is useless to

demonstrate that the curious noises of the desert, are caused by the

tension which the dead silence causes upon the nerves of the ear, or by

the shifting of the sand, and the currents of air which the heated

surface of the sand makes whirl about. The belief is so natural that it

cannot be entirely eradicated. In the olden times in our own fair

England, and not so very long ago either, there was not a wild and

unfrequented place which had not got its spirit. The woods had their

elves and wild huntsmen, the meadows their fairies, the fountains their

nymphs, the rocks and caves their dwarfs, and the air at night was

crowded with witches travelling to and fro.

Let any one who possesses a vivid imagination and a highly-wrought

nervous system, even now, in this nineteenth century, with all the

advantages of learning and science, go and sit among the rocks, or in

the depths of the wood and think of immortality, and all that that word

really means, and by-and-by a mysterious awe will creep into the mind,

and it will half believe in the possibility of seeing or meeting

something—_something_—it knows not exactly what.

Agnes Lechester went into the desolate places fully expecting to meet

her lover, and she met—

A more desolate place than the Kickwell Pot could not easily be found

in highly-cultivated England, so near to an inhabited mansion. Even in

winter, when the leaves were off the trees, there was not a place where

a view could be got of it from the mansion, and when there the visitor

was, to all intents and purposes, isolated from the world. In summer it

was still more hidden, for the thick leaves above, and the tall brake

fern growing luxuriantly beneath, obstructed the view, and it was

impossible to see for more than a dozen yards. There was but one spot

from whence it was possible to overlook “The Pot,” and that was from

the summit of the Down on the right. But this Down was totally

deserted. The very sheep kept aloof from it. Its steep sides were

almost inaccessible even to their nimble feet, and the soil was so

thin—that no herbage grew to reward the bold climber. Shepherds kept

their flocks away from that neighbourhood, for if a sheep lost its

footing and stumbled, there was no escape. The body must roll and

rebound till it reached the swift river below, which running between

steep banks was not easy to get at, and death by drowning was certain.

In the course of time many had been lost in this way, and now care was

taken that the flocks should not travel in that direction. Animal life

almost entirely avoided the bare chalk cliffs. Sometimes a hawk would

linger on the edge, as it were, poising himself on his wings but a few

feet above the ridge, as if glorying in defiance of the depth below.

Sometimes a solitary crow would alight upon the hill, to devour the

spoil it had carried off, in peace and undisturbed. In the fir

plantation on the other side of the river a few pigeons built, and now

and then a loud jay chattered, and a squirrel peeped out from the

topmost branches among the cones. The woodpecker might be heard now and

then tapping in the great beech trees, and a brown rabbit would start

out from among the fern. But so far as man was concerned the spot was

totally desolate: no path passed near, the common people avoided it. It

was a desolate place.

In summer time a place to meditate in. To sit upon the sward, leaning

back against the vast trunk of the dead oak tree, listening to the

gentle murmur of the river, as it rose up out of the mouth of “The Pot”

close to the feet. In winter a weird and sinister spot, when the trees

were bare and dark, the fir trees gloomy and black, when the snow

lodged in great drifts upon the Downs, and the murmur of the river rose

to a dull, sullen roar, resounding up the strange, natural funnel. When

the grey clouds hung over the sky, and the mist clung to the hill, and

the occasional gusts of bitter wind rustled the dead beech leaves—then

indeed it was a desolate place. It was here that the darkness, the thin

column of smoke-like darkness, began to grow into form and shape; and

as it took to itself a figure, so the vision of poor Walter faded away,

and lost its distinctness of outline.

Agnes saw before her a something that was half-human and half-divine;

and yet which a species of instinct told her was not wholly good,

perhaps only apparently good. The face was human and yet not human—so

much grander, nobler, full of passions, stronger, more irresistible

than ever yet played upon the features of a man. The brow spoke of

power illimitable, of foresight infinite, of design, and deep,

fathomless thought. The chin and mouth spoke of iron will, of strength

to rive the solid rock and overthrow a tower, of a purpose relentlessly

pursued. The eyes were unbearable, searching, burning like a flame of

fire. The form uncertain, ill-defined, yet full of a flowing grace and

majestic grandeur. It was winged. There was a general resemblance

between this being and those strange creatures—half man, half

deity—which are depicted upon the slabs from the palace at Nineveh;

only that those pictures are flat and tame, spiritless, mere outline

representations. This was full of an intense vitality—a magnetic

vigour.

It did not speak; yet she understood its thoughts and its wishes. They

filled her with a swelling hope, and yet with unutterable dread:—to

place herself willingly, unhesitatingly, without a grain of distrust,

within those arms; to be folded to its breast; to feel the wings spread

out, and to rush with breathless haste into space, seeking the home of

the immortals, the bride of a spirit. The pride of her mind found an

unspeakable joy in the belief that such a fate was possible for

her—nay, was ever waiting for her—it was but for her to step forward,

and in a moment—

The illimitable ambition of her soul urged her on. She never doubted

the possibility—“And the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were

fair”—what happened then could happen now. Yet something held her back,

and that something was Walter—the faint indistinct vision of Walter. He

seemed to shake his head mournfully, to beckon with his hand, to grow

paler and unhappy, as her frame of mind disposed her more and more to

join the ineffable being which stood before her. The warfare, as it

were; the struggle between the two grew insupportable; she was torn

with conflicting thoughts, doubts, and fears. This was one reason why

she so earnestly desired companionship; and in the presence of Violet

she found temporary relief.

The offer of Marese Baskette introduced a new element of trouble and

confusion in her mind. She had, as it were, a double existence; she

lived two lives. One, visible to others with men and woman, mortal like

herself; the other, unseen, was spent with the spirit of the dead, and

with a spirit which had never known mortality. Yet it was not two

minds, but one mind; for all through this dual nature there ran the

same master chord. As in the physical life, so in the mental. In the

physical life, the proud position Marese offered her attracted her

irresistibly; so, in the mental life, the figure of Walter grew fainter

and fainter, and that of the Genius, offering supremacy and

superiority, became more distinct, larger, and more powerful. The

struggle now lay between Marese and the Genius—the vision of the dead

Walter faded entirely away. Which should she choose—an earthly kingdom,

or little less, with opportunities such as had never before fallen to

the lot of a mortal; or should she soar up into the empyrean on the

breast of that wonderful and glorious being who grew brighter, more

lovely, the longer she gazed upon him?

It was the spirit she went to meet by day and night at the side of “The

Pot.”

It was the belief among the ancients that persons afflicted with

certain diseases, or of unsound mind, were possessed by spirits; and

still further, they seem to have quite understood that the possessed

person had, as it were, two evils at once. The disease was not the

spirit, nor the spirit the disease. These were distinct. Those who

could exorcise the spirit had also to cure the disease, though the one

generally followed the other.

It is hard to understand the intense reality of the vision seen by

Agnes, except upon some similar theory. That the inherent insanity of

the Lechester family had developed itself in her mind, unsuspected by

others, there can be no doubt; but even to the persons who are subject

to illusions of the mind, the reality of their visions is seldom, if

ever, so absolutely believed in as these were by Lady Agnes. There is

just the possibility, even atheists will not deny the _possibility_—but

it is better not to argue the matter. It is sad, indeed, to record the

affliction which had fallen upon this most estimable and generous

woman, if we regard it as insanity only; if we go a step further, and

admit the possibility alluded to, it is sadder still.

At home, in the new wing, the darkness rarely came now, though there

was the sense of a presence. It was by the side of “The Pot” that the

figure showed itself fully. It rose up from the strange funnel, as if a

mist hardened and solidified into shape. It stood before her silent,

yet speaking unutterable things.

In the cold winter, when the sky was grey with cloud, the firs black

and gloomy, and the drifted snow lay in heaps upon the Downs, there

mingled with the sullen roar of the river resounding up “The Pot,” a

voice from this mysterious being, which in the savage, fierce

desolation of that place spoke of a pride, of an ambition, which rose

above even utter failure and degradation. Of a strength of mind which

gloried even in its fall; which defied the very heavens in its

grandeur; which could not be subdued—immortal in its pride.

As the spring stole on and the soft rain fell, as the buds sprang forth

and the thrush sang with joy, the figure grew brighter; an intense

vitality seemed to pass from it to her—a glow of life which said, “Come

with me; we will wander amid forests such as earth even in its youth

never saw, by the shore of lakes such as mortal eye never gazed upon;

we will revel in an immortal youth—in a sunshine inconceivable in

beauty.”

It was but a step to those arms; she longed, yet she did not take it.

At night, when the sky glittered with stars and a solitary planet

beamed in the west, the eyes of the shape grew into blazing coals, and

her soul was aware that it was thinking of unutterable mysteries, of

knowledge locked up for ages and ages, in the infinite space beyond

those points of light. Oh, to penetrate into that silent chamber, to

walk with reverent footsteps in that library of the universe, to read

the wondrous truths written there—to read which was, in itself, life

eternal! This, in brief, the spirit spoke to her.

It will now be understood why the strange behaviour of Lady Agnes

seemed to grow stranger after the last visit of Marese Baskette and her

practical acceptance of his offer. The moment she had in a manner given

her hand to him, the claims of the other and supernatural life appeared

to be infinitely superior—as is the common case when one has decided,

the other course always seems preferable. Yet she could not easily

withdraw from her word, nor indeed did she altogether wish to do so;

and this indecision drove her into a restless frame of mind. Her visits

to “The Pot” became more and more frequent—some times she would go

there four times in the course of the day, and once again in the

evening. She shut herself in her private room—the one room Violet was

never asked to enter—for hours almost every day. There was a restless

gleam in her eyes, usually so mild and pleasant.

One evening, after a more than ordinarily restless day had been spent,

Agnes suddenly rose up, and retired to her private room. This was

usually her custom before going out alone into the park, but on this

occasion, Violet watching her, saw to her intense surprise that,

instead of leaving the house, she unlocked a door which led into the

old mansion, and entered the long deserted apartments of The Towers

proper. Such a step would have been under any ordinary circumstances

nothing to take notice of, but Violet had gradually worked herself up

into a state of alarm, and this unusual proceeding created more

surmises in her mind even than the lonely walks in the darkness. She

slipped out of the house thinking to watch Agnes’ progress through The

Towers by the light she carried, which would show which rooms she went

into. It fell out exactly as she had supposed—she saw the light of the

little lamp flit about from window to window and along the corridors,

now disappearing from sight entirely, and now suddenly flickering out

again, till at last it stopped in what Violet well knew was the Blue

Room. This room was so called from the colour employed in decorating

the walls. They were painted instead of being papered, much in the same

style as the houses at Pompeii, only in larger panels, and the ground

colour was blue. From the lawn in front of the house Violet could just

see Agnes seated at a table in this room, and before her was a small

desk—a desk she had often noticed in that room, thinking how

incongruous a plain gentleman’s writing-desk, with brass handles,

looked amidst the elegant furniture and decorations.

Out of this desk Agnes was taking what, at that distance, Violet could

only conjecture were letters, and burning them one by one in the flame

of the lamp.

Presently she paused, and Violet saw her kiss something which looked

like a curl of chestnut hair. Then not fancying her self-imposed task

of watching her benefactress, and convinced that there was no danger,

Violet stole away.

Agnes was, in fact, destroying her memorials of Walter De Warren, which

she had kept in his own desk in the room in which she had last seen him

alive. She had determined to cast aside all remembrance of him; his

memory should not embarrass her in the course she would pursue. Freed

from the slightest control by him, she thought that she would be the

better able to choose between the earthly and the immortal destinies

offered to her. Yet she still lingered, still hesitated. She could not

say to Marese “I will,” nor could she say “I will not.” She permitted

his money to be used in freeing her estate of encumbrance, and this

gave him a moral claim upon her hand. After that was done, it seemed to

her that the spirit who visited her at “The Pot” visibly frowned, and

the great eyes were full of reproach.

What was this feeble earthly glory to that which was offered to her in

the sky? She had chosen wrongly, contrary to the spirit of the proud

and ambitious Lechesters; she was acting in opposition to the

traditions of her race. Marese, after all, was a low-born upstart. The

ancestry of the spirit had no beginning and no end. Again she

hesitated.

About this time there came a letter from Miss Merton, dated Torquay,

written in a formal but polite manner, begging to be informed what she

had better do with the dog Dando. She did not wish to get rid of

him—she had become quite attached to the dog and he to her—but she was

not the actual owner, and she did not like the responsibility of having

so valuable an animal with her.

It seemed as if the value of the dog was well known, for at least two

deliberate attempts had been made to steal it within a few days. And

these attempts had not a little alarmed Miss Merton. To find that her

steps were watched and followed by a wild-looking tramp, or tinker

fellow, bent upon carrying off the dog was, to say the least, extremely

unpleasant.

The man—an ill-looking fellow—was always about the house, and would not

go away. He played a tin whistle, and whenever the dog heard some

peculiar notes, he became greatly excited, and began to dance about in

a curious manner. Not only that, but if the tramp varied the tune in

some way, then the dog grew frantic to run after him, and twice she had

the utmost difficulty to recover him.

What was she to do? She did not like to part with the dog, and yet

really it was very awkward.

Violet in reply asked Miss Merton to send her Dando. She had now got

over her prejudice against him and felt that her anger had been unjust.

She should like to have him back again. As to the tramp, she was not

surprised, for she remembered that her poor father had bought the dog,

when quite young, from a band of strolling gipsies, and there were

certain tunes which had always excited him to dance and frisk about as

if he had been trained to do so.

Violet, of course, asked Lady Lechester’s permission, whose reply was

that she should be glad to have the dog; there was plenty of room for

him, and he would be company, and add to the safety of the somewhat

lonely Towers. Violet herself thought that it would be a great

advantage if Dando should happen to please Agnes’ fancy; he might be

allowed to accompany her in her lonely dark walks, and would be some

protection.

A week afterwards Dando came, and at once recognised Violet. He had

grown considerably larger, and was a fine, noble animal.

As Violet had hoped, Agnes took a great fancy to him, and the dog

returning it, they became inseparable companions. This _relieved_

Violet of much of her anxiety.

Chapter Five.

A fortnight after Dando’s establishment at The Towers, Aymer came. He

looked ill, pale, and careworn, and at once announced that he had left

Mr Broughton, and was going to London, literally to seek his fortune.

The monotony had at last proved too much for him, and worse than that

was the miserable thought that, after all this work and patience, he

was no nearer to Violet. Perhaps after ten or fifteen years of

unremitting labour, nine-tenths of which time must be spent at a

distance from her, he might, if his health lasted and no accident

happened, be in receipt of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum; and

how much more forward would he be then?

Not all the poverty and restraint of the years upon Wick Farm at

World’s End, not all the terrible disappointment on the very day when

every hope seemed on the point of realisation; nothing could dull his

vivid imagination, or make him abate one iota of the future which he

had marked out for Violet.

In truth, she wondered why he had never asked her to come to him—to be

married and live with him in his humble lodgings at Barnham. She would

have been happy and content. But to Aymer the idea was impossible. All

the romance of his life was woven around her head; he would not bring

her to miserable back rooms, to a confined narrow life in a third-class

street. It would have been to admit that his whole being was a failure;

that he had formed hopes and dreamed dreams beyond his power ever to

grasp, and his spirit was not yet broken to that. No, he would struggle

and work, and bear anything for Violet’s sake. Anything but this

miserable monotony without progress. Had there been progress, however

slow, he might have tamed his impatient mind and forced himself to

endure it.

Day after day passed, the nights came and went, and each morning found

him precisely in the same position as before. His organisation was too

sensitive, too highly wrought, eager, nervous, for the dull plodding of

daily life. He chafed against it, till dark circles formed themselves

under his eyelids—circles which sleep would not remove. These were

partly caused by overwork.

Broughton, on returning from Stirmingham, found his affairs at Barnham

had got into a fearful state of muddle, and Aymer had to assist him to

clear the Augean stable of accumulated correspondence, and satisfy

neglected clients. Often, after a long day’s work, he had to carry

accounts or correspondence home with him and finish it there, and then

after that he would open his own plain simple desk—much such a desk as

the one that had belonged to poor Cornet De Warren—and resume his

interrupted MS.

After a while it became unbearable; the poor fellow grew desperate. He

might not have so soon given way, had not a slight attack of illness,

not sufficient to confine him in-doors, added to the tension of his

nerves. He determined to stay on until his MS was finished—till the

last word had been written, and the last sketch elaborated—then he

would go to London, no matter what became of him. If all else failed he

could, at the last, return to Wick Farm; they would give him a bed and

a crust, and he would be no worse off than before.

He toiled at his book at midnight, and long hours afterwards, when the

good people of Barnham town were calmly sleeping the sleep of the just,

and permitting the talent in their midst to eat its own heart. At last

it was finished, and he left.

Mr Broughton wished him to stay, offered to increase his salary, said

that he had become really useful, and even, as a personal favour,

begged him to remain. Aymer thanked him sincerely, but was firm—he must

go. So far as was possible he explained to Broughton the reason, and

the lawyer, hard as he was, had sufficient power of understanding

others to perceive the real state of affairs. He warned Aymer that

certain disappointment awaited him in London, that no publisher would

issue a book by an unknown author unless paid for it. Aymer shook his

head sadly—he had known that well enough long ago, but he must go.

Broughton shook hands with him, gave him a five-pound note over and

above his salary, and told him if in distress, as he prophesied he

would certainly soon be, to write to him, or else return.

Aymer again thanked him, packed his modest little portmanteau, and

taking with him his manuscript, went to The Towers to say farewell to

Violet.

When Agnes understood the course he had decided on, she said that she

thought he had done right. To any other she should have said

differently; to any other of a less highly organised mind she should

have said, “Why, you cannot find a better opening.” But what would have

been meat to others was poison to Aymer. Therefore she applauded his

resolution, and told him to go forth and conquer, but first to stay a

few days with Violet.

This language greatly cheered poor Aymer, and for a few days he was in

a species of Paradise.

It was not even yet fully spring—the wind was cold at times, but still

they could go out freely; and with Violet at his side, and Dando

bounding along in front, it seemed almost like a return to the old

joyous times at World’s End.

The hours flew by, and when the last day came it seemed as if but a few

minutes had elapsed. It happened to be a wet day—the spring showers

were falling steadily, and, unable to go out, they rambled into the old

mansion, and strolled from room to room.

The groom had been ordered to get the dog-cart out by a certain time to

take Aymer seven miles to the nearest railway station. That station was

but a small one, and two up-trains only stopped there in the course of

the day—if he missed this he would not reach London that night.

Forgetful of time, perhaps half purposely forgetful, Aymer lingered on,

and could not tear himself away.

At length the groom, tired of waiting in the rain, and anxious about

the time, waived all ceremony, and came to seek his passenger.

Aymer pressed Violet’s hand, kissed it, and was gone, not daring to

look back.

The wheels grated on the gravel, and Violet remained where he had left

her.

Agnes came presently and found her, and started. The farewell had been

given in the Blue Room.

“You did not say farewell here?” said Agnes, with emphasis.

Violet admitted it.

“Good Heavens—what an evil omen!” muttered Agnes, and drew her from the

spot.

From that very room De Warren had gone, forth to his fate: from that

room Aymer had started to win himself a way in the world.

It was late at night when he reached London. Nothing could be done till

the morning. As he had no experience of the ways of the metropolis,

Aymer naturally paid about half as much again as was necessary, and

reckoning up his slender stock of money, foresaw that he could not long

remain in town at this rate.

Mr Broughton had given him a written introduction to a firm of

law-publishers and stationers with whom he dealt—not that they would be

of any use to him in themselves, but in the idea that they might have

connections who could serve him.

Upon these gentlemen he waited in the morning, and was fairly well

received. They gave him a note to another firm who were in a more

popular line of business. Aymer trudged thither, and found these people

very off-handed and very busy. They glanced at his manuscript—not in

their line. Had he anything that would be likely to take with

boys?—illustrated fiction sold best for boys and girls. Ah, well! they

were sorry and very busy. Suppose he tried so-and-so?

This process, or pretty much the same process, was repeated for two or

three days, until poor Aymer, naturally enough, lost heart.

As he left one publisher’s shop, a clerk, who was writing at his desk

near the door, noticed his careworn look, and having once gone through

a somewhat similar experience, and seeing “gentleman” marked upon his

features, asked him if he would show him the work.

Aymer did so. The clerk, an experienced man, turned over the

illustrations carefully, and then appeared to ponder.

“These are good,” he said; “they would certainly take if they were

published. But so also would a great many other things. The difficulty

is to get them published, unless you have a name. Now take my advice—It

is useless carrying the MS from door to door. You may tramp over London

without success. Your best plan will be to bring it out at your own

cost; once out you will get a reputation, and then you can sell your

next. I don’t want to be personal, but have you any money? I see—you

have a little. Well, you need not pay all the cost. Go to

so-and-so—offer them, let me see, such-and-such a sum, and not a

shilling more, and your business is done.”

Aymer, as he walked along busy Fleet Street and up into the Strand,

thought over this advice, and it sounded reasonable enough—too

reasonable. For he had so little money. When all he had saved from the

gift of fifty pounds, his salary, and Broughton’s present, were added

together, he had but forty-seven pounds. Out of this he was advised to

expend forty pounds in one lump; to him it seemed like risking a

fortune. But Violet? His book? He could not help, even after all his

disappointments, feeling a certain faith in his book.

Westwards he walked, past the famous bronze lions, and the idea came

into his mind—How did the hero of Trafalgar win his fame? Was it not by

courage only—simple courage? On, then. He went to the firm mentioned.

They haggled for a larger sum; but Aymer was firm, for the simple

reason that he had no more to give. Then they wanted a few days to

consider.

This he could not refuse; and these days passed slowly, while his stock

of money diminished every hour. Finally they agreed to publish the

work, but bound him down to such conditions, that it was hard to see

how he could recover a tenth part of his investment, much less obtain a

profit. He signed the agreement, paid the money, and walked forth.

He went up the steps to the National Gallery, barely knowing what he

did. He stood and gazed down upon the great square, with the lions and

the fountains, and the busy stream of human life flowing for ever round

it. A proud feeling swelled up within. At last his book would be seen

and read, his name would be known, and then—Violet!

Days and weeks went by, and yet no proofs came to his humble lodgings,

or rather sleeping place, for all day he wandered to and fro in the

great city. When he called at the publishers’ office they treated him

with supercilious indifference, and—“Really did not know that the

immediate appearance of the little book was so important.” There were

other works they had had in hand previously, and which must have

priority.

Aymer wandered about, not only into the great thoroughfares and the

famous streets of the City and West End, but eastwards down to the

docks, filled with curiosity, observing everything, storing his mind

with facts and characteristics for future use, and meantime

starving—for it was rapidly coming to that; and the descent was

facilitated by a misfortune which befell him in Shoreditch, where, as

he was standing near a passage or court in a crowd, a thief made off

with three pounds out of his remaining five.

It is easy to say—Why did not Aymer get work? But how was he to do so

with no money to advertise, no introductions, no kind of security to

give, a perfect stranger? He did try. He called upon some firms who

advertised in the _Telegraph_. The very first question was—Where do you

come from? The country! That answer was sufficient. They wanted a man

up to London work and to the ways of the City. Aymer modestly said he

could learn. “Yes,” they replied, “and we must pay for your education.

Good morning.”

Economise as much as he would, the two pounds left dwindled and

dwindled, till the inevitable end came, and the last half sovereign

melted into five shillings, the five shillings into half-a-crown, the

half-a-crown into a single solitary shilling. Driven to the last

extremity, Aymer hit upon the idea of manual labour. He was not a

powerful man, he could not lift a heavy weight, but he could bear a

great deal of fatigue. He looked round him, he saw hundreds at work,

and yet there did not seem any place where he could go and ask for

employment.

By a kind of instinct he wandered down to the river and along the

wharves. There he saw men busy unloading the barges and smaller craft.

Summoning up courage, he spoke to one of the labourers, who stared, and

then burst into a broad grin. Aymer turned away, but was called back.

The ganger looked him up and down and offered him half-a-crown a day;

the others earned three shillings and sixpence and four shillings, but

they were strong, strapping fellows. Aymer accepted it, for indeed he

could not help himself and in a few minutes the poet, author, artist,

with his coat off, was rolling small casks across the wharf. At first

he was awkward, and hurt himself; the rest laughed at him, but

good-humouredly. Some offered him beer.

At six o’clock he, with the rest, was called to a small office and

received his day’s wages—two shillings and sixpence. He made a meal,

the first that day, at a cheap eating-house, and then set out to return

to his wretched lodgings, tired, worn out, miserable, yet not

despairing, for he had found a means which would enable him to live,

and to wait—to wait till the book came out.

For a fortnight Aymer worked at the wharf, and had become a favourite

with the men. Noting his handiness and activity, and seeing that he was

well educated, he was now put into an office of some little trust, to

check the goods as they were landed, and received an advance of

eighteen-pence, making a daily wage of four shillings. This seemed an

immense improvement; but he was obliged to borrow a week’s extra salary

in advance to buy a new pair of boots, and was therefore very little

better off.

Strolling slowly one evening up Cannon Street, Aymer met the great

stream of city men and merchants, clerks and agents, which at that time

pours out of the warehouses and offices, setting across London Bridge

towards the suburbs.

He walked slowly, all but despondently. It was already a week since he

had written to Violet—that in itself was a strong proof of his

condition of mind. It is very easy for those who have got everything,

to pray each Sunday against envy, and to repeat with unction the

response after the command not to covet thy neighbour’s goods. It is a

different matter when one is practically destitute, when the mere value

of the chain that hangs so daintily from my lady’s neck—ay, the price

of the muff that warms her delicate hands—would be as a fortune, and

lift the heart up out of the mire.

He could not help thinking that if he had but the money, the value, of

a single much-despised pony that drew a greengrocer’s cart he should be

almost a prince.

He passed under Temple Bar, and entered the busy Strand, walking, as it

happened—events always happen, and no one can say what that word really

means—on the right hand pavement, facing westwards. Painfully and

wearily walking, he came to the church where the pavement makes a

détour, and hesitated for a moment whether to cross to the other side

or go round the church, and decided, as the road was dirty, and his old

boots thin and full of holes, to follow the pavement. “Circumstances

over which we have no control”—these circumstances generally commence

in the smallest, least noticeable trifles. It so happened—there it is

again—will anyone explain why it so happened?—that as he reached the

entrance to Holywell Street, he glanced up it, and saw for the first

time that avenue of old books. The author’s instinct made him first

pause, and then go up it—he was tired, but he must go and look. Dingy

and dirty, but tempting to a man whose library had been obtained by

wiring hares. He thought, with a sigh, how many more books he could

have bought with his money had he known of the existence of this cheap

mart, or had he had any access to it. Here was Bohn’s Plato—for which

he had paid a hardly got thirty shillings—marked up at fifteen

shillings, slightly soiled it was true, but what did that matter? Here

was old Herodotus—Bohn’s—marked at eighteen-pence, the very book which

had cost him three hares, including carriage. The margins were all

scribbled over—odd faces and odder animals rudely sketched in pen and

ink, evidently some schoolboy’s crib. But what did that matter, so long

as the text was complete—he cared for nothing but the text. As he

lingered and heard the bells chiming seven o’clock, his eye caught

sight of a little book called “A Fortune for a Shilling.”

It was a catching title; he remembered seeing it lying upon the

itinerant bookseller’s stall in front of the Sternhold Hall. He looked

at it, weighed it in his hand. He smiled sadly at his own folly. He had

but fifteen pence in his pocket, and to think of throwing a whole

shilling away upon such a lottery! It was absurd—childish; and yet the

book fascinated him. The bookseller’s assistant came out, ostensibly to

dust the books—really to see that none were pocketed. Aymer ran his eye

down the pages of the book, feeling all the while as if he were

cheating the bookseller of his money. The assistant said, “Only one

shilling, sir; a chance for everybody, sir, in that book.” Aymer shut

his eyes to his own folly, paid the money, and returned into the Strand

with threepence left.

Chapter Six.

He repented his folly very speedily, for the landlady had advanced him

half-a-crown two days before for some necessaries, and now asked him

for the money.

Not all the hunger and thirst of downright destitution is so hard to

bear to a proud spirit as the insults of a petty creditor. He could not

taste his tea; the dry bread—he could not afford butter—stuck in his

throat. If he had not spent that shilling, he might have paid a part at

least of his debt.

He took up the book—the cause of his depression—and, still ashamed of

himself, began to search it for any reference to his own name. In vain;

Malet was not mentioned, there were no unclaimed legacies, no bank

dividends accumulating, no estates without an owner waiting for him to

take possession—it was an absolute blank. The shilling had been utterly

wasted.

As he sat thinking over his position, the idea occurred to him to see

what mention the book made of the great estate at Stirmingham.

There were pages upon pages devoted to Sibbolds and Baskettes, just as

he expected. Aymer ran down the list, recalling, as he went, the scenes

he had witnessed in the Sternhold Hall.

At the foot of one page was a short note in small type, and a name

which caught his eye—“Bury Wick Church.” He read it—it stated that it

was uncertain what had become of Arthur Sibbold, the heir by the

entail, and that inquiries had failed to elucidate his fate. There was

a statement, made on very little authority, that he had been buried in

Bury Wick Church, co. B—, but researches there had revealed nothing.

Either he had died a pauper, and had been interred without a tombstone,

or else _he had changed his name_. It was this last sentence that in an

instant threw a flood of light, as it were, into Aymer’s mind—_changed

his name_.

Full of excitement, he rushed to his little portmanteau, tore out his

note-book, and quickly found the memorandum made in the office of Mr

Broughton, at Barnham.

There was the explanation of the disappearance of Arthur Sibbold—there

was the advertisement in a small local newspaper of his intended

marriage and change of name. Doubtless he had afterwards been known as

Mr Waldron—had been buried as Waldron, and his death registered as

Waldron. As Waldron of The Place, World’s End! Then poor old Jason

Waldron, the kindest man that ever lived, was in reality the true heir

to the vast estate at Stirmingham.

Jason was dead, but Violet remained. Violet was the heiress. He sat,

perfectly overwhelmed with his own discovery, of which he never

entertained a moment’s doubt. He ransacked his memory of what he had

heard at the family council; tried to recall the evidence that had been

produced at that memorable _fiasco_; but found it hard to do so, for at

the time his mind was far away with Violet, and he had no personal

interest in the proceedings. Had he only known—what an opportunity he

would have had—he might have learnt the smallest particulars.

Thinking intently upon it, it seemed to him that the name of Arthur

Sibbold was rarely, if ever, mentioned at that conference, it was

always _James_ Sibbold; Arthur seemed to have dropped out of the list

altogether.

If he could read a copy of the “Life of Sternhold Baskette,” perhaps he

might be able to get a better understanding of the facts.

He deeply regretted now that he had not purchased a copy, as he might

have done so easily at Stirmingham, on the stall of the itinerant

bookseller. Then he had a little money; now he had none.

He called his landlady, took up his great coat, and gave it to

her—could she sell it? She looked it over, found many faults, but

finally went out with it. In half an hour she returned with eighteen

shillings.

Aymer had given three pounds for it just before his wedding-day. He

paid the old lady her half-crown, and hurried back to Holywell Street.

The book he wanted, however, was not so easily to be found. All had

heard of it—but no one had it.

In time he was directed to a man who dealt in genealogical works, sold

deeds, autographs, and similar trash. Here he found the book, and had a

haggle for it, finally securing it for seven shillings and sixpence;

the fellow would have been glad of three shillings, for it had been on

his shelves for years, but Aymer was burning with impatience. In the

preface he found a scanty account of the Sibbolds, not one-fifth as

much as he had reckoned upon, for the book was devoted to Sternhold,

the representative man of the Baskettes. There was, however, a pretty

accurate narrative of the murder of Will Baskette, and from that Aymer

incidentally obtained much that he wanted. Reflecting upon the murder,

and trying to put himself in Arthur Sibbold’s place, Aymer arrived at a

nearly perfect conception of the causes which led him to bury himself,

as it were, out of sight.

One of two things was clear—either Arthur Sibbold had actually

participated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly

turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the

suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved for ever to abandon

the home of his ancestors.

Probably he had travelled as far as possible from the scene of the

murder—perhaps to London (this was the case)—got employment, and, being

successful, finally married into the Waldron family, and changed his

name. He would naturally be reticent about his ancestors. The next

generation would forget all about it, and the third would never think

to inquire.

Had the vast estate been in existence before Arthur Sibbold’s death,

most probably he would have made himself known; but it was clear that

it had not grown to one-fiftieth part of its present magnificence till

long after.

The silence of Arthur Sibbold, and Arthur Sibbold’s descendant, was

thus readily and reasonably accounted for. Reading further, Aymer came

to the bargain which Sternhold Baskette had made with the sons of James

Sibbold, and of their transhipment to America. Here the legal knowledge

that he had picked up in the office of Mr Broughton enabled him to

perceive several points that would not otherwise have occurred to him.

That transaction was obviously null and void, if at the time it was

concluded either Arthur Sibbold, or Arthur Sibbold’s descendants, were

living. They were the lawful owners of the old farm at Wolf’s Glow, and

of the Dismal Swamp, and it was impossible for James Sibbold’s children

to transfer the estate to another person. All then that it was

necessary to prove was that Violet was the direct descendant of Arthur

Sibbold, and her claim would be at once irresistible. Then it occurred

to him that at the family council he had often heard mention made of a

certain deed of entail which was missing, and for which the members of

the Sibbold detachment had offered large sums of money.

The long, long hours and days that he had spent in the Sternhold Hall

chronicling the proceedings of the council, and which he had at the

time so heartily hated soon proved of the utmost value. He could at

once understand what was wanted, and perceive the value of the smallest

link of evidence. Here was one link obviously wanting—the deed. Without

that deed the descent of Violet from Arthur Sibbold was comparatively

of small account. It was possible that even then she might be a

co-heiress; but without that deed—which specially included female

heiresses—she would not be able to claim the entire estate. Yet even

then, as the direct descendant of the elder brother, her claim would be

extremely valuable, and far more likely to succeed than the very

distant chance of the American Sibbolds or Baskettes, all of whom

laboured under the disadvantage that their forefathers had sold their

birthright for a mess of pottage. Another and far more serious

difficulty which occurred to him as he thought over the matter, far

into the night, was the absence of proof of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage.

It was clear from the little book whose notes had opened his eyes, that

the register of the church at Bury Wick, World’s End, had been

searched, and no record found. His memorandum of the advertisement of

change of name described Arthur Sibbold as of Middlesex; the marriage

therefore might have taken place in London. Probably Sibbold had met

the Miss Waldron he had afterwards married in town. Where then was he

to find the register of marriage? Middlesex was a wide definition. How

many churches were there in Middlesex? What a Herculean labour to

search through them all!

He was too much excited to sleep. Despite of all these drawbacks—the

disappearance of the deed, and the absence of the marriage

certificate—there was no reasonable doubt that Violet was the heiress

of the Stirmingham estates. The difficulties that were in the way

appeared to him as nothing; he would force his way through them. She

should have her rights—and then! He would search every church in London

till he did find the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It must be

in existence somewhere. If it was in existence he would find it.

Towards two o’clock in the morning he fell asleep, and, as a result,

did not wake till ten next day. Hurrying to his daily task, he was met

with frowns and curses for neglect, and venturing to remonstrate, was

discharged upon the spot.

Here seemed an end at once to all his golden dreams. He walked back

into the City, and passing along Fleet Street, was stopped for a moment

by a crowd of people staring into the window of a print and bookshop,

and talking excitedly. A momentary curiosity led him to press through

the crowd, till he could obtain a view of the window. There he

saw—wonder of wonders—one of his own sketches, an illustration from his

book, greatly enlarged, and printed in colours. It was this that had

attracted the crowd. The humour and yet the pathos of the picture—the

touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin—had gone straight to

their hearts. On every side he heard the question, “Whose is it?”—“Who

drew it?”—“What’s the artist’s name?” Then the title of the book was

repeated, and “Who’s it by?”—“Who wrote it?”—“I’ll get a copy! Third

Edition already—it must be good.”

Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last

got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher

had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they

had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened

(it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced

to turn over a leaf of the MS, which was lying where Aymer had left it,

on the publisher’s wide desk. This man had a world-wide reputation, and

feared no competitor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was

greatly struck with the sketches.

“This man will make hid fortune,” he said. “Why on earth do you let the

book lie here mouldering?”

The publisher said nothing, but next day the manuscript was put in

hand, hurried out, and well advertised. The first and second edition

sold out in a week, and Aymer heard nothing of it till accident led him

into the crowd round the shop window in Fleet Street.

It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever

he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher’s with a

glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have

two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the

author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had

never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition.

Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible—the

booksellers had not paid yet—the expense had been enormous—advertising,

etc, there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer

lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to

leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser—the

clerk who had told him to publish at his own risk. This man, or rather

gentleman, said he had expected him for days, and wondered why he had

not come.

“Wait till one o’clock,” said he, “and I will accompany you.”

At one they revisited the offices of the publisher. The upshot was that

Aymer was presented with a cheque for fifty pounds, being his own forty

pounds, and ten pounds additional.

“Now,” said his friend, “you call on my employers—I will mention your

name—and offer them a work you have in hand.”

Aymer did so, and obtained a commission to write a work for them, to be

illustrated by himself, and was presented with a twenty-pound note as

earnest-money. Thus in a few hours, from a penniless outcast, he found

himself with seventy pounds in his pocket—with a name, and with a

prospect of constant and highly remunerative employment. If this

continued, and of course it would—not all his disappointments could

quench his faith in his destiny—he would marry Violet almost

immediately. With this money he could search out, and establish her

claim; he would employ her own late employer, Mr Broughton. He was

anxious to write to Violet, but he had not tasted food that day yet. He

entered a restaurant and treated himself to a really good dinner, with

a little of the generous juice of the grape. Towards five o’clock he

sat himself down in his old room to write to Violet, and to Mr

Broughton.

He wrote and wrote and wrote, and still he could not conclude; his

heart was full, and he knew that there was a loving pair of eyes which

would read every line with delight. First about his book—sending, of

course, two copies by the same post—one for Violet, one for Lady

Lechester—telling Violet of the excitement it had caused, of the crowd

in the street, of the anxiety to learn the author’s name, of the first,

second, third edition, and the fourth in the press. Was it to be

wondered at that he dilated upon this subject?

Then he told her of his troubles, of his work at the wharf, and

explained why he had not written, and finally came to the discovery

that Violet was the heiress of Stirmingham. He had a difficult task to

explain to her how this arose; he had to review the whole history of

the case in as short a compass as possible, and to put the links of

evidence clearly, so that a non-technical mind could grasp them. He

finished with a declaration of his intention to spare neither trouble,

time, nor expense to establish Violet’s right; he would search every

church register in London; she should ride in her carriage yet. If only

poor Jason had been alive to rejoice in all this!

This was the same man, remember, who not many weeks before had written

to Violet from Stirmingham in the midst of the turmoil of the election,

expressing his deep sense of the responsibility that must of necessity

fall upon the owner of that marvellous city; he would not be that man

for worlds. The self-same man was now intent on nothing less than

becoming, through Violet, the very thing he had said he would not be at

any price. Still the same omnipotent circumstances over which we have

no control, and which can alter cases, and change the whole course of

man’s nature.

To Broughton he wrote in more businesslike style. He could not help

triumphing a little after the other’s positive prophecy of his failure;

he sent him also a copy of the third edition. But the mass of his

letter referred to Violet’s claim upon the estate, and went as fully

into details as he could possibly do. He referred Mr Broughton to the

number and date of the Barnham newspaper, which contained the

advertisement of Arthur Sibbold’s change of name. Would Mr Broughton

take up the case?

Who can trace the wonderful processes of the mind, especially when that

mind is excited by unusual events, by unusual indulgence, and by a long

previous course of hard thinking? That evening Aymer treated himself to

the theatre, and saw his beloved Shakespeare performed for the first

time. It was _Hamlet_—the greatest of all tragedies. Who can tell? It

may be that the intricate course of crime and bloodshed, he had seen

displayed upon the stage, had preternaturally excited him; had caused

him to think of such things. Perhaps the wine he had taken—a small

quantity indeed, but almost unprecedented for him—had quickened his

mental powers. Be it what it might, towards the grey dawn Aymer dreamt

a dream—inchoate, wild, frenzied, horrible, impossible to describe. But

he awoke with the drops of cold perspiration upon his forehead, with a

great horror clinging to him, and he asked himself the question—Who

murdered Jason Waldron, true heir to Stirmingham city? His legal

knowledge suggested the immediate reply—Those who had an interest and a

motive so to do. The man who had an interest was—John Marese Baskette.

There was not a shadow of proof, but Aymer rose that morning weighed

down with the firm moral conviction that it was he and no other who had

instigated the deed. He recalled to his mind the circumstances of that

mysterious crime—a crime which had never been even partially cleared

up. He thought of Violet—his Violet—the next heir. Oh, God! if she were

taken too. Should he go down to her at once? No; it was the fancy of

his distempered mind. He would conquer it. She was perfectly safe at

The Towers; and yet Marese came their sometimes. No; where could she be

safer than amid that household and troop of servants? But he wrote and

hinted his dark suspicions to her; warned her to be on her guard. This,

he said, he was determined upon—he would establish her right, and he

would punish the murderer of poor Jason. That very day he had commenced

his search among the churches.

Chapter Seven.

When Aymer’s first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with

the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with

pleasure. His triumph was her triumph—his fame her fame—and in the

excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his

letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the

most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be

well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered

every obstacle. As she had read Marese’s letters to Agnes, so it was

only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her.

Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she

had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer

had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be

less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of

the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of

the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible—a marvel undreamt of. Marese

was the heir—there could not be two—and in Marese she was personally

interested. Together they re-read that portion of Aymer’s letter, and

wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down

with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his

conclusions—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the

identity?

The whole thing appeared so strange and _bizarre_, that Agnes said she

really thought he must be romancing—drawing on his imagination, as he

had in the book she held in her hand.

Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly

defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such

practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once

telling her that her great-grandfather’s name was Sibbold, or something

like that—she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it,

because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of

time, that may be bridged by three or four persons’ successive

memories. He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or

Sibald, and _he_ again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought

at Culloden in ’45. If it had not been for that circumstance, the name

would have escaped her altogether.

The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that

Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an

hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be

the heir if this were the case—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the

highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have

renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager

to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never

been mentioned at the family council—surely that was in itself

sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese—to herself—to credit such

nonsense. Aymer must be ill—over-excited.

Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous

friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her

that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his

statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late

been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward

struggle had warped her nature—as if in vigorously, aggressively

defending Marese, she was defending herself.

The incident caused a coolness between them—the first that had sprung

up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free

from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she

could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the

heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they

would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit

together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable

them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly

saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast

whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting

to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of

engulfing them in the seething waters of contention.

In the morning came Aymer’s second letter, imputing the worst of all

crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation.

Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole

scene passed again before her eyes—the terrible scene in the

dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out—the pool of blood

upon the carpet—Jason’s head lying helplessly against the back of the

armchair—the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and

the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased

away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full

force, and she reproached herself with a too ready

forgetfulness—reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of

endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by

Aymer—the interest, the motive—seemed irresistible. Not for a moment

did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen

him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name—it

was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt.

A great horror fell upon her—a horror only less great than had fallen

that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her

father’s murderer—she had eaten at the same table—she had shaken hands

with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and

abhorrence, there rose a horror—almost a fear. Next to being in the

presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most

awful. She could not stay at The Towers—she could not remain, when at

any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his

actual hands—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter

dislike to The Towers fell upon her—a hatred of the place. It seemed as

if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to

associate with the one person of all others whom love, duty,

religion—all taught her to avoid. She must go—no matter where. She had

a little money—the remnant left after all. Jason’s debts had been

paid—only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. Mr Merton had sent it

to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first

the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place

which was still hers; but no, that could not be—she could not, could

not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the

very walls. She would go to some small village where living was cheap;

where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the

few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would

keep her—till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated

to write to him—she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for

she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of

necessaries to give her luxuries.

That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to

ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her

lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in

bitter scorn—would not deign even to listen to her—and yet it was wrong

to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of

honour. Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate

which hung over her—to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the

blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and

upon that she finally decided—it was to leave a note for Agnes,

enclosing Aymer’s letter.

It was Agnes’ constant practice to go for a drive about three in the

afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a

headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the

groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station.

The man at once got the dog-cart ready, and in half an hour, with her

trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look

back—she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The

groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to

leave them—she had made herself liked by all the servants at The

Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender

store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money.

This incident touched her deeply—she had forgotten that, in leaving The

Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to

stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should

not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little

station, or “road,” as it was called. “Belthrop Road” was two and a

half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk,

and reached the place on foot just before dusk.

On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had

lived at World’s End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many

a time. She married, and removed to her husband’s parish, and was now a

widow.

Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady

jumped at Violet’s proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest

sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine

of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should

be too small—she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had

many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided

herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum—quiet and

retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest

Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of assuring

him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts.

Circumstances over which no one as usual had had any control, made that

spring a memorable one in the quiet annals of Belthrop. The great

agricultural labourers’ movement of the Eastern counties had extended

even to this village; a branch of the Union had been formed, meetings

held, and fiery language indulged in. The delegate despatched to

organise the branch, looked about him for a labourer of some little

education to officiate as secretary, and to receive the monthly

contributions from the members.

Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener,

who still worked for Mr Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a

boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man

of some little intelligence, and, though a new comer, the working men

regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he

was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he

considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years

faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which

circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the

secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with

Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had

been aroused by repeated losses—cattle had died, crops gone wrong;

above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money

that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had

turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in

wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore

against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not

discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so

coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so

far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that

the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and _burn down, his home over

his head_.

Early in the spring the labourers struck, and the strike extended to

Belthrop. The months passed on, the farmers were in difficulty, and

meantime the wretched labourers were half-starved. Albert was furious,

for he could not get his wheat sown, and upon that crop he depended to

meet his engagements. Yet he was the one of all others, at a meeting

which was called, to persuade the farmers to hold out; and above all he

abused Jenkins, the secretary; called him a traitor, a firebrand, an

incendiary. The meeting broke up without result; and it was on that

very evening that Violet arrived. The third evening afterwards she was

suddenly called out by gossiping old Hannah Bond, who rushed in, in a

state of intense excitement—

“Farmer Herring’s ricks be all ablaze!”

Violet was dragged out by the old woman, and beheld a magnificent, and

yet a sad sight. Eight and thirty ricks, placed in a double row, were

on fire. About half had caught when she came out. As she stood

watching, with the glare in the sky reflected upon her face, she saw

the flames run along from one to another, till the whole rickyard was

one mass of roaring fire. The outbuildings, the stables, and

cow-houses, all thatched, caught soon after—finally the dwelling-house.

The farm being situated upon the Downs, the flames and sparks were seen

for miles and miles in the darkness of the night, and the glare in the

sky still farther. The whole countryside turned out in wonder and

alarm; hundreds and hundreds trooped over Down and meadow to the spot.

Efforts were made by scores of willing hands to stay the flames—efforts

which seemed ridiculously futile before that fearful blast; for with

the fire there rose a wind caused by the heated column of air

ascending, and the draught was like that of a furnace. Nothing could

have saved the place—not all the engines in London, even had there been

water; and the soil being chalky, and the situation elevated, there was

but one deep well. As it was, no engine reached the spot till long

after the fire was practically over—Barnham engine came in the grey of

the morning, having been raced over the hills fully fifteen miles. By

that time, all that was left of that noble farmhouse and rickyard, was

some two-score heaps of smoking ashes, smouldering and emitting intense

heat.

Hundreds upon hundreds stood looking on, and among them there moved

dark figures:—policemen—who had hastily gathered together.

And where was Albert Herring? Was he ruined? He at that moment recked

nothing of the fire. He was stooping—in a lowly cottage at a little

distance—over the form of his only son, a boy of ten. The family had

easily escaped before the dwelling-house took fire, and were, to all

intents and purposes, safe; but this lad slipped off, as a lad would

do, to follow his father, and watch the flames. A burning beam from one

of the outhouses struck him down. Albert heard a scream; turned, and

saw his boy beneath the flaring, glowing timber. He shrieked—literally

shrieked—and tore at the beam with his scorched hands till the flesh

came off.

At last the on-lookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt—one

whole shoulder seemed injured—and the doctors gave no hope of his life.

(As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he

did not die—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the

agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in

the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let roof-tree fall and

ruin come—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world—only

save him this one little life.

In the morning Albert turned like a wild beast at bay, shouting and

crying for vengeance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;” but when did

man ever hearken to that? He marked out Jenkins, the gardener; he

pointed him out to all. That was the man—had they not heard him say he

hoped Heaven would burn the farm over his head?

That was true; several had heard it. Jenkins had been the last to leave

the premises that night.

The gardener, utterly confounded, could not defend himself. The leader

of the Unionists! The police looked grave, and the upshot was he was

taken into custody.

Feeling ran high in the neighbourhood, as well it might. There were

grievances on both sides, and the great fire had stirred up all

uncharitableness. The justices’ room was crowded, and a riot was

feared. The Union had taken up poor Jenkins’ defence, and had sent down

a shrewd lawyer who put a bold face on it, but had little hope in his

heart. Suspicion was so strong against the prisoner.

His poor old wife was perhaps even more frenzied than she had been at

the coroner’s inquest. Such a circumstance as Violet’s arrival at

Belthrop, though trivial in itself, was, of course, known in the

village; she once again rushed to Violet for help. Violet, though

anxious to keep quiet, could not resist the appeal, she was herself

much excited and upset about the matter. She went with the miserable

wife to the Court, and being a lady, was accommodated with a good seat.

Out of her little stock she would have willingly paid for a lawyer, but

that was unnecessary. The counsel retained by the Union was a clever

man; but he could make no head against the unfortunate facts, and in

his anxiety to save the prisoner he made one great mistake—justifiable

perhaps—but a mistake. He asked who would profit by the fire, whose

interest was it? Was not hard cash better than ricks, and an uncertain

and falling market? In a word, he hinted that Albert himself had fired

the ricks.

A roar of denial rose from the farmers present, a deafening cheer from

the labourers. It was with difficulty that the crowd was silenced, and

when the proceedings were resumed, it was easy to see that the Bench

had been annoyed by this remark.

The solicitor on the other side got up, and asked the justices to

consider the previous character of this man the prisoner—who had been

on his trial for murder—was there a single person who would speak to

his good character?

“Yes,” said Violet, standing up. Amid intense surprise she was sworn.

“My name is Violet Waldron,” she said, nerving herself to the effort.

“I am the daughter of—of—the person who was—you understand me? I have

known this man for years—since I was a child. He and his served us

faithfully for two generations. He is incapable of such a crime—I

believe him innocent—he is a good man, but most unfortunate.”

She could not go further, her courage broke down. They did not

cross-examine her.

The prosecution professed great respect for Miss Waldron, whose

misfortunes were well known, but of what value was her testimony in

this case? She had not even seen Jenkins for a long time; circumstances

warped the best of natures.

The end was, that Jenkins was committed for trial at the assizes within

two months. Thus did circumstances again involve this victim of fate in

an iron net. Here again I must anticipate. Jenkins was sentenced at the

assizes to twelve months imprisonment with hard labour. Nevertheless

the imputation against Albert Herring was never quite forgotten; to

this day the poor believe it, and even the police shake their heads. At

all events he profited largely by it. The corn had been kept in the

hope that the markets would rise, but they had fallen. The

insurance-money saved him from irretrievable ruin.

The prisoner’s poor wife was reduced to utter beggary. Violet did her

best to keep her, but she could not pay the debts the gardener, with

his miserable pay, had of necessity contracted. Ten pounds still

remained unpaid. At last the poor woman bethought her of an ancient

treasure, an old bible;—would Miss Violet buy it? It really was

Violet’s—it had been lent by Violet’s grandmother to the poor woman,

and never returned. Violet at once remembered Lady Lechester’s fancy

for such books, and recommended her to take it to The Towers. The woman

went, and returned with the money.

Now, the immediate effect upon our history of this fire was that Violet

Waldron became a prominent name in the local paper published at

Barnham, and that local paper had been taken for years regularly at The

Towers. And at The Towers at that time Theodore Marese was temporarily

staying, under circumstances that will shortly appear.

Chapter Eight.

When Lady Lechester returned from her drive and learnt with intense

surprise that Violet was gone, her first thought was that she had been

hurt by the remarks made upon Aymer’s hallucination the previous

evening. Agnes reproached herself for her momentary irritation; but

when she found a note for her from Violet on her dressing-table, and

had read both it and the enclosed letter from Aymer, her anger was

thoroughly aroused.

Not unnaturally she took it in the worst sense, and looked upon it as a

downright insult. To pretend that a gentlemen of Marese’s position and

character was not the heir that he affirmed himself to be—that he had

wooed her under false pretences—that was bad taste enough, and utterly

unjustifiable. Still, it might have passed as the hallucination of an

over-tasked mind. But to deliberately accuse the same gentleman of the

blackest crime it was possible for human beings to commit, was

inexcusable.

All the pride of her nature rose up in almost savage resentment. Her

first impulse was to tear up the letters and burn them; but this she

refrained from doing, for on second thoughts they might be instrumental

in obtaining the punishment of the slanderer. It was all the more

bitter, because she felt that she had done her best both for Aymer and

Violet, and the latter she had really loved. Certainly Agnes was far

too proud and high-minded to regret for one moment a single shilling

that she had spent for the benefit of others; but the reflection of

Violet’s ingratitude did add a sharper sting. Agnes was in truth

touched in her tenderest place—her pride:—she engaged, or partially

engaged to a pretender, and worse than that, to a murderer—a Lechester,

impossible!

Before she had decided what to do, Mr Broughton arrived from Barnham,

bringing with him Aymer’s letter to him. He was utterly unprepared for

the mood in which he found Agnes, and unwittingly added fuel to the

fire by saying that he had searched the file of old newspapers, and

found the very advertisement mentioned by Aymer.

Lady Agnes’ indignation knew no bounds. She reproached him for even so

much as daring to investigate the matter—for deeming it possible that

anything of the kind could be. Let him leave the house immediately—she

regretted that she had demeaned herself so much as to admit him to see

her.

This aroused Mr Broughton—who was not without his professional

pride—and he answered rather smartly, that Lady Lechester seemed to be

forgetting the very dignity to which, she laid claim; and added that if

he should mention Aymer’s discovery to the building society in

Stirmingham, who were his clients, _they_ at least would think Miss

Waldron’s claim one well worth supporting. With this parting shot he

bowed and left the room.

No sooner was he gone, than Agnes took up her pen and wrote direct to

Marese Baskette, enclosing Aymer’s second letter—which accused Marese

of being the instigator of the murder—and giving the fullest

particulars she could remember of his first—relating to Violet’s claim.

She did not forget to describe her interview with Mr Broughton, nor to

mention his threat of the building society taking the matter up. She

assured him that she looked upon the matter as a hoax and an insult;

and only related the story to him in order that he might take the

proper proceedings to punish the author of the calumny.

This letter reached Marese at his club in London, and, hardened man

that he was, it filled him with well-founded alarm. Till that moment he

had believed that no one on earth was aware of the Waldron claims but

himself and Theodore, who had learnt it from perusal of his father

Aurelian’s papers. As for any one suspecting him of complicity in the

death of Jason Waldron, he had never dreamt that detection was

possible.

If ever a crime was managed skilfully, that had been; and as to the old

story that “murder will out,” it was of course an exploded

superstition. Had it been Aymer alone who was on his track, he would

not so much have cared; but Aymer had not kept the secret to himself:

he had written to a lawyer, giving his proofs; the lawyer had verified

one of them, at least, and Marese well knew what lawyers were. Then

there was the threat of the building society, just as he was on the

point of making a favourable composition with them, and was actually to

receive a surrender of some part of the property in a few weeks’ time.

He appreciated the full force of Broughton’s remark, repeated by Lady

Agnes, that the building society, his client, would be sure to support

Violet Waldron’s claim. Of course they would. A fresh litigation would

be set on foot, and possession of the estate indefinitely delayed; if

that was delayed, his marriage with Lady Lechester would be also thrown

back.

Yet despite all these serious reflections, Marese would have made

comparatively light of the matter had it not been for the accusation of

crime—for the fact that Aymer had obtained a faint glimpse of the

truth. He was not the man to hesitate one moment at crime, or to regret

it after it was done; but he dreaded detection, as well he might, for

from the height to which he had risen, and was about to rise, his fall

would be great indeed. He smiled at Lady Agnes’ suggestion that he

should prosecute Aymer for libel or slander. Prosecute him in open

court, and at once fix ten thousand eyes upon that dark story; perhaps

bring a hundred detectives, eager to hunt out the secrets of a rich

man, upon his track! That would be folly indeed.

Aymer must be silenced, and Violet removed; but not like that. The

first thing he did was to telegraph for Theodore, who came up by the

express from Stirmingham.

They had a long and anxious consultation. Theodore persuaded Marese to

go at once to The Towers to see Agnes and deny the imputation—to secure

her, in fact. Marese thought that this would hardly do; he knew Agnes

better than Theodore. She would think that he had put himself out

unnecessarily, that he had taken it too greatly to heart, and would

simply ask him why he had not at once instituted legal proceedings

against Aymer.

In his secret heart of hearts, Marese did not care to visit that

neighbourhood more often than was absolutely necessary. And he really

did think that Agnes’ transcendent pride would be better suited if he

treated the matter in an off-hand way, and dispatched only an agent to

represent him—a species of ambassador. Another reason was that

Broughton, if he was on the watch, would take Marese’s visit to The

Towers as a proof that there was something in it, else why should he be

so anxious to deny it?

Theodore was willing to go, and he did not long delay his departure.

“For all the time that we waste in thinking,” said Marese, “this

fellow, Malet, is at work. It will take him some time to search all the

London churches; but it may so happen that he may hit upon the very

entry he wants at the first church chance leads him to.”

There was no time to be lost. Very probably Aymer himself, of whose

whereabouts in London they were quite ignorant, might go down to The

Towers expecting to see his affianced, Violet. Theodore might meet him

there, and—

Above all things, Theodore was to so work upon Lady Agnes’ mind as to

turn this apparent disadvantage to a real good, and use it to

precipitate the marriage. Could not she be brought to see that her

proudest course would be to marry Marese, in despite of all these foul

calumnies, at once, in defiance? It would be difficult for Marese to

put this himself, but his agent could do so.

Theodore went to The Towers, and it fell out much as Marese had

foreseen. Agnes was gratified. Theodore said that Marese looked upon

the whole affair with the deepest contempt, and disdained to proceed.

The hallucination of that unfortunate young man, Aymer, would prove in

itself sufficient punishment for him. Marese desired no vengeance upon

a poverty-stricken youth whose brains were not very clear. Then he

delicately hinted at a more immediate marriage, and saw with

satisfaction that Agnes did not resent the idea, but seemed to ponder

over it.

But where was Violet? She had left The Towers, and no one there knew

her place of abode.

This disturbed Theodore. He wished to know what the enemy was doing; if

he could foresee their designs, then Marese was safe, because they

could be outwitted. It was awkward to have these persons working

against them in the dark—i.e., Violet, Aymer, and Broughton.

Violet had left no address. Agnes remembered Aymer’s, but Theodore

found on secret inquiry that he had moved. He waited at The Towers in

the hope that Malet might come. Being a man of versatile talent, and

clever in conversation, Lady Agnes was pleased with him, and invited

him to stay as long as was convenient.

While Theodore was at The Towers, the great fire happened at Belthrop,

and the flames were visible from the upper windows of the mansion,

where Lady Agnes, Theodore, and the servants watched them with

interest.

Shortly afterwards the Barnham paper was published, with a special

account of the preliminary examination of the supposed incendiary, poor

Jenkins, before the justices, and Theodore came across the name of

Violet Waldron. In this way he learnt that one of the parties, and the

most important, was at that moment living in an obscure village, not

much more than fifteen miles distant.

He was preparing to pay a visit to Belthrop—ostensibly to see the ruins

of the fire—when Aymer Malet arrived at The Towers.

His coming was very natural. He could not understand why he did not

hear from Violet. He had written to her fully twenty times, addressing

his letters to The Towers, and had received no answer. This greatly

alarmed him, and he resolved to go down and see her. All these letters

were meantime at the General Post Office in London.

Lady Agnes, determined to cut off every connection with Malet and

Violet, had given the servants strict orders not to take in any letters

addressed to either of them. Aymer’s letters, therefore, went back to

the local post office, and from thence to London, and doubtless in due

time they would have returned to him.

When he found himself with seventy pounds in his pocket, he had taken a

better lodging, having previously written to Violet to apprise her of

his removal, but as she never had his letter, her note to him was

delivered at the old address, and Aymer’s old landlady, irritated at

his leaving her, coolly put it on the fire.

Violet had only written once, for she too was astonished, and a little

hurt, because Aymer did not write to her, and in addition, she had been

much disturbed by the great fire and the trial of poor Jenkins. The

upshot was, that Aymer leaving his monotonous labour in the London

churches, took train and came down to the nearest station to The

Towers.

Never doubting his reception, he drove up to the mansion, and was

surprised beyond measure when the servants, respectfully and

regretfully, but firmly announced that Lady Lechester would not see

him. Where was Miss Waldron? Miss Waldron had left—the newspaper said

she was at Belthrop, but that was a day or two ago.

Bewildered, and not a little upset, Aymer mechanically turned on his

heel—he had dismissed his fly at the park gates—and set out to walk to

Belthrop. He had almost reached that very little wicket-gate where Lady

Lechester had met the apparition of Cornet De Warren, when he heard a

voice calling his name, and saw a gentleman hastily following him. It

was Theodore, who had requested the servants, and enforced his request

by a bribe, to at once inform him when Mr Malet called.

Theodore had a difficult task before him; but he approached it with

full confidence in himself. Without a moment’s delay he introduced

himself as Marese Baskette’s cousin, and at once noted the change that

passed over Aymer’s countenance. Ah!—then Mr Malet was aware of the

previous intimacy that had existed between him and Mr Baskette? That

intimacy was now at an end. He frankly admitted that he had come to The

Towers in the interest of Marese; but upon his arrival he had heard, to

his intense surprise, of Mr Malet’s discovery of the Waldron claim. To

him that claim appeared indisputable: he had written as much to Mr

Baskette, and the consequence was a quarrel. They had parted: and he

was now endeavouring to persuade Lady Lechester to break off her

association with that man.

He had heard with great interest the career of Mr Malet—he had seen his

book; and while he regretted his misfortunes, he rejoiced that

circumstances enabled him to offer Mr Malet a most lucrative and

remunerative post—a post that would at once give him ease and leisure

to promote his literary labours; which would supply him with funds to

continue his researches into the Waldron claims—and perhaps to bring

the guilty to justice; which would even—this in a delicate manner—it

would even permit of an immediate union with Miss Waldron.

Further, as this post was in the city of Stirmingham, Mr Malet would be

on the very spot, and within easy reach of London. The only difficulty

was that it required Mr Malet’s immediate presence in Stirmingham, as

it would be necessary to fill the place at once. Probably from the

direction of Mr Malet’s steps he was on his way to visit Belthrop, and

to congratulate the truly heroic Miss Waldron upon her gallant attempt

to save an innocent man from punishment. At the same time, perhaps, Mr

Malet would really serve Miss Waldron’s interest better by at once

proceeding to Stirmingham that very afternoon with Theodore.

What was this post? Mr Malet had been in Stirmingham, and was aware

that he (Theodore) had inherited a very large asylum for the insane

there. As he was himself averse to the science of the mind, he had

rarely resided on his property, but left the chief management to a

physician, and the accounts to a secretary. His secretary had left

about a month ago, and the affairs were in much confusion. He had great

pleasure in offering Mr Malet the place. The salary was seven hundred

and fifty pounds per annum, and residence. This residence was

sufficiently large for a married man.

Aymer modestly objected that he was hardly fit for so important a

trust.

Theodore said that he had read his book, and a man who was capable of

writing like that was capable of anything. Besides, he had heard of his

ability while in Mr Broughton’s service.

The end was that Aymer accepted the engagement, as indeed he could

hardly refuse it. Still he wished to see Violet. That was certainly

unfortunate; but could not Mr Malet write from the railway station and

send it by a messenger. On arrival in Stirmingham, and taking

possession of his place of trust, Mr Malet could at once write to Miss

Waldron to come, and there was plenty of room at the asylum, and more

than one respectable matron residing there with whom she could remain

until the marriage could take place. He was so sorry that Lady

Lechester cherished a prejudice against Mr Malet—that would wear off—he

had done his best to remove it. Still, at present, Mr Malet was not

welcome at The Towers. Would he so far stretch politeness as to stroll

gently on the road to the station? He (Theodore) would speedily

overtake him with a carriage.

An hour and a half afterwards Theodore and Aymer were _en route_ to

Stirmingham. Theodore had explained his sudden departure by a telegram.

He had received a telegram, it was true, as he constantly did; but it

was as usual a Stock Exchange report of no importance.

From the station Aymer sent a short note to Violet at Belthrop, by

special messenger, acquainting her with his good fortune.

They reached Stirmingham the same evening, and next day Aymer was

formally installed in possession of a bundle of papers, ledgers, and

account books, which he was to balance up. He was shown the secretary’s

residence—a fine house, closely adjoining the asylum—and at night he

wrote a glowing letter to Violet, enclosing money to pay her fare

first-class, and begging her to come at once.

On the second morning came a note telling him that she should start

that very day, and full of joyful anticipations. She would arrive

towards night. Aymer dined with Theodore, and took wine with him

afterwards. Presently he rose to prepare to go to the railway and meet

Violet. He reached his private room with a singular sensation in the

head, a swimming in his eyes, and a dryness of the tongue. He plunged

his face in cold water to recover himself; but it seemed to increase

the disorder. His head seemed to swell to an enormous size, and yet to

grow extremely light, till it felt like an inflated balloon, and seemed

as if it would lift him to the ceiling. Sitting down to try and steady

himself, he fancied that the chair rose in the air, and cried out in

alarm. He managed to pull the bell, and then felt as if he was carried

away to an immense distance, and could look down upon his body in the

room beneath.

A servant answered the bell, who stared at him, smiled, and said—“Ah,

your fit’s on at last.” Aymer’s last consciousness was that he was

talking very fast, without exactly knowing what he was saying. After

that there was a blank.

Meantime Violet was met by Theodore Marese at the railway station; and

a message in cipher flew along the wires to a certain club in London.

Marese Baskette breathed again, for the cipher read—“They are here.” A

simple sentence, but enough.

Chapter Nine.

A fashionable London newspaper came out one morning with the statement

that a marriage had been arranged in high life, and that preparations

were already in progress. J. Marese Baskette, Esq, of Stirmingham, and

Lady Agnes Lechester were to be shortly united in holy matrimony. This

announcement was of the very greatest value to Marese. Not all the

wealth, or reputed wealth he possessed—not even the honour of

representing so important a city, could obtain for him the position in

society which was secured by an alliance with the blue blood of

Lechester. His money affairs wore at once a more roseate aspect.

It was well known that Lady Lechester owned large estates, and they

were naturally reported to be even larger than they were. It was

whispered abroad that, under careful nursing, certain incumbrances had

been paid off, and that the rent-roll was now something extremely heavy

even for England, the land of long rent-rolls.

People who had previously fought a little shy of the handsome heir, and

asked hard terms to discount his paper, now pressed forward, and were

anxious to obtrude their services. At the clubs, persons who had

affected to ignore the richest man in the world as a matter of

principle, on account of his ignoble descent, now began to acknowledge

his existence, and to extend the tips of their aristocratic fingers. It

was remembered that the doubts and difficulties which had beset his

claim to the vast Stirmingham estate like a dark cloud, had of late in

great part cleared away. The family council had “burst up,” and there

were really no competitors in the field. Marese Baskette, Esq, in the

course of a year or two, so soon as the law affairs could be settled,

would be the richest man in the world.

At the clubs they freely discussed his wealth. When realised it would

put the Rothschilds, and Coutts, and Barings, and all the other famous

names—the Astors of New York and even the princes of India—into the

shade.

Stirmingham, the busiest city in England, surrounded with a triple belt

of iron furnaces, undermined with hundreds of miles of coal galleries,

was it possible to estimate the value of that wonderful place? Why, the

estate in the time of old Sternhold Baskette was roughly put at twenty

millions sterling—that was thirty years ago or more—what must it be

worth now? There really was no calculating it. Suppose he got but one

quarter of what he was entitled to—say property worth only five

millions—there was a fine thing. What on earth had the ladies been

thinking of all these years that they had not secured so rich a prize?