CHAPTER

XXXIV. A DESOLATE HOUSE

XXXV. OFF

XXXVI. DEPOSED

XXXVII. ON THE LAKE

XXXVIII. IN HOTEL IMPERIAL

XXXIX. TWO WOMEN

XL. TWO MEN

XLI. ONE POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF

XLII. THE GAUNTLET DANGLED

XLIII. THE GAUNTLET CAST

XLIV. AND PICKED UP

XLV. OBER-ALP

XLVI. ARTEMISIA

XLVII. EDELWEISS

XLVIII. TRAPPED

XLIX. TETE-A-TETE

L. IN THE HOSPICE

LI. AGAIN HYMEN

LII. THE DEVIL'S KNELL

*THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS.*

*CHAPTER XXXIV.*

*A DESOLATE HOUSE.*

Philip was restless all that day, after Salome had departed. He had

remained at home in the morning to see her off, and he did not return to

his work at the factory till after lunch.

At the office, he found it impossible to fix his thoughts on the books

and letters before him. He was not an imaginative man, but day-dreams

forced themselves before him now; between his eyes and his ledger he saw

the pale, tearful face of Salome through her veil. He found his

thoughts travelling along the line with her. He saw her in a corner of

the railway carriage, with her hands on her lap, looking out of the

window, not to see anything, but to hide her wet cheeks from her

fellow-passengers. He caught himself wondering whether she had taken

sandwiches with her and a little bottle of sherry. When he

travelled--and he was called from home occasionally----there was always

a neat little package in white paper and a tiny flat flask, pressed on

him. Had any of the servants thought of these things for Salome? That

she had thought of them for herself was unlikely. When she reached town,

what would she do? Would the porters be attentive? Would they take her

wraps and little odds and ends and see her into a cab? And would the

flyman be civil, or would he seek to take advantage of a lone lady,

especially one who looked ill and unhappy? Would not such an one become

a prey to his rapacity, and be subject to rudeness?

What sort of weather would Salome have for crossing the Channel? She

was going by Dover and Ostend, Brussels and the Grand Luxembourg, to

Strasburg; thence by Basle to Lucerne, and so on by boat and diligence

to Andermatt.

How would she manage about change of money? Where effect an exchange?

She had never travelled abroad before; how would she contrive about her

luggage? What sort of French scholar was she? Who would be her

companions on the long night journey from Brussels to Strasburg? What

if she had to endure association with vulgar, insolent, objectionable

travelling comrades?

Philip became hot, then cold.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the clerk, coming to his desk. 'Are you

aware that you have subscribed that letter twice over, Yours truly, P.

Pennycomequick?'

'So I have; I will write it again.'

'And, sir--I beg pardon--you have directed this letter to Messrs. Brook

& Co., Cotton Spinners, Andermatt. Is that right?'

'I have made a mistake. I will write the address again.'

At dinner, that evening, Philip was alone. The parlour-maid waited.

She stood a little way off, behind his chair, whilst he ate. He was

conscious that she watched him at his soup, that she was counting how

many spoonfuls went into his mouth, that he was not unobserved when he

added salt and pepper. She was down on his plate like a vulture on a

dead camel, the moment he had taken his last spoonful. Probably she was

finding it as embarrassing standing watching him eat as he found it

eating with her watching.

'Mary,' said Philip, 'did Mrs. Pennycomequick have any refreshments with

her when she left--sandwiches and sherry?'

'I beg your pardon, sir; I don't know. I will go and ask cook.'

She did know. Philip was sure she did, but made this an excuse to get

out of the dining-room and its oppressive restraint to the free air of

the kitchen.

Presently she returned.

'Well?' asked Philip.

'Please, sir, no. Cook says she tried to press them on missis, but

missis, sir, wouldn't have 'em. She said she'd have no appetite.'

'What is it?' asked Philip, as a dish was offered.

'Curried rabbit, sir.'

'Curried rabbit? No, thank you.'

Philip looked across the table, to the place hitherto occupied by his

wife. He had not been gracious, only coldly civil to her of late, but

then--now he would have been glad to have had someone opposite him to

whom he could have been coldly civil; someone to whom he might have

remarked that the weather had been bad, that the barometer was rising,

that the political situation was so and so.

Bother that woman!--he meant the parlour-maid. Then aloud, 'What is it?

Oh, veal.' He would have some veal. 'Stuffing?' Oh! the stuffing

formed that brown wart at the side, did it?

He tried to eat his veal, but felt that the eye of Mary was on the back

of his head, that she was looking at the nape of his neck, and the hair

there, and the collar-button, and a little dust that lay on the collar

of his coat. Philip had a mole on the nape of his neck, and he was

convinced that this mole formed an object of the liveliest interest to

Mary. She was watching the mole; when he opened his jaw, the mole took

a header and went under his collar; when he shut his mouth it rose above

the collar; whilst he was chewing, the mole danced on the horizon of his

collar, to Mary's infinite amusement.

Philip turned round. His imagination made him fancy that Mary was

tittering, overcome by the antics played by his mole.

Philip took wine, and as he felt the glow of the sherry pass down his

throat, he wondered whether Mary felt a glow of sympathy down her

throat, occasioned by seeing him drink the sherry.

Her presence was unbearable, and yet--if he dismissed her--how was he to

be served?

'I'll ask someone to dine with me to-morrow night,' he said to himself.

Then he turned to Mary as she removed his plate, and said, 'How is baby

this afternoon? Does he fret much at his mother's being away?'

'I beg your pardon, sir; I don't know. I'll run and ask nurse.'

Of course she knew, but she made this an excuse for getting out of the

dining-room into the freer air of the nursery.

Never, in all his life, had Philip found himself more impatient of the

silence imposed on him, more desirous to hear his own voice. In his

lodgings he had eaten his meals alone--a chop and some potatoes--and he

had had a book or a paper at his side whilst eating; the landlady or the

slavey had not stood in the room watching him, observing the parting in

his hair behind his head, making fun of his mole, impatient to dust his

collar. In his lodgings he had drunk beer or London cooper--now he

drank claret, sherry, port; but he would have drunk even water, if he

might have been alone.

'No, thank you; no dessert!' He jumped up--he was eager to leave the

room.

'Please, sir, any cheese?'

'No, thank you, no cheese.'

He ran away from his half-finished dinner to his own study, where he

could be alone, away from the insufferable Mary. Then he rang the bell.

'You may bring me up the claret and port here--and the preserved

ginger,' he ordered. Then thought he had acted absurdly, and would have

countermanded the order had he not been ashamed to confess how unhinged

he was.

He sat in his own room, with his claret glass in his hand, dreaming,

looking into the fire.

'Where was Salome now? Was she thinking of home--of her

baby--of--of--him?'

Then he wondered whether she were cold, and hungry, and tired. She had

not slept the previous night. She had been busy packing, or going in

and out of baby's room, to kiss the little sleeping face, or to pray by

the crib, or let the dew of her tears fall over it.

Philip stood up. He left his glass unfinished, and went upstairs to the

nursery. He found the door ajar, and the room empty. The nurse had

gone down for a talk in the kitchen--no doubt about Master, and Mary was

telling her about his mole, and the spots of dust on his collar.

He entered the nursery and stood by the crib, and looked at the sleeping

child.

Little Philip was now quite well again, and was very sound asleep. He

was undoubtedly a Pennycomequick. He had dark hair, and long dark

eyelashes. But surely--surely there was some trace of his mother in the

tiny face. It could not be that he did not bear in him something of

her. Philip looked intently at the child, and tried to find out in him

some feature of his wife.

There, on this side of the crib, had Salome's hands rested that night

when little Philip was ill. Philip, the father, knew the exact spot

where her hands had rested, and where her forehead had leaned, with the

red-gold hair falling down over the side upon the bedding. Where the

white left hand had clutched, with the gold ring sparkling on it, there

now Philip placed his hand, and there streamed up to him from the crib

of his child a magnetic influence that put him _en rapport_ with his

absent wife, brought to him a soothing sense of oneness with her who was

far away, and filled his heart with regret and yearning.

The child began to cry.

Then Philip rang the bell, and when the nurse arrived, red and

blowing----

'How is it that you are not at your post?' he asked.

'Please, sir, I only just ran down to warm up Dr. Ridge's Food for the

baby,' was the answer.

Philip descended to the study, and resumed his claret glass. At the

same time he began to consider his own conduct towards Salome, and, now

only, saw that it did not bear the same complexion as he had hitherto

attributed to it. In vain did he call up before his mind the dishonour

of relationship with such a man as Beaple Yeo, a rogue after whom the

police had been in quest more than once. In vain did he poke the fires

of his wrath at the trickery of his marriage, he could not convince

himself that Salome had been privy to it; and if not privy to it, what

right had he to treat her with the severity he had exercised? But not

even then did it occur to him that the main element of his wrath was

supplied by his own wounded pride.

The discovery of her parentage must have been to Salome a crushing

humiliation. What justification was there for his adding to her burden

by his reproaches and coldness? She could not undo the past, unmake her

relationship. His anger, his resentment, could not improve the

situation, could not shake the truth of the hateful fact that he was

allied to so great a scoundrel. Though she had been married under a

wrong name, that would not invalidate the marriage even if he wished

it--even if he wished it! Did he wish it?

He thought about Uncle Jeremiah's will, and how that by it Salome had

been left almost sole legatee; how that the mill and everything had been

given to her, and how that in a mysterious manner that will had been

cancelled. The old haunting suspicion that his aunt had meddled with

and defaced the will returned. He thought of her behaviour when he

allowed her to see that he entertained a suspicion; of her evasion of

her promise; of her laxity of principle; and he could not shake off the

thought that it was quite possible that through her Salome had been

defrauded of her rights.

If so, had he any right to complain if he had been deceived? How did

Mrs. Sidebottom show beside Salome? And he--he, Philip--had he shown in

generous colours either?

It was said of that distinguished epicure the Marquis de Cussy,

'L'estomac de M. n'a jamais bronche,' and the same may be said of most

consciences--but not of all. As we have seen even Mrs. Sidebottom's

conscience once felt a twinge at the time when consciences generally do

feel twinges, when too late to redress wrong actions. So now did

Philip, as he sat over the fire with his claret glass in his hand,

become aware that he had acted with undue severity, and he spilt the

claret on the floor.

Next day, Philip went to the old bedroom which he and his wife had

occupied till he changed his quarters. He found the housemaid there, who

seemed startled at seeing him enter.

'Please, sir, I'm drawing down the blinds, because of the sun.'

'I will trouble you to leave the blinds up,' said Philip. 'I do not

choose to have the house--the room--look as though someone in it were

dead. Here--by the way, my room downstairs will need a thorough turn

out. I will return to this room; at all events for a time.'

'Very well, sir.'

She left the chamber. He stood in it and looked about him. Salome had

left everything tidy. Some of her drawers were open, not many were

locked. Most of her little private treasures had been removed.

Where was the photograph on a stand of Uncle Jeremiah? It had no doubt

been taken away by her. Where the three little owls sitting on a

pen-wiper? It was gone--and the Christmas cards that had stood on the

chimney-piece, and the ugly glazed yellow flower vase, given her, on her

birthday, by the cook.

The clock on the chimney-piece was stopped. Salome had wound that up

regularly; her hand was no longer there, and it had been allowed to run

down. The room was dead without the tick of the clock. Philip wound it

up and set the pendulum swinging. It ticked again, but in a formal,

weary manner, unlike the brisk and cheerful tick of old.

The room had a cold unfurnished look without Salome's

knickknacks--trifles in themselves, but giving an air of refinement and

cheeriness to the apartment. He went over to the dressing-table. No

combs and brushes, no hairpins, bottles of hair oil and wash

there--simply a table with a looking-glass on it. One little glass was

there, but no flowers in it; and hitherto it had never failed to contain

some--even in winter. With what ingenuity had Salome kept that little

glass on the dressing-table bright--in winter at times with holly only,

or ivy leaves--or moss and a scarlet Jew's ear!

It was the same downstairs. There the flowers were ragged and faded in

the vases. Salome was away, who had rearranged them every second day.

The room smelt musty, and Philip threw up the window. He stood at it,

and looked out dreamily. Where was Salome now? Was she in Switzerland?

Had she any heart to look at the mountains? Would the wonderful scenery

be any joy to her--alone?

'I can never dine as I did yesterday,' said Philip. 'I will ask Tomkins

in.'

That day he did invite Tomkins, his head traveller. But he was irritated

with Tomkins and angry with the maid, because Tomkins' seat had been put

at the end of the table, in Salome's place; and Tomkins was a different

object for his eyes to rest on from Salome. The dinner passed wearily.

Philip was not, indeed, concerned about the parlour-maid examining the

mole on his neck, but he had to make conversation for Tomkins, and to

listen to Tomkins' commercial room tales, and to be civil to Tomkins.

After dinner Tomkins was in no hurry to go--he enjoyed the

Pennycomequick port, and on the port grew confidential, and Philip

became tired, every minute more tired, of Tomkins, and was vexed with

himself for having asked Tomkins in, and vowed he would dine by himself

next evening. Then Tomkins, finding it difficult to rouse Philip's

interest and excite a laugh, began to tell rather broad stories, and was

undeterred by Philip's stony stare, till Philip suddenly stood up, rang

for coffee, and said it was time to adjourn to another room, and so cut

Tomkins short.

But even after Tomkins had been got into the drawing-room, and had been

chilled there by its size and coldness, and the inattention of his host,

he showed little inclination to depart, and threw out hints that he

could strum an accompaniment to himself on the 'pi-anny,' and sing a

song, sentimental or humorous, if Mr. Pennycomequick would like to hear

him. But Philip pleaded headache, and became at length so freezing as

to force Tomkins to take his leave.

Philip did not feel it necessary to accompany his head commercial into

the hall; but Mary was there to assist him into his great-coat, and find

him his hat, and give him a light for his cigar.

'Well, Mary,' said Tomkins pleasantly. 'Thank you, Mary; to take a

light from you warms the heart, Mary. I'm as blind as a beetle in the

dark, and 'pon my word, dear, I don't know my right hand from my left in

the dark. You wouldn't object, would you--there's a dear--just to set

me on my way home, with my nose in the right direction, and then my

cigar-light will carry me on? Can't go wrong if I follow that. But it

is the first step, Mary--the first step is the thing. _Le premier paw_,

say the French.'

Then he hooked his arm into hers, and the demure Mary had no objection

to take just half a dozen steps along the road with the affable Mr.

Tomkins--who was a widower--and to leave the hall door ajar as she

escorted him part of his way home.

Philip sat in the drawing-room in bad humour. It was dull dining by

himself: it was insufferable dining with Tomkins. He could not invite

brother manufacturers to dine with him every evening. What must he do?

He would return to plain food and a book at his solitary meal, and

dismiss the critical parlour-maid till he required his plate to be

changed.

Philip rang the bell. The teacups were left on the table. His bell

remained unanswered. He rang again. It was still unnoticed. Then he

angrily went down into the hall, and found the door ajar. He called to

the servants in the kitchen for Mary. The housemaid appeared. 'Please,

sir, she's gone out a moment to post a letter.'

'What! at this time of night?'

'It was most particular; her mother be dreadful porely, sir, and Mary do

take on about her orful!'

'Go to bed--lock up,' ordered Philip; and he stood in the hall whilst

the frightened domestics filed past.

Then he turned down the gas and returned to the drawing-room. He would

hear Mary when she came in by the hall door, and would at once give her

her dismissal.

He sat waiting. Here was fresh trouble come on him through his wife's

absence. He would have to see that his servants were kept in proper

order; that they kept proper hours.

He had hardly resumed his seat before he heard steps in the hall, and

then on the stairs. Certainly not the tread of Mary; not light, and not

stealthy, but firm and ponderous.

What step could it be? Tomkins returning to tell one of his good

stories, or to ask for soda-water? He listened, and hesitated whether

to rise or not. It must be the step of Tomkins; no one else would

venture to come in at this time. The step was arrested at the

drawing-room door; then Philip stood up, and as he did so the door was

thrown open, and Uncle Jeremiah stood on the threshold, looking at him.

He knew the old man at once, though he was changed, and his hair white.

'Philip,' said Jeremiah, 'where is your wife? Where is Salome?'

Philip was too much astonished to answer.

Then said Jeremiah sternly: 'Give an account of thy stewardship, for

thou mayest be no longer steward.'

*CHAPTER XXXV.*

*OFF.*

When I was a boy I possessed a pet owl. It was a source of amusement to

me to feed that owl with mice. When the trap had caught one of these

night disturbers, I took it to the solemn owl, who sat blinking in the

daylight, half awake and half asleep. The owl at once gulped down the

mouse, and then went fast asleep with the mouse in her inside, but with

the end of the tail protruding from her beak. About an hour later I went

to the owl, took hold of the end of the mouse's tail and pulled it,

whereupon up the throat of the owl came the mouse, backwards, and the

bird of wisdom was roused to wild wonder and profound puzzlement to

account for the sudden disgorging of her meal. Mrs. Sidebottom had

bolted Uncle Jeremiah, and was doing her best to digest him and his

fortune, when, unexpectedly, her meal came to life again, and she sat

gulping, blinking, bemused in her sitting-room, waiting for the return

of Lambert from the billiard-table, to communicate to him the news that

had reached her. Anyone who had seen my owl would perceive at once that

the case of Mrs. Sidebottom was analogous.

The consternation could hardly have been greater on Quilp reappearing

when a posse of wives was sitting discussing him, esteemed dead; and yet

Jeremiah was no Quilp. But it is not Quilps alone who would produce

dismay were they to return to life. Imagine the emotions produced in a

hospital which has received a bequest of ten thousand pounds, and has

spent fifteen guineas on the portrait of the benefactor, should the

benefactor descend from the frame, declare himself alive, and require

the return of his thousands. Think of the junior partner, who has been

waiting till a senior shuffled off his mortal coil to make room for him;

how would he feel were the dead to return to life? Think of the curate

waiting for the living, the next presentation to which is for him,

should the old rector, after having laid himself down in his grave,

change his mind and get out and resume his benefice for another fifteen

years!

Mrs. Sidebottom had but just received news of the reappearance of Uncle

Jeremiah, and, like an energetic woman, she wasted as little time as

might be in exclamations of dismay. She was not the woman to hover in

uncertainty, and ask advice how to get out of a difficulty. Like one

who has trodden in mire, she pulled her foot out instantaneously to set

it on dry and firm ground.

'I don't know how the law stands, and whether the sentence of the Court

of Probate can be reversed,' she said; 'but of one thing I am very

sure--that he who has can hold, and tire out those who try to open his

hands, if he has any wit.'

Then in came Lambert.

'Oh, Lamb!' exclaimed his mother, 'here is a pretty predicament we are

in! My brother Jeremiah has come to life again!'

The captain burst out laughing.

'This is no laughing matter,' said his mother testily. 'How can you be

such a hyaena? Jeremiah has reappeared at Mergatroyd, and there

is--well, I can't mince matters--the devil to pay. I presume he will

want to reclaim what we have distributed between us. The mill, of

course, with the business, he will take back under his control, and cut

off the supply thence. That is a serious matter--and then there is the

money he left----'

'Which I suppose he will require you to return?'

'Which I can't and won't return. Bless me, Lamb, what a state of

things! Our income reduced from half the profits of the business to

one-sixth, which he cannot touch, as that comes to me under my marriage

settlement. We must leave England--we must leave at once. I shall know

nothing about Jeremiah's return. I shall keep away till I see in what

humour he is, what he intends to do, and in what light he regards me.

There are trifles connected with the administration I don't care to meet

him about. As for his savings, his securities, and so on, I will return

nothing'--she stamped her foot--'no, Lamb; for, in fact, I can't!'

'How do you know that he is back, and that this is not a false alarm?'

'Look here----' She tossed a letter to him. 'It is laconic. He wrote

it with a sneer--I know he did. Jeremiah never liked me. He has

disappeared, and has come to life again, out of spite.'

Captain Pennycomequick--to be correct, Penycombe-Quick--took the letter

and read it with a smile.

It was short.

'DEAR LOUISA,

'I am back, hearty again. I have been to Algiers for my health. I had

rheumatic fever, and when I came round I found you had already

pronounced me dead, and had divided the spoils--concerning which, a word

later.

'Your affectionate brother,

'JEREMIAH P.'

'Is it his handwriting?' asked Lambert.

'Of course it is. Here is a pretty mess for me to be in. I shall have

everyone laughing at me, because I swore that the man in the shirt and

great-coat was Jeremiah. "Concerning which--the spoils--a word later."

What does he mean by that, but that he proposes calling me to account

for every penny? I will not remain in England. I cannot. I will not

receive this letter.'

'But you have received it.'

'I shall make my landlady return it, with a note to say that she took

the liberty to open it, so as to be able to write to the sender, and say

that I have gone abroad for my health. Where shall I say I have gone

to?--To Algiers, whence Jeremiah has just returned.'

'You cannot do that.'

'But I will. Self-preservation is the first law. As for the money--I

lost some by that Beaple Yeo; not much, but some. I was so prompt, and

had such presence of mind, that I caught the man and made him refund

before he had got rid of most of it. I have money in

securities--railway debentures and foreign loans. I have all the papers

by me--I trust no one but myself, since my faith has been shaken by

Smithies. Lamb, we must be off directly. It would be too much a shock

to my nerves to see my brother that was dead and is alive again. What

are you laughing at, Lamb? You really are silly.'

'There is some prospect now of my coming to that hundred and fifty, I

hope,' said the captain. 'Uncle Jeremiah may now write another will.'

'How selfish you are! You think only of yourself, not how I am

afflicted. But, Lamb, I have had you sponging on me all these years,

and keeping me in an exhausted financial condition that is intolerable.'

'We shall revert to our former condition, I suppose, now,' said Lambert

unconcernedly.

'That is precisely what I cannot do. Return to poverty and middle-class

society, the very crown and climax of which is a Lord and Lady

Mayoress--when we are on the eve of making the acquaintance of county

people! What have you done for yourself? You have been too inert to

seize the chances I have put in your way. You must marry money. Jane

Mulberry was worth five hundred per annum, and you let her slip through

your fingers.'

'She had a moustache.'

'She had money. Five hundred pounds would gild it. Then there was Miss

Smithson.'

'She was insipid.'

'What of that? The insipid women make the best wives, they are so

non-resistant. In marriage, men should be teetotalers and take weak and

washy women. They are far the best to get on with.'

'Don't think I've much fancy for such,' said the captain languidly.

'I tremble to think,' said his mother angrily, 'what the offspring of a

weak woman and such an unenergetic man would be!'

'Then why recommend such a marriage?'

'Because we must consider ourselves, not the unborn possibilities.

However, to return to the subject that now most occupies me. My

condition is desperate. You must marry. I can support you no longer.'

'And so you deport me to Algiers?'

'My dear boy, we are not going to Algiers.'

'Then where to?'

'To Andermatt.'

'Andermatt!--Where is that?'

'On the St. Gothard.'

'And pray why to Andermatt on the St. Gothard?'

'Because Mrs. Baynes is there.'

'Oh, by all means.'

'What makes you say "by all means"?' asked his mother sharply.

'She's a jolly girl, good-looking, and no nonsense about her.'

'Do you think that I would take you to her if that were all? You know

she is a widow. She has her hundred and fifty from what was sunk by

Jeremiah when she married, but that is not all: she has been left well

provided for by her husband, Mr. Albert Baynes. I know all about it. I

got everything out of Salome. I told her how anxious I was about her

sister, how pained I was concerning her bereavement, and how I hoped

that she was not left in bad circumstances. Salome very openly told me

that she was very comfortably provided for, and no stipulation made

about marrying again. I know what Salome meant when she let me draw

that out of her--she meant that you should know; but I then had my eye

on Miss Smithson. However, now that we must go abroad we may as well

kill two birds with one stone. Besides, as Jeremiah took such a lively

interest in Janet, he may be gratified at your marrying her, and not

press me with demands which I could not comply with--which I will not,

no, I will not comply with.'

'But she is in bad health.'

'Oh, nothing but sentiment at her husband's death; besides, if she is

delicate, all the better.'

'I don't see that,' said the captain, feebly disgusted at his mother's

heartlessness.

'Fiddle-faddle,' said Mrs. Sidebottom; 'it is all part of the

business--it goes with widows' caps. When I lost Sidebottom I was worn

to a shadow and got a cough; but I began to recover flesh when I went

into half mourning, and lost my cough with my weeds. When you appear on

the scene it will be codliver oil to her.'

'It will be very dull at this place you speak of.'

'Of course it will be dull and hateful, but what will you have? I

sacrifice myself for you. You must get off my hands and shift for

yourself; I have had you as a charge too long. I want to see you well

provided for, and as the Smithson and Jane Mulberry failed, you must

take the Baynes. I can't tell you exactly what she is worth, but I will

ascertain from Salome, who is there, before you commit yourself.

Remember, Lamb, we must go. I cannot stay here and face Jeremiah.'

'Why not? It would be the most honourable thing to do, and might answer

the best in the end.'

'I cannot do it. Why--how would you feel--how could you feel towards a

person who had pronounced you dead, and proceeded to administer? Much

as a man might towards the surgeon who proceeded to dissect him before

he was dead. No, Lamb, I will not remain. I can always write to

Jeremiah, and express my profound astonishment to hear of his return,

and assume an air of injury that I should have been left in the dark so

long. Indeed, I think that will be the card to play--throw the blame on

him, and if the case comes into court, I can lay stress on this.

Wilfully he allowed me to remain in ignorance of his existence.

Something had to be done. The factory would not go on of itself. The

factory could not be carried on without money. The business would go to

pieces unless energetically prosecuted. Jeremiah may feel grateful, and

ought to feel grateful to me, that I acted with such readiness in the

matter and saved the firm of Pennycomequick from ruin. I can bring in a

heavy bill against him for my services. However, I had rather do this

from a distance, and by letter. I will take the injured tone, and make

him dance to that tune.'

Mrs. Sidebottom was a woman of resource. She never suffered herself to

be discouraged by adversity; and adversity now faced her wearing the

mask of her brother returned to life. She had much energy of character

and fertility of invention, which, if she had been a woman of principle,

instead of unscrupulous self-seeking, might have made her a valuable

person in society. She was at present frightened--she had invested some

of the money she had drawn to herself from Jeremiah's savings in a

manner that promised well; some she had lost. She neither desired to be

called to account for what she had squandered, nor to be forced to

reimburse those happy speculations which were likely to place her in

easy circumstances. Until she had had good professional advice, and

until she knew what her brother intended, she considered that safety lay

in absence.

She went about in York, leaving her card; and when she saw a friend, she

told her that she was off to the Continent for a bit of a change. She

had not been very well, and the doctors had insisted on variation of

scene and air, and she felt herself that life was too short to spend it

in one place. The world was large and must be seen, and those dear

snowy mountains--they possessed for her a fascination she had struggled

against, but had been unable further to resist.

'My dear Mrs. Jacques, you know what anxiety and care I had last year

about my poor brother's affairs--winding up, you know. I held up

through it all, animated by a sense of duty, but it told on me in the

end, and now I am going to relax. I shall spend the summer in the Alps,

and unless I am much better I shall go to Algiers for the winter. Have

you any friends who will be there next Christmas? Oh, my dear! to think

of Christmas in Algiers; a hot sun and no plum-pudding!'

Mrs. Sidebottom had not the faintest desire to spend a winter in

Algiers; she thought Mentone, or Florence, or Pau would suit her better,

according to where she could get into the best society, and she resolved

to leave the determination to the future; if she found during the summer

people whom it was worth her while hanging on to, and who were wintering

anywhere abroad, she would attach herself to them. But with that

curious crookedness which prevails in some natures, she went about

asking questions about hotels and _pensions_ at Algiers, keeping her

ears open at the same time to hear of persons of position who were

likely to winter elsewhere. It was possible that, if she made it well

known that she would winter in Algiers, acquaintances would tell her of

friends of theirs who were wintering elsewhere. Nor was she wrong.

'Oh, I am so sorry you are not going to Mentone; Sir William Pickering

is going there because of the health of dear Lady Pickering. Such

charming people--you would have liked to know them--but as you are going

to Algiers, of course I cannot get you acquainted with each other.'

Mrs. Sidebottom knew well enough that if she had said she was going to

Mentone this piece of information would not have been vouchsafed her.

'Oh! Mrs. Sidebottom--you are visiting Algiers. There is a nice young

lady, a niece, going there. She is in a decline. I shall be eternally

obliged to you if you would show her kindness; she is badly off, and it

would be goodness itself if you would just look in now and then and

ascertain that she is comfortable and not imposed on.'

'My dear Mrs. Tomson, you could not have asked me to do anything that

would have pleased me more--but unfortunately it is not certain I am

going to Algiers. If I make up my mind to go I will write to you for

the address of your niece, and you may rely on me, I will do my utmost

for her.' This was accompanied by an internal mem.: Have nothing

further to do with Mrs. Tomson. I'm not going abroad to be anybody's

nurse. Heaven forbid!

'Oh, Mrs. Sidebottom! So you are off to Switzerland and Algiers. Now

there could be nothing more opportune. We are going to have a bazaar to

raise money for the relief of the peasants in France, who have suffered

from the war. Would you mind sending as your contribution a box of

charming Swiss carvings and delightful Algerian and Moorish pottery--the

latter will sell rapidly and at high prices--you are so good and

charitable, I know you will.'

'I will certainly do so. Rely on me. I intended to have had a stall; I

will send two cases instead'--with a mental mem.: Forget all about the

bazaar till it is over, and then write a proper apology.

'Oh, Mrs. Sidebottom! I've lost my maid again. As you are going to

Switzerland, will you do me the favour of looking out for a really

serviceable girl--you know my requirements--and arrange all about trains

and so on, so that she may reach me safely? Perhaps you would not mind

advancing her journey-money, and I will repay it--if she suits, of which

I have no doubt. I am determined to have no more English servants.'

Mrs. Sidebottom found that her acquaintances were eager to make use of

her, but then she had sufficient knowledge of the world to expect that.

'Have you secured through tickets, Lamb?'

'Yes, mother.'

'Then we are off to-morrow.'

*CHAPTER XXXVI.*

*DEPOSED.*

Gone as a dream!--that brief period of hope and happiness and comfort.

Philip had a disquieting prospect opening before him, as disquieting as

that which drove Mrs. Sidebottom from England, but different in kind.

Philip was ready enough to account for every penny, and return all the

money undiminished which had come to his share. What troubled him was

the fearful look-out of a return to furnished lodgings. He saw himself

about to be cast forth from the elegancies, the conveniences of life,

and cast down to its vulgarities and discomforts. He saw himself about

to be transferred from the cushioned carriage on the smooth road, to a

buggy on a corderoy way, all jolts and kicks and plunges and breakdowns.

He was about to descend from succulent joints and savoury _entremets_ to

mutton-chops alternating into beef-steaks, from claret to bitter beer,

from a place of authority to one of submission, from progress to

stagnation, from a house of his own over which to range at pleasure to

confinement within two rooms, one opening out of the other. He must go

back to streaky forks, and spoons that at dinner recall the egg of

breakfast, to knives with adhesive handles and tumblers frosted with

finger-marks, to mirror frames encased in fly-proof snipped green paper

and beaded flower-mats, a horsehair sofa, a cruet-stand with old crusted

mustard and venerable Worcester sauce in it, to wax fruit under a glass

shade, as covered with dust as a Peruvian island with guano, to

folding-doors into the adjacent bedroom, and to curtains tied back with

discarded bonnet-ribbons. But it would have been bad enough for Philip,

now accustomed to better things, to have had the prospect before him of

descending alone; but he was no longer alone, he had a wife, who,

however, was absent, and about whose return he was uncertain. And he

had with him the encumbrance of a baby; and the encumbrance of a baby

drew with it a train of dissatisfied and departing nurses, one after

another, like the procession of kings revealed to Macbeth in Hecate's

cave.

A babe in a lodging-house is as out of place as was the ancestral

Stanley found in an eagle's nest on the top of a pine, of which the

family crest preserves a reminiscence.

Uncle Jeremiah was restored to strength, moral as well as physical. He

no longer thought of his heart, he allowed it to manage its pulsations

unconsidered. He was heartily glad that he had been saved committing an

act of egregious folly, and he was prepared now to meet Salome without a

twinge. Common-sense had resumed the place of upper hand; and the

temporary disturbance was over for ever. To every man comes at some

period after he has begun to decline a great horror of old age, an

agonizing clutch at the pleasures and follies of youth, a time of

intoxication when he is not responsible for his acts, an intoxication

produced by fear lest life with its roses should have passed and left

only thorns behind and decay. Men whose lives have been spent in

business, subjected to routine, who have not thought of love and

amusement, of laughter and idleness, are suddenly roused to find

themselves old and standing out of the rush of merriment and the

sunshine of happiness. Then they make a frantic effort to seize what

hitherto they have despised, to hug to their hearts what they have

formerly cast away. It is the St. Luke's summer, a faint reflex of the

departed glory and warmth, a last smile before the arrival of the winter

gales. No moment in life is so fraught with danger as this--at none is

there more risk of shipwreck to reputation.

Now that Jeremiah had passed through this period, he could survey its

risks with a smile and a sense of self-pity and a little self-contempt.

He who had always esteemed himself strong had discovered that he could

be weak, and, perhaps, this lesson had made him more lenient with the

infirmities of others.

He returned to his friend John Dale, looking older by some years, but

also more hale. He had touched the earth but had risen from it stronger

than when he fell.

On reaching Bridlington, he learned from Dale the state of matters at

Mergatroyd. Whilst there, a hasty note arrived for Mr. Dale from Salome

to say that she was leaving, with her husband's consent, to be with her

sister in Switzerland, and both thought they could read between the

lines that there had been a fresh difference with Philip.

Thereupon Jeremiah went to Mergatroyd, and came in unexpectedly and

unannounced on Philip.

Jeremiah Pennycomequick had not decided what course to pursue with

regard to his sister and nephew. He was conscious that he had played

them a trick, that he had put them to a test which he was not justified

in applying to them.

He was angry with both--with his half-sister for the precipitation with

which she had accepted and certified his death, and with Philip for his

treatment of Salome. He did not disguise from himself that his

interference in such a delicate matter as a quarrel, or an estrangement,

between husband and wife, might make the breach worse.

When he arrived at Mergatroyd, he had not resolved what course to take.

He sat up half the night with Philip.

'You will find,' said the latter with some pride, 'that I have

maintained the business in a healthy condition; it is not in the

condition it was during the Continental war which affected linen as well

as other things, but that was of its nature ephemeral. It rests on a

sound basis. Go through the books and satisfy yourself. My aunt,'

there was a tone of bitterness when he added this--'my aunt watched the

conduct of the factory with a jealous eye, and did not trust my accounts

without a scrutiny. As for what was in the bank, I can give an account

of every penny, and the securities, such as came to me, are untouched.'

'I will look into these matters at my leisure,' said Jeremiah, 'and if I

find that matters are as you say, I will let you down lightly; only, I

forewarn you, let down you will be. And now a word about Salome.'

'My wife,' said Philip shortly.

'Your wife--exactly--but----'

'With regard to my wife, I brook no interference,' said Philip

haughtily. 'The mill is your affair, my domestic relations are my own.'

'You cry out before you are hurt,' retorted Jeremiah; 'I am not about to

interfere. I know that you are greatly disconcerted at the discovery as

to the parentage of your wife.'

Philip held up his head stiffly and closed his lips tightly. He said

nothing.

'I am not intermeddling,' continued Jeremiah, 'but I wish you to

understand this: that I have some claim to speak a word for Salome, whom

I have always--that is to say--whom I have looked upon with fatherly

regard. The two little girls grew up in my house, not a day passed but

I saw them; I rode them as infants at my knee, I bought them toys. They

ran to meet me--cupboard love, of course--when I came from the mill,

because I had oranges or sweet things in my pocket. I took pride in

them as they became blooming girls, I saw that they were well taught.

After dinner they soothed me with their music, and when I was dull

enlivened me with their prattle. Have I, then, no right to speak a word

for one or the other? I have been to them more than a father. Their

father deserted them as soon as they were born, but I have nurtured and

clothed them, and seen to the development of their minds and the

disciplining of their characters. It is absurd of you to deny me the

right to speak. To interfere is not my purpose.'

'Very well, I will listen.'

'Then let me tell you this--I know who their father was. When Mrs.

Cusworth came into this house she very honestly told me the truth about

them, and by my advice she kept her counsel. It could do them only

harm--cloud their joys--to know that they had a disreputable father. We

knew nothing of the man's subsequent history. He had disappeared, and

might be--as we hoped--dead. But, even if alive, we did not suppose he

would care to come in quest of his twin daughters, and we trusted,

should he do this, that he would not find them. We hoped that he might

not conjecture that the children had been adopted by their aunt, and

that she had moved into Yorkshire to Mergatroyd. Neither Salome nor

Janet knew who their father was, or rather both supposed him to be that

worthy man who perished so lamentably in my service. By what means he

made the discovery and got on their track I do not know, and I hardly

care to know. If I could take into my house the children of such a man,

it hardly becomes you----'

Philip interrupted his uncle.

'That fellow Schofield never injured you as he did my father. He not

only ruined him, but he also was the cause of his estrangement from you,

or rather, yours from him.'

'Bear the man what grudge you will,' said Jeremiah hastily, 'but do not

visit his offences on the head of his unoffending child.'

Philip stood up. He was angry, but not to be moved from his stiffness

of manner.

'I think,' said he, 'you will be tired. I am, and probably bed is the

best place for both. As this is now your house, and I am an intruder in

it, I must ask permission to occupy my room for to-night.'

Jeremiah laughed. 'And you--a lawyer! Why, you are in legal

possession, and till there is a reversal of the sentence of the Probate

Court, I have no more rights than a ghost. No--I am your guest.'

Philip retired to his room. The words of Jeremiah, charging him with

visiting the offences of the father on the unoffending child, were but

the repetition of his own self-reproach, but for that very reason less

endurable. It is the truth of a charge which gives it its sting. A man

will endure to say to himself what he will not tolerate to be said to

him by another.

He went to his room, but not to bed. He sat at the window, where Salome

had sat, in the same chair, thinking with dark brow and set lips. In

one thing, his self-esteem was encouraged. His uncle would see and be

forced to acknowledge how thoroughly he had mastered the technicalities

of the business, and with what order and prudence he had carried it on.

He need not shrink from the closest examination into his conduct of the

factory. Everything was in order, the books well kept, several

contracts in hand. His uncle might dismiss him, but he could not say a

word against his integrity and business habits. He had taken to himself

nothing but what Mrs. Sidebottom, as administratrix, had passed over to

him. And as to his uncle's disappearance, he had done nothing as to the

identification of the wrong body; he had held himself neutral, as

incapable of forming an opinion from inadequate acquaintance with his

uncle. If blame was to be cast, it must fall heavily on Mrs.

Sidebottom, but none would rest on him.

But--how about the future? Philip now recalled the discomfiture, the

monotonies, the irritations of lodging-house life. Could he go back to

that? If his uncle offered to retain him in his house, could he

consent? His pride counselled him to go, his love of comfort to remain.

Uncle Jeremiah had not invited him to remain, but Philip thought it

likely that he might. His pride was galled in many ways. It would be

most painful to him to continue at the factory, in which he had been a

master, henceforth in a subordinate position. Should he return to the

solicitor's firm at Nottingham, in which he had been before? That his

services there were valued he was well aware, that his resignation of a

clerkship therein had caused annoyance he was well aware; he knew,

however, that his place was filled, and that if he returned to the

office, he would be obliged to take a lower desk. He might, and

probably would be, advanced, but that would require patience, and he

must wait till a vacancy occurred. Besides, it would be a humiliation to

have to solicit readmission, after he had left the office on stilts, as

one who had come into a fortune.

Then--what was to be done about his wife? He could not maintain her and

her child on a junior clerk's wage. Moreover, he had sent her away when

he occupied a lofty moral platform, because connection with her sullied

the fair name of Pennycomequick, and might injure the firm; and now that

he no longer belonged to the firm, but was a poor clerk of no

consequence in the world, was he to write to her a letter of humble

apology, and ask her to return and share the beggary of a clerk's life

in furnished lodgings with him, to unite with him in the long doleful

battle against landladies? He had little doubt that Uncle Jeremiah

would propose to make Salome an allowance, and that on this allowance

together with his salary they might be able to rub along. But to accept

such relief from Uncle Jeremiah, granted through his wife--his wife whom

he had snubbed and thrust away--was not pleasant to contemplate.

Whatever way Philip considered the meal set before him, he saw only

humble-pie, and humble-pie is the least appetizing of dishes. Philip

approached it as a sulky child does a morsel which his nurse requires

him to eat, without consuming which he must expect no pudding. He

walked round it; he looked at it from near, then he drew back and

considered it at long range, then he touched it, then smelt it, then

turned his back on it, then--with a grumble--began to pick a few crumbs

off it and put them between his lips.

He went to bed at last, unresolved, angry with himself, angry with

Salome, angry with his uncle, and angry with the baby who was sobbing in

the nursery.

Philip's experiences had all been made in spiral form; they were ever

turning about himself, and though each revolution attained a higher

level, it was still made about the same centre. There is a family

likeness in minds as well as in noses and eyes and hair; and in this

Philip resembled his aunt, but with the difference that he was governed

by a strong sense of rectitude, and that nothing would induce him to

deviate from what he believed to be just, whereas his aunt's principles

were flexible, and governed only by her own interests.

In these days in which we live, socialism is in the air, that is to say,

it is talked of and professed, but whether by any is practised I am

inclined to question. For socialism I take to mean everyone for

everyone else, and no one for himself, and this is a condition contrary

to the nature of man, for men are all more or less waterspouts,

vortices, attracting to themselves whatever comes within their reach,

and to be actuated by a centrifugal, not a centripetal force is the

negative of individuality.

We stalk our way over the ocean, drawing up through our skirts every

drop of water, every seaweed, and crab and fish and mollusc that we can

touch, and whirl them round and round ourselves, and only cast them away

and distribute them to others when they are of no more use to ourselves.

Every climatic zone through which Philip had passed had served to feed

and build up the column of his self-esteem; the rugged weather in

furnished lodgings, and the still seas into which he had entered by his

uncle's death, and by his marriage. Nothing had broken it down,

dissolved its continuity, dissipated its force.

At sea, when a vessel encounters a waterspout, it discharges ordnance,

and the vibration of the atmosphere caused by the explosion snaps the

column and it goes to pieces. But would the shock caused by the return

of Uncle Jeremiah, and the loss of position and wealth that this

entailed, suffice to break the pillar of self-esteem that constituted

Philip Pennycomequick? Hardly; for though touched in many ways, he

could hold up his head conscious of his rectitude; he had managed the

mill admirably, kept the accounts accurately, adapted himself to the new

requirements perfectly. He could, when called upon, give up his place,

but he would march forth with all the honours of war.

*CHAPTER XXXVII.*

*ON THE LAKE.*

Mrs. Sidebottom had reached Lucerne very rumpled and dirty and out of

temper, having travelled all night from Brussels, and having had to turn

out and have her boxes examined at Thionville and Basle. She had

scrambled through a wretched breakfast off cold coffee and a roll at

Strasburg, at four o'clock in the morning, and then had been condemned

to crawl along by a slow train from Strasburg to Basle, and by another,

still slower, from Basle to Lucerne. A night in a comfortable hotel had

restored her wonderfully; and when she took her place under the awning

in the lake steamer, with a ticket in her glove for Fluelen, which she

insisted on calling Flew-ellen, she was in a contented mood, and

inclined to patronize the scenery.

The day was lovely, the water blue, Pilatus without his cap, and the

distant Oberland peaks seen above the Brunig Pass were silver against a

turquoise sky.

'This,' said Mrs. Sidebottom, dipping into 'Murray's Handbook' to

ascertain what it was proper to say--'this is distinguished above every

lake in Switzerland, and perhaps in Europe, by the beauty and sublime

grandeur of its scenery.'

Then past her drifted a party of English tourists, also with 'Murray' in

their hands and on their lips. 'Oh, mamma!' exclaimed a young lady,

'this lake is of very irregular shape, assuming near its west extremity

the form of a cross. Do you see? There is one arm, we are approaching

another, and there is the leg.'

'My dear,' said her mother, 'don't say leg; it is improper; say stem.'

'And, mamma, how true "Murray" is!--is it not wonderful? He says that

at this part the shores of the lake are undulating hills clothed with

verdure, and dotted with houses and villas. He really must have seen

the place to describe it so accurately.'

'Good gracious!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom; and then, after a pause,

'Gracious goodness!'

Lambert Pennycomequick took no notice of his mother's exclamations, till

a third 'gracious goodness,' escaping her like the discharge of a

minute-gun at sea, called his attention to her, and he asked, 'Well,

what is it?' As he received no answer, he said, 'I don't believe in

that honey served up at breakfast. It is not honey at all, but syrup in

which stewed pears have soaked.'

'Upon my word!' gasped Mrs. Sidebottom.

'What is the matter, mother? Oh yes, lovely scenery. By George, so it

is. I believe it is all a hoax about chamois. I have been told that

they knock goats on the head, and so the flesh is black, or rather

dark-coloured, and it is served as chamois, and charged accordingly.'

'This is extraordinary!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom.

'Yes--first rate,' said Lambert. 'Our Yorkshire wolds don't quite come

up to the Alps, do they?'

But Mrs. Sidebottom was not lost in wonder at the beauty of the

landscape, she was watching intently a gentleman in a light suit, of a

military cast, wearing a white hat and a puggaree, with moustache and

carefully curled whiskers, who was marching the deck alongside of

another gentleman, stout, ordinary-looking, and comfortable in

appearance, like a plump bullfinch.

'Look at my watch!' said the gentleman in the light suit, and as there

were vacant places beside Mrs. Sidebottom, the two gentlemen left pacing

the deck and seated themselves on the bench near her.

'Look at my watch!--Turned black, positively black, as if I had kept it

against a vulcanized india-rubber stomach-belt. If you want

evidence--there it is. I haven't cleaned it. No, I keep it as a

memorial to me to be thankful to the beneficent Heaven which carried me

through--which carried me through.'

Mrs. Sidebottom saw a silver watch-case extended to be exhibited, the

dingy colour that silver acquires when exposed to gas.

'I wish, sir--I beg your pardon, my lord--you will excuse me, but by

accident--by the merest accident--I caught sight of your address and

name on your luggage--I wish, my lord, I were going with you to

Andermatt, and I would take you a promenade round the backs of the

hotels, and let you smell--smell, my lord--as rich a bouquet of

accumulated deleterious odours as could be gathered into one--odours, my

lord, diphtheritical, typhoidiacal. You see my face--I have become

mottled through blood-poisoning. I was gangrened at Andermatt by the

deadly vapours there. I thank a merciful Heaven, with my strong

constitution and by the warning afforded by my watch, I escaped death.

I always carry about with me a silver timepiece, not one of gold, for

sanitary reasons--the silver warns me of the presence in the atmosphere

of sulphuretted hydrogen--of sewage gas--it blackens, as the arm of Lady

Thingabob--I forget her name, perhaps she was of your lordship's

family--as the arm, the wrist of her ladyship, was blackened by the grip

of a spectre. I see you are bound for the Hotel du Grand Prince. I

went there, and there I inhaled the vapours of death, or rather of

disease. I moved to the Hotel Imperial, and was saved. There, and

there only, the drainage is after English models, and there, and there

only are you safe from the fumes of typhoid, the seeds of typhus, the

corpuscles of diphtheria, and the--the--the what-d'ye-call-ems of

cholera. You will excuse my speaking to you, perhaps, forcing

myself--unworthy--on your distinguished self.'

'Oh, certainly, certainly.'

'But when I saw your name, my lord, and considered what you are, and

what the country would lose were you to run the risk unforewarned, that

I ran, I ventured to thrust myself upon you.'

'I am really most obliged to you.'

'Well--who is it said "We are all one flesh, and so feel sympathy one

with another"? Having suffered, my lord, suffered so recently, and

seeing you, my lord, you, you--about--but there--not another word, _Homo

sum, nil humamim_--but I forget the rest, it is long since I was at

school, and I have not kept up my classics.'

'I really am most indebted to you--and you think that the Hotel

Imperial----'

'I am sure of it. I had my blood tested, I had my breath analyzed.

There were diatoms in one, and bacilli in the other, and--I am alive,

alive to say it; thanks to the salubrious air and the careful nursing of

the Hotel Imperial.'

The nobleman looked nearly as mottled in countenance as the other; this

was caused by the alarm produced by the revelations of his interlocutor.

'Don't you think,' he said, 'that I had better avoid Andermatt?'

'On no account, my lord. You are safe at the Imperial. I cannot say

that you will be safe elsewhere. I have been to Berne to the University

Professors to have the atmosphere of the several hotels analyzed for my

own private satisfaction. It was costly--but what of that?--it

satisfied me. These are the results: Hotel du Cerf--three decimal two

of sulphuretted hydrogen, two decimal eight of malarious matter, one, no

decimal, of typhoidal germ. Hotel de la Couronne d'Or--three decimal

one of sulphuretted hydrogen, five decimal three of compound fermenting

putrifio-bacteritic stuff. Hotel du Grand Prince--eight decimal one of

diphtheritic effluvium, occasional traces of scarlet-fever germs, and a

trace--a trace of trichinus spiralis.'

'Good heavens!'--his lordship turned livid--'allow me, sir, to shake

your hand; you have conferred on me a lasting favour. I shall not

forget it. I was bound for the Hotel du Grand Prince. What about the

Imperial?'

'Nothing--all salubrious, mountain air charged with ozone, and not a

particle of deleterious matter in it.'

'I shall certainly go there--most certainly. I had telegraphed to the

Grand Prince; but, never mind, I had rather pay a forfeit and put up at

the Imperial.'

'Would you mind, my lord, giving my card to the proprietor? It will

ensure you receiving every attention. I was there when ill, and am

pleased to recommend the attentive manager. My name is Yeo--Colonel

Yeo--Colonel Beaple Yeo, East India Company Service, late of the Bombay

Heavy Dragoons. Heavies we were called--Heavies, my lord.'

'Will you excuse me?' said the stout little nobleman; 'I must run and

speak to my lady. 'Pon my word, this is most serious. I must tell her

all you have been so good as to communicate to me. What were the

statistics relative to the Grand Prince?'

'Eight decimal one--call it eight of diphtheritic effluvium, traces of

scarlet-fever germs, and of trichinus spiralis. You know, my lord, how

frightful, how deadly, are the ravages of that pest.'

'Bless me!' exclaimed his lordship, 'these foreigners--really they

should not attempt to draw English--Englishmen and their families to

their health resorts without making proper provisions in a sanitary way.

Of course, for themselves, it doesn't matter; they are foreigners, and

are impervious to these influences; or, if not, and carried off by

them--well, they are foreigners! But to English--it is outrageous!

I'll talk to my lady.'

'Lambert,' said Mrs. Sidebottom in a low tone to her son, 'for goodness'

sake don't forget; we must go to the Hotel Imperial.'

But low as she had spoken, her neighbour in the light suit heard her,

turned round and saw her. Not the least abashed, he raised his hat, and

with a flush of pleasure exclaimed, 'Ah! how do you do, my dear

madam--my dear, dear madam? This is a treat--a treat indeed; the

unexpected is always doubly grateful.' He looked round to see that his

lordship was out of hearing, and then said in a lower tone, 'You

misconstrued me--you misinterpreted me. I had guaranteed you fifteen

per cent., and fifteen per cent. you should have had. If you have lost

it, it is through want of confidence in me--in me--in Colonel Beaple

Yeo, of the Bombay Heavies. Had you trusted me--but ah! let bygones be

bygones. However, an explanation is due. I writhe under the imputation

of not being above-board and straight--straight as an arrow. But what

can you do with a man like Mr. Philip Pennycomequick? The land-owners

at Bridlington got wind of the plan. They scented Iodinopolis. Their

greed was insatiable, they demanded impossible prices. There was

nothing for it but for me to beat a retreat, make a strategic move to

the rear, feign to abandon the whole thing, throw it up and turn my

attention elsewhere. Then, when they were in a state of panic, my

design was to reappear and buy the land on my own terms, not any more on

theirs. Why, my dear madam, I would have saved the shareholders

thousands on thousands of pounds, and raised the interest from perhaps a

modest seven to twenty-five per cent., and a decimal or so more. But I

was not trusted, the money confined to me was withdrawn, and others will

make fortunes instead of us. I schemed, others will carry out my

scheme. _Sic vos non vobis mellificatis apes_, and you know the rest,

_aratis boves_, and so on.'

Then Beaple Yeo stood up and handed his card to Mrs. Sidebottom, saying,

'You will at least do me this favour; give my card to the proprietor of

the Hotel Imperial, and he will care for you as for a princess of the

blood royal.' Then he stalked away.

Mrs. Sidebottom turned dejectedly to her son. 'Lamb, I believe I was

premature. After all, there was management in that affair. Of course

his was the right way to bring those landowners to their knees. Let us

take a turn.'

Beaple Yeo had now attached himself to another party of

strangers--tourists, whose acquaintance he had probably made at an hotel

in Lucerne; and he walked the deck with them. When they were fore, then

Mrs. Sidebottom and her son were in the rear, but when they turned on

their heels, then she turned also and walked aft, and heard their

conversation during that portion of the walk. The subject was St.

Bernard dogs, and apparently Beaple Yeo had some scheme connected with

them, which he was propounding.

'My dear sirs--when the St. Gothard tunnel is complete--answer me--what

will become of the hospice? To what use can it be put? It will be sold

for a song, as not a traveller will cross the mountain when he can pass

under it. For a song--literally for a "song of sixpence." Now, can you

conceive of a place more calculated by nature as a nursery of Mount St.

Bernard dogs--and the necessary buildings given away--given for nothing,

to save them from crumbling into ruin? There is a demand, a growing

demand for Mount St. Bernard dogs, that only wants a little coaxing to

become a perfect _furore_. We will send one as a present to her Royal

Highness the Princess of Wales. We will get in France an idea that the

St. Bernard dog is a badge of the Republic, and that all true

Republicans are bound to have Mount St. Bernard dogs. We will get some

smart writers in America to dash off some sparkling articles in the

illustrated magazines, and the demand becomes furious. Say the

population of France is thirty-seven millions; actually it is more, and

of these, two thirds--say twenty-five millions--are Republicans, and of

these, one half are in a position to buy Mount St. Bernard dogs, and we

fan the partisan fever to a height, by means of the press, which is

easily done by dropping a few pounds into the hands of writers and

proprietors. Say that one-third only of those in a position to buy the

dogs, actually ask for them--that makes five millions of Mount St.

Bernard dogs to be supplied to France alone. Then consider England, if

it becomes the fashion there, and it will become the fashion, if the

Princess of Wales accepts a dog from us, and walks about with one.

Every lady of distinction, and then, in the next year, every

servant-girl, will want a St. Bernard dog. And further--I have

calculated that we can feed a dog at less than three farthings a day;

say the total cost is a guinea. I have made inquiries and I find I

shall be able to buy up the broken meat at a very low figure from the

great hotels of Switzerland during the season. This will be conveyed to

the hospice and there frozen. So it will keep and be doled out to the

dogs daily, as required. Let us say that the interest on the outlay in

purchasing the hospice and in maintaining the staff of dog-keepers be

one guinea per dog; that makes the total outlay two guineas on each pup,

and a pup a year old we shall not sell under ten pounds. Now calculate

the profit for yourself--eight pounds a dog, and four millions supplied

to France alone to enthusiasts for the Republic, and quite two millions

to England to those who imitate her Royal Highness the Princess of

Wales, and seven millions to the United States for Americans who copy

French or English fashions, and you have a total of thirteen millions of

dogs at eight pounds each, a clear profit of one hundred and twenty-five

millions. If we put the matter in decimals----'

The party turned and were before Mrs. Sidebottom. She could not hear

what followed.

'My dear Lamb,' whispered she, 'did you hear that? What a chance! What

a head the colonel has!'

At the next revolution Mrs. Sidebottom heard something more about the

dog scheme.

'You see, gentlemen, the splendid thing is that the dogs suffer from

pulmonary complaints when in the plains, and will not breed away from

the eternal snows--two great advantages to us. Shares--preference

shares at ten pounds--are to be subscribed in full, others as called in

at intervals of six months. I myself guarantee fifteen per cent., but

as you see for yourselves, gentlemen, the scheme cannot fail to succeed

and the profits will be overwhelming.'

'Are you going on to Andermatt?' asked one of the gentlemen walking with

Beaple Yeo.

'No, sir, I have had a bad attack; you can see the traces in my face. I

will also show you my watch, how it was blackened. I have been ordered

by my medical advisers to cruise up and down the lake of the Five

Cantons, and inhale the air off the water till I am thoroughly restored.

By the way, if you are going to the Hotel Imperial at Andermatt would

you take my card to the proprietor? He is interested about the dogs.'

Beaple Yeo now crossed the deck to a party that was clustered together

at the bulwarks with an opera glass that was passed from hand to hand.

It consisted of a tall man with a broad-brimmed hat, bushy black

whiskers, a white tie and clerical coat, his wife, his sister, and five

daughters. A comfortable religiosity surrounded the group as a halo.