Guillaume le Conquérant. Heart could not desire a quainter, more
out-of-the-world spot in which to pass a summer day. One may take a
hundred or two of years from the reputed date—they boast that Duke
William was housed here, and they show you the chain by which the
_Mora_ was fastened to the shore!—and yet leave the place ancient
enough. The famous reception-rooms may have been, and have been,
redecorated and renewed after an old pattern; but they contain
treasures that can boast a very respectable past. Such black carved oak
is seldom to be seen; and there are tattered hangings, brasses, bits of
china enough to fill a virtuoso’s heart with envy; a wonderful medley
of all tastes and periods.
Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis XIV. chair with gilded
arms and seat of faded, silken brocade, from which the most brilliant
correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters that are models
yet of what letters ought to be. Madame de Sévigné came here once and
again on her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she came with ‘an
immense retinue,’ that must have taxed the resources of the modest
inn, smaller then than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de Chaulnes
is of the company. Madame de Carmen makes the third in the trio. The
ladies travel ‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and that
large following behind them. Madame de Chaulnes, who is all activity,
is up with the dawn. ‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I found it
easier to accommodate myself to her ways than to try and mend them.’
They make quite a royal progress, halting here and there. At Chaulnes
the good duchess is taken ill, seized with sore throat. The kindest
lady in the world nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At
Paris she would have been bled; but here she was only rubbed for some
time with our famous balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will you
believe, my dearest, that in one night this precious balsam completely
cured her?’ While the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in the
noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I call this rehearsing for
Les Rochers,’ she writes gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one
nightingale to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’
Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the land, and they set off,
a gay trio, and one of them at least with eyes for every quick-passing
beauty as they drive through green Normandy. From Caen she writes: ‘We
were three days upon the road from Rouen to this place. We met with no
adventures; but fine weather and spring in all its charm accompanied
us. We ate the best things in the world, went to bed early, and did
not suffer any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at Dives, where
we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and elsewhere tells how she sat at her
chamber window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is beautiful.’
Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the most beautiful country in the
world. I did not know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too young.
Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw here before is left alive—that is
sad!’ This is the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is growing
old, and her spring will not return. It is the last journey she is
making to the well-loved country home.
Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint hostelry, it is this gracious
and beautiful lady who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. At
Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already dipping towards the sea,
and all the bathers—a fantastic crowd set against the red light—are
hurrying homewards across the sands.
ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?
After the recent speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in which he
showed that our gold coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we
shall have to answer the above question in the affirmative. Our coins
_are_ wearing away, and although not at any very alarming rate, yet
at a perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, half-crown,
florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which has been out of the Mint any
length of time, weighs less now than it did when brand new. Indeed,
in some old coins this is quite evident upon a casual inspection, for
the image may be worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription
may be illegible. Now, the difference in value between this old coin
and the same coin when turned out new may be very trifling; but when
we consider that there are probably millions in circulation which
have similarly suffered depreciation to a greater or less extent, and
that this loss will at some time or other have to be made good, this
question of the wear of our coins becomes of sufficient importance for
a Chancellor of the Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here
only offer a few observations on the mechanical aspects of the subject.
The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the bank to pay wages
with—the workman putting his small share into his pocket after the lot
has been shot on to a desk and his money has been duly apportioned
to him—the shopman banging it on his counter to see whether it is
sound when it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all
participators in a gigantic system of unintentional ‘sweating.’
Under this usage—quite inseparable, by the way, from the functions
the coinage has to subserve—it would appear that in the United
Kingdom alone there is something like seven hundred and ten thousand
pounds-worth of gold-dust floating about, widely distributed, and in
microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust which has been abraded
from the gold coins now in circulation. There are similarly thousands
of pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver coinage worn off in
the same way.
It has been estimated from exact data that a hundred-year-old sovereign
has lost weight equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in other
words, that such a sovereign is only of the intrinsic value of nineteen
shillings and fourpence. There has been a hundred years of wear for
eightpence—as cheap, one would think, as one could possibly get so much
use out of a coin for; but as we shall now see, we have, comparatively
speaking, to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for a hundred
years of use of a half-sovereign we pay a small fraction under
eightpence; in other words, the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much
weight as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has therefore
cost the nation nearly twice as much for its use, two half-sovereigns
costing us nearly one shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr
Childers’s statement that at the present time, taking old and new
coins, there are in the United Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in
circulation; and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth
nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. Of the forty million
half-sovereigns in circulation, some twenty-two millions are of the
intrinsic value of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings each.
Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to issue, instead
of half-sovereigns, ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only
nine shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making up for the loss
by waste of the gold coins now in circulation.
Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign wastes so
much faster than the sovereign, we can only come to the conclusion
that, being of half the value, it is a more convenient coin than the
sovereign, and consequently has a much busier life. This applies
with greater force still to coins like the half-crown, shilling, and
sixpence, which are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth
respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we find upon examination,
what one would naturally expect, that the silver coinage is even more
costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation of the half-crown,
reckoned in terms of itself, is more than double that of the
half-sovereign; that is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of
a century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, the half-crown
will waste more than two-fifteenths of its value. The depreciation
of shilling-pieces is not far off three times as much as that of
half-crowns; and sixpences waste faster than shillings, though by no
means twice so fast. There is thus an immense waste of our silver
coinage taking place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case of
sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a hundred years old would be
only threepence, a century of use having worn away half the silver.
It is evident from these facts that the relative amounts of wear of
coins are _not_ so much owing to the nature of the metal they are
made of as to the activity of the life they have to lead. The less
the value of the coin, the greater is the use to which it is put; and
consequently, the greater is the depreciation in its value from wear
in a given time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is used least,
and depreciates the least—a circumstance quite in accordance with the
fitness of things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international
coin, largely used in exchange operations, known to the whole
commercial world,’ and that any heavy depreciation of it would lead to
much embarrassment.
SILAS MONK.
A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.
Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the
absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the
counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is
no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining
some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be
the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore,
her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her
grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover.
The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of
Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point
of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under
the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He
followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and
when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it
so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have
come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice
almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’
‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’
‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’
The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I
tell you I saw at the office last night?’
‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a
hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first
to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were
lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the
door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’
The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do,
if he is lost?’
Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find
him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see
through a stone wall.’
‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not
rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’
The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best;
and then hurried away with all possible despatch.
The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine
o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter
walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers,
who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd.
Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’
some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room
of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had
purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand
pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when
entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and
years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the
old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did
Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark.
Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re
wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man
conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior
partner. Here he left him.
Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A
gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner,
was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want
me, Mr Armytage?’
The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I
want you.’
Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not
alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face
was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This
gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft
of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table,
and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.
Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage
added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas
been there?’
‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’
‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’
When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly
ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter
could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon
him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening
very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last,
sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.
The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.
‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving
Silas, go straight home?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’
‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order
to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed
the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the
staircase.’
Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.
‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise.
‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did,
because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She
told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’
‘Well?’
‘I found out what kept him at the office.’
The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us
all about it.’
Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts;
then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage,
is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my
surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold.
I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to
finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the
man out, and then returned to my place.’
The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was
speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held
up the pen to enforce silence.
‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us,
from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’
The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.
‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted
to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’
While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice
exclaimed: ‘Go on!’
Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas
Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not
daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier
was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.
As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave
a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some
papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his
hat and stick, went out.
When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug,
turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the
counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’
All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly
bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he
pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying
stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon
huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard
the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands,
followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was
listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which
filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter
to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at
him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his
time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged
with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never
been born.
* * * * *
While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he
was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage,
pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It
is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:
‘_Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station._’
Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr
Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’
The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for
the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible
relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old
strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an
active and important part in the search for Silas Monk!
The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made
his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the
detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard,
at the open doorway.
‘What name?’
‘Tiltcroft.’
The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the
office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was
seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room.
‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’
Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But
Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young
clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick.
‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’
He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and
led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through
well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes,
until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing
beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle.
This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the
dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the
obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some
one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet,
revealing steep wooden steps.
‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.
As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the
lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide
them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly
suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a
figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars.
Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining
so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a
solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern
presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to
a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this
vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat
pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’
said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick.
‘Keep close.’
This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with
the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they
reached the deck, the rays again vanished.
‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective.
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the
visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’
‘Then lead the way.’
Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon
the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what
was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy
appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship.
‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.
‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’
‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at
Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’
The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled
together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon
canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm
and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in
this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as
though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be
encountered upon a long voyage.
‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective.
‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.
‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked Fenwick, looking about
him thoughtfully.—‘Now, let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his
quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon the knob of his stick.
Presently he cocked an eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you
recognise?’
Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most of the faces were thin and
pale, and there were several eyes staring at him and his companion; but
many eyes were closed in sleep; among these he saw a half-hidden face
which he seemed to know, yet for the moment could not recall; but the
recollection quickly flashed upon him.
The detective, watching his expression, saw the change; and following
the direction in which Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived
that the object in which he appeared to take such a sudden interest
was a large, muscular person, wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his
head upon his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, which was
corded with a thick rope. The man was fast asleep, and on his head was
a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows.
‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this man into Walter’s face;
‘who is he?’
‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter.
It would seem as though the man had heard the mention of his name;
for, as Walter pronounced it, he frowned, and opening his eyes slowly,
looked up askance, like an angry dog.
‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man a playful thrust in the
ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’
Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, as though about to spring
upon Fenwick. But on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, and
simply growled.
Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against
which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he
added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet
with the rope. Do you understand?’
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking
face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed
the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further
instructions.
‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.
At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron
pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his
small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him.