was at Colonel C.’s. There the only thing missed was a very valuable
bracelet. There had been a dance at the house. During the evening, Mrs
C. had slipped and sprained her ankle so severely that a doctor had to
be summoned, and the party was somewhat prematurely brought to a close.
Mrs C. distinctly remembered wearing the bracelet; but whether she
had it on at the moment of falling, she could not remember. There had
been naturally some confusion in the ballroom, and the lady had been
carried to her own room. It was not for some hours that the loss of the
bracelet was noticed. Then a search was made, but altogether without
success.
In the first and third of these cases, suspicion seemed to point at
once to some member of the household; but all my inquiries failed to
find any trace of the missing property. The servants all willingly
consented, nay, even offered, to have their boxes searched, and for
some weeks I confessed myself baffled. The missing property had
disappeared as completely as though it had never existed.
Again and again I went over the whole circumstances as they had been
related to me. There was, I reflected, one circumstance common to all
three of the robberies, if robberies they were. There had been at the
time some unusual amount of confusion, all lending opportunity for a
theft to take place without immediate detection. The Dowager Lady A.’s
diamonds had been stolen during her illness, or about the time of her
death. The Countess of B. had lost her diamonds during the excitement
of a wedding breakfast at an hotel. At Colonel C.’s house, there had
been a ball on the night when the bracelet was lost. Was there any one,
I asked myself, who, by chance or intention, had been present at each
place at the time of the robbery? Any occasional waiter, for example,
or servant of any kind? I could not find that there had been. Yet, if
the thief were not one of the household, how was it that a stranger
should in three separate instances fix on an establishment where the
circumstances were favourable to a robbery of valuable property? In two
cases, there had been illness and a hasty summoning of doctors. That
led to another thought: was it possible that some experienced thief
or gang of thieves had laid themselves out to track the broughams of
fashionable West-end physicians, on the chance of finding hall doors
left open, and property somewhat loosely guarded?
I had not thought of such a thing seriously before; but it seemed
now to be an idea worth following up. Once more I resumed inquiries.
Who was the doctor summoned in the case of the Dowager Lady A.? I
easily ascertained. It was one of the best known men, at that time,
in London. He and his brougham would be familiar to every thief who
frequented West-end thoroughfares. I next inquired at Colonel C.’s. To
my satisfaction, I learnt that the same doctor had attended in this
case. ‘Here,’ I said to myself, ‘I begin to see daylight.’ Shortly
afterwards, I made a further discovery. The coachman who drove the
famous physician to Lady A.’s on the night of the accident, and to
Colonel C.’s on the night of the ball, had only been in his employ a
few weeks; and on the date of the Earl of B.’s wedding, the man had
driven the carriage of one of the guests at the breakfast.
The clue I felt was becoming strong. The thief, I grew convinced,
was a confederate of the grave-faced man in spotless black who drove
the fashionable doctor from one house of sickness to another. I
resolved to obtain an interview with the doctor, and after explaining
my suspicions, plan some mode of detecting so consummate a rascal.
Circumstances occurred to make me resolve to carry out my purpose
without delay.
My journey took me to one of the somewhat sombre-looking streets
that run down to the Thames, from the Chelsea side, between Chelsea
Bridge and Battersea Bridge. The name ‘Gideon West, M.D., Physician
and Surgeon,’ inscribed on a brass plate told me when I had reached
my destination. Dr West, I was informed, was still out, late though
it was; and the time of his coming home was most uncertain. I was
determined, however, not to return without seeing him; and after
assuring the tired-looking servant that I should certainly await Dr
West’s return, even if I had to spend the night on the doorstep, I was
shown into the consulting-room, where a wood-fire was still burning on
the hearth. Seating myself in an armchair with a high screen behind me,
I settled down to my vigil, however long it might be.
I had often noticed the house; for who did not feel some interest in
so famous a medical man as Gideon West? Why he had chosen such a house
I did not learn until afterwards; but I knew it was an old-fashioned,
rambling sort of place, with a room built on here at one time, and
there at another time. Windows had been blocked up at one place, and
windows had been let in at another. In fact, it was a house that seemed
to defy a stranger to explain upon what rule, or what want of rule, it
had been so constructed.
Those who first heard of Gideon West as one of the most famous
physicians in London, asked in astonishment how he could live in such
a ramshackle-looking building. Perhaps they forgot that even famous
doctors were not born famous. Gideon West, when he entered on his
professional career, was anything but famous, and he was as poor as he
well could be. Father and mother were dead, brothers and sisters he
had none. An almost forgotten god-mother had, to his surprise, left
him the old house at Chelsea. This was about the time he received his
diploma. Thereupon, Gideon West married, for love, a girl without a
penny, settled himself in his new possession, had the brass plate
affixed to the door, and awaited the patients who were to prove his
skill and make his fortune. It was a weary waiting; but the young
bride had unlimited trust in her husband, and Gideon West never for an
instant lost faith in himself. Slowly, very slowly, a small practice
grew upon his hands; but the struggle that only braced Gideon West
for the battle of life proved too terrible for the frail young wife.
But there was no complaining, no repining, no word to tell of doubt,
much less of despair, and Gideon West battled on. He knew, as though
it had already come, that he should at last prevail. He had measured
his own strength, and felt that he could trust it. But—and it was that
_but_ alone which troubled him—suppose he should have to wait years and
years—suppose, as those years went by, he should see the colour pale on
the face he loved; the brightness fade from the eyes he delighted to
gaze into—suppose his long years of waiting were marked in the lines
on his wife’s young face—suppose when the golden gates of fortune flew
open, he should find it was—too late!
How long I sat dreaming in Dr West’s room, I know not; but it is
certain I must have fallen asleep before the crackling embers. When I
awoke, I found myself in all but darkness. The gas had been lowered,
and only a flickering glow from the dying fire remained to cast drear
and fantastic shadows on the ceiling. Many hours must have passed. I
must have been forgotten when the servants retired to rest, and Dr West
either had not returned, or had not been made aware of my presence. My
position was embarrassing. To wake up in the middle of the night and to
find myself in a strange house, was a new experience. I groped about
the room and felt for the door by which I had entered. It was locked.
Bell of any sort I could find none. I tried to raise my voice; but the
death-stillness and darkness of the room seemed to stifle me. I found
the window, and looked out. It opened high above a courtyard closed in
by walls. Again I tried the door. Then I remembered that it was a sort
of passage-room; that there was a door leading from it to an apartment
beyond. I managed to find this door, covered as it was with heavy
tapestry hangings. Feeling very much like a thief, I tried the handle.
It turned in my hand, and the door yielded noiselessly. Beyond, I saw a
large square chamber, evidently a bedroom; but the bed was unoccupied.
It was a quaint and haunted-looking room, with high oaken skirting and
panelled ceiling. A couple of candles burned on the dressing-table, and
threw a faint light over the dark furniture and the tapestries that
hung against the walls.
Once more I tried to call out; but my tongue seemed dried up, and my
voice refused to be heard. Presently, to my relief I heard a human
voice. It evidently came from an apartment beyond the one into which
I had ventured. Impelled, I hardly knew how, I resolved to venture
farther; and as my footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick carpet,
I could hardly believe I was not wandering in a dream through the
mysterious chambers of the dead.
Yet more and more distinctly I heard the sad low voice that had
caught my ear; and I approached stealthily, and I confess with
something like awe, the door, which, as I perceived, opened from the
bedroom to the chamber whence the voice proceeded. Here, as before, a
curtain of antique tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor,
concealed the aperture; and trying cautiously the door, I found that
it opened towards me. This gave me time to reflect before intruding,
with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, into the privacy of this
innermost chamber. Like a guilty creature, I stood and listened. The
voice—for there seemed to be but one—was close at hand. It was a
strangely melancholy voice, yet possessing a fascinating power that
chained me to the spot.
‘Will you never, never speak to me again, my darling, my darling!’
I heard the words too plainly to mistake or forget them. ‘Will you
never speak to me again! Year after year, as the day comes round, I
have prayed to God to grant me but one sweet word—one word to tell me
of your love! Oh, my darling, my darling, have I prayed in vain? Will
those lips never again open with a smile, those eyes never again look
into mine, even when I come to you on my knees, as I do this Christmas
morning!’
These strange words reproached me. Into what sacred precincts had I
intruded? What heart-breaking grief was I desecrating?
Suddenly the tone of voice changed. The sad pathos gave way to accents
of joy. ‘See! see, my beloved one; here are gifts worthy of a queen.
Did I not tell you the time would come when all our struggles would
be over; when there would be no more fighting for very bread; no more
daily care; no more dread of the future; no fears for success, because
it would be already mine! Ah, Gertrude, my wife, my darling, you were
good and patient to me in those days. If the clouds were dark, your
eyes were always bright; if the heavens were overcast, your smile drove
away the storm; your voice was the music of my life, your ceaseless
trust was my lodestar. But all has changed. Those days have passed.
I am rich now; they say I am famous. The day is now too short for my
work, and the night too short for rest. And yet I need rest. I feel I
cannot live much longer if I may not rest. My brain is ever reeling
with its weariness, yet I cannot sleep. Night after night is one long
vigil. No sleep, no rest, no peace! I have been waiting for this night,
for you, my love, for you! And now the hour has come. It is Christmas
morning.—Hark! already I hear the sound of the Christmas bells. Ah! no
wonder, for my wife, my beloved, has come back to me at last—come back
to me from the dead!’
In feverish excitement, I listened. But there was no answer—not a
sound, when that trembling voice ceased, to break the stillness of the
night.
Presently, it began again. ‘They tell me it is thirty years ago.
Nonsense! That is only a dream. It was yesterday—yesterday, that you
spoke to me for the last time—yesterday, that you bade me good-bye, and
kissed me when I went away. And to-day, you are as you were then. No
change, no change, none at all. You are as young and as fair as when I
first took your hand in mine and called you “wife.”’
Then there was a pause, and I was conscious of some movement beyond the
tapestry behind which I was guiltily hiding.
What followed startled me, but it called me back to life. With a voice
thrilling with emotion, the man once more broke the silence. ‘Gertrude!
These are yours. This is your birthday, and our old wedding-day, and
I have not forgotten you. You do not yet believe that I am rich and
famous, and that your husband has many friends. See! These are gifts
from those whom I have rescued from death! They are thank-offerings to
the “doctor’s wife.” Here is a bracelet. It is set with emeralds. No
rarer could be found. Ah! how charming it looks on that dainty wrist!
And here is something a princess might wear. It is a tiara of diamonds;
and it is yours. Ah, my wife, let me place it on your brow! Oh, my
queen, my queen!’
Unable to restrain myself longer, I cautiously drew aside the tapestry
and peered into the chamber beyond it. It was comparatively small,
but richly furnished, though in the fashion of olden times. It was,
I thought, a lady’s boudoir; but from where I was concealed, only a
portion of the room was revealed to my view. It was not the room that
arrested my attention, but what it contained. On a small table, almost
within reach, lay those very ornaments—the earrings, the necklet, the
pendant—of rubies and pearls, the loss of which had first led me to
unravel, if I could, the mystery of the great jewel robbery. I could
not be mistaken. The description given me had been most minute. An
exact counterpart of the set was not in existence; and here it lay on
the table before me.
As I looked on with astonishment, from the part of the room I could not
see there approached me, slowly and with pensive step and bowed head,
like one walking in his sleep, the man whom I now almost dreaded to
see—the famous doctor, Gideon West.
Could he be the author of these mysterious thefts? I could not
believe it, and yet the proofs of his guilt lay before me. No longer
hesitating, I stepped forward. So sudden and so unexpected was my
appearance, that the man was unconscious of my presence until I had
placed my hands upon his arm and gasped in trembling tones: ‘Dr
West—I—arrest’—— But the sentence was never completed.
With a cry that might have been heard almost in the grave, the unhappy
man shrank from me. At that instant, I turned in the direction to
which he was pointing, with that agonised look upon his face; and as I
did so, I loosened my hold and my hands fell powerless to my side. In
the corner of the chamber hitherto hidden from me, I saw one of those
old-fashioned bedsteads, with heavy draperies around it. The curtains
were of silk, once a pearly white, now dulled and faded by age. The
counterpane and pillow, once like driven snow, were white no more.
Lying on the bed, with her head on the pillow, and her body partially
concealed by the bed-linen, I saw the form of a woman—a woman who must
once have been fair and beautiful to behold. Her luxuriant hair fell
in wreaths on each side her face, and was then brought together over
the bare white throat. Her arms were uncovered by the counterpane, and,
clasping an infant child in their embrace, lay folded across her breast.
As I realised all the details of what seemed like a vision, I confess
that my nerves failed me. I could only look at that cold pale face,
lying so still on the pillow, with the child-face nestling beside it;
and as I looked, I realised that the stillness was the stillness of
death.
Like one entranced, I remained motionless for some moments, when again
I was aroused to action.
A figure clothed in white—the face scarcely less pale than the face of
the dead, the scanty locks of hair, white with age, hanging loosely
about her shoulders, the eyes fixed on the bed, and the hands stretched
out supplicatingly towards it—glided into the room. Then catching sight
of the prostrate figure of the man who had cast himself beside the bed,
with his hands spread out on the form that lay there, this apparition
of woe, turning on me a glance of reproach that will haunt me to my
dying day, exclaimed, amid streaming tears: ‘You have killed him! My
son, my son!’
* * * * *
And now, how shall I finish my story without wearying you with
explanations? Let me go back to that old question once asked by Gideon
West: ‘What if success should come too late?’ For all the happiness
it could bring him, it did come too late. His struggle with fate, if
not a long, had been a bitter one. There fell a grievous sickness on
the neighbourhood; disease and death stalked abroad, and mowed down
their victims without counting the numbers. Against the grim tyrants,
Gideon West fought day and night; his energy was endless, his courage
undaunted; and he triumphed. No; not Gideon West; but the weapons of
science triumphed in his hands. Disease and death were driven from the
field; as they fled, they shot one last bolt at their victor—it glanced
off his armour, but left his wife and child dead at his side.
Yes; he had won. But what was the victory worth? Fame, reward, wealth,
all were his; but the one hope of his life was dead. Yet he never
spared himself—never ceased work for a day—never hesitated at any
sacrifice. He lived, he said, for only one object—it was to ‘wear out
his life.’ The old home knew him to the end, and one faithful and
devoted woman gave all her years to cheer the one hero of her life, the
poor struggling surgeon, the great physician—the man who for pure love
had married her only child: Gertrude’s husband!
But the end came suddenly at last, and outwardly there seemed to be no
signs of failing power. The mind seemed as fresh and as vigorous as
ever. Only in one direction did it give way. Years of never-ceasing
brooding over his dead wife and child did its work; and as the sad
anniversary of his wife’s birthday, her marriage, and of her death,
once more approached, the strain overpowered him. A mania seized him;
he must offer her the most costly treasures. Yet they must not appear
to come from him, but from others, from those who owed their health,
their life, to his skill. They must be proofs of his fame—proofs to
the dead wife of her husband’s triumph. The mania grew upon him.
Wherever he saw anything that was of peculiar value, he seemed to claim
it as his own, fully persuaded, as I believe, that it was a willing
offering to the memory of his dead wife. And so those once inexplicable
disappearances were explained. No one suspected, would dream of
suspecting, the great doctor; and sane in everything else, yet with
his brilliant intellect already ripe for decay, the unhappy man for
weeks past had been the victim of a mania he neither comprehended nor
was able to resist. I learnt afterwards that a medical conference had
taken him to the house where the countess’s diamonds were lost on that
particular morning, and he must by accident have entered the room where
the diamonds were momentarily left unguarded, and at once he had been
led, by an irresistible impulse, to possess them.
* * * * *
Before I left that strangely haunted house at Chelsea on that Christmas
morning, the twice-stricken mother led me to the dread bedside and
placed my hands on the cold face. I looked at the mother, and then I
felt the white hands that lay clasped before me. The woman read my
thoughts.
‘No,’ she whispered; ‘it is not the flesh of mortal! It is but a
fearful counterfeit of death. It was modelled from the dead wife and
child, and was to have been reproduced in marble for Gertrude’s tomb.
But Gideon West would not have it removed. Call it a morbid fancy or a
passionate love, which you will; but for years he has spent the hours
of his solitude beside this poor image of his wife!—Now, tell me, was
yonder dead man a thief, or was he the victim to unconquerable mania?’
For Gideon West was dead, and his secret died with him.
We laid him on his own bed; and when the coroner’s jury said next day
that he died ‘by the visitation of God,’ they spoke the truth.
The lost jewels were restored to their owners with the simple
explanation that he who had taken them was beyond the reach of human
justice.
For my part in the restitution, I was generously rewarded; but it was
the last investigation I ever undertook. Many years have passed, and
the world soon forgets; but I thought it would interest some to learn
what I knew concerning the Great Jewel Robbery.
THE CULTIVATION OF CELERY.
Celery is an important and useful anti-scorbutic vegetable, which can
be prepared for table in many ways, or simply used in soup. It is also
by some held to be a good specific against rheumatism. Within the
last seven years, celery-growing has become quite a business in North
Notts and South Yorkshire. Within a radius of ten miles of Bawtry, in
the latter county, twenty-five acres of land sufficed for the crop in
1878; but during 1885, upwards of four hundred acres were devoted to
the cultivation of celery. Peat with a clayey or cool subsoil answers
better for growing celery than stronger land. Most kinds of crops
exhaust the land, but celery improves it.
The seed-beds are prepared in January and early in February, of leaves
or manure, or any kind of heating material at hand. We learn from a
communication by Mr C. M. Brewin, of Bawtry, that the earliest crops
are ready for taking up the first week in September, and realise from
two to three shillings per dozen roots retail price. The crop is worth
from fifty-five to sixty pounds per acre, often more for very good
crops; later crops from thirty-five to forty-five pounds per acre.
The number of plants required per acre is sixteen thousand. Cost of
labour in producing earliest crops on the ground: Average rent from
thirty-five shillings to two pounds per acre; rates, taxes, and tithe,
ten shillings per acre; manure, from nine to ten pounds per acre;
labour, ten pounds per acre; carting to stations, four pounds per acre:
leaving a profit for the best early crops of twenty-eight to thirty-two
pounds. For late crops, labour is two pounds less, bringing a profit
of ten to twenty pounds per acre. There are some failures, which are
generally in the first year. The average quantity sent away weekly from
various stations in the neighbourhood is two hundred tons.
Several labourers, very poor men, have started with small plots, and
worked them in early morning before their ordinary day’s work began,
and in the evenings, with the assistance of their wives and children.
These men have now, some one horse and cart, and others two, and grow
from two to five acres each.
SPRING’S ADVENT.
I looked forth on the world to-day,
As waked the rosy morn,
And every budding leaf and blade
Proclaimed the Spring was born.
The southern wind’s seductive wiles
My footsteps lured along
Far from the town’s unlovely ways,
Far from its madding throng.
O sweet the first glad greeting is
With nature, when the Spring
Is spreading forth her tender charms,
And flowers are blossoming!
O sweet to tread the soft green earth
When fresh the breezes blow,
Untrammelled by a thought of care,
And free to come or go!
The lambs were bleating on the hills
Where farmsteads nestling lie,
Safe sheltered from the rude fierce blasts
That storm the hill-tops high.
The swallow’s glanced on flashing wing;
Dear birds of promise they,
That speak the reign of winter past,
Dawn of a brighter day.
Down from the heavens the poet-lark
His numbers madly flung
In liquid notes of purest joy,
That through the valley rung;
And leaping streams, from winter’s yoke
So glad to be set free,
Took up the jocund minstrelsy,
And bore it to the sea.
In sportive glee the children trooped
The meadow-paths along,
And carolled forth, in happy voice,
A careless snatch of song.
Ah, well they know the sunlit spot
Where first the primrose sweet
Looks out upon the wooded copse
The waking earth to greet.
O happy children! life to you
Is full of light and flowers;
Athwart whose skies of tender blue
No threatening storm-cloud lowers.
I wonder, do ye ever think
Of children far away,
Who only see through vistas dim
God’s glorious light of day!
Whose lives are spent in narrow streets,
Or alleys foul with sin;
Where squalor, poverty, and death,
Alas! are rife within.
No fresh pure winds their tresses blow,
Green fields they never trod,
Or plucked the nodding flowers that grow
Fresh from the hand of God.
O little children! young, yet old
In life’s excess of woe,
I dread for you the dreary ways
Your faltering feet must go.
O little eyes, that never yet
Beheld a lovely thing,
I wonder what your joy shall be
Through God’s eternal Spring!
CHARLES H. BARSTOW.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._