CHAPTER XI.

TELLS OF THE WRITING UPON THE GOLDEN CLASP; AND HOW I TOOK DOWN THE

GREAT KEY.

So ended my father's Journal--in a silence full of tragedy, a silence

filled in with the echo of that awful cry borne landwards on the

wings of the storm; and now, in the presence of this mute witness,

shaping itself into the single word "Murder." Of the effect of the

reading upon us, I need not speak at any length. For the most part

it had passed without comment; but the occasional choking of Uncle

Loveday's voice, my own quickening breath as the narrative continued,

and the tears that poured down the cheeks of both of us as we heard

the simple loving messages for Margery--messages so vainly tender, so

pitifully fond--were evidence enough of our emotion.

I say that we both wept, and it is true. But though, do what I

could, my young heart would swell and ache until the tears came at

times, yet for the most part I sat with cold and gathering hate.

It was mournful enough when I consider it. That the hand which

penned these anxious lines should be cold and stiff, the ear for

which they were so lovingly intended for ever deaf: that all the warm

hopes should end beside that bed where husband and wife lay dead--

surely this was tragic enough. But I did not think of this at the

time--or but dimly if at all. Hate, impotent hate, was consuming my

young heart as the story drew to its end; hate and no other feeling

possessed me as Uncle Loveday broke abruptly off, turned the page in

search of more, found none, and was silent.

Once he had stopped for a moment to call for a candle.

Mrs. Busvargus brought it, trimmed the wick, and again retired.

This was our only interruption. Joe Roscorla had not returned from

Polkimbra; so we were left alone to the gathering shadows and the

horror of the tale.

When my uncle finished there was a long pause. Finally he reached

out his hand for his pipe, filled it, and looked up. His kindly face

was furrowed with the marks of weeping, and big tears were yet

standing in his eyes.

"Murdered," he said, "murdered, if ever man was murdered."

"Yes," I echoed, "murdered."

"But we'll have the villain," he exclaimed, bringing his fist down on

the table with sudden energy. "We'll have him for all his cunning,

eh, boy?"

"Not yet," I answered; "he is far away by this time. But we'll have

him: oh, yes, we'll have him."

Uncle Loveday looked at me oddly for a moment, and then repeated--

"Yes, yes, we'll have him safe enough. Joe Roscorla must have given

the alarm before he had time to go far. And to think," he added,

throwing up his hand, "that I talked to the villain only yesterday

morning as though he were some unfortunate victim of the sea!"

I am sure that my uncle was regretting the vast deal of very fine

language he had wasted: and, indeed, he had seldom more nobly risen

to an occasion.

"Pearls, pearls before swine! Swine did I say? Snakes, if it's not

an insult to a snake to give its name to such as Colliver. What did

you say, Jasper?"

"We'll have him."

"Jasper, my boy," said he, scanning me for a second time oddly,

"maybe you'll be better in bed. Try to sleep again, my poor lad--

what do you think?"

"I think," I answered, "that we have not yet looked at the clasp."

"My dear boy, you're right: you're right again. Let us look at it."

The piece of metal resembled, as I have said, the half of a

waist-buckle, having a socket but no corresponding hook. In shape it

was slightly oblong, being about 2 inches by one and a half inches.

It glittered brightly in the candle's ray as Uncle Loveday polished

it with his handkerchief, readjusted his spectacles, and bent over

it.

At the end of a minute he looked up, and said--

"I cannot make head or tail of it. It seems plain enough to read,

but makes nonsense. Come over here and see for yourself."

I bent over his shoulder, and this is what I saw--

The edge of the clasp was engraved with a border of flowers and

beasts, all exquisitely small. Within this was cut, by a much

rougher hand, an inscription which was plain enough to read, though

making no sense whatever. The writing was arranged in five lines of

three words apiece, and ran thus:--

MOON END SOUTH.

N.N.W. 22 FEET.

NORTH SIDE 4.

DEEP AT POINT.

WATER 1.5 HOURS.

I read the words a full dozen times, and then, failing of any

interpretation, turned to Uncle Loveday--

"Jasper," said he, "to my mind those words make nonsense."

"And to mine, uncle."

"Now attend to me, Jasper. This is evidently but one half of the

clasp which your father discovered. That's as plain as daylight.

The question is, what has become of the other half, of the hook that

should fit into this eye? Now, what I want you to do is to try and

remember if this was all that the man Railton gave you."

"This was all."

"You are quite certain?"

"Quite."

"You did not leave the other piece behind in the cow-shed by any

chance?"

"No, for I looked at the packet before I hid it, and there was only

one piece of metal."

"Very well. One half of the golden clasp being lost, the next

question is, what has become of it?"

I nodded.

"To this," said Uncle Loveday, bending forward over the table, "two

answers are possible. Either it lies at the bottom of the sea with

the rest of the freight of the _Belle Fortune_, or it is in

Colliver's possession."

"It may lie beneath Dead Man's Rock, in John Railton's pocket," I

suggested.

"True, my boy, true; you put another case. But anyhow it makes no

difference. If it lies at the bottom of the sea, whether in

Railton's pocket or not, the secret is safe. If it is in Colliver's

possession the secret is safe, unless he has seen and learnt by heart

this half of the inscription. In any case, I am sorry to tell you--

and this is what I was coming to--the secret is closed against us for

the time."

"That is not certain," said I.

"Excuse me, Jasper, it is quite certain. You admit yourself that

this writing is nonsense. Well and good. But besides this, I would

have you remember," pursued Uncle Loveday, turning once more to my

father's Journal, "that Ezekiel expressly says, 'The inscription ran

right across the clasp.' It could be read easily enough and

contained accurate directions for searching in some spot, but where

that spot was it did not reveal--"

"Quite so," I interrupted, "and that is just what we have to

discover."

"How?"

"Why, by means of the key, as the parchment and the Will plainly

show. We may still be beaten, but even so, we shall know whereabouts

to look, if we can only catch Colliver."

"Bless the boy!" said Uncle Loveday, "he certainly has a head."

"Uncle," continued I, rising to my feet, "the secret of the Great

Ruby is written upon my grandfather's key. That key was to be taken

down when he that undertook the task of discovering the secret should

have returned and crossed the threshold of Lantrig. Uncle, my father

has crossed the threshold of Lantrig--"

"Feet foremost, feet foremost, my boy. Oh, poor Ezekiel!"

"Feet foremost, yes," I continued--"dead and murdered, yes. But he

has come: come to find my mother dead, but still he has come.

Uncle, I am the only Trenoweth left to Lantrig; think of it, the only

one left--"

"Poor Ezekiel! Poor Margery!"

"Yes, uncle, and all I inherit is the knife that murdered my father,

and this key. I have the knife, and I will take down the key.

We are not beaten yet."

I drew a chair under the great beam, and mounted it. When first my

grandfather returned he had hung the iron key upon its hook, giving

strict injunctions that no one should touch it. There ever since it

had hung, the centre of a host of spiders' webs. Even my poor

mother's brush, so diligent elsewhere, had never invaded this sacred

relic, and often during our lonely winter evenings had she told me

the story of it: how that Amos Trenoweth's dying curse was laid upon

the person that should touch it, and how the spiders' days were

numbered with every day that brought my father nearer home.

There it hung now, scarcely to be seen for cobwebs. Its hour had

come at last. Even as I stretched out my hand a dozen horrid things

hurried tumultuously back into darkness. Even as I laid my hand on

it, a big ungainly spider, scared but half incredulous, started in

alarm, hesitated, and finally made off at full speed for shelter.

This, then, was the key that should unlock the treasure--this,

that had from the first hung over us, the one uncleansed spot in

Lantrig: this was the talisman--this grimy thing lying in my hand.

The spiders had been jealous in their watch.

Stepping down, I got a cloth and brushed away the cobwebs. The key

was covered thickly with rust, but even so I could see that something

was written upon it. For about a minute I stood polishing it, and

then carried it forward to the light.

Yes, there was writing upon it, both on the handle and along the

shaft--writing that, as it shaped itself before my eyes, caused them

to stare in wrathful incredulity, caused my heart to sink at first in

dismay and then to swell in mad indignation, caused my blood to turn

to gall and my thoughts to very bitterness. For this was what I

read:--

On the handle were engraved in large capitals the initials A. T.

with the date MDCCCXII. Alone the shaft, from handle to wards, ran

on either side the following sentence in old English lettering:--

THY HOUSE IS SET UPON THE SANDS AND THY HOPES BY A DEAD MAN.

This was all. This short sentence was the sum of all the vain quest

on which my father had met his end. "Thy house is set upon the

sands," and even now had crumbled away beneath Amos Trenoweth's curse

"Thy hopes by a dead man," and even now he on whom our hopes had

rested, lay upstairs a pitiful corpse. Was ever mockery more

fiendish? As the full cruelty of the words broke in upon me, once

again I seemed to hear the awful cry from the sea, but now among its

voices rang a fearful laugh as though Amos Trenoweth's soul were

making merry in hell over his grim jest--the slaughter of his son and

his son's wife.

White with desperate passion, I turned and hurled the accursed key

across the room into the blazing hearth.

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II.

THE FINDING OF THE GREAT RUBY.

CHAPTER I.

TELLS HOW THOMAS LOVEDAY AND I WENT IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE.

Seeing that these pages do not profess to be an autobiography, but

rather the plain chronicle of certain events connected with the Great

Ruby of Ceylon, I conceive myself entitled to the reader's pardon if

I do some violence to the art of the narrator, and here ask leave to

pass by, with but slight allusion, some fourteen years. This I do

because the influence of this mysterious jewel, although it has

indelibly coloured my life, has been sensibly exercised during two

periods alone--periods short in themselves, but nevertheless long

enough to determine between them every current of my destiny, and to

supply an interpretation for my every action.

I am the more concerned with advertising the reader of this, as on

looking back upon what I have written with an eye as far as may be

impartial, I have not failed to note one obvious criticism that will

be passed upon me. "How," it will be asked, "could any boy barely

eight years of age conceive the thoughts and entertain the emotions

there attributed to Jasper Trenoweth?"

The criticism is just as well as obvious. As a solitary man for ever

brooding on the past, I will not deny that I may have been led to

paint that past in colours other than its own. Indeed, it would be

little short of a miracle were this not so. A morbid soul--and I

will admit that mine is morbid--preying upon its recollections, and

nourished on that food alone, cannot hope to attain the sense of

proportion which is the proper gift of varied experience. I readily

grant, therefore, that the lights and shades on this picture may be

wrong, as judged by the ordinary eye, but I do claim them to be a

faithful reproduction of my own vision. As I look back I find them

absolutely truthful, nor can I give the lie to my own impressions in

the endeavour to write what shall seem true to the rest of the world.

This must be, therefore, my excuse for asking the reader to pass by

fourteen years and take up the tale far from Lantrig. But before I

plunge again into my story, it is right that I should briefly touch

on the chief events that occurred during this interval in my life.

They buried my father and mother in the same grave in Polkimbra

Churchyard. I remember now that crowds of fisher-folk lined the way

to their last resting-place, and a host, as it seemed to me, of

tear-stained faces watched the coffins laid in the earth. But all

else is a blurred picture to me, as, indeed, is the time for many a

long day after.

Colliver was never found. Captain Merrydew raised the hue and cry,

but the sailor Georgio Rhodojani was never seen again from the moment

when his evil face leered in through the window of Lantrig. A reward

was offered, and more than once Polkimbra was excited with the news

of his arrest, but it all came to nothing. Failing his capture,

Uncle Loveday was wisely silent on the subject of my father's Journal

and the secret of the Great Ruby. He had not been idle, however.

After long consultation with Aunt Elizabeth he posted off to Plymouth

to gain news of Lucy Railton and her daughter, but without success.

The "Welcome Home" still stood upon the Barbican, but the house was

in possession of new tenants, and neither they nor their landlord

could tell anything of the Railtons except that they had left

suddenly about two months before (that being the date of the wreck of

the _Belle Fortune_) after paying their rent to the end of the

Christmas quarter. The landlord could give no reasons for their

departure--for the house had a fair trade--but supposed that the

husband must have returned from sea and taken them away.

Uncle Loveday, of course, knew better, but on this point held his

peace. The one result of all his inquiries was the certainty that

the Railtons had vanished utterly.

So Lantrig, for the preservation of which my father had given his

life, was sold to strangers, and I went to live with Aunt and Uncle

Loveday at Lizard Town. The proceeds of the sale (and they were

small indeed) Uncle Loveday put carefully by until such time as I

should be cast upon the world to seek my fortune. For twelve

uneventful years my aunt fed me, and uncle taught me--being no mean

scholar, especially in Latin, which tongue he took great pains to

make me perfect in. Thomas Loveday was my only companion, and soon

became my dear friend. Poor Tom! I can see his handsome face before

me now as it was in those old days--the dreamy eyes, the rare smile

with its faint suggestion of mockery, the fair curls in which a

breeze seemed for ever blowing, the pursed lips that had a habit of

saying such wonderful things. In my dreams--those few dreams of mine

that are happy--we are always boys together, climbing the cliffs for

eggs, or risking our lives in Uncle Loveday's boat--always boys

together. Poor Tom! Poor Tom!

So the unmarked time rolled on, until there came a memorable day in

July on which I must touch for a moment. It was evening. I was

returning with Tom to Lizard Town from Dead Man's Rock, where we had

been basking all the sunny afternoon, Tom reading, and I simply

staring vacantly into the heavens and wondering when the time would

come that should set me free to unravel the mystery of this

ill-omened spot. Finally, after taking our fill of idleness, we

bathed as the sun was setting; and I remember wondering, as I dived

off the black ledge, whether beneath me there lay any relic of the

_Belle Fortune_, any fragment that might preserve some record of her

end. I had dived here often enough, but found nothing, nor could I

see anything to-day but the clean sand twinkling beneath its veil of

blue, though here, as I guessed, must still lie the bones of John

Railton. But I must hasten. We were returning over the Downs when

suddenly I spied a small figure running towards us, and making

frantic signals of distress.

"That," said I, "from the shape of it, must be Joe Roscorla."

And Joe Roscorla it was, only by no means the Joe Roscorla of

ordinary life, but a galvanised and gesticulating Joe, whereas the

Joe that we knew was of a lethargic bearing and slow habit of speech.

Still, it was he, and as he came up to us he stayed all questioning

by gasping out the word "Missus!" and then falling into a violent fit

of coughing.

"Well, what is amiss?" asked Tom.

"Took wi' a seizure, an' maister like a thing mazed," blurted Joe,

and then fell to panting and coughing worse than ever.

"What! a seizure? paralysis do you mean?" I asked, while Tom turned

white.

"Just a seizure, and I ha'n't got time for no longer name. But run

if 'ee want to see her alive."

We ran without further speech, Joe keeping at our side for a minute,

but soon dropping behind and fading into distance. As we entered the

door Uncle Loveday met us, and I saw by his face that Aunt Elizabeth

was dead.

She had been in the kitchen busied with our supper, when she suddenly

fell down and died in a few minutes. Heart disease was the cause,

but in our part people only die of three complaints--a seizure, an

inflammation, or a decline. The difference between these is purely

one of time, so that Joe Roscorla, learning the suddenness of the

attack, judged it forthwith a case of "seizure," and had so reported.

My poor aunt was dead; and until now we had never known how we loved

her. Like so many of the Trenoweths she seemed hard and reserved to

many, but we who had lived with her had learnt the goodness of her

soul and the sincerity of her religion. The grief of her husband was

her noblest epitaph.

He, poor man, was inconsolable. Without his wife he seemed as one

deprived of most of his limbs, and moved helplessly about, as though

life were now without purpose. Accustomed to be ruled by her at

every turn, he missed her in every action of the day. Very swiftly

he sank, of no assigned complaint, and within six months was laid

beside her.

On his death-bed my uncle seemed strangely troubled about us.

Tom was to be a doctor. My destiny was not so certain; but already I

had renounced in my heart an inglorious life in Lizard Town.

I longed to go with Tom; in London, too, I thought I should be free

to follow the purpose of my life. But the question was, how should I

find the money? For I knew that the sum obtained by the sale of

Lantrig was miserably insufficient. So I sat with idle hands and

waited for destiny; nor did I realise my helplessness until I stood

in the room where Uncle Loveday lay dying.

"Tom," said my uncle, "Tom, come closer."

Tom bent over the bed.

"I am leaving you two boys without friends in this world. You have

friends in Lizard Town, but Lizard Town is a small world, Tom.

I ought to have sent you to London before, but kept putting off the

parting. If one could only foresee--could only foresee."

He raised himself slightly on his elbow, and continued with pain--

"You will go to Guy's, and Jasper, I hope, may go with you.

Be friends, boys; you will want friendship in this world. It will be

a struggle, for there is barely enough for both. But it is best to

share equally; _she_ would have wished that. She was always planning

that. I am doing it badly, I know, but she would have done it

better."

The chill December sun came stealing in and illumined the sick man's

face with a light that was the shadow of heaven. The strange doctor

moved to the blind. My uncle's voice arrested him--

"No, no. Leave it up. You will have to pull it down very soon--only

a few moments now. Tom, come closer. You have been a good boy, Tom,

a good boy, though"--with a faint smile--"a little trying at times.

Ah, but she forgave you, Tom. She loved you dearly; she will tell me

so--when we meet."

My uncle's gaze began to wander, as though anticipating that meeting;

but he roused himself and said--

"Kiss me, Tom, and send Jasper to me."

Bitterly weeping, Tom made room, and I bent over the bed.

"Ah, Jasper, it is you. Kiss me, boy. I have been telling Tom that

you must share alike. God has been stern with you, Jasper, to His

own good ends--His own good ends. Only be patient, it will come

right at the last. How dark it is getting; pull up the blind."

"The blind is up, uncle."

"Ah, yes, I forgot. I have often thought--do you remember that day--

reading your father's paper--and the key?"

"Yes, uncle."

"I have often thought--about that key--which you flung into the

fire--and I picked out--your father Ezekiel's key--keep it.

Closer, Jasper, closer--"

I bent down until my ear almost touched his lips.

"I have--often--thought--we were wrong that night--and perhaps--

meant--search--in . . ."

For quite a minute I bent to catch the next word, then looking on his

face withdrew my arm and laid the grey head back upon the pillow.

My uncle was dead.

So it happened that a few weeks after Tom and I, having found Uncle

Loveday's savings equally divided between us, started from Lizard

Town by coach to seek our fortunes in London. In London it is that I

must resume my tale. Of our early mishaps and misadventures I need

not speak, the result being discernible as the story progresses.

We did not find our fortunes, but we found some wisdom. Neither Tom

nor I ever confessed to disappointment at finding the pavements of

mere stone, but certainly two more absolute Whittingtons never trod

the streets of the great city.

But before I resume I must say a few words of myself. No reader can

gather the true moral of this narrative who does not take into

account the effect which the cruel death of my parents had wrought on

me. From the day of the wreck hate had been my constant companion,

cherished and nursed in my heart until it held complete mastery over

all other passions. I lived, so I told myself over and over again,

but to avenge, to seek Simon Colliver high and low until I held him

at my mercy. Thousands of times I rehearsed the scene of our

meeting, and always I held the knife which stabbed my father. In my

waking thoughts, in my dreams, I was always pursuing, and Colliver

for ever fleeing before me. In every crowd I seemed to watch for his

face alone, at every street-corner to listen for his voice--that

face, that voice, which I should know among thousands. I had read

De Quincey's "Opium-Eater," and the picture of his unresting search

for his lost Ann somehow seized upon my imagination. Night after

night it was to Oxford Street that my devil drove me: night after

night I paced the "never-ending terraces," as did the opium-eater, on

my tireless quest--but with feelings how different! To me it was but

one long thirst of hatred, the long avenues of gaslight vistas of an

avenging hell, all the multitudinous sounds of life but the chorus of

that song to which my footsteps trod--

"Sing ho! but he waits for you."

To London had Simon Colliver come, and somewhere, some day, he would

be mine. Until that day I sought a living face in a city of dead

men, and down that illimitable slope to Holborn, and back again, I

would tramp until the pavements were silent and deserted, then seek

my lodging and throw myself exhausted on the bed.

In a dingy garret, looking out, when its grimy panes allowed, above

one of the many squalid streets that feed the main artery of the

Strand, my story begins anew. The furniture of the room relieves me

of the task of word-painting, being more effectively described by

catalogue, after the manner of the ships at Troy. It consisted of

two small beds, one rickety washstand, one wooden chair, and one tin

candlestick. At the present moment this last held a flickering dip,

for it was ten o'clock on the night of May the ninth, eighteen

hundred and sixty-three. On the chair sat Tom, turning excitedly the

leaves of a prodigiously imposing manuscript. I was sitting on the

edge of the bed nearest the candle, brooding on my hate as usual.

Fortune had evidently dealt us some rough knocks. We were dressed,

as Tom put it, to suit the furniture, and did it to a nicety.

We were fed, according to the same authority, above our income; but

not often. I also quote Tom in saying that we were living rather

fast: we certainly saw no long prospect before us. In short, matters

had reached a crisis.

Tom looked up from his reading.

"Do you know, Jasper, I could wish that our wash-stand had not a

hole cut in it to receive the basin. It sounds hyper-critical.

But really it prejudices me in the eyes of the managers. There's a

suspicious bulge in the middle of the paper that is damning."

I was absorbed in my own thoughts, and took no notice. Presently he

continued--

"Whittington is an overrated character, don't you think? After all

he owed his success to his name. It's a great thing for struggling

youth to have a three-syllabled name with a proparoxyton accent.

I've been listening to the bells to-night and they can make nothing

of Loveday, while as for Trenoweth, it's hopeless."

As I still remained silent, Tom proceeded to announce--

"The House will now go into the Question of Supply."

"The Exchequer," I reported, "contains exactly sixteen and eightpence

halfpenny."

"Rent having been duly paid to-day and receipt given."

"Receipt given," I echoed.

"Really, when one comes to think of it, the situation is striking.

Here are you, Jasper Trenoweth, inheritor of the Great Ruby of

Ceylon, besides other treasure too paltry to mention, in danger of

starving in a garret. Here am I, Thomas Loveday, author of

'Francesca: a Tragedy,' and other masterpieces too numerous to

catalogue, with every prospect of sharing your fate. The situation

is striking, Jasper, you'll allow."

"What did the manager say about it?" I asked.

"Only just enough to show he had not looked at it. He was more

occupied with my appearance; and yet we agreed before I set out that

your trousers might have been made for me. They are the most

specious articles in our joint wardrobe: I thought to myself as

walked along to-day, Jasper, that after all it is not the coat that

makes the gentleman--it's the trousers. Now, in the matter of boots,

I surpass you. If yours decay at their present rate, your walks in

Oxford Street will become a luxury."

I was silent again.

"I do not recollect any case in fiction of a man being baulked of his

revenge for the want of a pair of boots. Cheer up, Jasper, boy," he

continued, rising and placing a hand on my shoulder. "We have been

fools, and have paid for it. You thought you could find your enemy

in London, and find the hiding-place too big. I thought I could

write, and find I cannot. As for legitimate work, sixteen and

eightpence halfpenny, even with economy, will hardly carry us on for

three years."

I rose. "I will have one more walk in Oxford Street," I said,

"and then come home and see this miserable farce of starvation out."

"Don't be a fool, Jasper. It is difficult, I know, to perish with

dignity on sixteen and eightpence halfpenny: the odd coppers spoil

the effect. Still we might bestow them on a less squeamish beggar

and redeem our pride."

"Tom," I said, suddenly, "you lost a lot of money once over

_rouge-et-noir_."

"Don't remind me of that, Jasper."

"No, no; but where did you lose it?"

"At a gambling hell off Leicester Square. But why--"

"Should you know the place again? Could you find it?"

"Easily."

"Then let us go and try our luck with this miserable sum."

"Don't be a fool, Jasper. What mad notion has taken you now?"

"I have never gambled in my life," I answered, "and may as well have

a little excitement before the end comes. It's not much of a sum, as

you say; but the thought that we are playing for life or death may

make up for that. Let us start at once."

"It is the maddest folly."

"Very well, Tom, we will share this. There may be some little

difficulty over the halfpenny, but I don't mind throwing that in.

We will take half each, and you can hoard whilst I tempt fortune."

"Jasper," said Tom, his eyes filling with tears, "you have said a

hard thing, but I know you don't mean it. If you are absolutely set

on this silly freak, we will stand or fall together."

"Very well," said I, "we will stand or fall together, for I am

perfectly serious. The six and eightpence halfpenny, no more and no

less, I propose to spend in supper. After that we shall be better

prepared to face our chance. Do you agree?"

"I agree," said Tom, sadly.

We took our hats, extinguished the candle, and stumbled down the

stairs into the night.

We ordered supper at an eating-house in the Strand, and in all my

life I cannot recall a merrier meal than this, which, for all we

knew, would be our last. The very thought lent a touch of bravado to

my humour, and presently Tom caught the infection. It was not a

sumptuous meal in itself, but princely to our ordinary fare; and the

unaccustomed taste of beer loosened our tongues, until our mirth

fairly astonished our fellow-diners. At length the waiter came with

the news that it was time for closing. Tom called for the bill, and

finding that it came to half-a-crown apiece, ordered two sixpenny

cigars, and tossed the odd eightpence halfpenny to the waiter,

announcing at the same time that this was our last meal on earth.

This done, he gravely handed me four half-crowns, and rose to leave.

I rose also, and once more we stepped into the night.

Since the days of which I write, Leicester Square has greatly

changed. Then it was an intricate, and, by night, even a dangerous

quarter, chiefly given over to foreigners. As we trudged through

innumerable by-streets and squalid alleys, I wondered if Tom had

not forgotten his way. At length, however, we turned up a blind

alley, lit by one struggling gas-jet, and knocked at a low door.

It was opened almost immediately, and we groped our way up another

black passage to a second door. Here Tom gave three knocks very loud

and distinct. A voice cried, "Open," the door swung back before us,

and a blaze of light flashed in our faces.

CHAPTER II.

TELLS OF THE LUCK OF THE GOLDEN CLASP.

As the door swung back I became conscious first of a flood of light

that completely dazzled my eyes, next of the buzz of many voices that

confused my hearing. By slow degrees, however, the noise and glare

grew familiar and my senses were able to take in the strange scene.

I stood in a large room furnished after the fashion of a

drawing-room, and resplendent with candles and gilding. The carpet

was rich, the walls were hung with pictures, which if garish in

colour were not tasteless in design, and between these glittered a

quantity of gilded mirrors that caught and reflected the rays of a

huge candelabrum depending from the centre of the ceiling.

Innumerable wax candles also shone in various parts of the room,

while here and there rich chairs and sofas were disposed; but these

were for the most part unoccupied, for the guests were clustered

together beneath the great candelabrum.

They were about thirty in number, and from their appearance I judged

them to belong to very different classes of society. Some were

poorly and even miserably attired, others adorned with gorgeous, and

not a few with valuable, jewellery. Here stood one who from his

clothes seemed to be a poor artisan; there lounged a fop in evening

dress. There was also a sprinkling of women, and not a few wore

masks of some black stuff concealing the upper part of their faces.

But the strangest feature of the company was that one and all were

entirely and even breathlessly watching the table in their midst.

Even the idlest scarcely raised his eyes to greet us as we entered,

and for a moment or two I paused at the door as one who had no

business with this strange assemblage. During these few moments I

was able to grasp the main points of what I saw.

The guests were grouped around the table, some sitting and others

standing behind their chairs. The table itself was oblong in shape,

and at its head sat the most extraordinary woman it had ever been my

lot to behold. She was of immense age, and so wrinkled that her face

seemed a very network of deeply-printed lines. Her complexion, even

in the candle-light, was of a deep yellow, such as is rarely seen in

the most jaundiced faces. Despite her age, her features were bold

and bore traces of a rare beauty outlived; her eyes were of a deep

yet glittering black, and as they flashed from the table to the faces

of her guests, seemed never to wink or change for an instant their

look of intense alertness.

But what was most noteworthy in this strange woman was neither her

eyes, her wrinkles, nor her curious colour, but the amazing quantity

of jewels that she wore. As she sat there beneath the glare of the

candelabrum she positively blazed with gems. With every motion of

her quick hands a hundred points of fire leapt out from the diamonds

on her fingers; with every turn of her wrinkled neck the light played

upon innumerable facets; and all the time those cold, lustrous eyes

scintillated as brightly as the stones. She was engaged in the game

as we entered, and turned her gaze upon us for an instant only, but

that momentary flash was so cold, so absolutely un-human, that I

doubted if I looked upon reality. The whole assembly seemed rather

like a room full of condemned spirits, with this woman sitting as

presiding judge.

As we still stood by the door a hush fell on the company; men and

women seemed to catch their breath and bend more intently over the

table. There was a pause; then someone called the number

"Thirty-one," and the buzz of voices broke out again--a mixture of

exclamations and disappointed murmurs. Then, and not till then, did

the woman at the head of the table speak, and when she spoke her

words were addressed to us.

"Come in, gentlemen, come in. You have not chosen your moment well,

for the Bank is winning; but you are none the less welcome."

Her eyes as she turned them again upon us did not alter their

expression. They were--though I can scarcely hope that this

description will be understood--at once perfectly vigilant and

absolutely impassive. But even more amazing was the voice that

contradicted both these impressions, being most sweetly and

delicately modulated, with a musical ring that charmed the ear as the

notes of a well-sung song. The others, hearing us addressed, turned

an incurious gaze upon us for a moment, and then fastened their

attention anew upon the table.

Thus welcomed, we too stepped forward to the centre of the room and

began to watch the game. I have never seen roulette played

elsewhere, so do not know if its accessories greatly vary, but this

is what I saw.

The table, which I have described as oblong, was lined to the width

of about a foot around the edge with green baize, and on this were

piled heaps of gold and silver, some greater, some less. Sunk in the

centre was a well, in which a large needle revolved upon a pivot at a

turn of the hand. The whole looked like a large ship's compass, but

instead of north, south, east, and west, the table around the well,

and at a level with the compass, was marked out into alternate spaces

of red and black, bearing--one on each space--the figures from 1 to

36, and ending in 0, so that in all there were thirty-seven spaces,

the one bearing the cipher being opposite to the strange woman who

presided. As the game began again the players staked their money on

one or another of these spaces. I also gathered that they could

stake on either black or red, or again on one of the three dozens--

1 to 12, 13 to 24, 25 to 36. When all the money was staked, the

woman bent forward, and with a sweep of her arm sent the needle

spinning round upon its mission.

Thrice she did this, thrice the eager faces bent over the revolving

needle, and each time I gathered from the murmurs around me that the

bank had won heavily. At the end of the third round the hostess

looked up and said to Loveday--

"You have been here before, and, if I remember rightly, were

unfortunate. Come and sit near me when you have a chance, and

perhaps you may break this run of luck. Even I am tiring of it.

Or better still, get that dark handsome friend of yours to stake for

you. Have you ever played before?" she asked, turning to me.

I shook my head.

"All the better. Fortune always favours beginners, and if it does I

shall be well recompensed to have so handsome a youth beside me," and

with this she turned to the game again.

At her right sat a grey-headed man with worn face and wolfish eyes,

who might have been expected to take this as a hint to make way.

But he never heard a word. All his sense was concentrated on the

board before him, and his only motion was to bend more closely and

eagerly over the play. Tom whispered in my ear--

"You have the money, Jasper; take her advice if you really mean to

play this farce out. Take the seat if you get a chance, and play

your own game."

"You have been here before," I answered, "and know more about the

game."

"Here before! Yes, to my cost. No, no, the idea of play is your own

and you shall carry it out. I am always unlucky, and as for

knowledge of the game, you can pick that up by watching a round or

two; it's perfectly simple."

Again the bank had won. At the left hand of our hostess stood a

stolid man holding a small shovel with which he gathered in the

winnings. All around were faces as of souls in torture; even the

features of the winners (and these were few enough) scarcely

expressed a trace of satisfaction, but seemed rather cast into some

horrible trance in which they saw nothing but the piles of coin, the

spinning needle, and the flashing hands of the woman that turned it.

She all the while sat passionless and cold, looking on the scene as

might some glittering and bejewelled sphinx.

As I gazed, as the needle whirled and stopped and once more whirled,

the mad excitement of the place came creeping upon me. The

glittering fingers of our hostess fascinated me as a serpent holds

its prey. The stifling heat, the glare, the confused murmurs mounted

like strong wine into my brain. The clink and gleam of the gold as

it passed to and fro, the harsh voice of the man with the shovel

calling at intervals, "Put on your money, gentlemen," the mechanical

progress of the play, confused and staggered my senses. I forgot

Tom, forgot the reason of our coming, forgot even where I was, so

absorbed was I, and craned forward over the hurrying wheel, as intent

as the veriest gambler present.

I was aroused from my stupor by a muttered curse, as the grey-headed

man before me staggered up from his chair, and left the table with

desperate eyes and stupid gait. As he rose the jewelled fingers made

a slight motion, and I dropped into the vacant seat.

The bank was still winning. At our hostess' left hand rose a

swelling pile of gold and silver that time after time absorbed all

the smaller heaps upon the black and red spaces. Meanwhile the woman

had scarcely spoken, but as the needle went round once more,

slackened and stopped--this time amid deep and desperate

execrations--she turned to me and said--

"Now is your time to break the bank if you wish. Play boldly; I

should like to lose to so proper a man."

I looked back at Tom, who merely nodded, and put my first half-crown

upon the red space marked 19. My neighbour, without seeming to

notice the smallness of the sum, bent over the table and sent the

wheel spinning on its errand. I, too, bent forward to watch, and as

the wheel halted, saw the coin swept, with many more valuable, into

the great pile.

"A bad beginning," said the sweet voice beside me. "Try again."

I tried again, and a third time, and two more half-crowns went to

join their fellow.

There was one more chance. White with desperation I drew out my last

half-crown, and laid it on the black. A flash, and my neighbour's

hand sent the needle whirling. Round and round it went, as though it

would never cease; round and round, then slackened, slackened,

hesitated and stopped--where?

Where but over the red square opposite me?

For a moment all things seemed to whirl and dance before me.

The candles shot out a million glancing rays, the table heaved, the

rings upon the woman's fingers glittered and sparkled, while opposite

me the devilish finger of Fortune pointed at the ruin of my hopes,

and as it pointed past them and at me, called me very fool.

I clutched the table's green border and sank back in my seat.

As I did so I heard a low curse from Tom behind me. The overwhelming

truth broke in upon my senses, chasing the blood from my face, the

hope from my heart. Ruined! Ruined! The faces around me grew

blurred and misty, the room and all my surrounding seemed to fade

further and yet further away, leaving me face to face with the

consequences of my folly. Scarce knowing what I did, I turned to

look at Tom, and saw that his face was white and set. As I did so

the musical voice beside me murmured--

"The game is waiting: are you going to stake this time?"

I stammered out a negative.

"What? already tired? A faint heart should not go with such a face,"

and again she swept the pointer round.

"Is it," she whispered in my ear, "is it that you cannot?"

"It is."

"Ah, it is hard with half-a-sovereign to break the bank. But see,

have you nothing--nothing? For I feel as if my luck were going to

leave me."

"Nothing," I answered, "nothing in the world."

"Poor boy!"

Her voice was tender and sympathetic, but in her eyes there glanced

not the faintest spark of mercy. I sat for a moment stunned and

helpless, and then she resumed.

"Can I lend to you?"

"No, for I have no chance of repaying. This was my all, and it has

gone. I have not one penny left in the world."

"Poor boy!"

"I thank you. I could not expect you to pity me, but--"

"Ah, but you are wrong. I pity you: I pity you all. Fools, fools, I

call you all, and yet I make my living out of you. So you cannot

play," she added, as she set the game going once again. "What will

you do?"

"Go, first of all."

"And after?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"No, do not go yet. Sit beside me for a while and watch: it is only

Fortune that makes me your enemy. I would willingly have lost to

you."

She looked so curious, sitting there with her yellow face, her

wrinkles and her innumerable diamonds, that I could only sit and

stare.

"I have seen many a desperate boy," continued this extraordinary

woman, "sitting beside me in that very chair. Ah, many a young life

have I murdered in this way. I am old, you see, very old; older even

than you could guess, but I triumph over youth none the less.

Sometimes I feel as if I fed on the young lives of others."

She delivered these confidences without a change in her emotionless

face, and still I stared fascinated.

"Ah, yes, they sit here for a moment, and then they go--who knows

where? You will be going presently, and then I shall lose you for

ever, without a thought of what happens to you. Money is my blood:

you see its colour in my face. Here they all come, and I suck their

blood and fling them aside. They win sometimes; but I can wait.

I wait and wait, and they come back here as surely as there is a

destiny. They come back, and I win in the end. I always win in the

end."

She turned her attention to the game for a moment and then went on:--

"It is a rare drink, this yellow blood: and all the sweeter when it

comes from youth. I have had but a drop from you, but I like you

nevertheless. Oh, yes, I can pity, my heart is always full of pity

as I sit here drinking gold. Your friend is a charming boy, but I

like you better: and now you will go. These partings are very cruel,

are they not?"

There was not a trace of mockery in her voice, and her eyes were the

same as ever. I merely looked up in reply, but she divined my

thoughts.

"No, I am not mocking you. I should like you to win--once: I say it,

and am perfectly honest about it. You would be beaten in the end,

but it would please me while it lasted. Has your friend no money?"

"No, this was all we had between us."

"So he came back and got you to play with your money. That was

strange friendship."

"You are wrong," I answered, "he was set against coming; but I

persuaded him--or rather, I insisted. It is all my own fault."

"Well," she said, musingly, "I suppose you must, go; but it is a

pity. You are too handsome a boy to--to do what you will probably

do: but the game does not regard good looks, or it would fare badly

with me. Good-bye."

Still there was no shadow of pity in those unfathomable eyes.

I looked into them for a moment, but their shining jet revealed

nothing below the surface--nothing but inexorable calm.

"Good-bye," I said, and rose to go, for Tom's hand was already on my

shoulder. I dared not look in his face. All hope was gone now, all

wealth, all--Stay! I put my fingers in my waistcoat-pocket and drew

out the Golden Clasp. Worthless to me as any sign of the

hiding-place of the Great Ruby, it might yet be worth something as

metal. I had carried it ever since the day when Uncle Loveday and I

read my father's Journal. But what did it matter now? In a few

hours I should be beyond the hope of treasure. Might I not just as

well fling this accursed clasp after the rest? For aught I knew it

might yet win something back to me--that is, if anyone would accept

it as money. At least I would try.

I sank back into my chair again. The woman turned her eyes upon me

carelessly, and said--

"What, back again so soon?"

"Yes," said I, somewhat taken aback by her coldness, "if you will

give me another chance."

"I give nothing, least of all chance," she replied.

"Well, can you tell me if this is worth anything?"

As I said this I held out the clasp, which flashed brightly as it

caught the rays of the large candelabrum overhead. She turned her

eyes upon it, and as she did so, for the first time I fancied I

caught a gleam of interest within them. It was but a gleam, however,

and died out instantly as she said--

"Let me look at it."

I handed it to her. She bent over it for a moment, then turned to me

and asked--

"Is this all of it? I mean that it seems only one half of a clasp.

Have you not the other part?"

I shook my head, and she continued--

"It is beautifully worked, and seems valuable. Do you wish me to buy

it?"

"Not exactly that," I explained; "but if you think it worth anything

I should like to stake it against an equivalent."

"Very well; it might be worth three pounds--perhaps more: but you can

stake it for that if you will. Shall it be all at once?"

"Yes, let me have it over at once," I said, and placed it on the red

square marked 13.

She nodded, and bending over the table, set the pointer on its round.

This time I felt quite calm and cool. All the intoxication of play

had gone from me and left my nerves steady as iron. As the needle

swung round I scarcely looked at it, but fell to watching the faces

of my fellow-gamblers with idle interest. This stake would decide

between life and death for me, but I did not feel it. My passion had

fallen upon an anti-climax, and I was even yawning when the murmur of

many voices, and a small pile of gold and silver at my side,

announced that I had won.

"So the luck was changed at last," said the woman. "Be brave whilst

it is with you."

In answer I again placed the clasp upon the number 13.

Once more I won, and this time heavily. Tom laid his hand upon my

shoulder and said, "Let us go," but I shook my head and went on.

Time after time I won now, until the pile beside me became immense.

Again and again Tom whispered in my ear that we had won enough and

that luck would change shortly, but I held on. And now the others

surrounded me in a small crowd and began to stake on the numbers I

chose. Put the clasp where I would the needle stopped in front of

it. They brought a magnet to see if this curious piece of metal had

any power of attraction, but our hostess only laughed and assured

them at any rate there was no steel in the pointer, as (she added)

some of them ought to know by this time. When eight times I had put

the buckle down and eight times had found a fresh heap of coin at my

side, she turned to me and said--

"You play bravely, young man. What is your name?"

"Jasper Trenoweth."

Again I fancied I caught the gleam in her eyes; and this time it

even seemed as though her teeth shut tight as she heard the words.

But she simply laughed a tranquil laugh and said--

"A queer-sounding name, that Trenoweth. Is it a lucky one?"

"Never, until now," said I.

"Well, play on. It does my heart good, this fight between us.

But you are careful, I see; why don't you stake your pile as well

while this wonderful run lasts?"

Again Tom's hand was laid upon my shoulder, and this time his voice

was urgent. But I was completely deaf.

"As you please," said I, coldly, and laid the whole pile down upon

the black.

It was madness. It was worse than madness. But I won again; and now

the heap of my winnings was enormous. I glanced at the strange

woman; she sat as impassive as ever.

"Play," said she.

Thrice more I won, and now the pile beside her had to be replenished.

Yet she moved not a muscle of her face, not a lash of her mysterious

eyes.

At last, sick of success, I turned and said--

"I have had enough of this. Will it satisfy you if I stake it all

once more?"

Again she laughed. "You are brave, Mr. Trenoweth, and indeed worth

the fighting. You may win to-night, but I shall win in the end.

I told you that I would readily lose to you, and so I will; but you

take me at my word with a vengeance. Still, I should like to possess

that clasp of yours, so let it be once more."

I laid the whole of my winnings on the red. By this time all the

guests had gathered round to see the issue of this conflict. Not a

soul put any money on this turn of the wheel, so engrossed were they

in the duel. Every face was white with excitement, every lip

quivered. Only we, the combatants, sat unmoved--I and the strange

woman with the unfathomable eyes.

"Red stands for many things," said she, as she lightly twirled the

needle round, "blood and rubies and lovers' lips. But black is the

livery of Death, and Death shall win them all in the end."

As the pointer of fortune circled on its last errand, I could catch

the stifled breath of the crowd about me, so deep was the hush that

fell upon us all. I felt Tom's hand tighten its clutch upon my

shoulder. I heard, or fancied I heard, the heart of the man upon my

right thump against his ribs. I could feel my own pulse beating all

the while with steady and regular stroke. Somehow I knew that I

should win, and somehow it flashed upon me that she knew it too.

Even as the idea came darting across my brain, a multitude of pent-up

cries broke forth from thirty pairs of white lips. I scarcely looked

to see the cause, but as I turned to our hostess her eyes looked

straight into mine and her sweet voice rose above the din--

"Gentlemen, we have played enough to-night. The game is over."

I had broken the bank.

I stood with Tom gathering up my winnings as the crowd slowly melted

from the room, and as I did so, cast a glance at the woman whom I had

thus defeated. She was leaning back in her chair, apparently

indifferent to her losses as to her gains. Only her eyes were

steadily fixed upon me as I shovelled the coin into my pockets.

As she caught my eye she pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil,

scribbled a few words, tossed the note to the man with the shovel,

who instantly left the room, and said--

"Is it far from this place to your home?"

"Not very."

"That's well; but be careful. To win such a sum is only less

dangerous than to lose it. I shall see you again--you and your

talisman. By the way, may I look at it for a moment?"

We were alone in the room, we three. She took the clasp, looked at

it intently for a full minute, and then returned it. Already the

dawn of another day was peering in through the chinks in the blinds,

giving a ghastly faintness to the expiring candles, throwing a grey

and sickening reality over the scene--the disordered chairs, the

floor strewn with scraps of paper, the signs and relics of the

debauchery of play. Ghastlier than all was the yellow face of the

woman in the pitiless light. But there she sat, seemingly untired,

in all the splendour of her flashing gems, as we left her--a very

goddess of the gaming-table.

We had reached the door and were stepping into the darkness of the

outer passage, when Tom whispered--

"Be on your guard; that note meant mischief."

I nodded, swung open the door, and stepped out into the darkness.

Even as I did so, I heard one quick step at my left side, saw a faint

gleam, and felt myself violently struck upon the chest. For a moment

I staggered back, and then heard Tom rush past me and deal one

crashing blow.

"Run, run! Down the passage, quick!"

In an instant we were tearing through the black darkness to the outer

door, but in that instant I could see, through the open door behind,

in the glare of all the candles, the figure of the yellow woman still

sitting motionless and calm.

We gained the door, and plunged into the bright daylight. Up the

alley we tore, out into the street, across it and down another, then

through a perfect maze of by-lanes. Tom led and I followed behind,

panting and clutching my bursting pockets lest the coin should tumble

out. Still we tore on, although not a footstep followed us, nor had

we seen a soul since Tom struck my assailant down. Spent and

breathless at last we emerged upon the Strand, and here Tom pulled

up.

"The streets are wonderfully quiet," said he.

I thought for a moment and then said, "It is Sunday morning."

Scarcely were the words out of my mouth when I heard something ring

upon the pavement beside me. I stooped, and picked up--the Golden

Clasp.

"Well," said I, "this is strange."

"Not at all," said Tom. "Look at your breast-pocket."

I looked and saw a short slit across my breast just above the heart.

As I put my hand up, a sovereign, and then another, rolled clinking

on to the pavement.

Tom picked them up, and handing them to me, remarked--

"Jasper, you may thank Heaven to-day, if you are in a mood for it.

You have had a narrow escape."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that you would be a dead man now had you not carried that piece

of metal in your breast-pocket. Let me see it for a moment."

We looked at it together, and there surely enough, almost in the

centre of the clasp, was a deep dent. We were silent for a minute or

so, and then Tom said--

"Let us get home. It would not do for us to be seen with this money

about us."

We crossed the Strand, and turned off it to the door of our lodgings.

There I stopped.

"Tom, I am not coming in. I shall take a long walk and a bathe to

get this fearful night out of my head. You can take the money

upstairs, and put it away somewhere in hiding. Stay, I will keep a

coin or two. Take the rest with you."

Tom looked up at the gleam of sunshine that touched the chimney-pots

above, and decided.

"Well, for my part, I am going to bed; and so will you if you are

wise."

"No. I will be back this evening, so let the fatted calf be

prepared. I must get out of this for a while."

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, anywhere. I don't care. Up the river, perhaps."

"You don't wish me to go with you?"

"No, I had rather be alone. Tom, I have been a fool. I led you into

a hole whence nothing but a marvellous chance has delivered us, and I

owe you an apology. And--Tom, I also owe you my life."

"Not to me, Jasper; to the Clasp."

"To you," I insisted. "Tom, I have been a thoughtless fool, and--

Tom, that was a splendid blow of yours."

He laughed, and ran upstairs, while I turned and gloomily sauntered

down the deserted street.

CHAPTER III.

TELLS AN OLD STORY IN THE TRADITIONAL MANNER.

When Tom asked me where I was going, I had suggested an excursion up

the river; though, to tell the truth, this answer had come with the

question. Be that as it may, the afternoon of that same Sunday found

me on the left bank of the Thames between Streatley and Pangbourne;

found me, with my boat moored idly by, stretched on my back amid the

undergrowth, and easefully staring upward through a trellis-work of

branches into the heavens. I had been lying there a full hour

wondering vaguely of my last night's adventure, listening to the

spring-time chorus of the birds, lazily and listlessly watching a

bough that bent and waved its fan of foliage across my face, or the

twinkle of the tireless kingfisher flashing down-stream in loops of

light, when a blackbird lit on a branch hard by my left hand, and,

all unconscious of an audience, began to pour forth his rapture to

the day.

Lying there I could spy his black body and yellow bill, and drink in

his song with dreamy content. So sweetly and delicately was he

fluting, that by degrees slumber crept gently and unperceived upon my

tired brain; and as the health-giving distillation of the melody

stole upon my parched senses, I fell into a deep sleep.

What was that? Music? Yes, but not the song of my friend the

black-bird, not the mellow note that had wooed me to slumber and

haunted my dreams. Music? Yes, but the voice was human, and the

song articulate. I started, and rose upon my elbow to listen.

The voice was human beyond a doubt--sweetly human: it was that of a

girl singing. But where? I looked around and saw nobody. Yet the

singer could not be far off, for the words, though softly and gently

sung, dwelt clearly and distinctly upon my ear. Still half asleep, I

sank back again and listened.

"Flower of the May,

Saw ye one pass?

'Love passed to-day

While the dawn was,

O, but the eyes of him shone as a glass.'"

The low, delicate notes came tremulous through the thicket.

The blackbird was hushed, the trees overhead swayed soundlessly, and

when the voice fell and paused, so deep was the silence that

involuntarily I held my breath and waited. Presently it broke out

again--

"Bird of the thorn,

What his attire?

'Lo! it was torn,

Marred with the mire,

And but the eyes of him sparkled with fire.'"

Again the voice died away in soft cadences, and again all was

silence. I rose once more upon my elbow, and gazed into the green

depths of the wood; but saw only the blackbird perched upon a twig

and listening with head askew.

"Flower of the May,

Bird of the--"

The voice quivered, trailed off and stopped. I heard a rustling of

leaves to the right, and then the same voice broke out in prose, in

very agitated and piteous prose--"Oh, my boat! my boat! What shall I

do?"

I jumped to my feet, caught a glimpse of something white, and of

two startled but appealing eyes, then tore down to the bank.

There, already twenty yards downstream, placidly floated the boat,

its painter trailing from the bows, and its whole behaviour pointing

to a leisurely but firm resolve to visit Pangbourne.

My own boat was close at hand. But when did hot youth behave with

thought in a like case? I did as ninety-nine in a hundred would do.

I took off my coat, kicked off my shoes, and as the voice cried,

"Oh, please, do not trouble," plunged into the water. The refractory

boat, once on its way, was in no great hurry, and allowed itself to

be overtaken with great good-humour. I clambered in over the stern,

caught up the sculls which lay across the thwarts, and, dripping but

triumphant, brought my captive back to shore.

"How can I thank you?"

If my face was red as I looked up, it must be remembered that I had

to stoop to make the boat fast. If my eyes had a tendency to look

down again, it must be borne in mind that the water from my hair was

dripping into them. They gazed for a moment, however, and this was

what they saw:--

At first only another pair of eyes, of dark grey eyes twinkling with

a touch of merriment, though full at the same time of honest

gratitude. It was some time before I clearly understood that these

eyes belonged to a face, and that face the fairest that ever looked

on a summer day. First, as my gaze dropped before that vision of

radiant beauty, it saw only an exquisite figure draped in a dress of

some white and filmy stuff, and swathed around the shoulders with a

downy shawl, white also, across which fell one ravishing lock of

waving brown, shining golden in the kiss of the now drooping sun.

Then the gaze fell lower, lighted upon a little foot thrust slightly

forward for steadiness on the bank's verge, and there rested.

So we stood facing one another--Hero and Leander, save that Leander

found the effects of his bath more discomposing than the poets give

any hint of. So we stood, she smiling and I dripping, while the

blackbird, robbed of the song's ending, took up his own tale anew,

and, being now on his mettle, tried a few variations. So, for all

power I had of speech, might we have stood until to-day had not the

voice repeated--

"How can I thank you?"

I looked up. Yes, she was beautiful, past all criticism--not tall,

but in pose and figure queenly beyond words. Under the brim of her

straw hat the waving hair fell loosely, but not so loosely as to hide

the broad brow arching over lashes of deepest brown. Into the eyes I

dared not look again, but the lips were full and curling with humour,

the chin delicately poised over the most perfect of necks. In her

right hand she held a carelessly-plucked creeper that strayed down

the white of her dress and drooped over the high firm instep. And so

my gaze dropped to earth again. Pity me. I had scarcely spoken to

woman before, never to beauty. Tongue-tied and dripping I stood

there, yet was half inclined to run away.

"And yet, why did you make yourself so wet? Have you no boat?

Is not that your boat lying there under the bank?" There was an

amused tremor in the speech.

Somehow I felt absurdly guilty. She must have mistaken my glance,

for she went on:--"Is it that you wish--?" and began to search in the

pocket of her gown.

"No, no," I cried, "not that."

I had forgotten the raggedness of my clothes, now hideously

emphasised by my bath. Of course she took me for a beggar. Why not?

I looked like one. But as the thought flashed upon me it brought

unutterable humiliation. She must have divined something of the

agony in my eyes, for a tiny hand was suddenly laid on my arm and the

voice said--

"Please, forgive me; I was stupid, and am so sorry."

Forgive her? I looked up for an instant and now her lids drooped in

their turn. There was a silence between us for a moment or two,

broken only by the blackbird, by this time entangled in a maze of

difficult variations. Presently she glanced up again, and the grey

eyes were now chastely merry.

"But it was odd to swim when your boat was close at hand, was it

not?"

I looked, faltered, met her honest glance, and we both broke out into

shy laughter. A mad desire to seize the little hand that for a

moment had rested on my arm caught hold of me.

"Yes, it was odd," I answered slowly and with difficulty; "but it

seemed--the only thing to do at the time."

She laughed a low laugh again.

"Do you generally behave like that?"

"I don't know."

There was a pause and then I added--

"You see, you took me by surprise."

"Where were you when I first called?" she asked.

"Lying in the grass close by."

"Then"--with a vivid blush--"you must have--"

"Heard you singing? Yes."

"Oh!"

Again there was a pause, and this time the blackbird executed an

elaborate exercise with much delicacy and finish. The brown lashes

drooped, the lovely eyes were bent on the grass, and the little hand

swung the creeper nervously backward and forward.

"Why did you not warn me that I had an audience?"

"Because, in the first place, I was too late. When you began I

was--"

"What?" she asked as I hesitated.

"Asleep."

"And I disturbed you. I am so sorry."

"I am not."

I was growing bolder as she became more embarrassed. I looked down

upon her now from my superior height, and my heart went out to

worship the grace of God's handiwork. With a touch of resentment she

drew herself up, held out her hand, and said somewhat proudly--

"I thank you, sir, for this service."

I took the hand, but not the hint. It was an infinitesimal hand as

it lay in my big brown one, and yet it stung my frame as with some

delicious and electric shock. My heart beat wildly and my eyes

remained fixed upon hers.

The colour on the fair face deepened a shade: the little chin was

raised a full inch, and the voice became perceptibly icy.

"I must go, sir. I hope I have thanked you as far as I can, and--"

"And what?"

"Forgive me that I was about to offer you money."

The hat's brim bent now, but under it I could see the honest eyes

full of pain.

"Forgive you!" I cried. "Who am I to forgive you? You were right:

I am no better than a beggar."

The red lips quivered and broke into a smile; a tiny dimple appeared,

vanished and reappeared; the hat's brim nodded again, and then the

eyes sparkled into laughter--

"A sturdy beggar, at any rate."

It was the poorest little joke, but love is not exacting of wit.

Again we both laughed, but this time with more relief, and yet the

embarrassment that followed was greater.

"Must you go?" I asked as I bent down to pull the boat in.

"I really must," she answered shyly; and then as she pulled out a

tiny watch at her waist--"Oh! I am late--so late. I shall keep

mother waiting and make her lose the train. What shall I do?

Oh, pray, sir, be quick!"

A mad hope coursed through me; I pointed to the boat and said--

"I have made it so wet. If you are late, better let me row you.

Where are you going?"

"To Streatley; but I cannot--"

"I also am going to Streatley. Please let me row you: I will not

speak if you wish it."

Over her face, now so beautifully agitated, swept the rarest of

blushes. "Oh no, it is not that, but I can manage quite well"--her

manner gave the lie to her brave words--"and I shall not mind the

wet."

"If I have not offended you, let me row."

"No, no."

"Then I have offended."

"Please do not think so."

"I shall if you will not let me row."

Before my persistency she wavered and was conquered. "But my boat?"

she said.

"I will tow it behind"--and in the glad success of my hopes I allowed

her no time for further parley, but ran off for my own boat, tied the

two together, and gently helped her to her seat. Was ever moment so

sweet? Did ever little palm rest in more eager hand than hers in

mine during that one heavenly moment? Did ever heart beat so

tumultuously as mine, as I pushed the boat from under the boughs and

began to row?

Somehow, as we floated up the still river, a hush fell upon us.

She was idly trailing her hand in the stream and watching the ripple

as it broke and sparkled through her fingers. Her long lashes

drooped down upon her cheek and veiled her eyes, whilst I sat

drinking in her beauty and afraid by a word to break the spell.

Presently she glanced up, met my burning eyes, and looked down

abashed.

"Forgive me, I could not help it."

She tried to meet the meaning of that sentence with a steady look,

but broke down, and as the warm blood surged across her face, bent

her eyes to the water again. For myself, I knew of nothing to say in

extenuation of my speech. My lips would have cried her mercy, but no

words came. I fell to rowing harder, and the silence that fell upon

us was unbroken. The sun sank and suddenly the earth grew cold and

grey, the piping of the birds died wholly out, the water-flags

shivered and whispered before the footsteps of night. Slowly, very

slowly the twilight hung its curtains around us. Swiftly, too

swiftly the quiet village drew near, but my thoughts were neither of

the village nor the night. As I sat and pulled silently upwards,

life was entirely changing for me. Old thoughts, old passions, old

aims and musings slipped from me and swept off my soul as the

darkening river swept down into further night.

"Streatley! So soon! We are in time, then."

Humbly my heart thanked her for those words, "So soon." I gave her

my hand to help her ashore, and, as I did so, said--

"You will forgive me?"

"For getting wet in my service? What is there to forgive?"

Oh, cruelly kind! The moon was up now and threw its full radiance on

her face as she turned to go. My eyes were speaking imploringly, but

she persisted in ignoring their appeal.

"You often come here?"

"Oh, no! Sunday is my holiday; I am not so idle always. But mother

loves to come here on Sundays. Ah, how I have neglected her to-day!"

There was a world of self-reproach in her speech, and again she would

have withdrawn her hand and gone.

"One moment," said I, hoarsely. "Will you--can you--tell me your

name?"

There was a demure smile on her face as the moon kissed it, and--

"They call me Claire," she said.

"Claire," I murmured, half to myself.

"And yours?" she asked.

"Jasper--Jasper Trenoweth."

"Then good-bye, Mr. Jasper Trenoweth. Goodbye, and once more I thank

you."

She was gone; and standing stupid and alone I watched her graceful

figure fade into the shadow and take with it the light and joy of my

life.

"Jasper," said Tom, as I lounged into our wretched garret, "have you

ever known what it is to suffer from the responsibility of wealth?

I do not mean a few paltry sovereigns; but do you know what it is to

live with, say, three thousand four hundred and sixty-five pounds

thirteen and sixpence on your conscience?"

"No," I said; "I cannot say that I have. But why that extraordinary

sum?"

"Because that is the sum which has been hanging all day around me as

a mill-stone. Because that is the exact amount which at present

makes me fear to look my fellow-man in the face."

I simply stared.

"Jasper, you are singularly dense, or much success has turned your

brain. Say, Jasper, that success has not turned your brain."

"Not that I know of," I replied.

"Very well, then," said Tom, stepping to the bed and pulling back the

counterpane with much mystery. "Oblige me by counting this sum,

first the notes, then the gold, and finally the silver. Or, if that

is too much trouble, reflect that on this modest couch recline

bank-notes for three thousand one hundred and twenty pounds, gold

sovereigns to the number of three hundred and forty-two, whence by an

easy subtraction sum we obtain a remainder of silver, in value three

pounds thirteen and sixpence."

"But, Tom, surely we never won all that?"

"We did though, and may for the rest of our days settle down as

comparatively honest medical students. So that I propose we have

supper, and drink--for I have provided drink--to the Luck of the

Golden Clasp."

Stunned with the events of the last twenty-four hours, I sat down to

table, but could scarcely touch my food. Tom's tongue went

ceaselessly, now apologising for the fare, now entertaining imaginary

guests, and always addressing me as a man of great wealth and

property.

"Jasper," he remarked at length, "either you are ill, or you must

have been eating to excess all day."

"Neither."

"Do I gather that you wish to leave the table, and pursue your mortal

foe up and down Oxford Street?"

I shook my head.

"What! no revenge to-night? No thirst for blood?"

"Tom," I replied, solemnly, "neither to-night nor any other night.

My revenge is dead."

"Dear me! when did it take place? It must have been very sudden."

"It died to-day."

"Jasper," said Tom, laying his hand on my shoulder, "either wealth

has turned your brain, or most remarkably given you sanity."

CHAPTER IV.

TELLS HOW I SAW THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK; AND HOW I TOLD AND HEARD

NEWS.

A week passed, and in the interval Tom and I made several

discoveries. In the first place, to our great relief, we discovered

that the bank-notes were received in Threadneedle Street without

question or demur. Secondly, we found our present lodgings narrow,

and therefore moved westward to St. James's. Further, it struck us

that our clothes would have to conform to the "demands of more

Occidental civilisation," as Tom put it, and also that unless we

intended to be medical students for ever it was necessary to become

medical men. Lastly, it began to dawn upon Tom that "Francesca: a

Tragedy" was a somewhat turgid performance, and on me that a holiday

on Sunday was demanded by six days of work.

I do not know that we displayed any remarkable interest in the

_Materia Medica_, or that the authorities of Guy's looked upon us as

likely to do them any singular credit. But Tom, who had now a

writing-desk, made great alterations in "Francesca," while I consumed

vast quantities of tobacco in the endeavour to reproduce a certain

face in my note-book; and I am certain that the resolution to take a

holiday on Sunday was as strong at the end of the first week as

though I had wrought my faculties to the verge of brain fever.

I did not see her on that Sunday, or the next, though twice my boat

explored the river between Goring and Pangbourne from early morning

until nightfall. But let me hasten over heart-aching and bitterness,

and come to the blessed Sunday when for a second time I saw my love.

Again the day was radiant with summer. Above, the vaulted blue

arched to a capstone of noonday gold. Hardly a fleecy cloud troubled

the height of heaven, or blotted the stream's clear mirror; save here

and there where the warm air danced and quivered over the still

meadows, the season's colour lay equal upon earth. Before me the

river wound silently into the sunny solitude of space untroubled by

sight of human form.

But what was that speck of white far down the bank--that brighter

spot upon the universal brightness, moving, advancing? My heart gave

one great leap; in a moment my boat's bows were high upon the

crumbling bank, and I was gazing down the tow-path.

Yes, it was she! From a thousand thousand I could tell that

perfect form as it loitered--how slowly--up the river's verge.

Along heaven's boundary the day was lit with glory for me, and all

the glory but a golden frame for that white speck so carelessly

approaching. Still and mute I stood as it drew nearer--so still, so

mute, that a lazy pike thrust out its wolfish jaws just under my feet

and, seeing me, splashed under again in great discomposure; so

motionless that a blundering swallow all but darted against me, then

swept curving to the water, and vanished down the stream.

She had been gathering May-blossom, and held a cluster in one hand.

As before, her gown was purest white, and, as before, a nodding hat

guarded her fair face jealously.

Nearer and nearer she came, glanced carelessly at me who stood

bare-headed in the sun's glare, was passing, and glanced again,

hesitated for one agonising moment, and then, as our eyes met, shot

out a kindly flash of remembrance, followed by the sweetest of little

blushes.

"So you are here again," she said, as she gave her hand, and her

voice made exquisite music in my ear.

"Again?" I said, slowly releasing her fingers as a miser might part

with treasure. "Again? I have been here every Sunday since."

"Dear me! is it so long ago? Only three weeks after all.

I remember, because--"

The fleeting hope possessed me that it might be some recollection in

which I had place, but my illusion was swiftly shattered.

"Because," the pitiless sentence continued, "mother was not well that

evening; in fact, she has been ill ever since. So it is only three

weeks."

"Only three weeks!" I echoed.

"Yes," she nodded. "I have not seen the river for all that time.

Is it changed?"

"Sadly changed."

"How?"

"Perhaps I have changed."

"Well, I hope so," she laughed, "after that wetting;" then, seeing an

indignant flash in my eyes, she added quickly, "which you got by so

kindly bringing back my boat."

"You have not been rowing to-day?"

"No; see, I have been gathering the last of the May-blossom. May is

all but dead."

"And 'Flower of the May'?"

"Please do not remind me of that foolish song. Had I known, I would

not have sung it for worlds."

"I would not for worlds have missed it."

Again she frowned and now turned to go. "And you, too, must make

these speeches!"

The world of reproach in her tone was at once gall and honey to me.

Gall, because the "you too" conjured up a host of jealous imaginings;

honey, because it was revealed that of me she had hoped for better.

And now like a fool I had flung her good opinion away and she was

leaving me.

I made a half-step forward.

"I must go now," she said, and the little hand was held out in token

of farewell.

"No! no! I have offended you."

No answer.

"I have offended you," I insisted, still holding her hand.

"I forgive you. But, indeed, I must go." The hand made a faint

struggle to be free.

"Why?"

My voice came hard and unnatural. I still held the fingers, and as I

did so, felt the embarrassment of utter shyness pass over the bridge

of our two hands and settle chokingly upon my heart.

"Why?" I repeated, more hoarsely yet.

"Because--because I must not neglect mother again. She is waiting."

"Then let me go with you."

"Oh, no! Some day--if we meet--I will introduce you."

"Why not now?"

"Because she is not well."

Even my lately-acquired knowledge of the _Materia Medico_, scarcely

warranted me in offering to cure her. But I did.

She laughed shyly and said, "How, sir; are you a doctor?"

"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothecary," I said

lightly, "neither one nor the other, but that curious compound of the

two last--a medical student."

"Then I will not trust you," she answered, smiling.

"Better trust me," I said; and something in my words again made her

look down.

"You will trust me?" I pleaded, and the something in my words grew

plainer.

Still no answer.

"Oh, trust me!"

The hand quivered in mine an instant, the eyes looked up and laughed

once more. "I will trust you," she said--"not to move from this spot

until I am out of sight."

Then with a light "Good-bye" she was gone, and I was left to vaguely

comprehend my loss.

Before long I had seen her a third time and yet once again. I had

learnt her name to be Luttrell--Claire Luttrell; how often did I not

say the words over to myself? I had also confided in Tom and

received his hearty condolence, Tom being in that stage of youth

which despises all of which it knows nothing--love especially, as a

thing contrary to nature's uniformity. So Tom was youthfully

cynical, and therefore by strange inference put on the airs of

superior age; was also sceptical of my description, especially a

certain comparison of her eyes to stars, though a very similar trope

occurred somewhere in the tragedy. Indeed therein Francesca's eyes

were likened to the Pleiads, being apparently (as I pointed out with

some asperity) seven in number, and one of them lost.

I had also seen Mrs. Luttrell, a worn and timid woman, with weak blue

eyes and all the manner of the professional invalid. I say this now,

but in those days she was in my eyes a celestial being mysteriously

clothed in earth's infirmities--as how should the mother of Claire be

anything else? Somehow I won the favour of this faded creature--

chiefly, I suspect, because she liked so well to be left alone.

All day long she would sit contentedly watching the river and waiting

for Claire, yet only anxious that Claire should be happy. All her

heart centred on her child, and often, in spite of our friendliness,

I caught her glancing from Claire to me with a jealous look, as

though the mother guessed what the child suspected but dimly, if at

all.

So the summer slipped away, all too fleetly--to me, as I look back

after these weary years, in a day. But nevertheless much happened:

not much that need be written down in bald and pitiless prose, but

much to me who counted and treasured every moment that held my

darling near me. So the Loves through that golden season wound us

round with their invisible chains and hovered smiling and waiting.

So we drifted week after week upon the river, each time nearer and

nearer to the harbour of confession. The end was surely coming, and

at last it came.

It was a gorgeous August evening. A week before she had told me that

Saturday would be a holiday for her, and had, when pressed, admitted

a design of spending it upon the river. Need it be confessed that

Saturday saw me also in my boat, expectant? And when she came and

feigned pretty astonishment at meeting me, and scepticism as to my

doing any work throughout the week, need I say the explanation took

time and seemed to me best delivered in a boat? At any rate, so it

was; and somehow, the explanation took such a vast amount of time,

that the sun was already plunging down the western slope of heaven

when we stepped ashore almost on the very spot where first I had

heard her voice.

As the first film of evening came creeping over earth, there fell a

hush between us. A blackbird--the same, I verily believe--took the

opportunity to welcome us. His note was no longer full and unstudied

as in May. The summer was nearly over, and with it his voice was

failing; but he did his best, and something in the hospitality of his

song prompted me to break the silence.

"This is the very spot on which we met for the first time--do you

remember?"

"Of course I remember," was the simple answer.

"You do?" I foolishly burned to hear the assurance again.

"Of course--it was such a lovely day."