CHAPTER XXX.

After the marriage and the going back of Lavirotte to London, all

things went on regularly in their old course. Before the return of the

bride and bridegroom from their Continental tour, Mr. O'Donnell paid

the second call. He had done so with extreme difficulty. It had taken

every penny he could lay his hand upon; and, indeed, the way in which

he was obliged to draw in money from those who owed it to him

threatened to be of serious injury to his business.

Still he fought on bravely. The heart of the old man was stirred

within him. His dogged nature was aroused to activity such as it had

never known, even in his younger days. James O'Donnell was at bay, and

he would show the world what James O'Donnell could do when his case

seemed desperate.

Day and night he worked. His energy appeared inextinguishable. His

resources seemed to increase with the demands upon them. His vision

was clear, his judgment infallible, his instincts true, his

premonitions verified. Rathclare stood still and watched this miracle

of new-born strength in the old man. People knew well enough that he

had called in his last farthing, and that now, outside the four walls

of his business place, he had not a hundred pounds in the world,

beyond the book debts, which to claim hastily would be finally to

destroy the business.

When his son came back from abroad, he was more amazed than anyone

else. The slow, plodding manner of late years had completely

disappeared from his father, and instead he encountered the

indomitable energy, the insatiable thirst for activity, and a judgment

clearer and sounder than he had ever found in any other man.

The newly-married couple took a small house in Glengowra. Every day

Eugene went in to business, and every day returned to Glengowra in

time for dinner.

While Eugene was away his father had written to him, saying he had

paid the second call, and that, with the help of Lavirotte, he would

be able to pay the third, which would, he assumed, be the last.

In Dublin the opinion was that the third call would certainly be the

last. The determination was to wind the whole thing up with the

greatest possible despatch, and hide its infamy away for ever. It was

possible for accountants, who had charge of the affair, to go over the

share book, and place opposite every name, which had hitherto proved

solvent, a very close approximation of the resources at the disposal

of each; and it gradually oozed out that there would be no use in

having a call of anything less than five hundred pounds, for if they

had two hundred and fifty now, and another two hundred and fifty later

on, they would simply have the same names recurring, since the men who

could meet the two hundred and fifty could meet the five. In

Rathclare, at last, people began to believe that someone must have

promised to sustain O'Donnell at the final moment, for all agreed that

unless the old man had lost his reason, there could be now no doubt he

was certain to tide over the affair. He had made arrangements one,

two, three years in advance. He was in treaty for purchasing adjoining

buildings with a view to incorporating them in his vast store. He had

ordered new lighters to be laid down for him in the dockyard. Up to

this he had always refused the mayoralty of the town, although he had

for many years been a member of the corporation. Now he allowed

himself to be put forward as a candidate for next year. No bankrupt

could be mayor.

From first to last he had never once sought any communication with the

Vernons. Now he seemed to think his old friend not so great a criminal

as at one time he appeared. Although he could not entirely forgive

him, he spoke less harshly of him than of old, and was heard even to

say once: "Poor devil, how do we know how he was dragged into it?"

Meanwhile, Lionel Crawford and Dominique Lavirotte wrought with the

energy of desperate men in the basement of St. Prisca's Tower. By day

they dug and delved, Lavirotte, being younger, carrying the fruit of

their labour to the top of the tower. The slow and cautious mode of

procedure adopted by the old man was too tedious for the fiery-hearted

Frenchman.

"I'll risk the lofts," cried Lavirotte, "if I were to perish beneath

them. You may stick to your old plan if you like, but it is too slow

for me. It would kill me. It would drive me mad, when I think of my

friends over there, when I think of the approaching ruin which we may

avert."

Mr. Kempston was a bachelor, easy-going and somewhat indolent, when

the first news reached him that Vernon and Son had closed their doors.

Hour after hour, and day after day, brought him nothing but a tedious

aggravation of the worst reports, and gradually it dawned upon him

that now, when he was no longer young, he was a ruined man.

Harrington, the father of Dora, and he had been friends in youth.

Hence his trusteeship to the will. Hence his guardianship of Dora. He

had always been a man of excellent business capacity; but outside his

business he was inclined to be lazy, self-indulgent, extravagant. When

younger, he was greatly devoted to what is called fun. Now he liked

rich living, good company, good clubs, and, if the truth might be

told, a great deal more rather high whist than was good for his

pocket.

He paid the first "call" of the Vernon bank with a groan. "When I have

paid the second," he said, "I shall still have my profession--that

is," he said bitterly, "if they don't make a bankrupt of me."

Then Lavirotte came with his amazing promise of indemnity, and his

still more amazing forgiveness. The elderly attorney groaned, smiled,

shook his head, swore, thanked Lavirotte profusely, said he'd take the

help if it came, grasped Lavirotte by the hand, swore again, gave

Lavirotte an excellent luncheon at his club, shook hands and said

good-bye to Lavirotte, and then swore mutely the whole way from his

club back to his office.

When the time for paying the second instalment arrived, he paid it

without a murmur, and then swore no more. He had nothing to swear by.

Day by day Lionel Crawford and Dominique Lavirotte tore at the earth

and clay and stones at the base of St. Prisca's Tower. Day by day they

grew nearer and nearer to the goal.

Crawford had told Lavirotte what that goal would be like. He knew

every stone of that tower from his old readings.

They were to keep now to the centre, as near as possible, driving the

pick down as far as ever they could.

"If it meets anything hard," said the old man, "strike again with the

pick a few inches all round, and if it meets anything hard all round,

that's it--that's the conical roof of the vault. In that vault the

chests have now lain buried more than two hundred years."

At last, the accountants who had charge of the affairs of Vernon and

Son issued the last call.

It was for five hundred pounds per share.

Eugene wrote to Lavirotte, and asked him, for God's sake, to be quick.

Lavirotte scarcely ate or slept. For days now he did not go near Dora,

even. He was wasted, haggard, thin. He had long ago given up living at

his rooms off the Strand. He and Lionel Crawford spent all their time

now in the tower. Once in two or three days he went to his lodgings to

see if there were letters. The morning he went and found Eugene's

there he felt faint, and he had no sooner sat down in a chair than the

fact that he had at last worn out all his energies came upon him. If

death threatened him there he could not have arisen. For two nights he

had not slept, and he had eaten little for the two days. The lofts had

already shown unmistakable signs of impatience at the weight they

bore. Any moment they might come crushing down upon the two workers,

burying Crawford and himself and the stupendous treasure for ever,

since outside that tower no living being knew what they sought.

The sight of Eugene's letter, and the sense that not only were his

labours not completed, but that they must be redoubled, overcame him.

He called for wine.

They brought him some. He drank a little, and felt stronger. He

thought if he drank a little more he might be able to get back to the

tower before his drowsiness overcame him.

He drank a little more wine, and, before he found himself sufficiently

invigorated to move, he fell asleep in the chair.

He did not awake for some hours. Then he felt refreshed and stronger.

"It was a shame for me," he said, "to fall asleep, but the sleep has

done me good. Now to work once more."

He drove to within a hundred yards of St. Prisca's Tower, and there

alighted. He walked up to the massive oak door, opened it with his

key, and entered the tower.

The darkness was Cimmerian. He could see absolutely nothing.

"Crawford must be aloft." He looked down.

His eye detected something unusual below.

In the middle of the impenetrable gloom there was what seemed to him a

phosphorescent glow, covering about two square feet of the bottom of

the pit. The lantern by which they worked was not to be seen. What

could this glow of light be? The lantern, when below, looked like a

distinct yellow patch surrounded by circles of light, decreasing in

brightness as they receded from the lantern. But the light below was

perfectly equal. It was not more intense at the centre than at the

edges, and, contrary to the case of the lantern, there was no dark

patch in the centre.

Lavirotte descended the ladder in uneasy amazement, and approached the

glowing space.

It was not until within a few feet of it he discovered what it was.

A hole!

At the bottom, twelve feet below, an uneven floor.

Through the hole dangled a rope.

On the floor below, the lantern by which Crawford and he worked.

Close to the lamp, the prostrate form of a man.

Lavirotte seized the rope and descended.

This was the vault in which they had hidden the treasure,

unmistakably.

He stooped and raised the lantern, casting the light slowly all round

him, so that when he had finished his inspection nothing that was in

that vault could be unknown to him.

Then he knelt down beside the prostrate form of the man, and turned

the face upward.

Lionel Crawford!

There was no other way of getting out of that vault but by climbing up

that rope.

He tried to climb that rope and failed. His strength was gone.

He sat down on the floor of the vault, and covered his face with his

hands. With the exception of himself, the lantern, and the corpse of

Lionel Crawford, the vault was empty!

Part II.

CHAPTER I.

For a while Lavirotte sat on the floor of that vault, immovable. He

was confounded, stunned.

He found himself confronted by three terrible facts.

There was no treasure here. Here was the dead body of Lionel Crawford.

Here was he himself entombed.

When he closed the door of the tower, he locked it on the inside, and

put the key in his pocket. How was anyone to find out he was here?

Lionel Crawford had told him that during all the months and months he

had lived in that place no one, to his knowledge, had ever rapped at

the door. Was it likely anyone would rap now? And, if anyone did, what

use would the rapping be?

From the top of the vault to the threshold of the door was at least

twenty feet; and he was twelve feet below the top of the vault. And

all day long, around and about the base of St. Prisca's Tower the

heavy traffic of one of the great waterside streets groaned and

screeched and murmured, continually pierced by the shouts and oaths of

men, until such a dull, dead, loud tumult reared itself against the

walls of the tower that no single human voice could by any possibility

be, in the daytime, heard without from where he now sat.

By night things would not improve. If he happened to be on a level

with the door leading from the tower into the lane, he could, no

doubt, hear the footfall of the infrequent policeman. But here, thirty

feet down, and with the concave shield of the vault between him and

the doorway, and the massive door between him and the lane, it would

be insanity to expect he could hear so slight a sound.

There, it is true, dangled the rope through the hole. He could read

the last chapter in the life of Lionel Crawford by the aid of that

rope. Would someone else, years, ay perhaps a century hence, be able

to read the last chapter of his life by the aid of what would then

remain of that rope?

He saw how it had been with the dead old man. During his (Lavirotte's)

absence, Crawford's pickaxe had struck upon the roof of the vault.

Crawford then felt that the labours of his life were at an end. While

he (Lavirotte) was sleeping, the old man must have worked like a

giant. They had found the floor above the vault a few days ago. Now,

here was hard against the steel pick the very stone that kept the

treasure from the old man's eyes.

He could see Crawford stoop in the dim light of the lantern, lean over

his pick, grovel under his shovel, panting, praying, sweating, until a

large space of the stonework of the roof had been cleared.

Then he could see the ardent, eager, tremulous haste of the old man

as, bit by bit, he picked out the mortar from between the stones,

until at last he had freed one stone, and succeeded in getting it out

of the bed in which it had lain for centuries.

To enlarge the orifice was a matter of no great labour or time. He

simply put his arm through the hole, and swung a sledgehammer against

the roof-stones until he had loosed them. Then he removed them one by

one, making the opening big enough to allow him to descend.

When all was ready for going down he went up to one of the lofts and

fetched a rope, tied one end of this rope to the foot of the ladder

that dipped into the pit, or to several of the larger stones, or to

the handles of one of the baskets filled with earth--to something

which would more than counterpoise his weight. Then, taking the

lantern with him, and the hopes of years and the certainty of success,

he had lowered himself into that blind void, in the full belief that

within a minute from the time he began the descent he would be in

possession of one of the largest treasures ever discovered by man on

earth.

He had slid down that rope. He had in all likelihood done as he

(Lavirotte) had done--swung the lantern hither and thither, round and

round, until he had found out that the vault was empty, the treasure

had been carried away, or had never been deposited there at all.

Then the shock had, no doubt, been too much for the overwrought

nature, and the broken spirit of Lionel Crawford had fled.

There was no reason to suppose that any vapours of the place had

killed him, for while he died the light in the lantern lived. Man has

taken the wolf and made a servant of him. Man has taken the fox and

made a servant of him. He has called the two when fused, the dog. Man

has taken the heat of the sun and the blaze of the volcano, and has

called the two when fused, fire. They are both his especial slaves.

They are both his especial prerogatives. The dog is his creature. Fire

is his creature. Neither exists without him. Either will die where he

cannot live. The light of the lantern had outlived Crawford, which

showed that he had not died of any exhaled or infiltrated poisonous

gas.

Shock or exhaustion had killed the old man. What was to kill him,

Lavirotte?

Hunger?

He shuddered and looked around. How horrible the thought of dying of

hunger; there, within thirty feet of one of the great ways that, from

early to late, was crammed and choked with all kinds of simple or rich

or rare or exquisite food, endlessly moving westward for the

sustentation of the great city. To die of hunger there, when the

freight of one huge van now lumbering by would preserve a whole

regiment from starving for a week, would give him enough food for

years.

To die of hunger there within five hundred yards of five thousand

people, not the humblest of whom would refuse to share with him his

crust, if that humblest of the upper earth but knew how dire his

extremity.

To die of hunger there, with money in his pocket, when, within a

stone's throw of the door of that tower, there were ten places whose

only business was to supply food, not to those who were absolutely

hungry in the sense of their approaching death through hunger, but to

those who were hungry in the ordinary trivial routine of the day.

It seemed horrible. He took down his hands from before his eyes, and

looked with horror around him. To be alone without any chance of

delivery and in danger of death is bad, seemingly almost the worst

condition in which a man could find himself; but to be alone, beyond

succour, threatened by death, and in the presence of the already dead,

is ten thousand times more appalling.

In the former case we know to a certainty, we are assured beyond doubt

that we shall die, but the realisation of death is unfixed and'

shadowy. We have, ever since we can remember, known we should die. We

have seen death, touched death, kissed the dear dead, seen the dead

put finally away in the cold envicinage of earth. But few have sat

looking at the dead, waiting for death.

Here to Lavirotte death was approaching. There to Lavirotte was an

exemplar of the dead. As that was, he should be. The whole blue vault

of heaven should vanish. The whole sweet plains and dales and hills of

earth should be to him no more. No more to him than to _that_ lying

there now before him. Hope and love and joy and friendship, and the

sweet commune with the great body of sympathetic man, where experience

had first developed, expectancy had first arisen, and vague and

splendid imaginings had had their hint and form, should all, all

evanesce.

Here, upon what was to have been the completion of their joint great

work, was to be no reward, but their joint death. Of old he had smiled

at Crawford's enthusiastic belief in this buried treasure. Then he had

come to share Crawford's beliefs and hopes. Now he had come to share

Crawford's despair and grave.

Out of that vault there was no chance he should ever go alive. The

friends whom he had striven to serve would believe him to have been a

foolish braggart or a vicious liar. The girl whom he was to wed would

know no more of his fate than though a whirlwind had plucked him up

and cast him, unseen by man, into the middle of the sea.

There would be no record of him when all was over, until, perhaps, a

century hence reference would be made somewhere to his bones.

It was hotter here than above-ground, much hotter.

To die of hunger was, he had always heard, one of the most painful of

deaths. Yet here was he caged in by all adversity, destined to end his

life for want of such things as no man above-ground need die for lack

of, since, when all man's individual enterprise was marred or put

away, the State stepped forth and said he shall not die for need of

mere bread.

It was much hotter here than in the cool broad streets, fenced with

places where one could get wholesome food, and get that wholesome

food--cheap. The sky was above those streets. He had seen the sky as

he drove along the Strand and Fleet Street to-day. The sky was blue,

and to wave one's arms upwards towards it was to feel refreshed and

cool.

Cool--cool--cool.

It was getting hotter.

As he had come along the Strand that evening he had thought he would

stop the cab at one of those many, many shops that hedged the way, and

get a drink of something deliciously cool and bitter to take away the

thirst which that wine had put upon him. But then he was so eager to

reach the tower, he had forborne.

Now he was sorry. He had had only two glasses of that wine, and two

such small glasses were very little good to quench thirst when one was

thirsty. How much better it would have been for him to have taken a

whole pint of milk, or cold, clear, sparkling water. If he had had

either of these----

The place was getting hotter and hotter. He looked at the candle in

the lantern. It was burning low. In an hour he should be in the dark.

What a pity he had not bought a lemon for a penny. How strange seemed

the difference between a penny here and a penny in the Strand or Fleet

Street a little while ago. He had gold and silver in his pocket, and

although he thought to himself as he drove along, "Why should I give a

penny for a lemon, when I know as soon as I get to the tower I shall

be able to have as much water as I desire for nothing?" now he was in

the tower, and he knew that on one of the lofts above was water more

than any man could drink in many days, and yet he would have given all

the silver he had in his pocket for one pint.

The heat seemed to increase.

He stood up. His limbs were scarcely strong enough to support him. His

strength had left him wholly. He looked up at the opening over his

head. He clutched the rope. He pushed his arms up as far as they would

reach, then raised his feet from the ground. The hands would not

support the body. The rope slipped through them. He fell awkwardly

upon the hard floor of the vault.

A subtle dust rose from the floor. It filled his eyes, his nose, his

mouth. He rose into a kneeling posture. He pressed his eyelids down

with his fingers. He blew the dust from his nose. He thrust out his

dry parched tongue, and sought to clear it of the dust with the back

of his hand. But his hand, too, was dusty, dry.

Oh, if he might have but one wineglassful of the water in the loft

above! Just one wineglassful to clear his mouth of the hideous

dryness, and the still more hideous dust of two hundred years. Just so

much water as would suffice to lave the parched portions of his mouth,

and carry away the foul savour.

He had heard that to die of hunger was painful.

He had heard that to die of thirst was madness.

Was he to die of thirst?

CHAPTER II.

Thirst! It was an awful death, one of the worst that could befall man.

He had read of it, heard of it both aboard ship and on the solid land.

He had read how in China they kept malefactors seven or eight days

without food or drink, until at last, having become already mad, they

died. But in China or the broad plains of the Pacific, to die of

thirst was intelligible, tolerable. In China, a man must have done

something more or less criminal, according to the notions of the

people there; and at sea, one, when first launched without water,

might live for a while upon the hope of a sail.

But here was he now, absolutely innocent from a criminal point of

view, doomed, beyond the hope of any sail, to final extinction by one

of the cruellest of deaths.

The candle in the lantern would not burn much longer. It would hold

out for an hour or so, let him say. He had read that men can live

seven or eight days without sleep, seven or eight days without food,

seven or eight days without water. If in a warm climate a man had

water alone, he might live for thirty days without food. But,

supposing he had neither water nor food, there was little or no chance

of his surviving the ninth day.

What to him, in his present position, was the value of nine days, nine

weeks, nine months; nine years? It was more than probable that since

the Great Fire, more than two hundred years ago, no one had ever stood

in the vault where he sat now. What likelihood was there that for two

hundred years to come his peace would be disturbed by anybody, once

his death-struggle was over?

As he sat there he could see the clothes of the dead man tremble,

owing to the vibration of the air caused by the enormous traffic going

on overhead. But all the strong life above-ground was now as remote

from him, as little allied to help he might expect, as the faintest

cloud darkening in the east.

Yes, darkening in the east, for now he knew by the sounds around

him--the sounds whose volume thinned while its pitch increased--that

evening was coming on, and that soon upon the evening would come the

night.

When it was dead of night, and there was no longer any chance of

feeling the touch of man through the vibration of the din, what should

he do?

Nothing.

Whatever might come or go he could do nothing. He was powerless to

climb that rope. The excitement which had sustained him at fever pitch

for many days was now gone finally. He could no longer hope, not only

to save his friends from financial ruin and realise a handsome

fortune, but he could no longer hope to do more than drag on the most

miserable of existences hour by hour, under conditions the meanest

pauper would refuse to accept.

Here was he doomed to death, as surely as the condemned man in the

condemned cell is doomed to death. In a certain number of days, in a

certain number of hours, he must die, as inevitably as the sun must

rise and set upon the broad, fair world above him.

He had hoped greatly, and laboured greatly, and lost all--all--all.

He put his hand in his pocket and felt his knife.

Would it not be best to die while he had the companionship of the

light, the companionship of the spectacle of the dead? To all intents

and purposes he was as dead as though he had been blown from the

muzzle of a gun. Morally, there could be no harm in his anticipating

by a few hours, a few days of dreary pain, the fate which was

inevitably before him. Morally, he did not shrink from the knife. But

in him was strong the brute instinct, the love of life for life's

sake, for the infinite potentialities of hope that lie hidden in the

last ragged remnant of existence.

It would, perhaps, be better after all to wait until the lantern burnt

out, and he was alone with silence and the dead. Then he should

possibly go mad, and it was incredible that the insane could suffer so

acutely as he was suffering now. Supposing, then, some fine delirium

seized him, and he fancied himself to be Pluto, and that this realm of

darkness was his natural element, his habitual haunt; that hunger and

thirst were the inevitable accessories of his gloomy rule, and that

the dignity of his position was heightened by the fare which Charon

had just ferried across the Styx, and now lay there before him!

Here the lantern went out.

Fool! Fool! Madman! What had he been thinking about? Two things, only

two, had been left to him--life and light. Now the latter had been

taken away from him for ever.

For ever! What an awful phrase! Here was he, who had no more than

touched manhood, thrust downward by a malignant chance into a vile

dark dungeon to die.

Here was he, who ought to be in the full plenitude of his youthful

strength, unable to master the brief space hanging there in the

darkness above him, between the invisible floor and the imperceptible

roof.

If in the heat and hurry of that morning, he had been asked to clamber

up a rope three times the length of that now hanging above his head,

he could have done so with perfect ease. But since he had left the

tower that morning the shears of fate had been busy with his hair, and

it was now almost as difficult for him to stand unsupported as it

would then have been for him to put his back against the wall and

shake down the solid foundations of the tower.

And yet, what a paltry thing it was to die because he lacked the brute

force to urge, himself upwards twelve feet along that rope. It seemed

incredible that one so exquisitely formed, so superbly endowed with

intelligence and the mastery of all forces that exert themselves on

earth, should here lie prone, helpless, before a difficulty which half

the brute creation would have regarded as no difficulty at all.

It was all over with him. When it was all over with him how would it

be with others who had depended upon him?

He had promised Mr. O'Donnell a vast sum of money to meet the demands

of the bank. Now he could not even lay his body before that troubled

man in assurance that he had done his best.

He had promised to protect Kempston from ruin. Now he was powerless

even to go and explain to Kempston the reason of his failure.

To go! All the bitterness of his present situation was wrought up in

that one phrase--To go! He could now go nowhere until he went forth

for ever.

Then the thought of Dora came upon him. Dora, the sweetest, the

simplest, the truest, the most confiding sweetheart man ever had. He

did not pity her for losing him. He pitied her for losing the lover

rather than the man. He knew that all her soul was centred in him,

that she waited eagerly for his coming, and grieved when he left; that

she lived in one only hope--namely, that some day, and soon, she

should leave the solitude of her present ways and come and be with him

for ever, to soothe him with her gentle ministerings and cheer him

with her anxious hopes.

He thought of how she would leave her hand trustingly in his, lean her

head trustingly on his bosom, take all he said to her as revealed

truth, and, in token of gratitude for his love, hold up her sweet lips

for his kisses.

He thought of how he in the fickle wavering of his nature had been

carried away from her beauty, which was the beauty, the dark beauty of

his own folk purified and chastened by a less ardent sun, to the rich,

ripe, northern beauty of sunnier hue, although remoter from the sun.

He thought how for a while he had swerved from Dora to Nellie, and now

he could not understand it, for the glamour was withdrawn, and he saw

the unapparelled hearts of both. In Nellie, he saw nothing now but the

beauty, the unapproachable beauty which could never be more to him

than the irresponsive beauty of a marble statue. In Dora, he now saw

beauty that was thoroughly informed with love, and that radiated

towards him with all the responsive faculties of inexhaustive

sympathy. Her slightest word or gesture, was measured for his regard.

Her least syllable was designed to move his lightest mood to pleasant

consonance. Her smiles were those which came upon her face merely to

show him that all the smiles and joyousness of her nature came forth

but to greet and welcome him, and show him that all the smiles and

joyousness of her nature were his wholly.

What a contrast was here! The sunlight of success, the sunlight of

love, the sunlight of heaven, shut out by one foul, crass adventure!

The sunlight of life, of young life, of life before it had drunk under

the meridian sun, extinguished for ever!

"Dominique Lavirotte," he thought, "pray to the merciful God that you

may go mad--speedily."

CHAPTER III.

Of late Lavirotte's visits to Dora had been so infrequent and

irregular that she did not know when to expect him, or when to be

surprised that he did not come. Three or four days often passed now

without her seeing him. She knew he was busy, exceedingly busy, at St.

Prisca's Tower, but busy with what she could not tell.

For the past few weeks he had always seemed to her exhausted and

taciturn. There was no falling off in his tenderness towards her. He

seemed to love her more passionately than ever. But his visits were

short, and he said little.

It was three days before Lavirotte got O'Donnell's last letter that he

visited Dora. On going back from her to the tower he had thrown

himself more blindly, more enthusiastically into the work of

excavation than ever. In this final effort he had exhausted all his

physical resources, with the result that when O'Donnell's letter came

his strength was completely wasted, and he was as helpless as a little

child.

When he had seen Dora last he said he would come again soon--as soon

as the important business upon which he was engaged would allow him.

But he named no hour, no day.

Three days passed and she did not see him or hear from him. That was

not unusual. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh day might go by

without arousing anything stronger than longing and disappointment in

her heart.

Since she had come back from Ireland she had never passed the

threshold of that solitary tower in Porter Street. He had never asked

her to come, nor had her grandfather.

Dominique had told her that matter of the first moment rested upon his

uninterrupted attendance at the tower. He had taken her no further

into his confidence. It would, he had said, be time enough to tell her

all when all was known, and the hopes which moved him had been

realised.

Beyond Dora there was nobody else in London who had any distinct

knowledge of where Lavirotte and the old man lived. It is true, of

course, that they had to get food, but this Crawford always procured

and brought into the tower, so that the likelihood was not a soul who

supplied them with the necessaries of life had any distinct memory as

to where they lived. And even if the people knew where they lived,

there was no reason in the world why they should be uneasy because a

certain old man who had for some time back bought milk, or bread, or

meat of them ceased to come any more. It might be he had left the

place. It might be he had taken his custom somewhere else. It might be

he was dead in the ordinary and familiar ways of death, which require

no extraordinary comment and exact no extraordinary cares.

Among the four millions of people who live within the mighty circle

called London, it was unlikely one would take the trouble to inquire

what had become of Crawford and Lavirotte. Dora naturally would; but

her grandfather had visited her in Charterhouse Square only two or

three times since they had come back from Ireland. She had no reason

to expect a visit from him for one week, two weeks, three weeks. Nor

had she any reason to feel uneasy if Dominique did not come to

Charterhouse Square for several days.

Meanwhile, what was to become of him, Lavirotte? While the candle yet

burned he had made out that there was only one door into this vault,

and that in the direction of what had formerly been the body of the

church. Crawford had told him that the ordinary entrance to that vault

had been from the crypt of the church, but that with the destruction

of the church the crypt had been destroyed, and now a solid bank of

masonry and earth, thirty or forty feet thick, forming the lane at the

back, lay between the vault and the cellars of the stores beyond.

So long as the candle had lasted he did not seem to have severed his

last connection with the earth above; but with the absolute darkness

following the failure of the light, all the realities of the tomb,

without the merciful absence of suffering, had come upon him.

He was buried, and yet free to move. He could walk about, and yet the

great tower standing over him was little better than a large headstone

on his grave.

He had committed no crime, and yet was condemned to die--to die the

slowest and most painful of all deaths--by want of water.

He had read about the Black Hole of Calcutta. This place was about the

size of that terrible dungeon. But how much better it would have been

to die there a hundred years ago, surrounded by fellow-men--to die

there quickly, in the distance of time between evening and day,

instead of dragging out here, hour by hour, minute by minute, the

terrible solitude of doom foreclosed.

It had been a very hot summer, and now the autumn was at hand. The

leaves had taken their earliest shade of yellow, and when the wind

blew strongly the sicklier leaves fell. For months in London a fierce

sun and a dry air had parched all they touched. Nails in woodwork

exposed to the sun had worked loose in their holds. It was the

beginning of September, and people, thinking of a calamity which

occurred more than two hundred years ago, said it was a mercy London

was no longer built of wood; since if it was, and the fire should then

break out with a strong wind behind it--as at the time of the Great

Fire--what was now called the Great Fire would cease to be so named,

and be referred to as the Little Fire compared with the gigantic

proportions which a burning wooden London of to-day would afford.

Crawford and Lavirotte had, owing to the dryness of the season, been

able to get rid of the excavated earth by exposing it to the heat on

the roof of the tower, and then casting it, handful by handful,

through the embrasures.

Although no food ever was sent by tradespeople in the vicinity to the

tower, it was generally known by the men who worked there that two men

visited the tower. But why they lived there, or what their occupation

was, no one knew. They had been seen to come in and go out. That was

all.

When Lavirotte made up his mind that their means of making away with

what they dug was out of proportion with his desire of getting

downward, he had resolved to trust the lofts to a greater weight than

had hitherto been put upon them; and finding loft number one but

slightly cumbered with the larger stones Crawford could not dispose

of, he had determined to make it the chief depository of the excavated

earth.

Over and over again Crawford had told him the lofts were old, the

beams rotten. He had ignored the warning, saying if they were to win

at all they must win quickly, and that he would risk everything but

delay.

As the weight of earth upon the first loft increased, it gradually

sank in the middle.

Lavirotte, cautioned by this, tried to find out the absolute condition

of the beams, and to his great joy discovered, after carefully probing

them, while slung under them in a loop of line, that they were

comparatively sound.

But the hotter the weather became, and the greater the burden upon the

floor above grew, the more the joists bent downward.

He did not care. He was certain the joists would not break. They

showed no sign of chipping or splitting, and, in perfect fearlessness,

he went on piling up the clay, taking, of course, the ordinary

precaution to keep the weight as close as possible to the wall.

Gradually, however, owing to the inclination towards the centre, the

clay slid slightly inward, and, as it dried in the hot air of August,

the inner surface of the clay fell inward.

Before leaving the tower, the morning he got O'Donnell's letter,

Lavirotte looked anxiously at the floor of the first loft. It was now

concave above, convex below. But although he looked long and

anxiously, he could see no sign of any of the joists giving way.

"They will bend like yew," he said. "They will never break."

He had omitted one calculation, that when they had bent to a certain

degree, they would be withdrawn to a certain extent from their

holdfasts in the wall, and when they were withdrawn from their

holdfasts beyond a certain extent, they would slip out.

On the morning of the day after Lavirotte was entombed in the vault

beneath St. Prisca's Tower, the joists of loft number one had been so

far withdrawn from their supports in the wall that the loft was in

equilibrio, and ten pounds more pressure on the floor would drag the

whole loft down with all its burden into the hole beneath.

CHAPTER IV.

There was no hope. What hope could there be for him, Lavirotte, buried

thirty feet below a roaring thoroughfare of London, with no possible

means of communication with the upper world, a feebleness so great

that it did not allow him to do more than stand, and twelve clear feet

in the perpendicular between him and deliverance?

Under such circumstances how could anyone hope? What could anyone do?

Nothing. Lie down and die.

There was space enough to die, and air enough to make dying tedious.

That was the worst of it.

It was bad enough to die at any time; but to die when young, of no

fault of one's own, and when dying happened to be tedious, was almost

beyond endurance.

And yet what could one do but endure? Nothing. No action was possible.

He could not without violence accelerate his death. By no power at his

disposal could he retard it.

It was dismal to die here, alone, unknown. It was chilling to think

that the whole great, bustling world abroad would go on while, from

mere hunger, or, still worse, thirst, he was panting out the last

faint breaths of life in this hideous darkness here. There was no help

for it. Second by second, man lives through his life, is conscious of

living; and when the proper time comes, hour by hour he is conscious

that, owing to some failure in his internal economy, he is dying.

But here was he, Lavirotte, in the full consciousness of the

possession of youth and of health, save in so far as health had been

exhausted by trying labours and wasting fasts, about to die because

there was no pitcher of water from which he might slake his thirst, no

crust which could allay the pangs of hunger.

Suppose he had been upon the upper, gracious earth, without any of the

money now in his pocket. Suppose he had nothing but his youth and

youthful elasticity of spirits, even feeble as he now was, he might

pick up a living somewhere. He had education and good manners. He

might not be able to earn two hundred pounds a year, but he could make

a shilling, eighteenpence a day somehow, and on eighteenpence a day a

man could live.

On eighteenpence a day no man could have splendours or luxuries, but

he might have water free from the fountain he had just passed in front

of that church in Fleet Street, and water was a great deal. Water was

half life, more than half life--water was all life when one was

thirsty, as he was now.

Then, for eighteenpence a day he might have food, not luxurious or

exquisite food; but in his wanderings through London he had seen

places where suppers were set forth at threepence--large bowls of

boiled eels swimming in appetising gravy, with, to each bowl, a huge

junk of milky white bread.

He had, when his pocket was comparatively full of money, often seen

the wearied artisan or factory "hand" eating with relish eel-soup and

bread. He had stood looking in at the windows, and, being full-fed

himself, congratulated himself upon the comfort, the luxury, these

poor people enjoyed in their savoury evening repast.

He had watched them go in tired and dreary, worn out with the mean

commonplaces of hard work and insufficient wages. He had watched them

sit down in a listless, careless way, as though they cared not whether

the next hour brought them death or not. Then, gradually, as the

savour of the place penetrated them, and as the eager but delayed

appetite became satisfied, he had seen a kind of attenuated

conviviality arise between these poor folk, until, at the end, when

they had finished their meal, they came forth congratulating

themselves upon the cheapness, wholesomeness, and satisfying power of

the food they had enjoyed.

Now, supposing in a shop he had a basin of this eel-soup, not merely

soup, but soup with luscious, succulent flesh of the rich fish

swimming about in that delicious liquor, and in his hand a piece of

bread larger than one fist, but not quite so large as two, what should

he do?

First of all he would take the spoon--nay, not the spoon, the bowl

itself, and quench his thirst and recruit his failing energies with a

long draught out of that humble, yellow bowl. He would drink nearly

all the liquid up, for he was parched and dry. Abroad would be the

sound of traffic and of human voices, stronger than the sound of

traffic now beating against his ears. Then, when he had slaked his

thirst he would eat some of the bread--no, the bread was too dry. It

would make him thirsty again. He would eat some of the fish, and sop

the soft white bread in what remained of the soothing liquor. And when

he had finished, he, too, would come forth with a contented mind, and

supposing any trace of thirst remained, and he had no money to spend

in fantastic ways of allaying thirst, he would go to some public

drinking-fountain where there was an unlimited supply of water, and

out of the clean white metal cups drink and drink and drink until this

horrible dryness of mouth and throat had been finally removed, and he

felt cheered and invigorated, and fit to face any difficulty or odds

that might be against him.

Threepence, and he might enjoy what then seemed to him an unparalleled

luxury!

But supposing he were free and penniless, there was nothing to prevent

him walking to the first drinking-fountain that offered and quenching

his thirst, drowning his thirst in its free waters.

He could have one, two, three, any number of cups of water, and, while

drinking, he could touch his fellow-man, see the blue sky above him,

and feel upon his cheek the wind made by passing men and vehicles.

Now was he here, young and full of notions of life, with no malady of

ordinary growth upon him, merely the victim of an extraordinary

accident, destined to die in darkness of thirst, of hunger, of

despair.

There was no hope for him. Dora knew he spent most of his day in that

tower. She did not know why. She would never think of seeking him

there. And if she did seek him, if she came and knocked, she would get

no reply. She would have no reason to assume more than that he did not

hear, being there, or was absent from the place.

If she called at his lodgings she would be told all they knew of him,

and all they knew of him would not help her forward towards his

present condition.

He had no means of measuring time. His watch had ceased to beat, he

could not tell how long ago. He held it up against his ear. It was

silent.

This silence seemed to him typical of the final silence which already

surrounded Lionel Crawford, and which was now gathering around

himself.

Through this silence now came a sound,

It was the sound of something falling. Something very small falling

sharply, as it were, against the dull murmur of the traffic around

him.

He paused and listened. Then he sprang to his feet, aroused by a

tremendous crash which deafened his ears, shook him as though a great

gale blew, and filled his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils with some

thick air or dust, he knew not which, that for a moment threatened to

suffocate him.

The loft above had fallen.

CHAPTER V.

Before this tremendous noise and confusion had arisen, Lavirotte had

no means of ascertaining how time went. He was conscious of certain

pauses and beats in the great noise of traffic above his head. The

pauses and beats, he assumed, of traffic in the artery of time. But he

knew nothing certain. He had kept no record whatever. He was conscious

that there had been periods of activity and quiescence, just as he was

conscious there had been periods of activity and quiescence in his

youth, when he was a child. But, as in the remote past, he had lost

all knowledge or record of the numbers of the period.

His reason told him he could not have been a fortnight entombed. His

memory told him nothing.

Abroad in the busy street and lanes close to St. Prisca's Tower, the

fall of the lowest loft made a prodigious commotion. First of all,

there was the roar of noise accompanying the fall of the floor, and of

the tons upon tons of stones and clay lying on the loft. Then out

through the narrow windows of the tower sprang shafts of dust, forced

furiously outward by the enormous pressure upon the air within.

For a moment the tumultuous traffic of Porter Street was stopped, and

men who would scarcely have minded the downfall of the warehouse out

of which they were loading their vans or carts, stood in silent

amazement at the inexplicable, tremendous subsidence which had

occurred in the tower.

Those men who were familiar with the place were all the more amazed,

because they believed there had been no possibility of the old tower

uttering such a terrible note as that which had proceeded from it.

They believed that the lofts of the tower were merely decayed wood. It

was well known that the bells had been long ago removed, and as there

had been in that tower, so far as the frequenters of Porter Street

knew, nothing which could with profit be stolen, the interest in that

tower to them had been less than in the Monument.

To people of this class the Monument was something like the rainbow or

the Milky Way. It had no effect on life, no influence upon wages, and,

consequently, was altogether unworthy of consideration. Rain and hail

and snow influenced wages in so far as they impeded work, but not the

Monument, not St. Prisca's Tower, not the rainbow, not the Milky Way,

controlled work, and therefore each, while it might be a matter for

dreamy speculation under the influence of tobacco, was absolutely

indifferent to the workmen frequenting Porter Street.

Few, except workmen, or those intimately connected with workmen,

frequented Porter Street. You might walk there a whole day long with

the assurance you would never meet a brougham or a hansom, a beau or a

lady. It was as much out of the line of the fashionable world as

Kamtchatka. In Nova Zembla, in Patagonia, in Japan, in Florida, you

may meet an English nobleman, an English lady, but in the history of

Porter Street it is not recorded that any member of the elegant world

wandered there for a hundred years.

The first effect of the tremendous crash, caused by the falling of the

loft, was to paralyse activity for a short time. The next thing was to

create discussion as to the possible source and cause of the crash.

The third was to induce speculation as to the fate of anyone who might

have been in the tower at the time of the catastrophe.

Then slowly, very slowly, those around the place began to realise the

fact that someone--a man--more than one man--two men it was thought,

of late--one man of old--two men of late--an old man some time ago--a

young man latterly, had taken up their residence in that tower. This

might account for something of the extraordinary in what had taken

place. It might have been that owing to something or other done by

these men, this enormous explosion--for so it seemed at first--had

occurred. They may have had some object in blowing down the tower, or

in some other violent onslaught against its integrity.

If this were so, in all likelihood they were both now far beyond the

range of any danger which could reach them from the tower.

After a while, when speculation had become somewhat methodical and

less vague, people began to remember that there was nothing

particularly dangerous-looking about either of the men who had taken

up their residence in the tower, and that in all probability neither

of them had been actuated by any criminal designs.

There for a while public opinion stood still, and men began to wonder

what was the fate of their fellow-men, whose lives had for some time

back been associated in their minds with the existence of the tower.

Slowly, gradually, the people who were familiar with Porter Street

came to think that possibly the two men, whose appearance had been

connected in their minds with that place for some time, had been

imperilled or destroyed in the fall of the lofts. For to the outside

public it had seemed that nothing less than the fall of the lofts

could have produced so great a noise as they had heard. They had not

taken into account that the beams of dust which shot across the street

and lanes had reached no higher than the first loft, and they had not

taken care to conclude that since no dust exuded through the higher

windows, the likelihood was that the higher lofts were untouched.

But after the first sense of arrest and confusion which came upon

those within the scope of the sound, there arose the humane idea of

rendering succour to the living, if the place contained anyone alive,

or tendering services to the dead, supposing both had perished.

Then it was anxiously asked, was anything known as to whether either

or both men were in the tower.

It was well known that the old man now seldom came forth, that the

young man brought in the provisions necessary for the two, and that

even he was seldom for any long time absent from St. Prisca's.

Moment by moment people began to recollect that the old man had not

been seen out of the tower for many days, and that the young man had

been seen to leave the tower and return.

In such a crowded thoroughfare it was almost impossible that the door

of the tower could be opened without exciting observation. It was also

nearly impossible that any close observation could have been made.

It is quite common for a busy man who lives close to a church clock

that strikes the hours and the quarters, to hear and yet not heed the

striking of the clock; so that you may ask him, after the striking,

what has occurred with regard to the hour, and he may have been

perfectly unconscious at the time the clock struck that he was

observing the sound, and yet when asked he may be able to tell

perfectly the time.

So it was with these busy folk in Porter Street. They had never

regarded those two men with any interest whatever beyond the interest

one feels for a friendly but unknown dog, or for a man who is not

likely ever in the course of life to have more than a passing interest

for the observer.

Nevertheless, these busy folk who worked hour by hour, day by day, and

the sum of whose life was made up in the sum of their work, and the

mere material comforts and pleasures which the result of their work

brought them, had insensibly drunk in the fact that two men had

entered that tower, that neither of these men had come forth, and that

now the likelihood was the lives of either or both of these men had

been swallowed up in the catastrophe which had occurred.

With men of the class who worked in Porter Street, thought is a very

rarely exercised faculty. They have to carry huge weights, heave

winches, stow goods, pack and manage vast bales, in the conduct of

which the eye for space and the muscle for motion is all that is

called into play. Everything else is designed by the foreman, and each

man has no more to do with every separate piece of goods than dispose

of it as his strength will allow in the position the foreman

indicates.

Hence men of this class are exceedingly slow to invent, and

exceedingly quick to act. When the loft fell, all the men within

hearing of the crash immediately ceased to work, and stood stupidly

looking on as though they expected some miraculous manifestation. They

did not remain inactive because of any disinclination to help, if help

were needed, but they had not realised the fact that it was possible

their great strength might be of avail to anyone suffering.

All at once a woman cried: "My God, the men are buried!" and before

the words were well out of her mouth, the crowd seemed to grasp the

central idea that underneath the encumbrance of these lofts had been

buried two men, who were formed in every way like themselves, and who,

although not of their class, were nevertheless entitled to all that

could be done for them.

CHAPTER VI.

How were the entombed men to be delivered? Various ways suggested

themselves in the heat of the moment. It was plain to all that the

first thing to be done was to force the door. This was no trivial

matter. How it was to be forced was the consideration. There were

those among the crowd who had seen the door open, and noticed the huge

bolt of the lock which shot into an iron holdfast let into the solid

stonework of the tower. They knew that the old man had never omitted

to lock the door on the inside when he came in, and that the young man

had been no less careful.

There was a general belief that something secret, and, upon the whole,

uncommendable, was going on in that tower, and the desire to rescue

the two imprisoned men was largely augmented by curiosity.

The laneway from which the door opened was seldom crowded. There was

usually a brisk traffic up and down it; but in that part of the City

the narrow laneways that feed the great thoroughfares are seldom

blocked, although the main thoroughfares themselves may be impassable.

A man in the crowd cried out:

"Someone get a pole or a beam, and we'll soon have them out."

Then several men rushed off in various directions.

By this time the traffic in the laneways and in Porter Street itself

was interrupted. The workmen ran out of the stores and wharfs, the

waggoners and carters deserted their horses, and even the bargemen

from the river had come up on hearing that some terrible accident had

befallen St. Prisca's Tower.

In a few minutes three men were seen advancing, carrying a heavy beam

of wood. Other men ran to help them. A dozen willing arms had now

seized the beam, and a hundred men were anxious to lend their aid if

opportunity offered.

A way was cleared for the men with the beam. The people separated on

both sides. The men turned out of Porter Street and ran up into the

lane. The men engaged in carrying the baulk were too intent upon

getting it to its destination as quick as possible to observe one

fatal defect. One onlooker shouted out: "Too long. Too long." Then the

men carrying it swept up, way was made for them, and they tried to

bring the beam into position for use as a battering-ram against the

door.

Then the onlooker's words were confirmed by experience, and it was

seen that it would be utterly impossible to use the baulk effectually

as a ram, for, owing to the narrowness of the lane, it was impossible

to get it at right angles to the door, and striking the door with it

at an acute angle would not be likely to produce the desired effect.

However, it was better to try this which was at hand, than to do

nothing at all. In the meantime some better means might be devised of

bursting open the door.

Once, twice, thrice, half-a-dozen times the men thrust the beam

obliquely against the massive woodwork. It merely glanced off the

thick stubborn oak, and more than two-thirds of its power was expended

upon the solid and immovable stonework of the doorway.

Other pieces of timber were brought, but all proved too long to be of

any effective use. The shortest, it is true, could be brought into a

horizontal position against the door, but it allowed of no play, and

therefore was incapable of receiving the necessary impetus.

Then the crowd began to clamour for sledges. A great, brown-bearded

man, tall, lank, and rounded in the shoulders, broke away from the

crowd crying: "I'll soon get it open; I'll soon break it in."

This man was celebrated in Porter Street for his enormous strength. No

sooner had he undertaken to burst in the door than all other efforts

were suspended, in the full faith that he would make good his words.

In a few moments he returned, bearing in each hand a square

half-hundredweight. He hastened up to the door and said: "Someone must

hold me."

But how are they to hold him? "I want," he said, "to put my back

against the door, lift these up this way" (he raised the half-hundreds

above his head as though they were no heavier than boxing-gloves),

"then I'll bring them down against the door; but if it bursts open I

don't want to fall in, for there's a pit inside."

The difficulty now was how to hold him, and at the same time give him

free play with the weights, and avoid any possibility of the weights

in the downward swoop touching anyone who might aid him.

Some time was lost in trying to arrange so that he might be held,

prevented from falling inward, and, at the same time, not impeded.

At last he cried:

"Let me alone; I can manage it myself. Stand back. Don't be afraid of

me."

Then they cleared a semicircle round him. He put his back to the door,

raised his arms aloft, directly over his head, bowed himself backward,

so that his head and heels alone touched the door, and his back was

bowed forward as a bent bow is against the string. Then, setting his

teeth and putting all the energy of his body into the muscles of his

arms and shoulders, he swung the two weights downward with prodigious

force, loosed them from his hold when they came level with his legs,

sprang forward, and turned swiftly round with a look of expectant

success.

The crowd cheered. The two half-hundredweights had crushed through the

lower portion of the door as though it were so much cardboard. The

lock remained unshaken. The blows had been delivered too low down,

and, while the wood had given way, the iron had remained firm.

Then, while the people were standing admiring the result of his great

strength, a man cried out: "Here's a crowbar, Bill. You can finish it

with that."

Bill caught the crowbar in his hand, whirled it over his head as

though it were but a walking-cane, leaped back from the door as far as

the narrowness of the lane would allow him; then, holding the crowbar

lightly in his hand, as a soldier holds his gun at the charge, he

dashed forward and flung the crowbar with its blunt edge against the

place where the lock held fast.

The lock had been loosened on the door by the previous assault, and

now, with a tearing screech, the bolts drew out of the tough wood, and

the door swung back on its hinges.

When Bill had succeeded, and seen that he had succeeded, he turned

round, surveyed the crowd steadily for a few moments, and then said:

"That's my share of it. You do the rest."

Then, as one who had no further concern with the matter, he strode

off, the people making way for him as he went.

Two or three men approached the door and looked in. Below was a wild

jumble of planks and beams and stones and earth, all mixed up,

higgledy-piggledy, in the wildest confusion. It was impossible to make

out anything clearly at first, owing to the dense dust that floated in

the air. The men who had thrust in their heads withdrew them after a

short time, partly suffocated and partly blinded by the fumes that

arose out of the pit beneath.

"Ask is there anyone there," suggested one of the crowd.

A head was thrust in through the open doorway, and a stentorian voice

cried out: "Anyone there!"

To this a feeble voice replied from what seemed to be the bowels of

the earth: "Yes. Help. Water, for God's sake."

"All right," shouted the man above. "We'll get you out safe enough.

Keep up your heart. Are the two of you below?"

"Yes," answered the feeble voice; "but he is dead. Quick, for God's

sake, or I shall die. This dust is killing me."

"Keep up," shouted the man, "and we'll do the best. We'll get you out

in a jiffy. There's a hundred of us here. How much of the place has

fallen?"

"I don't know," answered the voice below, growing fainter. "I think

only the first floor. I can talk no more. I am dying." And then came

some sounds, inarticulate and faint, the meaning of which the man

above could not gather.

A ladder was got and thrust down into the pit, and in a short time a

score of willing hands were at work.

The joists had drawn gradually out of the wall, and the eastern end

being first freed, that side fell downward, shooting most of the

stones and earth up into the pit at the eastern side. The floor

doubled up in two from the north and south, almost like the leaves of

a book, and in the fold of this a large quantity of clay and stones

had remained. This folded part fell almost directly on the hole made

by Lionel Crawford in the roof of the vault. The weight of the stones

and the impetus they had gained in their fall was sufficient to cause

them to smash through the doubled-up flooring, and some of them fell

through the hole, carrying with them a portion of the roof of the

vault. By this falling mass Lavirotte had been struck and hurt, and

under some of the flooring, earth, and stones he now lay partly

covered, prostrate upon the ground of the vault.

Owing to the fact that most of the heavy stones and the great bulk of

the earth had been shot to the eastern side of the tower,

comparatively little entered the vault, and so Lavirotte escaped

instant death.

The men working at his release found out after a short time, partly by

his moaning and partly by looking through the hole in the fallen

floor, that Lavirotte was in the vault, and not immediately under the

fallen floor.

In less than an hour he was rescued. He was all begrimed with dirt and

clay, insensible, battered, bleeding, almost pulseless. He was

immediately placed in a cab and taken to an hospital. On his way he

recovered consciousness and begged for water, which was given him.

Upon examination it was discovered that his injuries were not of much

moment, and that exhaustion had more to do with his prostrate

condition than the hurts he had received.

For a long time he lay quiet, expressing no wish. At length he asked

what had become of the body of his companion, and was told that it had

been removed from the tower. He was asked if he had any friends with

whom he desired to communicate, and he said no. Now that Lionel

Crawford was dead, there was no one in London whom he could call a

friend. He did not wish that Dora should hear anything of the result

of that awful day, when her grandfather lost his life, and he all hope

of the vast fortune upon which he had been building for some time.

They told him that he would be able to leave the hospital in a few

days. A few days would be quite time enough to tell her all the bad

news. Indeed, the longer she was kept in ignorance of it the better.

To the inquiries of those around him, he had refused to give any reply

beyond the facts that St. Prisca's Tower was his property; that he and

the dead man, Lionel Crawford, had for some time back lived in the

tower; and that, for reasons which he declined to state, they had both

been engaged in excavating.

John Cassidy usually left his office at about four o'clock in the

evening. As he was walking in the direction of his home on the

afternoon Lavirotte was rescued from the tower, his eye was arrested

by a line in the bills of _The Evening Record_--"Mysterious affair in

Porter Street."

As a rule, John Cassidy did not buy newspapers. They did not interest

him. His theory was that one could learn enough of public affairs from

the conversation of others. But a mysterious affair always did

interest him, and in this case he bought _The Evening Record_, and

read in it a brief paragraph of what occurred in the tower, giving the

names of the two men concerned.

Mystery on mystery! Here was this man Lavirotte mixed up in two

inexplicable affairs in a space of a few months.

On the previous occasion Lavirotte had been found insensible, near a

wounded man. Now he was found insensible, near a dead man. In the

paragraph there was no suggestion that any suspected foul play; and

yet to him, Cassidy, it seemed impossible that Lavirotte was not in

some way accountable for the death of the man found with him that day.

Cassidy was burning with anxiety to tell someone of Lavirotte's former

predicament. It would give him such an air of importance if he could

add material facts to those already known in connection with this

matter. There was no use in his going back to the office, for all his

fellow-clerks had left. It was impossible for him to go home to his

room burdened with this news. He therefore resolved to turn into the

Cleopatra Restaurant in the Strand, in the hope he might there find

someone to whom he might communicate the startling addition to the

news in the evening paper.

It so fell out that he succeeded beyond his wishes. He found a group

of men standing at the bar, and among these one named Grafton, an

artist whom he had known for some time, and through whom he hoped to

find himself on the track of the Lavirotte mystery, as he knew Grafton

was acquainted with Lavirotte.

"I say, Grafton," said he, "that's a deuce of a mysterious thing that

happened to-day in Porter Street. You know, of course, this is the

Lavirotte you told me you knew. He's back in London again, after being

mixed up in a most extraordinary affair in my part of the world."

Then he related, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the group of

men standing round, all he knew concerning the affair at Glengowra.

When he had finished, one of the bystanders, whom he did not know,

said: "You would have no objection to my making use of what you say?"

"In the press?" said Cassidy, colouring with delight and importance.

"Yes," said the other. "I am connected with _The Evening Record_, and

if you authorise me to do so, I should be greatly pleased to add just

a line to our account of the affair. All I would ask or say: 'We

understand that M. Lavirotte, who was found insensible, was some

little time ago mixed up with another mysterious affair in Glengowra,

in the south of Ireland.'"

Cassidy gave a willing consent, and the addition suggested appeared in

the special edition of _The Evening Record_.

It was in the special edition of _The Evening Record_ that Dora

Harrington saw her grandfather was dead, that Lavirotte was injured,

and that he had been mixed up in a mysterious affair in Glengowra.

CHAPTER VII.

The shock nearly overwhelmed Dora. The double blow was too much for

her, and when the landlady came into the room a short time afterwards

she found the girl insensible on the floor.

When she returned to consciousness she could not believe she had read

the paper aright. She took it up again and went carefully over the

passage with aching eyes. The solid ground seemed to be melting away

under her feet, and all the material things around her were visionary,

unreal, far away.

The landlady at length made her talk, and with talk came tears, and

with tears relief. She pointed out the paragraph to the woman, and

told her she must go at once to the hospital and see about the whole

affair. It was too horrible, she said, to think that her grandfather

should be killed and her lover nearly killed in this enterprise,

whatever it was, they were engaged upon.

The woman was of a kindly and compassionate nature, and offered to

accompany the girl. This offer Dora gladly accepted, and the two set

out. They ascertained at the hospital that Lavirotte was going on

favourably, but that they could not see him until next day. They went

and saw the body of the old man at the mortuary, and, finding out that

nothing could be done, returned to Charterhouse Square, greatly

depressed and saddened; for the kindly woman shared the girl's grief,

and felt for her desolate condition.

Next day, when Dora called at the hospital she was admitted.

She found Lavirotte haggard, and worn, and wild-looking, but far less

seriously injured than the newspaper report had led her to expect.

It was not a place for a demonstrative meeting, and she had been

cautioned not to excite the injured man.

After the first words of the meeting she asked him all the particulars

of what had occurred at the tower. He told her as briefly as he could.

Then for the first time she learned that her grandfather and her lover

had been seeking for a treasure in that lonely place in Porter Street.

He told her how the old man had been firmly persuaded a vast hoard had

been hidden beneath the tower before the Great Fire, and had remained

there ever since. While he, Lavirotte, was away at his lodgings,

looking for letters, the old man had found the top of the vault, had

pierced the vault, and descended into it. Then, no doubt, the shock of

finding the work of years useless had been too great for him, and he

had succumbed.

He related how he, being then in a very weak condition from wearing

anxiety and the want of food and rest, had returned to the tower,

descended into the vault, and found himself unable to reascend. Then

later on came the crash, his own insensibility, and finally the rescue

the afternoon before.

In grief and pity she listened to him, and when he had finished she

could think of nothing to say but that she hoped he would soon get

strong again, and that she would do anything she could for him, and

come to see him as often as they would let her.

Then he went on to explain how this terrible disappointment at not

finding the treasure would not only leave him almost penniless, but

would prevent him doing the service he had intended for O'Donnell and

Kempston.

He told her he had not replied to the letter he found from Eugene at

his lodgings, because he hoped that in a day or two he might be able

to communicate the glorious news that the period of their affluence

was at hand. Now all this was changed. The whole aspect of his career

was altered, and the first thing she would have to do for him was to

telegraph to Eugene, saying that all hope of succour was now at an

end. It would be a cruel, a terrible, perhaps literally a fatal blow

to the elder O'Donnell, but that could not now be helped.

He dictated to her the telegram, and she wrote it down. He also

dictated a note she was to write to Mr. Kempston. Then he said:

"They tell me I shall not be long here; but how it is to be with me

when I get about again I cannot say. Misfortune seems to have marked

me out as one upon whom she was to try all her arts."

She said tenderly, advancing her hand to his: "Don't say that,

Dominique."

"Forgive me, Dora, darling. I was not thinking of you. I was speaking

of only the business aspect of things. We shall be as poor as ever

now."

"But we were never rich, and yet we were--fond of each other, and very

happy."

"Ay, darling, very fond of each other, and very happy, and will be

always," he added, pressing the hand he had in his. "I was thinking

only of you in the matter. When I had this dream of wealth upon me, I

used to picture to myself what we should do when we became rich; how

you should have all that art and luxury could produce."

"I have never wished for wealth or luxury, Dominique," she whispered.

"I know I shall be as happy as I ever hoped to be, more happy than I

ever deserved, with you. Let us think no more of that treasure. It has

brought no good to us up to this. Why should we allow it to cause us

sorrow now?"

"Ay, ay," he said. "We must make the best of it now. Bad will be the

best of it, but it might have been worse. You know I have a little

money, and with it I shall be able to continue at the singing until I

am good enough for the boards. Then I shall be able to earn enough for

us both, Dora."

"Very little will be enough," she whispered, again pressing his hand.

He returned the pressure, and said: "Thank you, darling. They will not

let you stay much longer now. I am sorry I am not able to be up; but I

suppose they will do everything necessary about your grandfather. I

want you to go to my landlord. He has some money of mine. Tell him to

arrange all about the funeral. You tell me there is no man in the

house where you lodge, and the few men I know in London, I know

scarcely sufficiently well to ask a favour of them. Stop," he said;

"there is Grafton. I might ask him. He was very friendly to me when I

was in London before. I remember where he lived. Go to him and tell

him all, and give him the money. That will be better."

He gave her Grafton's address, and after a little while she took her

leave.

She sought the artist and found him at home. He had two rooms in

Charlotte Street--one a bedroom; the other served as studio and

sitting-room. When Dora called, he was not alone. Having renewed his

acquaintance with Cassidy, he had invited the dandy to his place.

Cassidy and he were now having coffee.

Grafton hurried Cassidy into the bedroom, which was separated from the

sitting-room by folding doors. Dora was shown up, and explained the

circumstances of the case.

Grafton said he would be delighted to do anything he could for

Lavirotte and Miss Harrington. Unfortunately there was a difficulty in

the way. It was utterly impossible for him to leave his studio that

afternoon or night, as he was at work on a block which would take him

till five o'clock in the morning to finish, and he had just that

moment received a telegram from the illustrated paper on which he

worked, ordering him north to the scene of a great colliery accident

the first thing in the morning. He was deeply grieved. He would try if

he could possibly do anything. Stop! A friend of his was in the house.

He would go and ask him if he could manage to do what was required.

He went out by the door leading to the landing, and from that landing

through another door into the bedroom where Cassidy was.

Cassidy flushed with surprise and pleasure when he saw a chance of his

getting mixed up with the Lavirotte affair. He told Grafton he would

ask them to give him a holiday to-morrow, and between this afternoon

and to-morrow there would be plenty of time to arrange everything

about Lionel Crawford, as, no doubt, the inquest was held that day.

Then Grafton brought Cassidy in and introduced him to Dora, and said

that he would act in every way as though he were Grafton himself.

Dora expressed her great gratitude.

"You know," Cassidy said, "I shall go and see Mr. Lavirotte as soon as

possible, and I have no doubt he will be glad to see me, for I come

from the neighbourhood in which he lived, and know Glengowra

thoroughly." Here the overwhelming desire to rise in importance in the

eyes of Dora, pleasantly or otherwise, mastered him, and he said:

"Perhaps you have seen the special edition of _The Evening Record?_"

She said yes; that she had there first seen an account of the terrible

affair.

"It was I," said he, bowing and smiling, "who gave the information

respecting the mysterious occurrence at Glengowra, of which you,

doubtless, know." By this time he was, of course, aware he was talking

to the girl to whom Lavirotte had made love when formerly in London.

"I do not know anything about it," she whispered faintly. "I am

exceedingly obliged to both of you." She said good-bye and went.

When she was gone, Cassidy said: "Strange she doesn't know anything

about the Glengowra affair. I don't think it right she should be kept

in ignorance of it. However, Grafton, you haven't a minute to lose

now. I'll be off down east and see what's to be done. I assure you

nothing could give me greater pleasure than to act for you in this

affair."

CHAPTER VIII.

When Eugene O'Donnell got the telegram he fell into despair. He durst

not go to his father or his mother. Up to this his father had been in

the very best spirits, fully anticipating deliverance at the hands of

Lavirotte. Now what was to become of them? Ruin of the most complete

kind stared them in the face. They would not have the least chance of

saving anything from the wreck of their fortune, for James O'Donnell

was a man of scrupulous honesty, and would not lend himself to the

least kind of fraud. When everything was sold up they would not be

able to pay more than a small portion of the last call, and Eugene

knew his father too well to think he would conceal a single penny, or

accept a favour at the hands of the bank.

Eugene did not know what to do. The telegram came to him when he was

alone. He read it three times, put it in his pocket, and went out to

try if a walk in the air would help him.

Insensibly his steps turned towards the station, where, a little later

on in the afternoon, he would, in the ordinary course, find himself on

the way to Glengowra. When he got to the railway station he looked at

his watch, and saw that there was just time for him to run out to

Glengowra and get back again before his ordinary time for leaving the

office. He determined to run out and tell it first of all to Nellie,

upon whom he had learned to depend.

She was greatly surprised to see him so early, ran to him with a

smile, and, throwing her arms round him, said: "I cannot tell you why,

but I was half expecting to see you earlier than usual. You have

brought good news, I dare say, from Lavirotte?"

He shook his head, and said: "No; poor Lavirotte has met with an

accident."

"Met with an accident!" cried Nellie, in surprise. "Is it serious, and

will he be able to do what he promised for your father?"

"Well, you see," said her husband, "this accident is likely to knock

him up for some time, I suppose, and every hour is precious to us."

The husband and wife were now in the little drawing-room overlooking

the sea. He had sat down on a chair, dispiritedly. She stood opposite

him, with eager, inquiring eyes.

"So that you are afraid," said she, "that, after all, his promise may

come to nothing."

"Yes," said Eugene, "I am afraid it may come to nothing."

She sank on a chair beside him, and cried: "Good heavens, Eugene, what

is to become of us all?"

"I don't know, Nellie," he said gloomily, "I have not dared to tell

the governor yet. I must tell him to-night, you know. He must at once

decide upon what we shall do."

"Do you believe Lavirotte met with an accident?"

"Certainly I believe. What object could he have in telling a lie?"

"To screen his failure, if not worse."

"What could be _worse_ at present than his failure?"

"Supposing he had deliberately deceived all through."

"What earthly object could Lavirotte have in deceiving us?"

"Well, he would tell neither you nor your father where he expected

this money from. I don't like Lavirotte. I don't trust him. I wish we

never had anything to do with him. I think it was an unfortunate day

you first met him."

"Look here, now, Nellie. I believe Lavirotte was perfectly sincere in

this matter, as I believe he was sincere in his love of you, or in his

desire to destroy me when under the influence of what must have been

insanity. Anyway, this is not the time to discuss his merits. We must

think of what we ourselves have to do in this matter. How am I to

break it to my father? After all he has gone through, I fear it will

kill him or drive him mad. He has the fullest faith in Lavirotte's

turning up with the money in time. As I told you before, he has made

arrangements for the future in the full faith that the help will be

forthcoming."

"I don't know how you are to do it, Eugene. As you say, there is very

little time, if he must know this evening. Would you like me to go in

and see your mother, or do you think I should only be in the way?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But I think, after all, it will be best if I

open the subject to him."

So it was decided that Eugene should go back to Rathclare, and make

known to his father the bad news contained in the telegram.

His visit to Glengowra had no effect. It left a strong impression on

Nellie's mind, that in addition to Lavirotte being, under great

excitement, a dangerous lunatic, he was capable at ordinary times of

deliberately and cruelly lying, if the statements he made were not the

result of delusion.

When Eugene found his father, the latter was in the best of spirits.

"Well, my son," he cried cheerily, "any news from London? Has our

friend, our good friend, got the money? Time is running very short

now, and since we are going to pay the call, we may as well do the

thing decently and be up to time."

"Do you think, sir, there is no chance of getting a later date for

payment?"

The father shook his head. "No, there is no chance," he said. "Those

who can pay must pay up at once. I am not myself uneasy about

Lavirotte, but I wish we had some news. It will be comfortable to hear

the mill going when this awful banking affair is pleasantly settled;

but I own the sound of the mill does not seem good for my ears just

now. This, of course, will be all right in a few days. Why do you ask

if there is any chance of getting time, boy?"

"Because, sir, it has occurred to me that possibly we may want it."

"But Lavirotte knows the circumstances of the case; and with such vast

expectations as he has, there can be no difficulty whatever in getting

in the form of an advance any sum of money we may require."

"That depends on the security he has to offer. Do you know, sir, what

is the nature of the security he has to offer?"

"No, he would not tell me. He said he was under an obligation, and

could communicate the matter to no one."

"Well, sir, may it not be that the property which he expects to come

into will not realise quite as much as he anticipated? Suppose it fell

a little short of what you want, what should you do?"

"Borrow money on this place, of course," said the merchant, waving his

hand over his head.

"But in case, I mean, that what Lavirotte could give you and what you

could borrow on this place would not together make sufficient, what

would you do?"

"Upon my word, Eugene, you are in a very uncomfortable humour to-day.

What earthly use is there in calculating upon chances or solving

difficulties that will never arise? But I may answer you. I should of

course sell the place. I should sell every stick of the place, every

wheel, every ounce of stuff in it, my house, horses, plate, furniture,

in fact everything that I have."

By this time the face of the old man had lost its gay aspect. He had

turned pale. His eyes were no longer sprightly, but fixed with a

strange glitter, not turned directly towards his son--in fact,

avoiding his son's gaze. It was as though he suspected--he more than

suspected, he assumed--Eugene had some bad news to give him, and that

he would wait there patiently for the bad news to come without aiding

his son's story by the display of curiosity.

"But, sir, I have some reason to fear Lavirotte will not be able to do

all he said. I am disposed to think, on good grounds, that he will not

have all the money we want in time."

The son now avoided the father's face. They were sitting at opposite

sides of the large office table. The son's eyes were turned towards

the window looking into the quadrangle. The father's eyes were fixed

vacantly upon the door of the strong-room behind his son, and to his

right.

"In that case," said the elder man, "I should mortgage."

"I am very much disinclined to go on," said the young man, frowning

heavily, "but I have no alternative. Lavirotte will not be able to

give you all you want, and I do not think you will be able to pay

all."

"Then I shall sell. I shall sell every stick I have in the world." The

old man's eyes became more fixed than ever; they never wandered from

that door. His face became more pallid. With both hands he grasped the

elbows of his chair. He sat well in the chair, leaning slightly

forward, as though he expected someone who would try and pull him out

of it.

His son looked hastily at him for a moment, then turned his eyes away

as hastily, and said slowly: "You must know, sir--you must by this

time have guessed that I have had bad news from London, from

Lavirotte. You must try and bear up, sir, for all our sakes. It will

be a bitter blow after the hope we have lived in for months."

James O'Donnell seemed to abandon the position he had taken up with

regard to Eugene's news. It would be folly any longer to affect

ignorance that something terrible was coming, or to court delay.

"What is the news from Lavirotte?" he asked.

"Lavirotte is himself injured by some accident, and he has no longer

any hope of realising the money he expected."

"No longer any hope," repeated the old man.

"No longer any hope, sir. We are not to rely on him for the least aid.

What do you purpose doing, sir?"

"I must think over the matter for a while, Eugene." He looked calmly

at his watch. "You have only just time to catch the train, and I would

rather be alone at present."

"If you would let me stay, sir, I would much rather remain with you. I

can drive home later."

"No, Eugene; you may go now. I would rather be alone." The old man

seemed quite calm and collected; in fact, so calm and collected, that

Eugene resolved not to go to Glengowra by the train, but to run up to

his father's house and to tell his mother what had occurred.

When James O'Donnell found himself alone, he got up slowly out of his

chair, crossed the floor, opened the door of the strong-room,

whispering to himself:

"No longer any hope."

He went into the gloomy chamber, and going to the safe, opened it and

took something from it. When he returned to the office, he held the

revolver in his hand and whispered to himself:

"No longer any hope."

He looked at his watch. It was just closing time. Having placed the

revolver on the table, he sat down in his chair, whispering in the

same quiet voice, "I will wait till they are all gone," and repeated

for the third time: "No longer any hope."

At seven o'clock Eugene returned to the private office, for which he

had a key. To his astonishment he found his father's chair vacant and

the strong-room door open. He went into the strong-room and examined

it. The door of the safe was open. The drawer was pulled out.

Eugene turned sick. He leant against the wall and moaned out: "Oh!

what has the poor old man done!"

Then he pushed in the drawer, the door of the safe, the door of the

strong-room, and having locked the door of the private office,

hastened downstairs.

He could find no trace of his father. He set half-a-dozen men to

search the town quietly.

Up to next morning he failed to find any clue to James O'Donnell.

END OF VOL. II.

* * * * * * * * * *

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Last Call (Vol. 2 of 3), by Richard Dowling