1884 ***





[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 47.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




CURIOSITIES OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.


Considering the world-wide reputation of the Bank of England, it is
remarkable how little is generally known as to its internal working.
Standing in the very heart of the largest city in the world—a central
landmark of the great metropolis—even the busy Londoners around it
have, as a rule, only the vaguest possible knowledge of what goes on
within its walls. In truth, its functions are so many, its staff so
enormous, and their duties so varied, that many even of those who have
spent their lives in its service will tell you that, beyond their own
immediate departments, they know but little of its inner life. Its mere
history, as recorded by Mr Francis, fills two octavo volumes. It will
be readily understood, therefore, that it would be idle to attempt
anything like a complete description of it within the compass of a
magazine article. There are, however, many points about the Bank and
its working which are extremely curious and interesting, and some of
these we propose briefly to describe.

The Bank of England originated in the brain of William Paterson,
a Scotchman—better known, perhaps, as the organiser and leader of
the ill-fated Darien expedition. It commenced business in 1694, its
charter—which was in the first instance granted for eleven years
only—bearing date the 27th July of that year. This charter has been
from time to time renewed, the last renewal having taken place in
1844. The original capital of the Bank was but one million two hundred
thousand pounds, and it carried on its business in a single room in
Mercers’ Hall, with a staff of fifty-four clerks. From so small a
beginning has grown the present gigantic establishment, which covers
nearly three acres, and employs in town and country nearly nine hundred
officials. Upon the latest renewal of its charter, the Bank was divided
into two distinct departments, the Issue and the Banking. In addition
to these, the Bank has the management of the national debt. The books
of the various government funds are here kept; here all transfers are
made, and here all dividends are paid.

In the Banking department is transacted the ordinary business of
bankers. Here other banks keep their ‘reserve,’ and hence draw their
supplies as they require them. The Issue department is intrusted
with the circulation of the notes of the Bank, which is regulated as
follows. The Bank in 1844 was a creditor of the government to the
extent of rather over eleven million pounds, and to this amount and
four million pounds beyond, for which there is in other ways sufficient
security, the Bank is allowed to issue notes without having gold in
reserve to meet them. Beyond these fifteen million pounds, every note
issued represents gold actually in the coffers of the Bank. The total
value of the notes in the hands of the public at one time averages
about twenty-five million pounds. To these must be added other notes
to a very large amount in the hands of the Banking department, which
deposits the bulk of its reserve of gold in the Issue department,
accepting notes in exchange.

All Bank of England notes are printed in the Bank itself. Six
printing-presses are in constant operation, the same machine printing
first the particulars of value, signature, &c., and then the number
of the note in consecutive order. The paper used is of very peculiar
texture, being at once thin, tough, and crisp; and the combination of
these qualities, together with the peculiarities of the watermark,
which is distributed over the whole surface of the paper, forms one
of the principal guarantees against imitation. The paper, which is
manufactured exclusively at one particular mill, is made in oblong
slips, allowing just enough space for the printing of two notes side by
side. The edges of the paper are left untrimmed, but, after printing,
the two notes are divided by a straight cut between them. This accounts
for the fact, which many of our readers will doubtless have noticed,
that only one edge of a Bank-note is smooth, the other three being
comparatively ragged. The printing-presses are so constructed as
to register each note printed, so that the machine itself indicates
automatically how many notes have passed through it. The average
production of notes is fifty thousand a day, and about the same number
are presented in the same time for payment.

No note is ever issued a second time. When once it finds its way back
to the Bank to be exchanged for coin, it is immediately cancelled; and
the reader will probably be surprised to hear that the average life
of a Bank-note, or the time during which it is in actual circulation,
is not more than five or six days. The returned notes, averaging, as
we have stated, about fifty thousand a day, and representing, one day
with another, about one million pounds in value, are brought into what
is known as the Accountant’s Sorting Office. Here they are examined
by inspectors, who reject any which may be found to be counterfeit.
In such a case, the paying-in bank is debited with the amount. The
notes come in from various banks in parcels, each parcel accompanied
by a memorandum stating the number and amount of the notes contained
in it. This memorandum is marked with a certain number, and then each
note in the parcel is stamped to correspond, the stamping-machine
automatically registering how many are stamped, and consequently
drawing immediate attention to any deficiency in the number of notes
as compared with that stated in the memorandum. This done, the notes
are sorted according to number and date, and after being defaced by
punching out the letters indicating value, and tearing off the corner
bearing the signature, are passed on to the ‘Bank-note Library,’ where
they are packed in boxes, and preserved for possible future reference
during a period of five years. There are one hundred and twenty clerks
employed in this one department; and so perfect is the system of
registration, that if the number of a returned note be known, the head
of this department, by referring to his books, can ascertain in a few
minutes the date when and the banker through whom it was presented;
and if within the period of five years, can produce the note itself
for inspection. As to the ‘number’ of a Bank-note, by the way, there
is sometimes a little misconception, many people imagining that by
quoting the bare figures on the face of a note they have done all that
is requisite for its identification. This is not the case. Bank-notes
are not numbered consecutively _ad infinitum_, but in series of one
to one hundred thousand, the different series being distinguished as
between themselves by the date, which appears in full in the body of
the note, and is further indicated, to the initiated, by the letter and
numerals prefixed to the actual number. Thus 25/O 90758 on the face of
a note indicates that the note in question is No. 90758 of the series
printed on May 21, 1883, which date appears in full in the body of
the note. 69/N in like manner indicates that the note forms part of a
series printed on February 19, 1883. In ‘taking the number’ of a note,
therefore, either this prefix or the full date, as stated in the body
of the note, should always be included.

The ‘Library’ of cancelled notes—not to be confounded with the Bank
Library proper—is situated in the Bank vaults, and we are indebted to
the courtesy of the Bank-note Librarian for the following curious and
interesting statistics respecting his stock. The stock of paid notes
for five years—the period during which, as before stated, the notes are
preserved for reference—is about seventy-seven million seven hundred
and forty-five thousand in number. They fill thirteen thousand four
hundred boxes, about eighteen inches long, ten wide, and nine deep.
If the notes could be placed in a pile one upon another, they would
reach to a height of five and two-third miles. Joined end to end they
would form a ribbon twelve thousand four hundred and fifty-five miles
long, or half-way round the globe; if laid so as to form a carpet, they
would very nearly cover Hyde Park. Their original value is somewhat
over seventeen hundred and fifty millions, and their weight is about
ninety-one tons. The immense extent of space necessary to accommodate
such a mass in the Bank vaults may be imagined. The place, with its
piles on piles of boxes reaching far away into dim distance, looks like
some gigantic wine-cellar or bonded warehouse.

As each day adds, as we have seen, about fifty thousand notes to the
number, it is necessary to find some means of destroying those which
have passed their allotted term of preservation. This is done by fire,
about four hundred thousand notes being burnt at one time in a furnace
specially constructed for that purpose. Formerly, from some peculiarity
in the ink with which the notes were printed, the cremated notes burnt
into a solid blue clinker; but the composition of the ink has been
altered, and the paper now burns to a fine gray ash. The fumes of the
burning paper are extremely dense and pungent; and to prevent any
nuisance arising from this cause, the process of cremation is carried
out at dead of night, when the city is comparatively deserted. Further,
in order to mitigate the density of the fumes, they are made to ascend
through a shower of falling water, the chimney shaft being fitted with
a special shower-bath arrangement for this purpose.

Passing away from the necropolis of dead and buried notes, we visit
the Treasury, whence they originally issued. This is a quiet-looking
room, scarcely more imposing in appearance than the butler’s pantry in
a West-end mansion, but the modest-looking cupboards with which its
walls are lined are gorged with hidden treasure. The possible value
of the contents of this room may be imagined from the fact that a
million of money, in notes of one thousand pounds, forms a packet only
three inches thick. The writer has had the privilege of holding such a
parcel in his hand, and for a quarter of a minute imagining himself a
millionaire—with an income of over thirty thousand per annum for life!
The same amount might occupy even less space than the above, for Mr
Francis tells a story of a lost note for thirty thousand pounds, which,
turning up after the lapse of many years, was paid by the Bank _twice
over_! We are informed that notes of even a higher value than this have
on occasion been printed, but the highest denomination now issued is
one thousand pounds.

In this department is kept a portion of the Bank’s stock of golden
coin, in bags of one thousand pounds each. This amount does not require
a very large bag for its accommodation, but its weight is considerable,
amounting to two hundred and fifty-eight ounces twenty pennyweights,
so that a million in gold would weigh some tons. In another room of
this department—the Weighing Office—are seen the machines for detecting
light coin. These machines are marvels of ingenious mechanism. Three or
four hundred sovereigns are laid in a long brass scoop or semi-tube, of
such a diameter as to admit them comfortably, and self-regulating to
such an incline that the coins gradually slide down by their own weight
on to one plate of a little balance placed at its lower extremity.
Across the face of this plate two little bolts make alternate thrusts,
one to the right, one to the left, but at slightly different levels.
If the coin be of full weight, the balance is held in equipoise, and
the right-hand bolt making its thrust, pushes it off the plate and down
an adjacent tube into the receptacle for full-weight coin. If, on the
other hand, the coin is ever so little ‘light,’ the balance naturally
rises with it. The right-hand bolt makes its thrust as before, but
this time passes harmlessly beneath the coin. Then comes the thrust of
the left-hand bolt, which, as we have said, is fixed at a fractionally
higher level, and pushes the coin down a tube on the opposite side,
through which it falls into the light-coin receptacle. The coins thus
condemned are afterwards dropped into another machine, which defaces
them by a cut half-way across their diameter, at the rate of two
hundred a minute. The weighing-machines, of which there are sixteen,
are actuated by a small atmospheric engine in one corner of the room,
the only manual assistance required being to keep them supplied with
coins. It is said that sixty thousand sovereigns and half-sovereigns
can be weighed here in a single day. The weighing-machine in question
is the invention of Mr Cotton, a former governor of the Bank, and among
scientific men is regarded as one of the most striking achievements of
practical mechanics.

In the Bullion department we find another weighing-machine of a
different character, but in its way equally remarkable. It is the
first of its kind, having been designed specially for the Bank by Mr
James Murdoch Napier, by whom it has been patented. It is used for the
purpose of weighing bullion, which is purchased in this department.
Gold is brought in in bars of about eight inches long, three wide, and
one inch thick. A bar of gold of these dimensions will weigh about two
hundred ounces, and is worth, if pure, about eight hundred pounds.
Each bar when brought in is accompanied by a memorandum of its weight.
The question of quality is determined by the process of assaying; the
weight is checked by means of the weighing-machine we have referred to.
This takes the form of an extremely massive pair of scales, working
on a beam of immense strength and solidity, and is based, so as to
be absolutely rigid, on a solid bed of concrete. The whole stands
about six feet high by three wide, and is inclosed in an air-tight
plate-glass case, a sash in which is raised when it is desired to
use the machine. The two sides of the scale are each kept permanently
loaded, the one with a single weight of three hundred and sixty ounces,
the other with a number of weights of various sizes to the same amount.
When it is desired to test the weight of a bar of gold, weights to the
amount stated in the corresponding memorandum, _less half an ounce_,
are removed from the latter scale, and the bar of gold substituted in
their place. Up to this point the beam of the scale is kept perfectly
horizontal, being maintained in that position by a mechanical break;
but now a stud is pressed, and by means of delicate machinery, actuated
by water-power, the beam is released. If the weight of the bar has been
correctly stated in the memorandum, the scale which holds it should be
exactly half an ounce in excess. This or any less excess of weight over
the three hundred and sixty ounces in the opposite scale is instantly
registered by the machine, a pointer travelling round a dial until it
indicates the proper amount. The function of the machine, however, is
limited to weighing half an ounce only. If the discrepancy between the
two scales as loaded is greater than this, or if on the other hand the
bar of gold is more than half an ounce less than the amount stated in
the memorandum, an electric bell rings by way of warning, the pointer
travels right round the dial, and returns to zero. So delicate is the
adjustment, that the weight of half a penny postage stamp—somewhat less
than half a grain—will set the hand in motion and be recorded on the
dial.

The stock of gold in the bullion vault varies from one to three million
pounds sterling. The bars are laid side by side on small flat trucks or
barrows carrying one hundred bars each. In a glass case in this vault
is seen a portion of the war indemnity paid by King Coffee of Ashantee,
consisting of gold ornaments, a little short of standard fineness.

One of the first reflections that strike an outsider permitted to
inspect the repository of so much treasure is, ‘Can all this wealth
be safe?’ These heaps of precious metal, these piles of still more
precious notes, are handled by the officials in such an easy-going,
matter-of-course way, that one would almost fancy a few thousands would
scarcely be missed; and that a dishonest person had only to walk in
and help himself to as many sovereigns or hundred pound notes as his
pockets could accommodate. Such, however, is very far from being the
case. The safeguards against robbery, either by force or fraud, are
many and elaborate. At night the Bank is guarded at all accessible
points by an ample military force, which would no doubt give a good
account of any intruder rash enough to attempt to gain an entrance. In
the event of attack from without, there are sliding galleries which
can be thrust out from the roof, and which would enable a body of
sharpshooters to rake the streets in all directions.

Few people are aware that the Bank of England contains within its walls
a graveyard, but such is nevertheless the fact. The Gordon riots in
1780, during which the Bank was attacked by a mob, called attention to
the necessity for strengthening its defences. Competent authorities
advised that an adjoining church, rejoicing in the appropriate name
of St Christopher-le-Stocks, was in a military sense a source of
danger, and accordingly an Act of Parliament was passed to enable
the directors to purchase the church and its appurtenances. The old
churchyard, tastefully laid out, now forms what is known as the Bank
‘garden,’ the handsome ‘Court Room’ or ‘Bank Parlour’ abutting on one
of its sides. There is a magnificent lime-tree, one of the largest in
London, in the centre of the garden, and tradition states that under
this tree a former clerk of the Bank, _eight feet high_, lies buried.
With this last, though not least of the curiosities of the Bank, we
must bring the present article to a close. We had intended briefly to
have referred to sundry eventful pages of its history; but these we are
compelled, by considerations of space, to reserve for a future paper.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER LVII.—THE SECRET IN THE OAK PARLOUR.

At Willowmere, the rapidity with which Mr Hadleigh regained strength
astounded Dr Joy, and delighted the patient’s nurses, Aunt Hessy and
Madge.

‘Wonderful nerve, wonderful physique he must have,’ whispered Dr Joy
admiringly on the fifth day; ‘and yet, according to all accounts, he
did not study the economy of either in the course of his life. Well,
well; we do come across extraordinary constitutions occasionally, and
his is one of them.’

The peculiarity of the case was that, after the first shock, the
patient was perfectly calm, and showed not the remotest symptom of
delirium. He understood everything that passed around him, and when
permitted, talked quietly about the fire, and listened attentively to
all that was related to him regarding it.

He heard with pleased surprise the account of how Caleb had rescued
him, and said to Madge: ‘I must do something for that man; but it will
have to be by your hand, for he is evidently resolved to accept nothing
from mine.’

‘We will have to find out where he is, before we can do anything for
him. He intended to go to Australia; but the day after he regained his
freedom, he wrote to Philip saying that he had altered his mind, and
was going to the United States.’

‘Why did not Philip keep him here?’

‘He tried to persuade him to remain, but could not. Poor Caleb, he does
not know what a sorry heart he has left behind him.’ Here she checked
herself, feeling that she was entering upon delicate ground. ‘He sent
good wishes to you, and to all of us, and promised to write again to
Philip, so that we may have an opportunity of serving him yet.’

‘He is a headstrong fellow,’ said Mr Hadleigh; ‘and I hope he may
not ruin his own prospects by his too great eagerness to secure the
independence of his neighbours. You see, Miss Heathcote, he is one
of those unhappy people who have reached the stage of education in
which they discover that they have certain rights, without having got
education enough to recognise the responsibilities which these rights
entail. Well, we must wait till we have news of him.... Has my safe
been dug out of the ruins yet?’

That was a question he had been asking daily from the moment when
he comprehended the disaster which had befallen him; and the answer
had been hitherto always the same: ‘Not yet.’ At length came the
information that the safe had been found, and was apparently little
damaged by its ordeal of fire.

Then Mr Hadleigh bade Philip take his keys and bring him from the safe
a little deed-box marked ‘_L. H. Private_.’ When Philip returned with
the box, his father had been moved into the Oak Parlour, where he was
reclining in a big armchair, supported by down cushions. A cheery fire
with one of Madge’s oak-logs was blazing on the hearth, raising the
temperature of the apartment to summer heat.

When the box was placed on the table beside him, he desired to be left
alone until he should ring a hand-bell which was within his reach.
He had caused Philip to place the key in the box, and for a space he
remained motionless, staring at it, as if hesitating to touch again the
spring of emotions which he had intended should be there shut up from
him for ever. His eyelids drooped, and in spite of the bright glow of
the fire, a shadow fell on his pale face.

‘Yes, I thank God that I am spared to do this thing,’ he muttered at
length. ‘Let the secret die with me—it was a cruel as well as a selfish
wish that prompted me to reveal it to them. What matter to me how
they may hold me in their memory? They may think of me as that which
circumstances made me appear, not as what I wished to be. What matter?
The dead are beyond earthly pain and passion. I shall not stretch my
hand from the grave to cast the least shade of regret over their lives.’

He slowly took from the box the two packets he had so carefully sealed
and put away on the night of the fire. The one was addressed to
Madge as Mrs Philip Hadleigh; the other, to his son Philip, with the
injunction that he, after reading, was to decide whether or not to show
it to his wife. The paper addressed to Madge, he took up and held in
the long thin scarred hands as if it were a thing capable of feeling.
He broke the seal and took the paper from the envelope, performing
the operation mechanically, whilst the far-away look was in his eyes,
and the Something he had sought but could not reach was fading from
his vision altogether. His was the kind of expression with which one
who knows he is doomed watches the last sunset displaying its brief,
changing glories on the horizon. The broad streams of gleaming amber
and opal are quietly transfused into the pensive gray of twilight, and
the darkness follows.

‘They must never know.’

He made a movement as if to drop the paper into the fire, paused, and
his eyes rested on the writing, although they did not distinguish the
words. And there was no need; for they only represented in a feeble way
thoughts which were always present to his mind.

‘I must speak’—such were the written words—‘or I shall lose all
self-restraint. You cannot be harmed by what is put down here. Perhaps
you will never see it; you certainly shall not until after my funeral,
and then you may be able to understand and think none the less kindly
of me for this confession.

‘You have seen me in my darkest moods, and you have wondered at my
melancholy—wondered why I who had been granted such a large measure of
what the world esteems prosperity should find no contentment in it. I
have partly explained the cause to Philip: I could not explain it to
you.

‘With bitter reason I early learned to believe that money—mere
money—was the source of all earthly happiness. I was mistaken, and
found out my mistake too late. I should have been content, perhaps
happy in a way, if I could have gone on to the end without the
knowledge that the want of Love is the only real sorrow which can enter
into man or woman’s life. But there was nobody to lead me out of the
miserable conviction which took possession of my mind as I watched
those dearest to me fall one by one, not with the merciful swiftness
of soldiers in battle, but in the lingering torments of soul and body
which come to those who are poor.

‘Left alone, I looked around. The whole world was my enemy, to be
conquered by force and stratagem. Any man may be rich, I said, who
has a clear head and no conscience; who is willing to abandon all
sentiment, forego all trivial pleasures, and give himself absolutely to
the service of the world’s idol. I gave myself to the idol; and wealth
came to me in increasing stores year by year, month by month, day by
day.

‘At first, the sense of my victory sufficed; but soon there came the
consciousness that this was not happiness; it was the successful
working of a machine. I craved for something more, but did not know
what it was. My wife’s affection, I knew, belonged to another: I had
married her with that knowledge. I tried to win the friendship of my
children; but the girls had learned to regard me with a kind of fear,
Coutts with indifference, and Philip was the only one who could speak
to me with frankness. His generous nature comforted me, but did not
fill up the void in my life.

‘I was still seeking the Something which was necessary to me, and at
length I found it in YOU.... Yes, you taught me what love was—I loved
you with all the fervour of youth. My years, my experience of the world
intensified the love which I had never known before. I was prepared to
sacrifice all my possessions, all my hopes, for you.

‘Do not start away and cast the paper from you; I have made the
sacrifice.

‘At the same moment in which the treasure that would have made life
beautiful was revealed to me, there was also revealed the impossibility
of its ever becoming mine. I was like a seaman who is shipwrecked and
sinks within sight of land. I will not try to tell you through what
pain I passed to the recognition of the duty Love imposed—to help
forward your happiness in any direction in which you might think it
lay. I will not try to tell you with what agitation I learned for the
first time, what must have become known to me long before, had it not
been for the morbid isolation in which my days were passed, that you
and Philip were betrothed.

‘My first desire then was to bring about your union as speedily
as possible, believing that I should find my peace in having the
privilege of calling you daughter. Meeting your uncle Crawshay in
the market-place, I took him to a private apartment in the inn and
endeavoured to explain my wishes. I must have spoken stupidly, for he
misunderstood me, and fancied that the proposal was on my own account.
His misconception startled and confused me, and he left me in great
indignation.

‘I thought of following him to Willowmere and explaining; but the
effort already made had tried me so much, that not feeling sure of
what awkwardness of speech or what irrepressible sign of emotion might
betray my secret, I determined to let matters take their course, whilst
my task should be to keep Philip at home and to hasten the marriage.
You know how earnestly I strove to carry out that resolution.

‘You and Philip will be happy. You two have found in time the golden
key of life, and in your happiness I shall find mine at last. I want to
live till then; and, after, I shall pass away content.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The invalid seemed to arouse from a sad and yet pleasing dream, for
there was a faint smile on his worn face, and the eyes seemed to
brighten as with the consciousness of victory—that greatest of all
victories, the conquest of self.

He rang the hand-bell, and Madge herself promptly answered the summons.

‘It is you I wanted, my child.... How good and patient you have been
with me—Madge. Take notice, I am to call you henceforth, Madge, my
child.’

‘And I shall call you father,’ she said tenderly, taking one of his
hands and stroking it affectionately.

He was silent for a few moments; then lifting his head, he drew her
towards him and kissed her with strange solemnity on the brow.

‘Yes, my child,’ he said calmly, ‘that is the name which commands a
portion of your love—and you will give me a little of it?’

‘A great deal of it—you may be sure of that,’ she answered, blushing
slightly, and thinking how could she do otherwise than give a great
deal of love to Philip’s father.

‘You give me more comfort than you know, my dear daughter. Now take
this paper and place it on the fire, so that I may see it burn to
ashes.’

She obeyed unquestioningly; and he watched the flame stretching its
white fingers round the secret which was to die with him; saw the paper
curl into black and white films; and then he drew a long breath of
relief.

‘They can never know now,’ was his mental exclamation. ‘Thank God it is
done, and by her hand.’

There was a little while of dreamy silence, during which Madge stood
by his side, holding his hand, and anxiously noting every change on
his countenance. The changes were rapid and curious as those of a
kaleidoscope: now there was pain; again a stern frown, as if checking
some rebellious spirit, and anon a serene smile of resignation and
content. With this latter expression he looked up to her.

‘Call Philip.’

The son was immediately in attendance.

‘I hope you are not exerting yourself too much, sir,’ was his anxious
observation.

‘O no; I am wonderfully strong this afternoon, and am taking advantage
of the renewed strength to put some matters straight, which being done,
will relieve my mind, and so give me the better chance of a speedy
recovery. But it is as well to be prepared for the worst; and therefore
I wish to have the satisfaction of handing you this packet in Madge’s
presence. You will learn from it that when I took from you the portion
of my fortune which would have been yours in the ordinary course of
events, I gave it to your future wife. I did not intend you to know
this until after my death; but as your uncle has come to grief, I am
desirous of relieving your mind as soon as possible from any fear of
the future; and I should have been glad to have helped Austin Shield
out of his difficulties, for your mother’s sake—but he would refuse any
help that came from me.—What is that?’

The exclamation was caused by one of the oak panels facing him slowly
moving aside and revealing the form of a man.




MORE USES OF PAPER.


The place of timber in construction bids fair to be taken by
papier-mâché, and it may claim to rival iron itself in the multiplicity
of its industrial applications. Besides the advantage of its cheap
construction, papier-mâché is not affected by changes of temperature,
does not crack, like wood or plaster, and is never discoloured by rust.
It can be bronzed, painted, polished, or gilded, made heavy or light
as required, and possesses greater adaptability for quick removal or
adjustment than most other materials. Its uses in architecture seem to
have no limit, as has been shown by building and completely furnishing
a dwelling-house entirely of this material. According to report, a
huge hotel is about to be constructed in America in which paper will
take the place of stone and brick. The fourth paper dome in the United
States and, it is thought, in the world, will crown the new Observatory
at Columbia College, in New York. A trade journal remarks that besides
the paper dome at the Troy Polytechnic, there is a second at West
Point, and a third at Beloit College. That at West Point is said to
be the largest, but that at Columbia College the best in construction
and arrangement. The method used in the manufacture of the paper is
kept a secret, the makers using a patented process. The dome is made
in sections—twenty-four in number. They are bent over towards the
inside at the edges and bolted to ribs of wood. The shell, though very
thin, is as stiff as sheet-iron. On one side of the dome is the oblong
opening for the telescope, and over this a shutter, also of paper, but
stiffened with wood-lining, which slides around on the outside of the
dome. The whole dome is so light that the hand can turn it.

As regards the uses of papier-mâché in Europe, we hear of a complete
church being built in Bavaria, having columns, walls, altar, roof,
and spire all of this material. Some of the most tasteful halls on
the continent and in this country are finished in it in preference
to wood. Mantels, mirrors, frames, and gilded chandeliers are of
its composition. Pedestals, newels, vases, furniture, and ornaments
of all kinds, no less than floors and staircases, gas-pipes, and
even chimney-shafts, can be made of it. In Breslau, a chimney-shaft
fifty feet high is said to have been made of paper-pulp chemically
impregnated so as to resist combustion.

Incombustible as well as water-proof paper is now no novelty, and
has before been alluded to in this _Journal_; but an account of some
further experiments in this line has since reached us. M. G. Meyer
of Paris recently exhibited to the ‘Société d’Encouragement pour
l’Industrie nationale’ specimens of an incombustible paper capable of
taking on inks of various shades, and also paintings, and preserving
them even in the fire of a gas-flame. It was stated by him that the
papers and documents shown had been for four hours in a pottery
furnace, and had displayed undoubted fire-resisting properties. Paper
of this indestructible nature should be in good demand for wills,
deeds, and account-books, &c. It is also suitable for wall-covering,
and ought, we should think, to be of great value for theatrical
decorations and scenery. The latter can be rendered uninflammable by
using this inventor’s material as well as his incombustible colours.
While on the subject of decoration may be mentioned the new kind of
satin paper recently brought out for this purpose. It is made by
covering common paper with adhesive size, and sprinkling dyed asbestos
powder on its moist surface. Asbestos readily takes up all colours,
especially those of aniline, so that some very rich effects can be
produced.

Paper curtains, counterpanes, sheets, and so forth, are said to have
been among the objects of interest at the Sydney Exhibition; and so
there is no reason to doubt the report that table-napkins of the same
adaptable substance are regularly supplied at the cheap dining-rooms
of Berlin. The napkins are of tissue-paper with a coloured ornamental
border—not only because paper is cheaper than diaper, but as a
protection against pilfering. Indeed, so common are paper table-napkins
said to be at Berlin, that the manufacturers advertise them regularly
in the newspapers at the rate of about nine or ten a penny.

When we think of the extraordinary uses to which paper is applied, it
is not so startling to learn that this material may even enter into
the composition of our post-prandial cigar. If we are to believe the
newspapers, millions of cigars are annually manufactured in Havana
without so much as a single fibre of tobacco-leaf being utilised in the
process of their fabrication. The great straw-paper factory in New York
State has for some time been making a peculiar sort of extremely thin
fine paper, which it has been discovered is used for making cigars.
This we are told is thoroughly soaked in a solution composed of tobacco
refuse boiled in water, then dried and pressed between stamps, which
impart to it the appearance of the finest leaf so exactly as to defy
detection even on the part of the experienced in such matters. Of these
paper-leaves are fabricated the spurious cigars alluded to, which are
exported from Cuba to all parts of the world as genuine tobacco. The
cost of their production is nothing in comparison with the prices at
which they are disposed of. A slight difference in weight between the
genuine and the spurious cigar of identical brand and size, affords,
it is stated, the only certain means of detecting this fraud, so alike
in appearance are the weeds of real tobacco and their counterfeit
presentments in straw-paper.

As delicate sheets of paper can be made to serve for steel or iron,
it is easily understood that school-slates can be manufactured from
similar apparently unpromising beginnings. They are made of white
cardboard, covered with a film formed by the action of sulphuric acid
on tissue-paper. This covering, according to an American journal, is
probably a modification of celluloid. The slates can be used with
a lead-pencil or with ink; and to remove the marks, the slate is
washed with cold water. A special ink is also prepared for use with
these white slates. Another form of slate is made by coating the
white cardboard with water-glass. It may be used with lead-pencils or
coloured crayons. When the surface becomes soiled, the water-glass may
be rubbed off with sand-paper, and a new film may be put on with a
sponge or brush dipped in water-glass.

To the number of paper-making materials now in use must be added an old
weed of the nettle species, not of the stinging kind. From the bark of
certain shrubs, also, several kinds of Japanese paper are made. The
strongest and commonest is made from the bark of the mitsuma. A paper
of superior quality is likewise made from the kozu, a small tree of the
mulberry family, imported from China. The inner bark of both shrubs is
washed and dried, softened in steam and boiling water, and afterwards
beaten with staves until a fine paste is formed. This paste mixed with
water is then made into paper in the ordinary way.

A new use of cedar-bark has been undertaken at New Bedford,
Massachusetts. The Acushnet paper-mill at that point is, it
appears, nearly completed, and was built for the express purpose of
manufacturing pulp and paper from cedar-bark. This, we are told, is
the first enterprise of the kind ever undertaken. The bark is taken
from shingle butts that are sixteen inches long, and are bundled for
shipment like laths. The new mill will work up three cords of bark a
day. The first product will be for carpet linings; but the paper is
said to be equally adapted to other purposes.

A new method of preparing soluble wool from tissues in which wool and
cotton are combined has been discovered. When subjected to a current
of superheated steam under a pressure of five atmospheres, the wool
melts and falls to the bottom of the pan, leaving the cotton, linen,
and other vegetable fibres clean and in a condition suitable for
paper-making. The melted wool is afterwards evaporated to dryness, when
it becomes completely soluble in water. The increased value of the rags
is said to be sufficient to cover the whole cost of the operation.

With the use of the papyrus, as is well known, the Egyptians were
early acquainted, and its manufacture was a government monopoly, as
paper-making is to this day at Boulak, the river-port of Cairo. The
remarkable aptitude for paper-making displayed by the Boulak Arabs
is an hereditary accomplishment. The Daira paper manufactory in the
suburb of Boulak regularly employed, we are told, more than two hundred
hands before the late war, almost all natives. Most of the paper turned
out is for packing purposes; but thousands of reams of good writing
and printing paper are also manufactured. The writing-paper is made
specially for Arabic writing; and what is produced in excess of the
requirements of the country is exported eastward, partly to Arabia, and
a small portion even to India. Though linen and cotton rags are used
in this factory, the interior of the stalk of the sugar-cane furnishes
an endless supply of paper-making material. In the production of what
is called ‘straw’ paper in Europe, the _hilfa_ grass plays a very
important part. The Daira factory at Boulak enjoys a monopoly of this
industry in Egypt; and in connection with it is the National Printing
Office, also under the control of the same administration.

In conclusion, some reference may be made to a published work entitled
_The Paper Mill Directory of the World_, which will appear annually.
It contains a complete catalogue of all the paper and pulp mills on
the globe. The total number of mills existing is four thousand four
hundred and sixty-three. The German Empire, with over eleven hundred,
heads the list in point of numbers, the United States following very
closely. Then we have France with considerably more than five hundred,
Austro-Hungary, England, Italy, Russia, Spain, Sweden, Canada and
Norway, the remainder being scattered over various parts of the world.
It appears that the mills in the United States are capable of turning
out seven million some odd hundred thousand pounds-weight, in round
numbers, of pulp and paper daily. Over a million pounds is produced in
Massachusetts alone.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER VIII.

At the very time Mr Dulcimer was assisting Miss Wynter across the
stepping-stones, the stranger whose unexpected appearance the previous
night had so startled Madame De Vigne was pacing leisurely up the
valley in the direction of the waterfall.

When, on inquiring for Madame De Vigne at the hotel that morning, he
was told that she had gone out for the day with a picnic party, his
suspicious nature at once took the alarm. Might she not by some means
have discovered his presence in the hotel? he asked himself; and might
not this story of the picnic be nothing more than a subterfuge, by
means of which she would obtain a start of several hours in her efforts
to escape from him? He at once ordered a fly and set off in pursuit. On
reaching the place where the wagonettes had been left, he found that if
he persisted in his search for Madame De Vigne, he would be compelled
to do the rest of the distance on foot. He disliked walking, but in
this case there was no help for it; accordingly, he set out on his way
to the glen with such grace as there might be in him.

He was a man to all appearance about forty years of age—he might
be a little older; but his figure was still as lithe and active as
that of many a man of twenty. He had jet-black hair, and his closely
cropped beard and moustache were of the same hue. He had large, white,
carnivorous-looking teeth, and small black eyes as piercing as gimlets,
with now and then a strange, furtively suspicious look glancing at you
out of their corners. His features were aquiline, rather finely cut,
and his complexion sallow. By the majority of people he would have been
accounted a fairly handsome man. He was fashionably dressed, but it was
after the fashion of a Parisian dandy, not that of a London swell; and
there is a vast difference in the styles of the two.

When he had passed through the wicket which gave admittance to the glen
and was within a few yards of the bridge, he paused and gazed around.
Not a creature was to be seen, for, before this, Dick and Bella had
gone on a further journey of exploration and were no longer visible.

‘So! This must be the place where they told me that I should find her,’
said the stranger to himself in French. ‘But she is not here. Well, I
can wait.’ He advanced a few yards farther up the glen. ‘We could not
have a better place for our meeting. There will be no one to overhear
what we shall have to say to each other. Ah, _ma chère_ Mora, what a
surprise for you! How enchanted you will be to find that your brave
Hector is not dead, as they wrote and told you he was, but alive, and
burning to embrace you! What happiness for both of us!’

He had been climbing slowly up the ravine, and by this time he had
reached the spot where Mora had been sitting but a short time before.
Her sketch-book attracted his eye; he took it up and opened it.

‘Hers! Here is her name. She cannot be far away. A man’s head—a
likeness evidently. The same again—and yet again. I must find out the
name of this monsieur. I shall have much pleasure to introduce myself
to him.’ A slight noise startled him. He shut the book and raised his
eyes. ‘Ah! here comes my angel,’ he exclaimed. ‘_Sacre bleu!_ she is
handsomer than ever.’

For the moment Mora did not perceive him. When she did, she put a hand
quickly to her heart and gave a great gasp.

‘Ah!’ What a volume of meaning that little word conveyed!

Monsieur De Miravel—for such was the name he now chose to be known
by—advanced a step or two smilingly, and bowed with all a Frenchman’s
grace. ‘_Me voici!_’ he said. ‘Hector—thy husband—not dead, but alive
and’——

She stopped him with an imperious gesture. ‘Wretch—coward—felon!’ she
exclaimed, and her voice seemed to express the concentrated passion and
hatred of years. ‘I could never quite believe that I had been fortunate
enough to lose you for ever. I had a presentiment that I should some
day see you again. Why have you followed me? But I need not ask. It is
to rob me again, as you robbed me before. _Voleur!_’

She stood before him drawn up to the full height of her magnificent
beauty, her bosom heaving, her eyes dilating, her head thrown slightly
back, her clenched hands hanging by her sides, her shoulders a little
raised. Even the scoundrel whom she had addressed could not help
admiring her as she towered before him in all the splendour of her
passion.

A small red spot flamed on either cheek, but his voice had still a
smile in it when next he spoke. ‘Ah ha!’ he said. ‘You are still the
same charming Mora that you always were! You still call me by the same
pretty names! How it brings back the days of long ago!’

‘How much money do you want of me?’ she demanded abruptly. ‘What price
do you expect me to pay that I may rid myself of your presence?’

‘Softly, _ma chère_, softly. I have not been at all this great trouble
and expense to discover you, without having something to say to you. I
want to talk what you English call business.’

‘Name your price and leave me.’

‘Taisez-vous, je vous prie. You are here, and you must listen to me.
You cannot help yourself.’

Madame De Vigne bit her lip, but did not reply.

De Miravel sat down, crossed his legs, leant back a little, and looked
up at her with half-shut eyes. ‘Five years ago,’ he began, ‘you
received a certain letter in which you were informed that I was dead.
That letter, by some strange error, was forwarded to the wrong person.
It was not I, your husband, who was dead, but another man of the same
name—another Hector Laroche. When the mistake was discovered, you had
left the place where you had previously been living, and no one knew
what had become of you. Two years ago I found myself in Paris again.
When I had arranged my private affairs, which had suffered during my
long absence, I began to make inquiries concerning the wife from whom I
had been so cruelly torn, and whom my heart was bleeding to embrace.’

‘_Menteur!_’ ground out Mora between her teeth.

He waved, as it were, the epithet aside with an airy gesture of his
hand, and continued: ‘For a long time I could hear nothing concerning
her, and I began to fear that I had lost her for ever. But at length a
clue was put into my hands. I discovered that, in consequence of the
death of a relative, my incomparable wife had come into a fortune of
twelve thousand francs a year—that she had changed her name from Madame
Laroche to that of her aunt, Madame De Vigne, and that she and her
sister had gone to make their home in England. Naturally, I follow my
wife to England, and here, to-day, _me voici!_’

‘Your price—name your price,’ was all that the lady deigned to answer.

‘Pardon. I am not in want of money—at present. It was my wife whom I
sought everywhere, and now that I have found her, I do not intend ever
to leave her again.’

‘Liar and villain!’

‘Doucement, je vous prie. Listen! I am no longer so young as I once
was. I have travelled—I have seen the world—I am _blasé_. I want a
home—I want what you English call my own fireside. Where, then, should
be my home—where should be my fireside, but with my wife—the wife
from whom I have been torn for so many cruel years, but whom, _parole
d’honneur_, I have never ceased to love and cherish in my heart!’

‘Oh! this is too much,’ murmured Mora under her breath, the fingers
of one hand griping those of the other like a vice. The tension was
becoming greater than she could bear.

‘But there need be no scandal, no éclaircissement among my dear wife’s
English friends,’ went on De Miravel with the same hard, set smile.
‘I have thought of all that. Madame Laroche is dead—Hector Laroche is
dead. In their place we have here, Madame De Vigne, a charming widow;
and Monsieur De Miravel, a bachelor not too antique to marry. Monsieur
De Miravel has known and admired Madame De Vigne before her marriage
to her late husband. What more natural than that he should admire her
still, that he should make her an offer of his hand, and that she
should accept it? So one day Madame De Vigne and Monsieur De Miravel
are quietly married, and, _pouf!_ all the respectable English friends
have dust thrown in their eyes!’

For a moment or two Mora stared at him in silence; then she said in a
low voice: ‘And you propose this to me!—to me!’

‘Sérieusement, ma chère—sérieusement. It is a beautiful little scheme.’

‘If you will not take your price and leave me, I at least can leave
you,’ she answered in low, determined tones. ‘No power on earth can
compel me to live with you for a single hour as your wife, and no power
shall. I would sooner drop dead at your feet.’

The Frenchman bent his head and sniffed at the flower in his
button-hole. When he lifted his face again there was a strange
expression in his eyes, which his unhappy wife remembered only too
well, and caused her to shudder in spite of herself. She felt that the
scorpion’s sting of what he had to say to her was yet to come. When he
next spoke, there was the same cold, cruel glitter in his eyes that
travellers tell us is to be seen in the eyes of a cobra at the moment
it is about to strike.

‘Mademoiselle your sister—what a beautiful young lady she is!’ he said,
speaking even more softly than he had done before, and balancing his
cane on a couple of fingers as he spoke. ‘I saw her this morning for
the first time. She is to be married in a little while to the son of a
rich English _milord_. Is it not so? _Eh bien!_ I wonder what this rich
_milord_, this Sir William, would say, and what the young gentleman,
his son, would say, if they were told that the sister of the charming
Mademoiselle Clarice was the wife of a _déporté_—of Hector Laroche,
a man who had worked out a sentence of penal servitude at Noumea. Of
course the rich Sir William would at once take Monsieur Laroche to
lunch with him at his club, and the young gentleman would present him
with a little cheque for five or six thousand francs; and he would be
asked to give the bride away at the wedding, and he would sign his name
in the register, thus—“Hector Laroche, _ex-déporté_, number 897.”’

For a moment or two it seemed to Mora as if earth and heaven were
coming together.

‘So, fiend! miscreant! that is your scheme, is it?’

‘I have shown you my cards,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘I have hidden
nothing from you. So now, _chère_ Madame De Vigne, you have only to
give your promise to marry your devoted De Miravel; and the moment you
do that, Hector Laroche dies and is buried out of sight for ever, and
neither Sir William nor his son will know that such a _vaurien_ ever
existed.’

‘Leave me—leave me!’ she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.

He glanced at her keenly. It was evident that just at present she could
bear no more. It was not his policy to drive her to extremities. He
rose from his seat.

‘I will go and promenade myself for a little while,’ he said. ‘In half
an hour I will return.’

He raised his hat as he might have done to a duchess. She stood a
little aside, to let him pass, but did not allow her eyes to rest on
him for a moment. He turned and took the path which led up the ravine.

Mora sank down wearily on the seat he had vacated. At that moment she
felt as if she would have been grateful for the earth to open and
swallow her up. She was appalled at the blackness of the gulf to the
edge of which her husband had just dragged her. What should she do?
Whither should she turn? To whom should she look for help? Alas! in all
the wide world there was no one who could help her—least of all the man
whose strong protecting love had seemed but yesterday as though it were
able to shield her from every harm.

‘I am in the coils of a Python that will slowly but surely strangle
me,’ she said. ‘Yes—death alone can release me. And only yesterday
I was so happy! If I could but have died at the moment Harold
pressed his lips to mine! Why does he not come? I must tell him
everything—everything. And after that?’ She shuddered, and rose to her
feet. ‘And he loves me so much!’ she said with a heart-broken sigh.
‘Poor Harold! Poor Harold!’

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she turned and took the same
path that she had taken before when she went to watch for Colonel
Woodruffe’s coming up the valley. Her one burning desire now was to see
him; beyond that, her mind at present refused to go.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I am afraid that as an ambassador the colonel was a failure.’

The speaker was Mr Etheridge, and it was to Clarice Loraine that his
remark was addressed.

Mr Etheridge had had pointed out to him and had duly admired the
view so much extolled by the young girl, and the two were now slowly
sauntering back to their starting-point. By this time Clarice felt
herself quite at ease with her companion, so much so, indeed, that in
her prettily confidential way she had told him all about how Archie and
she became acquainted, how they grew to love each other, how Archie
proposed and was accepted, and how surprised they all were afterwards
to find that he was a baronet’s son. Then she went on to tell him of
Archie’s letter to his father, the first result of which was Colonel
Woodruffe’s visit at the vicarage.

‘Well, and what happened after the colonel’s visit?’ continued Mr
Etheridge.

‘Archie wrote again, twice; but there came no answer till yesterday,
when he received the telegram which summoned him to meet his father in
London.’

‘Supposing Sir William should refuse his consent, what would the result
be in that case?’

‘That is more than I can tell,’ she answered with a little trembling of
her lips. ‘But before Archie left us, my sister told him that he went
away a free man—that if his father were opposed to the marriage, we
should look upon his promise as if it had never been given; and that if
we never saw him again, we should know the reason why, and never blame
him in our thoughts.’

‘And you agreed with what your sister said?’

‘With every word of it.’

‘That was very brave of you. But what had Mr Archie to say to such an
arrangement?’

‘He laughed it to scorn. He said he would do all that lay in his power
to win his father’s consent, but that—that’——

‘In any case, he would hold you to your promise, and come back and
claim you for his wife? Mr Archie would find himself a very poor man if
Sir William were to cut off his allowance.’

‘That is a prospect which does not seem to frighten him in the least.’

‘But doubtless it would not be without its effect upon you, Miss
Loraine. You would hardly care to tie yourself for life to a pauper.’

‘O Mr Etheridge, what a strange opinion you must have formed of me! I
would marry Archie if he had not a sovereign to call his own.’

‘The charming imprudence of a girl in love. Then you would marry him in
opposition to his father’s wishes?’

‘Now you ask me a question that I cannot answer. That, and that only,
would cause me to hesitate.’

‘Why should the wishes of a selfish valetudinarian—of a man whom you
have never seen—cause you to hesitate, or be allowed to come between
you and the happiness of your life?’

‘Ah! but could I ever be really happy with the knowledge for ever in
my mind that I had been the cause of separating a father from his son,
and that by becoming Archie’s wife I had blighted the fairest prospects
of his life? And then, perhaps—who can tell?—after a time he might
become a little tired of me—men do sometimes tire of their wives, don’t
they?—and then he might begin to remember and regret all that he had
sacrificed in marrying me; and that, I think, would nearly break my
heart.’

The old man laid his hand caressingly on her arm for a moment. ‘Well,
well, we must hope for the best,’ he said. ‘We must hope that Sir
William will not prove a very flinty-hearted papa.’

She smiled up gratefully in his face. ‘Tell me, Mr Etheridge, is Sir
William a very terrible person to have to do with?’

He broke into a little laugh. ‘Terrible, miss? No; hardly that, I
think; but eccentric, if you please. The fact is that Sir William is
one of those men of whom it can never be predicated with certainty what
view he will take, or what conclusion he will arrive at, with regard to
any matter that may be brought before him. He has an obnoxious habit
of thinking and deciding for himself, and is seldom led by the opinions
of others. Yes, undoubtedly Sir William is a very eccentric man.’

They had got back to the bridge by this time. ‘Why, I declare, yonder
comes Colonel Woodruffe!’ exclaimed Clarice. ‘I am _so_ pleased—and so
will Mora be.’

‘Evidently the colonel is a favourite,’ said Mr Etheridge drily.

‘Of course he is. Everybody likes Colonel Woodruffe. But probably you
know him already, Mr Etheridge?’

‘I have met him occasionally at Sir William’s house. I have no doubt he
would remember me if you were to mention my name.’

‘I will go and speak to him, if you will excuse me for a few moments.’

Clarice sped quickly across the bridge. Mr Etheridge sat down on the
parapet and fanned himself with his hat.

The colonel, who had been gazing round him in some perplexity, hurried
forward the moment he perceived Miss Loraine.

‘Good-morning, Colonel Woodruffe,’ said the girl as she held out her
hand. ‘I am delighted to find that you have discovered us.’

‘Your sister told me that you were all to be at High Ghyll to-day, so
I have driven round in search of you. But where are the rest of the
party?’

‘Gone in search of the picturesque, I have no doubt. Mora was here a
little while ago; and see’—pointing with her finger—‘yonder are her
sketch-book and shawl, so that she cannot be far away.’

The colonel had been gazing over Clarice’s shoulder at Mr Etheridge.
‘Whom have you yonder?’ he asked. ‘I seem to know his face.’

‘Such a dear old gentleman!—Mr Etheridge, Sir William Ridsdale’s
secretary.’

‘Sir William Ridsdale’s secretary!’ echoed the colonel with an air of
stupefaction.

‘Yes; he recognised you the moment he saw you. He says that he has met
you occasionally at Sir William’s house.’

‘Oh, indeed! But what has brought him here, may I ask?’

‘He has come all the way from Spa with a letter for Archie from his
father. But when he reached here this morning, he found that Archie
had been telegraphed for last evening to meet his father in London.—It
seems very strange, doesn’t it? But then, as Mr Etheridge says, Sir
William is a very eccentric man.’

‘Very eccentric, indeed,’ responded the colonel absently.

‘So that of course accounts for it.—But yonder comes Mora.’

The colonel turned eagerly. ‘Then, with your permission, I will leave
you to Mr Etheridge.’

‘We shall see you at luncheon, of course?’

‘You may rely upon me not to miss that,’ answered the colonel with a
laugh.

Clarice kissed her hand to her sister, and then went back to Mr
Etheridge. She wanted to afford the colonel an opportunity for a
_tête-à-tête_ with Mora, so she at once proposed another ramble to Mr
Etheridge, who assented with alacrity.

The moment Colonel Woodruffe drew near Mora De Vigne, he saw that
something was amiss. She looked an altogether different woman from her
whom he had parted from only a few hours before with a tender light of
love and happiness in her eyes. His heart misgave him as he walked up
to her.

‘What has happened?’ he asked in anxious tones as he took her hand.
‘What has wrought this change in you? Your hand is like ice.’

She gazed up into his face for a moment or two without speaking, with
a dumb, pitiful wistfulness in her eyes, that affected him strangely.
Then she said: ‘Why did you not read the letter which I gave you last
evening?’

He gazed at her for a moment. ‘You know my reasons for not reading it.
But why do you ask that now?’

‘Because, if you had read it, you would have saved me from having
to tell so much to-day, which, in that case, you would have known
yesterday.’

‘Pardon me, but you speak in enigmas.’

‘You have read of earthquakes, although you may never have felt the
shock of one. One minute all is fair, bright, and beautiful; the
next, there is nothing but ruin, disaster, and death. Since I saw you
yesterday, the foundations of my life, which I thought nothing could
ever shake more, have crumbled into utter ruin around me.’

‘How can that be, while I am here to guard and cherish you? Yesterday,
you gave me your love—your life. What power on earth can tear them from
me?’

‘Ah me! Listen, and you shall learn.’

She sat for a few moments with bent head, as if scarcely knowing how to
begin. The colonel was standing a little way from her, one of his arms
twined round the slender stem of a sapling.

‘What I am about to tell you is the life-story of a most unhappy
woman,’ she said, lifting her head and gazing sadly into his eyes. ‘My
father was an Englishman, who was engaged for many years in business
near Paris. I was educated in a convent, as girls are educated in
France. I had left the convent about a year, and was keeping my
father’s house—my mother having died meanwhile, and my sister being
away at school—when a certain Monsieur Laroche became a frequent
visitor. Before long, my father told me that his affairs were deeply
involved. Laroche was the only man who could or would save him, and
that only on condition that I became his wife. I was little more than
a child in worldly knowledge; I knew that in France the question of
a girl’s marriage is always settled by her parents; so, although I
already detested the man, I yielded to my father’s entreaties, and
became Madame Laroche. Within a year, my father died—by his own hand.’

‘My poor Mora!’

‘Whatever wreck of property he left behind, my husband contrived
to obtain possession of. But before that time, I knew him to be an
inveterate gambler, and worse! Of my life at that time I care not now
to speak. Can there be many such men as he in the world—such tigers in
human form? I hope not.

‘Some time after, when my life had become a burden almost greater than
I could bear, there came news of the death of my godmother, and that
she had left me a legacy of two thousand pounds. The money had not been
six hours in my possession, before my husband broke open my bureau and
robbed me of the whole of it, together with my own and my mother’s
jewels. I was left utterly destitute. A few months later came the war,
the siege of Paris, and the famine. Oh! that terrible time. I often
live it over again in my dreams even now.’

‘And you have gone through all this!’ said the colonel.

‘I had no tidings of my husband till the war was over,’ resumed Mora.
‘Then came news indeed. He had been detected cheating at cards—there
had been a quarrel—the lights had been blown out, and the man who had
accused him had been shot through the heart. My husband was tried,
found guilty, and condemned to a long term of penal servitude.’

‘A happy riddance for you and every one,’ remarked the colonel with a
shrug.

‘I had friends who did not desert me in my extremity. I gave lessons
in English, and so contrived to live. One day there came an official
notification that my husband was dead. He had died in prison, and had
been buried in a convict’s grave. Was it wicked to feel glad when I
read the news? If so, then was I wicked indeed.’

‘No one but a hypocrite could have pretended to feel otherwise than
glad.’

‘My sister was with me by that time. I never told her the history of my
marriage, and my husband she had never seen. She knew only that I had
been deserted and was now a widow. Our quiet life went on for a time,
and then, by the death of an aunt, I came into possession of a small
fortune. I changed my name, as requested in my aunt’s will, and after a
little while Clarice and I came to England. The rest you know.’

The colonel looked puzzled. ‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘if I fail to see why
you have thought it needful to tell me to-day that which I did not wish
or ask to be enlightened about yesterday.’

‘I have told you this to-day because yesterday, a little while after
you left me, I saw—my husband.’

‘Your husband!—But how’—— He stared at her as though he could not say
another word. Mora was now the calmer of the two.

‘The letter which I received five years ago informing me of his death
was sent to me in error. Another man bearing the same name as my
husband—a _déporté_ like him, had died; and somehow one convict would
seem to have been mistaken for the other.’

‘O Mora, Mora, and am I then to lose you!’ cried the colonel.

She did not speak; but at that moment all the anguish of her soul was
revealed in her eyes.

Involuntarily he moved from the place where he had been standing and
sat down by her side.

‘And I love you so dearly!—so dearly!’

‘And I you!’ she answered scarcely above a whisper. ‘I may tell you
this now—for the last time.’

Their hands sought each other, touched and clasped. In the silence
that ensued, the leaves seemed whispering among themselves of that
which they had just heard; while the stream went frothing and fuming
on its way like some wordy egotist who cares for nothing save his own
ceaseless babble.

‘And this miscreant has tracked you?’ said the colonel at length.

‘He was with me but just now. He may return at any moment.’

‘Such vermin as he have seldom more than one thought, one want—Money. I
am rich, and if’——

Mora shook her head. ‘He wants more than money.’

‘Ha!’

‘You do not know Hector Laroche. As I said before, he is a tiger in
human form. He loves gold; but he loves still better to have under his
claws a writhing, helpless, palpitating victim, whom he can torture and
play with and toss to and fro at his pleasure, over whose agonies he
can gloat, and whose heart he can slowly vivisect and smile while he
does it.’

‘And he would make such a victim of you?’

‘He has done it once, and he would do it again. He is now passing under
a false name. What he demands is, that instead of claiming me as the
wife whom he married several years ago, I shall go through a second
form of marriage with him under the name he is now known by, and that
by such means the dark story of his former life shall be buried for
ever.’

‘There is no law, human or divine, that can compel you to accede to
so monstrous a demand,’ exclaimed the colonel in tones resonant with
indignation.

‘As I said before—you do not know the man. Should I refuse to accede
to his wishes, he threatens to go to Sir William Ridsdale—for with
his usual diabolical ingenuity, he has found out all about Clarice’s
engagement—and say to him: “Are you aware that your son is about to
marry a person whose sister is the wife of a _déporté_—of a man who has
undergone a term of penal servitude?” And, O Colonel Woodruffe! if he
does that—if he does that, what will become of my poor Clarice!’

‘A scheme worthy of the Foul Fiend himself!’ exclaimed the colonel as
he sprang to his feet.

There was a painful pause. The colonel was thoroughly taken aback by
what he had just heard. At length he said slowly: ‘Surely—surely there
must be some way of escape.’

Mora shook her head. ‘I know of none,’ she answered simply.

A few moments later, there was a noise of approaching footsteps. The
colonel drew a pace or two farther away.




CHRISTMAS TREES.

THEIR SHADY SIDE.


The few words I am about to write upon the subject of Christmas Trees
for children may perhaps be best illustrated by what originally gave
rise to these remarks—namely, the first festivity of the kind attended
by my own juveniles. It was given by a friend, whose rooms were narrow
in proportion to the numbers of small people she expected, and seniors
were therefore not included in the invitations. I was asked, however,
to go on the morning of the party to inspect the tree when it was set
up and loaded with its treasures. A goodly array they surely formed.
Toys of every kind, most of them very costly; for my friend had been
regardless of expense. He calculated that eighty pounds would scarcely
cover the outlay upon the articles provided. When I considered how
easy to please in their playthings children often are; how tenderly
the battered doll or dilapidated horse is sometimes cherished; how the
sixpenny toy with the charm of novelty upon it, will put out of favour
its guinea predecessor—for children, unlike adults, do not estimate
things because of their money value—I could not help thinking this
was a sad waste of money. The delicate machinery of those expensive
mechanical toys would also run great risk of being put out of order or
broken among the crowd of eager children, with no parents present to
guard them from injury. Altogether, the gorgeous Christmas tree seemed
destined to be ‘a thing of beauty and of joy’ for a very short time
indeed.

The eventful evening arrived, and great was the excitement. My small
daughter was a pretty child, and very comely she looked in her dainty
lace-trimmed frock and pink ribbons, when, with her young brother, she
came fluttering into my boudoir; nurse, proud and pleased, escorting
the pair and carrying their wraps. With true feminine instinct, the
little damsel betook herself to the tall pier-glass, surveying her
finery therein with much satisfaction. ‘I daresay,’ she said, turning
round after a prolonged gaze, ‘that I shall be the nicest-dressed
little girl at the party!’

‘No, indeed—that you won’t,’ promptly interposed nurse. ‘Don’t you go
to think such a thing, dear. You’ll see, when you get into the room,
there’ll be a-many little ladies just as nice as yourself, perhaps even
nicer.’ Which speech was a sacrifice of candour on the part of nurse,
who was given to regard her young charge as being as good as the best,
though she felt called on by duty to nip vanity in the bud.

The morning after a night’s dissipation is generally a trying one,
when excitement has passed off and reaction set in. Late hours and
hot rooms, fruits and pastries and unwholesome liquids at times when
healthy slumbers would otherwise have been the order of the night, are
apt to have a damaging effect upon the temper. The present occasion was
no exception to the rule. My children were not looking their happiest
when they appeared carrying a load of things which they laid roughly
down and proceeded to turn over with a listless air.

‘What lovely toys!’ I exclaimed. It was truly an _embarras de
richesses_. There were treasures that, if gradually bestowed, would
have driven the recipients wild with delight. ‘What fortunate young
people you are!’ I added, examining the glittering heap that they were
surveying so discontentedly. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘The little B——s got much better things!’ they murmured.

‘This doll, so beautifully dressed’——

‘Ah, if you had seen the one Mary got!’ pouted the little girl, pushing
with her foot the despised doll. ‘It opened and shut its eyes, and had
a pearl necklace and embroidered shoes. And Mary was so conceited and
disagreeable about it; and so ill-natured, she’d scarcely let me look
at it. I hate Mary B——!’

‘You were great friends with her,’ cried the young brother, ‘until she
got that better doll; and you were just as conceited, too, about your
own, until hers cut it out.’

‘Oh, _you_ needn’t talk, after the way you behaved to poor little Fred
H——. Would you believe it, mamma? he quarrelled with that poor child—a
little mite of a fellow, not half his size—hustling and bullying him,
and wanting to drag away his book that he got for a prize.’

‘No; I did not want to drag it away from him. Don’t tell stories. ’Twas
to be an exchange. I got a ridiculous toy-horse—a little rubbishy
thing, only fit for a baby like him; and he said he would take it and
give me the book—a lovely _Robinson Crusoe_, that he couldn’t read. And
then the stupid little fellow howled when I went to get it from him.’

‘And you flew into a rage, and smashed the toy; and the governess said
it was a shame, and’——

‘Oh, come!’ I said, interrupting recriminations that were getting
angry, and putting a stop to the dispute.

It was not the moment for impressing moral truths upon the young pair;
but while deferring these to a more fitting opportunity, I made my
own reflections upon Christmas trees in general and this party in
particular.

It was plain that envy, hatred, and much uncharitableness had resulted
from it—feelings latent, alas! in our poor human nature, that need not
premature development. Discontent too, and rivalry and greed were, it
would seem from the nature of the entertainment, liable to be aroused
in childish breasts. So I locked away the disparaged prizes, until
later on, when the satiety produced by a glut had passed off and
envious comparisons were forgotten.

We had merry gatherings of small people at wholesome hours, and happy
little feasts, and games and romps in every-day clothes. But this was
my children’s first—and last—Christmas Tree.




THE MISSING CLUE.


CHAPTER VI.—HOBB DIPPING BEWILDERED.

Mine host of the _Saxonford Arms_ sits in his lonely back-parlour,
looking thoughtfully into the fire, and taking alternate whiffs and
pulls from a clay pipe and a beer-jug which stands on the table at his
elbow. During the past week, no traveller has entered Hobb Dipping’s
ancient house of entertainment, and the worthy man was beginning to
wonder whether it was within the bounds of possibility that any one
would ever enter it again. For several days the snow had been drifting
up against his front-door, and for over a week the howling wind had
stormed and beat against the walls of the old inn. True, the wind had
dropped somewhat during the night; but Jerry—the man-of-all-work, and
old Dipping’s special informant upon all matters—had reported that
the snow-drift was ‘alarmin’ deep in places;’ while, if he needed any
confirmation of this statement, he had but to turn his eyes towards
the windows and gaze over the frozen waste which extended on every side.

Hobb Dipping was an old man now, and fifteen years had whitened his
hair since the fatal night when Sir Carnaby Vincent was shot by the
military in his house. The innkeeper’s thoughts had apparently at this
moment been dwelling upon that catastrophe, for he muttered to himself:
‘Fifteen years! I shouldn’t ha’ thought it!’ at the same time looking
gloomily at a well-thumbed scrap of paper which he was turning over
between his fingers. ‘Fifteen years!’ muttered old Dipping, who was
enveloped in a thick volume of smoke, consequent upon his exertions
with the clay pipe aforesaid—‘fifteen years, an’ no one’s guessed it
yet. Why, what fools we all be!’

‘Hi, master!’ says Jerry, popping his head in through the doorway.
‘Here’s a gentleman come; wants to know if he can be put up for a night
or two.’

Old Hobb peeped through a little latticed window into the courtyard,
and saw a gentleman of military aspect sitting motionless in his saddle
amidst a thin cloud of falling snow. It is Reginald Ainslie.

‘Why do you keep the gentleman waiting out there?’ is the indignant
exclamation of mine host, who seems to be endowed with sudden energy.
‘Put up for a night or two! Of course he can; for a month, if he likes.
Show the gentleman in, and then go attend to his horse.’

When the man has disappeared, old Dipping bustles out of the room to
find something to tie over his head, before he dares to venture into
the cold biting air. On his return, he finds his visitor has thrown
aside his heavy riding-cloak, and is reclining in an armchair, with
every appearance of fatigue expressed in his attitude and countenance.
Jerry whispers that the gallant must be right bad, for it was all
he could do to help him out of the saddle. ‘And his nag ain’t much
better,’ he goes on. ‘They ha’ come a long bad road this day, I’ll
warrant.’

Dismissing his vassal hastily, Hobb Dipping pours out a mug of strong
spiced ale, and presents it to his visitor.

‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ said the old man, ‘for letting you wait such
a while outside; the snow lies so thick that I did not hear the sound
of your horse’s hoofs.’

Before honest Dipping could finish his speech, he was startled by his
visitor making a quick movement and catching eagerly at the scrap of
paper which the landlord had a short while ago held in his hand, and
which, on rising to receive the traveller, he had laid on the table.
There was a short uncomfortable pause, while Reginald eagerly turned
over the object in his hand. ‘How did you come by this?’ he at length
gasped out, the tone of his voice expressing great eagerness and
anxiety.

Hobb Dipping’s first thought was to hollo for Jerry, having some idea
that his strange visitor’s head must be turned; his second, was to try
and remember where he had placed his spectacles.

‘My sight is bad, sir,’ he said as he fumbled in his pockets. ‘I can
scarcely make out what you be askin’ of.’

‘This—this piece of paper!’ exclaimed Ainslie, thrusting forward the
identical scrap which old Hobb had been examining at the time of his
arrival.

‘It come here by accident, sir,’ answered old Hobb slowly and
unwillingly.

‘Was left here, eh?’

‘Just so, sir—it were.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Well, sir, it’s something between fifteen and sixteen year.’

‘Gracious powers!’ vociferated Ainslie, striking his fist on the table.
‘I believe the man was right.’

The landlord stretched out one hand imploringly towards his excited
visitor.

‘What now?’ inquired Reginald, who was vainly endeavouring to peruse
the writing with which the paper was covered.

‘I want you to give me back that paper, sir.’

‘Be good enough, landlord, to leave it with me for the present, and
bring me something to eat!’

Old Hobb looked wistfully at the scrap of paper which his visitor was
handling, and proceeded to the larder, with considerable misgiving
expressed on his countenance. When mine host at length returned, he
found his guest a trifle more composed. Reginald Ainslie was still
poring over the mysterious piece of paper; but it was evident, from his
disappointed mien, that he was considerably perplexed.

‘Landlord,’ he said in a low voice, when the arrangements for his meal
were complete, ‘close the door!’

Hobb Dipping obeyed, and then stood waiting, as if for further orders.

‘Sit down,’ said the lieutenant.

The landlord seated himself in silence, and watched his visitor. After
a few minutes had passed in silence, Reginald Ainslie laid down his
knife and fork and leaned back in his chair.

‘Is your name Dipping?’

‘It is so, sir.’

‘Will you please to tell me,’ continued Ainslie, ‘the particulars of
how you became possessed of this scrap of paper?’

Old Hobb waxed extremely uncomfortable under the visitor’s fixed gaze;
he scratched his bald skull, looked wistfully round the room, and
then asked in an affrighted whisper: ‘Be you anything to do with the
magistrates, sir?’

Reginald shook his head.

‘If you’re not, sir,’ went on the landlord, evidently very much
relieved, ‘would you mind first letting me know your reason for askin’
those questions?’

‘My reason for asking them,’ answered Reginald, ‘is because your reply
may prove to be of serious importance to me. I have ridden a long way,
a very long way, and solely on purpose to communicate with the landlord
of this inn upon a subject which may prove the means of benefiting us
both.—Do you remember a gentleman named Sir Carnaby Vincent?’

Hobb started a little at the abruptness of the question, but answered:
‘Ay, sir, that I do. And haven’t I good cause to remember him? That bit
of paper, sir, I have always fancied belonged to the poor gentleman.
I found it on the stairs while the red-coats were searchin’ his room;
they must ha’ passed it somehow.’

‘That was on the night when he was shot here—was it not?’

‘You seem to know pretty much about it, sir,’ remarked the host, with
an inquisitive look. ‘I ain’t going to deny the fact; it did happen on
that night. But excuse me being so bold, sir; you must have been quite
a young chap at that time; you can’t recollect it, surely?’

‘I remember nothing about the matter myself,’ replied Ainslie, ‘nor
have I been in this part before. But Sir Carnaby’s attempted escape,
and the fatal result, were officially reported to the government and
to his friends. You think that this scrap of writing belonged to Sir
Carnaby Vincent?’

‘Yes, sir; though I didn’t know his name till I learned it from the
soldiers, after all was over.’

‘Why did you not deliver this up to them, when you discovered it on the
stairs?’

‘Well, you see, sir, it was like this,’ replied old Hobb unwillingly.
‘I was sorry for the poor gentleman, besides being angry with the
soldiers. But little they cared about that. So I thought as how I’d
just keep it to myself, in case the man-servant who got off should
venture here again. Thinks I: “I’ll give it up to him, and disappoint
the other parties a bit for what they’ve done in my house.”—I hope your
honour won’t inform against me!’ suddenly exclaimed the old man, who
began to have an idea that he was disclosing somewhat more than was
prudent to a total stranger.

‘My intentions are quite the opposite, I assure you,’ said Reginald,
eager to set his informant’s mind at rest. ‘Go on; pray, do not stop.’

‘Well, sir,’ resumed Dipping, ‘as I said, I kept the paper, thinking
that I might chance to drop across the man-servant. But though one of
the labourers spoke to him that morning, I never see him again; and
here I have been keeping this bit of writin’ over fifteen year without
being able to make out what it means or anything about it. I should ha’
burnt it soon, I fancy.’

‘Burnt it!’ exclaimed Reginald. ‘What madness!’

‘Can you read it, sir?’ inquired old Hobb in a curious tone.

‘Read it! No, I cannot; worse luck. Chinese looks quite easy compared
with the jumble of letters which are set down upon this scrap of
paper.—Has any one seen it besides myself?’

‘Only one or two persons, sir,’ answered Dipping—‘I didn’t want the
tale to get abroad—an’ when they see it, they turned it over just the
same as you’re a-doing now: they none of ’em could make it out.’

‘What became of the other papers?’ suddenly demanded Ainslie, looking
up, and desisting from the occupation of gnawing his thumb-nail.

‘There were none others as I know of, sir,’ replied old Dipping. ‘A
pair of saddle-bags, I think, was took—my memory ain’t quite so good
as it used to be. But this I do know for certain—there were no papers
found except this one little bit. The soldiers swore hard, and said
that the man who got off had taken ’em with him.’

‘Did it never occur to you that the attendant acted most strangely on
that occasion?’ asked Ainslie.

‘Ay, sir, I have thought of that many a time,’ answered mine host,
scratching his head. ‘It was a queer thing for him to do—to be sure it
was. The man certainly was not running away cowardly-like, to leave
his master in the lurch; he would never have hampered himself with the
other horse in the way he did, and then go and cut his way through the
middle of the redcoats. He might have got off t’ other way through the
village without riskin’ his blessed neck. It’s my opinion, sir, an’
always was, that he did it to take the fire off on himself, while Sir
Carnaby got away over Long Fen on foot. Very creditable it must ha’
been on him, sir; an’ had he drawn the redcoats away for a few minutes
longer, the poor gentleman would have been clean away. He was nearly
down at the foot of the stairs when they challenged him. It being dark,
and getting no answer back, they blazed away. I let the soldiers in
myself, or they would have beat the door down. But when they called out
they would fire at the gentleman if he did not speak, I yelled to ’em
not to do murder in my house. But it were too late,’ said old Hobb,
sternly knitting his brows—‘it were too late. God help me! what could I
do? I couldn’t stop it.’

‘It was no fault of yours, my man!’ said Ainslie, seeing that the old
fellow faltered; ‘and do not imagine for an instant that you will get
into any trouble by telling me all this. To set your mind easy on that
score, I may as well inform you at once that Sir Carnaby Vincent, who
so unfortunately lost his life here, was my uncle.’ Reginald paused
for a moment to watch the effect which this announcement had upon his
listener, and then went on once more. ‘The affair,’ said he, ‘which
brings me here is of the greatest secrecy, and whatever consequences
may result from my taking this step, I strictly require of you that no
word of it shall ever be mentioned hereafter.’

‘Trust me for that, sir,’ returned the landlord: ‘it shall never pass
my lips to any one.’

Directing mine host to draw his chair nearer to the fire, Reginald
Ainslie commenced a narration which is sufficiently long to warrant its
being the subject of another chapter.


CHAPTER VII.—REGINALD’S STORY.

‘My father,’ said the lieutenant, ‘was a gentleman of great property,
and a close friendship existed between him and the brother of his
wife—Sir Carnaby, to wit. They became mixed up with a discontented body
of people named Jacobites; and a short time before the unhappy affair
which we have been talking about, two warrants were issued for their
apprehension. My father was seized at once; but Sir Carnaby Vincent
contrived to make his escape for a time, till at length he closed his
flight at this place. You know what happened when he and his servant
arrived here; they were surprised by a party of military, who had
received notice of their movements; and my uncle was shot dead. His
attendant fortunately escaped, and returned, after a short time had
elapsed, to our family with the sad news. The proceedings against my
father, Sir Henry Ainslie, were suspended through want of sufficient
evidence, and he was allowed to come back to his home, only to die
shortly afterwards, broken both in spirits and in circumstances. Before
his death, he made an appalling disclosure to my mother, the sum of it
being this—that, trusting to the ultimate success of the revolution
which he had been hoping to raise, both he and Sir Carnaby had heavily
mortgaged their estates, and placed all their available money at the
service of the king that was to be. Where this large amount had been
placed, or to whom it had been intrusted, it is now impossible to say,
for my father breathed his last ere he could impart any additional
information. The consequences of this act proved most disastrous. Our
mansion and estates were immediately seized upon; and beyond a small
income which my mother possessed in her own right, we were left with
scarcely any means of support. From the scanty information we could
gather from Sir Carnaby’s attendant, it was considered not at all
improbable that the disposal of this wealth had been intrusted to his
master; and subsequent inquiries proved that he had actually taken with
him in his flight a number of valuable papers and documents. What these
papers referred to, it is equally impossible to say; but there has
always existed among us a strong impression that they related to the
immense sum which had been advanced upon the family estates.’

‘Well, sir,’ exclaimed old Hobb, when the narrative had arrived at this
stage, ‘you don’t suppose that the gentleman brought all that lump of
money here?’

‘Not the money exactly,’ answered Reginald, smiling. ‘I don’t credit my
plotting relative with being such a fool as to carry that about with
him.’

‘The soldiers found but little in them saddle-bags, an’ he brought
nought else with him; I can swear to that,’ said Dipping obstinately.

‘My good man,’ returned Ainslie, ‘the documents I refer to might have
been carried about his person.’

‘Nothin’ was found on the body when it was searched, before being
buried; I remember that right enough, sir,’ persisted old Hobb.

‘That is the very point I wished to come to,’ said the lieutenant
triumphantly. ‘You are sure that no papers of any kind were discovered
on his person?’

‘Quite sure, sir,’ replied Dipping emphatically.

‘Then just listen to what I have to say,’ continued Reginald, speaking
in an impressive voice and fixing his eyes upon the landlord’s
countenance. ‘The man-servant who accompanied Sir Carnaby to this place
swears that his master corresponded with no single person during his
flight; moreover, that he handled the saddle-bags you have just now
been speaking of, several times, and remembers to have noticed that one
of them contained a small black box.’

The wondering expression on old Hobb’s face had considerably increased
by this time.

‘We have now got to a critical point in my story,’ continued the
lieutenant. ‘Derrick—the man who accompanied Sir Carnaby hither—told
me he was the first to hear the sound of the approaching military,
and that, being apprehensive of danger, he stole along the gallery
with the intention of waking his master. When Sir Carnaby opened the
door of his room, the man was surprised to find him fully dressed.
Hurried as their conference must have been, Derrick was sharp enough
to notice that his master had been using some sort of a knife, and
that the black box which he had before seen that night on the table,
had now disappeared, and that the saddle-bags were empty. However, all
persuasion could not induce my unfortunate relative to flee, which in
itself appears to be very strange. He told his attendant that he would
follow him if he would take the horses to the place agreed upon—that
more lives than his own depended upon his not leaving the place at
once, and several other things equally incomprehensible. Derrick at
last unwillingly consented to obey his instructions, and left the
house, wondering much at his master’s conduct. The two, as you know,
never met again.—This man,’ resumed Ainslie, after a pause—‘this man,
Derrick, always expressed a belief—a strange one, truly—that Sir
Carnaby was so anxious for the safety of the contents of that precious
saddle-bag, that he would not retire to rest until he had placed it
in a secure hiding-place. He might possibly have just been concluding
his task as the attendant arrived at his door with the alarming news;
at any rate, it seems not at all unlikely that his object in sending
the man to a rendezvous was in order to gain time, while he made
a desperate attempt to unearth again this mysterious box prior to
escaping from the inn with it. Or, it is quite possible that my uncle,
being startled by the report of firearms, resolved to let this precious
property, which would implicate so many persons, remain in its place of
concealment, trusting, in the event of his escape, to return and secure
it once more.’

‘Do you mean to say that the gentleman hid it in this very house?’
gasped the landlord, with considerable astonishment depicted on his
countenance.

‘That is what I think.’

‘Well, well!’ exclaimed the old man, ‘to think that I should ha’
slept an’ eaten an’ drunk within them blessed walls for fifteen year,
with—who knows—half a million of property hidden about the place
unbeknown to me! Suppose there had been a fire, sir.’

‘It is fortunate there has not been one,’ replied Reginald.

‘Am I to understand that you wish to search the house?’ inquired old
Hobb, whose imagination was fired with a variety of wild speculations,
among which the probable discovery of a strong case of bullion figured
not the least conspicuously.

‘The whole house!—certainly not,’ answered Reginald with a faint smile.
‘I am afraid that would waste too much valuable time. What I want first
is a bed for the night.’

‘There’s the room which Sir Carnaby himself had: your honour wouldn’t
have no objection to that?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Ainslie. ‘The knowledge that the room has some
unpleasant circumstances connected with it will not affect me in the
least. I shall sleep as soundly in that apartment as in any other.’

‘Very good, sir.’ And mine host was about to leave the apartment, when
his visitor arrested him. ‘One word more, Mr Dipping.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘I have placed complete confidence in you,’ said Ainslie, ‘and have
intrusted to your keeping a secret, the importance of which you must be
well aware of. I wish you to guard it carefully. You have kept _that_
secret fairly enough,’ pointing to the scrap of writing; ‘try if you
cannot keep this one too.—Do you understand?’

The landlord intimated that he would do as his visitor wished, and then
departed, leaving Reginald to digest such thoughts as this conversation
had called up.

The twilight was by this time gray, and very little light remained,
while a few solitary objects that could be seen through the dimmed
glass in the old casements, looked shadowy and opaque. With the
exception of one small lamp, which Hobb Dipping had placed upon the
table, the room was but imperfectly lighted by the flickering fire.
Outside, the snow was silently falling, not thickly, but in large
steady flakes. The wind had dropped, and with it the whirling drift,
while the old walls of the _Saxonford Arms_ had ceased to groan and
creak.

‘Sir,’ said Hobb, reappearing once more, ‘the room’s ready. Shall I
show you the way?’

Reginald motioned to the landlord to lead on, and they passed out
together into a dark draughty passage.

‘This here’s the staircase, sir,’ remarked old Dipping, who was in
advance, bearing the light; ‘and that be the very place where the poor
gentleman fell.’

The landing before them was lighted by a gray ghostly window, which
faded into insignificance on the approach of the landlord’s yellow,
flaring lamp. When this apparition was passed, there came three
shallow steps up, then a short dusky gallery, and Reginald Ainslie
found himself in the room with which his departed relative had had so
mysterious a connection.

‘This, sir,’ said old Hobb, extending his right hand somewhat after the
manner of a travelling showman—‘this, sir, is Sir Carnaby’s room.’

‘Well, landlord,’ said Reginald, ‘I think I need detain you no longer.’

Bidding mine host good-night, Ainslie carefully fastened the door, and
then sat down before the fire, to ponder over his strange situation,
ere consigning himself to rest for the night.




WOUNDER AND HEALER.

(THE IDEA TAKEN FROM AGOUB’S TRANSLATION OF AN ARABIC SONG.)


    Thy witching look is like a two-edged sword
      To pierce his heart by whom thou art surveyed;
    Thy rosy lips the precious balm afford
      To heal the wound thy keen-edged sword has made.

    I am its victim; I have felt the steel;
      My heart now rankles with the smarting pain;
    Give me thy lips the bitter wound to heal—
      Thy lips to kiss, and I am whole again.

            DAPHNIS.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 750: Hobbs to Hobb—“answered old Hobb slowly”.]