*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75656 ***





[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. 150.—VOL. III.    SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1886.    PRICE 1½_d._]




THE PORTABLE THEATRE.


A few wagon-loads of large and square wooden shutters; numerous poles
of various lengths; a quantity of seat-planks and their supports; some
scene-painted canvas wrapped around long rollers, some nailed and glued
upon framework; a collection of ropes and pulleys; various ‘stage
properties;’ two open coke-fire grates; an amount of dark and soiled
drapery and cheap carpeting, and a mass of other things—meet these on
the highway, and you may know that a portable theatre is shifting its
quarters.

Soon after the wagons reach their destination, the work of building
commences. The town chosen is no doubt a small one, with interests
which may be manufacturing, mineral, or agricultural. The theatre
had arranged for its stance before moving—some waste ground let at
a nominal rent, or a field bordering the town. Then beardless men,
dressed in stained and ragged cloth garments, start hacking up the
ground, digging narrow holes wherein to erect uprights. While some
erect the framework, others build at one end a gallery, at the other
a stage; and so bit by bit. After an adornment of the interior by
draping the walls with some material and giving a scant covering to
the best seats, and a sawdust carpet to the whole concern, the labour
of erection is about at an end, and the actor-builders are at liberty
to cleanse—and shave themselves if they have time, and throw off their
working clothes. If they perform the same night and are late, they
will have little time for rest; and in the impersonator of Hamlet,
who enters the stage at a quarter to eight to a flourish on brass and
string, you may recognise the man who, forty-five minutes before, had
been walking to his lodgings in a state of grime and weariness and with
a stubbly chin. When he appears as the Prince, he is clean shaven, all
but the heavy moustache—for that is his pride, and is never sacrificed.

The portable theatre is generally ‘run’ by the proprietor, who is often
also stage-manager and leading man or comedian. The usual method of
fixing the amount of payment to employees is by share. In this way
every individual worker is a sort of partner, and so feels an interest
in the welfare of the business; and if the receipts are large, he,
and she, participate in the benefit. This method is favourable to the
manager and proprietor too, even when business is not brisk, though
he is never heard to admit as much. The mode of procedure is very
simple, and may be worthy the attention of those who admire simplicity
and promptitude in business. The sharing takes place nightly after
performance, when the audience have dispersed and the curtain has been
drawn up, and all the company are dressed for home and assembled on
the stage. The proprietor sits at a table in the centre, the receipts
in cash and a slip of paper before him. ‘The “house” is three pounds
and fourpence,’ the manager proceeds to explain; ‘and from that is to
be taken two shillings for ground-rent; that leaves two-eighteen-four.
Now, twenty-five shares into that is two shillings and fourpence a
share. It’s very bad, especially for an opening night; but the show
went well, so we may hope business’ll pick up, now they know what
we are like. I hope it will, for all our sakes.’ And then does the
gentleman proceed to give to each member his one share, which on this
night amounts to two shillings and fourpence; but to the low comedian
is given an extra half-share, according to agreement, for his services
are very valuable to the firm, and he is expected to sing humorous
songs during the interval between drama and farce.

Now, all this looks very fair on the face of it; but much may be
learned by an analysis of the arrangement. The proprietor has given
twelve and a half shares among twelve people, in which are included the
small orchestra; the remainder he has put in his pocket. For his own
services as leading man and stage-manager, and for his wife, who plays
the feminine leading parts—when they are good—he takes up four shares
each night; for supplying the wardrobe!—which is scanty and worn—he
takes another share; he has another to recoup him for that night’s
outlay in stage properties; a half-share to pay for the coke the fires
have burned; and lastly, he takes six shares as rent of the theatre,
which is his property. So, of the twenty-five shares into which the
receipts are nightly divided, the proprietor receives altogether twelve
and a half. Much of this he would tell you is but the return of money
previously laid out, and the melancholy sigh with which he accompanies
the ceremony of division is meant to indicate the fact that he is
losing money rapidly.

His wife, when not in the cast, or his offspring, or a decrepit father,
are generally assigned to the post of money-taker at the theatre door.
The company are supposed to have a check against them by appointing as
their representatives those who collect the tickets. The person who
receives the cash from the public as they enter is familiarly known to
the fraternity by the name of ‘first robber.’

Now, many who know the business have been heard to declare that the
manager seldom loses—if ever—and generally gains, however slack
business may be, and even while his fellow-actors are pinched for
necessities. If it is asked, ‘Why do the workers agree to such an
arrangement?’ it may be replied: ‘The proprietor and manager is master
in his own establishment; and those who won’t conform to the rules of
the theatre may go and make way for those who will.’

Altogether, portable actors, or, as many of the labouring classes
prefer to call them, showfolk, make but a precarious living, and they
have often many troubles, for which they receive little sympathy.
At times they are heard speaking of how some years ago, during the
fair at a certain town, they performed five times during the day,
and individually amassed three pounds seven shillings for the day’s
work. But that was a rare occurrence, and they dwell with pleasure
upon the memory of it. The usual share in ordinary times rises to five
shillings nightly during good business, and perhaps as much as seven
or eight on the Saturday, and very often it drops to the amount of
but a few coppers. There is all the excitement of chance in this mode
of remuneration, and that may offer an inducement to some speculative
minds. If trade is bad, or the people are too poor or anti-theatrical,
the strolling Thespian may find that his reward after work is something
less than a shilling, and upon that he may have to feed and lodge
himself until the next night brings a further supply.

Many who dwell in towns think that the portable theatre is now little
more than a remnant of a bygone age, that the drama has cast off this
itineracy; and such thinkers would doubtless be surprised if they
were shown a list of the playhouses that move about the country. They
are certainly very numerous. These buildings seldom look well in the
morning light; there is a dissipated look about them, as though they
kept bad hours. This more particularly applies to the interior, to
whose good appearance the glare of gas is very essential. When the
actors assemble for rehearsal, which is generally at eleven o’clock,
the drapery looks dull and tawdry, the woodwork seems rough, the
sawdust over the earth-floor is dirty, and the scenes appear daubs. If
there be a little breeze astir, the canvas roofing overhead will flap
with a sound like that of the sails of a ship at sea. The curtain and
scene-cloths are rolled up, that the dust may not settle upon them.

When the players have gathered together, rehearsal commences. They
seem a motley group. There is the proprietor and manager, a portly
man, who is troubled with occasional rheumatism—which he calls gout;
he wears a heavy moustache and a heavy gold albert, and has much
power of voice—which at times is decidedly throaty. There is the low
comedian, who is small of stature, with an expansive face deeply lined;
his legs are misshapen, and he walks with the gait of one who suffers
the affliction of many corns and bunions. Naturally, his countenance
has the most serious aspect of any one in the company; but usage has
trained it otherwise; he would be a melancholy man were it not that he
gained his living by provoking mirth, and has a reputation to keep up.
In his youth, his soul aspired to tragedy, but his legs were against
it. Within his quaint figure he holds more sentiment than many of his
companions of more symmetrical mould, and he professes to be a diligent
and critical reader. He values ‘low comedy’ now, because it has many
advantages; it gains an extra half-share, makes him popular with the
audience, and secures him the best benefit in each town.

The middle-aged man with the stiff carriage, and with the hair grown
long and well oiled and curved, so that at the bottom it lies like a
roll upon the neck, is the ‘heavy man,’ who claims the chief-villain
parts; he glories in his deep tones and in his dark scowl. It seems
he does not much admire the smooth-faced scoundrels of the drama; you
cannot mistake the villainy _he_ portrays; directly he enters the
stage, you say, ‘That is the villain of the piece.’ And he is not
without a speciality in his particular line of business; to use his own
words—‘He likes his scoundrel’s “game;” no chicken-hearted repentance
at the end of the last act.’ His favourite final exit speech is thus:
‘Ah! soh, you have counterplotted and balked me. But I-a haave played
a bold and desper-rat game, and now I leave you with contempt-a! My
curses light-a ’pon ye!’ If, however, he is killed when villainy has
done its allotted work, he makes the most of his death, and invariably
dies with a terrific backward fall. He has been heard to complain that
in his stage career he receives small encouragement; ‘for,’ argues he,
‘after my heavy night’s work, anybody may come on with a stuffed stick
and knock me down, and they’ll get all the applause.’

One of the company is a young man whose face has already lost its
pristine freshness; he wears his hat with an inclination to the right,
and looks to be a knowing, wayward, idle, and thriftless wanderer. A
great amount of cheap beer enters into his idea of life. He drinks this
liquor at any hour; and when counting his cash, calculates it not by
pence, but by the half-pints it represents. He is a weed who benefits
nobody, not even himself. Enough has been said about him.

The man who throughout his life has never ceased to do his best,
honestly and cheerfully, and has failed through no fault of his own,
must be worthy of some respect. This has been the way of the old
gentleman—he may be called that—whose age is more than any other of
the company. In his work he is painstaking, even amid the inartistic
surroundings of a portable theatre. He now possesses an extensive stage
wardrobe, gathered for his own private use; it is the collection of
years, and he is proud of it. You won’t hear him speak so often of
his own future now, but he is always chattering about what he thinks
his daughter will do. She is a darling girl, he says, and will be the
blessing of his old age.

His daughter matches well with the morning sunshine. A fresh,
rosy-faced girl, with shining hair and laughing eyes, in great contrast
to these yellow women and blue-chinned men. She always shows neatness
and good taste. Her father has often told her that they are merely
‘birds of passage’ in this cheap playhouse, and she is anxiously
anticipating their migration. If that indulgent old dad of hers isn’t
careful, she’ll become a vain young woman.

As this girl is now, so was at one time that blear-eyed, bedraggled
woman, who seems to prefer sitting to standing and idling to working.
She is untidy and careless, and walks out with her boots unbrushed.
Her rising this morning is yet quite a recent affair; traces of sleep
still cling to her eyes. Not many years ago, she was as fair and modest
as the old man’s daughter is now, and not a soul anticipated such a
change. Who can answer that the other may not alter likewise?

The man who is hammering at some repair to the building is the
degenerated female’s husband, and candour must confess that he looks
it. He has many of his wife’s characteristics; the same dissipated
face, impolite manner at times, and general attitude of discontent. But
these parallel ways of theirs are not productive of concord; quite the
contrary, for, as one of their acquaintance tersely observes, ‘They
quarrel like old boots,’ a simile which must be more fantastic than
correct.

Among the company is an old woman who only needs the sugar-loaf-shaped
hat to resemble the familiar pictures of a witch. She is indigenous
to the portable theatre, was cradled in one, and knows little of any
life beyond it. Her daughter is that scraggy, uncanny-looking young
female, whose dominant passion at present is jealousy of the old man’s
daughter, whom she never ceases to malign.

The rehearsal here is not generally a long ceremony. A partial or
complete repetition of the words, and a comparing of notes respecting
the various entrances, exits, and general business of the play, and
that is all. Then the healthy-minded people do their marketing, and go
off for a short walk. The others continue to ‘hang about.’

The audience that comes here likes its dramatic food strong—no parlour
comedies and talky dramas, but plenty of incident, of action, passions,
stirring speeches, combats, and a little coloured fire burned off the
wings. The probability of the sequence of events as here dramatically
represented, or the possibility of their occurrence at all, are not
matters which trouble the mind of either the actor or his audience.
In the matter of denouements the author’s published idea is quite
regularly departed from in the portable theatre, and of greatest
playwrights’ masterpieces it is frequently said: ‘Oh, we can bring the
curtain down better than that.’ So, directly vice is unmasked with
a taste of punishment, the virtuous gather together—perhaps without
explanation of why they were so near—and the hero spouts a short speech
in a victorious spirit, and thus—finale.

At one travelling theatre where the manager followed the usual custom
of announcing during each evening the succeeding night’s programme, the
drama in question had been billed. In the managerial speech occurred
the following words: ‘I have very great pleasure in announcing for next
Thursday night the production, for the first time during our visit, of
the favourite play, entitled _Maria Martin, or the Murder at the Red
Barn_. I have further pleasure in stating that the version we play has
_never_ been performed in this town; and was written expressly for this
company by a relative of the Martin family, and has been secured by me
at great expense.’

This information was received with much satisfaction and applause; that
it had had the desired effect was proved conclusively by a view of the
Thursday night’s house. And the gentleman faithfully kept his promise,
for he played a version that had certainly never been performed in that
town; he introduced into the drama as usually given, a part of a gypsy
family of vengeful proclivities, and so got two sets of murders, and
as both were constantly repeated in visions, it may be supposed the
audience had a fair dose of dramatic crime for its money.

But there is many a good performance to be seen in a portable theatre;
and extremely good, when the surroundings are considered. The writer
remembers a very creditable performance of the play of _Hamlet_—given
one dreadfully wild night in a portable that was not the best of
its kind. The rain had penetrated the roof in many places before
the performance began, and the wind had been all day threatening to
blow off the tilt. With the combined damp and cold, it was a very
undesirable task to don long hose and thin velvet shirts, and to wear
them for three hours in such a draughty and rain-sodden place. But this
discomfort was necessary there, as a slight mitigation of a state of
poverty. Perhaps there was a want of repose in the acting that night,
for it was advisable to dodge those places where the water found the
roof weakest, and so descended as from a spout. The Ghost, who had a
cold, coughed during his scenes in a most unspectral manner. In the
‘play-scene’ there was a crash, and it was feared the tilt was gone,
and one of the courtiers ran out to see what had given way. Two of the
rope-fastenings were loose and flying about wildly. They were secured
during the performance, but not without some trouble, each male actor
throwing a coat over his shoulders, and giving a hand when the scene in
progress did not require him. But as these were fastened, others broke,
and it was altogether a night of trouble. Before the last act was
reached, there was little to be gained by dodging; the rain penetrated
steadily all over, and would fall on heads and run down backs and
disturb projecting noses, wherever their owners stood. Hamlet died on
a damp couch that night, for the stage carpet was soaked and flooded,
but he would be artistic and die lying full length. I can testify that
the Horatio, who had to kneel and support the Prince’s head, wished
he would die quicker. But ‘The rest is silence,’ came at last; and
Hamlet jumped up again, and then looked radiantly happy; for just as
the curtain was descending, one of the audience stood and threw to the
actor a rose. It was a pretty compliment, and the recipient deserved it.

When the audience had dispersed, the actors received their
reward—fifteenpence each. They deserved it. But their labour was not
yet ended for the day. The rain had abated, but the wind lashed with
greater force and blew with louder voice. ‘Nothing short of a miracle
will save that roof to-night,’ said somebody. So its safety had to be
guarded; that is, the company were to attend in turns and keep watch,
two or three at a time. One of the coke-fires in the auditorium was
replenished, and round it the men sat, talking of absent acquaintances,
recounting the peculiarities of some, and giving anecdotes; while
above their heads the swaying of the canvas sounded loud, and the wind
whirled in fury round the creaking shutters. And thus, as they drowsily
sit, wishing for rest, we will leave them.




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.


CHAPTER XIII.

For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering
where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene
came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to
her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’

‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great
friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the
“Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad
husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’

‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps,
through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’

‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her
eyes.’

The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain
and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering
sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How
did I come here?’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You
had an accident, and they brought you here.’

For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked
down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’
she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’

‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly,
marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall
be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to
you.’

‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my
jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness,
what is the name they know you by?’

‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the
theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any
longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’

At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated,
so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you
the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’

‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’

But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a
fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would
break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh,
what have I done? O that I could have known before!’

Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so
unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak.

‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to
speak to her, it would have a good effect.’

‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say
it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness
to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will
leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’

‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when
she has become quieter.’

Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed
from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent
over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do
you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’

‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a
servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his
friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’

‘I do not know who _he_ is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my
mistress from a great harm.’

‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does
he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’

Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’

‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and
fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to
aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’

‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell
me what you know.’

‘I did not know then how good and noble she is.—My head is queer and
strange, Lucrece; I cannot tell you now. To-morrow, perhaps, if I am
better, I will tell you everything. I am glad now that they brought me
here.’

Meanwhile, Maxwell was pacing about the drawing-room, having entirely
forgotten the unfortunate woman in his own perplexity. He had been
there perhaps half an hour, when Enid entered. She was not too occupied
to notice the moody, thoughtful frown upon his face.

‘What a sad thing for her, poor woman!’ she said.—‘How did it happen,
Fred?’

‘Poor woman?’ Maxwell asked vaguely. ‘How did what happen?’

‘Why, Fred, what is the matter with you?’ Enid exclaimed with vague
alarm. ‘How strange you look! Surely you have not forgotten the poor
creature you brought here not more than half an hour ago?’

Maxwell collected himself by a violent effort. ‘I had actually
forgotten. I was thinking of something else.—Enid, dear, I am going
away!’

‘Going away! Any one would think, from the expression of your face and
the tone of your voice, you were never going to return. Where are you
going?’

There was a very considerable chance of his not returning, he felt, and
he smiled at the grim idea. ‘I am not going far—at least not very far,
in this age of express trains and telegraphs. I wish I could take you
with me, darling; for I am going to a place you have often longed to
see—I am going to Rome.’

‘To Rome? Is it not very sudden? You never told me before.’

‘Well, it is rather sudden. I have not known it long. You see, I could
not tell you a thing I was ignorant of myself.’

‘I wish you were not going,’ Enid said reflectively. ‘I have a feeling
that some evil will come of this. And yet I suppose you must go. Is it
business of your own, Fred?’

Maxwell hesitated. He could not prevaricate with those clear truthful
eyes looking up so earnestly to his own. The soul of honour himself,
he could not forgive the want of it in others; but he temporised now.
‘Well, not exactly my own,’ he stammered, trying to make the best of a
bad case, ‘or I would not go. It is a secret, which I cannot tell even
you; but I shall not be long away.’

‘A secret which you cannot tell even me,’ Enid repeated mechanically.
‘Then it must be something you are very much ashamed of.’

‘Indeed, it is not,’ Maxwell began eagerly, hesitated, and stopped.
After all, she was right. It was a secret, a terrible, shameful secret,
against which all the manliness in him revolted. For a time he was
silent, hanging down his head for very shame, as the whole force of
his position came upon him. For the first time, he realised where his
rashness had led him, and what he was about to lose.

Enid looked at him in amazement, strangely mixed with a terrible and
nameless fear. ‘Fred!’ she cried at length, white and trembling, ‘you
are going away upon the mission of that awful League! You cannot deny
it.—O Fred! Fred!’

He tried to soothe her as she lay sobbing in his arms, but to no avail.
The most fervent promises and the most endearing words she heeded not,
crying that he was going from her never to return; and her fears were
strengthened when he mournfully but firmly declined to speak of his
mission. Presently, when she grew a little calmer, she raised her wet
cheeks to him and kissed him. She was pale now, but confident, and
striving with all the artifices in her power to persuade him from his
undertaking; but tears and prayers, threats even, could not avail.

He shook his head sadly. ‘I would that I could stay with you, Enid,’
he said at length, holding her close in his arms; ‘but this much I can
tell you—that I dare not disobey. It is as much as my life is worth.’

‘And as much as your life is worth to go,’ echoed the sobbing girl.
‘What is life to me without you? And now this thing has come between
us, parting us perhaps for ever!’

‘I hope not,’ Maxwell smiled cheerfully. ‘I trust not, darling. My time
away is very short; and doubtless I shall not be called upon again for
a time—perhaps never.’

Enid dried her eyes bravely and tried to smile. ‘Good-bye, Fred,’ she
said brokenly; ‘and heaven grant that my fears are groundless! If
anything happened to you, I believe I should die.’

‘I shall come back, darling.—And now, good-bye, and God bless you.’

After he was gone, Enid threw herself down upon the lounge and wept.

       *       *       *       *       *

Le Gautier’s star was in the ascendant. His only dangerous rival would
soon be hundreds of miles away on a hazardous mission, out of which, in
all human probability, he could not come unscathed, even if he escaped
with life; a prospective father-in-law wholly in his power; and a bride
_in posse_, upon whose fears he could work by describing graphically
her father’s danger, with the moral, that it would be her duty to her
parent to wed his preserver, Le Gautier. This, in fine, was the pretty
scheme the wily adventurer had sketched out in his busy brain, a scheme
which at present looked like being brought to a successful issue.

Another source of congratulation to this inestimable young man was the
progress he was making with the fair stranger, known to him as Marie St
Jean. By the time a fortnight had passed, he had been in Ventnor Street
more than once, and quite long enough to feel a passion stronger than
he had ever experienced before. It was absolutely dangerous to him, he
knew, to be with her so often; but like the moth and the candle, the
attraction was so great that he found it impossible to keep away—not
that he lost his head for a moment, though he well knew that Marie St
Jean could turn him round her finger; but he had formed his plans even
here. The first step was to betray the League—the scheme was not quite
ripe yet, and the news of Maxwell uncertain—and then take Marie St Jean
for a tour upon the continent. There would be plenty of time to return
and marry Enid afterwards without any unnecessary bother; for he had
already made up his mind that Miss St Jean was too proud to show her
wrongs to the world.

On the Monday afternoon following Maxwell’s departure, Le Gautier
turned his steps in the direction of Grosvenor Square, feeling on good
terms with himself and all mankind. His schemes were prospering hugely.
It was clearly useless, he determined, now to hesitate any longer;
the blow must be struck, and the sooner the better for all parties
concerned. With this intention upmost in his mind, he trippingly
ascended the steps of Sir Geoffrey’s house and knocked.

He found the baronet in the library, engaged as usual over some volume
of deep spiritualistic research; the thing had become a passion with
him now, and every spare moment was spent in this morbid amusement. He
was getting thin and haggard over it, and Le Gautier thought he looked
very old and careworn as he watched him now.

‘You have come just in time,’ he cried, placing a paper-knife in the
book and turning eagerly to Le Gautier. ‘I have a passage here that I
am unable to understand. Listen to this.’

‘I have something more important to speak of,’ Le Gautier interrupted.
‘I have something more pressing on hand than that attractive subject.
Sir Geoffrey, next week I am summoned to Warsaw.’

The baronet began to feel anxious; he knew perfectly well what was
coming, and, like all weak men, he dreaded anything like evil. The part
that he had to play was a despicable one, and he feared his daughter’s
angry scorn. Like a recalcitrant debtor, he began to cry for time, the
time that never comes. ‘So you informed me last week,’ he replied,
twisting a paper-knife in his hands uneasily. ‘I hope you will have a
pleasant journey. How long do you expect to be detained there?’

‘I cannot tell; it depends upon the amount of business to be done. I
may be away six weeks; but, at the very least, I do not see how I can
get back to England under the month.’

Sir Geoffrey’s face lighted, in spite of his air of regret. Le Gautier
noticed this; nothing escaped the ken of those keen black eyes.

‘And when you return, we will complete our little arrangements,’ Sir
Geoffrey exclaimed cheerfully. ‘No hurry, you know, no haste in such
matters as these; and, referring to our previous conversation, we
cannot be too careful in treading such uncertain ground. Enid’——

‘Precisely,’ Le Gautier interrupted. ‘With all due deference to your
opinion, there is need of action, which is a very different matter from
that raw haste which your poet tells us is half-sister to delay. I must
have something definite settled before I leave England.’

‘’Pon my honour, you know, you young men are very hasty,’ the baronet
fidgeted; ‘there is no controlling you. In my time, things were quite
different; men professed a certain deference to women, and did not take
so much for granted as you do now’——

‘Sir Geoffrey,’ Le Gautier interrupted again, ‘things change; men
alter; but perfect love is the same for all time. I love your daughter,
and would make her my wife.’

In spite of the baronet’s feeble-mindedness, there was always something
in the Frenchman’s higher flights which jarred upon his nerves, a sense
of insincerity, a certain hollow, grotesque mockery, which pained him.
The last word struck upon him like some chords played out of tune.
Still the spell was upon him; he had nought to do but obey.

‘We perfectly understand that,’ he replied, ‘and therefore need say no
more about it. You have my promise; indeed, how can it be otherwise
with the memory of that awful manifestation before me? And the word of
a Charteris is always sufficient. But I do think, Le Gautier, that you
are pushing this thing too far.’

‘Let the depth of my love excuse my impetuosity;’ and again the words
struck harshly on the listener’s ears. ‘Surely the excuse is a good
one. I am leaving England shortly; and before I go, I must—nay, I will
have an answer to the question which affects my happiness so deeply. It
is only fair, only just that I should know my fate.’

Sir Geoffrey speculated feebly what he was to do with a man like this.
‘But have a little patience; let me prepare her for your proposal.’

‘Which you will promise to do, and put off day after day, as a man does
who has an unpleasant task to perform. No, Sir Geoffrey; I do not wish
to conduct my wooing second-hand. There is no time like the present; my
motto is “Now.” I do not ask you to help me; but before I leave this
house, it is my intention to speak to your daughter.’

In sheer desperation, not unmixed with a little irritation, Sir
Geoffrey rang the bell, and desired the servant to conduct Le Gautier
up-stairs. The thing must come sooner or later, he knew; and so long
as he was not asked personally to interfere, he did not so much mind,
though he was not unconscious of sundry twinges of conscience as his
arbitrary visitor disappeared.




RACING ROGUERIES.


To a man not infected with the disease, Turf-mania must appear the
blindest of all infatuations. The gambler who trusts to the fall of
the cards, arguing that in the natural fitness of things he is certain
to be a winner some day, and spends all his time in calculating the
doctrine of chances, is a rational person to the gull who, knowing what
a mass of roguery leavens the Turf, will yet stake money, honour, and
life upon its eventualities. Yet this is done every day, not only by
greenhorns, but by men who are quite alive to the mysterious workings
of the betting ring, who are fully aware that the ability of the horse
or the jockey is the last factor to be taken into consideration; who
can amuse you for hours with stories of the swindles practised by
owners, trainers, jockeys, ‘rings,’ and who yet go on putting their
money on the horse ‘that must win’—and never wins—in utter defiance of
their foregathered knowledge. The racing ‘prophet’ who is behind the
scenes, who makes ‘the turf’ the business of his life, not only fools
the readers of the newspaper to which he sells his vaticinations, but
himself as well, and often returns from a race as penniless as the
silly ones who pin their faith upon his oracular utterances. Even the
bookmaker has his ‘fancies,’ upon which he stakes, and loses, the money
that fools have put into his purse, with a blind confidence that is
almost incredible.

A certain horse has acquitted himself well in his trial gallops; there
is not one in the race can beat him; and _if_ he were allowed to do his
best, would undoubtedly be the winner. But, as Touchstone says, ‘There
is much virtue in an if.’ In the first place, the owner may not intend
him to win, and may have actually made arrangements for laying against
his own horse. Or if the owner be ‘straight,’ the jockey may have been
bribed to check the horse’s speed as he nears the winning-post by some
one whose interest it is that the horse shall not win. All these may
work together, or each may have different interests in the event. And
even should the animal be meant in all honesty to win, a stable lad
for a five-pound note may secretly physic the horse, and good-bye the
chances of the favourite on the morrow. Or some lurking ruffian in the
pay of another owner or bookmaker may contrive to gain admission into
the stable unknown to the animal’s guardians, and ‘nobble’ for himself.
But even after every form of knavery has been set aside, there are
contingencies that still render the risks of backing horses enormous.
The jockey may spend the night before the race in dissipation, and
mount with swimming head and nerveless hands; or in his cups he may
betray some secret of the stable that will give the advantage to a
rival; or the horse himself may become sick, or be out of form, or
stumble, or be thrown out by a cur running across the course, or other
accidents easy of occurrence; and yet, knowing all this, men will madly
risk large sums upon the supposition that no such _contretemps_ will
happen.

A few anecdotes, however, of undeniable authenticity will better
illustrate the tricks of the Turf than would pages of reflections and
generalisations.

About half a century ago, at Newmarket, several horses who stood high
in the betting, at different times suddenly went off sick just before
the race for which they were entered; some died, others recovered,
but all were disabled for the time being, and favourites that a few
hours previously outstripped every rival, would come straggling yards
behind the field. Every one knew they had been ‘nobbled;’ but for a
long time the perpetrator remained undiscovered; at last, however, a
notorious scoundrel, one Dan Dawson, was caught red-handed poisoning
the troughs. During the trial, it came out that he had made a regular
trade of these nefarious practices, and it was more than suspected
that not a few of the biggest men on the Turf were his employers. But
although he was condemned to death, whether from the hope that some
among his influential patrons would intercede for a reprieve, or from
that hatred which certain men of his class have against ‘peaching,’ he
never betrayed them, and remained silent to the end. The most minute
precautions are taken to guard the racehorse from such dangers, yet the
cunning or daring of his enemies frequently proves more than a match
for the care of his owners.

In 1842, Lanercost was regarded as the certain victor for the Ascot
Cup. While he was being conveyed to the course in a van, the grooms
in charge stopped at an inn between Leatherhead and Sunninghill to
refresh, leaving one to keep watch. Just after they had gone into
the house, two sailors came out of it. ‘Hillo,’ cried one, ‘here’s
Lanercost; let’s have a peep at him;’ and he sprang up on the side of
the van, while his companion at the same time diverted the attention of
the man on guard. A moment afterwards, the first jumped down again,
and then the two disappeared into a copse: it was all done so quickly
that the groom had no time to interpose; and before he could summon
his mates, the men were out of sight. When the race came on, instead
of achieving the anticipated victory, poor Lanercost came in last. In
the course of the ensuing month, he entirely changed colour, and was
never fit to run again. There is no doubt that the pretended sailor had
contrived to administer some powerful drug to the animal during the few
seconds he hung over his box.

Somewhere about the same time, a horse named Marcus was the favourite
for the St Leger. The day before the race, while he and some other
horses were standing at the _Doncaster Arms_, an ill-looking fellow
entered the kitchen of that tavern and seated himself beside a boiler
from which the stable lads were every now and then drawing water for
their charges. There was no one in the kitchen save a maid-servant,
whom the stranger sent out to bring him a pot of beer. When she
returned, the girl was going to fill her tea-kettle from the boiler,
but the fellow stopped her by saying: ‘I wouldn’t take my tea-water
from there if I was you, it looks so yellow and greasy.’

‘All right; I’ll get it outside,’ she answered. When she came back the
second time, the man had gone.

The next morning two horses were found dead in their stalls; while
Marcus, who was just able to run, came in last, and also died during
the day. Upon the bodies being opened, arsenic was found in their
stomachs. The girl then remembered the incident of the loafer, who had
no doubt poisoned the water in the copper; and had she been as stubborn
as most of her kind, several human victims would have been added to
the equine list. By the defeat of Marcus, the owner of a horse named
Chorister won seven thousand pounds.

Sometimes the defeat of the favourite is brought about by less bold but
more subtle means; and occasionally the tables are turned in a very
unexpected manner, as in the following instance. For the Doncaster
of 1824, Jerry—a horse belonging to a well-known sporting man named
Gascoigne—was the favourite. A little before the event came off,
however, George Payne, a noted Turfite, got ‘the tip’ from John Gully,
the ex-prizefighter, that Jerry would not win; and the day before
the race, these two worthies, doubtless well knowing _why_, laid six
thousand against him. Gascoigne could not understand how it was that
the more he backed his horse, which was in magnificent condition,
the less it advanced in favour. He felt sure there was a screw loose
somewhere, but he could not tell in what direction to look for it.
Two nights before the race, as he was taking a walk in the outskirts
of Doncaster, he paused at a turnpike gate, and just at that moment
a postchaise stopped to pay toll. By the light of the lamp which the
toll-keeper held in his hand, Gascoigne observed the jockey who was to
ride Jerry next day seated within, almost helplessly drunk, between
two of the most notorious blacklegs of the time. In a moment he saw it
all. Hurrying away, lest he should be recognised, he went back to his
hotel, and set about concocting measures to counteract the plot that
he perceived had been formed against him. Without making known his
discovery to any one, he secured the services of another jockey, bound
the man down to silence; and at the last moment, just as the traitor
was going to mount, his substitute slipped into the saddle, and won the
race, to the discomfiture and well-merited loss of the conspirators,
who had betted all they possessed upon the event.

Men called ‘Touts’ are employed by bookmakers and others to watch
racehorses at exercise and report upon their condition; these spies are
abhorred by trainers and owners, and have to pursue their espionage
under many difficulties, sometimes lying in a dry or a damp ditch,
or a hole covered over with brambles, or on the roof of a stable, to
be ready to witness the morning gallop. When detected, they do not
often escape under a horsewhipping or a ducking. On one bitterly cold
night, a fellow had crawled upon the roof of a stall to listen if the
favourite had a cough. Aware of his presence, though pretending to
be ignorant of it, the trainer ordered the stable boys to throw up
pails of water upon the spot where he was ensconced until the very
clothes froze upon the poor wretch’s back; but he had the consolation
of hearing the horse stabled beneath cough several times, and next
morning the odds were heavy against the favourite. Unfortunately for
the rogues, however, the favourite on the previous night had been moved
into another stable, and a horse with a cough had been substituted, to
deceive the tout, with the result that those who ventured their money
on his information, lost.

A much cleverer ruse was the following. An owner named Wilson was about
to try a two-year-old colt. ‘We shall be watched, and his white right
fore-leg will be sure to be noticed,’ remarked the trainer.—‘Leave that
to me,’ said Mr Wilson. Next morning, he was at the stable at daybreak,
and with some black paint soon changed the colour of the leg; while
a brush dipped in white transferred the distinguishing mark to a far
inferior horse, which showed but poorly beside the other. The tout on
the watch naturally took one for the other, and reported accordingly.
The next day, a certain nobleman gave fifteen hundred for the falsified
animal, which was worth about four.

We have purposely omitted the more celebrated Turf swindles, such as
the ‘Running Rein’ fraud, and others that made a sensation in their
day, confining ourselves to the less known affairs, which were not
found out until reparation to the victims was impossible, our principal
desire being to make clear to ‘the outsiders’ the enormous odds against
which they stake their money.

Those who are not behind the scenes may suppose that the bookmakers
(pencillers) and the ‘knowing ones’ generally, enjoy a perfect immunity
from the perils and dangers, pitfalls and temptations, of horseracing;
but that is not the case. Not unfrequently they walk blindly into
the trap they set for others; the biter is frequently bitten; and
many an ingenious fraud has been put upon the ‘pencillers’ by outside
betting-men, as the two following stories will show. For obvious
reasons, all data are suppressed, but the truth of the anecdotes can be
vouched for.

One day a City man, who was given to betting, and whom we shall call
A, received a visit from a friend addicted to the same weakness, who
shall be designated B. Locking the room door and sinking his voice to
a whisper, B announced that he had made a wonderful discovery by which
betting could be reduced to a system of all prizes and no blanks, and
consequently a fortune very quickly realised. ‘Now is your chance,’
he said, ‘if you like to join me. I shall give no explanation of the
method; come and see for yourself.’

An appointment was made for the next morning, the date of the X races,
at the Z (betting) Club.

‘Have you anything on this race?’ was the first inquiry made by B as A
came into the room.

The answer was in the negative.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said B, drawing him into a corner, for the place,
as usual at such times, was crowded with betting-men; ‘the final list
for the twelve o’clock race will be telegraphed here in a few minutes.’
(The Z, it need scarcely be said, had its private tape.) ‘Lay all the
money you like, at any odds, upon the horse I shall select, and I will
guarantee that it shall be the winner. But mind, you must not lose a
second after I have given you the hint. Go to the nearest bookmaker in
the room and make your bet on the instant.’

A minute or two afterwards, the electric bell gave the signal, and
there was a general rush to the machine. B was one of the first to
scan the list: there were five runners. He passed his finger down the
names until he paused almost imperceptibly upon Y, and looked at his
companion, who, although it was the very last horse he would have
thought of backing, boldly called out: ‘I’ll take the odds against Y.’

Y being a rank outsider, a bookmaker laid the odds on the instant. One
minute afterwards came the announcement that Y was the winner.

After they left the club together, B unfolded the mystery. ‘When the
list of runners was telegraphed,’ he said, ‘the race was already won.’

‘But how could that be?’ asked A. ‘The race was run at twelve, and the
time on the telegram was three minutes to twelve.’

‘The time was falsified,’ was the reply. ‘The message was not wired
until past the hour, nor until the winner was declared.’

‘And how could you fix upon the right one?’ demanded A.

‘There was the minutest dash on the tape against the name of the
winner, only noticeable by one in the secret. You see, the clerks are
in the pay of an Association. There are three or four other clubs
beside this where we get the telegrams in the same manner, so that we
vary our times. Here, for instance, we put upon the twelve o’clock
race; at another, upon the one; at a third, upon the two, and so on.’

We may add that the fraud was ultimately discovered, and the clerks who
worked it severely punished.

The next trick we shall relate could not be practised now, in
consequence of an alteration in the Turf customs. It was worked in
this fashion by two confederates. Let us suppose it to be the Lewes
races. One of the two goes down to Lewes on the previous day, and by
the last post sends a letter addressed _in pencil_ and unsealed to
his brother-rogue in London. Inside the envelope is a note addressed
to a bookmaker, simply containing the words, ‘Please back ____ for so
much.—Yours truly, JONES’—a blank being left for the horse’s name. This
missive arrives in town by the morning post, and the instant the race
is run the name of the winner is telegraphed to rogue number two, who
then inserts the name of the horse, rubs out his own name and address
from the envelope, writes that of the bookmaker instead, and seals
it up. Everything is now perfect in appearance: there are the Lewes
postmark of the previous night, the London of the morning, and the seal
untampered with. We need scarcely say that the handwriting appears to
be the same, and, according to the rules of racing at that time, if a
letter be delayed in transmission through the post, the bookmaker is
still made answerable for its contents.

And now, how is it to be got into his hands without exciting suspicion?
There are several ways of doing this: sometimes he may be at the club,
and then the letter is dropped into the letter-box; but the favourite
dodge is to dress up a man as a postman, with bag and a bundle of
letters in his hand, who will deliver it at the victim’s office; or
the confederate will watch for the real postman, walk behind him, drop
the letter on the pavement, and then call out to the carrier: ‘Hillo,
you’ve dropped one of your letters.’

The man will pick it up, and, being almost certain to have others
addressed to the same person, innocently play the rogue’s game. As to
the bookmaker, all he can do is to write a letter of complaint to St
Martin’s-le-Grand and pay the money.

You cannot touch pitch without being defiled, or play with edged tools
without being cut, says the old proverb; and you cannot associate with
rogues and play the rogue without occasionally being swindled yourself.




MISS MASTERMAN’S DISCOVERY.


IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Since she left the rectory, she had had two letters from Lady O’Leary,
a passage in the second having made a powerful impression upon her:
‘Since your departure, my dear Phœbe, I have had leisure for much
reflection on the subject of your frightful discovery; and after
considerable cogitation, I have arrived at the conclusion that it is
certainly your bounden duty to acquaint the bishop with the conduct of
Mr Draycott, and to do so at once before you return to Sunnydale. I
should advise you to write and inclose that abandoned widow’s note. I
fancy that we are not the only ones who are beginning to see through
this sanctimonious villain of a rector. I observed last Sunday that
several of the congregation, amongst them Lady Conyers and General
Scott and his family, who always stay for a chat with the Draycotts
after service, left the church as quickly as possible, as if to avoid
speaking to any of the family. Mrs Penrose was not at church; no doubt
she had her reasons for staying away, though I heard from Miss Jones
that it was given out that it was a bad headache that kept her at home.’

From Lady O’Leary’s statement, it was not clear if Mrs Penrose’s
headache had been publicly announced in church or not; and the worthy
lady had also omitted to mention that it was entirely owing to her
own hints and innuendoes, industriously dropped here and there,
accompanied by significant looks of unutterable meaning, that the
mind of the parish was being considerably exercised with grave doubts
as to Mr Draycott’s moral character. The letter went on to say that
invitations had been issued for a large evening party at the rectory
on the following Thursday. Lady O’Leary strongly urged Miss Masterman
so to time her return as to be present at it, adding: ‘I intend to go,
as I feel it my duty to neglect no opportunity of collecting evidence
which may serve to deliver our hearths and homes from the contaminating
presence of the shameless Draycott!’

On reading this, Miss Masterman considered that there was no further
proof wanting of the enormity of the rector’s guilt. Another suspicious
circumstance was, that she had received no invitation, and in three
days the party would take place. She therefore felt convinced that
the rector, dreading lest her keen eye should detect more than would
be noticed by the shallow members of his own family, had made some
excuse to prevent Mrs Draycott from bidding her to the festivity;
consequently, resolving to hesitate no longer, she sat down and indited
the following letter:

    _To the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of ——._

    MY LORD—I venture, as a temporary resident in the parish of
    Sunnydale, to call to your lordship’s notice some heinous
    irregularities in the conduct of the Rev. Stephen Draycott, rector
    of that parish. I should indeed blush to record the details of his
    guilt in any words of mine; but the inclosed note, addressed to
    him by a person who calls herself ‘Mrs Penrose,’ will, I think,
    speak for itself. The individual whom I allude to is, I have every
    reason to fear, an astute adventuress; and should your Lordship
    think it worth while to make further inquiries respecting her, I
    have no doubt that sufficient evidence will speedily be found to
    substantiate my statements in every respect.—I have the honour to
    be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s most obedient humble servant,

                                                 (MISS) PHŒBE MASTERMAN.

Miss Masterman next wrote a letter to the unconscious Mrs Draycott,
fixing the following Friday for her return, at the same time fully
intending to make some excuse for arriving unexpectedly on Thursday
afternoon instead, so as to be in time for the party in the evening.
She then sent a few lines to Lady O’Leary acquainting her with all
she had done; and after seeing her letters posted, she congratulated
herself on the courage and resolution with which she had carried out
what she believed to be a duty to society.

On Thursday, Miss Masterman left Bradborough early in the morning,
having so arranged her journey that she would arrive at Sunnydale about
six, which, as she calculated, would give her time to unpack and dress
for the evening. But, by an unfortunate chance, it happened that as the
train by which she travelled during the first part of her journey was
delayed, it would be quite impossible to be at the rectory much before
eleven o’clock P.M. Even Miss Masterman felt that that would be too
late an hour at which to arrive unexpectedly; so she made up her mind
that her only course would be to go to the village inn for the night,
her one consolation being, that Lady O’Leary would be sure to give her
a full and particular account of all that occurred at the rectory.

The alteration in her arrangements was most annoying to Miss Masterman,
who, like many other rich people, if she made a plan, expected, as a
matter of course, that it should be rigidly adhered to. During four
hours which she had to wait at a junction, she sat and brooded over
her grievances, waxing more and more grim as she did so. To add to her
irritation, the rain began to come down in torrents; and the cold and
draughty station was made additionally comfortless by the damp air
which came in through every door and window, and penetrated to every
bone in Miss Masterman’s body.

At length, however, the dreary journey came to an end; and on reaching
her destination, she took a fly, and ordered the man to drive her to
the only decent inn that Sunnydale could boast. By this time it was
past eleven o’clock. The rain had ceased, and the moon was shining
brightly, throwing streams of silvery light on all around, and bringing
every object into unusual prominence. In order to reach the inn, it
was necessary to pass Fern Lodge, the pretty cottage residence of Mrs
Penrose. Fancying she heard voices, Miss Masterman leaned forward and
looked out of the window. What was her horror and amazement to see Mr
Draycott gallantly escorting Mrs Penrose to her door! There was no
mistaking the rector’s tall figure and dignified deportment. But the
widow! Dressed in what appeared to be an elegant costume, her bare arms
and neck, plainly visible through her black lace shawl, were gleaming
with diamonds! But even this was not all! The bright moonlight falling
on her upturned face as she smiled upon Mr Draycott, plainly revealed
powder and rouge! Slowly the pair advanced towards the house, and as a
turn in the road hid them from sight, Mr Draycott was bending over his
companion, apparently engaged in earnest conversation.

Miss Masterman sank back in the fly in the greatest agitation. Her
worst suspicions were now confirmed! and by the time she arrived at
the inn, she felt fairly exhausted with excitement. Miss Masterman at
once requested to be shown to her room; and during the greater part
of the night she lay awake, thinking over the startling discoveries
she had made and their probable results. On one point she had quite
made up her mind—that nothing would induce her to remain any longer
under the same roof with the rector. So she arranged with the hostess
of the _Sunnydale Arms_ that she would stay there for a week—to await
events. At an early hour she called upon Lady O’Leary; but, to her
great disappointment, she found that lady confined to her room with
such a severe attack of gout, that she had been unable to be present at
the rectory on the previous evening. The invalid listened with greedy
interest to Miss Masterman’s revelations, and for the moment she forgot
the pain she was enduring in the delight of hearing about Mrs Penrose’s
rouge, and especially the diamonds, which were ‘confirmation strong,’
if any were needed, of the words in the fatal letter. On her side, Lady
O’Leary had little to tell Miss Masterman, except that two days ago
she had seen Magdalen Draycott, who told her that they only expected
about half the number they had asked to the party, as so many had
refused. The girl had also said that her mother was a good deal worried
about it; from which Lady O’Leary concluded that things were coming
to a crisis, and that people were beginning to see the unprincipled
Draycott in his true colours. The interview between the two ladies was
terminated by a paroxysm of agony which seized upon the invalid, and
completely incapacitated her for further conversation.

Miss Masterman returned to the inn for lunch, and then prepared for
her momentous visit to the rectory; for she had resolved to beard the
lion in his den, and to denounce him in the presence of his family as a
hypocrite. On arriving at the rectory, she was told by the servant who
appeared in answer to her imperious knock, that the rector was at that
time engaged with the churchwardens and others on parish business, and
could not be interrupted.

‘My business will not admit of delay,’ replied Miss Masterman. ‘I
must insist upon seeing the rector at once.’ Then, as the servant
endeavoured to expostulate—‘No words!’ continued the spinster; ‘conduct
me to him at once.’

The servant then led the way, though with evident reluctance, and
throwing open the drawing-room door, announced Miss Masterman.

Bristling with conscious virtue, her tall form drawn up to its fullest
height, she intrepidly advanced, seeming to breathe out threatenings
and slaughter in her progress, and her whole appearance formidable to
the last degree.

The dining-room was full of people, who were seated round the long
table, at the head of which presided the rector. The two churchwardens
were seated near him. The rest of the party included Mrs Draycott, Lady
Conyers, General Scott, and many of the leading residents of Sunnydale,
who had met to discuss some necessary alterations in the hours of the
church services. At sight of Miss Masterman, a dead silence fell upon
the assembly. Nothing daunted, she advanced to Mrs Draycott, and held
out her hand; but, to her surprise, she was repulsed. She was then
addressed by the rector, who, rising from his chair, said in dignified
accents: ‘If you wish to speak to me, Miss Masterman, I will come to
you presently in the study. At present, I am engaged, as you see, with
my friends.’

‘I can perfectly understand your motives in wishing to speak to me
without witnesses, Mr Draycott,’ replied she; ‘but you shall not escape
so easily. What I have to say shall be said here, in the hearing of
your wife, and of the friends whom you have so grossly deceived.’

‘I spoke for your own sake, madam, not mine,’ said the rector, as
he turned pale with anger. ‘But since you insist upon it, pray, let
my friends hear what excuse you have to offer for this uncalled-for
intrusion.’

‘I wish to acquaint them with your real character,’ answered Miss
Masterman firmly. ‘You know that you are an unprincipled man and a
profligate.’

At these audacious words, all the company rose to their feet, with
the exception of Mr Sheldon, the rector’s churchwarden, a young and
rising solicitor, who—his professional instincts instantly on the
alert—scented legal proceedings, and began quickly and silently to take
notes of all that passed. The other churchwarden, Mr Blare, a little
puffy, red-faced man, with a temper that was the terror of all the
naughty boys in the parish, after vainly trying to express his wrath
articulately, sank back into his chair again gasping and snorting,
till his face assumed an apoplectic hue that was truly alarming.
The rest of the assembly loudly expressed their indignation at Miss
Masterman’s extraordinary allegations; when above the din rang out the
rector’s clear and penetrating voice. ‘My friends,’ he cried, ‘will
you be seated, and listen to me?’ Then, as they obeyed in silence, he
turned to the furious woman before him, and continued: ‘May I ask, Miss
Masterman, by what right you abstracted a letter from my study, and
then took the unwarrantable liberty of sending it to the bishop?’

‘I wished to open the bishop’s eyes to your real character,’ replied
Miss Masterman. ‘I read that letter by the merest accident, and I felt
that it was only right that others should be undeceived as well as
myself.’

‘And are you aware,’ demanded Mr Draycott sternly, ‘that you have
rendered yourself liable to an action for libel?’

‘Certainly not,’ answered Miss Masterman, ‘for I have only spoken the
truth. It is of no use to try and bully, Mr Draycott; your character
has now been discovered.’

At this crisis, Miss Masterman was interrupted by an angry snort from
Mr Blare, who, after making another futile attempt to express himself
coherently, subsided into a violent fit of coughing, after which, he
contented himself with giving vent to a short jeering laugh whenever
Miss Masterman spoke, in a manner that irritated that lady almost
beyond endurance.

‘Perhaps, before you indulge in any more strong language, you will be
good enough to listen to a few words of explanation,’ proceeded the
rector. ‘The letter which you purloined from my study referred merely
to some theatricals. My wife had written a little play in which Mrs
Penrose was to take part; the play was to be acted last night at a
party in this house, which had been purposely kept a secret from you
on account of your known dislike of all theatrical entertainments. The
articles alluded to in Mrs Penrose’s letter to me were required by her
for the part she was to play. Had you mentioned the matter to me or to
any member of my family, you would have heard the truth, and spared
yourself and us much unnecessary pain.’

‘Then,’ gasped Miss Masterman, ‘when I saw you and Mrs Penrose at
eleven o’clock last night’——

‘I was escorting her home, after her kindness in helping us,’ replied
Mr Draycott. Then, as his voice trembled with suppressed anger, he
continued: ‘I have been this morning, thanks to your impertinent
interference, subjected to a severe cross-examination by my bishop;
and though I trust he is now convinced of the falsehood of your
allegations, I have been put in a most painful position. Owing to you
and Lady O’Leary—who has not scrupled to spread scandalous reports
about me in my own parish—I have been cut by some of my most valued
friends; and if I refrain from prosecuting you both for libel, it is
only on condition that you offer a full and ample apology for your most
wicked and uncalled-for assertions.’

As Miss Masterman heard these words, she felt ready to sink through the
ground, for she at once saw the folly and wickedness of her conduct in
its true light. All her assurance deserted her, and she feebly tried to
falter out a few words of regret; but the rector sternly interrupted
her. ‘That is not sufficient, Miss Masterman,’ said he. ‘I must trouble
you to write at once to the bishop, and also to send a paragraph to the
local papers, to retract every word that you and Lady O’Leary have said
against my character. Should you, or she, refuse to do me this justice,
I shall immediately commence proceedings against you both!’

Here the solicitor interposed with: ‘I am in a position to warn Miss
Masterman that should Mr Draycott determine to institute proceedings
for libel, the damages in this case might be excessive.’

Baffled, confounded, and for the first time in her life completely
cowed, Miss Masterman looked helplessly around her, and had the
mortification of seeing Lady Conyers, General Scott, those rich and
influential members of the congregation, whose friendship she had so
sedulously cultivated, turn their backs upon her in utter contempt,
as she passed down the room; even kind Mrs Draycott averted her eyes
from her; and her equanimity was by no means restored when, on reaching
the door, she found that it had been left partially open, and that
the whole of the preceding conversation had been overheard by Master
Hubert, who was now turning somersaults in the hall, as Miss Masterman
more than suspected, in celebration of her own discomfiture.

It is scarcely necessary to add that Miss Masterman and her friend were
only too thankful to accept the rector’s terms, and so escape the just
penalty of their conduct; and whenever, after this, Miss Masterman felt
inclined to give too free license to her tongue, the rising temptation
was instantly subdued by the recollection of the mischief once wrought
by that unruly member during her summer holiday in the parish of
Sunnydale.




PHOTOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTING.


It is now some years since photography was first called to the
assistance of the astronomer, and the results which have been achieved
show that it will play a still more important part in the future. A
description of all its advantages would carry us far beyond the limits
of the present article; but we mention four, as they are necessary to
the understanding of the subject.

The power which the sensitive film possesses of recording the
appearance of a bright object to whose light it has been exposed for
only a minute fraction of a second, has enabled us to obtain pictures
of the sun that are much more accurate than ordinary drawings. The
camera, moreover, has the faculty of seeing a great deal in a very
short space of time. If we confine our attention to a small area, a
very few moments suffice to show us all that is to be seen by the
naked eye; persistent looking for half an hour would only tire our
eyes without enabling us to see anything at first invisible. It is
different with the camera; the longer the light is permitted to fall on
the plate, the more details do we find in the resulting picture. The
fact that some rays are more effective (photographically) than others
has enabled Dr Huggins to photograph, in full sunlight, that extremely
faint solar appendage, the corona, which is visible to the eye only
when the intense light of the sun is hidden as during a total eclipse.

The latest demand which has been made upon the astronomer’s new
assistant is no less than a great atlas of all the stars down to those
of the fifteenth magnitude. The magnificent idea of photographing this
immense number of stars—probably about twenty millions—is due to the
officials of the Paris Observatory. The instrument which Messrs Paul
and Prosper Henry have constructed for this research may be described
roughly as two telescopes side by side and moving together. One of
these, having a specially designed object-glass, carries the sensitive
plate for the reception of the image. The arrangement is provided
with a clockwork motion, in order that, during the time of exposure,
the situation of each star’s image may not alter; but as clockwork,
however carefully made, is not infallible, an observer, looking through
the second telescope, nips in the bud, so to speak, any tendency
to aberration. Since the little spots that frequently occur on the
photographic plates may be mistaken for stars, and so serve to swell
future lists of ‘variables,’ each plate is exposed three times, and
each star is therefore represented by three marks. The alteration in
the position of the plate between each of the three exposures is so
slight, that it requires a microscope to show that the dots are triple.
With this splendid apparatus, only one two-hundredth of a second
is necessary for the recording of the position of first-magnitude
stars. Those of the sixth magnitude, which can only be perceived with
the naked eye on a very dark night, require only half a second. The
faintest which can be seen through the telescope, those of about the
fourteenth magnitude, take three minutes to make an impression. But
although the human eye is not sensitive enough to go any farther than
this, stars of the fifteenth and even the sixteenth magnitude can be
made to appear on the plate, if the exposure be sufficiently prolonged.
In the latter case, an hour and a half is necessary.

In one of Messrs Henry’s charts, about five thousand stars were
counted. The construction of such a chart by the ordinary method of
measurement would have taken many months; now it only takes three
hours. Thus the preparation of a set of maps such as Messrs Henry
suggest would occupy less time than the charting of one-hundredth part
of the number of stars by ordinary methods. It has been calculated that
if the work be divided among twelve observatories, five hundred and ten
photographs would be required from each; and making every allowance,
ten years would probably see the completion of the most elaborate
survey of the whole heavens ever undertaken. This may seem a long time;
but we must remember that Argelander’s great charts of the northern
hemisphere, which contained only three hundred and twenty-four thousand
stars, occupied seven years of observatory work alone!

The importance of obtaining a permanent record of the present positions
of twenty million stars cannot be overestimated. We find that if old
measurements, such as those of Ptolemy, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, and
others, are to be trusted, very great changes must have taken place in
the heavens. But are they to be trusted? The differences between their
observations and ours must in many cases be attributed to the roughness
of their instruments; but some cannot be altogether explained thus. As,
however, we do not know where actual change ends and faulty measurement
begins, no very definite knowledge can be derived from the comparison.
A photograph of some part of the heavens by Cassini—what an invaluable
legacy it would have been! With such a survey as Messrs Henry propose,
future astronomers will be able not only to be sure of the existence
of changes, but also to measure their extent. But the astronomers of
the future will not be the only gainers. During an hour, a planet moves
quite an appreciable distance; it will therefore appear on the plate
as a short line instead of a point. Thus, one of the first results
will probably be a considerable accession to the numbers of the minor
planets which circulate between Mars and Jupiter. Who knows that the
transneptunian planet itself will not be found in this way? Besides
this very obvious advantage, these charts will be of the greatest use
in the study of the form and constitution of the stellar universe.
It is only by the employment of such charts that we can arrive at a
proper understanding of star arrangement. The methods of star-gauging
which Sir William Herschel employed for this purpose failed to give
any satisfactory account of the form of the Milky-way in space. His
first method was to point his large telescope in various directions
successively, counting the number of stars visible in the field each
time. He argued that if the stars were scattered with approximate
uniformity throughout the galaxy, then the more he counted in a unit of
area, the farther must it extend in that direction. On this assumption,
he calculated that the depth of the Milky-way was eighty times the
distance of the first-magnitude stars. Sir John Herschel, by precisely
the same method, found the proportion to be seven hundred and fifty
instead of eighty! This discrepancy alone gives some idea of the
untrustworthiness of the method; and there are many other arguments
against it, into which we have not space to enter.

Sir William’s second method, although sometimes confounded with his
first, was in reality quite different from it. Instead of counting the
number of points of light seen with the same telescope in equal small
areas in various parts of the Milky-way, he now attempted to estimate
the depth by noting the telescopic power necessary to ‘resolve’ the
nebulous places into crowds of separate stars. When we examine the
galaxy with the naked eye, it appears to be simply a cloud of misty
light. A small telescope, however, suffices to show that it is made
up of stars; but in most parts the background still seems nebulous.
A stronger telescope entirely clears up and resolves some of these
nebulous portions, while other parts require a still stronger power,
and so on. In this way, then, assuming that the more difficult a
misty part of the heavens was to resolve, the farther off the stars
composing that misty part were, he attempted to gauge the star depths.
It now appears that when he thought he was penetrating space farther
and farther with telescopes of gradually increasing power, he was in
reality only resolving masses of (smaller) stars situated at about
the same average distance as the larger bodies which had been already
distinguished with a feebler power, and which he had therefore assumed
to be nearer. As a well-known writer says: ‘In each case where Herschel
had assumed that he was penetrating farther and farther into space,
he was only analysing more and more scrutinisingly a complex cloud of
stars.’ It is interesting to notice in this connection that one still
sees Herschel’s so-called split-grindstone theory (which was based
on observations made by the first method) quoted and illustrated in
many text-books, although he renounced it himself; and it is perfectly
obvious to any one who has considered the question in the light of
recent researches, that that theory is totally untenable.

The charting method gives a very different account of the constitution
of the universe. Investigation in this direction has shown that the
Milky-way, far from being an affair of great depth in proportion to its
distance from us, is really what it seems, an immense irregular stream
or belt composed of stars of all sizes. Much information has been
extracted from Argelander’s great charts; but the photographic charts
that will contain sixty or seventy times as many stars will be still
more useful. If the idea is taken up as enthusiastically as it ought to
be, and if our government, so niggardly in matters scientific, can be
induced to follow the enlightened example of the Emperor of Brazil,
and provide our observers with proper instruments, there is no reason
why this great atlas should not be an accomplished fact in a few years.




DAVID’S SON SOLOMON.


Mr David Moses, who is now dead, was a jeweller and pawnbroker in
Wych Street. He kept a very good show of jewelry in the front window
of his establishment, and was never known to complain as to trade
being unsatisfactory in the line of watches and precious stones and
electro-plate. But Mr Moses made much more money by his pawnbroking
than by his jeweller’s shop, and still more by discounting bills
at cent. per cent., than by either of the two businesses which he
ostensibly followed. The bill-discounting, which was also accompanied
by money-lending at stiff rates, was not done at the shop in Wych
Street, but at an office in the neighbourhood of Lombard Street. The
office was handsomely fitted up; the shop was rather second-hand in
appearance, and filled with odds and ends which had never been redeemed
from pawn. At the shop, Mr Moses rarely showed himself, for he had a
valuable assistant in the shape of his deceased wife’s sister, Miss
Rachel Levi, who managed the pawnbroking and jewelry business with
a regard to the main point that would have done credit to Shylock.
The aptitude of this elderly Jewess left Mr Moses plenty of time to
attend to the office in the neighbourhood of Lombard Street. He was
not Mr David Moses there; that cognomen was painted in faded gilt
letters above the Wych Street shop; but the office bore the name of
‘Mr Alfred Morris,’ which title seemed more in accordance with the
character of the clients who came thither to borrow on the strength
of their aristocratic names or connections, or to transact business
connected with what is technically termed a ‘bit of stiff.’ Anybody who
was anybody could always get a ‘bit of stiff’ from Mr Alfred Morris,
provided he had no objection to pay a handsome rate of interest,
and allow a fair margin for commission and charges and other little
incidental expenses. Many of Mr Alfred Morris’s clients knew his real
name to be David Moses, and were aware of the Wych Street business,
where, indeed, some of them had property lying in pledge. These,
however, were old customers, and could be trusted; to all new ones and
to the outside world, Moses was Mr Alfred Morris.

In appearance, the old man was eminently Hebraic. He had a hooked
nose, and very curly white hair; he spoke with a nasal accent, and
called middle-aged men ‘ma tear.’ As regards his business character,
he was Shylockish. He wanted, and took good care to get, his pound of
flesh, and an ounce or two over. He never blushed to lend you fifty
pounds on a hundred pounds acceptance, or seemed to think it out of
the way to deduct five pounds from the fifty for ‘present expenses.’
By his orders, the poor folk who came on Monday morning to put the
Sunday wearing apparel into pawn till the following Saturday evening
were screwed down to the fraction of a penny; while the timid vendor
of second-hand jewelry or old gold was browbeaten to such an extent
that he or she gradually came to the opinion that the goods were
really worth no more than Miss Rachel Levi represented, and thankfully
accepted the price which that estimable lady offered. It was Mr Moses’
idea of business to be hard and sharp and to look out for number one.

There was, however, in the heart of Moses one very soft spot. It may
seem incredible that he who sucked the very lifeblood from young and
foolish scions of noble houses, or made no difficulty in getting hold
of the substance of widows and orphans, should have been capable of
affection. But Moses was capable of a great deal of affection, and
this soft spot was all affection. It is a pity that we should have to
say the affection was lavished on a worthless object; for Mr Solomon
Moses, the only son and child of the old money-lender, and whom the
old man loved as well and as dotingly as his riches, was a thoroughly
bad young scoundrel. When David Moses was sixty, his son Solomon was
twenty-three, and schooled in vice and debauchery.

The senior Moses’ plans with regard to his boy were from the boy’s
very birth of the high and mighty kind. He intended first of all that
the little Solomon should be a ‘shentleman,’ and have nothing to do
with the shop in Wych Street. He should, on attaining his majority,
be provided with unlimited pocket-money and told to ‘go the pace.’
Perhaps, thought Mr David Moses, some of the young swells whom he was
always having dealings with would take Solomon up and initiate him
into the mysteries of society. When, therefore, Solomon came to his
twenty-first birthday, Mr Moses took expensive chambers for him in the
West, placed a handsome sum with a banker at his son’s credit, and told
the young man that nothing would please him better than to know that
his boy was living the life of a gentleman. You may be quite certain
that Mr Solomon Moses was not slow to take advantage of his father’s
kindness. His ideas of a gentlemanly life were somewhat hazy, but
they were decided enough upon the subject of clothes of the fastest
and loudest cut and style, of billiards and unlimited card-games, of
gambling and prizefights, and of disreputable companions. He ‘went the
pace’ splendidly; and Mr David Moses liked it, and thought his son a
fine, lively young gentleman indeed.

When Solomon was twenty-three, he was as villainous a scamp as one
could find in all London. The money he wasted would have supported a
dozen ordinary families in comfort, yet he had twice persuaded his
father to double his allowance. The old man was beginning to fear his
son, and readily acceded to any request for money which Solomon made.
Once or twice a shadow of suspicion had crossed his mind that Solomon
was not the brilliant result he had hoped for. The younger Mr Moses,
for instance, had not gained the entrée to society which it had been
his father’s aim he should secure. He had not made the acquaintance
of the aristocracy, nor did he seem likely to contract a brilliant
marriage with a peer’s daughter; and the only comfort old David had was
the thought that these things took time.

One hot day in the summer of 1883, Solomon called a hansom, and was
driven to his father’s office near Lombard Street. He found ‘Mr Alfred
Morris’ in and free, and forthwith made known his wishes, which ran in
the direction of the sum of one thousand pounds. Old David stared.

‘But, ma tear poy, I haven’t so much moneys about me!’ he objected.
‘And pesides, ma tear, I gave you your money for the quarter on’y last
week. What may you require the moneys for?’

‘Betting heavy, and lost,’ said young Solomon briefly.

‘Petting! O my poy, that’s pad—that’s pad! And lost too—that’s worse!
I tolt you not to pet unless you was certain of winning, Solomon, ma
tear. Oh, to think that you are making the peautiful moneys fly away
like that!’ And then Mr David Moses plucked up spirit, and gave his
worthy son a real good lecture on the evil of wasting money. Solomon
listened impatiently, and again repeated his request for a thousand
pounds. And he got it—as he knew he would. Then he went away and called
another cab, and prepared to be driven back to his elegant rooms. As
he was piloted up the Strand, it occurred to him that he would call
in at Wych Street and see Aunt Rachel; so he stopped his cab, and
went into the jeweller’s shop, and was welcomed by the old Jewess in
the back-parlour. The worthy lady was polishing up some diamonds, and
Solomon’s eyes wandered over the precious baubles covetously.

‘Anything very valuable there, auntie?’ he asked presently.

‘No, Solomon dear; nothing—nothing. The big diamond there is pretty
well. It is worth two thousand pounds.’

‘Two thousand, eh?’ said young Mr Moses. ‘Very fair that, ain’t it?’

‘Well, your father lent one thousand on it—or rather, I did.’

‘Never redeemed?’

‘No.’

Solomon took up the glittering stone and looked it carefully over. It
was set in a massive ring, very plainly made, and with two or three
distinctive marks inside the hoop. ‘And you’re asking two thousand for
this, auntie?’

‘Yes, my dear, that’s the price. I shall put him in the window in a
week or so.’

Solomon went home soon after that. His first proceeding, when he got
out of his father’s shop, was to write down in his pocket-book a very
accurate description of the big diamond and its ring. A very clever and
equally rascally plan was forming itself in his brain. By the time he
reached Trafalgar Square, his plan was complete.

During the next week, more than one person stopped to gaze at the
great diamond flashing in Moses’ shop-window. Its price was not upon
it; but it was evident from its size that it was of tremendous value.
Passers-by speculated on the probable amount, and wondered when the
thing would find a purchaser. About eleven o’clock on the first day
of its exposure, a middle-aged gentleman, sauntering leisurely up
Wych Street from Booksellers’ Row, stopped in front of Moses’ shop,
and looked for some minutes at the contents of the window. He was a
good-looking man, well dressed in a quiet, unostentatious fashion;
evidently a man of substance and position. He was turning away, when
his eye fell on the great diamond. He looked at it a second, and then
opened the shop-door and walked in. A red-headed boy of distinct
Hebraic extraction was yawning behind the counter. ‘What is the price
of the large diamond in your window?’ asked the solid-looking gentleman.

The red-headed youth didn’t know, but would find out. He disappeared
for a moment, and came back followed by Miss Rachel, who looked
narrowly at the man who dared to ask the price of so large a stone. The
gentleman bowed courteously to Miss Rachel, and repeated his question.

‘Two thousand pounds,’ replied Miss Rachel.

‘Ah! A large price. May I see it?’

Miss Rachel acquiesced, and took the diamond ring from its case in the
window. The stranger looked it carefully over, examined every mark with
a sharp eye, and finally returned it to the old Jewess.

‘I will purchase that ring, madam,’ he said. ‘Be good enough to put it
aside for me until to-morrow morning, when I will call and pay for it. I
have been in search of such a stone for some time.’

Miss Rachel Levi was delighted. So, she was sure, would Mr David Moses
be. She carefully locked up the ring in a big safe, and the stranger
went his way with many bows on either side.

Precisely at eleven o’clock the following morning the customer called.
He was accompanied by a dapper little man, whom Miss Rachel recognised
as one of Mr Attenborough’s principal assistants.

‘Good-morning, madam,’ said the stranger. ‘Here I am, you see, and here
is the price of the ring—two Bank of England notes of one thousand
pounds each. I think that is correct?’

Yes, that was correct; and Miss Rachel unlocked the safe and handed
the ring over to the customer, who had laid his two one-thousand-pound
notes on the counter before her. She placed the notes in the safe,
looking them over with an experienced eye, to see that they were all
right as regarded genuineness. The stranger received his ring, and
turned to the man accompanying him.

‘I brought this gentleman with me,’ he said to Miss Rachel, ‘just to
tell me his opinion of the stone.—Very fine one, is it not, Mr Jones?’
He passed the ring to the man as he spoke, and began to talk to Miss
Rachel about the weather.

The man named Jones looked with attentive eye at the glittering thing
in his hand. He examined the gold setting and seemed satisfied, and
then looked at the enormous stone. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation
which made Miss Rachel and the customer look round sharply. Mr Jones
took a little peculiar-looking glass from his pocket and gazed at the
diamond suspiciously. He said ‘Ah!’ very emphatically, and threw the
ring on the counter.

‘How much did you give, sir?’ he asked of the customer, whose
attention was now thoroughly aroused.

‘Two thousand pounds.’

‘Humph! Worth next to nothing. The gold’s very good; the diamond’s
first-class paste!’

Miss Rachel uttered a faint scream as the customer turned to her. ‘What
explanation can you give of this, madam?’ he asked.

The poor woman was dumb-stricken. She knew not what to say.

‘Where did you get the ring, Miss Levi?’ asked Mr Jones. ‘Perhaps
you’ve been imposed upon.’

‘It was pledged with my brother David,’ said Miss Rachel. ‘O dear me,
gentlemen, I can’t think how it is! It must be an imposition.’

‘Well, at anyrate, _I_ can’t be imposed upon,’ said the stranger. ‘So
I’ll thank you for my notes, madam; and there is your paste ring.—Dear
me, what an escape I’ve had! I’m much obliged to you, Mr Jones, for
your penetration.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Jones, ‘that’s nothing! What puzzles me is that Moses,
who is very sharp, should have been swindled, as he must have been. And
then Miss Levi here is a regular authority on stones.’

By this time poor Rachel had handed over the notes, and was regarding
the false ring with a very disconsolate face. She was thinking what
David would have to say on his return home.

The stranger pressed something in the way of remuneration on Mr Jones
and went away.

Jones stayed a minute or two longer and talked the matter over with
Miss Rachel. It was his idea that old Moses had had a duplicate made
of the big diamond for some purpose of his own, and that he had
substituted the shadow for the substance. He suggested this to Miss
Rachel, who was thereby a little comforted.

But Mr Jones’ suspicion was wrong, as Miss Rachel quickly found on her
brother’s home-coming. She told him the story immediately he appeared,
and the old man went nearly mad. He yelled for the ring to be brought
him. Once in his hands, he literally shrieked with horror. ‘It isn’t
the tiamont at all!’ he cried. ‘Mine was not paste, as this is. It’s
some conjuring trick, woman!’ And he fell to moaning and sobbing as
if his heart would break. But the first fit of rage passed off, Mr
David Moses took a practical step. He called on Mr Jones, and the two
went away together to Scotland Yard; there Jones described the strange
would-be purchaser. The hard-featured ‘chief’ who listened to them
smiled.

‘That anything like him?’ he asked, taking up an album and pointing to
a portrait.

‘The very man!’ cried Mr Jones.

‘Ah!’ said the chief.—‘Well, now, Mr Jones, be particular on one point.
Did you keep your eye on the ring from Miss Levi’s taking it from her
safe till its coming into your hands?’

‘No,’ said Jones; ‘I didn’t. Miss Levi put the notes in the safe, and I
was watching her for a second before the man passed me the ring.’

‘Common trick,’ said the chief—‘changed it for a fac-simile.’

‘But,’ objected Jones, ‘how could he make the fac-simile? The ring had
only been in the window one day.—Had it, Mr Moses?’

‘Only one day, ma tear—only one little day,’ sighed the old Jew. ‘O
tear, O tear me!’

The chief set his lips very hard at this. ‘Are the marks—hall-marks and
so on, just the same?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Moses, ‘and the gold too. It’s only the stone.’

In the end, they went away, and the chief promised to do his best. He
knew the stranger, who was a returned convict and a clever trickster.
The mystery was the fac-simile of the ring. It implied previous
acquaintance of a very intimate type. In about a week Mr Moses received
news: the real ring had been pawned in Manchester for five hundred
pounds, and was now in possession of the Scotland Yard authorities. The
latter had, they said, got a clue to the persons implicated; but they
would say nothing more. When Moses was wanted, they would let him have
word.

A week or two passed on, and one morning Mr David Moses received an
urgent message asking him to go to Scotland Yard. The thieves, or
whatever you would call them, were found. He called on Mr Jones, and
set out with an exultant heart up the Strand.

‘Well,’ said the chief, ‘we’ve got ’em both. There are two of them. One
is the man whose photo I showed you; the other is a young fellow who
won’t give any name. He pawned the ring under the name of Morris.’

Moses thought that rather a coincidence; but he let the thought slip
out of his mind, and smiled pleasantly when two policemen brought
in the well-dressed gentleman who so tricked poor old Rachel. The
_ci-devant_ convict winked in a friendly fashion at Jones.

‘Did it well, eh?’ he said. ‘No good disguising it, I suppose? Reckon
I’ll get a good dose for this.’

‘You’re right there, my friend,’ said the chief.—‘Take him away,
sergeant, and bring the young man in.’

In a minute or two the men returned, leading in a young, loudly dressed
man, who hung his head on his breast. Old Moses turned from examining
a pair of handcuffs hanging on the wall, and discovered the thief of
his cherished diamond to be—his son Solomon! The old man saw it all
in a moment. His white face and chattering teeth showed the chief
that something was wrong. The old Jew strove vainly to speak for a
second or two; then he turned to the chief and stretched out his hands
imploringly.

‘O Mr Inspector,’ he said, ‘it’s a mistake—it’s a terrible mistake, ma
tear Mr Inspector! Don’t say no more about it, and I’ll—I’ll give _you_
the tiamont—yes, O yes! Why, this is ma tear son Solomon!—O Solomon, my
poy, how could you do it?’

‘Your son, eh?’ said the astonished chief. ‘Well, I’m sorry for you,
old man; but the law must take its course.’

‘Oh, don’t say that,’ screamed Moses—‘don’t sir, don’t! I’ll give you
the stone, and a thousand pounds besides! Let him go, sir.’

‘No; I haven’t the power.—Take him away, men.’ And they marched Mr
Solomon off, while poor old David alternately wept and implored and
raved, and beseeched the chief to have mercy on his ‘tear poy.’

       *       *       *       *       *

That night, they found poor David Moses, alias Mr Alfred Morris, dead
in his little sanctum in Wych Street. The doctor said he had died of
a sudden shock to the nervous system. We are of opinion that his son
Solomon had given him a shock which broke his poor old heart.




A NEW ART-GUILD.


An admirable proposal has lately been made at Liverpool for the
formation of an ‘Art-workers’ Guild,’ with the view to the diffusion of
sound principles of decoration, and to the encouragement of workmen and
others desiring to undertake decorative work of all kinds. The general
object would appear to be to find good art-workmen, and to bring them
into communication with those who require their work, and also to form
a collection of good examples of decorative work of various kinds.
Perhaps one of the best results of this sort of effort will be to bring
forward the actual worker himself—the real artist, in fact—and thus get
rid of the middleman or art-tradesman who hires the genuine artist to
do the work, and then stamps it with his (the tradesman’s) own name, as
though the work were actually his own, whilst, in fact, he is merely
the employer of highly trained and perhaps highly talented art-labour—a
system at once as unfair as it is unjust. It has been said that the
ugly patterns in calico-printing seem to sell as readily as the pretty
ones; and one of the objects of the proposed Guild is to try to alter
this—to endeavour to produce a better taste. But teaching a prejudiced
and often ignorant public to improve itself on subtle questions and
nice points of art-excellence is at best a difficult if not a hopeless
task; and if the Guild raises the artist-worker to a better position
and gives him direct employment, it will certainly be conferring a
benefit on a worthy class of men, never yet properly recognised.




A RETROSPECT.


    I waited long;
    My love was strong
      For Cary.
    ‘In spring,’ she said,
    The darling maid,
      ‘We’ll marry.’

    The winter passed;
    Spring came at last
      With showers.
    But what of them,
    When after came
      The flowers!

    Our wedding-day,
    A grand array—
      Bells ringing!
    Blue sky above,
    Hearts full of love,
      Flowers springing.

    My blushing bride
    And I beside
      The altar:
    She looked so nice,
    Although her voice
      Did falter.

    Our honeymoon
    Ran all too soon
      Its measure:
    We roamed at will
    By vale and hill,
      With pleasure.

    And years have flown;
    We’re wiser grown,
      And older;
    But aye the same
    Love’s kindly flame,
      No colder.

    As down we glide,
    Still side by side,
      Life’s river,
    Each opening spring
    New joys will bring
      For ever.

            J. B. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75656 ***