{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_66420/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_66420","id":"gutenberg_66420","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66420","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Journals","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Periodicals"],"text":"[Illustration: CHAMBERS\u2019S JOURNAL\n\nOF\n\nPOPULAR\n\nLITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART\n\nFifth Series\n\nESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832\n\nCONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)\n\nNO. 42.\u2014VOL. I.      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1884.      PRICE 1\u00bd_d._]\n\n\n\n\nUNDER THE ACORNS.\n\nBY RICHARD JEFFERIES.\n\nAUTHOR OF THE \u2018GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,\u2019 ETC.\n\n\nComing along a woodland lane, a small round and glittering object in\nthe brushwood caught my attention. The ground was but just hidden in\nthat part of the wood with a thin growth of brambles, low, and more\nlike creepers than anything else. These scarcely hid the surface, which\nwas brown with the remnants of oak-leaves; there seemed so little\ncover, indeed, that a mouse might have been seen. But at that spot\nsome great spurge-plants hung this way and that, leaning aside, as if\nthe stems were too weak to uphold the heads of dark-green leaves. Thin\ngrasses, perfectly white, bleached by sun and dew, stood in a bunch by\nthe spurge; their seeds had fallen, the last dregs of sap had dried\nwithin them, there was nothing left but the bare stalks. A creeper of\nbramble fenced round one side of the spurge and white grass bunch, and\nbrown leaves were visible on the surface of the ground through the\ninterstices of the spray. It was in the midst of this little thicket\nthat a small, dark, and glittering object caught my attention. I knew\nit was the eye of some creature at once, but, supposing it nothing more\nthan a young rabbit, was passing on, thinking of other matters, when it\noccurred to me, before I could finish the step I had taken, so quick is\nthought, that the eye was not large enough to be that of a rabbit. I\nstopped; the black glittering eye had gone\u2014the creature had lowered its\nneck, but immediately noticing that I was looking in that direction,\nit cautiously raised itself a little, and I saw at once that the eye\nwas the eye of a bird. This I knew first by its size, and next by its\nposition in relation to the head, which was invisible\u2014for had it been\na rabbit or hare, its ears would have projected. The moment after, the\neye itself confirmed this\u2014the nictitating membrane was rapidly drawn\nover it, and as rapidly removed. This membrane is the distinguishing\nmark of a bird\u2019s eye. But what bird? Although I was within two yards,\nI could not even see its head, nothing but the black glittering\neyeball, on which the light of the sun glinted. The sunbeams came over\nmy shoulder straight into the bird\u2019s face.\n\nWithout moving\u2014which I did not wish to do, as it would disturb the\nbird\u2014I could not see its plumage; the bramble spray in front, the\nspurge behind, and the bleached grasses at the side, perfectly\nconcealed it. Only two birds I considered would be likely to squat\nand remain quiescent like this\u2014partridge or pheasant; but I could not\ncontrive to view the least portion of the neck. A moment afterwards\nthe eye came up again, and the bird slightly moved its head, when I\nsaw its beak, and knew it was a pheasant immediately. I then stepped\nforward\u2014almost on the bird\u2014and a young pheasant rose, and flew between\nthe tree-trunks to a deep dry watercourse, where it disappeared under\nsome withering, yellow ferns.\n\nOf course I could easily have solved the problem long before, merely\nby startling the bird; but what would have been the pleasure of\nthat? Any plough-lad could have forced the bird to rise, and would\nhave recognised it as a pheasant; to me, the pleasure consisted in\ndiscovering it under every difficulty. That was woodcraft; to kick the\nbird up would have been simply nothing at all. Now I found why I could\nnot see the pheasant\u2019s neck or body; it was not really concealed, but\nshaded out by the mingled hues of the white grasses, the brown leaves\nof the surface, and the general gray-brown tints. Now it was gone,\nthere was a vacant space\u2014its plumage had filled up that vacant space\nwith hues so similar, that at no farther distance than two yards, I\ndid not recognise it by colour. Had the bird fully carried out its\ninstinct of concealment, and kept its head down as well as its body, I\nshould have passed it. Nor should I have seen its head if it had looked\nthe other way; the eye betrayed its presence. The dark glittering\neye, which the sunlight touched, caught my attention instantly. There\nis nothing like an eye in inanimate nature; no flower, no speck on a\nbough, no gleaming stone wet with dew, nothing, indeed, to which it\ncan be compared. The eye betrayed it; I could not overlook an eye.\nNeither nature nor inherited experience had taught the pheasant to hide\nits eye; the bird not only wished to conceal itself, but to watch my\nmotions, and looking up from its cover, was immediately observed.\n\nAt a turn of the lane there was a great heap of oak \u2018chumps,\u2019 crooked\nlogs, sawn in lengths, and piled together. They were so crooked, it\nwas difficult to find a seat, till I hit on one larger than the rest.\nThe pile of \u2018chunks\u2019 rose half-way up the stem of an oak-tree, and\nformed a wall of wood at my back; the oak-boughs reached over and made\na pleasant shade. The sun was warm enough to render resting in the\nopen air delicious, the wind cool enough to prevent the heat becoming\ntoo great; the pile of timber kept off the draught, so that I could\nstay and listen to the gentle \u2018hush, rush\u2019 of the breeze in the oak\nabove me; \u2018hush\u2019 as it came slowly, \u2018rush\u2019 as it came fast, and a low\nundertone as it nearly ceased. So thick were the haws on a bush of\nthorn opposite, that they tinted the hedge, a red colour among the\nyellowing hawthorn leaves. To this red hue the blackberries that were\nnot ripe, the thick dry red sorrel stalks, a bright canker on a brier,\nalmost as bright as a rose, added their colours. Already the foliage\nof the bushes had been thinned, and it was possible to see through the\nupper parts of the boughs. The sunlight, therefore, not only touched\ntheir outer surfaces, but passed through and lit up the branches\nwithin, and the wild-fruit upon them. Though the sky was clear and\nblue between the clouds, that is, without mist or haze, the sunbeams\nwere coloured the faintest yellow, as they always are on a ripe autumn\nday. This yellow shone back from grass and leaves, from bough and\ntree-trunk, and seemed to stain the ground. It is very pleasant to\nthe eyes, a soft, delicate light, that gives another beauty to the\natmosphere. Some roan cows were wandering down the lane, feeding on\nthe herbage at the side; their colour, too, was lit up by the peculiar\nlight, which gave a singular softness to the large shadows of the trees\nupon the sward. In a meadow by the wood the oaks cast broad shadows on\nthe short velvety sward, not so sharp and definite as those of summer,\nbut tender, and as it were drawn with a loving hand. They were large\nshadows, though it was mid-day\u2014a sign that the sun was no longer at\nhis greatest height, but declining; in July, they would scarcely have\nextended beyond the rim of the boughs; the rays would have dropped\nperpendicularly, now they slanted. Pleasant as it was, there was regret\nin the thought that the summer was going fast. Another sign\u2014the grass\nby the gateway, an acre of it, was brightly yellow with hawkweeds,\nand under these were the last faded brown heads of meadow clover; the\nbrown, the bright yellow disks, the green grass, the tinted sunlight\nfalling upon it, caused a wavering colour that fleeted before the\nglance.\n\nAll things brown, and yellow, and red, are brought out by the autumn\nsun; the brown furrows freshly turned where the stubble was yesterday,\nthe brown bark of trees, the brown fallen leaves, the brown stalks of\nplants; the red haws, the red unripe blackberries, red bryony berries,\nreddish-yellow fungus; yellow hawkweed, yellow ragwort, yellow hazel\nleaves, elms, spots in lime or beech; not a speck of yellow, red, or\nbrown, the yellow sunlight does not find out. And these make autumn,\nwith the caw of rooks, the peculiar autumn caw of laziness and full\nfeeding, the sky blue as March between the great masses of dry cloud\nfloating over, the mist in the distant valleys, the tinkle of traces\nas the plough turns, and the silence of the woodland birds. The lark\ncalls as he rises from the earth, the swallows still wheeling call as\nthey go over, but the woodland birds are mostly still, and the restless\nsparrows gone forth in a cloud to the stubble. Dry clouds, because they\nevidently contain no moisture that will fall as rain here; thick mists,\ncondensed haze only, floating on before the wind. The oaks were not yet\nyellow, their leaves were half green, half brown; Time had begun to\ninvade them, but had not yet indented his full mark.\n\nOf the year there are two most pleasurable seasons: the spring, when\nthe oak-leaves come russet brown on the great oaks; the autumn, when\nthe oak-leaves begin to turn. At the one, I enjoy the summer that is\ncoming; at the other, the summer that is going. At either, there is a\nfreshness in the atmosphere, a colour everywhere, a depth of blue in\nthe sky, a welcome in the woods. The redwings had not yet come; the\nacorns were full, but still green; the greedy rooks longed to see them\nriper. They were very numerous, the oaks covered with them, a crop for\nthe greedy rooks, the greedier pigeons, the pheasants, and the jays.\n\nOne thing I missed\u2014the corn. So quickly was the harvest gathered, that\nthose who delight in the colour of the wheat had no time to enjoy it.\nIf any painter had been looking forward to August to enable him to\npaint the corn, he must have been disappointed. There was no time;\nthe sun came, saw, and conquered, and the sheaves were swept from the\nfield. Before yet the reapers had entered one field of ripe wheat, I\ndid indeed for a brief evening obtain a glimpse of the richness and\nstill beauty of an English harvest. The sun was down, and in the west,\na pearly gray light spread widely, with a little scarlet drawn along\nits lower border. Heavy shadows hung in the foliage of the elms; the\nclover had closed, and the quiet moths had taken the place of the\nhumming bees. Southwards, the full moon, a red-yellow disk, shone over\nthe wheat, which appeared the finest pale amber. A quiver of colour\u2014an\nundulation\u2014seemed to stay in the air, left from the heated day; the\nsunset hues and those of the red-tinted moon fell as it were into the\nremnant of day, and filled the wheat; they were poured into it, so that\nit grew in their colours. Still heavier the shadows deepened in the\nelms; all was silence, save for the sound of the reapers on the other\nside of the hedge, \u2018slash\u2014rustle,\u2019 \u2018slash\u2014rustle,\u2019 and the drowsy night\ncame down as softly as an eyelid.\n\nWhile I sat on the log under the oak, every now and then wasps came\nto the crooked pieces of sawn timber, which had been barked. They did\nnot appear to be biting it\u2014they can easily snip off fragments of the\nhardest oak\u2014they merely alighted and examined it, and went on again.\nLooking at them, I did not notice the lane till something moved, and\ntwo young pheasants ran by along the middle of the track and into the\ncover at the side. The grass at the edge which they pushed through\nclosed behind them, and feeble as it was\u2014grass only\u2014it shut off the\ninterior of the cover as firmly as iron bars. The pheasant is a strong\nlock upon the woods; like one of Chubb\u2019s patent locks, he closes the\nwoods as firmly as an iron safe can be shut. Wherever the pheasant is\nartificially reared, and a great \u2018head\u2019 kept up for battue-shooting,\nthere the woods are sealed. No matter if the wanderer approach with the\nmost harmless of intentions, it is exactly the same as if he were a\nspecies of burglar. The botanist, the painter, the student of nature,\nall are met with the high-barred gate and the threat of law. Of course,\nthe pheasant-lock can be opened by the silver key; still, there is the\nfact, that since pheasants have been bred on so large a scale, half the\nbeautiful woodlands of England have been fastened up. Where there is\nno artificial rearing there is much more freedom; those who love the\nforest can roam at their pleasure, for it is not the fear of damage\nthat locks the gate, but the pheasant. In every sense, the so-called\nsport of battue-shooting is injurious\u2014injurious to the sportsman,\nto the poorer class, to the community. Every true sportsman should\ndiscourage it, and indeed does. I was talking with a thorough sportsman\nrecently, who told me, to my delight, that he never reared birds by\nhand; yet he had a fair supply, and could always give a good day\u2019s\nsport, judged as any reasonable man would judge sport. Nothing must\nenter the domains of the hand-reared pheasant; even the nightingale is\nnot safe. A naturalist has recorded that in a district he visited, the\nnightingales were always shot by the keepers and their eggs smashed,\nbecause the singing of these birds at night disturbed the repose of the\npheasants! They also always stepped on the eggs of the fern-owl, which\nare laid on the ground, and shot the bird if they saw it, for the same\nreason, as it makes a jarring sound at dusk. The fern-owl or goatsucker\nis one of the most harmless of birds\u2014a sort of evening swallow\u2014living\non moths, chafers, and similar night-flying insects. Thus the man in\nvelveteens plays \u2018fantastic tricks\u2019 before high heaven!\n\nContinuing my walk, still under the oaks and green acorns, I wondered\nwhy I did not meet any one. There was a man cutting fern in the wood\u2014a\nlabourer\u2014and another cutting up thistles in a field; but with the\nexception of men actually employed and paid, I did not meet a single\nperson, though the lane I was following is close to several well-to-do\nplaces. I call that a well-to-do place where there are hundreds of\nlarge villas inhabited by wealthy people. It is true that the great\nmajority of persons have to attend to business, even if they enjoy\na good income; still, making every allowance for such a necessity,\nit is singular how few, how very few, seem to appreciate the quiet\nbeauty of this lovely country. Somehow, they do not seem to see it\u2014to\nlook over it; there is no excitement in it, for one thing. They can\nsee a great deal in Paris, but nothing in an English meadow. I have\noften wondered at the rarity of meeting any one in the fields, and\nyet\u2014curious anomaly\u2014if you point out anything, or describe it, the\ninterest exhibited is marked. Every one takes an interest, but no\none goes to see for himself. For instance, since the natural history\ncollection was removed from the British Museum to a separate building\nat South Kensington, it is stated that the visitors to the Museum have\nfallen from an average of twenty-five hundred a day to one thousand;\nthe inference is, that out of every twenty-five, fifteen came to see\nthe natural history cases. Indeed, it is difficult to find a person who\ndoes not take an interest in some department of natural history, and\nyet I scarcely ever meet any one in the fields. You may meet many in\nthe autumn far away in places famous for scenery, but almost none in\nthe meadows at home. On the other hand, if the labouring classes have a\nholiday, they immediately go out into the country.\n\nI stayed by a large pond to look at the shadows of the trees on the\ngreen surface of duckweed. The soft green of the smooth weed received\nthe shadows as if specially prepared to show them to advantage. The\nmore the tree was divided\u2014the more interlaced its branches and less\nladen with foliage, the more it \u2018came out\u2019 on the green surface; each\nslender twig was reproduced, and sometimes even the leaves. From an\noak, brown, and from a lime, orange leaves had fallen, and remained\non the green weed; the flags by the shore were turning brown; a tint\nof yellow was creeping up the rushes, and the great trunk of a fir\nshone reddish brown in the sunlight. There was colour even about the\nstill pool, where the weeds grew so thickly that the moorhens could\nscarcely swim through them. In a recent paper in _Chambers\u2019s Journal_\n(No. 25) I mentioned some of the points of interest that might be found\nabout roofs. Since then, a correspondent has told me that in Wales\nhe found a cottage perfectly roofed with fern\u2014it grew so thickly as\nto conceal the roof. Had a painter put this in a picture, many would\nhave exclaimed: \u2018How fanciful! He must have made it up; it could never\nhave grown like that!\u2019 Not long after receiving my correspondent\u2019s\nkind letter, I chanced to find a roof near London upon which the same\nfern was growing in lines along the tiles. It grew plentifully, but\nwas not in so flourishing a condition as that found in Wales. Painters\nare sometimes accused of calling upon their imagination when they\nare really depicting fact, for the ways of nature vary very much in\ndifferent localities, and that which may seem impossible in one place\nis common enough in another.\n\n\n\n\nBY MEAD AND STREAM.\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\u2014HOW IT WAS DONE.\n\nCoutts was for an instant dumb with surprise and chagrin. That smart\nstroke of business on which he had been priding himself was completely\nspoiled, and all possibility of ingratiating himself with Mr Shield was\nat an end.\n\nWhen the bill was produced by Coutts, Wrentham had become white, and\nhis lips, dry and feverish, closed tightly. When the signatures were\ncalmly acknowledged by Philip and Shield, he gazed at them with a\nbewildered expression, then grasped the back of a chair and pretended\nto be looking through the window at something opposite. Sergeant Dier\ngave a slight jerk of his body as if lifting his heel from the floor.\nHe darted a suspicious glance at his employer and at Wrentham. Then he\nturned to Tuppit and gazed at him with a bland admiring smile. Shield,\nBeecham, Philip, and Tuppit were unmoved.\n\nCoutts took the bill from Tuppit, and after deliberate examination\nreplaced it in his pocket-book.\n\n\u2018I am delighted to find that it is all right, and that it will be\nduly honoured,\u2019 he said; but cool as he was, the acrimony of his tone\ncontradicted the words. \u2018The fact that it is so takes me out of a very\nawkward corner. I must say, however, Mr Shield, that you would have\nsaved yourself and me a great deal of unnecessary trouble and waste of\ntime if you had told me when I first came that the thing was correct.\u2019\n\n\u2018Have a lot of things on my mind. Forget sometimes,\u2019 Shield jerked out\ncarelessly.\n\n\u2018Ah, it\u2019s a misfortune to have a bad memory in business. I trust you\nwill not forget to do justice to the motives which brought me to you.\u2019\n\n\u2018Oh, I\u2019ll do your motives full justice,\u2019 answered Shield with a grunt\nwhich would have developed into a coarse guffaw but for a strong effort\nof self-restraint.\n\nCoutts felt this indignity, although he did not feel the contemptible\nposition in which he was placed, because he still believed that he\nhad perfectly concealed the ulterior objects he had in bringing the\nsupposed forgery directly under Shield\u2019s notice.\n\n\u2018That is all I ask, and I may say good-morning. I hope our next meeting\nwill be on more agreeable business.\u2014Good-day, Phil. I thought you had\ngot yourself into a particularly nasty mess, and was doing my best to\nsave you from the consequences.\u2019\n\n\u2018Thank you,\u2019 said Philip, but there was none of his usual cordiality in\nvoice or look.\n\n\u2018Well, there has been a mistake\u2014somewhere. I suppose it must be put\ndown to me. However, we can afford to let it drop now.\u2019\n\n\u2018Best thing you can do,\u2019 growled Shield.\n\nCoutts paid no attention to the remark.\n\n\u2018You\u2019ll find bad news when you get to your chambers, Phil. There was a\nbonfire at Ringsford last night, and the guv\u2019nor has got hurt.\u2019\n\nPhilip was prevented from questioning him by Mr Shield.\n\n\u2018A word in your wise ear before you go, Mr Coutts Hadleigh. I promised\nthat your motives in coming to me should have justice done them. They\nshall. I know what they were. You have been useful to us, and that will\nbe taken into account.\u2019\n\n\u2018It is a satisfaction to have served you in any way,\u2019 rejoined Coutts,\nunabashed, although he understood the meaning of that parting address,\nand knew that somehow he had overreached himself, which was even more\ndisagreeable than being overreached by others.\n\nHe left the room with as much composure as if he had satisfactorily\ncompleted an ordinary piece of business.\n\nSergeant Dier gave a cheery \u2018Good-day, gentlemen\u2014come along, Mr\nTuppit,\u2019 as he went out. Tuppit had continued to edge his way round\nthe table to where Wrentham stood, and slipped a scrap of paper into\nhis hand. He bowed as if taking leave of an audience, and followed the\ndetective.\n\nA hansom was already at the door, and Coutts was about to get into it;\nbefore doing so he spoke with injudicious abruptness to his agent.\n\n\u2018Arrange with your friend about his expenses, and call at the office\nto-morrow at eleven.\u2019\n\n\u2018Then I am to consider the job finished?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes, of course.\u2019\n\n\u2018Glad of it,\u2019 said Dier, smiling to himself as the cab wheeled away.\n\u2018Come along, Bob, there\u2019s something I want you to show me, and we must\nhave a refreshment.\u2019\n\nAs they were about to move away, a servant informed Dier that he was\nwanted by a gentleman inside, and he was taken back to Mr Beecham.\nFrom him he received instructions which appeared to give him much\nsatisfaction.\n\n\u2018Come along, Bob,\u2019 he said on rejoining that personage; \u2018I am put\non to a decent sort of thing this time. Off with one thing, on with\nanother\u2014that\u2019s the way to do it, my boy.\u2019\n\nHe lit a cigar, and linking his arm in that of his companion, he\nled the way to a small tavern situated in a by-street in convenient\nproximity to the mews. Although the bar was crowded with coachmen and\nostlers, the tap-room was at this time of day little frequented, and at\npresent was unoccupied.\n\n\u2018Ah, this is cosy,\u2019 said Dier, seating himself with his back to the\nwindow. \u2018Now we can have a rest and a chat. Won\u2019t you smoke?\u2019\n\nHe gave Tuppit a cigar, ordered sherry for himself, and beer \u2018in the\npewter\u2019 for his companion. The little conjurer drank as if he had\nbeen parched with thirst. Then he smoked and presently began to feel\ncomfortable. Dier, meanwhile, entertained him with various amusing\nprofessional experiences; ordered more beer, and Bob felt more\ncomfortable. When the sergeant saw him at ease, he approached the\nsubject in which he was interested.\n\n\u2018I was forgetting that trick I wanted you to explain to me, Tuppit.\nWhen I saw it done, it fairly puzzled me, and you know I am up to a few\ntricks of your trade.\u2019\n\n\u2018You\u2019d have been a first-rate hand if you had only taken to it. But\nwhat was it puzzled you?\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, the fellow who was doing it was handed a card, as it might be.\nHe looked at it\u2014gave it back to us, and it wasn\u2019t the same.\u2019\n\n\u2018One of the easiest tricks in the whole art,\u2019 said Bob with\nprofessional contempt for the amateur. \u2018I thought you would have known\nhow _that_ is done.\u2019\n\n\u2018Explain, Bob, explain. We haven\u2019t got cards, but here is a bit of\nnote-paper, and we\u2019ll cut it in two, so that the parts will be exactly\nalike. So. Now this is the one I am to hand to you; this is the one\nyou are to give me back in its place\u2019 (unperceived by Tuppit, Dier\ndeftly pricked the second piece with a pin which he held concealed\nbetween his forefinger and thumb). \u2018There, go ahead; I\u2019ll shut my eyes\nuntil you are ready.\u2019\n\nThe conjurer took the marked paper and almost immediately gave the\nword \u2018ready.\u2019 Dier gave him the second paper, and Tuppit, laughing,\ntalked about the absurd simplicity of the trick, his astonishment that\nhis friend should not know it, refused to believe in his ignorance,\nand gave him back the paper. The detective held it up between him and\nthe light: the pin-pricks were there\u2014the papers had been changed. He\nwhistled softly, smiled, and emitted two clouds of smoke.\n\n\u2018I believe I understand it now,\u2019 he said, nodding familiarly; \u2018that\u2019s\nhow you changed the bills up there.\u2019\n\nTuppit was silent.\n\n\u2018Well, I won\u2019t ask any questions,\u2019 the detective went on; \u2018it is a\nfamily affair and to be settled on the quiet, and if the thing is\ngenuine, it is no business of mine how it comes to be so. But that\nfellow who sent for me first meant mischief, although he fancied he\nhumbugged me with his gammon about not going the entire length.\u2019\n\n\u2018He did mean mischief,\u2019 said Tuppit, huskily.\n\n\u2018He can\u2019t manage it though. Now, what _you_ have got to do is to let\nMr Wrentham understand that if he doesn\u2019t make a clean breast of it by\nto-morrow, I\u2019m down on him, and you won\u2019t have another chance of saving\nhim.\u2019\n\nThis information was given with good humour, but Tuppit was aware of\nthe pleasant way Sergeant Dier had of conducting his business, and,\nhaving unconsciously betrayed himself, understood that further disguise\nwas useless. So, looking uneasily at his pewter pot, he said:\n\n\u2018I suppose you mean that if he gives up everything, he won\u2019t be brought\nto trial.\u2019\n\n\u2018It is not for me to say that. You have had dealings with the people,\nand ought to know what they are likely to do. Of course, if there is no\ncharge, there will be no trial.\u2019\n\nThere was considerable significance in the smile and nod which\naccompanied the words, and it was clear to Tuppit that Sergeant Dier\nwas now in the confidence of Mr Shield and Mr Beecham.\n\n\u2018I have written on a bit of paper that I want him to meet me as soon\nas he can. He knows the place, and if he refuses to make things square\nafter all the mercy that has been shown him, I will have nothing more\nto do with him.\u2019\n\n\u2018That\u2019s right, Bob; and you may give him a hint that if he tries to\nbolt, or to play any pranks with us, he\u2019ll be in limbo in less than no\ntime, and if _I_ am not mistaken, it will mean fifteen years at least.\u2019\n\nBob Tuppit hung his head dejectedly, muttering to himself: \u2018What will\nbecome of the poor kid and the helpless little woman who thinks him\nsuch a pink of perfection.\u2019\n\nThe detective slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.\n\n\u2018Cheer up, Bob; you\u2019re the right sort, and I\u2019ll help you if I can. Off\nwith you to your meeting-place. Wrentham is no fool and will see that\nthe game is up.... But, I say\u2019\u2014detaining him\u2014\u2018you will tell me some\nday how you managed to get the right bit of paper?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes, yes, some day\u2014when no harm can come of it.\u2019\n\nThe anxious and affectionate brother of the swindler got on to the top\nof an omnibus and smoked moodily, his reflections being to this effect:\n\u2018I suppose it\u2019s in our natures. I took to juggling in an honest way,\nand he took to juggling the other way. Ah, education was the ruin of\nhim\u2014Dad said it would be as soon as he saw what a beautiful hand Martin\nwrote. Lucky he\u2019s in his grave; this business would have cut him up\nawful.\u2019\n\nAt Camberwell Green Tuppit left the omnibus and trudged moodily up to\nthe _Masons\u2019 Arms_, a comfortable-looking old-fashioned inn, which\nhad once been a favourite halting-place of travellers between London\nand the village of Dulwich, the town of Croydon, and other places in\nSurrey. It had also been a summer resort of Cockneys in the days when\nthere were meadows and dairy-farms in the neighbourhood of the Green.\nAlthough the fields were now covered with houses forming long yellow\nrows with gaudy gin palaces lifting their heads on the most prominent\nsites, the _Masons\u2019 Arms_ retained most of its ancient characteristics\nand the survivors of its ancient customers.\n\nThe stout white post with its faded swinging signboard, stood boldly\nout at the kerb, having at its base a long horse-trough, with a\nconstant supply of water. The lower part of the building was cased in\nwood which had been painted oak colour and varnished, but the gloss had\nbeen long since rubbed off. The lower windows with their small panes of\nglass stretched from wall to wall, but from top to bottom they measured\nlittle more than three feet. Above was a broad balcony set in a rustic\nframework and railing. A huge earthen flower-pot stood at each end,\nwhile tables and benches were conveniently placed round about.\n\nTuppit did not enter the house; he walked up and down, disconsolately\nwatching every approaching vehicle in expectation of seeing his brother\nalight from it. He had to wait long; but he was a patient little man,\nand the business he had in hand was too grave for him to think of\nquitting his post so long as there was a shred of hope that Wrentham\nwould be wise for once and keep the appointment.\n\nIt was somewhat late in the afternoon when he came walking leisurely\nup from the Green as if he had no reason for haste. Tuppit led the\nway into the inn, nodded to the burly landlord as he passed the bar,\nascended a narrow staircase and entered the room behind the balcony.\n\nWrentham at first affected an air of indifference, but the affectation\nwas instantly laid aside when his brother sharply repeated the\ndetective\u2019s warning and told him that the forged bill was in the hands\nof those who would make prompt use of it if he did not repay their\ngenerosity by a frank revelation of the schemes by which he had ruined\nPhilip Hadleigh.\n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of a little old man who was\nmumbling complainingly that he must and would have his beer and his\npipe before he went home. This was spoken to a modestly dressed young\nwoman who was gently remonstrating with him. The old man shuffled\nacross the floor to a seat. Tuppit opened the door of the balcony\nquickly and went out with his brother. In the dusk they could not\nbe observed from the street. Wrentham had not quite closed the door\nwhen he followed his brother. There was more hurried conversation and\nargument on Tuppit\u2019s part.\n\n\u2018What is it they want me to do?\u2019 asked Wrentham sullenly.\n\n\u2018This is it,\u2019 answered Tuppit eagerly. \u2018The real bill was given to me\nfor your child\u2019s and wife\u2019s sake on the appeal of Mr Philip\u2014Coutts\nHadleigh would have sent you to penal servitude. The first thing you\nhave to do is to let Mr Philip know that your insinuations about Miss\nHeathcote were made for the purpose of distracting his mind from the\nbusiness, so that you might be free to play your own game.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well?\u2019\n\n\u2018The next thing is, that as you have been dealing with firms whose\nclerks have given you invoices for double the amounts you paid them,\nyou have to refund the money.\u2019\n\nWrentham with elbows on his knees rested his brow on his hands.\n\n\u2018I didn\u2019t say anything about Madge Heathcote that wasn\u2019t true.\u2019\n\n\u2018But you hinted a great deal that wasn\u2019t true, and you must own up to\nyour purpose for doing it, or as I live, I shall bear witness against\nyou myself.\u2019\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe young woman and the old man quitted the _Masons\u2019 Arms_. That same\nevening Pansy Culver arrived unexpectedly at Willowmere.\n\n\n\n\nFALSE DAUPHINS.\n\n\nWhether the boy who died in the arms of M. Lasne, and whose body was\nwrapped in a sheet, put into a deal coffin, and buried in the cemetery\nof St-Marguerite, was a poor waif of Paris, or the lad who cleaned\nthe shoes of his jailer\u2019s wife and should have been Louis XVII. of\nFrance, is, judicial judgments notwithstanding, a question never likely\nto be satisfactorily settled. Those who have taken the most pains to\nelucidate the mystery agree to differ in their conclusions; M. de\nBeauchesne being certain that the Dauphin[1] was done to death in the\nTemple; M. Louis Blanc as strongly inclining to the opinion that he\nwas rescued from durance. The wish being father to the thought, many\nroyalists believed that the Prince had escaped his enemies, and would\nsome day claim his own; and pretenders, as a natural consequence, have\nnever been wanting.\n\nThe first of the sham Dauphins appeared in the days of the Consulate,\nin the person of Jean Marie Hervagault, a tailor by trade, who\ncontrived to make some at least among the adherents of the ancient\nmonarchy believe in himself and his pretensions. Notable for her\nenthusiastic espousal of his cause was Madame de Recambour. She lodged\nthe impostor right royally at her mansion at Vitry-la-Fran\u00e7aise, and\ngloried in seeing her husband do a lackey\u2019s duties for her prot\u00e9g\u00e9.\nBalls, concerts, and f\u00eates followed hard upon each other in honour of\n\u2018Mon Prince,\u2019 until Fouch\u00e9 intervened, and the ambitious tailor was\ncondemned to four years\u2019 imprisonment; finding his way, eventually,\nnot to the throne of his supposititious sire, but to the Hospital for\nIncurables at Bic\u00eatre, to die there in 1812.\n\nIn 1817, the _Gentleman\u2019s Magazine_ informed its readers that on the\n17th of September, a young man who called himself Louis XVII. had\nbeen apprehended at Rouen. Some twenty years before, he had presented\nhimself to a lady of La Vend\u00e9e as the orphan child of a noble family\nof the name of Desin. She took him in; but five months later, sent\nhim about his business for some flagrant misconduct; and never saw\nhim again until confronted with him at Rouen. This was Mathurin\nBrunneau, the son of a shoemaker of Vezins, Maine-et-Loire; who, having\nlearned all that Madame Simon knew of the lost Louis, went about the\ncountry proclaiming himself the only lawful king of France, until his\nprofitable peregrinations were stopped by his arrest and that of four\nor five of his deluded friends. In the following February, Brunneau\nwas arraigned at Rouen, and behaved in a most unprincely fashion;\nchallenging the president of the court to fight, and calling that\ndignitary a beast; his many insolent exclamations and observations\nbeing \u2018couched in ungrammatical language and most vulgar terms.\u2019 He\nwas pronounced guilty of vagabondage; of publicly assuming royal\ntitles; of fraudulently obtaining deeds, clothes, and considerable sums\nof money from divers persons; and finally, of insulting the members\nof a public tribunal in the exercise of their functions. For these\noffences, Brunneau was sentenced to pay a fine of three thousand francs\nand three-fourths of the costs of the inquiry, and condemned besides\nto suffer seven years\u2019 imprisonment\u2014two of the seven being given him\nexpressly for outraging the court\u2014his person to be at the disposal of\nthe government when the sentence had expired. \u2018I am none the less what\nI am,\u2019 was the only comment of the cobbler-prince. Of his accomplices,\none only was punished, by being mulcted in a fourth of the costs of the\ntrial and sent to durance for a couple of months. Brunneau served his\nterm, and was then set at liberty, only to die soon afterwards.\n\nWhile Brunneau\u2019s trial was yet in progress, a well-dressed man, of\ntall stature and goodly mien, walked into the Tuileries, followed\nthe servants who were carrying in the king\u2019s dinner, and reached the\ndining-hall before his uninvited presence was discovered. He said he\nwas Charles de Navarre, and insisted upon seeing the king. His desire\nwas not gratified. He was handed over to the police, recognised as the\nmad nephew of an exchange broker, and relegated to Charenton for the\nremainder of his days.\n\nFifteen years later, one Richemont, a baron of his own creation,\nwas found guilty of having, by a resolution concerted and decided\nbetween two or more persons unknown, formed a plan for destroying the\ngovernment and fomenting civil war. For this he was sentenced to a term\nof imprisonment; but his real offence lay in putting himself forward\nas a claimant of the throne, as the legitimate representative of the\nelder branch of the Bourbon family. Richemont managed to get out of\nprison and out of France too. He soon, however, returned to his native\nland, and lived there unmolested long enough to see the second Empire\nestablished. In 1853, he died at the house of the Countess d\u2019Apchier,\nwife of a whilom page at the court of Louis XVI. All the papers he left\nbehind him were seized by the authorities and sealed up. Determined his\nclaims should not be abrogated by death, the pseudo-Dauphin\u2019s friends\ninscribed on his tombstone: \u2018Here lies LOUIS CHARLES DE FRANCE, born\nat Versailles, March 27, 1785. Died at Gleiz\u00e9, August 10, 1853\u2019\u2014an\ninscription erased five years afterwards, by order of M. de Persigny,\nonly to be replaced by the equally assertive one:\n\n                1785.\n    No one will say over my tomb:\n            \u2018Poor LOUIS,\n        How sad was thy fate!\n            Pray for him!\u2019\n\nA gentleman bearing the name of Eleazar Williams died at Hogansburg,\nin the United States, in August 1858, after spending the best portion\nof his life in converting the Indians to Wesleyanism; the fact that\nhe was the long-lost son of Louis XVI. being apparently unknown to\nany but his most intimate friends, until one of them published a book\nto enlighten the world on the matter. From this we learn as follows:\nThat in the year 1795, a French family of the name of De Jourdin came\nto live in Albany, in the state of New York; Madame giving out that\nshe had been a lady-in-waiting to Marie-Antoinette, a statement not\nbelied by her appearance; while Monsieur looked and acted more like\na servant than the husband of Madame, and the father of Mademoiselle\nLouise and Monsieur Louis, as the children of the establishment were\ndesignated. That, some little while afterwards, two Frenchmen appeared\nat Ticonderoga with a sickly and seemingly idiotic boy, who with his\nbelongings\u2014two large boxes, one of which contained a gold, a silver,\nand a copper coronation medal of Louis XVI.\u2014was confided to the charge\nof an Indian chief known as Thomas Williams, to be brought up as one of\nthe family. That, tumbling from a high rock into St George\u2019s Lake, made\nEleazar\u2014as he had been named\u2014as sensible as his red-skinned brothers by\nadoption. That, one day a French gentleman called him _pauvre gar\u00e7on_,\nand gave him a gold-piece. That, going to Long Meadow with one of\nThomas Williams\u2019s sons, to be educated by a Congregational minister,\nsomebody told him he must be of a higher grade of birth than the son of\nan Iroquois chief. That, after he became a missionary, one Colonel de\nFerriere, before leaving Oneida, with several Indians, to visit Paris,\nobtained Eleazar\u2019s signature, thrice over, to a legal document; and\nthat the said colonel returned to America a rich man, and was known to\nbe in correspondence with the royal family of France. Each and every\none of the foregoing statements may be true, and yet Eleazar Williams\nno true prince.\n\nMuch more to the point was Eleazar\u2019s extraordinary story of making\nthe acquaintance of the Prince de Joinville on board a steamer, and\nafterwards, at his request, calling upon him at his hotel; when the\nPrince laid a document in French and English on the table, which the\nmissionary found to be a deed whereby Charles Louis, son of Louis XVI.,\nsolemnly abdicated the throne of France in favour of Louis-Philippe.\nIf he would sign this, the Prince promised to stand godfather to his\ndaughter, take his son to Paris to be educated, provide him with\na princely establishment in France or America, at his choice, and\ntransfer to him all the private property belonging to the supposed\ndefunct Dauphin. Mr Williams was not to be tempted, and his tempter\nreturned to France unsatisfied. Unfortunately, the Prince de Joinville\nemphatically declared the story to be a pure invention; and it remains\nas unsupported as Williams\u2019s other statement, that a gentleman in Baton\nRouge wrote to him in 1848 to inform him that an aged Frenchman had\nupon his deathbed declared that he had assisted in the escape of the\nDauphin from the Temple, and carried him off to North America, where he\nhad been adopted by the Indians, concluding with avowing that Eleazar\nWilliams was the man.\n\nWhile that worthy was labouring at his vocation in the backwoods, a\nPrussian Pole, named Charles William Naundorff, weary of clockmaking,\nwas getting into trouble by calling himself Louis XVII., for which\npiece of presumption a Prussian tribunal sent him to prison for three\nyears. This was in 1822. At the expiration of a year, Naundorff was\nset at liberty, conditionally upon taking up his residence in the\ntown of Crossen. In 1833, however, he appeared in Paris, and applied\nto the Civil Tribunal of the Seine to be recognised as Louis XVII.;\nan application resulting in his speedy expulsion from France, and\nsubsequent retirement to Holland, in which country he died, on the 10th\nof August 1845. The official certificate of his death described him as,\n\u2018Charles Louis Bourbon, Duke of Normandy (Louis XVII.), known under the\nname of Charles William Naundorff, born at the ch\u00e2teau of Versailles,\nin France, March 27, 1785, and consequently more than sixty years old;\nson of his late Majesty Louis XVI., king of France, and of her Imperial\nand Royal Highness Marie-Antoinette, Archduchess of Austria, queen of\nFrance, who both died at Paris; husband of Jane Einert of this town.\u2019\nThose responsible for his burial inscribed on his tomb: \u2018CHARLES LOUIS,\nDuke of Normandy, son of Louis XVI. and Marie-Antoinette of Austria.\u2019\n\nNaundorff left behind him a son, Albert, born in England, and four\nother children; on whose behalf, his widow, Jane Einert, in 1851,\nbrought an action before the Tribunal of the Seine; but despite the\nadvocacy of Jules Favre, failed in prevailing upon that court to\nrecognise their claims.\n\nIn 1863 Albert, the English-born Naundorff, was naturalised as a\nDutchman by a vote of the Dutch Chamber; and in 1874 he appealed\nagainst the adverse decision of the Tribunal of the Seine, in a suit\nagainst the Count de Chambord, demanding that he, Captain Albert\nde Bourbon, of the Dutch army, should be declared the rightful\nrepresentative of the royal Bourbon family. M. Favre again upheld his\npretensions. He contended that the son of Louis XVI. had not died in\nthe Temple. Inspired and paid by the Count de Montmorin and Josephine\nde Beauharnais, certain devoted royalists had drugged the Dauphin,\nplaced him in a basket, and carried him into an upper room, leaving\na lay-figure in his bed. Discovering that their prisoner had been\nspirited away, the government substituted a deaf-and-dumb child in\nhis place, and employed a doctor to poison him; but the apothecary\nadministering an antidote, and so frustrating the plan, a sickly lad\nwas obtained from a hospital, and soon dying, was duly coffined. \u2018The\ncoffin was taken up-stairs, where the Dauphin had passed eight or ten\nmonths; the dead body was taken out and placed in a basket, and the\nliving Louis XVII. put in the coffin. On the way to the cemetery,\nthe Dauphin was slipped out of the coffin, and some bundles of paper\nslipped in.\u2019 The hero of this series of substitutions was then confided\nto the care of some trusty friends, and all the European courts\nnotified of his escape; of which Barras, Hoche, Pichegru, and several\nother public men were also advised.\n\nBy way of supporting this extraordinary story, M. Favre made some\nstrange assertions; namely, that shortly after Bonaparte\u2019s marriage\nwith Josephine, the Dauphin\u2019s coffin was opened in the presence\nof Fouch\u00e9 and Savary, and found to be empty; that Josephine told\nthe secret to the Emperor of Russia in 1814, although the Count de\nProvence\u2014that is to say, Louis XVIII.\u2014tried to buy her silence with a\nmarshal\u2019s baton for her son Eug\u00e8ne; that in the secret treaty of Paris\nthe high contracting powers stated that there was no proof of the death\nof Louis XVII.; and lastly, that Louis XVIII. when dying, directed M.\nTronchet to examine the contents of a certain chest, which proved of\nsuch a nature that, but for the obstinacy of one member of the Council,\nthe ministers would have proclaimed the Duke of Normandy, king of\nFrance. Of course, the Duke of Normandy was the elder Naundorff, whose\nlife had been twice attempted, once at Prague, and once in London; and,\nsaid the advocate, \u2018people do not assassinate impostors, but they do\nassassinate kings.\u2019\n\nCauses are not to be won by bare assertions and smart sayings. The\ncourt pronounced the story of the twofold substitution too fantastic\nto be entertained; the simultaneous residence within the Temple of\nthe child that did die, the child that would not die, and the hidden\nDauphin, too unlikely to be believed; while the evidence before it\nplaced the death of that prince beyond all doubt. The documents\nproduced by the appellant could have been easily forged by any one\nconversant with the events they sought to distort; and as for the\nelder Naundorff\u2019s claims being admitted by many people, that went\nfor nothing, since no sham Dauphin had ever wanted adherents. It is\nneedless to say that Captain Albert de Bourbon was dissatisfied; but\nhe held his peace until the death of the Count de Chambord, when he\npublicly protested against the succession of the Count de Paris, and\nonce more proclaimed himself king of France. Two months afterwards, he\ndied at Breda.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The eldest son of a French king was termed the Dauphin.\n\n\n\n\nONE WOMAN\u2019S HISTORY.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nA pleasant and novel feature of the _Palatine Hotel_ is its wing or\n_annexe_, which consists of a long, low, semi-detached building, in\nwhich are comprised a dozen or more commodious private sitting-rooms.\nEach of these rooms opens by means of a French-window on to a spacious\nveranda, from which two steps lead down to the lawn and the shrubberies\nbeyond. A glass-covered passage lined with shrubs and flowering plants\nleads from the _annexe_ to the hotel proper. One of the largest of\nthese private sitting-rooms had been engaged by our worthy vicar for\nhimself and party.\n\nNot many minutes had elapsed after the departure of Mr Richard\nDulcimer, otherwise Mr Golightly, in search of a quiet nook where he\ncould smoke his pipe without being observed, when Madame De Vigne\nstepped out through the open window on to the veranda, and sat down on\na low wicker chair opposite a tiny work-table. She had rung the bell a\nmoment before leaving the room, and Jules, the waiter, now appeared in\nanswer to the summons.\n\n\u2018Madame rang?\u2019\n\n\u2018I want to know at what hour the next train from Scotland is due at the\nstation.\u2019\n\nJules bowed and retired.\n\nAt this time Mora De Vigne had touched her thirtieth year. She was\ntaller than the ordinary run of women, with a quiet, Juno-like\nstateliness in her every gesture and movement. She had dark-brown hair,\nand large, dark, luminous eyes, that to many people seemed like eyes\nthey had seen somewhere long ago in a picture. Her complexion was still\nas clear and delicate as that of Clarice her sister, who was a dozen\nyears younger; but there were lines of care about her eyes, and a touch\nof melancholy in the curve of her lips. In her expression there was\nsomething which told you instinctively that in years gone by she had\nconfronted trouble and sorrow of no ordinary kind, and that if peace\nand quiet days were her portion now, there was that in the past which\ncould never be forgotten.\n\nJules returned. \u2018The next train from Scotland is due at half-past\nseven, madame.\u2019\n\n\u2018Thank you. That is all.\u2019 She looked at her watch, and then she said to\nherself with a little thrill: \u2018Two hours, and he will be here!\u2019\n\nJules was still lingering, and Madame De Vigne regarded him with a\nlittle surprise.\n\n\u2018Pardon, but madame does not remember me?\u2019 said Jules, addressing her\nin French.\n\n\u2018No; I have no recollection of having ever seen you before I came to\nthis place,\u2019 she answered, after regarding him attentively for a moment\nor two.\n\n\u2018Yet I remembered madame the moment I saw her again.\u2019\n\nShe could not repress a start. \u2018Again! Where and when have you seen me\nbefore?\u2019\n\n\u2018In Paris, during the terrible days of the Commune.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ah!\u2019 was the only answer, with a little air of relief.\n\n\u2018It was my fate, madame, to be shot down in one of the many street\nfights that took place from house to house. I was carried to the\nhospital. The doctors said I should be a dead man in less than a week,\nbut I am alive and here to-day. No thanks to the doctors for that, but\nto you, madame\u2014to you!\u2019\n\n\u2018To me!\u2019\n\n\u2018You were there, madame, at the hospital to which I was taken, nursing\nday and night, like an angel from heaven, among the sick and wounded.\nYou nursed me, madame, ah! so carefully, so tenderly! But for you I\nshould have died.\u2019\n\n\u2018I am very glad to see you again; but I am afraid you make far too much\nof any little service I was able to render you.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, no, madame! Pardon. It was to you I owed my life, not to the\ndoctors. I was but a poor soldier then, I am but a poor gar\u00e7on now; I\nhave nothing, nothing in the world to offer you but my thanks.\u2019\n\n\u2018I am amply repaid by them.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ah, if Jules Decroze could but show his gratitude in some other way!\u2019\n\n\u2018No other way is necessary or possible. Be satisfied to know that your\nthanks will dwell pleasantly in my memory for a long time to come.\u2019\n\nShe rose and held out her hand. Jules took it as if it were the hand of\na queen, bent over it, touched it respectfully with his lips, placed\na hand on his heart, bowed again, then turned and went away without\nanother word. He was only a gar\u00e7on, as he had remarked, but then he was\na Frenchman as well.\n\n\u2018Poor fellow!\u2019 said Madame De Vigne as she resumed her seat and took\nup her embroidery. \u2018It is pleasant to know that there is a little\ngratitude left in the world; only I wish, somehow, that to-day, of all\ndays, he had not spoken to me about a past which I so often pray that\nI might be able to forget. Was it not enough that the writing of that\nletter this morning should cause all my old wounds to bleed afresh,\nshould call up one spectre after another which I would fain chain\ndown for ever in the lowest dungeon of my memory! Yes, the letter is\nwritten which reveals the secret of my life\u2014a secret unknown even to\ndear Clarice. What will he say, what will he do, when he has read it?\nI fear, and yet I hope. If I did not hope a little, I should be one of\nthe most miserable women alive.\u2019\n\nShe rose, opened her sunshade, and stepped down from the veranda on to\nthe lawn. Here she paced slowly to and fro. For the time being she had\nthat part of the grounds to herself.\n\n\u2018Two months ago, he asked me to marry him, and I refused, although\neven then I had learned to love him. But how could I say Yes with that\nterrible secret clinging round me like a shroud? When he was gone, and\nI thought I had lost him for ever, I found out how dear he was to me.\nFive days ago he came again and told me that his feelings were still\nunchanged. My heart refused to say No, and yet I dreaded to say Yes. He\nwent away unanswered. But to-day he is coming back\u2014to-day must decide\nthe happiness or misery of all my life to come.\u2019 She sighed deeply, and\nclosing her sunshade, went slowly back to her seat in the veranda.\n\n\u2018He asks no questions, he seeks to know nothing of my past life. But\nif I were to marry him without telling him, and some day, by some\nstrange chance, he were to learn the truth, would he not say that I\nhad deceived him? Would not his love?\u2014\u2014 No, no; I dare not. Come what\nmay, he must know the truth before it is too late, and then if he\u2014\u2014 O\nHarold, Harold! why have you taught me to love you so deeply!\u2019\n\nHer head drooped forward into her hands. She thought herself unseen;\nbut her sister had entered the sitting-room unheard, and was now\nstanding at the open window, gazing at her.\n\n\u2018Mora dear, what is the matter? what is amiss? are you ill?\u2019 she asked\nas she crossed to her sister. Then drawing up a footstool, she sat down\non it, and took one of Mora\u2019s hands in both hers.\n\n\u2018The matter, dear! Nothing. What should be the matter?\u2019 asked the\nlatter with a fine assumption of indifference, but her under-lip\ntrembled so much that she was fain to bite it.\n\n\u2018That is just what I want to find out,\u2019 answered Clarice. \u2018For the last\nfour days there has been a change in you, that puzzles me and makes me\nunhappy. You scarcely speak, you scarcely eat, you shut yourself up in\nyour room; nothing seems to interest you. Since Colonel Woodruffe was\nhere, you have been a changed woman.\u2019\n\n\u2018Colonel Woodruffe!\u2019\n\n\u2018Ah, Mora dear, you can\u2019t deceive me. Since I began to love Archie, I\nsee many things that I never used to think of before. One thing I see,\nand see plainly, that Colonel Woodruffe is very much in love with my\nsister.\u2019\n\n\u2018Clarice!\u2019\n\n\u2018Oh, I know quite well what I am talking about. I say again that\nhe loves you. And, O Mora, he is so good, so kind, such a _preux\nchevalier_ in every way, that if you could only find in your heart to\nlove him a little in return, it would make me very, very happy!\u2019\n\n\u2018Why should it make you happy, dear?\u2019\n\nClarice, who was still holding one of her sister\u2019s hands, pressed it\nfondly to her cheek, and for a moment or two she did not speak.\n\n\u2018Because\u2014because you know, darling, that when Archie and I are married,\nI may be compelled to leave you,\u2019 she said at last with a little break\nin her voice. \u2018And think how lonely you will be then! But if you and\nColonel Woodruffe were married, I\u2019\u2014\u2014\n\nMadame De Vigne did not let her finish, but turning up the fair young\nface, bent down her own and kissed it.\n\n\u2018Hush! you foolish child; you must not talk in that way,\u2019 she said. \u2018I\nhad to live a lonely life for years while you were away at school, and\nshould it ever become needful, I daresay I could do the same again.\u2019\n\n\u2018It will nearly break my heart if I am compelled to leave you.\u2019\n\n\u2018You must not say that, dear.\u2019\n\n\u2018Do you know, Mora, as I lay awake last night, my thoughts all at once\nwent back to that day, now so many years ago, when poor mamma lay\ndying\u2014when she took your hand and placed it on my head, and said in a\nvoice so faint that we could scarcely hear it: \u201cWhen I am gone, Mora,\nyou must be mother and sister in one to my little Clari.\u201d You were only\na girl yourself at the time, but from that day you devoted yourself to\nme. I lost one mother, only to find another in you!\u2019\n\n\u2018Your love, darling, has repaid me a hundredfold for everything,\u2019\nanswered Mora while her fingers touched the young girl\u2019s hair\ncaressingly.\n\n\u2018Here comes Miss Gaisford,\u2019 cried Clarice, a moment later, as she\nstarted to her feet.\n\n\u2018Why did you stir?\u2019 said the vicar\u2019s sister. \u2018You made such a pretty\npicture as I walked up from the lake, that I should like to have\nsketched you then and there.\u2019 Then turning to Clarice, \u2018Any news yet?\u2019\nshe asked.\n\nThe answer was a doleful shake of the head. \u2018I begin to think there\nnever will be any news again.\u2019\n\n\u2018Oh, but there will. Don\u2019t be in too great a hurry to begin the next\nchapter of your romance; enjoy the present one while it lasts.\u2019\n\nAt this moment, Nanette, Madame De Vigne\u2019s maid, put in an appearance.\n\u2018Tea is served, madame,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u2018The very thing I was longing for,\u2019 remarked Miss Gaisford.\n\nClarice followed Nanette into the room.\n\n\u2018Has Colonel Woodruffe arrived yet?\u2019 asked Miss Gaisford.\n\n\u2018His train is due at seven-thirty.\u2019\n\n\u2018These are trying moments for you, my dear friend.\u2019\n\n\u2018I would not live the last five days over again for\u2014well, not for a\nvery great deal,\u2019 answered Madame De Vigne as she stepped from the\nveranda into the room.\n\n\u2018Here am I, the sister of a quiet country parson,\u2019 remarked Miss\nGaisford to herself as she lingered behind for a moment, \u2018who never had\na love affair of my own, made a confidant in the love affairs of two\nother people! It\u2019s delightful\u2014it\u2019s bewildering\u2014it\u2019s far better than\nany novel. Two plots in real life working themselves out under my very\neyes! My poor stories will seem dreadfully tame after this.\u2019 She smiled\nand shook her curls, and then went in search of a cup of tea.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile this had been going on, a stranger had stepped out of the hotel\nand sauntered across the lawn, and sat down on the seat erstwhile\noccupied by Mr Dulcimer. There was nothing in his appearance calculated\nto draw the special attention of any one to him, and no one seemed\nto bestow more notice on him than they might have done on any other\ncommonplace tourist. He was a tall, thin man, with sandy hair, and a\nreddish, close-cropped beard and moustache. An artist who might have\nscanned his features with a view to painting them, would probably have\nsaid that his eyes were too close together, and that they were deeper\nset in their orbits than is at all common. Their habitual expression,\nwhen he was not talking to any one, seemed to be one of listening\nwatchfulness, as though he were continually expecting some tidings, or\nsome strange event to happen of which he might hear the news at any\nmoment. He was dressed in an ordinary tourist suit, with a large,\nsoft felt hat. He sat down on the bench, crossed his legs, and lit a\ncigarette.\n\nHe went on smoking for a few moments, as if in contemplative enjoyment\nof his cigarette. Then he extracted from his pocket a telegram in\ncipher, which had reached him that morning at a little country\npost-office some fifty miles away. The telegram was headed, \u2018From John\nSmith, London, to Cornelius Santelle, Post-office, Morsby-in-the-Marsh.\u2019\n\nThe stranger proceeded to read the telegram, translating it slowly word\nby word.\n\n\u201cYou will take up your quarters at the _Palatine Hotel_, Windermere, at\nwhich place you will be joined in the course of to-morrow by B. and K.,\nwho will arrive at different times by different trains.\u201d\u2014B. and K. must\nmean Borovski and Koriloff.\u2014\u201cThey will place themselves unreservedly\nat your disposal, their orders being to take the whole of their\ninstructions from you. Meanwhile, you will make all needful inquiries\nas instructed, so that no unnecessary time may be lost. You are fully\naware of the arrangements that are always made in circumstances of a\nsimilar kind.\u201d\u2019\n\nHe folded up the telegram and put it away again. \u2018Well, here I am at\nthe _Palatine Hotel_, and a very pretty place it is, and quiet\u2014oh,\nvery quiet. Perhaps before next week at this time, the good people\u2014and\nthey all look very good\u2014may have something to talk about\u2014something to\nwake them up a little, and stir the torpid current of their lives. Who\nknows?\u2019\n\nAlthough he spoke his thoughts half aloud, as men sometimes get into\nthe habit of doing who have lived much alone, and have been debarred\nby circumstances from that amount of human companionship which is\nneedful for every one\u2019s health of mind, yet any one who might have\nwished to overhear what he was saying, would have had to be in very\nclose proximity to him indeed. It is not impossible that at some\nperiod of his life this man may have undergone a long term of solitary\nconfinement, and that his habit of talking aloud to himself dated its\norigin and growth from that time.\n\nWhether this Mr Santelle was an Englishman or a foreigner was a\nquestion which might well have puzzled many people, especially those\nindividuals whose travels had never extended beyond their own insular\nboundaries. If his English differed by certain fine shades from that\nwhich a cultured Londoner speaks, it was certainly in no point like the\nEnglish of Northumberland or Devon. Mr Santelle spoke with very slight\ntraces of an alien accent; the difference in his case consisted chiefly\nin an almost imperceptible lengthening of some of the vowels, and a\nslightly more emphatic enunciation of certain syllables over which the\nnative tongue glides as if they had no separate existence.\n\nMr Santelle flung away the end of his cigarette and drew a small\nmemorandum book from his pocket. \u2018What was the name of the man I was to\nask for?\u2019 he said as he turned over the leaves of the book.\u2014\u2018Ah, here\nit is. Jules Decroze, waiter at the _Palatine Hotel_. Good.\u2019\n\nHe shut up the book and put it away, and then he turned his head in\nthe direction of the main entrance to the hotel. An open carriage\nwas standing there containing two travellers, who were on the point\nof departure. There too stood Jules the waiter, superintending the\narrangements. \u2018Yonder man looks somewhat like the one I want,\u2019 murmured\nMr Santelle. \u2018We shall soon find out.\u2019\n\nHe sat watching till the carriage which held the travellers drove away.\nThen he held up a finger in readiness to catch the eye of Jules, should\nthe latter look his way. As if unwittingly magnetised, Jules a moment\nor two later turned and looked in the direction of the stranger. Then\nthe finger beckoned him. He crossed the lawn leisurely with his napkin\nthrown over his arm after the manner of his class.\n\n\u2018A votre service, m\u2019sieur,\u2019 he said with a little bow and a smile. He\nseemed instinctively to recognise that the stranger who had summoned\nhim was not an Englishman.\n\n\u2018Oblige me with your name, my friend,\u2019 said Mr Santelle in French.\n\u2018When I require a person, I like to know how to ask for him.\u2019\n\n\u2018My name is Jules Decroze, at monsieur\u2019s service.\u2019\n\n\u2018Once on a time passing under the name of Jean Reboul, and previously\nto that known to the world as Pierre Lebrun.\u2019\n\n\u2018How! monsieur knows\u2019\u2014\u2014 exclaimed the little Frenchman with a gasp.\n\n\u2018Perfectly,\u2019 answered the other impassively. Then he rapidly made\ncertain cabalistic signs with his fingers.\n\nThe face of Jules turned as white as the napkin on his arm.\n\nThen still addressing him in French, the mysterious stranger said in\nhis most impressive tones: \u2018_The right hand of the Czar is frozen._\u2019\n\nTo which, after a moment or two, the blanched lips of Jules framed the\nresponse: \u2018But Signor Sanguinetti lives and is well.\u2019\n\nFor an instant or two the men gazed into each other\u2019s eyes. \u2018It is\nwell,\u2019 said the stranger presently. \u2018We understand each other.\u2019\n\n\u2018Monsieur has something to say to me\u2014some instructions to impart?\u2019 said\nthe other obsequiously, while his knees shook under him.\n\n\u2018I have. Come to my room at midnight, and I will talk with you.\u2019\n\n\u2018I am at the service of monsieur.\u2019\n\n\u2018Till midnight, then.\u2019\n\n\u2018Till midnight.\u2019\n\nWith a low bow, Jules turned and went. Santelle watched him with a grim\nsmile as long as he was visible, then he lit another cigarette, and\nsauntered down the winding path that led from the high ground of the\nhotel to the level of the lake.\n\n\n\n\nORKNEY FOLK-LORE.\n\nLEGEND OF THE DWARFIE STONE.\n\n\nNot the least interesting of arch\u00e6ological remains in the Orkneys is\nthe Dwarfie Stone, which has given rise to much speculation on the part\nof the learned. Situated in a beautiful valley among the hills in the\nisland of Hoy, the stone cannot fail to attract the attention of the\ntraveller, both on account of its size\u2014some twenty-eight by fourteen\nfeet\u2014and its romantic situation. A close inspection of this natural\ncuriosity puts one in possession of the fact, that human ingenuity\nhas been exercised to render what was originally a solid block of\nsandstone, a shelter for man. Whether the implements used were flint or\nsteel, we know not; but certain it is that a chamber has been hollowed\nout of the stone, to which there is access through a doorway and a hole\non the top.\n\nWe have no clue to the name of the architect of this strange dwelling.\nHe probably belonged to a race long since extinct, whose history is\nunwritten; but that the Dwarfie Stone at various periods harboured men,\nwho, either from necessity or a love of solitude, sought there a refuge\n\u2018far from the madding crowd,\u2019 is evidenced by the traditionary tales\nrelated of its several tenants. The following legend embodies the most\npopular of these.\n\nNot even the oldest inhabitant of Hoy could remember when Snorro the\nDwarf took up his abode in the hollow stone in the green valley far\naway among the hills. Indeed, the country-folk had come to regard his\nappearance as coeval with his dwelling. Both were mysterious, and as\nlike as not, the first might have been the originator of the second.\nIt was whispered that Snorro was the son of a _trolld_ (Norwegian\nfairy), hence his more than human longevity; but that his mother was of\nmortal mould. From her he inherited certain characteristics peculiar to\nhumanity; these were\u2014ambition and vanity; the former being gratified by\nthe obsequious attitude assumed by all who approached him; the latter,\nby the frequent contemplation of his face in a small steel mirror\nwhich he wore round his neck; for Snorro, though short of stature and\ndistorted of form, possessed a countenance of singular beauty, and\nwhich had hitherto defied the ravages of time.\n\nHis days were spent in the gathering of simples, from which he\ndistilled medicines; and the study of a huge tome inscribed with\nancient runes; Odin\u2019s book, the country-folk called it, crossing\nthemselves as they mentioned the great enchanter\u2019s name. But though\nseemingly intent on the prosecution of his calling as a vendor of drugs\nand philters, the Dwarf\u2019s main object in seeking an asylum in such a\nremote place, was its proximity to the Wart Hill of Hoy, where he had\nreason to believe the magic carbuncle was to be found. The properties\nof this famed gem were various. Health, wealth, and happiness, every\ngood thing that heart could desire, became the possession of the holder\nof the talisman. He had but to wish, and on the instant, that which he\ncoveted was within his grasp. Only at stated times and seasons, and\nunder certain conditions, did the carbuncle show itself, changeful of\nhue as the rainbow, and seemingly as difficult of access. Many had\nrisked life and limb to obtain it, but hitherto unsuccessfully; for\nlike the _ignis fatuus_, it eluded all pursuit.\n\nThe Dwarf alone cherished the hope of acquiring the gem, being content\nin the meantime to earn his livelihood by the sale of medicines and\nlove-potions. His constant companion and assistant in all his pursuits\nwas a gray-headed raven. This bird of ill-omen was as much feared\nas his master, who exercised unlimited control over the islanders,\nsettling their disputes, ordering their households, but altogether\nbehaving in a manner more calculated to earn their dislike than win\ntheir confidence.\n\nOrkney was at this period (1120 A.D.) governed by two earls, Paul and\nHarold. They were half-brothers, and totally dissimilar in appearance\nand character. Paul, the elder\u2014surnamed the Silent on account of his\ntaciturnity\u2014was tall and handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed, excelled\nin all knightly exercises, and charmed both his equals and inferiors by\nhis gentle, affable manners. Harold, the younger, was, on the contrary,\nas fluent of speech as his brother was taciturn; and his admiring\nsubjects had therefore bestowed upon him the title of the \u2018Orator.\u2019 He\nwas fair-haired and blue-eyed; but though a well-looking man enough,\nhe possessed neither the gallant bearing nor the winning manner of his\nelder brother. Truth to say, Harold was quick-tempered and quarrelsome,\nbrooking no control, and jealous to a degree of Paul, who was loved\nby all classes. This unamiable sentiment on the part of the younger\nbrother, produced a coldness between the earls which time rather\nincreased than diminished.\n\nIn the summer of 1120, Harold visited Scotland, where he had large\nestates, returning to Orkney in the autumn, carrying with him the\nCountess Helga, his mother; Fraukirk, her sister, a widow; and many\nother distinguished guests, conspicuous amongst whom was the beautiful\nLady Morna, daughter of an Irish earl. This fair lady, whom he had\nmet at the court of the Scottish king, had taken the Orator\u2019s heart\nby storm. That she received his homage with marked coldness, only\nincreased his ardour; and fearful of a rival coming between him and the\nprize he had set his heart on winning, the young earl had, after much\npersuasion, induced the noble Irish maiden to visit his court, where\nhe feared no rival. But in this he reckoned falsely; for ere many days\nhad passed, it was plainly to be seen that Earl Paul and the lovely\nstranger were mutually attracted, and he who had formerly avoided the\nsociety of the gentler sex, now devoted all his time and attention to\nhis brother\u2019s beautiful guest.\n\nHarold was furious at this unexpected blow to his hopes, and having\nencountered his rival one day, alone and unarmed, he drew upon him,\ndeclaring if he did not relinquish then and there all pretensions to\nthe lady\u2019s hand, he should run him through the body. Undismayed at the\nthreat, Paul answered firmly, that he declined to forfeit his chance\nof winning Morna, though that chance appeared small when compared with\nhis brother\u2019s\u2014he whose persuasive speech was so much more acceptable\nto women than his own deplorable taciturnity. Mollified by the Silent\nearl\u2019s modest opinion of himself, the jealous lover sheathed his sword,\nand grasping his brother\u2019s hand, begged pardon for his petulance, which\nbeing readily granted, the rivals parted friends.\n\nThe court of the earls was at this time held in the ancient town of\nKirkwall; but as Yule-tide drew near, Paul took his departure to\nhis palace in Orphir, distant some nine miles, to prepare for the\nreception of his brother and his guests at the approaching feast of\nthe Nativity. Before leaving Kirkwall, however, he sought an interview\nwith Morna, which resulted in a mutual confession of their love; the\nlady avowing, that never until she beheld her present lover had she\nrealised her ideal of a perfect knight; while he, kissing her many\ntimes, declared that until his eyes rested on her fair face, he had\nnever known what it was to love. When he spoke, however, of informing\nhis brother and stepmother of their betrothal, Morna begged him to\ndefer doing so till Christmas-day. She should then be under her lover\u2019s\nprotection, and the sanctity of the feast might have some effect in\nrestraining any outburst of temper on the part of Harold. Paul agreed\nto this, and shortly after went to Orphir. But the lovers\u2019 conversation\nhad been overheard by the widow Fraukirk, who played the part of\neavesdropper on this occasion to confirm a suspicion she had long\nentertained of their attachment. This Fraukirk was a handsome woman,\nof middle age, fascinating in manner, but crafty and unscrupulous,\nsticking at nothing to further her own interests or those of her\nfavourites. She loved Harold, and hated his half-brother with a bitter\nhatred. He was more popular than her darling nephew; moreover, he\nkept him from being sole earl of Orkney; and now he had stolen away\nthe heart of the Lady Morna. Bent on avenging Harold\u2019s wrongs, she\nhastened to her sister the Countess Helga, and communicated the result\nof the lovers\u2019 meeting. Then these two women, devoid alike of pity\nand remorse, resolved upon the death of the man who stood between\ntheir favourite and the lady of his choice. No suspicion must attach\nto Harold. They meant to work for him, without apprising him of their\ninfamous plans; and having arranged as far as possible the details of\nthe plot, they parted.\n\nThat very night Fraukirk started for the village of Stromness on her\nway to the Dwarfie Stone, with the intention of consulting Snorro on\nthe best means of compassing Earl Paul\u2019s death. Crossing the sound next\nday to Hoy, she travelled alone and in disguise to the dwelling of the\nDwarf, who received her joyfully; for she was an old friend and kindred\nspirit. But when she disclosed the object of her visit, he at first\nflatly refused to aid her. She knew, he said, that he only occupied his\npresent abode on sufferance; and in the event of the discovery of his\nparticipation in any plot against Earl Paul\u2019s life, he would certainly\nbe driven to seek another asylum, in which case he should lose all\nchance of securing the magic carbuncle. His visitor, however, was equal\nto the task of winning him over. She bribed higher and higher, until\nat last he was dazzled by her offers of money and rank. He should\nbe her private secretary, have leave to come and go as he listed,\nand she doubted not but she might be able to procure high preferment\nfor him at the Scottish court. The Dwarf\u2019s ambition was stirred, and\nwithout further demur he promised his assistance. He could weave a\npiece of cloth, he said, of unrivalled beauty, which when fashioned\ninto a garment would cause the wearer\u2019s death in a few minutes; and he\nproposed providing his visitor with just such a piece to be made into\na vest for Earl Paul. Fraukirk declared herself perfectly satisfied\nby this proposal, and the confederates parted with the understanding,\nthat the fatal web should be placed in the lady\u2019s hands shortly before\nChristmas-day.\n\nDuring his wicked aunt\u2019s absence, Harold made offer of his heart and\nhand to Morna, pleading his cause with eloquence and passion. But when\nmet by a refusal, he burst into a great rage, anathematised himself and\nthe object of his affection, rushed from her presence, flung himself\non his horse, and galloped madly away. Two hours\u2019 hard riding brought\nhim to the village of Stromness, where he drew rein; and his eyes\nresting on the snow-capped hills of Hoy, he suddenly recollected that\namong those very hills dwelt a Dwarf famous for the sale of philters.\nResolving to visit the wizard, and procure from him a love-potion to\nbe administered to Morna, Harold set sail for Hoy, actually passing\nthe craft containing his aunt, who was on her return journey. But\nFraukirk\u2019s disguise defied detection, and all unconscious of her\nproximity, her nephew pursued his course. Arrived at Hoy, the Orator\nlost no time in seeking out Snorro, whom he found outside the Dwarfie\nStone gazing intently at the setting sun. At his visitor\u2019s approach he\nlooked up and saluted him gravely.\n\nIn few words the earl acquainted the wizard with the object of his\nvisit, offering him at the same time a handful of gold pieces. The\ndwarf eyed the young man scrutinisingly, remarking as he took the gold:\n\u2018Blind must the maiden be, Sir Earl, who needs aught to fix her fancy\non so gallant a knight.\u2019\n\nHis visitor laughed harshly. \u2018A woman\u2019s fancy is harder to catch than a\nsunbeam,\u2019 he said. \u2018But hark ye, wizard! time and tide wait for no man.\nThe philter I must have and instantly.\u2019\n\nWithout a word, Snorro entered his dwelling. Returning almost\nimmediately, he placed a tiny phial in the Orator\u2019s hand, saying: \u2018Pour\nthe contents of this into the lady\u2019s wine-cup, and ere twelve hours\npass her love for you will exceed yours for her.\u2019 And waving his hand\nin token of dismissal, the Dwarf disappeared into his comfortless abode.\n\nSome days elapsed after Harold\u2019s return to Kirkwall before an\nopportunity presented itself to make use of the philter. But one night\nat supper, having secured Morna\u2019s cup, he dropped the potion into\nit, and filling up the cup with wine, sent it to her. His movements,\nhowever, had not escaped her notice, and suspecting treachery, she\ncontrived, while affecting to drink the wine, to spill it on the floor.\nNext morning, fearing some further attempt to entangle her, she treated\nher would-be lover so graciously that he doubted not but what the\npotion had had the desired effect.\n\nA week later, the court removed to Earl Paul\u2019s palace at Orphir. We can\npicture the joyful meeting of the lovers; the uneasiness of Harold,\nwhose jealousy was again aroused; and the revengeful thoughts of\nFraukirk and Helga as they waited for the fatal web. It came at length,\nborne by the Dwarf\u2019s raven, and the two women, rejoicing in their evil\nwork, proceeded to cut out the vest with which they hoped to effect the\ndestruction of Earl Paul. The gift was to be presented on Christmas\nEve. On the morning of that day, when they were engaged in putting the\nlast stitches into the garment, their bower-door opened, and Harold\nentered in a very ill-humour. He had lost faith in the philter; for\nsince her return to the society of his brother, the Lady Morna had\ntreated him but coldly; and he had come to his mother and aunt to rail\nat his rival.\n\nEspying the vest, resplendent in its gold and silver tissue, he asked\nFraukirk if she meant it for him. \u2018Nay, my son,\u2019 said his mother; \u2018\u2019tis\na Christmas gift for thy brother Paul.\u2019\n\nThen Harold fell into a mighty fury. Everything was given to Paul, he\ncried; but this vest he should not have, and he tore it out of the\nwretched women\u2019s hands. Fraukirk and Helga threw themselves at his\nfeet, crying out that there was death in the vest, and imploring him\nnot to wear it. But he thrust them aside, assumed the coveted garment,\nand strode from the bower. Suddenly an appalling shriek was heard,\nand the inhabitants of the palace rushing simultaneously into the\ngreat hall, found Earl Harold writhing in mortal agony, and vainly\nendeavouring to tear off the vest, which only clung the more closely.\nHis mother and aunt approached, but he repulsed them savagely; then\nturning to his brother who held him in his arms, told him to beware of\nthem, and even as he spoke his spirit passed away.\n\nWhen Paul learned the cause of his death, he swore to be avenged on the\nmurderers. Fraukirk and Helga, however, warned of their danger, fled\naway into Scotland, where they had great possessions. Their death was\na miserable one\u2014they were burnt alive in their castle by a marauding\nviking.\n\nThe fate of Snorro is wrapt in mystery. When Earl Paul went to seek\nhim, he found the Dwarfie Stone untenanted, nor was there any clue to\nthe hiding-place of the recluse. It was suspected, however, that he had\nfollowed Fraukirk to Scotland, to claim that bad woman\u2019s protection.\nBut the country-people had another tale to tell. They declared that the\n_trollds_ had spirited the Dwarf away on account of his evil deeds. Be\nthat as it may, he was no more seen in Orkney, and with him disappeared\nall hope of acquiring the magic carbuncle.\n\nBalked of his vengeance, Paul returned to Orphir, and soon after\nhis luckless brother\u2019s funeral, Morna and he were married. That\ntheir happiness was lasting is testified by the saying, \u2018As happy as\nEarl Paul and Countess Morna,\u2019 which was current in Orkney for many\nsucceeding generations.\n\n\n\n\nHUMOROUS DEFINITIONS.\n\n\nA witty, humorous, or satirical definition cannot be universally\nacceptable, since it usually hurts somebody\u2019s susceptibilities. No\nman or woman delighting in a burst across country at the heels of the\nhounds, but would think it rank heresy to hold with Pope that hunting\nis nothing better than pursuing with earnestness and hazard something\nnot worth the catching; and the novelist who says \u00e6stheticism means,\n\u2018none of the old conventionalities, no religion, very little faith,\nhardly any charity, and nearly all sunflowers,\u2019 has few admirers, we\nmay be sure, among the worshippers of bilious hues and graceless\ngarments. Ladies ambitious of platform popularity would indignantly\ndeny the truth of Whately\u2019s \u2018Woman is a creature that cannot reason,\nand pokes the fire from the top;\u2019 and how angrily your golden-haired\ngirl graduate would curl her pretty lips at hearing a young lady\ndefined as a creature that ceases to kiss gentlemen at twelve, and\nbegins again at twenty. Her agreeing or disagreeing regarding matrimony\nbeing justly described as a tiresome book with a very fine preface,\nwould depend upon whether she had private reasons inclining her to\nventure upon Heine\u2019s \u2018high sea for which no compass has yet been found.\u2019\n\nThe gentlemen who instruct the British public respecting the merits\nand demerits of authors, artists, and actors, cannot be expected to\nown Lord Beaconsfield right in saying, \u2018Critics are the men who have\nfailed in literature and art.\u2019 The newspaper writer who pronounced\na journalist to be a man who spent the best years of his life in\nconferring reputations upon others, and getting none himself, would\nprobably demur at that by which he lives being described as \u2018groundless\nreports of things at a distance;\u2019 and if an American, he would loudly\nexclaim against the _Autocrat of the Breakfast-table_ defining\n\u2018interviewers\u2019 as \u2018creatures who invade every public man\u2019s privacy,\nlisten at every keyhole, tamper with every guardian of secrets;\npurveyors to the insatiable appetite of a public which must have a\nslain reputation to devour with its breakfast, as the monster of\nantiquity called regularly for his tribute of a spotless virgin.\u2019\n\nThe witness who enlightened judge and jury by explaining that a bear\nwas a person who sold what he had not got; and a bull, a man who bought\nwhat he could not pay for, thought he said a smart thing; but he had\nbeen partly anticipated by Bailey, who in his Dictionary tells us that\nto \u2018sell a bear\u2019 means among stock-jobbers to sell what one hath not.\nThe worthy lexicographer lays it down that a definition is \u2018a short and\nplain description of the meaning of a word, or the essential attributes\nof a thing,\u2019 but does not always contrive to attain to his own ideal.\nFor example, we do not learn much about the essential attributes of\nthings when told that bread is the staff of life; a bench, a seat to\nsit upon; a cart, a cart to carry anything in; that thunder is a noise\nwell known to persons not deaf; dreaming, an act well known; that\nelves are scarecrows to frighten children; and birch, \u2018well known to\nschoolmasters.\u2019 He defines a wheelbarrow as a barrow with one wheel,\nand informs us that a barrow is a wheelbarrow. Some of his definitions\nare instructive enough, as showing how words have departed from their\noriginal signification. Thus we find that in his time a balloon meant\na football; defalcation, merely a deduction or abating in accounts;\nfactory, a place beyond seas where the factors of merchants resided\nfor the conveniency of trade; farrago, a mixture of several sorts of\ngrain; novelist, a newsmonger; saucer, a little dish to hold sauce;\npolitician, a statesman; and \u2018the people,\u2019 the whole body of persons\nwho live in a country, instead of just that part of them happening to\nbe of one mind with the individual using that noun of multitude.\n\nPhilosophers are rarely masters of the art of definition, their\nefforts that way, as often as not, tending to bewilder rather than\nenlighten. What a clear notion of \u2018common-sense\u2019 does one of these\nafford us by describing it as \u2018the immediate or instinctive response\nthat is given in psychological language, by the automatic action of\nthe mind; or in other words, by the reflex action of the brain, to any\nquestion which can be answered by such a direct appeal to self-evident\ntruth.\u2019 Still better or worse is the definition of the mysterious\nprocess called \u2018evolution\u2019 as a change from an indefinite incoherent\nhomogeneity to a definite coherent heterogeneity, through continuous\ndifferentiations and integrations; which an eminent mathematician has\nthus rendered for the benefit of English-speaking folk: \u2018Evolution is a\nchange from a no-howish untalkaboutable all-likeness to a some-howish\nand in-general talkaboutable not-at-all likeness, by continuous\nsomethingelseifications and sticktogetherations.\u2019 Putting this and that\ntogether, he who does not comprehend exactly what evolution is must be\nas obtuse as the playgoer who sitting out a play does not know he is\nwitnessing \u2018a congeries of delineations and scenes co-ordinary into a\nvivid and harmonious picture of the genuine features of life.\u2019\n\nImpromptu definitions have often the merit of being amusing, whatever\nmay be said as to their correctness. \u2018What on earth can that mean?\u2019\nasked Hicks of Thackeray, pointing to the inscription over a doorway,\n\u2018Mutual Loan Office.\u2019 \u2018I don\u2019t know,\u2019 answered the novelist, \u2018unless it\nmeans that two men who have nothing, agree to lend it to one another.\u2019\nSaid Lord Wellesley to Plunket: \u2018One of my aides-de-camp has written\na personal narrative of his travels; pray, what is your definition of\n\u201cpersonal?\u201d\u2019 \u2018Well, my lord,\u2019 was Plunket\u2019s reply, \u2018we lawyers always\nconsider personal as opposed to real;\u2019 an explanation as suggestive\nas that of the London magistrate who interpreted a \u2018housekeeper\u2019 as\nmeaning \u2018a sort of a wife.\u2019 \u2018Pray, my lord,\u2019 queried a gentleman of a\njudge, \u2018what is the difference between common law and equity?\u2019 \u2018Very\nlittle in the end,\u2019 responded his lordship: \u2018at common law you are\ndone for at once; in equity, you are not so easily disposed of. The\nformer is a bullet which is instantaneously and charmingly effective;\nthe latter, an angler\u2019s hook, which plays with the victim before\nit kills him. Common law is prussic acid; equity is laudanum.\u2019 An\nAmerican contemplating setting a lawsuit going, his solicitor said he\nwould undertake the matter for a contingent fee. Meeting Mr Burleigh\nsoon afterwards, the would-be litigant asked that gentleman what a\ncontingent fee might be. \u2018A contingent fee,\u2019 quoth Mr Burleigh, \u2018is\nthis\u2014if the lawyer loses the case, _he_ gets nothing; if he wins it,\n_you_ get nothing.\u2019 \u2018Then I don\u2019t get anything, win or lose?\u2019 said his\nquestioner. \u2018Well,\u2019 was the consolatory rejoinder, \u2018that\u2019s about the\nsize of a contingent fee.\u2019 So Brough was not very much out in defining\na lawyer as a learned gentleman who rescues your estate from your\nenemies and keeps it himself.\n\n\u2018What is a nobleman\u2019s chaplain?\u2019 inquired a legal luminary, perhaps\nover-fond of professing ignorance, \u2018A nobleman\u2019s chaplain, my lord,\u2019\nsaid Dr Phillimore, \u2018is a spiritual luxury.\u2019 It is astonishing how\ninnocent gentlemen learned in the law are, by their own account.\nAddressing a matronly witness in a breach of promise case, counsel for\nthe defence said: \u2018I am an old bachelor, and do not understand such\nthings. What _is_ courtship?\u2019 \u2018Looking at each other, taking hold of\none another\u2019s hands, and all that kind of thing,\u2019 was the comprehensive\nanswer.\n\nAn Ohio school-committee must have been puzzled to decide which of two\ncandidates for a school-marmship was the better fitted for the post,\nthe young woman who averred that \u2018respiration\u2019 was the perspiring\nof the body, or her rival, who believed \u2018emphasis\u2019 was the putting\nmore distress on one word than another; definitions worthy of a place\nbeside those achieved by the English medical student responsible for:\n\u2018Hypothesis, something that happens to a man after death;\u2019 and \u2018Irony,\na substance found in mineral wells, which is carefully preserved in\nbottles, and sold by chemists as tincture of iron.\u2019 All abroad, too,\nwas the intelligent New York \u2018health-officer,\u2019 who, having testified\nthat his district was afflicted with highjinnicks, being pressed as to\nwhat he understood \u2018hygienics\u2019 to mean, answered: \u2018A bad smell arising\nfrom dirty water.\u2019\n\nAt one of Sheridan\u2019s dinner-parties, the conversation turned upon\nthe difficulty of satisfactorily defining \u2018wit.\u2019 Forgetting that he\nwas expected to hear, see, but say nothing, Master Tom informed the\ncompany: \u2018Wit is that which sparkles and cuts.\u2019 \u2018Very good, Tom,\u2019 said\nhis father. \u2018Then, as you have sparkled, you can cut!\u2019 and poor Tom\nhad to leave his dinner unfinished. Probably a worse fate awaited the\nBrooklyn boy, who, called upon to explain the meaning of \u2018Quaker,\u2019\nwrote: \u2018A Quaker is one of a sect who never quarrel, never get into a\nfight, never claw each other, and never jaw back. Pa\u2019s a Quaker; but ma\nisn\u2019t!\u2019 The youngsters sometimes hit upon very quaint definitions, such\nas: Ice, water that stayed out in the cold and went to sleep; dust,\nmud with the juice squeezed out; fan, a thing to brush warm off with;\nsob, when a fellow doesn\u2019t want to cry and it bursts out of itself;\nwakefulness, eyes all the time coming unbuttoned; chaos, a great pile\nof nothing and no place to put it in.\n\nWhen the French Academicians were busy with their famous Dictionary,\nthe members of the committee were at odds as to defining _de suite_\nand _tout de suite_. Bois-Robert suggested that they should adjourn to\na restaurant and discuss some oysters and the question together. On\narriving there, Bois-Robert asked the attendant to open _de suite_ six\ndozen oysters, and Courart chimed in with: \u2018And serve them to us _tout\nde suite_.\u2019 \u2018But, gentlemen,\u2019 said the woman, \u2018how can I open your\noysters _de suite_ and serve them _tout de suite_?\u2019 \u2018Easily enough,\u2019\nanswered one of the party; \u2018open six dozen oysters _de suite_\u2014that is,\none after another\u2014and serve them _tout de suite_, that is, as soon as\nyou have opened them.\u2019 His definition of the two phrases was adopted\nby acclamation. There is nothing like practical illustration to bring\nhome the meaning of things. Puzzled by hearing a deal of talk about\ncontracting and expanding the currency, an American lass asked her\nsweetheart: \u2018What is the difference, John, between contraction and\nexpansion, and how do circumstances affect them?\u2019 John was quite equal\nto the occasion. \u2018Well, dear,\u2019 said he, \u2018when we are alone we both sit\non one chair, don\u2019t we?\u2019 \u2018Yes.\u2019\u2014\u2018That\u2019s contraction. But when we hear\nyour pa or ma coming, we get on two chairs, don\u2019t we?\u2019 \u2018I should say we\ndid.\u2019\u2014\u2018Well, my love, that\u2019s expansion, and you see it\u2019s according to\ncircumstances.\u2019\u2014\u2018John,\u2019 said the satisfied maiden, \u2018we\u2019re contracting\nnow, ain\u2019t we?\u2019\u2014\u2018You\u2019re right!\u2019 said John; and then was performed an\noperation which a great mathematician defined as consisting \u2018in the\napproach of two curves which have the same bend as far as the points of\ncontact.\u2019\n\n\n\n\nA NEW FUEL.\n\n\nAn experiment as carried on by the contractors for the Forth Bridge\nat their works near South Queensferry, to determine whether crude\nshale oil can be advantageously employed as a substitute for coal in\nfeeding boiler furnaces, possesses no slight interest; for should the\nnew material fulfil the expectations of its introducers, the method\ncannot fail to be extensively adopted in the numberless manufacturing\narts, where a heating agent combining efficiency and economy with\ncleanliness, is a desideratum. The general principles of the method\nadopted and the apparatus employed will be readily understood, when it\nis borne in mind that the process depends on the perfect combustion\nof crude shale oil, vapourised in connection with superheated steam\nand atmospheric air. The apparatus consists mainly of a cylindrical\ncast-iron retort, around which two pipes are coiled spirally, one\nexternally, the other internally, meeting each other in a burner\nbeneath the retort. Through the external pipe oil is forced by\nhydraulic pressure; through the internal pipe water is similarly driven.\n\nTo start the apparatus, the retort must first be heated, which may be\nreadily effected by a small coal fire. The water valve is then slightly\nopened, and the water, after traversing the pipe coiled internally\naround the retort, issues at the burner beneath\u2014a powerful jet of\nsuperheated steam. The oil is then similarly admitted through its pipe,\nnamely, that coiled externally around the retort, and vapourised, or\nnearly so, by the heat, reaches the burner below. Here it is caught\nby the superheated steam, and hurled against the convex bottom of the\nretort, the force of the impact breaking up into finely divided vapour\nany portion of the oil which the heat may not have already converted\ninto gas. In a short time the retort and tubes become red hot, chemical\naction is set up, and perfect combustion of the steam, the carbon from\nthe oil, and atmospheric air, drawn in by the partial vacuum formed,\nensues. The perfect combustion and intense heat generated consumes all\nthe products, and leaves little or no residue requiring removal. The\nabsence of ashes or other refuse necessitating constant attendance\nand cleaning; and the almost entire exemption from smoke, due to the\ncompleteness of combustion, are amongst the advantages claimed by the\ninventors of the apparatus.\n\nWith reference to the economy of the process, it may be added that\ncrude shale oil is almost a waste substance, for that used during the\nrecent experiments was the residue left in the process of obtaining\nthe oil of commerce by distillation from the shale. In appearance the\ncrude shale oil resembles butter, and so viscid is it, that a match,\ncinder, or even a red-hot poker fails to ignite it. Even in those\nlocalities where the cheapness of coal would equalise the cost of the\ntwo substances, it is yet claimed for the shale oil, that economy\nresults from the comparatively little labour required in connection\nwith its employment; an immense gain is moreover made in space for\nstoring purposes; whilst a saving is effected by the decreased amount\nof work expended in keeping the furnace and machinery clean, heat with\ncleanliness being a marked characteristic of this method.\n\nOther advantages may be briefly enumerated: Reduced bulk and weight\nas compared with coal, by which a saving correspondingly great is\neffected in carriage, often a considerable factor in the cost of the\nlatter material. Economy resulting from the instantaneous extinction\nof the fire, whenever the day\u2019s work is completed; whilst the facility\nwith which the fire can be started, and the readiness with which the\napparatus can be attached to furnaces at present consuming coal, are\npowerful arguments in favour of this new fuel.\n\nIt is estimated that if given quantities of crude shale oil and coal\nbe taken, equal to each other as regards heat-giving efficiency, the\nformer will occupy less than one-fifth the bulk of the latter. So\ngreat a reduction in space set aside for fuel, would, in our large\nocean-going steamers, whose coal forms upwards of one-third of their\ntonnage, mean an enormous addition to cargo room, and consequently\nto earning power. \u2018Of seventy stokers to handle two hundred tons per\nday, and put out the ashes, sixty may be left at home. Instead of\ntwo thousand tons of dead-weight in coal, the steamer may carry four\nhundred. In carrying and consuming large quantities of coal, the matter\nof ballast is a serious consideration. A hydrocarbon liquid, carried in\nseveral tanks, would be expelled therefrom to the furnaces by pumping\nwater into the tanks, the ballast remaining nearly the same.\u2019 There\ncan be no question that such fuel is eminently suited to fast-sailing\ncruisers, which may be required to remain at sea for lengthened\nperiods, without touching at port.\n\nIn conclusion, it will readily be perceived from the foregoing brief\ndescription of the method of employing crude shale oil as a fuel, how\nconsiderable are the advantages therefrom accruing; how important is\nthe attempt\u2014the first it is stated that has been made in Scotland\u2014to\nutilise a substance hitherto regarded as little beyond a waste product.\n\n\n\n\nDO SNAKES EVER COMMIT SUICIDE?\n\n\nA correspondence as to whether snakes, when irritated or tormented to\nexasperation, will strike themselves with their own fangs and so commit\nsuicide, has been going on for some weeks in _Nature_. The following\nstriking story is given by an Indian correspondent, as an incident\nwhich he once witnessed:\n\n\u2018I was quite small,\u2019 he writes, \u2018but my memory of the strange\noccurrence is very clear and distinct. It was in the state of Illinois,\nwhen at that early day a short, thick variety of rattlesnake was very\nnumerous, so much so, that the state acquired an unenviable reputation\nin the older parts of the Union. Farmers in \u201cbreaking prairie,\u201d as\nthe first ploughing of the prairie sod was called, would kill them\nby dozens in the course of a single summer. They were very venomous;\nbut, owing to their sluggish nature and their rattle, which was always\nsounded before an attack, few persons were bitten by them. Moreover,\nthere was little danger of death if proper remedies were applied at\nonce.\n\n\u2018I was one day following one of the large breaking-ploughs common at\nthat time. It was drawn by five or six yoke of oxen, and there were\ntwo men to manage the plough and the team. As we were going along,\none of the men discovered a rattlesnake, as I remember about twelve\nor fourteen inches in length. They rarely exceeded eighteen or twenty\ninches, so that this one was probably about two-thirds grown. The man\nwho first saw it was about to kill it, when the other proposed to see\nif it could be made to bite itself, which it was commonly reported\nthe rattlesnake would do if angered and prevented from escaping.\nAccordingly, they poked the snake over into the ploughed ground, and\nthen began teasing it with their long whips. Escape was impossible, and\nthe snake soon became frantic at its ineffectual attempts either to\ninjure its assailants or to get away from them. At last it turned upon\nitself and struck its fangs into its own body, about the middle. The\npoison seemed to take effect instantly. The fangs were not withdrawn\nat all; and if not perfectly dead within less than five minutes, it\nat least showed no signs of life. That it should die so quickly will\nnot seem strange if it is borne in mind that the same bite would have\nkilled a full-grown man in a few hours\u2019 time. The men watched it long\nenough to be sure that it would not be likely to move away, and then\nwent on with their work. I trudged around with them for an hour or\nmore, and every time we came where the snake was, I stopped and looked\nat it; but it never moved again. In this case, I do not remember that\nthe snake had been injured at all. I have often heard of rattlesnakes\nbiting themselves under such circumstances; but this was the only case\nthat ever came under my observation.\u2014W. R. MANLEY.\u2019\n\n\n\n\nA STORY THAT NEVER GROWS OLD.\n\n\n    A youth and a maiden low-talking,\n      He eager; she, shrinking and shy;\n    A blush on her face as she listens,\n      And yet a soft tear in her eye.\n\n    Oh! sweet bloomed the red damask roses,\n      And sweet sang the thrush on the spray,\n    And bright was the glamour of sunshine\n      That made the world fair on that day.\n\n    But oh! not so sweet the red roses,\n      So sweet the bird\u2019s song from above,\n    So bright the gold glamour of sunshine,\n      As was the sweet glamour of love\n\n    That fell on that pair in the garden,\n      As \u2019mid the fair flowers they strolled;\n    And there, as \u2019twas first told in Eden,\n      Again was Love\u2019s tender tale told.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPrinted and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,\nand 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_All Rights Reserved._","title":"Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 42, Vol. I, October 18, 1884","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":17027}