SOUTHAMPTON STREET 4 OFFICES AN• ILtUSTRRTED-MONTHLY. m THE STRHBD MHGfimBE £fln Illustrated JJonthly EDITED BY GEORGE NEWN.ES Vol. XVIII. JULY TO DECEMBER Xottbon : GEORGE NEWNES, LTD., 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, & 12, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER STREET, STRAND 3S99 “JUMP FOR YOUR LIFE!” {See page 16.) The Strand Magazine. Vol. xviii. JULY, 1899. No. 103. Stories of the Sanctuary Club. I 3 y L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato. INTRODUCTION. AM a man of day-dreams, and a doctor by profession. It was my lot when about forty years of age to inherit a large fortune, and I immediately set to work putting a design which had long occupied my mind into execution. I resolved to leave the thorny and struggling path, where I had often felt myself in my brother practitioners’ way, and, buying a large site of ground in the vicinity of Hampstead, proceeded to build upon it a goodly mansion. When the house was completed and the grounds laid out to the best advantage I took possession, and now unfolded my scheme to a brother doctor whom I had long respected and loved. He and I agreed to go into partnership, and, with the aid of some of our younger brothers of the medical profession, to open what we were pleased to call the Sanc¬ tuary Club. This was in the spring of 1890. The rules of the club were as follows : It was to be opened to men and women of all ages and classes who chose to fulfil the necessary conditions. These were an en¬ trance fee of ^50, a yearly subscription of ;£io, and the still more important fact that the person, man or woman, who intended to become a member, was the victim of disease in one of its many forms. The primary object of the club was to cure maladies that were in any way curable without sending the patients from England. This great institution, of which I had dreamed so long, was for the treatment of all sorts of disease on a hitherto unattempted scale. Here my friend Chetwynd and I could put into execution the boldest and most recent theories that other medical men, either from lack of means or courage, could not carry out. One of the chief features of the place was to be a special department where the latest and most up-to-date scientific theories could be realized, one in especial Vol. xviii.—1. being an attempt at the production of artificial climates. I had often been struck by the pertinacity with which my brother doctors had ordered patients to seek health resorts, either at home or abroad, when they were far too weak to travel. Thus some patients were sent to the sea, others to the neighbourhood of pine forests, others to high altitudes in order to enjoy the benefits of mountain air; others again to warm, others to cold or dry, climates. At the Sanctuary Club we had, by virtue of our modern scientific knowledge, the means of producing such conditions artificially. Heat, cold, humidity, dryness, even barometric pres¬ sure, or any other required constituent of the air, were mere matters of mechanical or chemical detail. Mineral waters of the exact composition of those at the springs of home or Continental spas could be reproduced in our laboratory. Every appliance that science or art could suggest for the alleviation of suffering humanity would be worked by an efficient and well-qualified staff. This had been my dream for years, and now, with the aid of my friend Henry Chetwynd, it was about to be realized. From the first our scheme proved attractive to those unfortunate members of the community who, suffering as they were, were only too keen to try a new thing. Our club opened with a hundred members, and before a year had expired we had nearly three hundred resident patients in the house. Those members of the Sanctuary Club who only suffered from slight maladies could come occasionally for consultation, and at any time enjoy the benefit of our large reading and refreshment rooms, and our carefully- laid-out and luxurious grounds. But it was the indoor members, those who lived under our roof, who excited my keenest, strongest, and most life-long interest. Strange cases came to my knowledge, 4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . stories of the most thrilling and absorbing interest fell to my lot to listen to and sympathize with. There were cases, and not a few, when it was my privilege and also my bounden duty to act not only as doctor but as personal friend. From time to time my brother doctor and I had to face adven¬ tures the most thrilling and dangers of so hair-breadth a character, that even now my pulse quickens when I think of them. The following stories relate some of our most vivid experiences :— I. THE DEATH CHAIR. ADY HELEN TREVOR was one of the earliest members of the club. She was a beautiful and distinguished-looking young woman of about thirty years of age. She herself belonged to the noble house of Hampton, but she had married a commoner of apparently colossal wealth. She was the Earl of Hampton’s only daughter, but she had several brothers, and also two children of her own. The good things of life seemed to have fallen abundantly to her share — beauty, riches, and the devoted love of an excellent husband—but nevertheless she was a victim. She suffered from an extraordinary kind of nervousness, which, without ever approaching the border¬ land of the insane, caused her sleepless nights and days of apprehension and misery. When the first prospectus of the Sanctuary Club reached her, she eagerly availed herself of this chance of cure, and was speedily installed in the most comfortable suite of rooms in the house. Lady Helen was too courteous and kind-hearted to inflict her own sufferings on others ; she was full of tact and sympathy, and soon became a vast favourite in the house. She could sing beautifully, could lead the games, make dull people bright and sad people merry, and in particular attracted the attention of another member of the club, a certain Senor Don Santos, who had also come to the Sanctuary seeking health and cure. Don Santos lived in a large mansion called Roe House in the neighbourhood of Wimbledon Common, and was said to be not only very rich, but was also known to possess one of the finest private collections of art treasures in England. Don Santos and Lady Helen soon became great friends -they had many tastes in common, and used to spend hours talking about those gems of art, those priceless possessions, which, handed down from father to son, are the heirlooms of many families. Don Santos, however, had not the same power of dissimulating his misery as Lady Helen had—Chetwynd believed him to be suffering from incipient insanity, and there were times when his moody eye and fierce and yet abstracted manner seemed abundantly to carry out this suggestion. “ I do not like the man,” said Chetwynd; “he is either insane or he is a devil in¬ carnate. I wish Lady Helen were not so friendly with him.” “You have taken a prejudice, Chetwynd,” I said, looking at my friend. Chetwynd gave me one of his quick glances. His was a curious personality, and it is impossible to continue these stories STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB . 5 without saying a few words about him. He was a little man, with a slightly deformed body, a plain face, and large head. But he had that sparkle and depth of meaning in his clear, golden brown eyes which often seem to be an accompaniment of physical deformity. It was in his power to express volumes by a single glance, and I often observed that he had more power over his patients than I ever hoped to possess. He was a man of few words, but his devotion to duty was unflinching and his indifference to danger almost stoical. There was little doubt that he was deeply imbued with the principles of some fine philosophy or faith. Also beneath his sphinx-like gravity there lurked a vein of rich humour, which made him, when he chose to exert himself, the best of companions. Now, as he spoke of Don Santos he rose and paced up and down his room. “ I am sorry that the man has taken a liking to Lady Helen Trevor,” he said, “ but I am still more disturbed at his friendship for my own special protege, John Ingram.” “ Ah ! you are devoted to Ingram ; you almost spoil the lad,” I could not help saying. “No one could spoil one so simple- minded,” answered my brother physician; “ he is one of the best fellows I know, and his devotion to his mother is beyond all praise.” “ What of his health ? ” I said. “ He is deriving benefit from our treat¬ ment,” said Chetwynd, in a cheerful voice. “The paroxysms of neuralgic agony are much less frequent than of old—he will quite recover if he stays here long enough.” “ By the way,” I said, after a moment’s pause, “ you paid his entrance fee here, did you not ? ” “ What if I did ? ” was the somewhat vague answer. Just then the step of a patient was heard in the corridor, and I could not pursue the subject further. That evening Lady Helen Trevor and Senor Don Santos had an eager conversation over an old casket, called the Catalini Casket, which had been for years in the Hampton family, and which Don Santos honestly said he would give the world to possess. Ingram joined in the talk, and I also was interested by the lady’s description of the matchless casket, made of an enormous onyx stone, and richly incrusted with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. A few days later these three members of the club took their departure, all sounding its praises and promising to visit it again. Lady Helen returned to her husband and children; Senor Don Santos to resume the control of his magnificent museum ; and John Ingram, who was a commission agent in the City, to his usual employment. The Sanctuary Club was opened in the early spring of 1890, and it was in the late autumn of that same year that I next saw Ingram. One afternoon, between five and six o’clock, he burst unceremoniously into my consulting-room. “ You must forgive me,” he cried. “ Chet¬ wynd is out, or I would have seen him, but I cannot rest until I confide in someone, and you will tell Chetwynd, I know. The most splendid luck has fallen in my way. I can scarcely believe in my own good fortune.” “ Sit down, Ingram,” I said. “ Why, how excited you look ; what can have happened ? ” “ You know that we are poor, Dr. Cato, and that but for Chetwynd’s generosity I could never have afforded to join the club. What don’t I owe to the Sanctuary Club— not only my recovery to health, but also the acquaintanceship of” — he hesitated and dropped his voice—“ of those who will make my fortune. But there, I am under a promise not to mention names. Chetwynd may have told you how my mother looks to me for support—it is one of my day-dreams to have her to live with me. Well, I am in a fair way to have that day-dream realized. I am just about to receive a commission— 5 per cent, on ^7,000. That means ^350, all earned in one day. Think of that for a novice ! ” “ But how have you done it ? ” I asked. “Ah ! that I cannot explain—I am bound to secrecy, but what I tell you is true. I will call again to-morrow, and if you like, will show' you the cheque. Yes, I am a made man, for other commissions will doubtless follow from the same source. But I cannot stay another instant. Tell Chetwynd, and wish me luck, Dr. Cato.” I did so heartily—I liked the bright-eyed, happy-looking young fellow, and could not but rejoice in his unlooked-for prosperity. When Chetwynd returned I mentioned Ingram’s visit. To my astonishment the little doctor looked grave and disturbed. “ I wish I had been at home,” he said. “I don’t like this a bit. Of course, it means-” “ What ? ” I interrupted. “ The Spaniard has a finger in this pie—I don’t like it, Cato.” 6 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “Now, what do you mean ? ” I asked. “ Sehor Don* Santos was far too friendly with Ingram when they were both here. I distrust the man thoroughly. There is no doubt that on some points he is insane—he is also unscrupulous, and to attain his ends would stop at nothing.” “ Oh! you are over-suspicious,” was my answer. “ There is no use in labelling any man scoundrel until he has proved himself one, and what the Spaniard has to do with Ingram beats my comprehension.” “ Why, Paul, are you blind ? Who else would give Ingram a commission of that magnitude ? Doubtless, when he left here, he was going to Wimbledon. I don’t like it at all; what is more, I have a good mind to follow him.” To this remark I made no reply. I knew that in certain moods my friend Chetwynd would brook no interference. If he chose to follow Ingram on a wild-goose chase, it was his own affair. I thought little more of the circumstance during that evening, being much engaged with some anxious cases. Little did I guess the next news which was to reach me. About ten o’clock the follow¬ ing morning Chetwynd burst into my room. CHETWYND BURST INTO MY ROOM," His face was white, and his big, queer-looking eyes were shining with a curious expression. He spoke very quietly, however. “ 1 was right in my conjectures,” he said, and he dropped into a chair. “ What do you mean ? ” 1 cried. “ Ingram is dead.” “What?” 1 answered, springing to my feet. “ Yes—he was found dead this morning on Wimbledon Common. The following are the details.” Chetwynd spoke in an almost monotonous voice, but I knew with what an effort he was keeping himself under control. “ You remember my words of last night ? When I went to bed I could not sleep. Each moment I felt more fearful and uncom¬ fortable. Finally I resolved to go to Wimbledon as soon as the day broke. I cycled over, and went in the direction of the Spaniard’s place, Roe House. When I got within three hundred yards of the house I saw a crowd collected. I went up to them. They were clustered round John Ingram’s dead body. The poor fellow had been found by one of the rangers. He was lying about three hundred yards from one of the main roads, beside a clump of gorse bushes. The man gave the alarm, and the police, when they arrived, said that he must have wandered or been decoyed off the road and murdered. But the point which astonishes and horri¬ fies everyone is the merciless and brutal character of the murder. The assail¬ ant must have been possessed of super¬ human strength, for Ingram had evidently been hurled to the ground with the utmost violence. Indeed, his injuries were so extensive and his fractures so numerous, that it seems almost impos¬ sible that the murder was the work of any one human being. Another strange thing is that there are no marks round the spot STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB. 7 to give evidence of a struggle. It is all most horrible. I cannot understand it.” “ Do you still hold to your queer opinions with regard to Don Santos ? ” I asked, when I could find my voice. “ I do and I don’t. The whole thing is inexplicable : unless he threw the poor fellow from a balloon, I have not the slightest idea how he killed him. Well, Ingram is dead past recall. I pity his poor mother. I wish to God I had gone to Wimbledon last night.” I started up. “ I will go to Wimbledon myself,” I said. “ I cannot rest until I know more.” Chetwynd said nothing to dissuade me—he looked queer and unlike himself. I took the next train to town, and arrived at the scene of the murder in the course of the morn¬ ing. Poor Ingram’s body had been re¬ moved, in preparation for the coroner’s in¬ quest, to the nearest inn. I was admitted to see him, and heard the opinions of many experts who had been called in. One and all denied that the murder was the work of a human being, though they frankly admitted that they could offer no suggestion as an alternative argument. I personally could give no information except a report of Ingram’s last words to me on the previous day. Suddenly it flashed through my mind that I would call upon Senor Don Santos and tell him the whole story. He had been interested in Ingram. If Chetwynd’s surmise was right, he had something to do with the large commission which the poor fellow was to earn. Roe Plouse was situated on the edge of the Common. The house itself was large and built in the modern style. It was surrounded by private grounds, and there were thick trees growing up almost to the front door. I rang the bell. It was answered immedi¬ ately by a demure-looking, elderly servant in livery. In reply to my query he told me that his master was within, and invited me to enter. I was shown into a lofty dining-room sumptuously furnished. I was in no mood, however, to notice the antique oak and rare vases of old Sevres and Chelsea porcelain which decorated the walls. The Spaniard entered. He held out his hand with a pleasant greeting. “ ft is kind of you to call, Dr. Cato,” he said. “ I’m pleased to see you.” “ I have come,” I answered, “ not only to see you, senor, but to acquaint you with a painful affair.” “ What is that ? ” he asked. “You remember Ingram—that nice young fellow who you were so kind to when stay¬ ing at the Sanctuary in the spring ? ” “ I remember him perfectly.” “ I have just seen his dead body.” Don Santos started, and his swarthy face turned pale. “ Ingram dead ? ” he cried, after a pause ; “that accounts. But I am interrupting you, Dr. Cato ; when and how did he die ? ” “ He was found this morning three hundred yards from your gate, injured almost past recognition, dead, foully murdered.” Don Santos was quite silent for a moment; then he said, slowly :— “And you have called here because you thought this news would interest me ? ” “ I called for a double reason,” I replied. “ First, because your friendship for the poor fellow entitled you to know of his death, and partly because I hoped that you might be able to throw light on a ghastly occurrence.” “ I did not murder him, if that is what you mean,” answered Don Santos. “ If I thought that I should scarcely have asked to see you,” was my reply. He laughed. “ My dear fellow, forgive an unseemly joke. The fact, is, your news has unnerved me. Unfortunately, I can throw what will be a very lurid light on this affair. But tell me first—have you seen Ingram lately?” “ I saw him last evening. He came to bring Chetwynd and myself an excellent piece of news. A friend, whose name he would not divulge, had given him a magnifi¬ cent commission—he was nearly beside him¬ self with joy.” “ He would not give you the name of his friend ? ” “ No.” “ I can supply it. I am the person. Two days ago I learned, through a mere accident, that the celebrated pearl necklace in the borsyth collection was to be sold yesterday at Christie’s. As I did not wish to appear in the matter, I commissioned Ingram to buy it for me, giving him power to bid as high as ^7,000. I had a telegram from him yesterday, which I can show you, saying that he had secured the necklace for my figure, and would bring it to me in the course of the evening. I waited up for him until past midnight; he did not appear, and I went to bed.” “ Then you never received the necklace ? ” “ No.” “This is most important. Of course, the poor fellow was robbed and murdered, for there was nothing of value on his person. 8 ti-je strand magazine. I I THEN YOU NEVER RECEIVED THE NECKLACE?" The coroner is probably now at the Sign of the Dragon ; will you come with me ? ” “ Willingly,” answered Don Santos. He put on his hat and accompanied me. His evidence was given quietly. It, of course, supplied a motive for the murder; but how the deed was accomplished, how the mur¬ derers got away, and where the celebrated necklace now was, remained wrapped in mystery. Time went on and nothing transpired to throw light upon the occurrence. Everything conceivable was done, the most unlikely clues followed up, but the police had at last to confess that they were nonplussed. One afternoon, towards the end of the following May, I was walking in my grounds when I was attracted by the arrival of a cab just outside the principal entrance. A tall lady, in deep mourning, but rather shabbily dressed, got out and walked up the drive. She paused when she saw me, hesitated, and then raising her eyes, said :— “ Am I addressing Dr. Paul Cato ? ” “ That is my name,” I answered; “ is there anything I can do for you ? ” “ I am Mrs. Ingram,” was her reply. “ You knew my son and were kind to him. May I speak to you in private for a few moments ? ” “ Certainly,” I said, much in¬ terest coming into my voice. I took the lady immediately into my private study. Closing the door, I asked her to seat herself. “ I knew your son well,” I remarked, “and took a deep in¬ terest in him. His death has caused me the greatest pain.” She raised her hand to interrupt my words. “I beg of you to allude as little as possible to personal feelings in this matter,” she said. “ It is with an effort I can keep my grief under control, and I do not mean --I am determined not—to give way.” Her face changed from red to white as she spoke and her lips trembled. After a moment, how¬ ever, she spoke very quietly. “I want to talk business with you—do you understand ? ” “Perfectly,” I said. “It is my intention to trace this murder to its source. I have come here for the purpose. I would have seen you before, Dr. Cato, but after the shock of my son’s death I was ill. A blank surrounds that dreadful time-—I had fever and, luckily for myself, was unconscious. I have now recovered, and have one object left in life. I mean to bring the man who deprived my boy of his young existence to the gallows.” “ My hand on it, madam,” I could not help saying—“ your wish is mine.” “ Thank you,” she answered. A sudden fire filled her dark eyes, the colour rushed into her cheeks. “ If that object can be effected I shall die happy,” she continued. “ Now may I ask you one or two questions ? ” “ As many as you please.” “ Will you give me, quietly and impartially, an exact account of the murder—the appearance of the body when it was found, where it was found, and everything else?” I complied—I told the mother of the murdered man the whole sad history. She would not allow me to shirk anything, nor did I try to. When I had done she said :— “ My son knew Senor Don Santos. The senor lives on Wimbledon Common. Plis house is called Roe House. My son wrote to me constantly about him : the Spaniard STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB . 9 had evidently attracted him to a remarkable degree. How far from the spot where the body was found is the residence of Don Santos ? ” “The body was found about three hundred yards from Roe House,” was my reply. “Ah,” she said, “I thought as much. Has no one seen Don Santos in connection with the murder ? ” “ I visited him immediately afterwards. He told me that he had commissioned your son to buy him a valuable necklace. He expected your son to visit him on the evening when the murder was committed in order to hand him over the necklace, when your son was to receive his commission, a sum amounting to ^350. Ingram never reached Roe House, and beyond doubt the murderer absconded with the necklace.” “So that is Don Santos’s story,” replied Mrs. Ingram, very slowly. “ Will you listen to me ? I have every reason to believe—nay more, I am certain of the fact—that my son did visit Senor Don Santos on the evening of the day on which he was murdered, and did hand him over the necklace. I have more than one reason for the very firm opinion which I have formed. In the first place, Don Santos is not a man of honour.” “ Now, what can you mean ? ” I said. “ He commissioned my son to purchase a valuable necklace, telling him that he might bid as high as ,£7,000 for it. My son was to bring him the necklace, and on receipt of it he was to be paid £7,000 and his own commission of 5 per cent. My son, reck¬ less with joy at the thought of securing so large a sum, had borrowed the £7,000 from a dealer in order to go to Christie’s to pay for the necklace. On my son’s murder, this dealer, Robertson by name, applied to Don Santos to restore the money, declaring that the order was practically his, and that he ought to make good the loss. Don Santos absolutely declined to pay one penny.” “ And how has the debt been met ? ” I asked. “ By me, Dr. Cato. All I possess in the world of ready capital has been raised to clear my son’s honour. I have paid Mr. Robertson to the last farthing. I have now nothing in the world to live on but a small annuity which I inherited from my husband of £50 a year.” I felt my heart beat high with indignation. There was nothing to say, however, and the widow proceeded:— “ My other reason for believing that there Vol. xviii.—2 has been foul play is on account of a dream, a curious and very vivid dream which I had.” “ Indeed,” I said, gravely. I naturally did not believe in dreams, but the face of the woman opposite to me, in its intense and tragic earnestness, forbade a smile. “ I can guess something of your thought, Dr. Cato,” she continued, “but there are dreams which have elements of truth in them. Let me tell you mine. On the night when my boy was murdered, I dreamt that he visited Don Santos at Roe House, that he gave the Spaniard the pearl necklace, and sat with him for a time on the wide veranda of his house.” “ I did not know the house had a veranda! ” I exclaimed. “In my dream I saw a veranda with great distinctness. It was on the second floor. This veranda was inclosed by a stone balus¬ trade, and there w T ere several deck chairs about and some small, round tables. My son and Don Santos sat there together that night and smoked. My dream was so vivid that I could almost hear what they were saying, and I noticed the expression on the Spaniard’s face. I tell you, Dr. Cato, it was diabolical. I would have seen you before on the subject of my dream but for my queer illness. That dream was not sent to me for nothing.” “Go on,” I said, “what followed? You say you heard Don Santos speak and you saw his face. What came next ? ” “Nothing,” she replied; “a great black¬ ness fell over me—I no longer saw the figures on the veranda. I awoke struggling for breath and screaming. I do not know any more.” “ Then owing to your dream you are under the impression that Don Santos is connected with the murder ? ” “ He is at the bottom of the whole thing,” she replied. I sat silent for a few moments, Mrs. Ingram facing me. Her eyes, with that look of absolute confidence in them, were uncanny; the firm conviction of her words could not but impress me. Chetwynd would doubtless have shared her suspicions, but I could scarcely give credence to her story. Because a woman dreamt a ghastly dream, was a person, to all appearance innocent, to be accused of crime ? Nevertheless, Don Santos must be a scoundrel not to have made some effort to replace the £7,000 which Ingram had borrowed to purchase the necklace. “ What can I do for you ? ” I said, after a pause. “This,” she replied, instantly—“I want 10 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . you to go and see the Spaniard. I cannot go myself, for the moment he saw me he would be on his guard. Pay him a friendly visit, and find out if there is such a veranda to the house as I have just described. Get him to talk about my son : watch him closely. If you will do this for me, it is all I ask. He does not suspect you; will you go, and at once?” “ I have not the slightest objection to visiting Don Santos,” I said, after a pause, “and if it will relieve your mind I will call upon him.” “ Then, go now, this afternoon—there is no time to lose.” Her wild words impelled me. I had nothing special to do, and started off for Wimbledon within the hour. I was admitted to Don Santos’s presence. He received me quietly and with his usual courtesy. “ I am delighted to see you, Dr. Cato,” he said. “ I was just writing to you.” “ What about ? ” I asked. “ I want to pay a visit to the Sanctuary next week. I am not well; some of my old painful symptoms have reappeared. Chet- wynd had a soothing influence over me—his treatment served me marvellously. Can you take me in next week ? ” “ With pleasure,” I answered, “ but I am sorry you are feeling indisposed.” “It has been coming on gradually. Chet- wynd will soon restore me to my normal health. By the way, you don’t look too well yourself, Dr. Cato. You have quite a haggard look in your eyes. You take poor Ingram’s murder to heart. That will never do. By the way, has any fresh light been thrown upon the mysterious affair since I saw you last ? ” “None whatever,” I answered. “ Ah,” he said, looking thoughtful; “ it is one of those mysteries which will not be revealed until the Day of Judgment. Now that you have come, doctor, I shall insist on your dining with me.” I thought for a moment, and then determined to ac¬ cept the invitation. Don Santos rang his bell and gave directions to a servant who appeared. Not long afterwards he and I found ourselves seated at a little oval table in the big dining-room. As we ate my host talked well and brilliantly. Certainly he was an interesting man, and his knowledge of art treasures was extensive. The meal lasted for over an hour, and during that time I had almost forgotten Mrs. Ingram, her curious dream, and her nameless suspicions. The dream, however, and the suspicions were revived when Don Santos said, in a hearty voice :— “ The night is fine—let us go up and smoke on the veranda.” “ The veranda ! ” I could not help exclaiming. “ Yes, have I not shown it to you ? It is one of the specialities of my house. I had it built according to my own ideas. On the hottest day in summer you get a breeze there, and I generally smoke my last Havana there before retiring to rest; but come,” STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB . ii As he spoke he led the way upstairs, and, opening a door on the second floor, just as the widow had described in her dream, we entered an extensive veranda. As I looked at it I could not help starting. It was in¬ closed by a stone balustrade, upon which were fixed by uprights iron rails which ran round it. There were several deck chairs, just as the widow had mentioned, and there were also some small, round tables. The night was starlit and warm. As I seated my¬ self in a comfortable deck chair and lit a cigar I noticed that my host was listless and silent. A sudden impulse came over me. “ Do you know,” I said, watching him narrowly as I spoke, “ that I had an interview to-day of a somewhat painful nature.” “ Indeed,” he replied. “ With no less a person than Mrs. Ingram, the mother of the poor fellow who was murdered. She told me of a dream she had. She dreamt that you and her son were seated on this balcony.” “ Ah,” he said, impatiently, “ we never sat here. I often meant to have him to dine with me. On that one eventful night I waited long for him, but he never came. I could not account for his non-appearance.” The Spaniard spoke softly and with much sadness in his tone. “ There is one thing, Don Santos,” I said, suddenly; “ you will forgive me, but perhaps you do not realize that Mrs. Ingram is a poor woman. Her son borrowed ^7,000 to buy that necklace for you. Is it fair that she should have to pay it back ? ” In a moment he had turned upon me, his whole face distorted with the most livid passion. “ Why do you interfere ? ” he said ; “ you had much better not. My God ! If you only knew ! I will pay that woman the ^7,000 in full when I get the necklace, not before.. Tell her to move Heaven and earth to get it back for me, and she shall be paid then in full, every farthing, but not before— my God ! I have spoken —not before.” His voice quivered, he suddenly left my side and began to stride rapidly up and down the veranda—there was almost the ring of a madman in his tones. I saw I had gone too far, and was about to soothe him when he suddenly came back and spoke in his accustomed voice. “ I told you that my nerves were giving way—there are moments when I can scarcely contain myself. I must come to the Sanctu¬ ary as quickly as possible and put myself under Chetwynd’s treatment.” “ And I will not keep you longer now,” I said. “ I have tired you.” “You have upset me,” he said, brusquely. “ Forgive me for being rough, but there are some things I cannot bear. Well, if you must go—you must.” A few moments later I had taken my leave of him. As soon as I entered the Sanctuary on my return, I was greeted by Chetwynd. “ I want to speak to you,” he said. There was some slight excitement in his manner. I noticed it. “ You will be interested to hear,” I re¬ marked, “that I have just been paying a visit to our old patient, Don Santos. You ought to go and see him—Roe House is worth visiting.” “Ah,” replied Chetwynd, “you know my opinion of that man, Cato. Come with me into my private consulting-room, won’t you? I have something to say.” I went with him. He turned at once and spoke to me about Mrs. Ingram. “ I have seen her,” he said ; “ she told me that she had asked you to visit Don Santos. She also mentioned her most extra¬ ordinary dream.” “I said I would try to verify it for her,” was my remark. “ Have you done so ? ” “Strange to say, Chetwynd, I have—at least the part in which she describes the veranda. It is there, and just as she spoke of it, but doubtless the thing can be ex¬ plained. Ingram must have mentioned it to her in one of his many letters.” Chetwynd was silent. “By the way,” I continued, after a pause, “you will have to put up with Don Santos, whether you like him or not. Next week he is coming here again.” “ The old symptoms ? ” asked my brother doctor. “ He complains of them.” “That man will end in an asylum,” said Chetwynd, briefly. “ I am sorry he is coming back.” ” & “ I could not refuse him admission to his own club,” I answered. “ Of course not. By the way, we seem to be doomed to have old patients back again. I have just received a letter from Lady Helen Trevor; she arrives to-morrow.” # “Indeed,” I said, “she was a very pleasant visitor; we ought to be glad to welcome her.” “By the way,” said Chetwynd, quietly, “ Don Santos may not find things so pleasant 12 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. as he imagines at the Sanctuary Club. Did I tell you that Mrs. Ingram is coming here also to-morrow ? ” “ Indeed, but how. She is not a member.” “She comes as my guest. You remem¬ ber that you and I always have the privilege of asking guests here from time to time.” “ Certainly, but are you acting wisely in extending this invitation to a hysterical woman ? ” “You are hard on her, Cato, and also unjust. Mrs. Ingram possesses absolute self- control. Her mind is perfectly balanced; and as to her dream—well, think what you like of me, old fellow, but I believe in it.”. I could say nothing further. In certain moods it was impossible to control Chet- wynd — he was determined to saddle a foul crime upon Don Santos, and what the end would be remained shrouded in' mystery. The next day Lady Helen arrived. She looked older than when I had last seen her, and there was evidently a very serious care weighing upon her mind. On the first even¬ ing of her visit she spoke to me. “ I have not forgotten the gentleman who was an inmate of this house when I was last here,” she said. “ Do you refer to Senor Don Santos ? ” I asked. “ Yes,” she replied. “ You are likely to meet him again. He is coming back next week.” “ Indeed,” she answered. She looked pleased and relieved. Looking full at me she said, suddenly, “ I want to take you into my confidence—may I ? ” “ If I can be of use to you, I shall be pleased to listen to anything you have got to say,” was my answer. “ Well, it is this. At the present moment I am sorely in want of money—a good sum, too.” “But I thought your husband was a millionaire ? ” “ He is rich, no doubt, but not quite so rich as people give him credit for. In the present matter, however, it is impossible for me to apply to him. Now, I must get the m0 ney—£5,000—as soon as possible, and it has occurred to me that Don Santos can help me. I mean to ask him for his aid.” “ I wish you would not,” I could not help saying. She opened her eyes wide in some surprise. “I must,” she said; “my need is very pressing; in fact, I may as well own to you that I have come to the Sanctuary Club more in the hopes of meeting Don Santos than anything else.” I stared at her in some surprise. I did not like to press more fully for her confidence, but what did she mean? She was young and handsome—what could she have in common with a man of the Spaniard’s type ? The next week the senor arrived. He was gentle and courteous, his friendship with Lady Helen was quickly renewed, and, to my astonishment, he also took special pains to be polite to Mrs. Ingram. That strange woman by no means repelled his attentions. On the contrary, she often sought him out, and they had long and interesting conversa¬ tions together. The days passed without anything special occurring. At last, on a certain morning, Lady Helen came to see me. “ Will you help me?” she said, impulsively; « if you will, I can get what I require.” “ What do you want me to do ? ” I asked. “ Don Santos has promised to advance me a loan of £5,000 on a condition.” “ And what is that ? ” I asked. She made a slight pause; her large brown eyes were full of restlessness. “ I must give you my full confidence,” she said then. “I want the money for my brother—my favourite youngest brother. He has got into terrible trouble—he is reckless, defiant of the ordinary rules of society. He has always been something of a spoilt darling. When my mother died she left him in my care. He has got into debt. My husband is jealous of my great love for him, and will not help him with so much as a pound. Something must be done immediately, so I am determined to come to the rescue. If I can get £5,000 from Don Santos, my brother’s most pressing debts will be paid, and he will be saved.” “ What is the condition on which he will lend you the money ? ” I asked. She came a little nearer and dropped her voice. “ You know the senor’s passion for curios of all sorts?” she said. “Have you ever heard me speak of a casket which we hold in my father’s family? It is called the Cata- lini Casket—it has belonged to us for four hundred years. When I married, my father gave it to me as my wedding present, but on a condition, a solemn one, that I was never to part with it. I did not intend to break that condition, but my present need is too great. I am going, not to sell the casket, but to borrow money on it. Don Santos will lend me ,£5,000 if I give him the STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB. i3 casket as security. He returns home to¬ day.” “ So soon ? ” I interrupted. “ Yes. He says the uncomfortable symp¬ toms which brought him here have quite disappeared, and he is anxious to be home again. I am also going back to Yorkshire this afternoon, but will return early to-morrow with the casket. I want you to take the Catalini Casket to Don Santos to-morrow night and to bring me back the money. He will pay me in gold, not by cheque—I have asked him to do this in order to insure my husband never knowing of the transaction.” “ But why should I be your messenger ? ” “It is by the senor’s special request. He says that he has made a rule never to* admit a woman into Roe House. Oh, you will, not refuse me ? If you will help me in this matter I will bless you to the longest day of my life.” She spoke with passion; there were tears in her eyes; her voice trembled. Perhaps Chetwynd might have refused her, but I found it impossible to do so. “ I don’t like it,” I said. “ I will say so frankly, but, of course, I cannot decline to be your messenger.” “ Thank you,” she answered ; “ you cannot understand what a relief this is to me. I will go and tell Don Santos immediately—he will be pleased—he is most anxious to secure the casket, and says quite openly and frankly that he does not believe I shall ever be able to redeem it.” “ And under such circumstances are you willing to part with such a treasure ? ” I asked. I must,” she replied ; “ I have no choice.” She left the room, and a couple of moments later Don Santos himself knocked at the door of my room. “ Come in,” I said. “ So you are going to help Lady Helen ? ” he remarked, closing the door softly behind him. “ I am very much obliged to you, very much obliged indeed. Now listen. I have not been here for the last two or three days for nothing. That poor woman, Mrs. Ingram, has impressed me favourably. I cannot part with ^7,000 for a valuable necklace which I never received, but 1 will let her have half the money, and whenever the necklace is traced and brought to me she shall have the remainder. If you will bring the Catalini Casket to my house to-morrow night, you shall have in gold and notes the money which Lady Helen requires, and also a cheque drawn in Mrs. Ingram’s favour.” I thanked him heartily. I did not remark then, although it occurred to me afterwards, that as he spoke he avoided looking at me. “ I am glad you are better,” I said. “ Much better—in fact, I am quite well. I am restless away from my treasures, and am going back to them to¬ day.” He walked to the window as he spoke, and I saw him rubbing his hands together as though some thought was pleasing him very much. “You are in good spirits,” I said. “ Who would not be at the thought of securing so match¬ less and celebrated a casket?” “ Indeed,” I answered; “ I know nothing about these things.” “ If you had ever studied the subject of art treasures, “oh, you will not refuse me?" 14 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Dr. Cato, you must have heard of this special casket. It is formed out of one enormous onyx, on which are two priceless cameos, and around the lid rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, all of enormous value, are richly embedded. The casket was fought for, struggled for, and lost again and again as far back as in the time of the Crusades. How it got into the Hampton family remains a mystery. It will be mine now.” “But surely Lady Helen will redeem it?” “ Never,” he said, softly. He. came up to me almost on tiptoe, held out his hand, said good-bye, and left me. That evening, before retiring to rest, I had a word or two with Chetwynd. # “I want to ask you a straight question,” I said. “ Don Santos has been your patient once again : do you still suspect him of foul play in the matter of Ingram ? ” He did not answer for a moment; then he said, slowly :— “ I would rather not speak of my sus¬ picions. I have just come from a long inter¬ view with Mrs. Ingram; she interests me profoundly.” “Well, I have something to say,” I con¬ tinued. “ I am going to visit the Spaniard at Roe House to-morrow evening. I have been commissioned to execute some business for him.” “ The deuce you have ! ” he cried, springing to his feet. “ Are you mad ? ” “ I hope not; and, by the way, the man’s visit here has not been without fruit. He has promised to refund Mrs. Ingram some of the money which her son paid for the necklace.” Chetwynd looked grave and anxious. “ I wish you would not go to Roe House,” he said, earnestly. I laughed. “ Really, Chetwynd,” I answered, “ I shall begin to think your own nerves are out of order.” He was silent for a moment, then he said, slowly:— “Notwithstanding my duties as doctor here, I have toiled over the strange case of the murder of Tohn Ingram almost day and night, and I now hold a theory too fantastic to divulge. This theory is founded on a single point. It is this : As I looked at poor Ingram’s dead body that morning last autumn, I saw adhering to his coat a good many pine-needles and twigs. Now,.the only fir trees anywhere near stand in the inclosure surrounding Don Santos’s house. This looked to me as if Ingram must have climbed a fir tree, for he could not have got the needles on him unless he had been among the small branches.” « Climbed a fir tree ? What on earth for ? ” I asked. “ Ah ! that remains to be answered. Now listen, Cato. Have you made up your mind to visit Roe House ? ” “ Certainly.” “In spite of my telling you frankly that I consider there is an element of danger in your visit ? ” “ In spite of your friendly warning.” “Then I will cease to urge you not to go. On the contrary, I consider that your visit may be of the utmost use to me. Go and do exactly what Don Santos asks you. If he requests you to dine to-morrow night, humour him. I shall also go to Wimbledon to-morrow ; we will force his hand.” “Do you mean to come with me to his house ? ” “Not I. He won’t know until the last moment that I am on the premises. My dear fellow, of one thing I am certain— Ingram was never murdered on the common.” “Not murdered on the common? But he was found there. How did he get there? ” “That,” replied Chetwynd, “is what you and I have got to discover, and to-morrow night, too. It is a risk—are you prepared to run it ? ” “ I certainly am. Chetwynd, I am sorry for you ; you are bitten by a craze—a craze to discover what never can be discovered on earth.” “ We will soon know,” was his ambiguous answer. • Lady Helen returned with the casket and put it into my hands, and punctually at eight o’clock on the following evening I arrived at Roe House, carrying the treasure with me. The moment I rang the bell the door was opened by Don Santos himself. “Well,” he cried, eagerly, “have you got it?” “Yes,” I replied. “Capital. Come into my study. You have done well.” We both entered. I took the precious casket out of its wrappings and gave it to him. He went over to the nearest window and examined it carefully. I noticed a queer smile of avarice on his features. “ You will dine ? ” he said, looking at me. “ If you wish it,” I answered. “ That is right. I have not yet received the necessary notes and gold from the bank. I sent a special messenger for them early STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB . T 5 to-day. They will come, doubtless, in the course of the evening. Lady Helen specially stipulated to be paid in gold and notes. Of course, in a case of this kind one must submit to the caprices of a woman, and the money will be here by the time we have done dinner.” “ My time is yours,” I answered; “ I have nothing special to hurry me back.” “ Good, very good. It is a delightful summer’s evening— we shall enjoy our¬ selves on the veranda afterwards. May I take you to a room now to wash your hands ? ” I was somewhat surprised at his act¬ ing as his own servant. The house, too, seemed silent and deserted. In a few moments we were seated before a sumptuous cold repast in the dining-room. “I hate your hot English dinners,” said Santos, apologe¬ tically ; “ besides, it means keeping a lot of servants around one. Now, my wants are few, and it is so much more con¬ venient to wait on ourselves than having chattering servants overhearing every word one says.” The senor spoke in a quick, nervous way, and there was a gleam in his eyes which I had noticed with more or less apprehension when he was suffering from his worst attacks at the Sanctuary. Suddenly, as I sat before that dinner table, some of the fears which had infected Chetwynd began to visit me. I lost my appetite. I wished myself anywhere than where I was. Don Santos was a stronger man than I: more muscular, with more physical power. Should occasion demand it, the strength of a madman might be his, Beyond doubt he was the victim of incipient insanity. His conversation as dinner proceeded took a strange turn. He talked of himself in a most confidential way. Suddenly he rose. “ How hot the night is,” he said; “shall we finish our dessert on the veranda ? ” “With pleasure,” I answered. “But I hope your messenger will soon come with the notes, Santos, for I want to return to Hamp¬ stead before it is too late.” “ He ought to arrive at any moment — we will wait for him on the veranda. Come, let me show you the way.” He led me upstairs, and we entered the large veranda which Mrs. Ingram had so faithfully described in her dream. It was a beautiful starlit night and perfectly warm. “ Take that chair,” said the senor. He pointed to one of the deck chairs as he spoke. I seated my¬ self and lit a cigar. My host also smoked silently. We were both quiet, drinking in the peace and beauty of the night. At last Don Santos stirred restlessly, and said, in an abrupt tone :— “ It is strange how one’s memory reverts to bygone events. Now, I hate even to think of poor Ingram, and yet I never come to this veranda but thoughts of him return to me. By the way, how far away from here did you tell me his body was found ? ” “Not three hundred yards,” I answered. “Strange, strange. Have you any special theory with regard to the murder ? ” “ No,” I replied, “ but my friend Chetwynd has.” “ Ha ! ” he answered; “ and doubtless that most interesting lady, Mrs. Ingram, also i6 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. holds a theory of her own. I must not for¬ get that I am to send her a cheque by you to-night. I would never wish to be hard on women, although I hate them all. By the way, Cato, do you know that I believe that woman, in some queer, unfathomable, impossible way, suspects me— me —of the murder of Ingram ? ” “Nonsense,” I answered. He started to his feet. “ I don’t think it nonsense, nor does she. But I believe I heard a ring—that must be the messenger with the notes and gold. I will let him in.” It struck me, as Don Santos said this, that he must have extraordinary ears, for I had certainly heard no bell ring. He left the veranda quickly. I sat on in my comfort¬ able chair. I heard the sound of his retreat¬ ing footsteps dying away, and then everything was quiet except for the stirring of a slight breeze in the top of the dark fir trees. I was relieved that Don Santos was no longer by my side. If the man was not mad he was next door to it : his words during my visit had been more than strange, and there was a light in his eyes which I had seen before, but never in those of a sane person. Should I leave the veranda, go downstairs, and make my escape? Was I really in danger? I could have easily gone away, but Lady Helen had trusted me with her commission, and the casket was in the Spaniard’s possession. I must not leave the house without the ^5,000 which was to be Lady Helen’s in exchange for the Catalini Casket. I must also try to get the cheque which the man had promised Mrs. Ingram. I was still lying back in my chair when a moving shadow cast by a lamp in the room behind me suddenly spread across the veranda. I started and turned. Great heavens! it was Chetwynd himself! He rushed towards me, his eyes alight with terror, his voice hoarse with fear. “For God’s sake, Paul, get out of that chair,” he cried; “jump for your life.” There was no time to be even surprised. I made one bound from the chair, and at the same instant something whirled through the air close behind me. There was a dull clang. Chetwynd, gripping my arm, pointed up. Neither of us could speak. Fixed , at the extremity of a huge steel spring which had been concealed as one of the planks of the veranda, the chair had flown up in a great arc above us, the spring had dashed against the bars of the iron rail¬ ing, and the chair checked thus suddenly in its flight was still quivering to and fro from the terrific shock of the impact. Chetwynd was the first to gain his voice. “ Hush ! Look ! ” he whis¬ pered. Through the doorway, leering out into the darkness, was the face of the Spaniard. The next instant it vanished. Chetwynd blew loud blasts on a whistle, and we both rushed into the room. The man was gone, but before we had reached the top of the stairs a loud “he startep to his feet.” STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB. i7 shriek, followed by the sounds of a desperate struggle, fell on our ears, and hurrying down we saw Don Santos struggling like a wild cat in the hands of two powerful detectives. It was a horrible sight. Chetwynd turned to me. “ I congratulate you, Cato,” he said. “ Two minutes more and you would have been lying amongst the gorse bushes. It was a little too near to be pleasant.” He looked back at the senor, who was still fill¬ ing the great hall with furious imprecations. “ Take him to the station, Mitchell,” I heard Chetwynd say ; “ I will be with you the first thing to-morrow morning.” I shuddered. The shock, the suddenness of the whole thing, had unnerved me. I felt sick and faint. “ Come, old chap, it’s over now,” said my friend ; “ let me get you some brandy.” We entered the dining-room. The table was still strewn with the remains of our dinner. Chetwynd lit a candle, and I poured out a stiff glass of brandy and gulped it down. “ But what does it mean ? ” I cried. “I suspected it,” he answered; “not exactly what has happened, but something very like it. The senor is partly mad, but more wicked. He had a craze for the collec¬ tion of art treasures, and wanted to secure them without paying his victims the necessary money. Thus he never intended to pay Lady Helen for the Catalini Casket. The old story which was repeated once in the case of Ingram would have again been the talk about you. Your lifeless body would have been found in the morning on Wimbledon Common, and the police would suppose that you had been robbed and murdered. I guessed that this was the senor’s game, but it was impossible for me to tell how he per¬ formed his ghastly feats until I could get within the precincts of Roe House. When I found that you were really going there, I thought my opportunity had come. I resolved to watch you, and at the same time to let you go into danger. I followed you this evening, bringing two detectives in plain clothes with me. I perceived that there were no servants in the house, which strengthened my suspicions. We three managed to get into the garden, and watched you as you sat at supper. When you went up to the veranda we raised a window and got into the house, and then began our search. We first made our way to the room under the veranda. Come, I will show you.” He took up a candle as he spoke. I followed him. “ We could hear your voices above us,” continued Chetwynd. “ When we entered the room I struck a light and then saw what I will now show you—something that sent me flying up to you. Thank God, I was just in time. Santos must have gone down the other way, so I missed him.” We had now entered a small, bare room. In the centre stood an enormous cogged wheel and ratchet, which could be wound by a handle. Upon the floor lay a long steel chain. “ Do you see this ? ” said Chetwynd. “The chain was used to wind down the huge steel spring in the veranda; this cord drew back the catch in order to release it, and then—well, you saw the rest for yourself. One moment more, and it would have flung you over the fir-tops and out on to the Common, three hundred yards away. Your dead body would have been found there in the morning. Just as in Ingram’s case, there would have been no clue. Don Santos would have declared that you left the house with the money in your possession, thus giving the motive for your murder. No possible suspicion could have attached to him. Paul, I don’t wonder you feel shaken, but think for your comfort that you have avenged Ingram and brought to the gallows one of the most crafty, scientific, and satanic criminals of the day! What a stir it will make ! ” The next day Roe House underwent a careful examination by some of the ablest detectives in London. In all sorts of unlikely places treasures of immense worth were hid¬ den. Doubtless they were most of them stolen. Amongst others the pearl necklace for which poor Ingram was murdered was found. It was sold again even for a larger figure, and thus Mrs. Ingram got back her money. Lady Helen also received the Cata¬ lini Casket uninjured into her trembling hands. She had the courage and good sense, after so frightful a catastrophe, to inform her husband of the truth. He was more lenient than she had painted him, and her young brother was saved from absolute ruin. As to Don Santos, even the plea of in¬ sanity availed nothing—-two months later he was hanged for his crimes, and the world was rid of one of the most consummate scoundrels who has ever lived. Vol. xviii.—3 Remarkable Cycles. By Harold J. Shepstone. N no industry, perhaps, have manufacturers so sought to bring their particular wares to the notice of the public by such novel and startling devices as in cycle-making. Such intense earnestness for something entirely new and attractive has been the cause of many curious creations in cycledom, and it is the intention of this article to give a description of some of the most extraordinary cycles which have been built for this purpose. And it cannot be denied that many of them must have called for much ingenuity and skill on the part of their designers and builders, while not a few have been put to very practical purposes indeed. What is certainly the biggest mon¬ strosity the cycling world has ever seen is the mammoth tricycle seen in our first photograph. It is hardly necessary to add that no one but a Yankee could have con¬ ceived the idea of constructing such a machine. It was manufactured for the Boston Woven-Hose and Rubber Company, and was built with the express purpose of advertising the Vim tyre, a tube well known on the other side of the Atlantic. Some two years ago this giant among tricycles was brought to this country, and many will prob¬ ably recollect it, for it was exhibited in the windows of a well-known cycle store in Holborn Viaduct. It was so large that it was found necessary to take it to pieces to get it into the shop, and the same process had to be repeated when it was removed. This monster was not built solely to look at, but for touring. It made many trips, and our photograph shows the machine and its eight riders on their arrival at Brighton. The two side wheels are lift, high, while the steering-wheel is 7ft. high. It has wooden rims, which are fitted with single-tube tyres, measuring 15m. and i8in. through for the large and small wheels respectively. The hubs on the two side wheels are i8in. in length, and are fitted with spokes of steel y 2 in. thick. Although the tricycle weighs nearly a ton complete it can easily be pushed along by one person on a level surface, so minutely were the bearings made. It is geared to fifty-four, and requires eight men to pedal it, and another to superintend the steering, which is effected by means of a wheel and chain. Like all modern cycles, however, it is susceptible to punctures, and sustained many of these undesirable mishaps during the course of its travels, and to locate and Ft om a Photo. h)f] THE LARGEST TRICYCLE EVER BUII/V- [A. H. Fry, Brighton , REMARKABLE CYCLES. !9 yCltkpTZ-Pvtoirc. yf' THE BIGGEST BICYCLE IN THE WORLD. [ Photo . mend a puncture on this enormous cycle was no easy task, occupying anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days. Although the largest tricycle that the brain of the cycle-maker could create was capable of being ridden, such is not the case with the biggest ordinary two-wheel safety. This machine was built entirely for show purposes, and is the property of Messrs. H. A. Lozier and Co., the makers of the well-known Cleveland bicycles. Our photograph will convey a fair idea of the size of the giant wheel, which is shown so distinctly with an ordinary bicycle and rider by the side of it. The tubing used in its construction had a diameter of 6in., while the wheels have a diameter of 15ft., and, like all American bicycles, are fitted with single-tube tyres, which are i8in. in width. The machine is made to proportion throughout, even the saddle, on which half-a-dozen men could easily find standing room. The spokes are ^in. thick, while the gear is no less than 360m. Given a giant to bestride it, all existing records, we imagine, would soon be broken. Having described the largest of cycles it is only natural that we should mention the f inn u i nutu. uf/j 1 HE LONGPST CYCLE—USED ?JY THE BLJNp AT THE ROYAL NORMAL COLLEGE. [Reinhold Thiele, 20 THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE. From a Photo, by] the quaintest quint in the world. [Arnold tichwin & Vo. longest, a machine designed to carry twelve riders. It is used in the grounds of the Royal Normal College for the Blind at Upper Norwood, and by the aid of this remarkable “ iron steed ” many a sightless individual has enjoyed exhilarating spins awheel in the college grounds. It is necessary, of course, for one of the crew to be exempt from this terrible affliction—loss of sight—and the second rider on the machine is the one responsible for the steering—not an easy task, as anyone who has tried to negotiate corners on machines that carry four riders and more very well knows. Our next illustration shows a quint, a machine designed to carry five riders, and represents the work of Messrs. Arnold Schwin and Co., of Chicago, who claim that it is the only successful multi-cycle ever built. It has certainly done some good work as a pacing-machine at most of the great cycling contests, having been used at various races in Paris, Bordeaux, Brussels, Berlin, London, and in America, and has no doubt done not a little to establish many a cycling “record.” It is interesting, however, on account of the novel use to which its owners have since put it, namely, to advertise the “World” bicycle, the name by which their machines are known. As will be seen in the photograph, all the five riders have their heads concealed in globes, in¬ scribed with the word “World.” These globes are constructed of light wire and cloth, having a small aperture in front for seeing and breathing. Such a bicycle with such a unique crew careering about the streets could hardly fail to attract even the attention and admiration of the busy, go-ahead American citizen. The distinction of being the youngest cyclist in the world undoubtedly be¬ longs to Master Clarence House, age seventeen months, who is seen in the photograph reproduced here¬ with riding his diminutive wheel, which rejoices in the name of the Tii-Bits cycle. He caused much attrac¬ tion at the last Bradford cycle show, where he disported himself on his machine, with evident satisfaction to himself as well as to the visitors. The total length of the little bicycle is but 26m.; when the rider is seated on his machine, the distance from the floor to the top of his head is 2ft. 7 y 2 in. The diameter of the wheels is ioin., length THE YOUNGFST CYCLIST IN THE WORLD. From a Photo, by Messrs. Fox , Bradford, REMARKABLE CYCLES. THE HEAVIEST CYCLIST ALIVE. From a Photo, by J. H. Faber , Norfolk , Va. of crank 3m., and gear 22. Every part of the machine was specially made, and it is a perfect cycle in every detail. It is so small that it can be put upright under an ordinary chair, while its rider has often taken cycling excursions under the dining¬ room table. Little Clarence is a fine big baby-boy, and bicycle and baby together turn the scale at 3o^lb. Already he has re¬ ceived recognition as an able cyclist, for he is an honor¬ ary member of the Bradford and County Cycling Club, and his father, Mr. Albert House, who is manager of the Bradford Cycle and Motor Com¬ pany, has just written us to the effect that Mr. Ernest Flower, M.P., has presented our cycling prodigy with a gold medal. Our next “baby” is a full-grown one in the person of “ Baby ” Grimes, who declares that he is the heaviest cyclist in the world, a claim which we do not intend to dispute. Our photograph depicts the big “ baby ” in racing costume, and naturally his plump limbs are very noticeable. Grimes has done a great deal of cycling during the last five years, and has felt no ill-effects through his in¬ dulgence in the pastime ; on the con¬ trary, he declares that the exercise has been the means of keeping him in health. He turns the scale at about 57olb. He is 6ft. 4m. high, has a chest measurement of 62m., and his calves are 22in. round. His flesh, too, is as hard and firm as that of a well-trained athlete. 'Furning for a moment to the more utilitarian purposes to which cycles are now being put, we might mention the Police Patrol Tricycle, which was manufactured by the Davis Sewing Machine Co., of Dayton, Ohio, about a year ago. As will be seen in our photograph, the front and rear seats are occupied by policemen, while the prisoner is seated in the centre, and is unable to give any annoyance by moving, as both his hands and his feet are strapped. This machine, A POLICEMAN S CYCLE—AS USED IN SOME OF THE AMERICAN CITIES. From a Photo, Lent by the Paris Seicing Machine Co. 22 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. enable the bicycle from a] the company inform us, is the only cycle ever constructed for such a purpose, and is unique, having been in practical use by various police departments in several of the American cities. Our next photograph is also interesting, as it represents a quadricycle fire engine. The machine has the appearance of two tandems joined together, and the four riders are mounted two abreast. In the illustration we see the pumps are being worked by the pedals, the back wheels being thrown off the ground. It is believed that in outlying districts and country towns such a device as this is invaluable for getting to the fire quickly, and that it has a great future before it. Then there is also the railway-track bicycle, another of Uncle Sam’s creations, though, so far as the writer can learn, it is not very extensively used on the large American railways. It would appear, too, that it is made exclusively by one firm, the Kalamazoo Railway Supply Com¬ pany. In most respects it is similar to an ordinary bicycle, with the exception that it has a third wheel of 11in. diameter, while the conven¬ tional pneumatic tyres are dispensed with, though the tread of the flat surface of the wheels, which en¬ ables it to run smoothly on the steel rails, has a continuous rubber band. These bands to adhere more closely to the rails, and so lessen the danger of slipping when the rails are wet. Given a clear course, the speed which can be attained on these machines is astonishing, and to get to the scene of an accident, or to reach a far-distant signal station, is a matter which requires little pre¬ paration provided one of these bicycles is forthcoming. With a comparatively low gear a speed of twenty miles an hour is easily KAJiAVAY CYCLE, REMARKABLE CYCLES. 2 3 i iHif! wwm Wrnim '>] ■ } ? voVox“C<^> > ^’ro?no] jatho’s giant sociable. [Photo. For variety and novelty in its com¬ position, it is doubtful if the “ iron¬ monger’s bicycle ” can be beaten. The photograph of this curious machine has been sent to us by Mr. J. Nevil Moore, of Semaphore, South Australia, where it was recently exhibited in the windows of an enter¬ prising firm of ironmongers. Every article that finds a place in its make¬ up can be purchased at the store in question, and this statement alone will give a fair idea of the immense business of this establishment. Two large grindstones do service as wheels, and a couple of reaping- hooks make an excellent imitation of a handle-bar. A pair of gas-tongs form the fork of the “ machine,” while a truck-wheel and dog-chain combine to supply the propelling mechanism. The pneumatic principle is to be found in the seat, which consists of a pair of bellows, while rat-traps con¬ stitute quite the approved pattern of pedals. Fire-irons, bevels, augers, adze and hammer handles, and many other familiar articles find a place in obtainable on the level, for, naturally, riding on a modern railway track is smooth and easy running. One of the most novel bicycles we have ever seen adaptable for two riders is the Jatho Giant Sociable. The large wheel of this unique machine is 8ft. 6in. in height, and covers a distance of 315m. in one revolution. The little steering-wheel, which is under the control of the male rider, is i6in. in height. The machine is driven by chains running from the right-hand and left-hand bottom bracket to the hub of the large wheel. Mr. Karl Jatho, the builder and designer of this remark¬ able cycle, is seated on the farther side of the machine, while the other seat is occupied by his sister. They have taken part in many cycling festivals in the principal towns of Germany on this curious “ steed,” which has never failed to attract particular attention. The machine weighs nearly a hundredweight, and C° st ^50 to build- AN IRONMONGER’S BICYCLE. From a Photo, bp Sanders db Bcgg, Port Adelaide, 24 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. A BICYCLE YACHT. From a Photo, by L. E. Hudson , Ellisburg , N. Y. this novel bicycle. The rider is, if possible, more curiously and wonderfully made. His head is nothing more than a ball of binder- twine, surmounted with a cake-tin to repre¬ sent a cap. The body is represented by a dish-cover, while stove-pipes make excellent representations of legs and arms. Sailing on dry land has now become a possibility, or at least Mr. L. E. Hudson, of Ellisburg, N.Y., has demonstrated his ability to rig his bicycle with a sail, and so convert it into a “ bicycle yacht.” The mast is some i oft. high, and is rigidly secured to the frame of the bicycle about 4m. behind the handle¬ bar. The sail is made of heavy cotton cloth, and is under the control of the rider by means of a cord which passes along the boom at the bottom of the mast to the handle - bar, and can be kept in check without interfering with the steering of the wheel. Mr. Hudson assures us that it is a very enjoyable sport on a breezy or windy day, and enthusiastically recommends it to are fond of excitement with just a dash of danger.” Passing on to the more fascinating sub¬ ject of costly bicycles, it may come as a surprise to many to learn that occasionally cycles have been manufactured which have been nothing else than a blaze of gold and silver and precious stones. One instance which we may mention is that of a lady’s ordinary diamond dropped- frame bicycle richly and profusely decor¬ ated in silver, the ornamentations suggest¬ ing the rococo and Louis XV. styles. The handles are of carved and stained ivory, decorated with silver and jade knobs at the ends. The wheel is equipped with silver brake, solid silver cyclometer and silver bell, while the saddle and tool- bag are also ornamented with this metal. Perhaps the most beautiful accessory of the wheel is the solid silver lamp attached to the handle-bar. It is made after the most approved fashion, with a high - power reflector, and ruby and emerald coloured cut-crystal side-lights. The mudguard is nickel*plated, ornamented with silver and strung with the finest silk, while the whole frame of the machine is most lavishly decorated with specimens of the jeweller’s art. This bicycle was exhibited in the windows of Messrs. Tiffany and Co., well- known New York jewellers, and is a specimen of their work. The machine, however, was not on view very long, for it was purchased the first day it was put on exhibition, and, strange to say, by a titled gentleman of this country. The most costly bicycle ever manufactured, however, was a tandem cycle built by the Elgin Cycle Co., of which a photograph is wheelmen “ who From a] THE FINEST CYCLE IN THE WORLD. IPhoto. REMARKABLE CYCLES. 2 5 here reproduced. This one machine repre¬ sents a small fortune, having cost ^2,000 to build. When it is stated that 2,ooodwts., or 8j^lb., of fine gold, and 176 genuine diamonds, ranging in size from one to eight carats each, several hundred rubies, pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones are mounted in conspicuous places on the frame, one begins to see where its value comes in. To photograph a machine of this kind with a view to displaying its costly ornamentations is somewhat difficult, but a glance at our illustration, which is from a photograph in colours, will give a fair idea of the numerous massive gold bands which • decorate various parts of the frame. These bands are of solid gold and beautifully chased. Several of the most popular outdoor sports are prominently portrayed carved in solid gold. On the top bar we may notice a bicycle race-track, show¬ ing several riders finishing a race in front of a well-filled grand stand. On the lower rear fork a boating scene may be detected, while other racing scenes are depicted on other parts of the machine. The front fork deserves special comment. The decora¬ tions are marvellous creations of the gold¬ smith’s art, consisting of floral wreaths, each leaf and flower carved and coloured true to Nature out of solid gold. The sides are finished with two massive gold bands, mounted with twenty-five diamonds, forming a cluster for two diamonds weighing 8cts. each. The Elgin King Crown, which is set with many beautiful gems, is noticeable, while the name “ Elgin King ” on the drop-bar immediately above may also be discerned. The name is made out of heavy gold letters, the entire design serving as a setting for a large number of precious stones. The tandem is rideable, and the whole idea of loading the machine with such costly gems was purely a device for advertising. A worm gear takes the place of the front tandem chain, and the steering is under the control of the rear rider, but, of course, we can hardly imagine such a machine on the road. Another beautifully decorated bicycle so far as costly ornamentation is concerned is the “ Rambler,” which was made by the Messrs. Gormully and Jeffery Manufactur¬ ing Company. It was built at a cost of £ 200. All the enamelled parts of this machine are embellished with silver em¬ bossing in the most artistic fashion. The handle-bars, pedals, cranks, sprockets, and hubs are all silver-plated. The brake is covered with gold. The spoke nipples also are of gold, and glisten through rims of highly polished mahogany. Reference may also be made to the saddle, which is of highly polished leather, hand-carved in fanciful designs with gold mountings. The handles are of solid ivory, turned in neat spiral design, and are tipped with jewelled gold ends. The head is crowned with a circlet of pearls, surrounding an immense amethyst, while in every handle-tip are set similar specimens of the violet-blue gem. Turquoise gems may be found set at the end of either rear fork diagonal tube, and also in the head. In concluding this article on quaint and curious bicycles we may allude to the tiniest of them all, a most interesting mechanical curio, constructed by Joseph Figarotta. This diminutive wheel weighs but two ounces, but is none the less perfect in all its parts; and, what is more, is in per¬ fect running order. No part or appurtenance of the completely equipped wheel is lacking. A dainty lamp, with microscopic coloured lens, rests on its accustomed bracket. Al¬ though so small the wheels are fitted with pneumatic tyres, and it is in every respect an up-to-date machine. The height of the frame is but ^in., wheel base ij^in., diameter of wheel lin. The building of this liliputian wheel occupied its owner most of his spare time for two years. A COMPLETE BICYCLK WHICH WEIGHS TWO OUNCES, From a Photograph. Vol. xviii.—4. or TSf WATCH BELCW By J. H. Whitfield. 53 E were a merry party in spite of the weather and the scenery. Five of us, three ship-con¬ structors, one engineer, and one pressman, standing on the edge of the unfinished Orient Dock ; a vast expanse of quiet, muddy water before us, a lowering grey sky above us, and round us the flat shores of Kent and Essex. Near us, but aloof, were a few boatmen, labourers, hands connected with the slow making of this immense basin. We were there to test and to criticise the new sub¬ marine boat, Watch Below, designed and invented partly by Mackey, the engineer, principally by Boulger. Who that ever knew Boulger could forget him? Who that knew his history could forget it? Shipwright at Portsmouth Dock¬ yard, working his way upward until he held a good position at the Admiralty and had a hand in shaping all new fashions for ironclads, he was yet the good friend of all his old mates. I remember his good nature most of all. In his house at Clapham he kept four unmarried daughters, one son-in- law and wife, one widowed daughter, and a swarm of grand-children. He loved them all, excepting the son-in-law, and never grumbled at anyone but the persons who softened his “g ” and called him “Bouljer.” Standing on the ragged edge of the dock, we were smiling because Boulger was too fat to get through the emergency door at the after-end of the cigar-shaped craft below us. We were disposed to good humour, for we considered this little trip merely as a registra¬ tion of success. She had done well at a deep-sea trial: so well that the highest ones of the Admiralty had begun to show a faint interest in her. Another trial in Sea Reach, after certain improvements had been added, was not quite so successful; but this, now, was to put everything right. So, sniffing at success, we were merry, all but Bawke, under¬ manager of the firm which was backing Boulger with the necessary few thousands. Bawke and the inventors had a difference of opinion about the removal of certain ballast. Bawke mistrusted the craft, and said so frequently; while, English-fashion, he was doing his very skilful best to render failure improbable. He said something again which caused Mackey to ask : “ Do you think the motor will give out, then ? ” looking up from the large hatch which had been slid on one side to admit Boulger. THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW: 27 “ No,” answered Bawke, “ I still think the danger is in the slanting descent and ascent. She’ll drown all hands some day—your magnified Whitehead.” “ Come and try,” said Boulger, as he lowered his body into that of the craft. “ Unless you’re afraid,” growled irritable Mackey. This word settled it, and Bawke descended, asking, not from fear but from his critical habit, “ What’s to keep this thing from turning turtle ? ” “ Mr. Boulger will oblige by sitting in the bottom of her,” said O’Neill, of the Current Hews , who was the fifth of us and who had already embarked. “ Come, hurry up.” Bawke hurried down and I followed. So there were five on board. O’Neill had been invited because it was time people heard of the Watch Below , which was better covered by patents than by any veil of secrecy. Mackey closed and fastened the hatch and the emergency hole, gave us more light from the glow-lamps, and opened the air reservoir. Our compartment had a space of 8ft. between floor and ceiling. These were mere flattenings of the hull’s circular shape. Arrangements for comfort were rough, and consisted principally of ropes led along each side of the hold. These were for support when the craft tilted. There was nothing loose on board when the crew were clinging to these ropes, only necessary gear being carried, all fixed or fixable, in order to prevent it slipping about. Abaft of our position was the sinking and rising gear, consisting of hollow cylinders, which could be thrust out or withdrawn in order to increase or diminish buoyancy. Forward of us were the engines, and forward of these again were arrangements similar to those right aft. The chief points about the invention were the electric engines, the air supply, the ease with which either end could be depressed, so that she plunged to the depth at which it was required to travel, and then could be brought head or stern first to the surface at an easy angle. But the pride of Mackey’s heart was the “; look-out man,” as he called his own par¬ ticular invention. This was a telescopic tube topped by a cowl, which could be easily adjusted to the necessary height, being well braced by stays always taut, no matter whether high or low. Fitted vertically to the. front of the cowl was a lens, which threw a view, of the picture before it upon a slant¬ ing mirror, whence it was conveyed to and reflected from the surface of a second mirror, whereon the steersman might read his course. The lens was protected by plate-glass of such extraordinary hardness and polish that spray dashing upon it left it at once undimmed. The angle of the lens was so wide that one-third of the surroundings up to a certain height was received, and by tilting the cowl its vertical range was in¬ creased, giving a serviceable, if somewhat distorted, view of objects far above the surface. We started; the deck beneath us sloped to a comfortable angle, then became level. “ We are 10ft. down,” said Boulger, look¬ ing at his indicator. Portholes at the side showed, through thick glass, water like pea-soup; we went slowly ahead, and the pea-soup foamed past us. “ Up goes the look-out man,” said Mackey, and a view of the land and water above came down the tube, and a picture spread itself like that of a camera-obscura upon the lower mirror. Breathing was not easy, as Mackey kept the air-pressure high, which was quite neces¬ sary. The engines ticked away merrily. We went once round the dock and back to our starting-place, where those who had been watching the progress of our look-out tube just above the surface of the water gave us a signal shriek from a steam-crane whistle. This we heard distinctly and under¬ stood, and answered “ All’s well! ” by means of specially-emitted air-bubbles. Then again we travelled to the other end of the dock, which was only a sloping mud- bank, faced by a row of huge wooden piles at irregular distances from each other, feeling our way cautiously, knowing easily and exactly our position both as to depth and in relation to the dock sides. We fired a dummy wooden torpedo here. For some reason or other, as we slowly rose and pro¬ ceeded towards our goal, we came into smart collision with the stone edge of the dock, just at the place where we should disembark. Boulger was steering, and said to Mackey, who was about to slide back the main hatch, “No—stop-—we must come home neater than that. Off we go again—sink her to 1 oft., and finish in first-rate style.” We plunged. Mackey seemed to go for his little starting-lever rather testily, I thought, and I noticed at the same time that Bawke stiffened himself and gripped the life-line tightly. We were going at a higher speed although at a lesser angle than before. Suddenly, without warning, the deck listed and slid from beneath us. Clinging to our THE STRAND MAGAZINE ,. WE WERE ALL TURNING SOMERSAULTS. ropes, we were all turning somersaults. She rolled violently, but seemed about to right herself, when we felt a shudder¬ ing, sliding sort of shock —not severe, but enough to incline our tossed bodies somewhat forward, and then we were all look¬ ing at each other, all on the ceiling of the hold, the engines hanging up¬ side down ticking away merrily, lights good, no water coming up the in¬ verted look - out tube, which was artfully con¬ structed and came home automatically; everything working well. “ You’ve done it, Mackey,” gasped Boulger. “Aye, but I’ll undo it,” shouted Mackey, who was sitting under the engines with his back against the side and with both hands grasping his left leg. “ Aft, lads, all of you, and shake her up. She’s run her snout between the piles into the soft mud at the dock end.” Although shaken ourselves we were un¬ hurt and able to rush aft, except Mackey, who dragged himself into a position whence he could control his engines. We jumped and we shook her up, and Mackey gave the engines all they would take, as we could tell by the vibration and swirling of the useless propellors outside. In vain - - she was fixed. And we were sealed up in a cigar-shaped box 15ft. below the surface of the Orient Dock, with a limited supply of air ! It is useless to describe all the attempts we made. She was fixed. Mackey stopped his engines and lowered himself down, where he sat on what was now our floor. He was ghastly. Sweat stood out upon him. Boulger crouched, with his face resting in his hands, complaining that he felt sick and giddy; Bawke bit at his moustache and muttered, “ What a fool I was to get in this mess.” O’Neill squatted and wrote rapidly. After a few minutes’ panting we looked at each other again, all but Boulger. I went across to him and, as his grateful subordinate, touched him on the shoulder and said, “ Look up, sir; we shall get out of this.” He shook his bowed head and did not look up. “ Some of us are here till we’re handed out stiff. That’s certain! ” predicted Mackey. “ I can’t think what made her twist.” “Those infernal triple propellers,” ex¬ claimed Bawke. “ She was bound to go over sooner or later. If we could get her stem clear of the mud you might, by reversing the engines, right her again.” ^ “ Especially as she’s not bang over,” said Mackey. “She’s got a list to—to- Hanged if I know which is port and which is starboard now. Anyway, she would have righted herself if she hadn’t got jammed here.” “ If that ballast-” said Bawke. “ Ballast! Ballast! ” shouted Mackey, drawing his right knee up close to his chin, while his left leg was stretched straight out before him. “ I tell you, man, you’re gone mad on ballast. You’re a croaker ; you’re the Jonah of this voyage.” “I’ll personify Jonah, if you’ll kindly find some way of throwing me overboard,” re¬ marked O’Neill. “Or a torpedo : you might fire me through the tube.” THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW . 2 9 Boulger looked around him in a dazed sort of way. Mackey’s voice had aroused him. “ Let’s try her again, lads,” he said. “ Shake her again, boys,” cried Mackey, dragging himself up to his levers. So we tried again, and we shook her again until we were exhausted. She was fixed. “ Power’s giving out,” said Mackey, referring to his storage batteries. He sank back to his former position. “ I’m done,” moaned Boulger, dropping feebly. “ There’s a chance for one, perhaps two, of you,” said Mackey. A chance ? Of course—the emergency door at our feet. This was merely a hinged iron plate, fastened from inside with a water¬ tight joint, but opening outwards. “The hatch is jammed, and, besides, it’s too big to open. But one of you ought to get through that manhole door before the rush of water comes,” said Mackey, “ especi¬ ally as it’s below instead of above. One ought to get through; two may ; but it’s a dog’s chance for the third.” “We must go odd-man for it,” said O’Neill. “ If we all bolt at once nobody will get through.” “And make haste, because of my air cylinders,” remarked Mackey. We stooped around Mackey and spun coins—I acting for Boulger, who would pay no heed. I won the toss for Boulger, and it was with a sickly sort of joy that I recog¬ nised his chance as being worth nothing. Then Mackey won. Again that horrid thrill of satisfaction when Mackey said in low tones : “I tossed only for the form of the thing. My leg is broken—and—besides— the craft is a failure—and—and ” And he sank back, his face that of a man who is suffering much and expecting to suffer more. Again we hazarded. The game was mine ; Bawke came next. “ Strip yourself, Jemmy,” muttered Mackey —he had always called me “ Mister” before. “ Strip yourself and keep your arms well above your head. You’re young and wiry, and ought to get through. The door only opens a foot or so. There’s about a balance now between our air and the water, that’ll let the door fall down— then the water’ll rush in and bang the door to—then the next man’s chance’ll come.” “ Here, take these and tuck them in some¬ where,” said O’Neill, handing me a sheaf of the notes he had hastily scribbled for the Current News. “ They ought to make some noise ; ’tisn’t often that a dead man speaks to the public.” “Any message, sir,” I asked Boulger. No answer. I-Ie kept his face covered as he bent his body downward. Bawke was leaning, arms folded, eyes fixed on the ceiling beneath him. He whispered, “ I shall follow you. I can’t die. I sha’n’t die!” O’Neill was on his knees, his eyes closed, his hands clasped. Mackey said in a very low tone, without looking up at me : “You know my lodgings, you can get my wife’s address there—she’s at Leith. I’ve led her somewhat of a dance in my time, but we parted friends, and I leave her no bairns to bother her.” As I threw off all clothes but those next to my skin, a series of thoughts coursed through my brain. Should I give way ? Boulger was doomed — Mackey was doomed. Should I give way to Bawke -Bawke with his keen intellect, with that eye which sees far below the sur¬ face of any base metal worked by civilized man ? Should Bawke go first ? Or O’Neill—friendly O’Neill — careless in everything but his work, open-handed, open- minded? I thought of the glee with which he had told that when he left us he was 30 THE STEAMl) MAGAZINE . going to meet the great Galloper, most success¬ ful of special correspondents who was just home red-hot from a battle-field, covered with Press laurels. Should O’Neill have a chance ? But myself. I thought of my mother in that southern seaport—mother, to whom my promotion brought no joy because it meant separation. A picture stopped before me—I saw her and my sister in the little house, waiting for the chief pleasure of their life, my weekly letter, and receiving, instead, the news of my awful death. And pity for them quickened the instinct of self-preservation within me. These men were bachelors like myself— their claims for life were no more than mine, and I had won the toss. The me¬ chanical action of tearing off my clothes had allowed all this thinking in the minute consumed by it. But now I was to make my attempt. I took off the clamps which fastened the door. It did not fall, although a little water oozed in through the joint. So I stood on it, my arms straight above me. Bawke rushed towards me as if he would dispute my right, and I was ready for his attack. I could have killed him or whomsoever in¬ terfered with me at that time. However, he stopped, knelt, and made ready to follow my plunge. He evidently thought the door would not close again, and meant to endeavour to force himself head-first through the rising mass of water. Thinking all this, and much more, as I stood there with my hands touching the floor over my head, my finger-tips playing with particles of grit in the planking, I could partly realize some of the sensations of a felon as he feels the gallows-trap giving way under his feet. Suddenly the heavy cover swung downwards and I slid out. I was conscious of struggling, of abrasion, of semi¬ suffocation. Then I was free amongst some effervescing liquid, and I felt myself fumbling around the hull of our prison. Then a rapid ascent into growing light—a rough hug from strong hands—and I was hauled into one of the boats even then searching for us. I looked around, water in my eyes, many questions in my ears. Big bubbles showed there was strife between air and water below, but Bawke did not appear. It was evident that the rush of water had closed the door, and that the air-pressure was insufficient to allow of its being opened a second time. The foreman in charge of that part of the dock said, after a few hurried words of explanation and wonderment had passed : “ I expect she’s got nipped between them two piles there. They seemed to be forced apart; the one on the left has only been driven in a few feet.” “ Then it can be shifted easily,” I shouted. I took in a great gasp of air, the value of which, boundless around me, I had never estimated; and as I thought of those below with it doled out to them, price¬ less, I felt equal to any effort. Hurrah ! Those giant logs should be drawn further apart, and the Watch Below should be released. “ We must heave that highest pile over. To it, my men ! Fore¬ man, you must have blocks and tackle in your shed yonder. We’ll have ’em up.” We all scrambled ashore and rushed to the shed, where we found the gear we required. Speedily the tackle was stretched from the top of the pile, which stood high above its neighbour, to a fixed log on shore, giving us a straight lead for pulling the pile over in the best direction. “ Now, yeave-ho, m’ lads, pull like men and not like women. Yeave-ho, break the rope. That shakes her. Heave away, m’ lads ; show ’em what you can do. Pull away, m’ hearties.” We were all on the rope, digging our heels “i STOOD ON IT, MY ARMS STRAIGHT ABOVE ME.” THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW. » into the soft earth—a tug-of-war with men’s lives as the prize. Slowly, slowly, the timber yielded and opened like the jaw of some monster unwilling to give up its prey. But, as it came over more and more, the resist¬ ance was greater. “ Pull, m’ lads, pull, give her fits ; now then, all together. I wish I had our crane here,” gasped the foreman, who was working like two men ; “ here are the rails, and it could be run along, but steam’s not up.” “ Pull, lads, pull. Grim death is against us ; tug away, we’ll beat him yet. Now—a supreme effort! ” Merciful Heaven, is she coming ? She is ! A foaming, a shout from the foreman to the men in the boats : “ Back your oars, there,” a swirling of propellers, and her stern 3i He answered, hesitatingly: “ Yes ; shipped a lot of water,” and disappeared as if pulled away from below. O’Neill then put out his head, and said, in his usual tones : “ Faith, my boy, this is a narrow squeak. Have you got those notes safe ? ” “ Boulger—Mackey ! ” I ejaculated. “ How are they ? ” “ Boulger’s silly and Mackey’s insensible, but otherwise I believe they’re all well, barring Mackey’s leg. Shall I come out this way ? ” “ No, no; we’ll get the main hatch open,” 1 answered. This was done, and Mackey was handed out as he had predicted, but very limp. Boulger was still dazed, and I led him away, A SWIRLING OF PROPELLERS, AND HER STERN APPEARED.” appeared. Rolling violently, she was float¬ ing at an angle, but righted, the emergency door well out of the water, the main hatch just clear, the look-out cowl all snug and undamaged. I jumped into a boat, which was rowed to her when the rolling had diminished and her engines had stopped. To my perfect joy the door was pushed open, and I saw Bawke, who looked at me, but said nothing. “ Is all well ? ” I demanded. after regaining and donning my soddened clothes. Boulger recovered and Mackey recovered, but the Watch Below was doomed. Many of her patents were sold, however, and few submarine boats are now designed without owing something to the two inventors. They earned about as much as they had spent, and so, as O’Neill remarked, “ The only good turn the Watch Beloiv did them was when she saved their lives.” A Peep into “ Punch Part VII.—1875 to 1879. By J. Holt Schooling. [ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection firom Mr. Punch's famous pages. ] potent influence which broke the great Gladstone Government of 1868-1874 was, probably, “ the fact that people in general had grown tired of doing great things, and had got into the mood of the lady described in one of Mr. Charles Reade’s novels, who frankly declares that heroes are her abomina¬ tion. The English constituencies had grown weary of the heroic, and would have a change.” Whatever was the cause of Gladstone’s fall The New Shepherd. —Hartington (new hand, just taken on). “ Hey, hut Measter !—Where be the Sheep ? ” I.— BY TENNIEL, 1875. N the Tenniel-cartoon, No. 1, John Bright is giving to Lord Harting¬ ton (now the Duke of Devonshire) the shepherd’s crook, on the staff of which is written “ Liberal Leadership.” This cartoon was published February 13, 1875, and in 1874 “the great Liberal Administration had fallen as suddenly as the French Empire ; had disappeared like Aladdin’s palace, which was erect and ablaze with light and splendour last night, and is not to be seen this morning.” Mr. Justin McCarthy has also recorded that the most A Picture Puzzle. — Tenor Warbler (with passionate emphasis on the first Words of each Line). “ Me-e-e-c-e-t me once again, Me-e-e-e-t me once aga-a-ain-” (Why does the Cat suddenly jump up off the Hearth-rug , rush to the Door, and make frantic endeavours to get out ?] 3. —BY DU MAURIER, 1875. Gross Neglect of Duty. —Sunday School Teacher. “ What did your Godfathers and Godmothers then for you?” Sunday School Dunce. “Nothing at all, Miss—neither then nor since ! ” 2.— by du maurier, 1875. in 1874, his dismissal from power caused him to almost withdraw from Parliamentary life anddrom the poli¬ tical world. “ It seemed clear [in 1875-J. H. S.] that Mr. Glad¬ stone never meant to take any leading part in politics again,” and he made himself busy with the writing of controversial essays. In these c i rcumstances the Leadership of the much- reduced Liberal Party in the A PEEP INTO “PUNCH. 33 House of Commons was, on the nomination of John Bright, passed on to Lord Hartington—hence the cartoon in No. i, in which the New “A Parthian Shaft.”— Cook. “Now I’m a Leavin’ of yer, M um, 1 may as well Tell yer as the Key o’ the Kitching-Door fits your Store-Room ! ” 4. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1875. Jumping at Conclusions. —Ethel {muck impressed). ‘‘0, Miss Grumph, do look ! That must be Adam ! ” 6.— BY DU MAURIER, 1875. But the selection of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman answered that question. Pictures 2 and 3 are by Du Maurier; the piece of social satire in No. 3 is very amusing, and—thank goodness !—we do not now have inflicted upon us at social gatherings nearly so much of the amateur sing¬ ing as was pressed upon the group of guests in No. 3, Shepherd asks, “ Hey, but Measter !— Where be the Sheep ? ” A few months ago, curiously enough, the position was reversed, and the Liberal sheep were asking, in 1899, “Hey, but Measter!—Where be the Shepherd?” Punch, a Martyr. —“ O, I say, I’ve such a Capital Story for you. My little Niece, only Two Years old-” 7. —BY W. RALSTON, 1875. who are momentarily aroused from stifled boredom by their appreciation of the cat’s just act. There is a little gem of a Keene in No. 4. Just look at the attitude of the departing cook, and at her facial expression. TenniePs picture in No. 5 refers to the Prince of Wales’s visit to India in 1875. No. 6 is by Du Maurier—a fine piece of work—and No. 7, by W. Ralston, shows very cleverly Mr. Punch’s resignation under a trial ol his patience. Many of Mr. Punch’s own stories and jokes have been dished up 34 THE STEAND MAGAZINE. Hard of Hearing. — Polite Stranger (in a hurry, think¬ ing he had grazed an Old Gentleman s ankle). ** Beg Pardon !” Old Gentleman. “ Eh?” Polite Stranger (louder). “ I beg your Pardon ! ” Old Gentleman (unconscious of any hurt). “ Why? ” Polite Stranger. “ I’m afraid I kicked you-” Old Gentleman. “ Eh ? ” Polite Stranger (shouting). “ I kicked you.” Old Gentleman (surprised). “ Wha’ for?” Polite Stranger. “ It was quite by Accident.” Old Gentleman (not catching it). “ Eh ? Peg your Pard-” Polite Stranger (roaring in his ear). Accident.' ” Old Gentleman (starting). “ Bless my Soul ! You don’t say So! Where? Where? I hope nobody’s killed-” [.Polite Stranger rushes off, and loses his Train /] 8.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1875. over and over again in other papers, and on this score a New York correspondent writes to me : “ Permit me to say that your Punch articles are accomplishing a great work in exposing a class of comic artists here who have prospered on their filchings from for¬ gotten back numbers of that estimable paper.’’ Arms for the proposed new West-End Stock Exchange. (To he placed over the principal Entrance.) On a chevron vert, a Pigeon plucked proper, between three Rooks peckant, clawed and beaked gules. Crest: a Head Semitic grtnnant, winkant, above two pipes laid saltierwise, argent, environed with a halo of Bubbles or. Supporters : a Bull and Bear rampant sable, dented, hoofed and clawed gules. Motto : “ Let us prey.” 9. —BY LINLEY SAMBOURNE, 1875. No. 8 is another splendidly clever Keene- drawing. In No. 9 there is a smart coat- of-arms and motto for the proposed new Oh ! Horror !—Tommy (suddenly—on his 70 ay home from Church). “ What did you take out of the Bag, Mamma ! / only got Sixpence ! Look here ! ” IO. — BY DU MAURIER, 1876. West-end Stock Exchange. The motto, “ Pet us prey,” is very happily chosen. The tempt¬ ingly-worded advertisements of the “ outside ” “New Crowns for Old Ones!” (Aladdin adapted.) II.—BY TENNIEL, 1876. stockbrokers, with which we are so familiar, ought not to be so successful as they often are, if people would only reflect that the money spent upon publishing these advertise- A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.» 35 merits, if invested by the advertising stock¬ broker himself in one of his “cover-systems” (instead of in advertising), would very soon automatically turn into a small fortune—if the “ cover-system ” and every other system of gambling were not, as they are, absolutely worthless (except as a base for ingeniously plausible traps to catch the public). Glancing at No. 10, we see in No. 11 Benjamin Disraeli (as the magician in Aladdin who offered “New lamps for old ones ”) offering the Crown of India to the ■Queen in exchange for the Crown of England. This cartoon was published April 15, 1876, the year in which, on Disraeli’s initiative, Over-Weighted. — Britannia. “Look here, Father Nep! I can t stand it much longer! Who’s to ‘ rule the waves ’ in this sort of thing? ” 12.—by tenniel, 1876. the Queen formally assumed the title of Empress of India. In August, 1876, there was published another cartoon by Tenniel, entitled “ Empress and Earl ; or, one good turn deserves another.” Disraeli had just been created Earl of Beaconslield, arid in the cartoon (not shown here) the Empress is placing an Earl’s coronet on Beaconsfield’s head. The Tenniel-cartoon in No. 12 refers to the building of the Inflexible ’, which was protected with very heavy armour-plates. 1 he comely figure of Britannia presses heavily on her shield : notice how well Sir John Tenniel has given to this comely Dignity and Impudence. (A Reminiscence of the Great Ball at the Guildhall.) Impudence (to Dignity). “Ye’d better look sharp, my Lord, ir yer wants to be in Time for Supper ! Why, the Tripe and-Onions is all gone, and so’s the Liver-and- Bacon ; and blest if they hain’t sendin’ round the Corner for all the Fried Fish as they can lay 'old on ! ” T3.—BY DU MAURIER, 1876. female figure the exact pose of being over¬ weighted. There is a good drawing by Du Maurier in No. 13, and No. 14 is a vivid picture of despair by Charles Keene. In the important Tenniel-cartoon, No. 15, Lord Beaconsfield, Prime Minister in 1876, is bringing Lord Salisbury to the front in foreign affairs. The football is labelled Eastern Question, and Lord Beaconsfield says to Sir Henry Elliott, the English Ambassador at Constantinople: “There, stand out of the way, Elliott !—We’ve got a stronger man ! ” This was in November, 1876, when there was much friction between England and Russia on the subject of Turkey. Despair.— Brown has locked his. Portmanteau with one of those Letter Padlocks, and forgotten the Word that Opens it ! [Only Ten Minutes to Dinner!] 14. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1876. 36 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. A Fresh “ Kick Off.”—B eaconsfielcl {Captain). “There, stand out of the way, Elliott !—We’ve got a stronger man ! ” 15.— BY TENNIEL, 1876. No. 16 is a very fine bit of characterization by Charles Keene. James, the Scots beadle, who is strongly suspected of larceny, is a marvellously clever representation of deep, imperturbable, crafty guile, as he calmly suggests to the horrified minister that the “ Splitting the Difference.*'— Presbyterian Minister (portentously}. “James, this is a very dreadful Thing! You have heard there is One Pound missing from the Box ! ” James (the Beadle , who is strongly suspected ). “ ’Deed, Sir, so they were tellin’ me-” Minister (solemnly). “James! You and I alone had Access to that Box-” James. “ It’s just as ye say, Sir—it must lie between us Twa ! An’ the best way’ll be, you to Pay the tae Half, an’ I’ll Pay the tither, an’ say na’ mair aboot it !” 16.— by Charles keene, 1876. theft “ must lie between us Twa,” proposes to pay one half each, “ an’ say na’ mair aboot it ! ” The more one looks at Charles Keene’s work, being on one’s guard not to overlook its masterly artistic quality by reason of its great ease and naturalness, the more one realizes that only a supreme artist could have drawn these pictures. We pity the poor little boy in No. 17, and in looking at No. we observe that the architect’s em¬ barrassment is caused by his mis¬ interpretation of the old pew-opener’s innocent remark as to the bad con¬ dition of the pulpit in the church which is to be restored. The half- startled, half-suspicious glance of the clergyman at his trusted pew-opener The Round of the Studios. —JEstheticParty (to Child of the House). “ Tell me, Little Boy, was it your Father who Painted this exquisite Copy of one of Luca Signorelli’s most exquisite Master¬ pieces? ” Child of the House (in great trepidation). “ Boo-hoo-oo-oo—I want Nursey !” 17.— BY DU MAURIER, 1877. — as the double meaning of her remark strikes him also—is another of those life-like bits of absolutely true expression with which Charles Keene’s work abounds. Look at poor Tam’s face in No. 19—a per¬ fect expression of disappointment and vexation, mixed with half- heartedly-hopeless entreaty. Glancing at No. 20, we see in No. 21 another very fine bit of work by Charles Keene. “ Wha’s catchin’ Fesh?” retorts the disgusted small Scots boy, who has not had a rise A PEEP INTO “PUNCH. 37 drawing of this is very fine, very true. The long - suffering master appeals to his old servant so simply and in such entire good faith as he says, “Ah, James! Think how long I’ve put up with her ! ” There is not a shadow of a doubt in either all the morning, to the minister’s reproof, “ Don’t you know it’s Wicked to catch Fish on the Sawbath ? ” There is no exaggeration, no caricature of expression in the work of Charles Keene : it is just real bits of life truly caught and most wonderfully expressed in line. The injured feeling of the boy and his disgust, his full intention to reply rudely and shortly to the minister who has just touched him on a very sore place, are all expressed in the few masterly lines that make this boy a real boy, and exactly the sort of boy he ought to be in the circumstances stated. Passing No. 22, by Keene, we come to a joke illustrated by Du Maurier which has often been served up afresh since it first appeared in Punch , in the year 1S77. The V* - Expensive \—Londoner (to Friend from the North). “ how do you like the Opera, MacAlister?” Mr. MacAlister. “ No that bad. But is’t no dreadfu’, to be sittin’ in thae Chairs at Ten Shilluns apiece ! ” 20.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877. man’s mind as to the fact that the “ Missus ” was a person to be “ put up with,” and the reluctance of the servant to put up with his Missus any longer is as plainly shown as is the conviction of his master that he at Dilapidations. —Architect (who has come down about the “ Restora¬ tion "). “ Good deal of Dry-Rot about here ! ” Garrulous Pew-Opener. “ Oh, Sir, it ain’t nothink to what there is in the Pulpit ! ! ” 18. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877. “ Not Proven.” —Presbyterian Minister. “ Don’t you know it’s Wicked to catch Fish on the Sawbath ! ? ” Small Boy (not having had a rise all the Morning). “ Wha’s catchin’ Fesh?!” 21.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877. Candid. — Tam (very dry, at door of Country Inn, Sunday any rate is doomed tO put Up with the “ A y e > Mon > > re micht * me a blt Gin oot in a Missus for the rest of his natural life. You Landlord (from within). “ Weel, ye ken, Tammas, I daurna sell onything the Day. And forbye ye got a Half-Mutchkin awa’ wi’ ye last Nicht (after Hoors tae) ; it canna be a’ dune yet! ” Tam. “Dune! Losh, Mon, d’ye think a' could Sleep an’ Whuskey i’ the Hoose ? ! ” 19.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877. see plainly that this poor man will never revolt, and that James is weighing his regard for his master against his inability to endure his mistress any longer. THE STRAND MAGAZINE . Plain to Demonstration. —Customer (nervously), “Ah! They must be very Irksome at first.” Dentist (exultantly). “Not a bit of it, Sir! Look here, Sir!” (Dexterously catching his entire set.) “Here’s my Uppers, and here’s my Unders !” 22. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877. This picture by Du Maurier and many more of his earlier pictures do not incur the risk of being pronounced not true to life by reason of the artist’s great love of beautiful faces and forms, a love that in some of Du Maurier’s later work caused him to sacrifice truth of expression to that idealization of face and form which is so well known a feature of his work—especially of his later work. The exaggeration in No. 24 is necessary to give point to the joke, and passing No. 25 we come to an impressive Tenniel-cartoon, A Discussion on Character. —“ I believe that Character lies in the Nose. ‘Give me plenty of noseas Napoleon said ! ” “ Nose? Nose be Blowed ! Character lies in the Chin and Lower Jaw ! ” 24.— BY DU MAURIER, 1877. No. 26, that takes us back to the foreign affairs of twenty years ago, when we were on the brink of war with Russia. This was published January 19, 1878; Lord Beacons- field was in power, his will was supreme in the Cabinet, and it was feared that he would lead the country into war over the Eastern Question already referred to in cartoon No. 15. But now, in 1878, the crisis was more severe. The Russians had beaten the Turks, and their victorious armies were almost within sight of Stamboul. The road to Constanti- “A Fellow-Feeling Makes us Wondrous Kind.”— 11 What! Going to Leave us, James?” “ Yes, Sir, I'm very sorry, Sir, but I really can’t put up with Missus any longer !” “ Ah, James ! Think how long I've put up with her ! 23. —BY DU MAURIER, 1877. The LastSei.l.— “Oh, Sir, please Sir, is this Chancery Lane? ’ “ It is.” “ Ah ! I knowed it was !” “ Then why did you ask?” “ ’Cos I wanted to have Counsel’s opinion !” 25. —BY DU MAURIER, 1878. A PEEP INTO u PUNCH 39 nople'was clear, and we did not mean , to let Russia have Turkey. Parliament met before the usual time, the Queen’s Speech announced that “some unexpected occurrence may render it incumbent on me to adopt measures of .precaution,"” there was, says Mr. Justin McCarthy, “a very large and very noisy war On the Dizzy Brink.— Lord B. “Just a leetle nearer the edge ?” Britannia. “ Not an inch further. I’m a good deal nearer than is pleasant already ! ” 26.— BY TENNIEL, 1878. party already in existence. It was particularly strong in London.” The events which gave rise to this cartoon, No. 26, also gave rise to the famous Jingo Party—the party who were in favour of war. Then arose the music-hall war-song so familiar to many of us now, that we are startled to think that more than An Eye to Business. —Shipwrecked Party (who sees his 7 uay to supply “ A Sketch on the Spot ” to the Illustrated Papers). “ Beg pardon, but do you happen to have such a Thing as a piece of India Rubber ! ? ” 27.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878. Pauca Verba. —Robinson (after a long Whist-Bout at the Chtb). “ It’s awfully Late, Brown. What will you say to your Wife? ” Brown (in a whisper). “ Oh, I shan’t say much, you know— * Good Morning, Dear,’ or something o’ that sort. She’ll Say the Rest!! ! ” 28.— by Charles keene, 1878. twenty years have passed since we first heard it roared out:— We don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do, We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money, too. In March, 1878, Lord Derby resigned the office of Foreign Secretary, war seemed more certain than ever, and then, for the first time, Lord Salisbury was made Minister of Foreign Affairs—in the place of Lord Derby. New Idea for a Fancy Ball. —Shave your Head, and go as a Phrenological Bust. 29.— BY DU MAURIER, 1878. Soon after this, Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Salisbury attended the famous Congress of Berlin, there to represent England in settling the terms of peace in Europe, which should disperse the war-clouds hanging over 40 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. this country. The result of that memorable journey to Berlin was the historic “Peace with Honour/’ words that will always be linked with the name of Beaconsfield, and which were first spoken by him¬ self when, from a window of the Foreign Office, Beaconsfield an¬ nounced to the excited crowd that he had returned Berlin bringing “ Peace with Honour.” Passing Nos. 27, 28, and 29, in No. 30 we have a picture by Charles Keene which has interest quite apart from its intrinsic value. The man sits there in his room, window wide open, and shows in his face that he knows the victory is with him and his bag-pipes, not with the quite discomfited German band Put to the Rout. — Distracted Bandster. “ Komm avay— komm avay — ee zhall nod give you nodingsh—ee vill blay de Moozeek erselbst ! Teufel ! ” 30. — by Charles keene, 1878. [They retreat hastily.} from outside, who are already beginning their retreat from the man who will play the music himself. The ex¬ trinsic interest of this picture by Keene is that Keene himself was a great lover of the bag-pipes, and made a very large and varied collection of them — we may be sure that the pipes seen in the life out of his No. 30 were drawn from own collection. The next cartoon—No 31—is, I think, the best of those now shown. It is by Tenniel, and is surely a marvellously clever drawing. Not only is the differentiation of the charac¬ ters in the cartoon most definitely conceived nnd expressed, but the picture looked at as a whole strikes the imagination very vividly. Here are Mr. Gladstone and Lord Beaconsfield, caught by Dr. Punch in the act of flinging mud at each other, and “ the two head boys of the A Bad Example.—#**. Punch. “What’s all this? You, ihe two head boys of the school, throwing mud! You ought to be ashamed of your¬ selves l" 3T. — BY TENNIEL, 1878. “ Retort Courteous.” —Facetious Old Gent (to Passenger with a Saw). “You show your Teeth, Sir.” (Chuckles.) Crusty Carpenter. “ You don’t. 'Cause why? —Y’ ain’t got none ! ” 32.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878. school ” don’t know where to look. The half hang - dog expression of Beaconsfield’s face and figure are irresistibly funny, and Gladstone looks so grimly in earnest, although 4i A‘PEEP INTO “ PUNCH. ” At the Head of the Profession. —Scene.— Prisoners' Waiting-Room adjoining Police Court. (Eminently respect¬ able Director awaiting Examination.') Artful Dodger (to Charley Bates). “You’ve been copped for a Till—-and me for a Cly. But ’e’s been copped for a Bank— shared somethin’ like six million swag among the lot ! ” Charley Bates (in a tone of respectful admiration). “ Lor ! ” 33.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878. not without a resentful shame at being caught, and a sullen resolve to be at it again when Dr. Punch and his cane have gone away. This cartoon was published August io, 1878, at the time when the great popularity of Beaconsfield’s Administration of 1874- 1880 (at its climax after the Berlin Treaty of 1878) was just on the turn of the flowing tide of success. Mr. Parnell, then a young man, was beginning to harass and discredit the Government, which was also being cen¬ sured by the Liberals in respect of foreign affairs, and Mr. Gladstone and Lord Beacons- fleld had become “ unparliamentary ” in their “ personal shies ” of abuse and recrimi¬ nation. The stolid bluffness of the crusty carpenter in No. 32 is very good. Keene’s cartoon in No. 33 (published November 2, 1878) refers to the suspension of the City of Glasgow Bank on October 1, 1878, with liabilities estimated at ^13,000,000, followed by heavy failures in the mercantile world. Some of the directors of the bank were arrested, tried for fraud, and convicted, and it is at one of Parried. —Facetious Parson (to Parishioner , who is not believed to be a rigid Abstainer). “Ah, Mr. Brown! Fools stand in slippery places, I’ve heard ! ” Mr. Bi-own (the footpath was in a frightful state). “ So I see, Sir ; but I’m blest if I can ! ” 35. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879.. them, who is awaiting the preliminary magis¬ terial examination, that the Artful Dodger and Charley Bates (from Dickens’s “Oliver Twist”) gaze with respectful admiration, as being a man who is at the tip-top of their own profession of thieving and swindling No. 34, by Charles Keene, pub¬ lished in 1879, illustrates the then deplorable state of affairs in Ireland which in May, 1882, caused the terrible murder of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke in Phoenix Park, Dublin. There is a very famous joke in No. 35, one that has become a classic since it was published by Punch twenty years ago. The next Keene-picture, No. 36, has in it nothing to attract admiration “A Pi. e as a NT Prospect.” — Car-Driver (to New Agent). “ Begorra, the wondher is he wasn’t Shot long before—but, shure, they say, what’s Iverybody’s Business is Nobody’s Business ! ” 34. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879. Vol. xviii.—6. 42 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. if we look for “ prettiness.’ 5 Two nasty little vulgar girls have been quarrelling, and the bigger girl viciously says to the other, “ Yer “There’s A Divinity Doth Hedge,” etc.— Juvenile “ Scold." “ Yer nasty little Thing !„ If yer Father wasn’t a P’liceman, I’d smack yer ! ” 36. —BY. CHARLES KEENE, 1879. 1,000 mem. We had fallen into, the old pitfall of despising the enemy, just as a hundred years before the massacre at. Isandhlwana we regarded the American War of Independence as a mere rebellion in omrcolonies,and sent out half-a-dozen ships to stop, the rebellion which, on the 4th July, 1776, resulted in the famous Declaration of Inde- Charity Begins At Home. — Tommy.. “ What beastly Waste 1 ” 3&..—BY DU MAUHLER, 1879. nasty little Thing ! If yer Father wasn’t a P’liceman, I’d smack yer ! ” There is an historic Tenniel-cartoon in No. 37. It was published March i, 1879, after the horrible blunder at Isandhlwana on January 22^ 1879, when the Zulus simply wiped out one of our columns of about A LESSON. 37'.— BY TENNIEL, 1879. Illli 1 BE V-/ tv r W - ' . had a rise all day). “ There! ” (Throwing’ hisjly-hook tnto the stream,, with a- matedictian.)' — ■* Take your Choice . 39,.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879. pendence of the United States of America. But John Bull is able to learn a lesson from disaster. In 1879, Sir John Tenniel squatted him down on the stool we see in the cartoon, and set a Zulu, to write the lesson on the slate—quite plain. John Bull sat still, looked on—and learnt his lesson. A PEEP INTO u PUNCH. 43 “Live And Let Live.”— Village Doctor (to the Grave- Digger, who is given to Whiskey). “Ah, John! I’m sorry to see you in this pitiable Condition again ! ” Grave-Digger. “Toots, Sir! Can ye no’ let a’e little Fau’t o’ mine gae by? It’s mony a muckle ane o’ yours I ha’e happit owre, an’ said naething aboot! ” 40. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879. In September, 1898, we saw one of the results of the lesson taught to John Bull in 1879 by the Zulu in this Tenniel-cartoon. Slow and steady, swift and sure, Lord Kitchener kept this lesson that John Bull was taught in 1879 right before his eyes during the years of preparation for the final victory at Omdurman ; and John Bull can now almost afford to sponge the Zulu’s lesson off the slate, for it has been driven right home by success as well as by disaster. Glancing at No. 38, we come to another very fine Keene-pic- ture in No. 39. The fisherman stamps and almost bursts with impotent rage as at the end of a whole day’s fishing without a single rise he bangs his fly-book into the stream with a “Take your Choice!”—about all he has left to say. He has long since exhausted his stock of curses — you can see that, clearly, by looking at the man’s face. Observe the grave-digger’s face in No. 40, and see how it exactly agrees with the reply he is making to the village doctor. Don’t look only at the jokes, for good as these often are (this one, for example), they Taking Measure.— Tailor (to stout Customer). “Have the kindness to put your Finger on this bit of Tape, Sir,—just here ! I'll be round in a Minute! ” 41.— BY DU MAURIER, 1879. become almost insignificant by the side of Charles Keene’s illustration of the joke. Pictures. 41 and 42 are both by Du Maurier, and although No. 42 is burdened by a rather long piece of “cackle,” it is well worth inclu¬ sion here, espe¬ cially to those readers who will appreciate the full meaning of this admirable woman’s solici¬ tude that her husband may be quite fit to meet the Consulting Physician of the Life Insurance Company early to-morrow. The Force of Example. — Jones (newly married, to his bachelo P c Tf Brown and Robinson). “No, it’s not Youth, nor Beauty, no Wealth, nor Rank, that a sensible Man should look for in a Wife It' Common Sense, united to experience of life ; and Steadfastness of Purpose combined with a deep though by no means unpractical sense of the fieetin nature of Human Existence on this-” Re-enter Mrs. Jones , suddenly. “ I’m sorry to disturb you, my Love, bu its getting late, and you have an early appointment in Town to-morrow with the Consulting Physician of the—ahem !—of that Life Insuranc Company, you know. [ Taking the hint. Brown and Robinson depart, each framing a dcsperat resolve that he will throw himself away on the drst ood-looking youm Heiress of Title he happens to meet.] s J 42. —BY DU MAURIER, 1879. (To be continued.) From Behind the Speaker's Chair. LIII. (VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.) TAR LI A- MENTARY REFORMS. WHEN we consider the succes¬ sion of amendments and im¬ provements in Parliamentary pro¬ cedure that has marked the course of the last twenty years, it is reason¬ able to expect the factory at Westminster to at least double its output of legislation. There are in the present House some (sur¬ prisingly few) members who can recall the good old times when the House, commenc¬ ing public business at half-past four, thought Ministers fortunate if the first, order of the day were reached before seven o’clock. In those halcyon days mem¬ bers putting a question delighted themselves, their wives and daughters in the gallery, by reading aloud its every word. The Irish members, quick to see innocent-looking openings for obstruction, seized upon what was ironically called “ the question hour.” They put down innumerable questions of prodigious length with as much sting directed against the Saxon — particularly Mr. Forster and Mr. George Tre- velyan, successively Irish Secre¬ taries—as the vigilance of the clerks at the table permitted. This went on for years, the House being relieved of the incubus by the intervention of Mr. Joseph Cowen,, then mem¬ ber for Newcastle. Fie pointed out that the questions being printed on a paper held in every member’s hand there was no necessity for reading the text, gested that citation of the suffice. “ ARISING OUT OF THAT ANSWER.” and sug- number would The Speaker assented, and thus by an unpremeditated stroke the House was relieved from an intolerable burden. If there is room for more statues in the precincts of the House of Commons, or for a fresh stained-glass window in the Octagon Hall, a grateful Legislature should not forget “ Joe ” Cowen. There was another outrage on the question hour that long survived this radical reform. The fact that there were only ninety or a hundred printed questions on the paper did not, up to a period not more distant than the coming of Mr. Gully to the Chair, indicate the precise amount of time that would be appropriated for the service. When a printed question had been replied to, up got the gentleman responsible for it or some other member, and repeating the for¬ mula, “ Arising out of that answer,” another question was put. Members opposite, above or below the gangway, thinly veiling a controversial point in the garb of a question, followed, and quite a sharp debate lasting over several minutes sprang up. Mr. Sexton excelled all others in this art. On an average a question on the printed list standing in his name was the prelude to five others, each “ arising out of the answer just given.” Not the least valuable of the services rendered by Mr. Gully during his occupancy of the Chair has been stern re¬ pression of this irregularity. The Orders, or rather the custom of the House, make it permissible that a Minister having replied to a question on the paper a member may without notice put a further question designed to elucidate a point left obscure. He may not at the moment start on a new tack. Under Mr. Gully’s alert super¬ vision it is amazing to find how little a Minister leaves unanswered of questions set forth on the paper. The deliberate and noisy pro¬ longation of questions was only one of the opportunities for obstruction the question hour in¬ vited mutinous members to avail themselves of. The license of supplementary PARLIAMENTARY BENE¬ FACTOR— MR. JOSEPH COWEN. MOVING THE ADJOURN¬ MENT. FROM BEHIND THE SEE AXE EE CHAIR. 45 questions frequently worked the House into an uncontrollable storm of passion. In the midst of it would be heard a voice exclaim¬ ing, “ I move that this House do now adjourn.” The member who spoke, how¬ ever personally obscure, was by the utterance of this incantation master of the whole Parliamentary proceedings. The business of the day, whatever it might be, of whatever range of Imperial importance, was peremp¬ torily set aside, and on this formal motion the flood of angry temper rushed forth un¬ controlled, occupying as much of the sitting as physical endurance made possible. A little more than nineteen years a famous ago this month there was a scene scene, in the House of Commons that illustrates the working of what were ironically called its rules* Mr. O’Donnell had a question on the paper making a violent personal attack on M. Challemel-Lacour, just appointed French Ambassador at the Court of St. James. Sir Charles Dilke, Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the time, made due answer. Where¬ upon Mr. O’Donnell rose and began to make a speech en¬ larging on the indictment set forth on his printed question. That su-ch a course of procedure was permissible will appear incredible to members of the present House of Commons. Mr. O’Donnell, as usual when combating authority in the House of Commons, knew what he was about. Attempts being made to stop him, he quietly replied, “I will conclude by a motion,” meaning that he would move the adjournment of the House. Gulliver bound by the manifold threads of the pigmies of Liliput was not more helpless than was the Imperial House of Commons in the hands of the member for Dungarvan. Mr. Gladstone, distraught, took the extreme course of moving that Mr. O’Donnell be not heard. That was a bold last card for the Premier to play. Mr. Parnell easily trumped it. Mr. O’Donnell had moved the adjourn¬ ment of the House. Mr. Parnell now moved the alternative obstructive motion — the adjournment of the debate. For eight hours by Westminster clock the angry storm of words waged. At one o’clock in the morning Mr. O’Donnell retired triumphant from the scene, and the wearied House, with nice assumption of nothing having happened in the interval, proceeded with the list of questions. Gentlemen of England, who live at ease in the House of Commons in these last days of the century, beginning questions at half-past three, with the certainty that the Orders of the Day will be reached before half-past four, and that all will be over by midnight, find a difficulty in believing that, less than twenty years ago*, such things might be. They were,, and it took considerable repetition and increased aggravation before the House of Commons shook itself free from the chains that bound it. Another, a less dramatic, but, by balloting, its regular recurrence, not less effective, block to the advance of business was the older manner of giving notices of motion. Every Tuesday evening, when the long labour of questions had been lifted from the shoulders of the House, the clerk at the table unlocked a box containing a pile of slips of paper carefully wrapped up. These- were notices of motion, and the receptacle was the ballot-box. In full view of the watchful House the clerk, dipping the out¬ stretched fingers of both hands into the mass-, lifted them up and stirred them about as if he were publicly making a plum-pudding. This was designed to avoid suspicion of favouritism. Selecting at random one of the folded pieces of paper, he opened it and read aloud the number. The Speaker, referring to a long catalogue, called the name of the member to which the number was attached. Thereupon the member rose and recited the terms of a resolution he proposed to submit or the name of a Bill he desired to introduce. On the first night of the Session four Tues¬ days may be balloted for. It being the rule that a day for private members’ motions may be secured only a month ahead, it follows that the weekly ballot thereafter opened only one opportunity—“thisday four weeks.” Never¬ theless, the whole box of tricks was gone THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 46 MAKING A PUDDING. through. Every folded paper was opened, the number called out by the clerk at the table, and the corresponding name on the list cited by the Speaker. Then would the stranger in the gallery be mystified by observing member after member, his name cried from the Chair, respond by mutely raising his hat. The prize of that day four weeks had been snatched by another hand. Nothing remained. The succeeding proceedings were a mere formula, an absolute waste of presumably precious time. Nevertheless the box had always been scrupulously emptied, the list gone through to the bitter and far-off end. So year after year, in entirely altered circumstances, with the fin- de-siec/e device of syndicates in full practice “nobbling” the ballot, the old order of things prevailed. Just as a flock of sheep observing the leader jump over an imaginary obstacle jump at precisely the same spot, so the House of Commons, the highest develop¬ ment of British intelligence, carried on this ludicrous game. Only a few Sessions ago the Speaker intro¬ duced the practice of inquiring as soon as the available Tuesday was appropriated whether any other members have motions to bring forward. Of course they have not. The box is shut up, the list laid down, and the business of the day proceeded with. Once the hand of Parliament is put to the plough of reform of procedure it makes a deep, long furrow. Another tradition which long dominated the House of Commons was that private members should on the opening day publicly announce their “ARRIVED IN TOWN FOR THE SESSION .’ 1 legislative intentions. This was called giving notice of motions. It was all very well in the days when the number was limited to a dozen or at most a score. In these days, with special wires to provincial newspaper offices, and with London correspondents on the look¬ out for the doings of local members, the situa¬ tion is changed. Much as people coming to town for the season leave cards on a circle of friends advertising their arrival, so modern members of Parliament let their constituents know they are at their post by the costless contrivance of giving notice of motion on the opening day of the Session. In recent times the average aggregate number exceeded two hundred. The business was carried on by the process described of the ballot-box and the list in the Speaker’s hand. An hour, sometimes an hour and a half, of the freshest day of the Session was occupied with a performance that had no recommendation save its cheap advertising. Now the balloting is done by the clerks in a Committee Room upstairs, and a working hour of the Session is saved. There remains an obvious con- bringing sequential reform, whose accorn- in bills, plishment cannot be long delayed. Private members having had a field-day on the first night of the Session, had another performance all to themselves on the second day. This is called “ Bringing in Bills”—a tiresome, objectless performance that might be dispensed with without in¬ juring the foundations of the State. The Speaker, reading from his list, recites the name of a Bill, and asks, “ Who is prepared to bring in this Bill?” Up rises a private member, and reads a list of names, modestly concluding with the not least important “And Myself.” When the list has been gone through in monotonous fashion, the members in charge of Bills crowd the Bar, are called up one by one by the Speaker, and hand to the clerk at the table what purports to be their Bill. The proceeding is fraudulent, as well as foolish. The docu¬ ment is no Bill at all, merely a sheet of foolscap folded over and indorsed with a title. This Session seventy-one Bills were brought in. Seventy-one times the Speaker asked, “Who is prepared to bring in this Bill?” Seventy-one lists of members were recited by as many members, concluding, with vary¬ ing inflexions of modesty, “ and Myself.” Seventy-one members crowded at the Bar. Seventy-one names were called out by the Speaker. Seventy-one members marched up FROM BEHIND THE SEE A EE RE CHAIR. 47 to the table blushing with consciousness of the sham document carried in their hands. Seventy-one times the clerk at the table to whom the fraud was furtively handed read its title ; seventy-one times the Speaker inquired, “ What day for the second reading ? ” Three score and eleven fixtures were made. It is not worth the trouble of looking up how many were kept. If when next month the prorogation take place it appear that the odd eleven Bills have been added to the Statute Book, private members may boast a record Session. The death of Sir John Mowbray sir john removes from the House of moweray. Commons almost the last, cer¬ tainly the best known, of an old type. In the present assembly its honoured Father was the only relic of the Parliament elected in 1852. He was first returned for Durham in 1853, and sat continuously through eleven Parliaments. For forty years he bore the honoured rank of Privy Councillor. He held modest office under three Administra¬ tions. Lord Derby called him to the Treasury Bench first in 1858, renewing the invitation in 1866. When, in 1868, Mr. Disraeli was Premier he promptly availed himself of the opportunity of associating with his Ministry so fine a type of the English gentleman. For nearly a quarter of a century Sir John acted as chairman of the Committee on Standing Orders and of the Committee of Selection. He lived in and for the House of Commons, serene in the surety that he had not a single enemy. A party man in the sense that he always spoke and voted with the Con¬ servatives, he looked with generous eye on the political vagaries of others. At a time when, owing to their violence in the House of Commons and suspicion of complicity in crime in Ireland, Irish members of the House of Commons were regarded as pariahs, Sir John Mowbray preserved his personal re¬ lations with such among them as he had known in quieter times. He was not a persistent contributor to debate. When he rose he was listened to with the respect his high character and far-reaching personal associations with public men and historic epochs commanded. He had seen much and, happily, had preserved clear impressions. Only last year he gave me a vivid account of the coronation of William IV. He was at the time a Westminster boy, and availed himself of the ancient privilege of the school to take his place in the Abbey, just above the benches allotted to peers on the occasion of the coronation. He saw Queen Victoria riding in State to be crowned in the Abbey. He was at this time at Oxford. When the Queen married, the youth at Oxford drew up a loyal address. Young Mowbray had the good luck to be included in the deputation that proceeded to London to present it. He told me he did not remember very much about the Queen, his attention being concentrated on the figure of the Duke of Wellington standing in close attention on his youthful Sovereign. “You know,” he said, “I was born just before the Battle of Waterloo, and felt I had a sort of connec¬ tion with the Duke.” Having long passed “ very the age of fourscore cold.” the end could not be far off. It was undoubtedly hastened by his insistence upon attending to his Parliamentary duties*. A rumour was current that he meant to retire from Parliamentary life. He would show everyone that there was no foundation for such gossip. So he came up one bleak spring afternoon, took his familiar seat above the gangway, chatted with friends in the lobby, and went off to have a cup of tea. A very old friend who sat at the table with him told me he after a while withdrew in alarm. The old man was in such a state of nervous excitement, talked so rapidly, coughed so omincftisly, he thought he would be better left to himself. A very short time after Sir John sank back shiver¬ ing in his chair. u I am very cold,” he said to another friend, a famous doctor, who approached him with shy endeavour not to look professional. It seemed he would die in the House in which he had lived so long. But they man¬ aged to get him to his own home, where soon the cold of which he had complained deepened into the chillness of death. Sir John Mow- “ BORN JUST BEFORE WATER¬ LOO ”— THE LATE SIR JOHN MOWBRAY. 4 8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. THE HOUSE OF COMMONS’ AIR. bray was not a great statesman, nor will his name shine forth from Parliamentary annals as that of an orator or as a debater. But he was the kind of men who form the backbone of the House of Commons, who have built up and who, whilst they are with us, maintain its unique reputation. The lot of the gentleman who has charge of the ventilation apparatus in the House of Com¬ mons is, like the policeman’s, not a happy one. The machinery at his disposal is the most elaborate, and— having had longer continuous experience than the majority of members—I venture to say, is the most successful in the world. There is nothing about which two or three people gathered together more sharply differ than on the point of temperature. What is one man’s freezing point is another man’s approach to suffocation. In cold weather there are always elderly members sending impera¬ tive injunctions to have the te m pe r a t u re raised, followed in a quarter of an hour by angry protests from younger men that they can scarcely breathe in so heated an at¬ mosphere. In summer time a window, whether open or shut, is equally best thing the engineer own way, unmindful of one side or the other. If any member wants to realize how great is the blessing of the ventilation machinery of the House of Commons, he should go over to “ another place ” on one of the rare occasions when it is crowded in view of debate on topics relating either to rent or religion. The elaborate contrivance that supplies the House of Commons with fresh air does not extend to the House of Lords. That gilded chamber is dependent, like ordinary halls, upon the manipulation of the windows. After a few hours’ occupation by anything approaching a crowd, the atmos¬ phere becomes distinctly stuffy. No matter ho.vv long or how late or how crowded the ANNUAL RETURN. I! I Hi A HASTY HATH. a casus belli. The can do is to go his private protests on House of Commons may sit, the atmosphere suffers scarcely perceptible change. Ever fresh draughts of air, drawn in from the surface of the salubrious Thames, purified by passage through thick layers of cotton¬ wool, iced in summer, warmed in winter, are driven up through the open ironwork of the floor, circulated through the chamber, steadily passing out by apertures in the roof. In the good old days of all-night sittings I have left the House for a hasty bath and breakfast, and coming back in the brightness of early morning have found the atmosphere of the otherwise worn-out House as fresh as it was when the long sitting opened. proposed ^ orc * ^ eel te ^ s me a cur i° us circumstance garnered from his experience when Speaker. It was found that whenever discus¬ sion became heated the thermometer which guides the engi- neer in his adjustment of the temperature invariably went up, falling as soon as order was restored. At the end of each Session returns are ordered, show¬ ing among mis¬ cellaneous mat¬ ters how many days the House has sat, the duration of sit¬ tings, the num¬ ber of divisions, the number of times the closure has been moved, and the proportion of accept¬ ance by the Speaker or the Chairman of Ways and Means. Here is suggestion of a new and significant inquiry. A table marking the maximum temperature of the House from day to day, with foot-notes showing the subjects under discussion, would be most useful to the student and historian of Parlia¬ mentary manners. It would be interesting to know (i) what was the temperature in the House on the 27th of July, 1893, five minutes before the cry of “Judas!” smote the ear of Mr. Chamberlain as he stood at the table, genially comparing Mr. Gladstone to King Herod at the moment preceding the awful fate follow¬ ing on a reign of unrelieved wickedness; (2) the temperature marked ten minutes later FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR . 49 when Mr. Hayes Fisher seized Mr. Logan by the back of the neck and thrust him forth from the Front Opposition Bench. Early in the Session a private resurgam. measure, The General Power Distributing Company Bill, was disposed of by the euphuism of a resolution declaring that it be “ read a second time upon this day six months.” That is the delicate manner in which the House of Commons, dissembling its love, kicks Bills downstairs. The idea is that on the appointed date the House will be in recess. The Bill confidently coming up to be read a second time finds the lights are fled, the garlands dead, and all but he departed. As the Session advances nearer to its close accident is averted by reducing the interval, obnoxious Bills being appointed to be read a second time “on this day three months.” In the good old days, before the introduc¬ tion of the sav¬ ing ordinance whereby Sup¬ ply automatic¬ ally closes so that the pro¬ rogation inevit¬ ably takes place in the first fortnight of August, there was always opening for accident. In this par¬ ticular case it was on the 3rd of March the House resolved to read the Bill a second time. That would bring it up again on the 3rd of September. In the storm and stress of Mr. Gladstone’s prime it was by no means impossible to find the Session prolonged into the first week in September. There is a case wherein the LORD denman’s unex P ected happened. Among little active legislative habits the SURPRISE. l£l , te , 1 .f rd t00k Char § e of a Woman’s Suffrage Bill. At the beginning of every Session he brought it in, and noble lords, not to be outdone in the matter of regularity, every Session threw it out. One year it happened that the accustomed fate befell his pet measure in the third week of February. In the fewest possible minutes the House resolved that the Bill should “ be read a second time on this day six months.” Lord Denman, like a well- known rabbit, lay low and said nuffin. The Session proved a busy one. Both Houses were sitting in the third week of August. One night Lord Denman rose, and blandly reminding their lordships of the date, claimed the privilege of having his Bill read a second time as ordered. As a rule the House of Lords had Lord Denman at their feet, hustling about the poor pathetic figure as if it were a football. Now he had the House of Lords between finger and thumb. By some hocus-pocus of distinction between calendar months and lunar months the House wrig¬ gled out of the difficulty. Lord Denman car¬ ried his grey hairs in sorrow down to the grave with the pained certainty that he had been cheated out of the re¬ ward of a rare opportunity. Charming thing said by one of a back Her Majesty’s Ministers about a view. nominal supporter of the Govern¬ ment whose general bearing does not endear him to mankind. A tender¬ hearted colleague was trying to make the best of a bad job. “ He means well,” he said, “ but is perhaps a little soured by disappointment. He may, you know, from his point of view be acting for the best. Anyhow, let us take the most favourable view of him possible under all circumstances.” “Very well,” said the right honourable gentleman, with unwonted grimness. “ Let us see his back.’ LAY LOW AND SAID NUFFIN.”—THE LATE LORD DENMAN. Vol. xviii.—7. Launched at Society. A TALE OF HENLEY REGATTA. By Victor L. Whitechurch. TELL you, the curse of our so - called civilization, in Western Europe at least, lies not so much in tyrannical Governments and fools who submit to them, as in pleasure —luxury. What is it that makes men and women apathetic to the shrieking cries of humanity? The race-course, the theatre, the ball-room, the whirl of selfish, social pleasure and amusement. It is against this that blows must be directed in the future if we would achieve our ends. It must not be the single tyrant struck with the dagger, the public building ruined with the bomb, unless the bomb is cast into the theatre rather than into the council chamber ! ” These extraordinary words were borne forcibly upon my ears as I awoke from an afternoon siesta one sunny day in the be¬ ginning of June. I was spending a week or two on the north Cornish coast, and had walked from my hotel at Tintagel to a charming little inlet known as Tregarget Strand, taking my lunch with me in a satchel. After my modest repast, partaken of at the foot of huge, rugged cliffs, with the waves breaking in upon the smooth rocks in the foreground, I had strolled aimlessly along the shore until I had hit upon a cave in the cliff. Bent on exploration, I penetrated this cave for about twenty yards, sat down on a com¬ fortable rock within, lit my pipe, and gave myself over to the contemplation of the sunlit sea sparkling beyond the entrance. The day was very hot for the time of year, and the cool atmosphere of the cave was a welcome change. Finally, half-reclining as I was upon the rock, I must have dozed off to sleep, and, as I said before, the above sentence fell on my ears as I woke. At the entrance of the cave w^ere two men. One a small, rather stout, bearded individual, seated with his face turned slightly away from me ; the other a young man of about six or seven and twenty, with an excited, ruddy face, fair sandy moustache, and curly hair of the same colour. He was standing up before his companion, declaiming to him with earnestness and many gestures. I saw at once that they were not aware of my presence, hidden as I was in the semi¬ darkness and shadow of the cave’s interior. My first impulse was to come forth and declare myself, but laziness and curiosity combined got the better of me, and I kept still. “ And so we are going to put this theory into practice, eh ? ” said the man who was seated, slowly and deliberately. “ We are, my friend, yes—at last we are,” went on the other, excitedly. “ I have worked the scheme out to the full, and we and our two good comrades are agreed. Yes, in a month’s time we shall strike a blow at which society shall indeed shudder and take warning—a blow to pleasure on a gigantic scale.” “ Meanwhile,” rejoined his companion, “ I should keep a little bit cooler, if I were you, and not talk so loud. One never knows where danger exists.” “ True,” replied the other; “ my excitement carries me away sometimes, especially when I think what we have undertaken.” “ Well,” said the stout man, rising from his seat and taking his companion’s arm, “ it’s lucky I knowsomething about submarine-” That was all I heard. The breaking of a wave drowned the rest of the sentence as the two men disappeared from the mouth of the cave. I rose to my feet and prepared to follow them. Then I reflected for a moment. If I left the cave at once, and they chanced to see me, the consequences might not only be disagreeable to myself, but, at least, I should excite suspicion. So I waited for a few minutes. When I emerged into the day¬ light once more I saw them disappearing in the distance towards the little bay from LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY. which one mounted the cliffs. I started quickly after them, but had scarcely gone a dozen steps when my foot slipped on a bit of seaweed attached to a rock, and I fell heavily with an awful crash on my knee. When I picked myself up I could only walk slowly and with pain, and the end of it was that I lost sight of the two strangers alto¬ gether. Subse¬ quent inquiries in the neigh¬ bourhood failed to draw any information concerning them. The inci¬ dent remained in my memory for a week or so, and then gradually died away. At the time of which I am speaking I held a lieutenant’s commission in the Navy. I had been inva¬ lided home from an African station for six months, and was gradually recov¬ ering my health, which had suf¬ fered from fever, and was taking things pretty easily. One day I re¬ ceived an invi¬ tation to go and spend a week at Henley dur¬ ing the regatta. Some friends of mine had taken a house-boat, and were getting up a fairly large party. Now, as there happened to be a certain lady in the case whom I knew was also invited, I accepted with alacrity, looked up all manner of boating costumes, packed my portmanteau, and took an afternoon train from Paddington on the day before the regatta. As we moved out of the station I noticed a man seated in the farther corner of the carriage. Something, I could not at first tell “ I STARTED QUICKLY AFTER THEM. what, about him seemed familiar, and pre¬ sently, as he turned his face half away from me to look out of the window, there flashed across my mind the scene in the cave at Tregarget. It was the small man with the dark beard. My curiosity was aroused, especially when it flashed across my mind that the month was just up. He appeared the very essence of a boating man, clad in light summer costume and a straw hat. When the train drew up at Henley there was a further development. A tall young man in flannels and blazer was on the plat¬ form, and lounged up to my travelling companion as he alighted. It was the other of the two men. “ Got it?” I heard him ex¬ claim, in a casual tone of voice. The bearded man nodded, and they walked towards the brake van. I waited on the platform for a few moments. Presently I saw them assist¬ ing a porter to lift a large pack¬ age out of the brake van, a box about 4^4ft. in length and some iSin. square. They seemed very par¬ ticular about the way it was laid on a trolley and wheeled down the platform. I saw them both deposit this box in a cab, end up, and drive off. I engaged another, and as we journeyed to the river I pondered over this somewhat mysterious affair, but forgot all about it a few minutes afterwards when I met Hilda Carr at the tea-table on the house-boat. 5 2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “i SAW THEM ASSISTING A PORTER TO LIFT A LARGE PACKAGE OUT OF THE BRAKE VAN. I had come to Henley with the express purpose of proposing to Hilda Carr. She told me afterwards she guessed it herself. But my love-making by no means made much headway for the next twenty-four hours. Girls are such idiots, or at least they behave in such a silly way, that they make a fellow feel mad. They can’t be serious when a man wants to be serious. When I got her up in a quiet little corner of the upper deck that same evening, and managed to blow out the Chinese lantern nearest to us to make it darker and give me a better chance \ and when I began talking seriously about the stars and things, instead of seeing what I was driving at, she simply said : — “ Oh, Mr. Barton, do come and listen to these lovely niggers.” And then she went off to the others, and encouraged a pack of wretched blackamoors who were serenading the house-boat from a punt. It was just the same the next day. She never gave me a chance. She sat next to a fellow named Willoughby at lunch, and he seemed to get on famously with her. It nearly drove me wild. I hinted to her that I was put out, but she only laughed at me. But in the evening, after dinner, my luck turned, and I managed to get her alone in a Canadian canoe belonging to the house-boat. We paddled up stream beneath the quaint old bridge, now crowded with people return¬ ing to the station. The sun had set by the time we reached Marsh Lock, about three- quarters of a mile from the course. I paddled into the lock with some other craft. “ Are you going farther, Mr. Barton ? ” said my companion. “ Oh,” I replied, “let’s just go through. There’s lots of time.” To tell the truth, I was anxious to get into a quiet reach, for I had a certain question to ask. That was why I wanted to go through the lock. I was just beginning to ease down a bit when we had gone a few hundred yards farther, and was thinking of how I had better begin, when a certain voice arrested my attention. It came from a house-boat. Now, during Henley week most of the house-boats are LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY. 53 moored alongside the course on the Bucks side, and it was somewhat unusual to find one above Marsh Lock. It was a small, dingy-looking concern, and only four men were aboard her, sitting on the deck smoking. The voice I recognised was that of the fair- moustached young man—and there he was, one of the group. The coincidence set me thinking as I paddled on. Was there some deep plot about to be unfolded ? Were they Nihilists or Anarchists ? I remembered that outburst against society pleasures, and here was the man who made it, present at one of the “ I’m sure I don’t want you to think of me,” she replied ; “ but really we’d better be turning. It’s getting quite dark.” I turned the canoe rather surlily. It had choked me off for the moment. As we neared the house-boat once more, I rested on my paddle so as to drift by silently. A punt was alongside, and in the gloom I could see a figure stepping into it. Then I distinctly heard the words :— “To-morrow afternoon .... drop my handkerchief.” I dipped my paddle in the water and we shot ahead, the punt following close astern. “ IT WAS THE YOUNG FELLOW WITH THE RED MOUSTACHE.” gayest scenes in England—Henley Regatta ; what did it mean ? “A penny for your thoughts ! ” said Hilda. “ Why so silent ? ” “ They’re not worth it,” I replied. Why do men a/ways make bungling replies at the wrong moment ? “ Oh,” she said, rather tartly. “No,” I said, realizing that I had put my foot in it. “ If I’d been thinking of you it would be different.” We entered the lock together and lay there side by side. As I struck a match to light a cigarette the glare of it showed me the face of the man in the punt. It was the young fellow with the red moustache. I am not going to weary the reader with the details of how I proposed to Hilda Can¬ on the. way back. Suffice it to say that, in spite of my pleading, nothing would induce 54 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . her to give me a decisive answer. She would neither say yes nor no, and I simply felt a fool. I felt a bigger one next day. She snubbed me horribly, and I nearly kicked young Willoughby. I’m afraid I got in a temper, so much so that I sneaked away from lunch and embarked in the canoe by myself, deter¬ mining to paddle up and down the course. Anyone who has tried this at Henley knows what it means. Between the bridge and “Regatta Island” are hundreds upon hundreds of boats, punts, and canoes, a veritable carnival of colour and beauty such Good ! I wanted something in my present mood to take my mind off things. So I determined to follow him. It was a good five minutes before I could turn, and when I did so he was fifty yards away from me. Bang ! A race had begun. I was hemmed in for a minute and could not stir. I could see him moving on, though. “Well rowed, Eton!—go it, Leander !— now then, stroke ! ” The crews came by in grand style. My eyes were fixed on the punt creeping ahead. Splash, and an ugly rocking. The “wake” of the umpire’s steam launch. “ HUNDREDS upon hundreds of boats, punts, and canoes.” as can only be seen on this beautiful reach of the Thames. Every now and then the warning bells command the clearance of the course, and the craft on either side become still more densely packed. It is no easy task to pilot one’s way through the endless flotilla, and skill and patience alike are necessary. Bump ! The nose of my canoe ran into a punt. It was not my fault. The occupant, who was using paddles only, ought to have seen me. “ I beg your pardon, sir ! ” It was my old friend of the fair moustache, got up in flannels and blazer, working Ins way up stream. All clear now ! I slipped into the course and picked up a little speed. In and out, carefully, gingerly, went the punt and my canoe. At length we were beyond the crowded part, and as I shot under the bridge my unconscious quarry was punting hard about a hundred yards ahead up stream. I kept this distance between us, for I did not want to raise his suspicions. Presently we drew near Marsh Lock. He punted up to the shore, made his punt fast, and stepped out. I followed in a lazy manner, lighting my pipe carelessly as I strolled after him towards the lock. The latter was full of boats coming down LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY. 55 stream. They had just closed the upper gates and opened the sluices. 1 watched the water swirling into the lock, and then I marked the movements of the man I had followed. He was close to the upper gates, gazing at the stream beyond. I looked, too, and saw rather a curious thing. There was a large boat with two men in it close alongside the mysterious house-boat some little distance up stream. Apparently at a sign from the man who stood on the lock, they came rowing towards us. When they were about a hundred yards away they stopped pulling, and, in an aimless manner, allowed the boat to drift round, so that the stern pointed towards the lock gates. Then I saw that not only was the boat of unusual size for a river craft, but that she carried something rather heavy in the stern—some¬ thing covered over in a peculiar manner. One of the two men in her kept her in position with her head up stream, the other stood up and gazed towards the lock. The latter had now filled, and the lock-keeper and his assistant were opening the lower gates to allow the boats out. Presently both of them were opened wide and the procession commenced. It was then that I turned to look at the man of the punt. He was apparently studying the water, and puffing away at a cigar. Suddenly I noticed he held a handkerchief loosely in his hand. A moment afterwards and he had dropped it—dropped it into the water above the upper gates. I looked at the boat. The man who had been standing up was apparently stooping. There were no other boats near him. Suddenly I saw some dark object drop from the stern of the boat into the water. The man who was standing near me instantly turned and walked quietly but quickly away from the lock gates, while the boat im¬ mediately put towards the shore. I was fairly puzzled—but only for an instant. For I saw some¬ thing the next moment that appealed to my knowledge of naval gunnery, and revealed one of the most diabolical plots that the mind of man could conceive. That something was air bubbles — air bubbles rising to the surface of the water and travelling quickly towards the ldck gates by which I stood. I knew the meaning of them only too well, and realized the appalling- situation in a moment. A small torpedo, driven by compressed air, had evidently been launched from the stern of the boat, and in about ten or fifteen seconds would strike the lock gates beneath the surface of the water. And then what would happen ? It was three miles to the lock above—the lower gates of Marsh lock stood open. It meant that three miles of water, four feet or so in height, would come sweeping down. It would be impossible to close the lower gates, ‘crack!’ ‘splash!’—CLOSE to my head.” 56 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . and in five minutes a huge “ tidal wave ” would rush irresistibly and without warning upon the thousands of pleasure-seekers on the regatta course below. The destruction would be simply appalling. All this flashed through my mind as I watched the ominous bubbling of the escaping compressed air drawing nearer and nearer. For a couple of seconds or more I stood petrified with the horror of the situation. Then I threw off my coat, took a running dive, and plunged into the river. I had determined to turn the course of the torpedo. I rose to the surface and struck out. The bubbles were only twenty yards, off. I measured the distance with my eye and swam on. “ Crack !” “ Splash ! ”—close to my head in the water. The light-moustached man had seen my dive, rushed to the bank, and was firing at me with a revolver, regardless of the sundry spectators who were running towards him. “ Crack ! ” “ Splash ! ” Missed me again. The bubbles were very close. I dived, opened my eyes beneath the surface, and saw the ugly black thing coming at me. I knew that if I touched the apex I stood a chance of exploding the thing. But I was perfectly cool. I waited a moment, then put out my hand, seized it by the head very gingerly, and with a push deflected its course towards the bank ; the screw at the end struck my face slightly as it turned, and I rose to the surface and swam in the other direction for dear life. Towards the bank ! Yes, as I looked over my shoulder I saw my adversary standing close to the edge of the water. “ Back for your lives ! ” I yelled to some men who were making for him. “ Back ! ” The torpedo struck the bank. There was a dull roar, and I could see the earth fly and a mighty splash of water. Then I felt it— felt as if I were struck on every part of my body, and I knew no more. When I recovered consciousness I was lying on a sofa in the lock-keeper’s cottage. Some fellows in flannels were standing around me. “You’re all right,” said one; “I’m. a doctor, you know. You’ve only had a shock. By Jove, though, 'you’ve done a plucky thing.” “ Did you see it ? ” “ Only partly—you know what happened, eh ? ” “ No—what ? ” “Why, the thing exploded just at the foot of the fellow who was potting at you. We halted in time, but he was blown clean off his legs—it was awful. I couldn’t do any¬ thing with him.” “ Where is he ? ” “ Dead,” said the doctor. “ He came round for a couple of minutes first, and began to curse you. Then he told us it was a small torpedo, with eight pounds of gun¬ cotton and an air-motor, and that if it hadn’t been for you, Henley would be swamped by now. He died gloating over the thought.” “ Have they caught the others ? ” “What others?” I told them. But no one had seen the two men in the boat make off, and they were never caught. The house-boat was searched afterwards by the police, and sundry tools and machines discovered, together with a few spare pounds of gun-cotton. From these it was evident that the torpedo had been about 4ft. long, and weighed about 501b., quite a small one, but sufficient to have blown up the lock gates, and thus to have brought destruction on thousands. They punted me back to Henley, took me aboard the house-boat, and told the story. And a couple of hours later I forgot the horror of it—when Hilda Carr said “ Yes.” She told me she had meant it all the time, but intended to wait until the end of the week—but that now I had done something to earn it sooner. And Willoughby had been sweet on another girl, after all. So it all ended happily —except for the young Anarchist. Royal Mesalliances. By A. de Burgh. “ Amor omnia vincit.” HERE is one conclusion to which all psychologists have come, and that is that love is one of the strongest agents which move human beings to action. There seems to be no barrier insurmountable when it is a question of gaining one’s heart’s desire ; there is no pain which does not become insignificant if suffered in the service of love; and for the one cherished above all others patience and perseverance come never stronger to the fore --all obstacles appear of little importance, while even reason yields to the dictates of love and passion. However near to each other human beings may be brought by pity and sympathy, there is no doubt that love wields still a greater power in this direction ; neither rank nor station, wealth nor position, are considered when the heart speaks. Therefore it is only natural that marriages be¬ tween different classes are so frequent, and as those born in the purple are of the same clay as the “ common herd,” there is nothing ex¬ traordinary or abnormal in so - called “ mesalliances,” even when Royal personages unite themselves to persons in the more humble walks of life. The tendency of our century has been to level more and more the barriers which separate class from class, and the intercourse between the highest and lowest has become more frequent, more free, and much more intimate than was the case in former times. ’ When love is in question, reason, self- interest, sometimes even honour, go for nothing; they do not weigh in the balance. Self-interest is generally considered one of the most important elements that influence a man’s or woman’s action. It cannot, how¬ ever, compete with love. But it is by no means our intention to write an essay on a subject which has so fre¬ quently been treated by the ablest writers of the day. We simply wish to introduce briefly and prosaically a subject which is of more or Vol. xviii.—8 less psychological and social interest; namely, the mesalliances of notable personages, and our prefatory remarks may be taken as an explanation of the action of those in high positions whom it is intended to bring before our readers as having followed the dictates of their hearts. Many years ago, when Royalties considered themselves of a different race—indeed, almost demi-gods—it was thought quite impossible that they could intermarry with commoners, and for such members of reigning families as were courageous enough to break the ridiculous law that shackled them, and married men or women belonging to the lower classes, a new form of mar¬ riage was specially invented, viz., “morganatic” marriage, which is in existence even to this day. In such cases neither child nor wife can bear the title or acquire the rank of the father or the husband, although the mar¬ riage is legitimate. Whether marriages of the class which we here specially consider were or are happy or not, it is not our task to investigate; but we may say that, as far as is known, the same rule prevails as in common marriages — some are happy, very happy, while others are fraught with misery and wretchedness. We must include in this present article the first King of Belgium, who, as Prince of Coburg, married for his first wife the only child of King George IV. of Great Britain and Ireland, whom he lost within a year of their marriage. Some time later Prince Leopold consoled himself by marrying morganatically the celebrated actress, Char¬ lotte Bauer, with whom he lived a very happy life, but whom he divorced when he accepted the throne of Belgium. His son by Charlotte Bauer is the well-known Baron von Epping- hoven, who is married to the daughter of the British Consul at Nice. Another scion of the same House, Prince Ferdinand of Coburg, also married an actress, Eiise Hensler, an American by birth. He PRINCESS ELVIRA, WHO MARRIED THE PAINTER, TOLCHI. From a Photo, by Addle , Vienna. 58 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. was formerly the husband of Queen Maria of Portugal, and one of the handsomest men of the present century. He received by legislative act and Royal decree the title of King Consort at the time of his marriage. So much affection prevailed between him and his Queen-wife that she began to aban¬ don to him the reins of government. This caused great jealousy and ill-will amongst the people of Portugal, and ended in a revolution which forced the King Consort into a retirement from which he did not emerge until the death of the Queen, when he became Regent for the two years which elapsed until his eldest son attained his majority. It was after this that he married again as mentioned above, and devoted the remainder of his days to the collection of art-treasures, which he bequeathed at his death, a few years ago, to his American widow, who is still living. Only very lately Princess Elvira (whose por¬ trait is given on the previous page), daughter of Don Carlos, Duke of Madrid, eloped with a Roman artist, Tolchi, to whom she was afterwards married. She was only following in the footsteps of a somewhat long list of ladies of Royal blood. Of the reigning House of Spain the Princesses Isabella and Josephine, grand-aunts of the present youthful King, eloped with the men who subsequently became their morganatic husbands. Princess Isabella left the house of her father at Enghien, near Paris, in the most romantic fashion—by a rope-ladder—in the middle of the night, the handsome Polish Count Gurowski, to whom she had lost her heart, having a carriage waiting at the garden- gate. The couple fled to this country, where they were married. The union did not turn out happily, and when the Count died, twelve years ago at Paris, he had been separated for years from the Princess. Josephine was living at Madrid, at the Royal Palace, with her sister-in-law, Queen Isabella, at the time she eloped with a poet and journalist, who had started in life as a reporter for a daily newspaper in Havana. His story reads almost like a fairy tale. He had become infatuated with the daughter of a rich Cuban planter, but his suit was opposed by the father of the girl in the most con¬ temptuous manner. He told the lad that he was of far too low origin ever to dream of marrying his daughter. Enraged beyond measure, the young reporter exclaimed that he would show people who he was by marry¬ ing a Princess. He went to Madrid, where, after meeting with many rebuffs and suffering want and even hunger, he finally succeeded in making a name for himself as a poet and author. Several poems which he dedicated to Prin¬ cess Josephine sufficed to turn her head. She made the poet’s acquaintance, and they soon became enamoured of one another. Finally they eloped from Madrid, and, after a secret marriage at Valladolid, made their way to Paris. Consternation prevailed in the Royal Family and in Court circles when their flight became known. Both the Court and Govern¬ ment made strenuous efforts to have the marriage invalidated, but in vain. The people were delighted with the union, and manifested in the strongest manner their dissatisfaction with the sentence of banishment pronounced against the fugitive lovers. After a while, however, the good-nature of Queen Isabella prevailed, and the couple returned to Spain with honour, the Sovereign receiving the popular poet in every way as her brother-in- law. The Royal Family had at no time reason to regret the marriage, and the ex¬ journalist’s three sons are perhaps the most popular, and certainly the most accomplished, members of the family. The ancient House of Austria the Haps- burgs, has been especially remarkable for the number of morganatic marriages amongst its members. Considering the lineage (the Hapsburgs claim descent from Julius Caesar) and the strictness of the etiquette prevailing at the Austrian Court, and remembering the exclusiveness and the loftiness of the position of the Imperial House, it seems at first surprising to see scions of this highly auto¬ cratic and proud family allying themselves to subjects in the humbler walks of life. Early in this century (1827) Europe was startled by the announcement of the marriage of Archduke John, afterwards for a time the nominal head of the then still existing German Confederation (Bund), with Anna Plochl, the daughter of a peasant posting-master of a small Styrian village. The story of the meeting and courtship is well worth repeating. The Archduke was coming from Italy, on his way to Vienna, where his immediate presence was commanded, and when at Aussee (it was before the time of railways) there was no postilion at hand to take him on his way ; the postmaster’s daughter donned the dress of a postilion, and drove the Archducal carriage to the next station. The youthful Prince discovered the sex of his driver, admired her pluck, fell in love with her, and made her his wife. She was created ROYAL MESALLIANCES. 59 ARCHDUKE HENRY OF AUSTRIA. From a Photo, by Stoklas, Baden. Baroness Brandhof, and by the present Emperor in 1850 Countess of Meran. Her descendants still flourish in Austria as Counts of Meran. At Budapest it is well known that Count Louis Batthyany, who was shot by the Austrian troops in the market-place of that city for his complicity in the insurrection of 1848, could have effected his escape the night before his execution, had he consented to fly with the Archduchess Maria, who was deeply in love with him. One of the most remarkable marriages of this century to which one of the daughters of the Austrian Emperor was forced to consent, and which has always been considered a most humiliating alliance for the ancient House of Hapsburg, was the marriage of the Arch¬ duchess Marie Louise to Napoleon I. The ex-Empress entered afterward into a matri¬ monial alliance with Count Neuperg, and the Austrian Princes Montenuovo of to-day are the descendants of that marriage. Napoleon’s son, the Duke of Reichstadt (King of Rome), who was naturally considered a most incon¬ venient personage, ruined his health by dis¬ sipation, into which, as many believe to this day, he was intentionally led by those who had the care of him. In more modern times we can record two morganatic marriages in this Imperial House. Archduke Henry married an actress, and in consequence was compelled to resign his rank in the army and was banished from the Court; however, many years afterwards, through the intervention of the late Empress Elizabeth, Francis Joseph forgave his cousin, whose wife received the title of Baroness Weideck. But the saddest episode is that known as the mystery of Johann Orth, one of the most remarkable romances in the dynastic history of Europe in this century. The Archduke John Salvator of Tuscany, a nephew of the Emperor Francis Joseph, had fallen in love with an actress and singer, Ludmilla Hubei, whom he married in spite of all family oppo¬ sition, renouncing at the same time all his rights, privileges, and rank, and assuming the name of Orth, after one of his castles. The romantic marriage was celebrated secretly, but in a perfectly legal manner, by the Registrar of Islington, and was witnessed by the Consul-General of Austria in London. Johann Orth next bought;'in 1891, a fine ship in Liverpool, which he re-named Santa Mai'garita ; and so anxious was he to guard against the vessel being recognised, that he stipulated that all drawings and photographs of it should be handed over to him, and these he burned with his own hands; more¬ over, he caused all portraits and negatives of himself and of his wife to be bought BARONESS WEIDECK, WIFE OF ARCHDUKE HENRY. From a Photo, by Lippe , Vienna. 6o THE STRAND MAGAZINE. JOHANN ORTH (ARCHDUKE JOHN). From a Photo, by A. Red , Lim. up at any price, and these were likewise destroyed. We are giving here only absolute facts.* Shortly afterwards the ex-Archduke and his wife set sail for South America, and the vessel was duly reported to have arrived at Monte Video, and departed for a destination unknown. But from that moment every trace was lost of the ship and all on board, no news as to her fate having ever been heard, although many a search has been made along the coast by order of the Emperor of Austria and his Government. Adventurers and treasure - seekers have been at work, as it was well known that Johann Orth had on board over a quarter of a million pounds in specie ; it is believed that he intended to have bought an estate in Chili with the money and to have settled there, but that the vessel foundered off Cape Horn during a terrific storm which raged on the coast shortly after the ship had left. From time to time since then the most startling rumours have been set afloat about the miss¬ ing Prince having turned up: one being that he had been one of the leaders of the Chilian rebellion, having divided his treasure among his crew, burned his ship, landed on a lonely coast, etc. His own mother, who * With great difficulty we have been able to procure por¬ traits of Johann Orth and his wife from photographs in the possession of a sister of Frau Orth, who lives in a small village in Switzerland, and we can vouch for their genuineness. These portraits have never before been reproduced. died only a few months ago at the Castle Orth, believed her son alive to her very last hour, and expected his return. The Swiss Government is of a different opinion, and assumed the death of the Archduke, and paid over to Frau Orth’s next-of-kin a large amount of money, which Johann Orth deposited as a settlement for his wife with the Swiss authori¬ ties before his departure, and there is little doubt that the Sa 7 ita Margarita lies at the bottom of the sea, and that all on board perished. The most recent morganatic marriage in the dynastic history of the Imperial House of Romanoff was the union a few years ago (very much against the wish of the Czar Alexander III.) of the Grand Duke Michael Michaelo- vitch with the then Countess Sophia de Merenberg, born in 1868, afterwards granted a special patent of nobility as Countess de Torby for herself and descendants by the reigning Grand Duke of Luxembourg, the step-brother of her father, Prince Nicolaus of Nassau. The accomplished Countess of Torby is, therefore, of Royal blood on her paternal side, Prince Nicolaus having, in 1867, also made a morganatic marriage with the Countess of Merenberg, the daughter of the great Russian poet, Poutchkine, whereby this Prince equally unselfishly renounced all his claims to the Grand Ducal throne. The Countess of Torby is a cousin of the Queen- Mother of Holland and the Duchess of LUDMILLA HUBEL, WIFE OF JOHANN ORTH. From a unique private Photo. ROYAL MESALLIANCES. 61 Albany. The Grand Duke was formerly a colonel in the Russian army, but was, on his marriage, placed on the retired list. Since their marriage, which took place at San Remo early in 1891, the Grand Duke has resided with his family at Wiesbaden, or at his charming chateau on the Riviera. Had Lieutenant Baria- tinski possessed sufficient courage there would have been another mesalliance to record in the family of the Autocrat of All the Russias. The beautiful Grand Duchess Olga, the favourite daughter of Czar Nicholas I., was on the point of eloping with the lieutenant, when at the last moment his heart failed him, and he made a clean breast of the whole affair to His Majesty, with the result that the Grand Duchess was married at once to Prince Charles of Wiirtemberg, afterwards King of that country, while the cowardly young officer was rewarded with such rapid pro¬ motion that before he had reached the age of fifty he had attained the rank of field-marshal. Two morganatic mar¬ riages, which are better known through the descen¬ dants thereof — some of whom have made our country their home, and are allied to our own Royal Family, and have endeared themselves amongst the people who know them well—are those of the late Duke Alexander of Wiirtemberg and the late Grand Duke Alexander of Hesse and the Rhine. The former married a Hun¬ garian lady of ancient lineage, the Countess Clau- dine of Rhedey, who was created Countess Hohen- stein, and their son is the Duke of 'Feck, whose daughter will be our future Queen. The latter married in 1851 Julie Countess of Hanke, who was created Princess of Battenberg, and had four sons and one daughter, all of whom are or were well known in England. The most brilliant of the brothers was no doubt Alexander, for some time reigning Prince of Bulgaria. He aspired to the hand of one of the charming sisters of the present Emperor of Germany, but the affair having fallen through, he retired to Austria, where the Emperor gave him the command of a regiment, and he married an opera- singer, who received a patent of nobility under the name of the Countess of Hartenau. The couple were, perhaps, the hand¬ somest in Europe, and the early death of the gallant Prince was universally re¬ gretted. The Countess, his widow, still lives at Graz, in Styria, the last home of the loving and popular pair. The Italian Court has also had its romances. The mother of the present Queen of Italy was banished from the kingdom for ten years by her brother-in-law, King Victor Eman- nuel, for having eloped with an artillery officer. This match did not turn out a happy one, for the officer eventually tired of his Royal wife and committed suicide. It is a strange coincidence that the same King who dis¬ played such rigour with his relative entered himself some years afterwards into a morganatic alliance with a vivandi&re, who survives him. A marriage which occa¬ sioned great interest in England, where it took place, was that of Oscar Carl August, Prince Ber- nadotte, formerly Duke of Gothland, the second son of King Oscar II. of Sweden and Norway. He married in 1888, at Bournemouth, Miss Ebba Munk, lady-in-waiting to the Swedish Crown Princess. Miss Munk was the guest of Lady Cairns, and the wedding took place from her COUNTESS HARTENAU, WIFE OF PRINCE ALEXANDER. From a Photo, by L. Bude , Graz. 62 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. MISS EBBA MUNK, WIFE OF PRINCE BERNADOTTE. From a Photo, by Florman , Stockholm. house. Prince Oscar had to resign all rights of succession to the Swedish throne for him¬ self and his descendants. The five children of this romantic union have been granted a patent of nobility as Counts and Countesses of Wiborg in Gothland. Prince Bernadotte is commander in the Swedish navy, and lives with his family a very retired life, residing during winter in a villa at Stockholm, and in summer at the “Villa Fridhem ” (Home of Peace). Both the Prince and Princess Bernadotte are extremely religious, and when the former is not on duty he and his wife are engaged in preaching and missionary work, both in Stockholm and in the country. DUKE LUDWIG OF BAVARIA. From a Photo, by Baumann , Munich. PRINCE OSCAR BERNADOTTE. From a Photo, by Florman, Stockholm. In Bavaria we have an instance of a Royal Prince having made two morganatic marriages. Prince Ludwig, the elder brother of the Royal oculist, Duke Carl Theodor, married first in 1859 an actress, Fraulein Mendel, who was created Baroness Wallersee, and, after her death in 1891, Fraulein Barth, who was given a patent of nobility under the style and title of Frau von Bartholf. He had before marrying also to resign his rights and patri¬ mony to his younger brother. By his first wife he had a daughter who married Count Larisch, who obtained a divorce from her. A short time ago the Countess Larisch became the wife of the opera-singer Brucks. FRAU VON BARTHOLF, WIFE OF DUKE LUDWIG OF BAVARIA. From a Photo, by Marx , Frankfurt. ROYAL MESALLIANCES. 63 COUNTESS LARISCH, WHO MARRIED HERR BRUCKS. From a Photo, by Dittmar, Munich. The eldest daughter of Duke Carl Theodor, Princess Sophia of Bavaria, made also a pure love-match by marrying last year the Count Torring-Jettenbach, a scion of an old Bavarian noble house, but not of Royal blood. A few years ago another young Bavarian Princess entered into an alliance which was not only romantic, but brought great grief to her parents and grand-parents. Princess COUNT TORRING-JETTENBACH. From a Photo, by Stujfler. Munich. HERR BRUCKS, THE OPERA-SINGER. From a Photo, by MiUler , Munich. Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of Prince Leopold and the Archduchess Gisela, eldest child of the Emperor of Austria and the murdered Empress Elizabeth, ran away with the young Lieutenant Baron Otto von See- fried zu Buttenheim, and they were married at Genoa. The marriage was the more objection¬ able on account of the religion of the bride¬ groom, who is a Protestant, whereas the PRINCESS SOPHIA OF BAVARIA. From a Photo, by Stuffier, Munich. 6 4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Bavarian and Austrian families are strict Catholics. The alli¬ ance is not a happy one. Baron Seefried neglects his wife, who is now* only twenty- five years of age, and the unfortunate Prin¬ cess, who is deeply attached to her hus¬ band, leads a most melancholy life. She has lost her former rights, and has only gained a negligent husband. In looking into the matter closely we must come to the conclu¬ sion that the number of morganatic mar¬ riages made by members of Royal Families increases year by year, and many are the Princes and Prin¬ cesses who are ready to sacrifice their Royal prerogatives in order to try if they cannot find real happiness in a simpler home—life with the woman or man they love. Whether it is more likely for them to draw a prize in the marriage lottery by deviating from the rule we can scarcely judge, but certain it is that some of these marriages have turned out extremely happy ones. No doubt it is very difficult for a Princess to accustom her¬ self to lead the life of a simple gentlewoman, and, in consequence, after the first passion has cooled off, the Prin¬ cess is frequently much disappointed. The hus¬ band can also hardly be expected to maintain the deference after mar¬ riage towards his wife who has descended from her position in order to marry him, which fact makes the position for both extremely difficult. It is a much simpler matter for a Prince to make a morganatic marriage, as he raises the lady of his choice to a higher position, for she is generally given a title if she is not already noble. We should therefore think that the morganatic marriages made by Princes are more often successful than those made by Princesses. That the institution of “ morganatic ” mar¬ riages could be justi¬ fied by logic is, of course, out of the question ; it can only be considered as a relic of feudal times, when the divine right of Kings w r as looked upon as actually existing. The Princess Sybilla of Plesse-Cassel, who was married a year ago to Herr von Fincke, is a remarkably beautiful girl, and she also possesses a considerable fortune, while Herr von Fincke is also possessed of moderate means, and it seems as if this marriage were a very happy one. Princess Henrietta of Schleswug-Holstein leads a very contented life with her mor¬ ganatic husband. The Princess Henrietta, having entirely given up all pretensions to Royal rank, lives the extremely simple life of a professor’s wife at Kiel. The instances we have here recited by no means exhaust the sub¬ ject. How r ever, we have selected the most promi¬ nent ones, and such as are of a particularly romantic nature. What a wealth of material the details of these mesalli¬ ances would afford the novelist could he only become fully acquainted with them ! BARON SEEFRIEO. From a Photo, by Dittman, Munich. PRINCESS ELIZABETH OF BAVARIA. From a Photo, by Dittman , Munich. Hilda IVade. By Grant Allen. V.—THE EPISODE OF THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH. EBASTIAN is a great man,” I said to Hilda Wade, as I sat one afternoon over a cup of tea she had brewed for me in her own little sitting- room : it is one of the alle¬ viations of an hospital doctor’s lot that he may drink tea now and again with the Sister of his ward. “ Whatever else you choose to think of him, you must at least admit he is a very great man.” I admired our famous Professor, and I admired Hilda Wade: ’twas a matter of regret to me that my two admirations did not seem in return sufficiently to admire one another. “Oh, yes,” Hilda answered, pouring out my second cup. “ He is a very great man. I never denied that. The greatest man, on the whole, I think, that 1 have ever come across.” “And he has done splendid work for humanity,” I went on, growing en¬ thusiastic. “ Splendid work ! Yes. Splendid! (Two lumps, I believe ?) He has done more, I admit, for medical science than any other man I ever met.” I gazed at her with a curious glance. “ Then why, dear lady, do you keep telling me he is cruel ? ” I inquired, toasting my feet on the fender. “ It seems contra¬ dictory.” She passed me the muffins, and smiled her restrained smile. “ Does the desire to do good to humanity in itself imply a benevolent disposition ? ” she answered, obliquely. “ Now you are talk¬ ing paradox. Surely if a man works all his life long for the good of man¬ kind, that shows he is devoured by sympathy for his species.” “ And when your friend Mr. Bates works all his life long at observing and classifying lady-birds, I suppose that shows Vol. xviii.—9. he is devoured by sympathy for the race of beetles ! ” . I laughed at her comical face, she looked at me so quizzically. “ But then,” I objected, “ the cases are not parallel. Bates kills and collects his lady-birds : Sebastian cures and benefits humanity.” Hilda smiled her wise smile once more and fingered her apron. “ Are the cases so different as you suppose ? ” she went on, with her quick glance. “Is it not partly accident? A man of science, you see, early in life takes up, half by chance, this, that, or the other particular form of study. But what the study is in itself, I fancy, does not greatly matter: do not mere circumstances as often as not determine it ? Surely it is the temperament, on the whole, that tells : the temperament that is or is not scientific.” “ How do you mean ? You are so enigmatic! ” “Well, in a family of the scientific tem¬ perament, it seems to me, one brother may happen to go in for butterflies—may he not ?—and another for geology or for sub¬ marine telegraphs. Now, the man who happens to take up butterflies does not make a fortune out of his hobby—there is no money in butterflies : so we say, accordingly, he is an unpractical person, who cares nothing for business, and who is only happy when he is out in the fields with a net, chasing emperors and tortoiseshells. But 66 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. the man who happens to fancy submarine telegraphy most likely invents a lot of new improvements, takes out dozens of patents, finds money flow in upon him as he sits in his study, and becomes at last a peer and a millionaire: so then we say, what a splendid business head he has got, to be sure, and how immensely he differs from his poor wool-gathering brother, the entomologist, who can only invent new ways of hatching- out wire-worms. Yet all may really depend on the first chance direction which led one brother as a boy to buy a butterfly- net, and sent the other into the school laboratory to dabble with an electric wheel and a cheap battery.” “ Then you mean to say it is chance that has made Sebastian ? ” Hilda shook her pretty head. “By no means. Don’t be so stupid. We both know Sebastian has a wonderful brain. Whatever was the work he undertook with that brain in science, he would carry it out consum¬ mately. He is a born thinker. It is like this, don’t you know.” She tried to arrange her thoughts. “ The particular branch of science to which Mr. Hiram Maxim’s mind happens to have been directed was the making of machine-guns—and he slays his thousands. The particular branch to which Sebastian’s mind happens to have been directed was medicine — and he cures as many as Mr. Maxim kills. It is a turn of the hand that makes all the difference.” “I see,” I said. “The aim of medicine happens to be a benevolent one.” “ Quite so ; that’s just what I mean. The aim is benevolent: and Sebastian pursues that aim with the single-minded energy of a lofty, gifted, and devoted nature—but not a good one.” “ Not good ? ” “ Oh, no. To be quite frank, he seems to me to pursue it ruthlessly, cruelly, unscrupu¬ lously. He is a man of high ideals, but without principle. In that respect he reminds one of the great spirits of the Italian Renais¬ sance—Benvenuto Cellini and so forth—men who could pore for hours with conscientious artistic care over the detail of a hem in a sculptured robe, yet could steal out in the midst of their disinterested toil, to plunge a knife in the back of a rival.” “ Sebastian would not do that,” I cried. “ He is wholly free from the mean spirit of jealousy.” “No, Sebastian would not do that. You are quite right there : there is no tinge of meanness in the man’s nature. He likes to be first in the field : but he would acclaim with delight another man’s scientific triumph —if another anticipated him—for would it not mean a triumph for universal science ?— and is not the advancement of science Sebastian’s religion ? But .... he would do almost as much—or more. He would stab a man without remorse, if he thought that by stabbing him he could advance knowledge.” I recognised at once the truth of her diagnosis. “ Nurse Wade,” I cried, “ you are a wonderful woman ! I believe you are right; but—how did you come to think of it?” A cloud passed over her brow. “ I have reason to know it,” she answered, slowly. Then her voice changed. “Take another muffin! ” I helped myself and paused. I laid down my cup and gazed at her. What a beautiful, tender, sympathetic face ! And yet, how able ! She stirred the fire uneasily. I looked and hesitated. I had often wondered why I never dared ask Hilda Wade one question that was nearest my heart. I think it must have been because I respected her so profoundly. The deeper your admiration and respect for a woman, the harder you find it in the end to ask her. At last I almost made up my mind. “ I cannot think,” I began, “ what can have induced a girl like you, with means and friends, with brains and ”—I drew back, then I plumped it out—“ beauty, to take to such a life as this—a life which seems, in many ways, so unworthy of you ! ” She stirred the fire more pensively than ever, and re-arranged the muffin-dish on the little wrought-iron stand in front of the grate. “ And yet,” she murmured, looking down, “ what life can be better than the service of one’s kind? You think it a great life, for Sebastian! ” “ Sebastian! He is a man. That is different, quite different. But a woman ! especially you, dear lady, for whom one feels that nothing is quite high enough, quite pure enough, quite good enough : I cannot imagine how-” She checked me with one wave of her gracious hand. Her movements were always slow and dignified. “ I have a Plan in my life,” she answered earnestly, her eyes meeting mine with a sincere, frank gaze; “a Plan to which I have resolved to sacrifice everything. It absorbs my being. Till that Plan is fulfilled-” I saw the tears were gathering fast on her lashes. She suppressed them with an effort. “ Say no more,” she added, HILDA WADE. 67 faltering. “Infirm of purpose, I will. not listen.” I leant forward eagerly, pressing my ad¬ vantage. The air was electric. Waves of emotion passed to and fro. “ But surely,” I cried, “ you do not mean to say-” She waved me aside once more. “ I will not put my hand to the plough, and then look back,” she answered firmly. “ Dr. Cum- berledge, spare me. I came to Nathaniel’s for a purpose. I told you at the time what that purpose was—in part: to be near Sebastian. I want to be near him . . . for an object I have at heart. Do not ask me to reveal it: do not ask me to forego it. I am a woman, therefore weak. But I need your aid. Help me, instead of hindering me.” “Hilda,” I cried, leaning forward, with quiverings of my heart, “ I will help you in whatever way you will allow me. But let me at any rate help you with the feeling that I am helping one who means in time-” At that moment, as unkindly fate would have it, the door opened, and Sebastian entered. “ Nurse Wade,” he began, in his iron voice, glancing about him with stern eyes, “ where are those needles I ordered for that operation ? We must be ready in time before Nielsen comes. . . . Cumberledge, I shall want you.” The golden opportunity had come and gone. It was long before I found a similar occasion for speaking to Hilda. Every day after that the feeling deepened upon me that Hilda was there to watch Sebastian. IV/iy, I did not know : but it was growing certain that a life-long duel was in progress between those two—a duel of some strange and mysterious import. The first approach to a solution of the problem which I obtained came a week or two later. Sebastian was engaged in observ¬ ing a case where certain unusual symptoms had suddenly supervened: it was a case of some obscure affection of the heart: I will not trouble you here with the particular details: we all suspected a tendency to aneurism. Hilda Wade was in attendance, as she always was on Sebastian’s observation cases. We crowded round, watching. The Professor himself leaned over the cot with some medicine for external application in a basin. He gave it to Hilda to hold. I noticed that as she held it her fingers trembled, and that her eyes were fixed harder than ever upon Sebastian. He turned round to his students. “ Now, this,” he began in a very un¬ concerned voice, as if the patient were a toad, “is a most unwonted turn for the disease to take. It occurs very seldom. In point of fact, I have only observed the symptom once before; and then it was fatal. The patient in that instance ” — he paused dramatic¬ ally — “ was the notorious poisoner, Dr. Yorke-Banner- man.” As he uttered the words, Hilda Wade’s hands “ THE DOOR OPENED, AND SEBASTIAN ENTERED.” 68 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. trembled more than ever, and with a little scream she let the basin fall, breaking it into fragments. Sebastian’s keen eyes had transfixed her in a second. “ How did you manage to do the tendency before: and that case was the notorious ”—he kept his glittering eyes fixed harder on Hilda than ever—“ the notorious Dr. Yorke-Bannerman.” / was watching Hilda, too. At the words, “with a little scream she let the basin fall.” that ? ” he asked, with quiet sarcasm, but in a tone full of meaning. “ The basin was heavy,” Hilda faltered. “ My hands were trembling—and it somehow slipped through them. I am not . ... quite myself .... not quite well this after¬ noon. I ought not to have attempted it.” The Professor’s deep-set eyes peered out like gleaming lights from beneath their over¬ hanging brows. “ No, you ought not to have attempted it,” he answered, withering her with his glance. “You. might have let the thing fall on the patient and killed him. As it is, can’t you see you have agitated him with the flurry ? Don’t stand there holding your breath, woman: repair your mischief: get a cloth and wipe it up, and give me the bottle.” With skilful haste he administered a little sal volatile and nux vomica to the swooning patient; while Hilda set about remedying the damage. “ That’s better,” Sebastian said, in a mollified tone, when she had brought another basin. There was a singular note of cloaked triumph in his voice. “ Now, we’ll begin again.I was just saying, gentlemen, before this accident, that I had seen only one case of this peculiar form of she trembled violently all over once more, but with an effort restrained herself. Their looks met in a searching glance. Hilda’s air was proud and fearless : in Sebastian’s, I fancied I detected after a second just a tinge of wavering. “You remember Yorke - Bannerman’s case,’ r he went on. “ He committed a murder--” “ Let me take the basin ! ” I cried,, for I saw Hilda’s hands giving way a second time, and I was anxious to spare her. “ No, thank you,” she answered low, but in a voice that was full of suppressed defiance. “ I will wait and hear this out. I prefer to stop here.” As for Sebastian,, he seemed now not to notice her, though I was aware all the time of a side-long glance of his eye,, parrot- wise, in her direction. “ He committed a murder,” he went on, “ by means of aconitine —then an almost unknown poison ; and after committing it, his heart being already weak, he was taken himself with symptoms of aneurism in a curious form, essentially similar to these ; so that he died before the trial—a lucky escape for him.” He paused rhetorically once more; then HILDA WADE. 69 he added in the same tone, “ Mental agitation and the terror of detection no doubt ac¬ celerated the fatal result in that instance. He died at once from the shock of the arrest. It was a natural conclusion. Here, we may- hope for a more successful issue.” He spoke to the students, of course, but I could see for all that that he was keeping his falcon eye fixed hard on Hilda’s face. I glanced aside at her. She never flinched for a second. Neither said anything directly to the other: still, by their eyes and mouths, I knew some strange passage of arms had taken place between them. Sebastian’s tone was one of provocation, of defiance, I might almost say of challenge: Hilda’s air I took rather for the air of calm and resolute, but assured, resistance. He expected her to answer; she said nothing. Instead of that, she went on holding the basin now with fingers that ivoiild not tremble. Every muscle was strained. Every tendon was strung. I could see she held herself in with a will of iron. The rest of the episode passed off quietly. Sebastian, having delivered his bolt, began to think less of Hilda and more of the patient. He went on with his demonstration. As for Hilda, she gradually relaxed her muscles, and, with a deep-drawn breath, resumed her natural attitude. The tension was over. They had had their little skirmish, whatever it might mean, and had it out : now, they called a truce over the patient’s body. When the case had been disposed of, and the students dismissed, I went straight into the laboratory to get a few surgical instru¬ ments I had chanced to leave there. For a minute or two I mislaid my clinical thermo¬ meter, and began hunting for it behind a wooden partition in the corner of the room by the place for washing test-tubes. As I stooped down, turning over the various objects about the tap in my search, Sebastian’s voice came to me. He had paused outside the door, and was speaking in his calm, clear tone, very low, to Hilda. “ So now we understand one another, Nurse Wade,” he said, with a significant sneer. “ I know whom I have to deal with ! ” “ And I know too,” Hilda answered, in a voice of placid confidence. “ Yet you are not afraid ? ” “It is not I who have cause for fear. The accused may tremble, not the prosecutor.” “What? You threaten ? ” “No; I do not threaten. Not in words, I mean. My presence here is in itself a threat, but I make no other. You know now, un¬ fortunately, why I have come. That makes my task harder. But I will not give it up. I will wait and conquer.” Sebastian answered nothing. He strode into the laboratory alone, tall, grim, un¬ bending, and let himself sink into his easy chair, looking up with a singular and some¬ what sinister smile at his bottles of microbes. After a minute he stirred the fire, and bent his head forward, brooding. He held it between his hands,, with his elbows on his knees, and gazed moodily straight before him into the glowing caves of white-hot coal in the fire-place. That sinister smile still played lambent round the corners of his grizzled moustaches. I moved noiselessly towards the door, try¬ ing to pass behind him unnoticed. But, alert as ever, his quick ears detected me. With a sudden start, he raised his head and glanced round. “ What! you here ? ” he cried, taken aback. For a second he appeared almost to lose his self-possession. “ I came for my clinical,” I answered, with an unconcerned air. “ I have somehow managed to mislay it in the laboratory.” My carefully casual tone seemed to re¬ assure him. Fie peered about him with knit brow r s. “ Cumberledge,” he asked at last, in a suspicious voice, “ did you hear that woman ? ” “ The woman in 93 ? Delirious ? ” “ No, no : Nurse Wade ? ” “ Hear her ? ” I echoed, I must candidly admit with intent to deceive. “ When she broke the basin ? ” His forehead relaxed. “ Oh, it is nothing,” he muttered, hastily. “ A mere point of discipline. She spoke to me just now, and I thought her tone unbecoming in a sub¬ ordinate.Like Korah and his crew, she takes too much upon her.We must get rid of her, Cumberledge : we must get rid of her. She is a dangerous woman ! ” “ She is the most intelligent nurse we have ever had in the place, sir,” I objected, stoutly. He nodded his head twice. “Intelligent— je vous I accoi'de ; but dangerous—dangerous!” Then he turned to his papers, sorting them out one by one with a preoccupied face and twitching fingers. I recognised that he desired to be left alone, so I quitted the laboratory. I cannot quite say why , but ever since Flilda Wade first came to Nathaniel’s, my enthusiasm for Sebastian had been cooling continuously. Admiring his greatness still, I had doubts as to his goodness. That day I felt I positively mistrusted him. I wondered 7 ° THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “ BUT DANGEROUS—DANGEROUS ! ” what his passage of arms with Hilda might mean. Yet, somehow, I was shy of alluding to it before her. One thing, however, was clear to me now —this great campaign that was being waged between the nurse and the Professor had reference to the case of Dr. Yorke- Bannerman. For a time, nothing came of it: the routine of the hospital went on as usual. The patient with the suspected predisposition to aneurism kept fairly well for a week or two, and then took a sudden turn for the worse, presenting at times most unwonted symptoms. Fie died unexpectedly. Sebastian, who had watched him every hour, regarded the matter as of prime importance. “ Pm glad it hap¬ pened here,” he said, rubbing his hands. “A grand opportunity. I wanted to catch an instance like this before that fellow in Paris had time to anticipate me. They’re all on the look-out. Von Strahlendorff, of Vienna, has been waiting for just such a patient for years. So have I. Now, fortune has favoured me. Lucky for us he died ! We shall find out everything.” We held a post-mortem, of course, the condition of the blood being what we most wished to observe; and the autopsy revealed some unexpected details. One remarkable feature consisted in a certain undescribed and impoverished state of the con¬ tained bodies, which Sebastian, with his eager zeal for science, desired his students to see and identify. He said it was likely to throw much light on other ill- understood condi¬ tions of the brain and nervous system, as well as on the peculiar faint odour of the insane, now so well recognised in all large asylums. In order to com¬ pare this abnormal state with the aspect of the healthy circulating medium, he pro¬ posed to examine a little good living blood side by side with the morbid specimen under the microscope. Nurse Wade was in attendance in the laboratory as usual. The Professor, standing by the instrument, with one hand on the brass screw, had got the diseased drop ready arranged for our inspec¬ tion beforehand, and was gloating over it himself with scientific enthusiasm. “ Grey corpuscles, you will observe,” he said, “almost entirely deficient. Red, poor in number, and irregular in outline. Plasma, thin. Nuclei, feeble. A state of body which tells severely against the due re¬ building of the wasted tissues. Now, com¬ pare with typical normal specimen.” He removed his eye from the microscope, and wiped a glass slide with a clean cloth as he spoke. “Nurse Wade, we know of old the purity and vigour of your circulating fluid. You shall have the honour of advancing science once more. Hold up your finger.” Hilda held up her forefinger unhesitatingly. She was used to such requests : and, indeed, Sebastian had acquired by long experience the faculty of pinching the finger-tip so hard, and pressing the point of a needle so dex¬ terously into a minor vessel, that he could draw at once a small drop of blood without the subject even feeling it. The Professor nipped the last joint between his finger and thumb for a moment till it HILDA WADE . 7i was black at the end : then he turned to the saucer at his side, which Hilda herself had placed there, and chose from it, cat-like, with great deliberation and selective care, a particular needle. Hilda’s eyes followed his every movement as closely and as fearlessly as ever. Sebastian’s hand was raised, and he was just about to-pierce the delicate white skin, when, with a sudden, quick scream of terror, she snatched her hand away hastily. The Professor let the needle drop in his astonishment. “ What did you do that for ? ” he cried, with an angry dart of the keen eyes. “ This is not the first time I have drawn your blood. You knew I would not hurt you.” Hilda’s face had grown strangely pale. But that was not all. I believe I was the only person present who noticed one unob¬ trusive piece of sleight-of-hand which she hurriedly and skilfully executed. When the needle slipped from Sebastian’s hand, she leant forward even as she screamed, and caught it, unobserved, in the folds of her apron. Then her nimble fingers closed over it as if by magic, and conveyed it with a rapid movement at once to her pocket. I do not think even Sebastian himself noticed the quick forward jerk of her eager hands, which would have done honour to a conjurer. He was too much taken aback by her un¬ expected behaviour to observe the needle. Just as she caught it Hilda answered his question in a somewhat flurried voice. “ I— I was afraid,” she broke out, gasping. “ One gets these little accesses of terror now and again. I—I feel rather weak. I don’t think I will volunteer to supply any more normal blood this morning.” Sebastian’s acute eyes read her through, as so often. With a trenchant dart he glanced from her to me. I could see he began to suspect a confederacy. “ That will do,” he went on, with slow deliberateness. “ Better so. Nurse Wade, I don’t know what’s be¬ ginning to come over you. You are losing your nerve—which is fatal in a nurse. Only the other day you let fall and broke a basin at a most critical moment; and now, you scream aloud on a trifling apprehension.” He paused and glanced around him. “ Mr. Callaghan,” he said, turning to our tall, red- haired Irish student, “your blood is good normal: and you are not hysterical.” He selected another needle with studious care. “ Give me your finger.” As he picked out the needle, I saw Plilda lean forward again, alert and watchful, eyeing him with a piercing glance; but, after a second’s consideration, she seemed to satisfy herself, and fell back without a word. I gathered that she was ready to interfere, had occasion demanded. But occasion did not demand : and she held her peace quietly. The rest of the examination proceeded without a hitch. For a minute or two, it is true, I fancied that Sebastian betrayed a certain suppressed agitation—a trifling lack of his accustomed perspicuity and his lumin¬ ous exposition. But after meandering for a while through a few vague sentences, he soon recovered his wonted calm ; and as he went on with his demonstration, throwing himself eagerly into the case, his usual scientific enthusiasm came back to him undiminished. He waxed eloquent (after his fashion) over the “ beautiful ” contrast between Callaghan’s wholesome blood, “ rich in the vivifying architectonic grey corpuscles which rebuild worn tissues,” and the effete, impoverished, unvitalized fluid which stagnated in the sluggish veins of the dead patient. The carriers of oxygen had neglected their proper task : the granules whose duty it was to bring elaborated food-stuffs to supply the waste of brain and nerve and muscle had forgotten their cunning. The bricklayers of the bodily fabric had gone out on strike : the weary scavengers had declined to remove the useless by-products. His vivid tongue, his picturesque fancy, ran away with him. I had never heard him talk better or more incisively before; one could feel sure as he spoke that the arteries of his own acute and teeming brain at that moment of exaltation were by no means deficient in those energetic and highly vital globules on whose reparative worth he so eloquently descanted. “ Sure, the Professor makes annywan see right inside wan’s own vascular system,” Callaghan whispered aside to me, in unfeigned admiration. The demonstration ended in impressive silence. As we streamed out of the labora¬ tory, aglow with his electric fire, Sebastian held me back with a bent motion of his shrivelled forefinger. I stayed behind un¬ willingly. “Yes, sir?” I said, in an interro¬ gative voice. The Professor’s eyes were fixed intently on the ceiling. I-Iis look was one of rapt inspi¬ ration. I stood and waited. “ Cumberledge,” he said at last, coming back to earth with a start, “ I see it more plainly each day that goes. We must get rid of that woman.” “Of Nurse Wade?” I asked, catching my breath. He roped the grizzled moustache and blinked the sunken eyes. “ She has lost 72 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. nerve,” he went on. “ Lost nerve entirely. I shall suggest that she be dismissed. Her sudden failures of stamina are most embar¬ rassing at critical junctures.” “ Very well, sir,” I answered, swallowing a lump in my throat. To say the truth, I was beginning to be afraid on Hilda’s account. That morning’s events had thoroughly dis¬ quieted me. He seemed relieved at my unquestioning acquiescence. “ She is a dangerous edged- tool, that’s the truth of it,” he went on, still twirling his moustache with a preoccupied air, and turning over his stock of needles. “ When she’s clothed and in her right mind, she is a valuable accessory—sharp and tren¬ chant like a clean, bright lancet : but when she allows one of these causeless hysterical fits to override her tone, she plays one false at once—like a lancet that slips, or grows dull and rusty.” He polished one of the needles on a soft square of new chamois- leather while he spoke, as if to give point and illustration to his simile. I went out from him, much perturbed. The Sebastian I had once admired and worshipped was beginning to pass from me : in his place I found a very complex and inferior creation. My idol had feet of clay. I was loth to acknowledge it. I stalked along the corridor moodily to¬ wards my own room. As I passed Hilda Wade’s door I saw it half ajar. She stood a little within and beckoned me to enter. I passed in and closed the door behind me. Hilda looked at me with trustful eyes. Resolute still, her face was yet that of a hunted creature. “ Thank Heaven I have one friend here at least,” she said, slowly, seating herself. “You saw me catch and conceal the needle ? ” “ Yes, I saw you.” She drew it forth from her purse, carefully but loosely wrapped up in a small tag of tissue-paper. “ Here it is ! ” she said, displaying it. “ Now, I want you to test it.” “In a culture ? ” I asked, for I guessed her meaning. She nodded. “Yes, to see what that man has done to it.” “ What do you suspect ? ” She shrugged her graceful shoulders half imperceptibly. “ How should I know ? Anything ! ” I gazed at the needle close. “ What made you distrust it ? ” I inquired at last, still eyeing it. She opened a drawer and took out several others. “See here,” she said, handing me one : “ these are the needles I keep in anti¬ septic wool—the needles with which I always supply the Professor. You observe their shape—the common surgical patterns. Now, look at this needle with which the Professor was just going to prick my finger ! You can see for yourself at once it is of bluer steel and of a different manufacture.” “That is quite true,” I answered, examin¬ ing it with my pocket lens, which I always carry. “ I see the difference. But how did you detect it ? ” “ From his face, partly, but partly, too, from the needle itself. I had my suspicions, and I was watching him close. Just as he raised the thing in his hand, half concealing it, so, and showing only the point, I caught the blue gleam of the steel as the light glanced off it. It was not the kind I knew. Then I withdrew my hand at once, feeling sure he meant mischief.” “ That was wonderfully quick of you ! ” “ Quick ? Well, yes. Thank Heaven, my mind works fast: my perceptions are rapid. ‘ I HAD MY SUSPICIONS.’ HILDA WADE. 73 Otherwise-” she looked grave. “ One second more, and it would have been too late. The man might have killed me.” “You think it is poisoned, then ? ” Hilda shook her head with confident dissent. “ Poisoned ? Oh, no. He is wiser now. Fifteen years ago, he used poison. But science has made gigantic strides since then. He would not needlessly expose himself to-day to the risks of the poisoner.” “ Fifteen years ago he used poison ! ” She nodded with the air of one who knows. “ I am not speaking at random,” she an¬ swered. “ I say what I know. Some day I will explain. For the present, it is enough to tell you, I know it.” “And what do you suspect now?” I asked, the weird sense of her strange power deepening on me every second. She held up the incriminated needle again. “ Do you see this groove ? ” she asked, point¬ ing to it with the tip of another. I examined it once more at the light with the lens. A longitudinal groove, apparently ground into one side of the needle, length¬ wise, by means of a small grinding-stone and emery powder, ran for a quarter of an inch above the point. This groove seemed to me to have been produced by an amateur, though he must have been one accustomed to deli¬ cate microscopic manipulation : for the edges under the lens showed slightly rough, like the surface of a file on a small scale, not smooth and polished as a needle-maker would have left them. I said so to Hilda. “You are quite right,” she answered. “That is just what it shows. I feel sure Sebastian made that groove himself. He could have bought grooved needles, it is true, such as they sometimes use for retaining small quantities of lymphs and medicines, but we had none in stock, and to buy them would be to manufacture evidence against himself, in case of detection. Besides, the rough jagged edge would hold the material he wished to inject all the better, while its saw - like points would tear the flesh, imperceptibly but minutely, and so serve his purpose.” “ Which was ? ” “Try the needle, and judge for yourself. I prefer you should find out. You can tell me to-morrow.” * “It was quick of you to detect it!” I cried, still turning the suspicious object over. “The difference is so slight.” “Yes; but you tell me my eyes are as Vol. xviii.—10. sharp as the needle. Besides, I had reason to doubt, and Sebastian himself gave me the clue by selecting his instrument with too great deliberation. He had put it there with the rest, but it lay a little apart: and as he picked it up, gingerly, I began to doubt. When I saw the blue gleam, my doubt was at once converted into certainty. Then his eyes, too, had the look which I know means victory. Benign or baleful, it goes with his triumphs. I have seen that look before, and when once it lurks scintillating in the luminous depths of his gleaming eyeballs, I recognise at once that, whatever his aim, he has succeeded in it.” “ Still, Hilda, I am loth-” She waved her hand impatiently. “Waste no time,” she cried, in an authoritative voice. “If you happen to let that needle rub care¬ lessly against the sleeve of your coat, you may destroy the evidence. Take it at once to your room, plunge it into a culture, and lock it up safe at a proper temperature where Sebastian cannot get at it—till the conse¬ quences develop.” I did as she bid me. By this time, I was not wholly unprepared for the result she anticipated. My belief in Sebastian had sunk to zero, and was rapidly reaching a negative quantity. At nine the next morning, I tested one drop of the culture under the microscope. Clear and limpid to the naked eye, it was alive with small objects of a most suspicious nature, when properly magnified. I knew those hungry forms. Still, I would not decide off-hand on my own authority in a matter of such moment. Sebastian’s character was at stake—the character of the man who led the profession. I called in Callaghan, who happened to be in the ward, and asked him to put his eye to the instrument for a moment. He was a splendid fellow for the use of high powers, and I had magnified the culture 300 diameters. “ What do you call those ? ” I asked, breathless. He scanned them carefully with his experi¬ enced eye. “ Is it the microbes ye mean ? ” he answered. “ An’ what ’ud they be, then, if it wasn’t the bacillus of pyaemia ? ” “ Blood-poisoning 1 ” I ejaculated, horror- struck. “ Aye : blood-poisoning : that’s the English of it.” I assumed an air of indifference. “ I made them that myself,” I rejoined, as if they were mere ordinary experimental germs : “ but I wanted confirmation of my own opinion. You’re sure of the bacillus ?” 74 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “ An’ haven’t I been keeping swarms of those very same bacteria under close obser¬ vation for Sebastian for seven weeks past? Why, I know them as well as I know me own mother.” “ Thank you,” I said. “ That will do.” I KNOW THEM AS WELL AS I KNOW ME OWN MOTHER. And I carried off the microscope, bacilli and all, into Hilda Wade’s sitting-room. “ Look yourself! ” I cried to her. She stared at them through the instrument with an unmoved face. “ I thought so,” she answered shortly. “The bacillus of pyaemia. A most virulent type. Exactly what I ex¬ pected.” “You anticipated that result ? ” “Absolutely. You see, blood-poisoning matures quick, and kills almost to a certainty. Delirium supervenes so soon that the patient has no chance of explaining suspicions. Besides, it would all seem so very natural! Everybody would say, ‘ She got some slight wound, which microbes from some case she was attending contaminated.’ You may be sure Sebastian thought out all that. He plans with consummate skill. He had designed everything.” I gazed at her, uncertain. “ And what will you do 1 ” I asked. “ Expose him ? ” She opened both her palms with a blank gesture of helplessness. “ It is useless,” she answered. “ Nobody would believe me. Consider the situation. You know the needle I gave you was the one Sebastian meant to use—the one he dropped and I caught— because you are a friend of mine, and because you have learned to trust me. But who else would credit it ? I have only my word against his — an un¬ known nurse’s against the great Professor’s. Everybody would say I was malicious or hysterical. Hysteria is always an easy stone to fling at an injured woman who asks for justice. They would declare I had trumped up the case to forestall my dismissal. They would set it down to spite. We can do no¬ thing against him. Remember, on his part, the utter absence of overt motive.” “ And you mean to stop on here, in close attendance on a man who has attempted your life?” I cried, really alarmed for her safety. “ I am not sure about that,” she answered. “ I must take time to think. My presence at Nathaniel’s was necessary to my Plan. The Plan fails for the present. I have now to look round and reconsider my position.” “ But you are not safe here now,” I urged, growing warm. “ If Sebastian really wishes to get rid of you, and is as unscrupulous as you suppose, with his gigantic brain he can soon compass his end. What he plans he executes. You ought not to remain within the Professor’s reach one hour longer.” “ I have thought of that too,” she replied, with an almost unearthly calm. “ But there are difficulties either way. At any rate, I am glad he did not succeed this time. For to have killed me now would have frustrated my Plan. And my Plan ”—she clasped her hands—“my Plan is ten thousand times dearer than life to me.” “ Dear lady,” I cried, drawing a deep breath, “ I implore you in this strait, listen to HILDA WADE . 75 what I urge. Why fight your battle alone ? Why refuse assistance ? I have admired you so long—I am so eager to help you. If only you will allow me to call you-” Her eyes brightened and softened. Her whole bosom heaved. I felt in a flash she was not wholly indifferent to me. Strange tremors in the air seemed to play about us. But she waved me aside once more. “ Don’t press me,” she said, in a very low voice. “ Let me go my own way. It is hard enough “ 1 don’t press me,’ she said.” already, this task I have undertaken, without your making it harder. Dear friend, dear friend, you don’t quite understand. There are two men at Nathaniel’s whom I desire to escape—because they both alike stand in the way of my purpose.” She took my hand in hers. “Each in a different way,” she murmured once more. “ But each I must avoid. One is Sebastian. The other-” she let my hand drop again and broke off suddenly. “ Dear Hubert,” she cried, with a catch, “ I cannot help it : for¬ give me ! ” It was the first time she had ever called me by my Christian name. The mere sound of the word made me unspeakably happy. Yet she waved me away. “ Must I go?” I asked, quivering. “Yes, yes, you must go. I cannot stand it. I must think this thing out, undisturbed. It is a very great crisis.” That afternoon and evening, by some un¬ happy chance, I was fully engaged in work at the hospital. Late at night, a letter arrived for me. I glanced at it in dismay. It bore the Basingstoke post-mark. But to my alarm and surprise, it was in Hilda’s hand. What could this change portend ? I opened it, all tremulous. “ Dear Hubert -”1 gave a sigh of relief. It was no longer “ Dear Dr. Cumberledge ” now, but “ Hubert.” That was something gained, at any rate. I read on with a beating heart. What had Hilda to say to me? “ Dear Hubert, —By the time this reaches you, I shall be far away, irrevocably far, from London. With deep regret, with fierce searchings of spirit, I have come to the conclusion that, for the Purpose I have in view, it would be better for me at once to leave Nathaniel’s. Where I go or what I mean to do, I do not wish to tell you. Of your charity, I pray, refrain from ask¬ ing me. I am aware that your kindness and generosity deserve better recognition. But, like Sebastian himself, I am the slave of my Purpose. I have lived for it all these years, and it is still very dear to me. To tell you my plans would interfere with that end. Do not, therefore, suppose I am insensible to your goodness .... Dear Hubert, spare me—I dare not say more, lest I say too much. I dare not trust myself. But one thing I must say. I am flying from you quite as much as from Sebastian. Flying from my own heart quite as much as from my enemy. Some day, perhaps, if I accomplish my object, I may tell you all. Meanwhile I can only beg of you of your kindness to trust me. We shall not meet again, I fear, for years. But I shall never forget you—you, the kind counsellor, who have half turned me aside from my life’s purpose. One word more and I should falter.—In very great haste and amid much disturbance, yours ever affectionately and gratefully, “ Hilda.” It was a hurried sci^wl in pencil, as if written in a train. I felt utterly dejected. Was Hilda then leaving England ? 76 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Rousing myself after some minutes, I went straight to Sebastian’s rooms, and told him in brief terms that Nurse Wade had dis¬ appeared at a moment’s notice, and had sent a note to tell me so. He looked up from his work and scanned me hard, as was his wont. “ That is well,” he said at last, his eyes glowing deep: “she was getting too great a hold on you, that young woman ! ” “She retains that hold upon me, sir,” I answered, curtly. “ You are making a grave mistake in life, my dear Cumberledge,” he went on, in his old genial tone, which I had almost for¬ gotten. “ Before you go further and entangle yourself more deeply, I think it is only right that I should undeceive you as to this girl’s true position. She is passing under a false name, and she comes of a tainted stock. .... Nurse Wade, as she chooses to call herself, is a daughter of the notorious murderer, Yorke- Bannerman.” My mind leapt back to the in¬ cident of the broken basin. Yorke - Banner- man’s name had profoundly moved her. Then I thought of Hilda’s face. Murderers, I said to myself, do not beget such daughters as that. Not even acci¬ dental murderers like my poor friend - Le Geyt. I saw at once the prima facie evidence was strongly against her. But I had faith in her still. I drew myself up firmly and stared him back full in the face. “I do not believe it,” I answered, shortly. “You do not believe it? I tell you it is so. The girl herself as good as acknowledged it to me.” I spoke slowly and distinctly. “ Dr. Sebastian,” I said, confronting him, “ let us be quite clear with one another. I have found you out. I know how you tried to poison that lady. To poison her with bacilli which / detected. I cannot trust your word : I cannot trust your inferences. Either she is not Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter at all, or else .... Yorke-Bannerman was not a murderer.” I watched his face close. Conviction leaped upon me. “ And someone else was,” I went on. “ I might put a name to him.” With a stern white face, he rose and opened the door. He pointed to it slowly. “This hospital is not big enough for you and me abreast,” he said with cold politeness. “One or other of us must go. Which, I leave it to your good sense to determine.” Even at that moment of detec¬ tion and disgrace, in one man’s eyes at least, Sebas¬ tian retained his full measure of dignity. “this HOSI'ITAL IS NOT UIG ENOUGH FOR YOU AND ME A15REAST. A nimal A dualities. Note. — These articles consist of a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life , illustrated by Mr. J. A. Shepherd , an artisi long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. While the stories themselves are matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist treats the subject with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation of the occurrence. XIV. RIP was a very “ sad dog ”—is so now, in fact, unless, ere these lines appear in print, he has ex¬ pired in the throes of delirium tremens, or encountered the death of the outcast drunkard on a bleak doorstep. He had good prospects, too, had Grip at one time, and might have turned out an orna¬ ment and an honour to the canine race, had it not been for his succumbing to the terrible temptation of drink. He was a fox-terrier of good birth—a dog of pedigree, in fact—and Ipswich was his birthplace. In the summer of 1894 he came to Bristol a puppy, innocent, blinking, and wondering. In the winter of the same year he left the town a confirmed drunkard, the disgrace and the despair of his master and his friends. His master was a pupil in the Ashton Gate Brewery, and as soon as Grip was a sufficiently grown dog he trotted at his master’s heels on the way to business. From his first entry into the brewery his fall was instant and deplorable. Small vessels were placed under the great beer-vats, to collect leakage and overflow, and once, in a direful, fatal, thirsty moment, Grip took a drink out of one of those vessels. At once his fatal grip’s temptation. 78 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. GOING HOME. passion seized him, and that day Grip went home drunk. It was very shocking, but his master felt that the slip might be excused. Plainly, he said, it was a mere vagary of puppyhood. The poor little chap had been thirsty, and had innocently drunk as much as possible of the only liquid available. In future it should be arranged that water be kept in the brewery for Grip’s refreshment. The water was provided accord¬ ingly, but to every¬ body’s astonish¬ ment Grip came home drunk again the next day. His friends were more shocked than be¬ fore. This time they did their best to excuse him on the ground that he had not properly distinguished be¬ tween the pan of beer and the pan of water. But, in¬ deed, he had. And from that day forward he never drank water when beer was within reach. In fact, he was never wholly sober. He was always either drunk, getting drunk, or making ready to get drunk again. Nothing could reform him—exhortations, preachings, threats—his master tried them all without result. Grip listened with a drunken leer and staggered off to attempt another debauch, or to sleep off the effects of the last. Once, indeed, he did display some desire to forsake beer; that is to say, he found an occasion to exhibit his preference for whisky and water —most of it whisky. But here it was easy to cut off the supply, and Grip returned to the vat drippings. Now as Grip grew a drunker and drunker dog, so his temper toward the household cat grew worse. Even in his sober days he had suspected the cat’s honesty, and had always made a point of most ostentatiously counting the bones hidden in his sleeping-basket whenever the cat came in or out of the kitchen. But now he also regarded her as EXHORTATIONS, PREACHINGS, THREATS. ANIMAL ACTUALITIES. 79 responsible in some degree for the difficulty he experienced in finding his basket, after a bout of beer-lees. Every day at noon Grip was brought home with more or less difficulty by his sorrowful and disgraced master, and arriving at his destination, he fell upQn his dinner in a heap. Regain¬ ing his un¬ steady legs, he gobbled his food as quickly as possible, and was imme¬ diately seized by a desire for bed. The sleeping- basket was in the kitchen, and, having mistily found the kitchen stairs and tumbled down them, he tacked riotously this way and that about the kitchen, to the intense scandal of the totally abstaining cat, until he brought up in the neighbourhood of his bed, and was confronted with the pro¬ blem of getting into it. So innumerable were the bed-baskets that pranced before his beery eyes that he made many vain shots SCANDAL OF THE CAT. without encountering the real thing, and at this moment a maniac ambition to stand on his head would seize him. Perhaps he had a view of proving to the cook and the cat that he was not altogether so drunk as he •>.«■ ,5 > HIT IT ! So THE STRAND MAGAZINE . sober and wholly unrepentant, and set about preparations for another carouse. Forcible exclusion from the vat - house was tried, and this Grip would artfully seek to circumvent by conveying to his master, or anybody else who could un¬ derstand him, the information that numerous rats lurked among the barrels, which it was imperatively necessary for him to catch instantly. Once entry was gained, however, the result was the same. Grip caught no rats, but he went home drunk. Till at last the attempt to reform Grip in Bristol was given up, and he was sorrowfully directed back to Ipswich, a ruined and a drunken dog. the cook and the cat were drunk—disgrace¬ fully drunk—and responsible between them for his inability to land within the basket. This spoilt his temper, as we have said. In the end he would awake, partially looked; but at any rate his failure was com¬ plete, sprawling, and ignominious. Having failed and having sprawled several times in succession, he became convinced that both RETURNED! Covent Garden Stars in Their Favourite Rdles. By Kathleen Schlesinger. URIOSITY is a trait com¬ monly attributed to the gentler sex and to children; whether justly or not, matters little. There is, however, a certain legi¬ timate curiosity whose motives are beyond reproach and of which no one need be ashamed, for it is guilty of no indis¬ cretions ; all it seeks is knowledge which it intends, according to its lights, to put to a good use. The British public has ever shown a thirst for knowledge where its favourites are con¬ cerned, and is always eager to know every¬ thing about them that will lead to a better understanding of their characteristics and their work. Therefore, many will be glad of a peep behind the veil which conceals that elusive thing—an operatic singer’s personality —for the singer is placed in a curious position, and is valued as an artist according to the ease with which he steps out. of his own individuality and assumes with his costumes and pro¬ perties another self with different passions, likes, and dislikes. Of course, all singers, even to the greatest artists among them, have their fav¬ ourite roles which appeal more par¬ ticularly to their temperament, to their musical taste, or to their histrionic talent. It would only be natural, therefore, to suppose that in these parts the singer surpasses himself and be¬ comes truly great because he is en¬ tirely sincere. Through the courteous indul¬ gence of many of our artists at Covent Garden in this and past years, who have consented to Vol. xviii.—11 reveal their predilections, the writer is enabled to gently lift a corner of the veil and to let the readers judge for themselves whether they agree with the choice. The singer was asked in each case to state the favourite role and the scene or act preferred in the same opera. The portraits are given in that character, and they have, moreover, been framed in a few bars of the chosen music. The arrangement of the matter is purely accidental, and in no wise depends upon precedence or preference, but rather upon the roles themselves, which fall naturally into groups. Gounod’s “ Faust” as a favourite of so many years’ standing opens the list. Here we have two Marguerites , Madame Marie Engle and Madame Suzanne Adams, both of whom confess to a decided preference for this part, and for that of Gounod’s Juliette. It is a strange coincidence that there is also a certain similarity in the manner in which both Marguerites made their debut under very adverse cir- c umstances, which might well have proved dis¬ astrous had not both young singers been plucky and re¬ solute enough to compel success to attend them. Madame Marie Engle was to make her first bow as Juliette at Chicago, intro¬ duced by Messrs. Abbey and Grau; two rehearsals with piano and two with orches¬ tra had been stipulated for, but somehow or other she was deprived of them by cir¬ cumstances over which it seemed nobody’s business to have any con¬ trol, and she was left to face the immense audi¬ ence imperfectly 82 THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE. equipped. She was rewarded for her spirit and courage, however, by complete success, and since then the role has ever been dear to her. Madame Engle, in reply to my letter, says :— Dear Miss Schlesinger, —I send you a photo¬ graph as Marguerite in “ P'aust,” for all my pictures as Juliette are gone. I prefer the garden scene, and believe me, Very sincerely, May 4th, ’99. Marie Engle. Round the portrait will be noticed parts of the well-known ballad, “The King of Thule,” the “ Jewel Song,” and of the lovely duet music, all from the garden scene. Madame Suzanne Adams made her debut as Juliette at the Grand Opera, Paris, securing a three years’ engagement in con¬ sequence. The occa¬ sion of her first appear¬ ance as Marguerite was a memorable one. The management was in despair, for the five available Marguerites were all indisposed, and Suzanne Adams had never sung the part on the stage and had never even re¬ hearsed it; in the afternoon she was begged' to take the role. “If Madame X. will sing the first part I will come in after the garden scene,” the young singer said. At six o’clock, however, Madame X. was too ill to appear at all, and Suzanne Adams saved the situation by bravely coming to the rescue. She had her reward, and won quite a triumph. As the “ Jewel Song ” is Madame Adams’s favourite in the opera, she appears framed in its familiar strains. London, May 5th, ’99. Dear Miss Schlesinger, —It is very difficult for me to say which idle I prefer, as I find so much to interest me in all of them. I think perhaps I like Marguerite the best. My favourite composers are Gounod and Mozart. Believe me, yours very truly, Suzanne Adams Stern. This Marguerite has made quite a romantic marriage, as the bridegroom, Mr. Leo Stern, related to me. Showing me the portrait of a sweet girl of sixteen, “ That’s the girl I fell in love with,” he said, with justifiable pride, and “ I’ve been in love with her for ten years.” The course of true love did not run smooth in this case, for Miss Adams’s aunt set her face against the match, with the result that one fine day Mr. Stern made his way over to Paris and brought Miss Adams right away with him then and there, “ in her plain little grey dress, just as she was, and without any luggage, and we were married by special license in Marylebone Church.” Three days later, on October 21st, 1898, the bride had to start alone for Chicago, where she made her American debut\ but Mr. Stern joined her after a while. Cruel fate separated them again, however, for on the very night of her first appearance at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, the bridegroom, recalled by a cable, sailed back to fulfil engage¬ ments in England. Pol Plan9011 writes that his favourite character is Alephis- iopheles in Gounod’s “ Faust,” and as for the music, he chooses the whole of his part. As it cannot all be quoted, the two fam¬ ous numbers “ Dio del or’ ” and the Sere- 11 ade have been chosen for the frame. On one occasion our Mephistopheles was distinctly original, doing a deed which would make the hair of all past and present Mephistos bristle with horror. The attitude of this proverbially red gentleman towards fire and his interest in keeping it burning brightly are well known; and yet on one memorable occasion, whilst Plangon -Mephisto- pheles , trembling with excitement and delight at the thought of a new victim, was waiting outside Faust’s study for his summons, the unexpected occurred. “ What a curious and familiar smell ! ” said Mephislo to himself. “ Is Dr. Faust burning up all his dry old books ? ” CO VENT GARDEN STARS. 83 *Covent Garden, June 7th, 1895. POL PLANQON AS MEPHISTOPHELES IN “ I'AUST, From a Photo, by Bengue, Paris. Suddenly a flame shot through the study wall, and certain indispensable excrescences on his head were singed. Mephisto leapt back hurriedly a foot or two, “ Avaunt ! slave, would’st thou attack thy master ? Help here, water, quick ! or I shall lose my victim.” Plan con - Mephistopheles re-appeared in the twinkling of an eye with two buckets full of water, followed by a fireman with the hose. “ Look out there, old chap ! you needn’t drench me ! ” called out A\\2iXQz-Faust , in colloquial French. “Bah! who minds a little water? We shall soon dry down below ! ” For once the cravings of the audience for stage effects were more than satisfied, and the ominous shuffl¬ ing of many feet already announced a retreat, when a pure, clear voice was heard : higher and higher it rose ! It was Melba holding the frightened audience under a spell. Thus was a panic avoided, thanks to the presence of mind of these three singers.* This is what had happened: the red light which always heralds the approach of Mephistopheles had been too generously expended, and the canvas representing the wall of Faust's study caught fire. There is another character be¬ longing to the domain of French opera, Carmen , the favourite role of Mile. Zelie de Lussan, who thus replies to the questions :— My favourite role — Carmen. My favourite scene in the same opera—“The death scene.” My favourite recreation—“Listen¬ ing to good music.” My favourite com¬ poser—“ I have none.” My voice was trained by—“ My mother.” I made my debut in— “ America.” (Signed) Zelie de Lussan. The musical frame, therefore, is derived from the scene where Don Jose comes upon Carmen as she is awaiting the issue of the bull-fight; he has just pleaded for her love and been spurned by her. 8 4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . heroines. First, Madame Nordica-Dome, as the warlike Valkyrie , a role which she confesses to be her favourite. On her shield-frame are many of her favourite motives from the “Nibelungen Ring,” such as the shout of the Valkyrie , Ho-jo-to-ho! the motive in which she pleads so touchingly with the angered Wotan in “ Die Walkure,” her awakening by Siegfried, Briinnhildis new motive as a mortal woman filled with love for Siegfried , and her last glorious song of exultation in the “ Gotterdammerung.” Madame Nordica, by the way, is the possessor of the only dog that can boast of having been in¬ side Bayreuth during a performance; he was smuggled in under a cloak HERR ANDREAS DIPPEL AS LOHENGRIN. From a Photo, by Kitk, Vienna. MADAME NORDICA AS BRUNNHILDE* from a Photo.[by Dupont , New York. The immense scope for dramatic study afforded by this impersonation greatly attracted our Carmen , and in order to be able to enter more fully into the part, she spent months in Seville, observing the sunny, dark beauties who work in the cigarette factories of the ancient Moorish city, and making mental notes of the mixture of coyness and wild, uncon¬ trolled passion in their nature. The keynote of Mile, de Lussan’s conception of Carmen is that she was an alien among the unscrupulous gipsies, and revolted in her heart against their wantonness and fierce, untamed spirit, longing secretly for better things, but incapable by nature of thinking seriously. There remains now a splendid array of Wagner’s heroes and CO VENT GARDEN STARS. by the maid, but the music was too much for his feelings, and he raised up his voice in protest; for which he was speedily turned out. Madame Wagner’s remarks on the occasion have not been recorded, but she must have been very irate. Herr Andreas Dippel gives as his preferences Siegfried and Lohengrin; there- MISS SUSAN STRONG AS SIEGLINDE. From a Photo. fore he appears in the costume of the latter, surrounded by his favourite music from the first act of “Siegfried,” in¬ cluding, of course, the “Forging of Nothung.” Miss Susan Strong shall speak for herself as to her preferences in part of her letter written in 1897, and they still retain their hold over her, she assures me, at the present day. This is what she writes :— I must acknowledge, however, that with all due reverence and affection for the role of Siegliiide , I find it rather bold for me to choose it above so .many others which are so dear to me,. On one occasion, when singing in this part, Miss Strong found herself in a fix, and she was observed, after she was supposed to have made her exit, to return to the stage, unmindful of Wotan's wrath, and ascend the rocky boulders at the back. The audience wondered what she was doing. This is what had occurred : When Sieg/inde , escorted by Briinnhilde , tried to make her regulation exit at the back of the wings, she found it completely blocked up with scenery, and it was the protecting Valkyrie who, see¬ ing her dilemma, advised the alternative. Miss Strong won her way to fame with this role , in which she also made her debut; for when she had been a professional for three weeks only she already held in her hand a contract to sing the part at Bayreuth the same year. Mr. David Bispham wrote as follows to explain his preferences :— It is hard to tell you which is my favourite operatic char¬ acter, but I am inclined to think that the first Wagner idle in which I appeared, now five years ago [the letter is dated July 20th, 1897], namely, Kur- wenal in “Tristan and Isolde,” is perhaps one of the best and most sympathetic, and one which the public seems to admire. The scene in the last act in which the faithful Kur- wenal is watching over his master’s bed, after which he 86 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . Mile. Olitzka further con¬ fesses a great partiality for the characters of Ortrudci in “Lohengrin,” and Amneris in “ Aida ”; her favourite composers are Wagner, Beethoven, and Mozart, and her favourite recrea¬ tions studying and walking or outdoor amusements of different kinds; she thus finds happiness in her work without neglecting her physical welfare. Miss Meisslinger, who has been known at Covent Garden for the last five years, tells me that the im¬ personations which give her the greatest pleasure are Ortruda in “ Lohengrin,” Tides in “ The Prophet,” and Adriano in “ Rienzi.” She studied under Mme. Viardot Garcia in Paris, and made her debut in Wiesbaden. The next in our portrait gallery is Parsifal\ as sung by Ernest van Dyck, and MLLE. OLITZKA AS BRANGANE IN “ TRISTAN. From a Photo. fights for and dies at the feet of Tristan , is perhaps one of the most moving situations in the whole work. It gives me much pleasure to inclose my photograph, as you request. Very sincerely yours, David Bispham. What more natural than to turn from one faithful servant of the ill- fated lovers to the other, Brangdne ? This is the favourite impersonation of Mile. Olitzka, who is represented in her photograph holding the cup from which Isolde and Tristan have just drunk the love-potion, believing it to be the draught of death. The bars of music forming the frame are taken from the first act of the drama, as that is Mile. Olitzka’s favourite. This time last year this Brangdne was singing in St. Petersburg, with MM. Jean and Edouard de Reszke as Tristan and King Marke , before the Czar, who always appeared punctually before the overture and remained till the end of the opera in his box, which looks straight on to the stage and cannot be seen from the auditorium. CO VENT GARDEN STARS. 87 asked the magistrate, peering at him over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “ Why, with a 4 c,’ to be sure,” was the tenor’s emphatic reply ; 44 what would a tenor do at the opera with¬ out the famous 4 C ’ ? ” Herr Anton van Rooy gives as his preference the first role he sang at Bayreuth, and indeed on any stage —that of Wo tan; and his portrait is surrounded by a few bars of the beautiful music he sings as he bids farewell to Briinnhilde , and kisses from her her godhood before leav¬ ing her on her fire-girt rock. M. Jean de Reszke has sent a photograph of himself as Tristan , which is one of his favourite im¬ personations. The bars of music given are from the favourite 44 lovers’ duet ” in the second act; and also Tristan's last words in Act III., when, hearing Isolde's voice outside calling out, 44 Tristan, Beloved,” he springs up to go to her, and dies in her arms with her name on his lips. Mile. Felia Litvinne, who is Jean de Reszke’s sister-in-law, tells me the part of Isolde is by far her favourite ; in fact, she loves it passionately, and she cannot say that she prefers any one scene, for the whole role is so complete. Unfortunately, Mile. Litvinne has no photograph in the character at present. Some familiar figures will be missed from these pages, but, unfortunately, some of the artists did not reach London in time to be com¬ municated with, while the photos, of others, again, arrived too late to be included. MERR ANTON VAN ROOY AS WOTA From a Photo, by Dupont , New York. some of the music from the Good Friday spell, as his favourite, forms the frame. No man has been more persistently misspelt than Van Dyck ; but he settled the point once and for all in court, where he was upon one occasion called into the witness-box during hi's residence in Vienna. 44 Do you spell your name with or without a 4 c’?” From a Photo. ?>//! M. JEAN DE RESZKE AS TRISTAN. [Dupont, New York. A Master of Craft. By W. W. Jacobs. V. HE same day that Flower and his friends visited the theatre, Captain Barber gave a small and select tea-party. The astonished Mrs. Banks had re¬ turned home with her daughter the day before to find the air full of rumours about Captain Barber and his new house¬ keeper. They had been watched for hours at a time from upper back windows of houses in the same row, and the professional opinion of the entire female element was that Mrs. Church could land her fish at any time she thought fit. “Old fools are the worst of fools,” said Mrs. Banks, tersely, as she tied her bonnet- strings ; “the idea of Captain Barber thinking of marrying at his time of life.” “Why shouldn’t he?” inquired her daughter. “ Why, because he’s promised to leave his property to Fred and you, of course,” snapped the old lady; “ if he marries that hussy it’s precious little you and Fred will get.” “ I expect it’s mostly talk,” said her daughter, calmly, as she closed the street People returning the old lady’s hostile stare with interest. “ I’ll take mine off down here, if Captain Barber doesn’t mind,” said the latter, subsid¬ ing into a chair with a gasp. “ Him and me’s very old friends.” She unfastened the strings of her bonnet, and, taking off that article of attire, placed it in her lap while she unfastened her shawl. She then held both out to Mrs. Church, briefly exhorting her to be careful. “ Oh, what a lovely bonnet,” said that lady, in false ecstasy. “ What a perfect beauty ! I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never! ” Captain Barber, smiling at the politeness of his housekeeper, was alarmed and per¬ plexed at the generous colour which suddenly filled the old lady’s cheeks. “ Mrs. Banks made it herself,” he said; “she’s very clever at that sort of thing.” “ There, do you know I guessed as much,” said Mrs. Church, beaming; “directly I saw it, I said to myself; ‘ That was never made by a milliner. There’s too much taste in the way the flowers are arranged.’ ” Mrs. Banks looked at her daughter in a mute appeal for help. “ I’ll take yours up too, shall I ? ” said the amiable housekeeper, as Mrs. Banks, with an air door behind her indignant parent, used to talk about you and old Mr. Wilders, and there was nothing in it. He only used to come for a glass of your ale.” This reference to an admirer who had con¬ sumed several barrels of the liquor in question without losing his head put the finishing touch to the elder lady’s wrath, and she walked the rest of the way in ominous silence. Captain Barber re¬ ceived them in the elaborate velvet smoking-cap with the gold tassel which had evoked such strong en¬ comiums from Mrs. Church, and in a few well - chosen words — carefully rehearsed that afternoon — presented his housekeeper. “Will you come up to my room take your things off?” inquired Mrs. Church, Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America. THAT WAS NEVER MADE IJY A MILLINER. A MASTER OF CRAFT 89 of defying criticism, drew a cap from a paper-bag and put it on. “ I’ll take mine myself, please,” said Miss Banks, with coldness. “ Oh, well, you may as well take them all then,” said Mrs. Church, putting the mother’s bonnet and shawl in her arms. “ I’ll go and see that the kettle boils,” she added, briskly. She returned a minute or two later with the tea-pot, and setting chairs, took the head of the table. “And how’s the leg?” inquired Captain Barber, misinterpreting Mrs. Banks’s screwed- up face. “ Which one?” asked Mrs. Banks, shortly. “ The bad J un,” said the captain. “They’re both bad,”said Mrs. Banks, more shortly than before, as she noticed that Mrs. Church had got real lace in her cuffs and was pouring out the tea in full consciousness of the fact. “ Dear, dear,” said the captain, sympa¬ thetically. “ Swollen ? ” inquired Mrs. Church, anxiously. “Swelled right out of shape,” explained Captain Barber, impressively; “like pillers a’most they are.” “ Poor thing,”, said Mrs. Church, in a voice which made Mrs. Banks itch to slap her. “I knew a lady once just the same, but she was a drinking woman.” Again Mrs. Banks, at a loss for words, looked to her daughter for assistance. “ Dear me, how dreadful it must be to know such people,” said Miss Banks, shivering. “ Yes,” sighed the other. “It used to make me feel so sorry for her — they were utterly shapeless, you know. Horrid.” “That’s how Mrs. Banks’s are,” said the captain, nod¬ ding sagely. “ You look ’ot, Mrs. Banks. Shall I open the winder a bit ? ” “ I’ll thank you not to talk about me like that, Captain Barber,” said Mrs. Banks, the flowers on her cap trembling. “ As you please, ma’am,” said Captain Barber, with a stateliness which deserved a better subject. “ I was only repeating what Dr. Hodder told me in your presence.” Mrs. Banks made no reply, but created a Vo!, xviti.— 12 . diversion by passing her cup up for more tea ; her feelings, when Mrs. Church took off the lid of the tea-pot and poured in about a pint of water before helping her, belonging to that kind known as indescribable. “ Water bewitched and tea begrudged,” she said, trying to speak jocularly. “ Well, the fourth cup never is very good, is it?” said Mrs. Church, apologetically. “I’ll put some more tea in so that your next cup’ll be better.” As a matter of fact it was Mrs. Banks’s third cup, and she said so, Mrs. Church receiving the correction with a polite smile, more than tinged with incredulity. “ It’s wonderful what a lot o’ tea is drunk,” said Captain Barber, impressively, looking round the table. “ I’ve heard say it’s like spirit drinking,” said Mrs. Church; “they say it gets such a hold of people that they can’t give it up. They’re just slaves to it, and they like it brown and strong like brandy.” Mrs. Banks, who had been making noble efforts, could contain herself no longer. She put down the harmless beverage which had just been handed to her, and pushed her chair back from the table. “ Are you speak¬ ing of me, young woman?” she asked, tremulous with indignation. “ Oh, no, certainly not,” said Mrs. Church, in great distress. “ I never thought of such a thing. I was alluding to the people “‘that’s HOW MRS. BANKS’S ARE,’ SAID THE CAPTAIN.” 9 o THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Captain Barber was talking of—regular tea- drinkers, you know.” “ I know what you mean, ma’am,” said Mrs. Banks, fiercely. “ There, there,” said Captain Barber, in¬ advisedly. “ Don’t you say 4 there, there,’ to me, Captain Barber, because I won’t have it,” said the old lady, speaking with great rapidity ; “ if you think that I’m going to sit here and be insulted by—by that woman, you’re mistaken.” “ You’re quite mistook, Mrs. Banks,” said the captain, slowly. “ I’ve heard everything she said, and, where the insult comes in, I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t think I’m want¬ ing in common sense, ma’am.” He patted the housekeeper’s hand, kindly, and, in full view of the indignant Mrs. Banks, she squeezed his in return and gazed at him affectionately. There is nothing humorous to the ordinary person in a tea-cup, but of them. Mrs. Banks, apparently realizing this, laughed again with increased acridity, and finally became so very amused that she shook in her chair. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, ma’am,” said Captain Barber, loftily. With a view, perhaps, of giving his guest further amusement he patted the house¬ keeper’s hand again, whereupon Mrs. Banks’s laughter ceased, and she sat re¬ garding Mrs. Church with a petrified stare, met by that lady with a glance of haughty disdain. “ S’pose we go into the garden a bit,” suggested Barber, uneasily. The two ladies had eyed each other for three minutes with¬ out blinking, and his own eyes were watering in sympathy. Mrs. Banks, secretly glad of the interrup¬ tion, made one or two vague remarks about going home, but after much persuasion allowed him to lead her into the garden, the SHE ALLOWED HIM TO LEAD HER INTO THE GARDEN.” Mrs. Banks, looking straight into hers, broke into a short, derisive laugh. “ Anything the matter, ma’am ? ” inquired Captain Barber, regarding her somewhat severely. Mrs. Barber shook her head. “ Only thoughts,” she said, mysteriously. It is difficult for a man to object to his visitors finding amusement in their thoughts, or even to inquire too closely into the nature solemn Elizabeth bringing up the rear with a hassock and a couple of cushions. “ It’s a new thing for you, having a house¬ keeper,” observed Mrs. Banks, after her daughter had returned to the house to assist in washing up. “Yes, I wonder I never thought of it before,” said the artful Barber ; “ you wouldn’t believe how comfortable it is.” “ I daresay,” said Mrs. Banks, grimly. A MASTER OF CRAFT. 9i “It’s nice to have a woman about the house,” continued Captain Barber, slowly, “ it makes it more home-like. A slip of a servant-gal ain’t no good at all.” . “ How does Fred like it? ” inquired Mrs. Banks. “ My ideas are Fred’s ideas,” said Uncle Barber, somewhat sharply. “What I like he has to like, naturally.” “‘its nice to have a woman about the house,’ continued captain barber.’ ‘ I was thinking of my darter,” said Mrs. a little surprise. Banks. “The arrangement was, I think, that when they married they was to live with you ? ” Captain Barber nodded acquiescence. “ Elizabeth would never live in a house with that woman, or any other woman as housekeeper in it,” said the mother. “ Well, she won’t have to,” said the old man ; ‘ when they marry and Elizabeth comes here, I sha’n’t want a housekeeper—I shall get rid of her.” Mrs. Banks shifted in her chair, and gazed thoughtfully down the garden. “ Of course my idea was for them to wait till I was gone,” she said at length. “Just so,” replied the other, “and more’s the pity.” “ But Elizabeth’s getting on and I don’t seem to go,” continued the old lady, as though mildly surprised at Providence for its unaccountable delay ; “and there’s Fred, he ain’t getting younger.” Captain Barber puffed at his pipe. “None of us are,” he said, profoundly. “ And Fred might get tired of waiting,” said Mrs. Banks, ruminating. “ He’d better let me hear him,” said the uncle, fiercely; “leastways, o’ course, he’s tired o’ waiting, in a sense. He’d like to be married.” “ There’s young C*ibson,” said Mrs. Banks, in a thrilling whisper. “ What about him ? ” inquired Bar¬ ber, surprised at her manner. “ Comes round after Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Banks. “No ! ” said Captain Barber, blankly. Mrs. Banks pursed up her lips and nodded darkly. “ Pretends to come and see me,” said Mrs. Banks ; “always coming in bring¬ ing something new for my legs. The worst of it is, he ain’t always care¬ ful what he brings. He brought some new-fangled stuff in a bottle last week, and the agonies I suffered after rubbing it in wouldn’t be believed.” “ It’s like his impu¬ dence,” said the captain. “ I’ve been thinking,” said Mrs. Banks, nodding her head with some ani¬ mation, “ of giving Fred What do you think he’d do if I said they might marry this autumn?” t “Jump out of his skin with joy,” said Captain Barber, with conviction. “ Mrs. Banks, the pleasure you’ve given me this day is more than I can say.” “ And they’ll live with you just the same ? ” said Mrs. Banks. “ Certainly,” said the captain. “They’ll only be a few doors off then,” said Mrs. Banks, “ and it’ll be nice for you to have a woman in the house to look after you.” Captain Barber nodded softly. “ It’s what I’ve been wanting for years,” he said, heartily. And that huss—housekeeper,” said Mrs. Banks, correcting herself—“ will go ? ” “O’ course,” said Captain Barber. “I sha’n’t want no housekeeper with my nevy’s wife in the house. You’ve told Elizabeth, I s’pose ? ” 9 2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “Not yet,” said Mrs. Banks, who as a matter of fact had been influenced by the proceedings of that afternoon to bring to a head a step she had hitherto only vaguely contemplated. Elizabeth, who came down the garden again a little later, accompanied by Mrs. Church, received the news stolidly. A feel¬ ing of regret that the attentions of the devoted Gibson must now cease certainly occurred to her, but she never thought of contesting the arrangements made for her, and accepted the situation with a placidity which the more ardent Barber was utterly unable to understand. “ Fred’ll stand on his ’ed with joy,” the unsophisticated mariner declared, with enthusiasm. “ He’ll go singing about the house,” declared Mrs. Church. Mrs. Banks regarded her unfavourably. “ He’s never said much,” continued Uncle Barber, in an exalted strain; “that ain’t Fred’s way. He takes arter me: he’s one o’ the quiet ones, one o’ the still deep waters what always feels the most. When I tell ’im his face’ll just light up with joy.” “ It’ll be nice for you, too,” said Mrs. Banks, with a side glance at the housekeeper; “ you’ll have somebody to look after you and take an interest in you, and strangers can’t be expected to do that even if they’re nice I “ We shall have him standing on his head, too,” said Mrs. Church, with a bright smile; “ you’re turning everything upside down, Mrs. Banks.” “There’s things as wants altering,” said the old lady, with emphasis. “ There’s few things as I don’t see, ma’am.” “ I hope you’ll live to see a lot more,” said Mrs. Church, piously. “ She’ll live to be ninety,” said Captain Barber, heartily. “Oh, easily” said Mrs. Church. Captain Barber regarding his old friend saw her face suffused with a wrath for which he was utterly unable to account. With a hazy idea that something had passed which he had not heard, he caused a diversion by sending Mrs. Church indoors for a pack of cards, and solemnly celebrated the occasion with a game of whist, at which Mrs. Church, in partnership with Mrs. Banks, either through sheer wilfulness or absence of mind, contrived to lose every game. VI. As a result of the mate’s ill-behaviour at the theatre, Captain Fred Flower treated him with an air of chilly disdain, ignoring, as far as circumstances would permit, the fact that such a person existed. So far as the social side went the mate made no demur, but it was a different matter when the skipper acted as though he were not present at the breakfast table, and being chary of interfering with the other’s self-imposed vow of silence, he rescued a couple of rashers from his plate and put them on his own. Also, in order to put matters on a more equal footing, he drank three cups of coffee in rapid succession, leaving the skipper to his own reflections and an empty coffee-pot. In this sociable fashion they got through most of the day, the skipper refraining from speech until late in the afternoon, when, both being at work in the hold, the mate let a heavy case fall on his foot. “ I thought you’d get it,” he said, calmly, as Flower paused to take breath ; “it wasn’t my fault.” “ Whose was it, then ? ” roared Flower, who had got his boot off and was trying various tender experiments with his toe to see whether it was broken or not. “ If you hadn’t been holding your head in the air and pretending that I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t have happened,” said Fraser, with some heat. The skipper turned his back on him, and meeting a look of inquiring solicitude from Joe, applied to him for advice. “ What had I better do with it ? ” he asked. “Well, if it was my toe, sir,” said Joe, re¬ garding it respectfully, “ I should stick it in a basin o’ boiling water and keep it there as long as I could bear it.” “ You’re a fool,” said the skipper, briefly. “ What do you think of it, Ben ? I don’t think it’s broken.” The old seaman scratched his head. “ Well, if it belonged to me,” he said, slowly, “there’s some ointment down the fo’c’s’le wot the cook ’ad for sore eyes. I should just put some o’ that on. It looks good stuff.” The skipper, summarizing the chief points in Ben’s character, which, owing principally to the poverty of the English language, bore a remarkable likeness to Joe’s and the mate’s, took his sock and boot in his hand, and gaining the deck limped painfully to the cabin. The foot was so painful after tea that he could hardly bear his slipper on, and he went ashore in his working clothes to the chemist’s, preparatory to fitting himself out for Liston A MASTER OF CRAFT 93 Street. The chemist, leaning over the counter, was inclined to take a serious view of it, and shaking his head with much “ I SHOULD PUT SOME O* THAT ON.’ “ Let me see it again as soon as you’ve finished the medicine,” he said, as he handed the articles over the counter. Flower promised, and hobbling towards the door turned into the street. Then the amiable air which he had worn in the shop gave way to one of unseemly hauteur as he saw Fraser hurrying towards him. “Look out,” cried the latter, warningly. The skipper favoured him with a baleful stare. “ All right,” said the mate, angrily, “ go your own way then. Don’t come to me when you get into trouble, that’s all.” Flower passed on his way in silence. Then a thought struck him and he stopped suddenly. “You wish to speak to me?” he asked, stiffly. “ No, I’m hanged if I do,” said the mate, sticking his hands into his pockets. “If you wish to speak to me,” said the other, trying in vain to conceal a trace of anxiety in his voice, “it’s my duty to listen. What were you going to say just now ? ” The mate eyed him wrathfully, but as the pathetic figure with its wounded toe and cargo of remedies stood there waiting for him to speak, he suddenly softened. “ Don’t go back, old man,” he said, kindly; “she’s aboard.” Eighteenpenny- worth of mixture to be taken thrice daily from table¬ spoons spilled over the curb, and the skipper, thrusting the other packets mechanically into his pockets, limped hurriedly round the corner. “It’s no use finding fault with me,” said Fraser, quickly, as he stepped along be¬ side him, “ so don’t try it. They came down into the cabin before I knew they were aboard even.” “ They ? ” re¬ peated the distressed Flower. “ Who’s they ? ” “ The young woman that came before and a stout woman with a little dark moustache and earrings. They’re going to wait until you come back to ask you a few questions about Mr. Robinson. They’ve been asking me a few. I’ve locked the door of your state¬ room, and here’s the key.” Flower pocketed it and, after a little deliberation, thanked him. “ I did the best I could for you,” said the other, with a touch of severity. “ If I’d treated you as some men would have done, I should have just let you walk straight into the trap.” Flower gave an apologetic cough. “I’ve had a lot of worry lately, Jack,” he said, humbly; “ come in and have something. Perhaps it’ll clear my head a bit.” “ I told ’em you wouldn’t be back till twelve at least,” said the mate, as Flower rapidly diagnosed his complaint and ordered whisky, “perhaps not then, and that when you did turn up you’d sure to be the worse for liquor. The old lady said she’d wait all solemnity, pre¬ pared a bottle of medicine, a bottle of lotion, and a box of ointment. 94 THE STEAND MAGAZINE. night for the pleasure of seeing your bonny face, and as for you being drunk, she said she don’t suppose there’s a woman in London that has had more experience with drunken men than she has.” “ Let this be a warning to you, Jack,” said the skipper, solemnly, as he drained his glass and put it thoughtfully on the counter. “ Don’t you trouble about me,” said Fraser; “you’ve got all you can do to look after yourself. I’ve come out to look for a police¬ man ; at least, that’s what I told them.” “‘they’re STILL DOWN BELOW; SIR,’ SAID JOE.” “ All the police in the world couldn’t do me any good,” sighed Flower. “ Poppy’s got tickets for a concert to-night,, and I was going with her. I can’t go like this.” “Well, what are you going to do?” inquired the other. Flower shook his head and pondered. “You go back and get rid of them the best way you can,” he said, at length, “ but what¬ ever you do, don’t have a scene. I’ll stay here till you come and tell me the coast is clear.” “ And suppose it don’t clear ? ” said Fraser. “ 1 hen I’ll pick you up at Greenwich in the morning,” said Flower. “ And suppose they’re still aboard ? ” said Fraser. “ I won’t suppose any such thing,” said the other, hotly; “ if you can’t get rid of two women between now and three in the morn¬ ing, you’re not much of a mate. If they catch me I’m ruined, and you’ll be respon¬ sible for it.” . The mate, staring at him blankly, opened his mouth to reply, but being utterly unable to think of anything adequate to the occasion, took up his glass instead, and, drinking off the contents, turned to the door. He stood for a moment at the thresh¬ old gazing at Flower as though he had just discovered points about him which had hitherto escaped his notice, and then made his way back to the wharf. “ They’re still down below, sir,” said Joe, softly, as he stepped aboard, “ and making as free and as comfortable as though they’re going to stay a month.” Fraser shrugged his shoulders and went below. The appear¬ ance of the ladies amply con¬ firmed Joe’s remark. “ Never can find one when you want him, can you ? ” said the elder lady, in playful allusion to the police. “ Well, I altered my mind,” said Fraser, amiably. “ I don’t like treating ladies roughly, but if the cap’n comes on board and finds you here it’ll be bad for me, that’s all.” “ What time do you expect him?” inquired Miss Tipping. “ Not before we sail at three in the morning,” said the mate, glibly ; “ perhaps not then. I often have to take the ship out without him. tie’s been away six weeks at a stretch before now.” “ Well, we’ll stay here till he does come,” said the elder lady. “ I’ll have his cabin, and my step-daughter’ll have to put up with your bed.” “ If you’re not gone by the time we start, I shall have to have you put off,” said Fraser. “ Those of us who live longest’ll see the most,” said Mrs. Tipping, calmly. An hour or two passed, the mate sitting smoking with a philosophy which he hoped A MASTER OF CRAFT 95 the waiting mariner at the Admiral Cochrane would be able to imitate. He lit the lamp at last, and going on deck, ordered the cook to prepare supper. Mother and daughter, with feelings of gratitude, against which they fought strongly, noticed that the table was laid for three, and a little later, in a somewhat awkward fashion, they all sat down to the meal together. “Very good beef,” said Mrs. Tipping, politely. “Very nice,” said her daughter, who was exchanging glances with the mate. “ I sup¬ pose you’re very comfortable here, Mr. Fraser?” The mate sighed. “ It’s all right when the old man’s away,” he said, deceitfully. “ He’s got a dreadful temper.” “ I hope you didn’t get into trouble through my coming aboard the other night,” said Miss Tipping, softly. “ Don’t say anything about it,” replied the mate, eyeing her admiringly. “ I’d do more than that for you if I could.” Miss Tipping, catching her mother’s eye, bestowed upon her a glance of complacent triumph. “ You don’t mind us coming down here, do you ? ” she said, languishingly. “ I wish you’d live here,” said the un¬ scrupulous Fraser; “ but of course I know you only come here to try and see that fellow Robinson,” he added, gloomily. “I like to see you too,” was the reply. “I like you very much as a friend.” The mate in a melancholy voice thanked her, and to the great annoyance of the cook, who had received strict orders from the forecastle to listen as much as he could, sat in silence while the table was cleared. “ What do you say to a hand at cards ? ” he said, after the cook had finally left the cabin. “ Three-handed cribbage,” said Mrs. Tip¬ ping, quickly ; “ it’s the only game worth playing.” No objection being raised, the masterful lady drew closer to the table; and concentrat¬ ing energies of no mean order on the game, successfully played hands of unvarying good¬ ness, aided by a method of pegging which might perhaps be best described as dot and carry one. “ You haven’t seen anything of this Mr. Robinson since you were here last, I suppose?” said Fraser, noting with satisfac¬ tion that both ladies gave occasional uneasy glances at the clock. “No, an’ not likely to,” said Mrs. Tipping;- “ fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a pair’s eight.” “ Where’s the fifteen six ? ” inquired Fraser, glancing over. “ Eight and seven,” said the lady, pitching the cards with the others and beginning to shuffle for the next deal. “ It’s very strange behaviour,” said the mate ; “ Robinson’s, I mean. Do you think he’s dead ? ” “ No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Tipping, briefly. “ Where’s that capt’in of yours ? ” Fraser, whose anxiety was becoming too much for his play, leaned over the table as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, went on with the game. “Eh?” said Mrs. Tipping, putting her cards face downwards on the table and catch¬ ing his eye. “ Where ? ” “Oh, nowhere,” said Fraser, awkwardly. “ I don’t want to be dragged into this, you know. It isn’t my business.” “ If you know where he is, why can’t you tell us ?” asked Mrs. Tipping, softly. “There’s no harm in that.” “ What’s the good ? ” inquired Fraser, in a low voice; “ when you’ve seen the old man you won’t be any forwarder—he wouldn’t tell you anything even if he knew it.” “Well, we’d like to see him,” said Mrs. Tipping, after a pause. “ You see, you put me in a difficulty,” said Fraser; “if the skipper doesn’t come aboard, you’re going with us, I under¬ stand ? ” Mrs. Tipping nodded. “ Exactly,” she said, sharply. “That’ll get me into trouble, if anything will,” said the mate, gloomily. “ On the other hand, if I tell you where he is now, that’ll get me into trouble, too.” He sat back and drummed on the table with his fingers. “Well, I’ll risk it,” he said, at length; “you’ll find him at 17, Beaufort Street, Bow.” The younger woman sprang excitedly to her feet, but Mrs. Tipping, eyeing the young man with a pair of shrewd, small eyes, kept her seat. “ And while we’re gone, how do we know the capt’in won’t come back and go off with the ship ? ” she inquired. Fraser hesitated. “ Well, I’ll come with you, if you like,” he said, slowly. “And suppose they go away and leave you behind ? ” objected Mrs. Tipping. “ Oh, well, you’d better stay then,” said the mate, wearily, “ unless we take a couple 9 6 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. of the hands with us. How would that suit you ? They can’t sail with half a crew.” Mrs. Tipping, who was by no means as anxious for a sea-voyage as she tried to make out, carefully pondered the situation. “ I’m going to take an arm of each of ’em and Matilda’ll take yours,” she said, at length. “ As you please,” said Fraser, and in this way the procession actually started up the wharf, and looking back indignantly over its and then sat down suddenly before they could unwind themselves, and, with a compas¬ sionate “ click ” to his horse, started up the road. Except for a few chance wayfarers and an occasional coffee-stall, the main streets were deserted, but they were noisy compared with Beaufort Street. Every house was in absolute darkness as the cab, with instinctive deference to slumber, crawled slowly up and down looking for No. 17. liW/S 1 % “the procession started up the wharf.” shoulder saw the watchman and Ben giving way to the most unseemly mirth, while the cook capered joyously behind them. A belated cab was passing the gate as they reached it, and in response to the mate’s hail pulled sharply up. Mrs. Tipping, pushing her captives in first, stepped heavily into the cab followed by her daughter, while the mate, after a brief dis¬ cussion, clambered on to the box. “ Go on,” he said, nodding. “ Wot, ain’t the rest of you cornin’ ? ” in¬ quired the cabman, eyeing the crowd at the gate, in pained surprise. “ No. 17, Beaufort Street, Bow,” said Mrs. Tipping, distinctly, as she put her head out of the window. “ You could sit on ’er lap,” continued the cabman, appealingly. No reply being vouchsafed to this sugges¬ tion, he wrapped himself up in various rugs It stopped at last, and the mate, springing down, opened the door, and handing out the ladies, led the way up a flight of steps to the street door.' “ Perhaps you won’t mind knocking,” he said to Mrs. Tipping, “ and don’t forget to tell the cap’in I’ve done this to oblige you because you insisted upon it.” Mrs. Tipping, seizing the knocker, knocked loud and long,- and after a short interval repeated the performance. Somebody was heard stirring upstairs, and a deep voice cried out that it was coming, and peremptorily requested them to cease knocking. “That’s not Flower’s voice,” said Fraser. “Not loud enough,” said Miss Tipping. The bolts were drawn back loudly and the chain grated ; then the door was flung open, and a big, red-whiskered man, blinking behind a candle, gruffly inquired what they meant by it. A MASTER OF CRAFT. 97 “ Come inside,” said Mrs. Tipping to her following. “Ain’t you come to the wrong house?” demanded the red-whiskered man, borne slowly back by numbers. “ I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Tipping, suavely; “I want to see Captain Flower.” “Well, you’ve come to the wrong house,” said the red-whiskered man, shortly, “ there’s no such name here.” “ Think,” said Mrs. Tipping. The red-whiskered man waved the candle to and fro until the passage was flecked with tallow. “ Go away directly,” he roared ; “how dare you come disturbing people like this ? ” “You may just as well be pleasant over it,” said Mrs. Tipping, severely; “ because we sha’n’t go away until we have seen him. After all, it’s got nothing to do with you.” “ We don’t want anything to say to you,” affirmed her daughter. “Will—you—get—out—of—my—house?” demanded the owner, wildly. “ When we’ve seen Capt’in Flower,” said Mrs. Tipping, calmly, “and not a moment before. We don’t mind your getting in a temper, not a bit. You can’t frighten us.” The frenzied and reckless reply of the red- whiskered man was drowned in the violent slamming of the street-door, and he found himself alone with the ladies. There was a yell of triumph outside, and the sounds of a hurried scramble down the steps. Mrs. "flipping, fumbling wildly at the catch of the door, opened it just in time to see the cab¬ man, in reply to the urgent entreaties of the mate, frantically lashing his horse up the road. “So far so good,” murmured the mate, as he glanced over his shoulder at the group amazed on the steps. “ I’ve done the best I could, but I suppose there’ll be a row.” The watchman, with the remainder ot the crew, in various attitudes of expectant curiosity, were waiting to receive them at the wharf. A curiosity which increased in intensity as the mate, slamming the gate, put the big bar across and turned to the watchman. “ Don’t open that to anybody till we’re off,” he said, sharply. “ Cap’in Flower has not turned up yet, I suppose ? ” “ No, sir,” said Ben. They went aboard the schooner again, and the mate, remaining on deck, listened anxiously for the return of the redoubtable Mrs. Tipping, occasionally glancing over the side in expectation of being boarded from the neighbouring stairs ; but with the excep¬ tion of a false alarm caused by two maddened seamen unable to obtain admittance, and preferring insulting charges of somnolency against the watchman, the time passed quietly until high water. With the schooner in mid¬ stream slowly picking her way through the traffic, any twinges of remorse that he might have had for the way he had treated two helpless women left him, and he began to feel with his absent commander some of the charm which springs from successful wrong¬ doing. (To be continued.) Vol. xviii .—13 The Arks of Arktown. By Laura B. Starr. Illustrations from Photographs by Chas. Weidner , San Francisco. N Eastern fad becomes a poetic fancy when carried out by the picturesque-loving Californians. The gracious climate, the re¬ sources of the country which furnish everything man can desire, and the universal heritage of energy, ambition, and love of novelty which comes to them from their immediate forebears, are among the many factors which combine to bring about this result. It was when they had become a little weary of the annual “camping-out,” during the long, Who first conceived the idea of the California ark deponent sayeth not, but ten to one it originated in the fertile brain of some member of the Bohemian Club, that fountain-head of novelty and unique ideas. The shape it took was much the same as the one Noah built in obedience to the Lord’s commandment, little thinking he was starting a fashion that would come sailing down the rivers of the world to the present time. The Nautilus , with a flat bottom and a deck¬ house built of four abandoned street-cars set end to end, two and two in a solid square, THE AKK “ NAUTILUS,” AT BELVIDERE, CALIFORNIA, CONSTRUCTED OF FOUR STREET-CARS. sunny, and cloudless summer, and the semi- occasional “ jinks,” both “ high ” and “ low,” of the Bohemian Club had paled somewhat, that someone suggested house-boats. The idea took root and grew, and the blossoming was a novelty. The Californian house - boat should be called an “ ark,” and it should be modelled upon lines differing very materially from the “ broad, square-nosed sloop ” of the Chinese house-boat, or the more graceful sampan of the Japanese, or the solid, substantial house¬ boat of the Thames, though possessing the best qualities of all of them. was the first one, quickly followed by the Alameda and others, built on the same lines. The partitions of the cars were removed, making two lovely rooms with windows galore, and sliding doors at each end; stationary lamps were built into the wall, and the transoms arranged for ventilation. The long seats flanking the walls on either side were upholstered and plentifully cushioned, making comfortable beds by night, and ease-inviting lounging-places by day. A stationary table in each room was the common centre across which the events of THE ARKS OF ARKTOWN. 99 SITTING-ROOM IN THE NAUTILUS, SHOWING THE STREET-CAR FRAMEWORK. the day and plans for the morrow might be discussed, as well as other things besides liquid air. Oriental hangings and the neces¬ sary culinary outfit gave the quaint craft an air of home. Within is found all the comfort, yea, even the luxury, of Dives; while without is the simplicity of green fields, the grandeur of mountain heights, the lulling, soothing gurgle of lapping waves and health - giving ozone. The deep green of the red¬ wood trees forms a pleasing back¬ ground for the golden eschscholt- zias, the sweet- scented violets, and delicate fronds of the wild maiden- hair fern which carpet the fields almost within arm’s reach. The first “ ark ” was such a success that others ap¬ peared almost by magic, although the Nautilus still bears the palm for uniqueness. Imita- form of flattery— soon created a “ town of arks ” on the west side of San Francisco Bay, just over the way from the city of that name, within full view of the Golden Gate. If you are looking on the map for it, you will find it spelled “ Belvi- dere.” During the sum¬ mer there are thirty or forty “arks” moored within easy reach of each other, and the constant stream of visitors coming and going for the “week end,” and other stated times, prove the popularity of the “ark ” system. One of the pleasantest things about them is their power to expand : like the omnibus, there is always room for one more: the unexpected visitor never fails of a welcome and a bed some¬ where, even though it may be on the top of the dining-room table. There is an indescribable charm about the life: one has the pleasures of boating tion—thatsincerest DINING-ROOM OF THE “NAUTILUS.” IOO THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE. combined with the “comforts of home”; sea baths are at one’s very threshold; fish are caught and cooked while you wait, in a manner that would give pleasure to any disciple of Izaak Walton, or even to that king of fishermen him¬ self. The monotony of the scenery is varied by the swinging of the ark, as it turns four times a day with the tide. There are neigh¬ bours, thirty or forty families of them, within easy reaching distance if one can pull a stroke, for there is always a follow¬ ing of row-boats lazily resting upon the water in the wake of each “ ark.” The economy of filthy lucre and the friction of daily life are evident when it is remembered that one has neither rent to pay nor taxes, only the inevitable bills of “ the butcher, the baker, and the can dle - stick - maker,” which he must meet daily wherever he takes his stand on this wide globe. The butcher, the baker, and others of that ilk who supply the needs of daily life have each his little boat, which he sends around every morning at the usual hour for his customary order, and the joint for dinner and the ice-cream for dessert are delivered as promptly to the “ark” dwellers as they are to those who are still in the city. The majority of “ arks ” in this little town are built with a square deck-house, which is CORNER OF BEDROOM IN THE “ NAUTILUS.' THE ARKS OF ARKTOWN IOI divided into rooms according to the size of the “ark” and the family of the owner. Some of them present that “curious com¬ bination of flat-bottomed punt and tasteful bijou residence, which finds its more florid expression on the reaches of the Thames ”; others are more pretentious, with resplendent upholstery, paint and varnish, and a look of newness that is rather a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious creation. To the generality of Americans this little town of “ arks ” would be, perhaps, more of a novelty than to the ordinary Englishman, for the reason that house-boats have been more or less of an institution in England since 1884. The boat-life on the Thames is an ideal existence; a joy and delight for the time being, and a rose-coloured memory for all time to come. The American rivers are too characteristic¬ ally busy to encourage house-boating, though efforts in that direction are being made at the present time. Few of our people have yet sufficiently learned the delight of dolce far niente to introduce that acme of aquatic luxury. Most of us when we go in for aquatics at all want a boat with twin screws, triple expansion engines, and all the other means of “getting there.” True, there are rare souls here and there, in our bustling commercial crowd, who steal away companioned congenially and earn for them¬ selves the criticism of being “queer,” by taking a trip in a canal-boat through the various waterways of New York, Pennsylvania, and Delaware, but, compared to the great army of holiday-seekers, they are in a small minority. A few years ago. several members of the Tile Club fitted up a canal-boat with all the comfort of city studios and the luxury of beautiful hangings and odd bric-a-brac, and drifted lazily and happily away in the track of the setting sun. The result was health regained, a fine collection of sketches, and a most fascinating narrative of the trip pub¬ lished in one of the magazines. Later a quartette of artists—why is it that artists always do the nicest things?—went “ Snubbing Through New Jersey ” with a “ plain, white-painted, three-hatched and pooped-cabined canal-boat, with two mules ahead and a rudder behind. There was a skipper to steer and his wife to help cook ; a deck-hand forward to ‘snub’ the boat in the locks and take a line to the tow-path.” “ Snubbing ” is a term used by boatmen for checking the impetus of boats on enter¬ ing a lock; it is a common expression used by canallers. The advantage of a canal- boat, as stated by one of the four, is that if you come up against a stone wall or any other immovable obstacle, you can hitch the mules to the rudder-post and go home back¬ wards. None of the house-boats mentioned have adopted the plan of decorating the border line of the deck-house with pots of flower¬ ing plants, which is one of the most pic¬ turesque features of the Thames boat. Many of them have awnings and deck chairs and settees, but there is lacking that cosy arrangement for afternoon tea which is such an important and pleasing feature of English boats. Sand Art. By Thomas E. Curtis. Illustrations from Photographs taken expressly for George Newnes, Litnited. T is worth a trip to America merely to see Mr. James Taylor model in sand. He works on the beach at Atlantic City, one of the most famous watering-places in the world, about sixty miles from Philadelphia, on the coast of New Jersey. Here, throughout the summer, Mr. Taylor, who stands head and shoulders above all his imitators in sand art, manipulates the dull and unadhesive material, turning it into veritable gems of sculpture. Unhappily, however, the labour of this clever man is ephemeral. The waves of old ocean ruthlessly wash away the artist’s handi¬ work. There is a touch of sentiment in it, and the many thousands who have watched the artist moulding his fleeting figures within reach of the onward tide have not been less interested in the work because its life is short. The variety of subjects which have sprung from the worker’s fertile brain is astonishing. Hardly a thing happens in the world, such as the blowing up of the Maine , or the death of a noted man, but what some reproduction of it may be made with sand. The photo¬ graphs in this article show how varied Mr. Taylor’s talents are, and how quick he is to seize upon the subject of momentary note for the interest of his countless onlookers. His last subject, recently done expressly for this Magazine, as shown by the illustration below, touches, we think, the highest he has yet reached in sand art. The beautiful figure on the sand, with its flowing drapery, is really amazing in the naturalness of its lines. When we consider the haste with which it must have keen made, and the material of which it is composed, it is certainly a cause of admiration. The tools with which the work is performed are two in number—a piece of wood and brains. In the centre of his circle of RECUMBENT FEMALE FIGURE, MODELLED IN SAND AT ATLANTIC CITY EXPRESSLY FOR THIS MAGAZINE B\ MR. JAMES TAYLOR. SAND ART 103 pleasure - seekers, the artist unassumingly collects a pile of damp sand, and, taking a small bit of wood from the beach, begins to carve his subject in the rough. If it is a bas-relief, such as the model of Gladstone, or “ Love Rules the World,” the tailpiece to our article, he first flattens the damp sand on one side, and then picks out his design with the sharp end of the stick. No matter what the subject, the touch of the artist is true, and the constant practice of years shows itself in the skill and rapidity with which the designs are concluded. When one is finished, no time is lost in beginning another, and thus between the tides we are likely to have made for us half-a-dozen sculp¬ tures, each successful, and each the cynosure of the passing throng. In 'the illustration above we see four of these models : the two at the right representing President McKinley and General Lee, who, during the troublous times last year, were the two most-talked-of men in the country. At the left is a fanciful reproduction of the American summer girl, with her gay “ shirt-waist ” and her jaunty air. When Gladstone died, over a year ago, a most speaking likeness of him in sand stood against one of the pier supports of Atlantic GLADSTONE. 104 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. ADMIRAL GEORGE DEWEY. Beach. When the war broke out with Spain the American battleship was a popular subject for reproduction. No sooner did Hobson burst into heroic prominence than his now familiar features appeared on the Jersey sand, reproduce herewith. Others, of which we are unable, through limitations of space, to reproduce the photographs, show classic and portrait subjects. One called “ Late Arrivals ” shows a mound of sand with three figures SAND SEAL AT SHANKLIN, I.W. and the memorable victory at Manila was of people well known along the beach, quickly followed by a model of Admiral Many of the photographs resemble our final Dewey in uniform. Some of these we have illustration in showing the piers near which been able to catch with the camera and the sculptures are modelled. SAND ART One of the most interesting things about our Atlantic City artist is that he has never had training of any sort. Like many of the pavement artists in London, he fell into occupation by chance, guided to good results by an artistic instinct. But what a difference between this man and the pavement artist. The one is up-to-date, versatile, and always moving forward with the times. The other, with just enough ingenuity to bring him a few daily pennies, rests content with the same pictures in coloured chalk from day to day until the passer-by gets weary of lighthouses, ships, and moons. A little more enterprise would doubtless make pavement art as profit¬ able as sand art is upon the American beach. This, of course, is not to say that the sand artist is not known in England. On the south coast he is not an unfamiliar figure. At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, the seal which we show on the previous page, sent to us by 10 S Mr. A. Hugh Harper, Addiscombe Lodge, Thornton Heath, Surrey, was moulded by one of these men, and it certainly pos¬ sesses a naturalness which makes it come a close second to the American work. But on the English beaches one does not see variety in sand art. Here and there a man portrays a cathedral, a bridge, a castle, or perhaps a portrait of some celebrity. But it is usually done on the flat surface of the sand. This is more back-breaking, but less difficult, and Jess effective than the other. In any event, the art of sand modelling is not so easy as it looks—a fact that many of our readers may discover. Should they not fear the difficulties in the way, and should they be successful in sand art, we should welcome the privilege of looking over any snap-shots of their handiwork which they might care to send to us, and may publish a selection of the best in some future number. Vol, xviii,—14 By E. Nesbit. HE dark arch that led to the witch’s cave was hung round with a black and yellow fringe of live snakes. As the Queen went in, keeping very carefully exactly in the middle of the arch, all the snakes lifted their wicked, flat heads and stared at her with their wicked, yellow eyes. You know it is not manners to stare, even at a Queen. And the snakes had been so badly brought up that they even put their tongues out at the poor lady. Nasty, thin, sharp tongues they were, too. Now, the Queen’s husband was, of course, the King. And besides being a King he was an enchanter, and considered to be quite at the top of his profession : so he was very wise, and he knew that when Kings and Queens want children, the Queen always goes to see a witch. So he gave the Queen the witch’s address, and the Queen called on her, though she was very frightened and did not like it at all. The witch was sitting by a fire of sticks, stirring something bubbly in a shiny, copper cauldron. “ What do you want, my dear ? ” she said to the Queen. “ Oh, if you please,” said the Queen, “ I want a baby—a very nice one. We don’t want any expense spared. My husband said-” “ Oh, yes,” said the witch ; “I know all about him . And so you want a child ? Do you know it will bring you sorrow ? ” “It will bring me joy first,” said the Queen. “ Great sorrow,” said the witch. “ Greater joy,” said the Queen. Then the witch said, “Well, have your own way. I suppose it’s as much as your place is worth to go back without it ? ” “ The King would be very much annoyed,” said the poor Queen. “ Well, well,” said the witch; “ what will you give me for the child ? ” “ Anything you ask for, and all I have,” said the Queen. “ Then give me your gold crown.” The Queen took it off quickly. “ And your necklace of blue sapphires,” THE SEVEN DRAGONS 107 The Queen unfastened it. “ And your pearl bracelets.” The Queen unclasped them. “ And your ruby clasps.” And the Queen undid the clasps. “ Now the lilies from your breast.” The Queen gathered together the lilies. “And the diamonds of your little bright shoe-buckles.” The Queen pulled off her shoes. Then the witch stirred the stuff that was in the cauldron, and, one by one, she threw in the gold crown, and the sapphire necklace, and the pearl bracelets, and the ruby clasps, and the diamonds of the little bright shoe- buckles, and, last of all, she threw in the lilies. And the stuff in the cauldron boiled up in foaming flashes of yellow, and blue, and red, and white, and silver, and sent out a sweet scent, and presently the witch poured it out into a pipkin and set it to cool in the door¬ way among the snakes. Then she said to the Queen : “Your child will have hair as golden as your crown, eyes as blue as your sapphires. The red of your rubies will lie on its lips, and its skin will be clear white as your pearls. Its soul will be white and sweet as your lilies, and your diamonds will be no clearer than its wits.” “ Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the Queen, “ and when will it come ? ” “You will find it when you get home.” “And won’t you have something for your¬ self ?” asked the Queen. “Any little thing you fancy—would you like a country, or a sack of jewels ? ” “ Nothing, thank you,” said the witch. “ I could make more diamonds in a day than I could wear in a year.” “ Well, but do let me do some little thing for you,” the Queen went on. “Aren’t you tired of being a witch ? Wouldn’t you like to be a duchess or a Princess, or something like that ? ” “ There is one thing I should rather like,” said the witch, “but it’s hard to get in my trade.” “ Oh, tell me what,” said the Queen. “ I should like someone to love me,” said the witch. Then the Queen threw her arms round the witch’s neck and kissed her half a hundred times. “ Why,” she said, “ I love you better than my life. You’ve given me the baby— and the baby shall love you, too.” “Perhaps it will,” said the witch, “and when the sorrow comes send for me. Each of your fifty kisses will be a spell to bring me to you. Now, drink up your medicine, there’s a dear, and run along home.” So the Queen drank the stuff in the pipkin, which was quite cool by this time, and she went out under the fringe of snakes, and they all behaved like good Sunday-school children. Some of them even tried to drop a curtsy to her as she went by, though that is not easy when you are hanging wrong way up by your tail. But the snakes knew the Queen was friends with their mistress ; so, of course, they had to do their best to be civil. When the Queen got home, sure enough there was the baby lying in the cradle, with the Royal arms blazoned on it, crying as naturally as possible. It had pink ribbons to tie up its sleeves: so the Queen saw at once it was a girl. When the King knew this he tore his black hair with fury. “ Oh, you silly, silly Queen ! ” he said. “Why didn’t I marry a clever lady? Did you think I went to all the trouble and expense of sending you to a witch to get a girl? You knew well enough it was a boy I wanted—a boy, an heir, a Prince—to learn all my magic and my enchantments, and to rule the kingdom after me. I’ll bet a crown — my crown,” he said, “ you never even thought to tell the witch what kind you wanted ! Did you now ? ” And the Queen hung her head and had to confess that she had only asked for a child. “Very well, madam,” said the King, “ very well—have your own way. And make the most of your daughter, while she is a child.” The Queen did. All the years of her life had never held half so much happiness as now lived in each of the moments when she held her little baby in her arms. And the years went on, and the King grew more and more clever at magic, and more and more disagreeable at home, and the Princess grew more beautiful and more dear every day she lived. Th$ Queen and the Princess were feeding the gold-fish in the courtyard fountains with crumbs of the Princess’s eighteenth birthday cake, when the King came into the court¬ yard, looking as black as thunder, with his black raven hopping after him. He shook his fist at his family, as indeed he generally did whenever he met them, for he was not a King with pretty home manners. The raven sat down on the edge of the marble basin and tried to peck the gold-fish. It was all he could do to show that he was in the same temper as his master. “ A girl indeed ! ” said the King, angrily. “ I wonder you can dare to look me in the io8 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. HE SHOOK HIS FIST AT HIS FAM face, when you remember how your silliness has spoiled everything.” “ You oughtn’t to speak to my mother like that,” said the Princess. She was eighteen, and it came to her suddenly and all in a moment that she was a grown-up : so she spoke out. The King could not utter a word for several minutes. He was too angry. But the Queen said, “ My dear child, don’t inter¬ fere,” quite crossly, for she was frightened. And to her husband she said, “ My dear, why do you go on worrying about it ? Our daughter is not a boy, it is true—but she may marry a clever man who could rule your kingdom after you, and learn as much magic as ever you cared to teach him.” Then the King found his tongue. “ If she does marry,” he said, slowly, “ her husband will have to be a very clever man—- oh, yes, very clever indeed I And he will have to know a very great deal more magic than I shall ever care to teach him.” The Queen knew at once by the King’s tone that he was going to be disagreeable. “Ah,” she said, “don’t punish the child because she loves her mother.” “ I’m not going to punish her for that” said he; “ I’m only going to teach her to respect her father.” And without another word he went off to his laboratory and worked all night, boiling different coloured things in crucibles, and copy- ing charms in curious twisted letters from old brown books with mould stains on their yellowy pages. The next day his plan was all arranged. He took the poor Princess to the Lone Tower, which stands on an island in the sea, a thousand miles from everywhere. He gave her a dowry, arjd settled a handsome income on her. Pie engaged a competent dragon to look after her, and also a respectable griffin whose birth and bringing-up he knew all about. And he said :— “ Here you shall stay, my dear, respectful daughter, till the clever man comes to marry you. Pie’ll have to be clever enough to sail a ship through the Nine Whirlpools that spin round the island, and to kill the dragon and the griffin. Till he comes you’ll never get any older or any wiser. No doubt he will soon come. You can employ yourself in embroidering your wedding gown. I wish you joy, my dutiful child.” And his car, drawn by live thunderbolts (thunder travels very fast), rose in the air and disappeared, and the poor Princess was left, with the dragon and the griffin, in the Island of the Nine Whirlpools, THE SEVEN DRAGONS. The Queen, left at home, cried for a day again, and the witch said the spell, and and a night, and then she remembered the on each side of the door there was now a witch and called to her. And the witch stone lady. One of them had a stone crown came, and the Queen told her all. on its head and a stone sceptre in its hand ; “For the sake of the twice twenty-five but the other held a stone tablet with words kisses you gave me,” said the witch, “ I will on it, which the griffin and the dragon could help you. But it is the last thing I can do, not read, though they had both had a very and it is not much. Your daughter is under good education. a spell, and I can take you to her. But, if I And now all days seemed like one day do, you will have to be turned to stone, and to the Princess, and the next day always to stay so till the spell is taken off the child.” seemed the day when her mother would “ I would be a stone for a thousand years,” come out of the stone and kiss her again, said the poor Queen, “if at the end of them And the years went slowly by. I could see my Dear again.” The wicked King died, and someone else So the witch took the Queen in a car took his kingdom, and many things were drawn by live sunbeams (which travel more changed in the world ; but the island did not quickly than anything else in the world, and change, nor the Nine Whirlpools, nor the much quicker than thunder), and so away griffin, nor the dragon, nor the two stone and away to the Lone Tower on the Island ladies. And all the time, from the very first, of the Nine Whirlpools. And there was the Princess sitting on the floor in the best room of the Lone Tower, crying as if her heart would break, and the dragon and the griffin were sitting primly on each side of her. “ Oh, mother, mother, mother,” she cried, and hung round the Queen’s neck as if she would never let go. “Now,” said the witch, when they had all cried as much as was good for them, “ I can do one or two other little things for you. Time shall not make the Princess sad. All days will be like one day till her deliverer comes. And you and I, dear Queen, will sit in stone at the gate of the tower. In doing this for you I lose all my witch’s powers, and when I say the spell that changes you to stone, I shall change with you, and if ever we come out of the stone, I shall be a witch no more, but only a happy old woman.” Then the three kissed each other again and “ the lone tower on the island of the nine whirlpools, * IIO THE STRAND MAGAZINE . the day of the Princess’s deliverance was coming, creeping nearer, and nearer, and nearer. But no one saw it coming except the Princess, and she only in dreams. And the years went by in tens and in hundreds, and still the Nine Whirlpools spun round, roaring in triumph the story of many a good ship that had gone down in their swirl, bear¬ ing with it some Prince who had tried to win the Princess and her dowry. And the great sea knew all the other stories of the Princes who had come from very far, and had seen the whirlpools, and had shaken their wise heads and said : “ ’Bout ship ! ” and gone discreetly home to their nice, safe, comfort¬ able kingdoms. But no one told the story of the deliverer who was to come. And the years went by. Now, after more scores of years than you would like to add up on your slate, a certain sailor-boy sailed on the high seas with his uncle, who was a skilled skipper. And the boy could reef a sail, and coil a rope, and keep the ship’s nose steady before the wind. And he was as good a boy as you would find in a month of Sundays, and worthy to be a Prince. Now there is Something which is wiser than all the world—and it knows when people are worthy to be Princes. And this Something came from the farther side of the seventh world, and whispered in the boy’s ear. And the boy heard, though he did not know he heard—and he looked out over the black sea with the white foam horses gallop¬ ing over it, and far away he saw a light. And he said to the skipper, his uncle :— “ What light is that ? ” Then the skipper said, “All good things defend you, Nigel, from sailing near that light. It is not mentioned in all charts ; but it is marked in the old chart I steer by, which was my father’s father’s before me, and his father’s father’s before him. It is the light that shines from the Lone Tower that stands above the Nine Whirlpools. And when my father’s father was young he heard from the very old man, his great-great-grand¬ father, that in that tower an enchanted Princess, fairer than the day, waits to be delivered. But there is no deliverance: so never steer that way ; and think no more of the Princess, for that is only an idle tale. But the whirlpools are quite real.” So, of course, from that day Nigel thought of nothing else. And as he sailed hither and thither upon the high seas he saw from time to time the light that shone out to sea across the wild swirl of the Nine Whirlpools. And one night, when the ship was at anchor and the skipper asleep in his bunk, Nigel launched the ship’s boat and steered alone over the dark sea towards the light. He dared not go very near till daylight should show him what, indeed, were the whirlpools he had to dread.- But when the dawn came he saw the Lone Tower stand dark against the pink and prim¬ rose of the east—and about its base the sullen swirl of black water, and he heard the wonderful roar of it. So he hung off, and all that day and for six days besides. And when he had watched seven days he knew something. For you are certain to know something if you give for seven days your whole thought to it, even though it be only the first declension, or the nine-times table, or the dates of the Norman Kings. What he knew was this : that for five minutes out of the 1,440 minutes that make up a day the whirlpools slipped into silence, while the tide went down and left the yellow sand bare. And every day this happened, but every day it was five minutes earlier than it had been the day before. He made sure of this by the ship’s chronometer, which he had thoughtfully brought with him. So on the eighth day at five minutes before noon Nigel got ready. But when the whirlpools suddenly stopped whirling and the tide sank, like water in a basin that has a hole in it, he stuck to his oars and put his back into his stroke, and presently beached the boat on the yellow sand. Then he dragged her into a cave, and sat down to wait. By five minutes and one second past noon, the whirlpools were black and busy again, and Nigel peeped out of his cave. And on the rocky ledge overhanging the sea he saw a Princess as beautiful as the day, with golden hair and a green gown—and he went out to meet her. “ I’ve come to save you,” he said. “ How darling and beautiful you are ! ” “You are very good, and very clever, and very dear,” said the Princess, smiling and giving him both her hands. He shut a little kiss in each hand before he let them go. “ So now, when the tide is low again, I will take you away in my boat,” he said. “But what about the dragon and the griffin?” asked the Princess. “ Dear me,” said Nigel; “ I didn’t know about them. I suppose I can kill them ? ” “ Don’t be a silly boy,” said the Princess, THE SEVEN DRAGONS. Til pretending to be very grown-up, for, though she had been on the island Time only knows how many years, she was still only eighteen, and she still liked pretending. “You haven’t a sword, or a shield, or anything ! ” “ Well, don’t the beasts ever go to sleep ? ” “ Why, yes,” said the Princess, “ but only once in twenty-iour hours, and then the dragon is turned to stone. But the griffin has dreams. The griffin sleeps at tea-time every day, but the dragon sleeps every day for five minutes, and every day it is three minutes later than it was the day before.” “ What time does he sleep to-day ? ” asked Nigel. “ At eleven,” said the Princess. “Ah,” said Nigel, “can you do sums?” “No,” said the Princess, sadly. “I was never good at them.” “Then I must,” said Nigel. “I can; but it’s slow work, and it makes me very un¬ happy. It’ll take me days and days.” “ Don’t begin yet,” said the Princess; “you’ll have plenty of time to be unhappy in when I’m gone. Tell me all about your¬ self.” So he did. And then she told him all about herself. “ I know I’ve been here a long time,” she said, “ but I don’t know what time is. And I am very busy sewing silk flowers in a golden gown for my wedding-day. And the griffin does the housework—his wings are so convenient and feathery for sweeping and dusting; and the dragon does the cooking: he’s hot inside, so, of course, it’s no trouble to him ; and though I don’t know what time is I’m sure it’s time for my wedding-day, because my golden gown only wants one more white daisy on the sleeve, and a lily on the bosom of it, and then it will be ready.” Just then they heard a dry, rustling clatter on the rocks above them and a snorting sound. “ It’s the dragon,” said the Princess, hurriedly. “ Good-bye. Be a good boy, and get your sum done.” And she ran away and left him to his arithmetic. Now the sum was this : “ If the whirlpools stop and the tide goes down once in every twenty-four hours, and gets five minutes earlier every twenty-four hours, and if the dragon sleeps every day, and does it three minutes later every day, in how many days 11 2 THE STRAND MAGAZINE, and at what time in the day will the tide go down three minutes before the dragon falls asleep ? ” It is quite a simple sum, as you see : you could do it in a minute because you have been to a good school, and have taken pains with your lessons ; but it was quite otherwise with poor Nigel. He sat down to work out his sum with a piece of chalk on a smooth stone. He tried it by practice and the unitary method, by multiplication, and by rule-of-three-and-three-quarters. He tried it by decimals and by com¬ pound interest. He tried it by square-root and by cube-root. He tried it by addition, simple and otherwise, and he tried it by mixed ex¬ amples in vulgar frac¬ tions. But it was all of no use. Then he tried to do the sum by algebra, by simple and by quadratic equa¬ tions, by trigonometry, by logarithms, and by conic sections. But it would not do. He got an answer every time, it is true, but it was always a different one, and he could not feel sure which answer was right. And just as he was feeling how much more important than anything else it is to be able to do your sums, the Princess came back. And now it was getting dark. “ Why, you’ve been seven hours over that sum,” she said, “ and you haven’t done it yet. Look here, this is what is written on the tablet of the statue by the lower gate. It has figures in it. Perhaps it is the answer to the sum.” She held out to him a big white magnolia leaf. And she had scratched on it with the pin of her pearl brooch, and it had turned brown where she had scratched it, as magnolia leaves will do. Nigel read :— AFTER NINE DAYS T ii. 24 D 11. 27 Ans. F.S.—And the griffin is artificial. R. He clapped his hands softly. “ Dear Princess,” he said, “ I know that’s the right answer. It says R, too, you see. But I’ll just prove it.” So he hastily worked the sum backwards in decimals and equa¬ tions and conic sections, and all the rules he could think of. And it came right every time. “So now we must wait,” said he. And they waited. And every day the Princess came to see Nigel and brought him food cooked by the dragon, and he lived in his cave, and talked to her when she was there, and thought about her when she was not, and they were both as happy as the longest day in summer. Then at last came The Day. Nigel and the Princess laid their plans. “ You’re sure he won’t hurt you, my only treasure ? ” said Nigel. “ Quite,” said the Princess. “ I only wish I were half as sure that he wouldn’t hurt you A “ My Princess,” he said, tenderly, “ two z Zh ' ' EVERY DAY THE PRINCESS CAME TO SEE NIGEL AND BROUGHT HIM FOOD.” THE SEVEN DRAGONS. TI 3 great powers are on our side: the power of Love and the power of Arithmetic. Those two are stronger than anything else in the world.” So when the tide began to go down Nigel and the Princess ran out on to the engines all letting off steam at the top of their voices inside Cannon Street Station. And the two lovers stood looking up at the dragon. He was dreadful to look at. His head was white with age—and his beard had grown so long that he caught his claws . ■ ■ ■ ' i ; 'V K} HE BREATHED FIRE TILL THE WET SAND HISSED AGAIN. sands, and there, full in sight of the terrace where the dragon kept watch, Nigel took his Princess in his arms and kissed her. The griffin was busy sweeping the stairs of the Lone Tower, but the dragon saw, and he gave a cry of rage—and it was like twenty Vol. xviii.—15 in it as he walked. His wings were white with the salt that had settled on them from the spray of the sea. His tail was long and thick and jointed and white, and had little legs to it, any number of them—far too many — so that it looked like a very large fat silkworm ; and his claws were as long as lessons, and as sharp as bayonets. “Good-bye, love!” cried Nigel, and ran out across the yellow sand towards the sea. He had one end of a cord tied to his arm. The dragon was clambering down the face of the cliff, and next moment he was crawling and writhing and sprawling and wriggling across the beach after Nigel, making great holes in the sand with his heavy feet—and the very end of his tail, where there were no legs, made as it dragged a mark in the sand such as you make when you launch a boat; and he breathed fire till the wet sand hissed again, and the' water of THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 114 the little rock pools got quite frightened, and all went off in steam. And still Nigel held on and the dragon after him. The Princess could see nothing for the steam, and she stood crying bitterly, but still holding on tight with her right hand to the other end of the cord which Nigel had told her to hold ; while with her left she held the ship’s chronometer, and looked at it through her tears as he had bidden her look, so as to know when to pull the rope. On went Nigel over the sand, and on went the dragon after him. And the tide was low, and sleepy little waves lapped the sand’s edge. Now at the lip of the water Nigel paused and looked back, and the dragon made a bound, beginning a scream of rage that was like all the engines of all the railways in England. But it never uttered the second half of that scream, for now it knew suddenly that it was sleepy—it turned to hurry back to dry land, because sleeping near whirlpools is so unsafe. But before it reached the shore sleep caught it and turned it to stone. And Nigel, seeing this, ran shoreward for his life—and the tide began to flow in, and the time of the whirlpool’s sleep was nearly over, and he stumbled and he waded and he swam, and the Princess pulled for dear life at the cord in her hand, and pulled him up on to the dry shelf of rock just as the great sea dashed in and made itself once more into the girdle of Nine Whirlpools all round the island. But the dragon was asleep under the whirlpools, and when he woke up from being asleep he found he was drowned, so there was an end of him. “ Now, there’s only the griffin,” said Nigel. And the Princess said :—- “ Yes—only-” And she kissed Nigel and went back to sew the last leaf of the last lily on the bosom of her wedding gown. And she thought and thought of what was written on the stone above the griffin being artificial — and next day she said to Nigel - “ You know a griffin is half a lion and half an eagle, and the other two halves when they’re joined make the leo-griff. But I’ve never seen him. Yet I have an idea.” So they talked it over and arranged every¬ thing. Then when the griffin fell asleep that after¬ noon at tea-time, Nigel went softly behind him and trod on his tail, and at the same time the Princess cried : “ Look out! there’s a lion behind you.” And the griffin, waking suddenly from his dreams, twisted his large neck round to look for the lion, and saw a lion’s flank, and fastened its eagle beak in it. For the griffin had been artificially made by the King- enchanter, and the two halves had never really got used to each other. So now the eagle half of the griffin, who was still rather sleepy, believed that it was fighting a lion, and the lion-part, being half asleep, thought it was fighting an eagle, and the whole griffin in its deep drowsiness hadn’t the sense to pull itself together and remember what it was made of. So the griffin rolled over and over, one end of it fighting with the other, till the eagle end pecked the lion end to death, and the lion end tore the eagle end with its claws till it died. And so the griffin that was made of a lion and an eagle perished, exactly as if it had been made of Kilkenny cats. “ Poor griffin,” said the Princess, “ it was very good at the house-work. I always liked it better than the dragon : it wasn’t so hot- tempered.” And at that moment there was a soft, silky rush behind the Princess, and there was her mother, the Queen, who had slipped out of the stone statue directly the griffin was dead, and now came hurrying to take her dear daughter in her arms. The witch was clambering slowly off her pedestal. She was a little stiff with standing still so long. When they had all explained everything over and over to each other as many times as was good for them, the witch said :— “ Well, but what about the whirlpools ? ” And Nigel said he didn’t know. Then the witch said : “ I’m not a witch any more. I’m only a happy old woman, but I know some things still. Those whirlpools were made by the enchanter-King’s dropping nine drops of his blood into the sea. And his blood was so wicked that the sea has been trying ever since to get rid of it, and that made the whirlpools. Now you’ve only got to go out at low tide-” So Nigel understood and went out at low tide, and found in the sandy hollow left by the first whirlpool a great red ruby. And that was the first drop of the wicked King’s blood. And next day Nigel found another, and next day another, and so on till the ninth day, and then the sea was as smooth as glass. The nine rubies were used afterwards in agriculture. You had only to throw them out into a field if you wanted it ploughed. Then the whole surface of the land turned itself over in its anxiety to get rid of some- THE SEVEN DRAGONS . thing so wicked, and in the morning the field was found to be ploughed as thoroughly as any young man at Oxford. So the wicked King did some good after all. When the sea was smooth, ships came from far and wide bringing people to hear the wonderful story. And a beautiful palace was built, and the Princess was married to Nigel in her gold dress, and they all lived happily as long as was good for them. The dragon still lies, a stone dragon on the sand, and at low tide the little children play round him and over him. But the 1 *5 pieces that were left of the griffin were buried under the herb-bed in the palace garden, because it had been so good at house-work, and it wasn’t its fault that it had been made so badly and put to such poor work as guarding a lady from her lover. I have no doubt that you will wish to know what the Princess lived on during the long years when the dragon did the cooking. My dear, she lived on her income : and that is a thing which a great many people would like to be able to do. LITTLE CHILDREN PLAY ROUND HIM AND OVER HIM.' Curiosities* [We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted .] A BATTLEFIELD The battlefield scene shown in the two photographs reproduced on this page is not a phase of the Hispano- American War, but a clever miniature worked out in sand with toy soldiers, by Mr. Edward R. Jackson, i, 379 > 8th Avenue, Oakland, California. It only occupied a small platform about 6ft. square, and was constructed in the open air. With his hands as tools Mr. Jackson built a range of hills as a background, scooped out a valley in front of them, constructed a road from the left down the valley, and extended it toward the centre of the foreground, finishing the topography of his sand-pile by making a small "knoll to the right of the centre of the foreground. The soldiers he used in the first instance were cut out of pictures relating to the war with Spain, published in the magazines, but from a photographic point of view they were not a success. However, a small boy of his ac¬ quaintance came forward with the offer of his toy IN MINIATURE. soldiers, and placed at Mr. Jackson’s command three or four batteries of light artillery, a battery of heavy artil¬ lery, three or four troops of cavalry, nearly a regiment of infantry, tents, and even a small grove of lead trees and a few lead rocks and shrubs. With such an amount of material at his disposal it was quite an easy matter to complete the scene, additional realism being imparted to it by the introduction of a few hurriedly constructed wood fences. “With every¬ thing in position,” Mr. Jackson adds, “ there remained but one thing to be done. The sun, which had favoured me so far in my work, now turned traitor, and hid itself behind a huge black cloud. The sky, in fact, was heavily overcast, and threatened to produce a shower at any moment, so I photographed the miniature battlefield without delay. Half an hour later, all that was left of it was a shapeless pile of sand.” * Copyriirht:. iRng, bv George Newne.s. Limbed. CURIOSITIES. t 117 A “DOUBLE- FACED” MAN. The particularly humorous feature about our next photo¬ graph is the grinning caricature of a face worn by the man standing in a stooping position the second from the right. The explanation lies in the fact that being baldheaded he has had another face painted on the top of his scalp, and in the photograph he is merely bending down in order to show the curious effect to full advantage. The photograph was for¬ warded by Mr. D. F. Campbell, Old Hun¬ stanton, Norfolk. A NOVELTY IN JUGS. An extremely interesting novelty in jugs is shown in our next photograph, which has been taken by Mr. Robert F. Day, 31, New York Avenue, Brooklyn, N.Y. The pitcher or jug is about 8in. high and 4j4in. diameter at the top. It will hold a little over a quart of liquid. The neck or narrow part is of open fretwork, which prevents its usage as an ordinary jug. On the outside of the bowl are the following lines, written in Old English style :— Here, gentlemen, come try your skill: I’ll hold a wager if y ? ou will That you don’t drink this liquor all Without you spill or let some fall. The innocent, thirsty traveller who ventures to drink out of this pitcher from the top or usual place will have the contents spilled upon his shirt-front unless he happen to understand the secret. The handle is a hollow tube, although outwardly bear¬ ing no indication of the fact, whilst inside the bowl of the pitcher near the bottom is a small hole through which the liquid passes into the handle and around the top to the nose. There are also two openings in the sides of the pitcher at the top. Whoever essays to drink must cover these two holes with his fingers, holding the jug perpendicularly, and then suck through the nose, where there is a small hole. A BILL-POSTING RACE. The accompanying photo¬ graph, sent by Mr. J. A. Reid, of Cutcliffe Grove, Bedford, was taken by Mr. Lewis Med- land, of North Finchley, at the annual tradesmen’s fete at Whetstone, N. It depicts an incident in the bill - posting race. The competitors had to stand on a given line 1 ooyds. from the boards, each with a pail of paste, a brush, and a poster. They then had to race to the boards, paste and stick up their bills, and run back to the starting point, the prize going to the competitor who suc¬ ceeded in pasting up his bill in the neatest and quickest manner. The competitor on the right promises to be a likely winner. THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 118 BEARDING AND PHOTOGRAPHING THE LION. Few photographers of the present day, amateur or otherwise, have the opportunity of snap - shotting the King of Beasts as he stands free and fearlessly out on open ground. Yet the intrepid photographer seems to have had such an opportunity here, and, what is more, availed himself of it to the fullest extent. There seems, in fact, such an air of realism about the picture, we confess*to a feeling of hesitancy in having to admit that the noble lion here is but a foot and a half high, and does not roam till a string in his side is pulled with considerable force. In short, it is a beautiful Parisian toy, with a hide-covered body, an exquisitively coloured tawny mane, a head that wags at the slightest touch, and a jaw that opens and shuts in quite a hungry manner, whilst the “jungle” from which he appears to be so majestically emerging is composed of pampas grass placed against a hedge. The photograph was sent in by Miss Emmons, care of Lady Hardman, 55, Carlisle Place Mansions, Victoria Street, S.W. A MAN’S ATTITUDE WHEN THROWING. This is not a snap-shot of a contortionist, nor of a man making vain attempts to fly. It represents J. S. Ewen, of Aberdeen, a well-known Highland athletic champion, just after delivering a light ball from a 7^ft. spring in a throwing competition. The ball has left the hand about 6ft. or 7ft., and the thrower is in the act of balancing himself in order to prevent a follow-over the mark. The camera caught him just as he was swinging round to the left on the one leg, and it is in this long and rapid stroke that the secret of this athlete’s prowess is said to lie. The action is partly natural and partly acquired, through long practice with Gideon Perrie, the American champion. The photo, was taken and sent in by Mr. Harry S. Lumsden, 18, Bon-Accord Cres- cent, Aberdeen. - A SPECTRAL HORSE. All sorts of curious and unlooked-for effects can be obtained by focusing objects with the camera held in a perpendicular position. In this instance Mr. N. Powell, of Lower Beeding Vicarage, Horsham, Sussex, placed his camera on the ground and pointed it upwards at a horse’s neck and head. The effect as seen in the photograph is somewhat of a cross hetween a camel and a giraffe, though in neither case do the features come out very clearly ; in fact, there is such a shadowy vagueness about the spectral-like creature, it might stand for almost anything—from a blotch of ink to a passing cloud of smoke. CURIOSITIES. 119 a Ki^tUKU US ANCIENT LIGHTS.’’ The house shown in the accompanying illustration does not present a very imposing spectacle for the parade of a fashionable seaside resort, never- ,__ theless it may be seen at the little east coast j watering-place of Felixstowe, Suffolk, where its peculiar surroundings have made it an , object of curiosity to many visitors. Adjoin¬ ing the house on either side there is a plot of building ground for sale, and as the house belongs to a different owner the holder of the plots has erected these hoardings in order to j claim his right to the use of “ light and air, 55 j so that no objection may be lodged when the adjacent sites are built upon. The hoardings run the entire length of the house at each 1 end, and extend to the upper windows, so that the occupiers have to rest content with ! taking their view of the outside world from i the front only. Photo, by W. Girling, Strad- j brooke, sent by Mr. E. Bond, The Rookery, Eye, Suffolk. _ TREE GROWING OUT OF A CHIMNEY. Mr. E. N. St. Stephens, Thyra House, North Finchley, the sender of this photo graph, writes: “At Pachim, on the Bang- pakong River, in Siam, there was formerly a mill for the extraction of gold from quartz ob¬ tained from a mine up country. The works were afterwards removed to the mine itself, and the buildings at Pachim demolished with the ex¬ ception of the chimney. Since then a tree has grown up from the base inside the chimney, and now spreads out its branches from the top, as can be seen in the photograph. The chim¬ ney is approximately 40ft. high, and the interior almost entirely filled by the trunk. The photo, was taken by Mr. R. de Stephen in January last, when we were leaving the country.” THE MOLE-CATCHER’S TROPHY. The next photograph we reproduce depicts a not uncommon sight in parts of the country where moles abound. Here we see the manner in which the mole- catcher strings his victims up when cap¬ tured, “chalking up his score,” so to speak, against the farmer, who is thus enabled to see that he has faithfully done his work. In this instance the moles have been fastened by string to a dead bough, but sometimes one sees them simply suspended on a hawthorn hedge by running a thorn through the animal’s nose. It is really wonderful the dexterity the mole-catcher displays in tracking his quarry, which in itself is a task requiring much keenness of perception and the exercise of no end of patience. Our photograph, which has been sent in by Mr. T. R. Hodges, of 24, Payton Street, Stratford-on-Avon, conveys but an in¬ adequate conception of the extent of the “kill” a really expert mole-catcher will accomplish in the course of a day. 120 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. AN EASTERN HORSE-SHOE. It is not too much to say that horse-shoes vary in some particular or another in almost every country. The accompanying photograph shows the style of shoe affected in Palestine, and a very substantial, durable piece of footgear it looks, to be sure. Notice the size of die plate, and the position of the nail-holes. On the stony tracks in Palestine, which fulfil the purpose of roads for all except Emperors, a horse is less liable to injury when shod in this fashion. Sender of photo., Mr. Wm. Herrington, Cuckfield, Sussex. AN ARTIST IN SAND. The curious orna¬ mentation seen in the bottle shown herewith has been worked out in sand of variegated colours by Mr. W. S. O’Brien, McGregor, Iowa. The sand was pro¬ cured from the Pictured Rocks, but Mr. O’Brien says that it is im¬ possible to expect a photo, to do jus¬ tice to the brilliant, unfadable colours he has used, of which there are no fewer than sixteen. The sand is put into the bottle loose and dry, and is packed so tightly that no amount of jarring can mix it. Photo, by A. Horning , McGregor , Iowa. of 7 , face. Mr. C. F. Collier, S.W., is the sender. - A CURIOUS WHIM. Our next photo, shows us the back of a large house in Co. Westmeath, Ireland, the particular feature about which is the curiously designed windows, which were built that shape in accordance with a whim of the owner because he wanted them to match the backs of the arm-chairs in his dining-room. The sender of the photograph, Mr. Richard Reynell, 37, Wilfred Street, Rose Hill, Derby, states that the house is now going to ruin. LEAPING UP A WALL. t This is a snap-shot of a dog jumping after a ball, which was fastened upon the wall, but which has not come inLo the picture. The effect is strikingly curious, for the fox-terrier has all the appearance of crawling up the wall. A still more surprising result would have been attained had the chair on the left, from which no doubt the jump was made, been removed, but of course there would not be time to do this. If the photo¬ graph is held sideways, the dog appears to be running on a level sur- Chelsea Embankment, Painted by\ “ a sailor’s sweetheart.” [Marcus Stone, R.A. Copyright , 1S95, by Photographische Gesellschaft.—By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, London, W. The Strand Magazine. Vol. xviii. AUGUST, 1899. No. 104. Illustrated Interviews. LXVL—MR. MARCUS STONE, R.A. DRAMATIST in colour. That, in a word, is Marcus Stone. No one who looks, even cursorily, at one of his pictures can fail to realize the effect or to discover the play upon the emotions which the drama¬ tist in words uses in the evolution of his more diffuse, but not less highly specialized, art. The son of an artist, an Associate of the Royal Academy, of which he has himself been for twelve years a full member, the student of heredity may see the reason for Mr. Stone’s allegi¬ ance to art. His difficulty will arise when he has to explain the fact that Mr. Stone never had any so- called real tuition in his life, and owes none of the early bias which he showed to¬ wards his profes¬ sion to direct in¬ fluence, for at the time when he decided to be a painter he was practically a stranger to the arena of the studio—even his father’s. The first step in any direction is always an interest¬ ing one to dis¬ cover, so the day Mr. Stone re¬ ceived me in the studio in his magnificent house in the Melbury Road, my first question was, naturally, when he first began to draw. “ I can’t tell you,” he said ; “ I have no recollection of the time when I did not draw. Vol. xviii.—16 I know I was scribbling when I was four years old, and I have some sketches which were preserved from my very youthful days, before I had ever even seen a picture. I was looking over them only a few days ago, and I confess that though they do not appear *to me at all remarkable as sketches, even for a child of my then years, they were remark¬ able for the particular child that I was, for of art education I had had absolutely none. What of the artist I have in me was developed by circumstances, for although my father was an artist, I saw nothing of him as such until I was ten years of age. My father’s studio was in London, and we as child¬ ren lived in the country, or what was then the country, in the north of London — Bushey, Hen¬ don, and Finchley. In those days— for I am speaking of half a century ago — locomotion was difficult, and my father came down only two or three times a week, and we never went to London. Even then, the meanest little picture-book was a prize to me, and I trea¬ sured every scrap of pictorial illus¬ tration which I could possibly pro¬ cure, for I could count on the fingers of my two hands the picture-books of my childhood. There was no Strand Magazine then, and no wealth of graphic representation such as exists now for the delight of childhood. MR. MARCUS STONE, R.A. From a Photo, by George Names, Limited. 124 THE S TEA AH MAGAZINE. Painted by] “the first love-letter.” liy permission of Arthur Lucas, 38, Baker Street, IF., proprietor of the Copyright. [Marcus Stone, R.A. “ When I was about ten years old I went to live in London. My great recreation was to go to the Royal Academy, and no week of my life passed without my seeing pictures, so that I soon got a world of art of my own.” “ Pictor nascitur non fit,” I murmured, changing the quotation slightly. “ When did you decide on becoming an artist?” “I always decided on that. Certainly I never desired to be anything else than a painter. At ten I was allowed to go into my father’s studio ; but it was not until I was sixteen that I began to take up the pursuit of art seriously. My time before then was devoted to my general education. I fancy, though, I put more into my books in those days than I took out of them, for I filled them with sketches, as I filled every available scrap of paper that came into my possession. 1 re¬ member when I was quite a little fellow that one day a bill came in from the local shoe¬ maker, which my mother was sure had been paid. The receipt was searched for high and low, but it was not forthcoming. At length I was interrogated on the subject. I over¬ hauled my sketches, and on the back of the receipt was a picture which might have been inscribed, ‘ Marcus Stone fecit.’ “ The first studio except my father’s I ever was in was Frith’s. On one occasion I went to him with a message, and as a great kind¬ ness he allowed me to stay and watch him while he was at work. He was painting some drapery which lay on a piece of paper on the dais, or throne, in his studio, as it re¬ presented a robe on the floor of his picture. I went roaming about from place to place, and accidentally kicked the paper with my foot and turned it completely round. Frith groaned aloud, but he was kindness itself, and didn’t say anything. I was fully alive to the enormity of the offence I had com¬ mitted, and expected to be forthwith ordered out of the room, but happily that fate was not meted out to me, and by a little re¬ arrangement Frith found that I had not done very much harm. “ On another occasion I went to see Landseer, when he was finishing his picture k Saved’—you remember the subject: a dog who has saved the life of a little boy. Landseer was painting the pebbles on the beach, and, to my youthful imagination, they seemed far more like potatoes than stones. That impression still remains with me as the result of a recent inspection of the picture. “ Landseer I remember as a remarkable talker, with that extraordinary power of telling a story which makes it impossible for anyone to tell it after him. A few weeks before he was seized with the mental malady which practically killed him, three years before he died, I saw him, and he told me a story. -He had been at Windsor, where he was always received with special distinction, and the train in which he was travelling ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. 125 back to London was invaded at a quiet station by a party returning from a prize¬ fight. The officials were unable to cope with them, and the defeated combatant and his second were put into the carriage which had been specially reserved for Landseer. ‘ What was the man like ? 5 I asked; £ was he badly knocked about ? 5 ‘ He looked very pale, 5 replied Landseer; ‘ he was wrapped up in a blanket, and he moaned a good deal. He was very wet and he smelt of lemon. 5 The way in which the last four words were spoken was inimit¬ able, and conveyed in a most lucid manner the idea of the prize-fighter of those days, who was revived between the rounds by being sponged and having a suck at a lemon. 55 “ When did you paint your first pic¬ ture ? 55 was my next interrogation. “The first which was exhibited at the Academy was done when I was seven¬ teen, although it was not exhibited until the spring of 1858. I had long before this, however, been painting in oils, and I tried my hand at everything, from the family milk-jug upwards. My father’s health began to fail for some years before he died, and so I was allowed to work as I pleased. That picture was called ‘ Rest, 5 and repre- sented an old knight in a suit of armour, reclining under a tree, with some children look¬ ing at him. It found a purchaser, and as he was an absolute stranger to me, it must have had some sort of merit in it. It was not a large picture, the size known in the profession as a ‘kitcat, 5 3ft. by 2ft. 55 With a sudden impulse of curiosity I asked a decidedly impertinent question. “Will you tell me what you got for it, Mr. Stone ? 55 “ Certainly, 55 he replied, in such away that I no longer felt that, in the interests of the LOVE or COUNTRY.” [Marcus Stone, R.A. Painted by J By permission of I. P. Mendoza, St. James's Galleries, King Street, St. James's , the ovmer oj the Copyright . 126 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. By permission of Arthur Lucas. 38, Baker Street, IF., proprietor of the Copyright. ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. 127 equally curious public, I had committed a faux pas. “Forty pounds was the price.” “ And what happened after that? ” “ Then I began to work very hard at self- imposed tasks. I began attending a life- school of an exceedingly interesting character. It was got up by some of the men at the top of the tree in order that they might resume the studies of their youth. They were good enough to allow me to join them. Among them were Frith, Mulready, Holman Hunt, John Phillip, Augustus Egg, and other well-known painters, and I drew side by side with Mulready, who was a contemporary of Wilkie. He was then a very old man, as you may judge by the fact that if he were alive now he would be one hundred and thirteen. He made the most beautiful drawings you can imagine, which were always being bought up for schools of design throughout the country. I naturally derived a great deal of benefit from watching the methods of such men. Indeed, had I a young artist to train, the thing I would desire most for him would be that he should be among his seniors and see the development of their work. Painting is an imitative art, and if an apt pupil he can do well what he has seen others do, and so save a great deal of time puzzling out things for himself.” “How long did you remain at the life- school ? ” “About a couple of years. My father died when I was nineteen, and it then became necessary that I should earn my living. Work as well as study had to go on simultaneously, as they have since gone on until the present time.” When a man begins his work at so early an age, the influence of those who have “arrived ” more or less counts for something in the formation of his character and his career, so I asked Mr. Stone who had influenced him most. “ As a man Dickens influenced my life enormously,” he replied. “A great deal of the origin of my effort to deal with human sympathy in the way I have done is due to him, .for that was the sheet- anchor of his whole life. He was a great friend of my father's. I constantly saw him under all conditions. There never was a man who gave himself more trouble and took more infinite pains in the pursuit of his art than did Dickens, and every detail and incident and character in the multitudinous personages in his books was given the greatest consideration. It was his example which was always before me which taught me habits of punctuality, diligence, and the like, and it was his example which saved me from, the possibility of becoming an idler or dilettante, of whom there are too many in all arts.” “Everybody remembers your illustrations of ‘ Our Mutual Friend 5 and other of Dickens’s novels,” I said. Mr. Stone smiled. “ 4 Our Mutual Friend ’ was not the first of the Dickens novels which I illustrated,” he replied, “for I began when I was quite a little boy. When ‘Bleak House’was coming out I was about ten. Jo always appealed most vividly to my childish imagination, and I remember that when the part came out with that famous eleventh chapter in which, as every reader of the book will recall, Jo sweeps the step of the gateway of the grave¬ yard in which, the man who had been ‘ werry good ’ to him was buried, I was so impressed with the reality of the scene that I sat down at a table, took up a sheet of paper, and tried to draw it as I saw it. Dickens hap¬ pened to call upon my father—my sketch caught his eye. He recognised the subject at once, and, taking it up, said, ‘That is very good, Marcus ; you will have to give it to me.’ It was given to him, and a year after he wrote me a letter, of which I need hardly say I was inordinately proud, and with the letter came the first copy of a book I ever had given to me by the author. It was Dickens’s ‘ Child’s History of England.’ “When my father died I had only ex¬ hibited two pictures, and as I had no inherit¬ ance from him, my prospects were decidedly gloomy. I thought if I could get some illustrations to do it would be a resource which would be valuable. I therefore went to Dickens, and he wrote me letters to three publishers, Murray, Longmans, and Chapman and Hall. None of them bore fruit, however, but that to the last-named firm, who after a long interval, in 1861, gave me a frontis¬ piece to do for the first cheap edition of ‘ Little Dorrit.’ After two or three years came an offer for illustrating ‘ Our Mutual Friend.’ Of course I accepted it, and the drawings were done, as well as others, such as the frontispiece for the first cheap edition of the ‘Tale of Two Cities,’eight illustrations for the library edition of the ‘ Child’s Flistory of England,’ four for the library edition of ‘ American Notes,’ and as many for ‘ Pictures from Italy,’ and eight illustrations for the library edition of ‘ Great Expectations.’” “A friend of yours told me that you dis¬ covered the original of Mr. Venus for Dickens. How did it happen?” I asked Mr. Stone. 128 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. “ I was painting a picture in which I required a begging dog. The ordinary dog is not at present sufficiently highly educated as a model, so I was recommended to go to a Taxidermist named Willis, in the Seven Dials, who wbuld supply my wants. He did, as a matter of fact, for he found the dog, killed it, and stuffed it in the attitude I needed. The day I called on him Dickens sent me an invitation to go to the theatre with him. During an interval between the acts he told me that he wanted a very striking and unusual and peculiar vocation to be introduced into the new story he was writing. ‘I know the very man/ I replied. ‘Take me to him/ said illustrated, and as I knew Wilkie Collins, and most of the other literary men of my day. I heard that Thackeray was about to publish the Cornhill Magazine , in which there were to be illustrations. I thought I might perhaps get some work to do, so I called on him at his house. He was in bed with a sprained ankle, and I was shown up into his room. His man was bandaging his foot at the time, and he was surrounded with proofs of the first number. He showed them to me. One of the articles was illus¬ trated by Thackeray himself. His people all had muffs instead of heads. ‘Do you know what I mean by that ?’ he asked, in his Painted by] “a passing cloud.” By permission of Arthur Lucas, :i8, Baker Street , 1 V.,proprietor of the Copyright. [Marcus Stone, R.A. Dickens. The next day we went to call on Willis. He was out, and while waiting for him Dickens sat down and absorbed all the •details of the establishment, although he made not a single written note of the sur¬ roundings. Willis did not come back in -time, and Dickens went away without see¬ ing him, but the interior of the shop was .that which he so vividly described as Mr. Venus’s.” “ You knew Thackeray as well as Dickens, did you not ? ” “ Not as well as Dickens; but I knew Thackeray as I knew Anthony Trollope, whose story, ‘ He Knew He Was Right/ I characteristic fashion. Before giving me time to reply he answered the question him¬ self. ‘ I mean that they are muffs.’ He talked for a few minutes, and I showed him my sketches. ‘ Where do you get your pencils ? ’ he asked me; ‘ mine don’t draw like that.’” “ Happily for art, you did not long remain in the field of black and white?” “ No, it was merely a means to an end, and luckily for me that end came sooner than I expected. My pictures began to make a certain headway, and all of them sold.” “ When did you make your first great popular success ? ” ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. 129 “ In 1863. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy, and called { From Waterloo to Paris.’ It was what the French call genre historique , and it was the line which I continued painting for ten years and more.” “Then what I may call the ‘Stone age,’ the period with which the later manifestation of your art is so intimately associated, did not materialize for a long time? What brought it about ? ” “ I had always been a great student of history,” said Mr. Stone, “ but a student with a political bias. I had come to the conclusion that history as written by the historian was a very different thing from that which was written by the people who made it. It seemed to me very much like the Court Circular, and the people were repre¬ sented as they were at Astley’s Theatre : the kings and nobles were very great and grand, and quite different from ordinary human beings. I felt that I could no longer con¬ form to the prevailing ideas, as I also felt that the number of historical people who would appeal to the popular public taste was very limited indeed. I had for a long time been so struck with this thought that I used to clothe my modern thoughts in ancient dresses. One example will show you what I mean. When I was reading ‘ Dorn bey and Son/ I was greatly struck with the dramatic idea of Mr. Dombey’s paternal pride in the birth of his heir, while he cared little or nothing for his first-born daughter. I determined to paint a picture on this subject, but nobody in those days would have cared for a literal representation of the subject. While turning over the matter in my mind, and wondering where I could place it, I came across the incident which is related of Henry VIII.’s visit to see Edward VI., while he ignored the little Princess Elizabeth, who was in the room at the time. There was the Dombey incident in characters which everyone would recognise, for Henry VIII. is one of the few historical personages familiar to the man in the street. I painted my picture of the ‘ Royal Nursery.’ It was a historical picture, but it was Paul Dombey for all that.” “ But for the £ Stone age ’ ? ” I queried. “ That came about in this way. I believe that the best and most valuable art work is done by the man who treats his own period. He knows his subject as, in a general way, he can know no other. He sees his people, he knows their thoughts, their feelings, and, in addition, everybody else knows what he knows. It is, of course, impossible in Yoi, xviii,—17 England, from what I may call the hourly change of fashion, to paint men and women in the costume of a given year. The dress would be out of fashion before the picture was finished. I therefore determined to get, if I could, some period in which the fashion would remain constant, while the thoughts and sympathies of the men and women would be sufficiently close to be readily sympathized with by the public. I saw this in the early days of the century, the days of our grandmothers, and so I adopted that for my general work. Had I been a Frenchman instead of an Englishman, however, I should have painted the peasant life of the moment, for that is exceedingly picturesque. We have, however, no peasant life in England, and no typical peasant dress, so that was impossible. In the same way, were I a writer of fiction I would never treat of any subject but that of to-day. Dickens and Thackeray both did this, departing from their custom very rarely indeed, and Shake¬ speare was in the same sense a modern writer, for he wrote of the things of his own time.” “ Did any painter exercise a conscious in¬ fluence over you in the early days of your career ? ” was my next question. “ No one,” replied Mr. Stone. “ It was at once my good and ill fortune, and left me catholic in my tastes. Whenever I saw a great work of art, and it is equally so to-day, I always tried to see the artist’s aim and purpose, and was never drawn to one point to the exclusion of others. In this way I have always loved Van Eyck and Velasquez, who in painting are as opposite as the poles, but I always have been equally enthusiastic over other great painters. Millais I always counted the greatest man of my time, as well as one of the greatest painters of all time; but there is no evidence of my admiration of his work in my art, so far as I am aware, although I could well wish it were otherwise.” “ You and he were great friends, were you not?” “ I knew him from the time I was a child, though he was my senior by eleven years, and was famous before I ever began to paint. As a young man he was an Apollo, and I remember seeing him and his wife, just after they were married, at a party at Dickens’s, when I thought they were the most beautiful couple I had ever set eyes on.” “ In your own case, Mr. Stone,” I said, “ can you tell me how your pictures come to be painted ? ” “ Only vaguely. I get some story which can be told in a picture, in much the same 130 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. way as a playwright gets the germ of the idea for his drama. 1 ‘chew’ on it, as I may say, until I have evolved that scene which has gone before, as well as that which will come after. These ideas are put down in the note¬ book of my mind, and I make very elaborate studies in my head, and devote a great deal of time and trouble to my picture in that way. Then on a sheet of note-paper I make a sketch of the idea, with ovals for faces, so that the telling of my story may not depend on the faces of the characters.” Mr. Stone exemplified his meaning by taking some pieces of gummed paper and blotting out the faces of the characters in his pictures, “ Two’s Company, Three’s None,” and “ A Peacemaker.” Attitude and com¬ position tell everything that there is to be told, as anyone may prove for himself by doing the same with the pictures which are here reproduced. “And after the sketch on note-paper?” “ Then I make a very accurate sketch to scale, after having decided exactly what size my picture is going to be when finished. I consult Nature always and verify the possi¬ bilities, to see that the design is sound in every way and does not depend upon matters which are incompatible with truth. Then I have models to sit, and begin to work at my picture. At the same time, I keep on work¬ ing at my sketch equally with my picture, so that, if necessary, I may make experiments on it and avoid painting out and painting in on the picture itself, too much of which one is compelled to do in the ordinary way. Unless my sketch were like the picture it would, of course, be impossible to do this, so that at times my sketches are very elaborate indeed.” “ Do you paint your models as they are ?” “Never,” said Mr. Stone, emphatically. “ I have never painted and never would paint a recognisable portrait of a model. I may have half-a-dozen models for a single figure in a picture. What one has to do is to paint one’s imaginary man or woman, not a picture of a given man or woman. So strongly do I feel on this subject that if I see my picture is getting like my model the illusion is gone for me, for my picture was not a picture of Miss —whatever her name happens to be, my model—but a picture of someone whom I have seen acting in the drama which I was endeavouring to evolve.” “ When once you get to work, do you work rapidly ? ” I asked. “Rapidly?” echoed Mr. Stone. “I am the slowest man who ever held a brush. Of course, one can cover a canvas rapidly with colour, but in painting, as in writing, although the public does not usually appreciate this fact, there are times when you don’t know how to say what you have to say.” As Mr. Stone said these words my eyes alighted on two packs of cards piled together Painted by] “a PEACEMAKER.” [Marcus btone, It. A. By permission of Arthur Lucas , SS t Baker Street , If''., proprietor of the Copyright. ILL USTRA TED INTER VIE I VS. on his table. With a sort of Sherlock Holmes power of deduction I hazarded my next question. “You find Patience helps you, then?” “Very much,” he replied, with a smile. “ When I get into a tangle I find that the gentle stimulation of the mind which Patience necessitates produces a decidedly helpful effect, and so, you will probably be interested in knowing, do a great many of my brother painters.” All the time we had been talking I had noticed that anything in the nature of a picture or an easel was conspicuous by its absence, although we were in the studio. In reply to my question, Mr. Stone’s explanation was pleasantly forthcoming. “ I rarely show anything I do to friends or casual visitors,” he said, “ for it really dis¬ tresses me to have people looking at my work. If I had not had to earn my living with my brush, I doubt if I should ever have exhibited at all.” “ Still, I suppose people do occasionally see your work when you are engaged at it ? ” “ Occasionally, certainly, but very occa¬ sionally. In this connection I remember an incident which always gives me a great deal of pleasure when I think of it, for I found one of my most sympathetic critics in a most unusual fashion. A gas-fitter was at work at the lamps over there while I was painting. After a time he stopped and came over to me, saying, 4 I beg your pardon, sir, but will you let me look at the picture you are painting ? ’ It was my picture, 4 A Sailor’s Sweetheart.’ He looked at it long and silently—in itself a great satisfaction to me—and then I hazarded a question, for I had always wanted to find out exactly, from personal knowledge, whether my effects were as clear to men of that class as they were for the more cultivated or the artistic. 4 Do you know what I mean by it ? ’ I asked, after he had talked a good deal about it. 4 Yes, sir,’ he replied, 4 there’s no mistaking that. She’s thinking about somebody in foreign parts.’ I could have danced with delight at the ‘foreign parts,’ for the effect of the sea in the back¬ ground of the picture had produced on him exactly the effect I had desired to convey. He went over the picture with the utmost care, and presently his eye lighted on the little bunch of blue forget-me-nots in the girl’s hand. Immediately a smile played all over his face, and turning to me he said, 'He won’t forget her, sir.’ I could have blessed that gas-fitter for his acumen, for it is extra¬ ordinary the amount of obtuseness one meets I 3 1 with in people from whom one would expect better things. I have treasured the memory of that gas-fitter, and have often longed for his criticism on other pictures, though I have never seen him since. If the world were full of such gas-fitters it would be a much more satisfactory place for painters to live in.” 44 To go for a moment from your art to your early life. You knew some of the actors of the past ? ” I asked. 44 1 met Macready,” he replied, 44 and one day he gave me some advice about speaking. 4 1 do not think there is very much to teach,’ he said. 4 1 can tell, you all about it in five minutes, but there is a great deal to do. Articulate every syllable, raise your voice at the end of every sentence, and as a matter of exercise try to see how many lines of verse you can say without taking a breath.’ Then with a look of pride in his eyes, he added, slowly, 4 I can speak fourteen lines of 44 Paradise Lost” with only one breath.’ 44 1 knew Hechter, too. He used sometimes to ask me about the reading of a line, as he was not at all comfortable in his English when he first came here. Indeed, he actually proposed to me that I should go on the stage and act with him. He promised, if I would, to have a part written which would make a 4 personage ’ of me. I need hardly say, however, that, great as the temptation was, my allegiance to my own art prevented the possibility of my accepting so flattering an offer.” Then I turned to matters of the moment, and glancing round the studio, rich with rare tapestries and hangings, I learnt that Mr. Stone was the first to build a studio for the painting of outdoor effects, for until about thirty years ago painters did not trouble about plein air effects, but painted their models in their studio, and afterwards added a background. The studio is one of the largest in London, and like the house was built from Mr. Stone’s own plans. “With that reverence which we professional men have for one another,” he quickly added, as he told me this fact, 44 1 took my plans to Norman Shaw, who was good enough to approve them as a working basis, and I left the whole building of the house in his hands, so that it is his house—architecturally. In this studio I can verify all my effects, even out-of-door effects, for I can put my model on the balcony if necessary, as it is quite shut out from the outside world.” Mr. Stone led the way and I followed him on to the balcony, where looking through the trees one could see the late Lord Leighton’s 132 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. Copyright, ms, by Photographische Gesellacha/t.-By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, London, W. ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. 133 house across the lawn, while the greening trees made it practically as much cut off as if it were a detached house in the country. “ I have been living here for twenty-two years,” Mr. Stone said, answering my question; “ before that I lived in Langham Chambers and in Tavistock Square, two doors from Dickens’s house. It is a curious thing, but my wife and I went to Langham Chambers only for a few months, on our return from our honeymoon on the Continent, and we stayed there six years — stayed there, in fact, looking for a suitable house, but in vain, and at last we decided to have this one built.” Referring to the hangings and furniture, Mr. Stone continued:— “The tapestry in the studio was made probably before Shakespeare was born, while there is nothing in the room that does not represent a certain period. “ That chair you are sitting in,” said Mr. Stone, “was the chairman’s seat in the Hell Fire Club, while the other chairs came from Medmenham Abbey. That looking-glass on the wall be¬ longed to the beginning of the last century, and whenever I look into it I can fancy I see Henry Esmond sitting there, arranging his wig in front of it.” On a cabinet stands a very precious object, one of the largest pieces of turquoise crackle ware ever produced. It is four hundred years old, and gains greater value from the fact that the art which produced it is obsolete. Just outside the studio there is an enormous wardrobe, some 12ft. to 14ft. long, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, in which Mr. Stone keeps the costumes which he paints in his pictures. They are real old, short-waisted dresses, picked up here and there. One of Mr. Stone’s hobbies is the collection of old brass, and in his dining-room there is a splendid pair of fifteenth - century plaques, which have a curious history. Some five- and-twenty years ago, or so, he picked up By permission of Arthur Lucas , ss , Baker Street, IT., proprietor of the Copyright. one piece in Wardour Street. Some years later he happened to be in Venice, and stopping at an art-seller’s shop he noticed an almost facsimile reproduction of his plate at home. He bought it, and after having been separated probably for some centuries, these two pieces now hang on each side of the sideboard, in company with pictures by Velasquez, Etty, and other masters. Though insignificant perhaps to the out¬ sider, it is significant of Mr. Stone’s admira¬ tion for Dickens that one of the most prized of his treasures, reposing in a cabinet full of beautiful art objects, in a delightful room which is Mrs. Stone’s boudoir, is the pocket corkscrew Dickens used always to carry himself when travelling, which was given to Mr. Stone when the great novelist died. Stories of the Sanctuary Club . By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato. II.—A VISIBLE SOUND. N the second year of the exist¬ ence of the Club I received a letter from a gentleman in the county of Kent. He signed himself Walter Royal, and lived in a large place which went by the name of Court Royal. He was anxious to be admitted as one of our members, and further expressed a desire that his niece, a girl of about two-and-twenty, who lived with him, should also become a member of the Sanctuary Club. He inclosed a cheque for the entrance-fees for himself and his niece, and begged to know how soon the ceremony of his election might take place. I wrote to him immediately, asking a few questions, and finally said that at the next meeting of the committee he and his niece would be duly elected. To this he replied by a somewhat longer letter. “ Your news has given me relief, Dr. Cato,” he wrote : “ I am an old man, and one never knows what may happen. I have heard a great deal of your Club from people who have derived benefit from your peculiar mode of treatment, and it is quite possible that in the future the institution which you have been good enough to inaugurate may be of use to my niece Primrose. In the present case it will undoubtedly be of service to me. I do not think that I shall last much longer, but while I am in the world I wish to keep as well as possible, and as I arn suffering from various phases of a nervous disorder, I should like to put myself into your care as soon as possible. I shall probably be with you early next week. Before coming, however, it is as well for you to know that I am the victim of a very extra¬ ordinary malady, which is both overpowering and overmastering, and has such a curious effect on my nerves that I am obliged to yield to certain inclinations, knowing all the time that mischief will occur from my doing so. I will tell you more about this when I have the pleasure of meeting you.” In reply to this letter I wrote to Mr. Royal to say that the following Wednesday would suit Dr. Chetwynd and myself for his re¬ ception, and he replied to the effect that he and his niece would be with us on that date. It was early in the spring of the year 1892 when he arrived, accompanied by his niece. He was a very tall and thin old man, with white hair hanging down over his shoulders, piercing, deeply-set black eyes, and aquiline features. There was an eagerness in his gaze which I have not often seen in anyone so advanced in life, and which I put down partly to the complaint from which he un¬ doubtedly suffered. His niece to a certain extent resembled him. She had the same bright, alert look, but her features were small, her figure graceful, and she had the rounded limbs and soft complexion of early youth. She had a gentle, affectionate manner, and I saw at once that she was a particularly amiable girl. I noticed, however, from the first that she was very anxious about the old man. At the first possible opportunity she hastened to tell me the cause of this anxiety. “ My uncle has not the slightest idea, Dr. Cato,” she said, ‘‘that he is suffering from what almost amounts to mania; but, never¬ theless, I who have known him all my life am certain that such is the case.” “What do you mean ?” I asked. “Well, in the first place, he will not consult his family physician. He has abso¬ lutely refused to see Dr. Winstanley for the last two years, and it is since then that the curious phase of nervous disorder to which I allude has become so manifest. I cannot tell you how relieved I was when he declared his intention of becoming a member of the Sanctuary Club, and of putting himself under your treatment.” “ Pray describe the symptoms which give you uneasiness,” I interrupted. She paused for a moment, then said, slowly, “You do not know perhaps that my uncle, Mr. Royal, is one of the greatest authorities on archaeology and Roman relics in England. About three months ago he sent some magnificent Roman pottery to the British Museum. This he had himself excavated in the neighbour¬ hood of Court Royal out of a Roman villa, which he discovered within three miles of his estate. I trace the growth of his disorder almost from the day when he first discovered this villa. Since then he has scarcely lived for anything else, employing workmen in the STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB. i 35 task of excavation, and wet or fine, early and late, has spent his time at the villa. During the long winter evenings he has been hunt¬ ing up the records of the place, and he told me not long ago that he believed the ruins in question had belonged to one of the Quaestors of Customs in the reign of the Emperor Hadrian, when Britain was a Roman colony. He has searched through many old county records, and found that an old chronicler made mention of this very place, and said that it contained buried treasure of great value. Since reading this account my uncle’s excitement has become greater and greater, and the one object of his life now is to discover the treasure which he believes to be hidden away in the old villa. I bitterly regret for his sake that he ever knew anything of its existence. He has certainly lost both health and sleep since that date.” “ What has brought things to a crisis? ” I asked. “I will tell you,” she answered. “Two months ago he returned home in a state of breathless and painful excitement. It was just about Christmas time, and the weather was bitterly cold. I think he had got a chill in body, but his excitement of mind almost passed all bounds. He brought with him an old bronze disc, which he had found deeply embedded in the clay. There was some Latin writing on it, and night after night he shut himself up with his old disc trying to make out the inscription round the edge. Whether he has ever done so or not is more than I can tell you ; but a few days ago, just after you had consented to admit him here, I found him in a state of unconsciousness in his study. The bronze was lying on a table near, and he had evidently fainted while struggling to possess himself of its secret. I locked the bronze disc up in one of the cupboards in the study, and took im¬ mediate steps to bring my uncle here. I am most anxious about him.” “He certainly looks ex¬ tremely ill,” I replied, “ but I trust the treatment and the great quiet of the place will go far to restore him. Has he shown any other eccentricities, Miss Sea field ? ” She hesitated, then said, slowly, “ There is one other craze which has manifested itself to an extraordinary degree. For nearly a year he has been hiding things of value in all sorts of unexpected places. Not long ago we could not find the old jewelled hunting watch which he always wore in his waistcoat-pocket. He himself seemed to have forgotten where he put it, and was in a terrible state about it. We eventually recovered it in an unused well in the garden. Some jewels left to me by my mother were also put by him into other as unlikely places, and of late I have been obliged to have a special attendant to follow him about in order to prevent his hiding things in daily use.” “ Well,” I answered, “ he could not do better than come here. I am glad you have spoken so frankly about him. My friend Chetwynd and I will do our utmost to pro¬ mote his recovery, and in the meantime I hope you will enjoy yourself. You at least look well and strong.” “ I am fairly well,” she replied ; “ but what with one thing and another, I have gone ^ .. n* " I FOUND HIM IN A STATE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS.” 136 THE STRAND MAGAZINE. through many anxieties. Perhaps I ought to tell you that my uncle has had a very sad story. He had three children, the elder two being sons. The eldest son died when quite young, and he has quarrelled with the other so effectually that nothing will induce him to see him again. He has not only quarrelled with him, but he has also dis¬ inherited him. The son in question, James Royal, is a very bad man, and has led a most reckless and extravagant life. My uncle has paid his debts many times and given him very large sums of money, but within the last five years he has abso¬ lutely refused to allow him to come near Court Royal, and has assured me that he will not leave him a farthing. James Royal, who used to terrify me when I was a little child by coming to the house and making fearful dis¬ turbances, has taken his father at his word, and we neither of us now know where he is or whether he is in existence at all.” “ And who will inherit the property ? ” I ventured to ask. “ I do not mind telling you,” she answered, her eyes growing bright; “ my uncle has often told me that he will leave Court Royal to me. I am not particularly anxious to be rich, but I hope, if I do find myself possessed of so fine a property, that I shall know how to do my duty. I am the daughter of his only sister, who was very much younger than himself. My mother died when I was a baby, and my father soon followed her. Since then I have lived at Court Royal, and my uncle has been both father and mother to me.” At that moment my conversation with Miss Seafield was interrupted, and I did not renew it again. I repeated to Chetwynd what the young lady had told me, and we soon came to the conclusion that Walter Royal’s malady was hopeless, and that, in all probability, the old man was not long for this world. He was a very gentle and agreeable person, and did not show the slightest sign of oddity when joining in general conversa¬ tion, but his bodily weakness grew apace, and he was soon confined to his room. Royal and his niece had been about a fortnight at the Sanctuary Club, when one day a visitor called. It was, I remember, early in the afternoon, and I was doing something in the hall. Miss Seafield was standing near helping me. Suddenly she almost dropped a valuable china plate which she was assisting me to move into a more prominent position, the colour fled from her face, and her hands trembled. A tall, eager- looking man of about thirty years of age was announced. Miss Seafield started forward, holding out both her hands. “ Jack ! ” she cried, “ how did you know we were here?” Then she turned and intro- STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUE. 137 duced him to me. “ Mr. Kelvin—Dr. Cato,” she said. I bowed to the stranger. He had an un¬ common face, and I found myself looking at him with great interest. There was a certain untamed fire in his eyes, joined to some indications of weakness round his lips, which seemed at a first glance to point him out as the victim of hereditary nervous weakness, but the breadth of his brow and the rare sweetness of his smile immediately dissipated this first impression. I felt certain that he was a man of remarkable genius, and had not led an ordinary career. It also needed but a glance at the face of the beautiful girl who now stood close to his side to show that the pair loved each other, and were in all probability engaged. “ I must let Uncle Walter know that you have come, Jack, and then I will come back to you,” was Primrose’s next eager remark. “ Shall I do that for you ?” I interrupted ; “ I am going to visit Mr. Royal in about half an hour, when he awakens after his nap.” “ Oh, will you?” she asked, her eyes full of smiles, and her cheeks glowing with happiness ; “ then in that case we can go into the grounds. I have a good deal to say to Mr. Kelvin, Dr. Cato, and I am very much obliged to you.” I went upstairs to the old man. In the course of conversation I delivered his niece’s message. “ Ah ! ” he said, “ so Jack has found us out. Has Primrose told you anything more ? ” “No,” I answered; “what do you mean ?” “ She is engaged to Kelvin, and more or less against my will. He is a clever fellow, very clever, almost a genius ; he has written some books of rare distinction, and is also a poet of no mean order; but he is poor and rash and extravagant, and my impression is that he got himself into a serious scrape early in his life.” “ In your niece’s case you ought to be very careful,” I said. “You are a man of large property, and if you mean her to inherit it, she must not be a prey to fortune- hunters.” “ Oh, Kelvin is nothing of that sort,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “ If anything, he is too unworldly; he loves my girl devotedly, and she fairly worships the ground he walks on. I am not surprised, and when you know him better, Cato, you will yourself yield to his many fascinations.” That evening Miss Sen field asked me if her uncle had said anything with regard to Kelvin. Vol. xviii.—18 “ He told me that you and he are engaged,” I said. She looked steadily at me for a moment, and then her dark-grey eyes filled with tears. “ It is my great privilege to love him, and to be loved back in return,” she said. “ He is the most wonderful man I have ever met. He is very clever, more than clever; his writings are beautiful. He will make his mark in the world of letters if he goes on, but he has had a sad life, and has had much trouble. Dr. Cato, I don’t mind telling you, he put himself some years ago into the power of my cousin, James Royal.” “ How so ?” I asked. “I don’t quite know myself, but it has cast a shadow over his life. It is in my cousin’s power to ruin him, and why he has not done so long ago is a marvel; but Jack’s hope now is that he will never push things to extremities. Ah, I have told you too much—pray forget what I have said, but always remember that I regard myself as one of the most fortunate women in the world to have won the love of so good, so great a man.” Within a week from that date old Mr. Royal passed quietly away in his sleep. His illness had been hopeless from the first—but none the less was the shock a severe one to Miss Seafield. The old man was taken back to Court Royal to sleep in the vault of his ancestors, and in the rush of other work I almost forgot Primrose Seafield and her story. Nearly six months passed, when I received the following letter “ Court Royal, Wrenhurst, Kent. “Dear Sir, — My name I know will be familiar to you as the son of the late Mr. Walter Royal, who was a member of your Club, and died under your roof. As I am rather anxious about, myself in view of my father’s malady, and as I hope to be married within a week, and there is no time to spare, I shall be exceedingly glad if you wili come down and see me at your earliest convenience. “ \ T ours faithfully, “James Royal.” I re’ad this letter with a good deal of astonishment. Had the reckless and wicked son who had more or less ruined his father’s life turned up at Court Royal on hearing of the old man’s death? Beyond doubt this had happened. But why was he staying there, when Primrose Seafield was the heiress ? And whom was he going to marry imme¬ diately, and why had he requested me, of all persons under the sun, to diagnose his special symptoms? Apprehending, I could not tell why, foul THE S TEA ND MAGAZINE. 138 play of some sort, I was about to reply to this letter, when by the very next post I received one from Miss Seafield herself. “ Dear Dr. Cato,” it ran, “ I have just heard that my cousin, James Royal, has written asking you to come down here, and I am writing now to beg of you as a personal friend of my own to grant his request if possible. The fact is, I want to see you myself, and it is impossible for me to visit you at the Club just at present. I am in great and terrible trouble, and I want to ask your advice. I believe you can help me if you will. When you meet my cousin, please do not mention to him that I have written, nor speak about anything special in his presence. In particular, I hope you will not allude to Mr. Kelvin. I will tell you all when we meet.—Yours sincerely, “ Primrose Seafield.” “ I will go down by the earliest train to-morrow morning,” I reflected, “and find out for myself how matters really stand.” Soon after eleven o’clock on the following day I reached Wrenhurst. A well-appointed carriage had been sent to meet me. I learned from the coachman that Court Royal was about three miles away, but the spirited chestnuts were not long in getting over the ground. I presently found myself in a fine avenue, which con¬ tained some magnifi¬ cent timber, and a sharp corner in the avenue brought the old house into full view, with its quaint gable-ends and Norman turrets. Just as the carriage drew up before the front entrance, Primrose Sea¬ field hurried to meet me. She was in deep black, and her shady hat was slightly pushed away from her face. “You have come— I thought you would,” she said. “ I cannot tell you how thankful I am. My cousin is out, but there is no time to say much to you ; he may be back at any moment. Oh, Dr. Cato, I am in (earful trouble —I wonder my senses do not give way. I must take an oppor¬ tunity of speaking to you, and in private. Will you come to my uncle’s study after lunch ? ” “ Shall I find you there ? ” I asked. “ Yes; I have no chance of having a word alone with you before. My cousin will prevent it, but Mrs. Hall, my old governess, is staying with me, and she will bring you to the study if you ask her. After lunch my cousin, as a rule, goes away for a nap by himself. Ah, and here he is approaching.” She turned as she spoke and pointed in the direction of the shrubberies, through which I saw a tall, loosely-made man coming towards us. I scarcely glanced at him at first, however, so dismayed was I by the change in the girl’s own bright face. She was now painfully thin, and her dark-grey eyes were almost too large for absolute beauty. There were heavy shadows under them, and her lips—beautiful and proud lips they used to be—were tremulous as though she had often indulged in heavy fits of crying. She looked sadly nervous, too, and as though her mental equilibrium had, in some curious way, got a severe shock. “ Come with me to meet my cousin,” she said. She walked forward, and I fol¬ lowed her. The man who had now no you po, STORIES OF TEE SANCTUARY CLUB. i 39 now almost reached us was above the middle height ; he was followed by a bulldog, and wore a Norfolk suit and carried a rook-rifle in his hand. In some particulars his features resembled those of his father, being aquiline and thin; but the colour on his cheeks was. fixed, and his mouth was completely hidden by a heavy moustache. His eyes were sunken into his head, and were too bright. They had a watchful gleam in them, too, which I have often connected with nervous disorder. It needed scarcely a glance to tell me that the man indulged in too much alcohol. “ How do you do, Dr. Cato ? ” he said, as we came up. “ I presume this is Dr. Cato, Primrose ? ” he added, glancing at his cousin. She bowed, without speaking. “ Ah ! so I guessed. Your train must have been punctual, Doctor. I am sorry I was not on the premises when you drove up. Will you come into the house now?” He did not take any further notice of Primrose. She left us and went slowly in the direction of the shrubbery. We entered a large hall, and Royal, opening a door on the right, took me into the dining-room. “ Have something before lunch, won’t you ? ” he said, opening a door in a massive oak sideboard, and taking out a bottle of brandy. “ No, thank you,” I answered. “You had better,” he said. I shook my head. “ I never take stimulants except with meals,” I said. “ All the worse for you,” was his retort. “Well, you don’t mind if I help myself?” He poured out a stiff glass of brandy and drank it off. “ Shall we go to my late father’s smoking- room for our talk ? ” he said. Without waiting for me to reply he led the way, crossing a large conservatory as he did so. We soon found ourselves in a small, cpmfortably furnished room; the French windows were open, and the soft summer air was coming gently in. Royal drew a chair forward for me, and sank himself into another nearly opposite. “Well,” he said, “to plunge into the matter without further delay, I am about to be married. You may think it rather soon after my father’s death, but the wedding will be a very quiet one, and there are reasons that make it inexpedient to allow any further delay. This day week, I hope to see myself united to as good a girl as ever breathed. You guess, of course, that I allude to my cousin, Primrose Seafield.” “ You astonish me very much,” I said; “ you engaged to Miss Seafield ? ” “And why not?” he answered, his brow darkening, and an angry scowl passing across his features. I was silent. Angry as I felt, I knew that the matter was scarcely my affair. He gazed at me steadily for a moment; then his eyes fell, he shuffled uneasily on his seat, and I saw his large hands tremble. “ It is these beastly nerves,” he said. “ Certainly, this age has its drawbacks, and the way we poor mortals are troubled by all kinds of out-of-the-way feelings is past a joke. Now, I don’t pretend that I have led the most immaculate life in the world, and what with one thing and another, things are telling on me. I have heard much of you and your wonderful cures, Dr. Cato, and it has occurred to me that by-and-by I cannot do better than become a member of your Club, and put myself completely under your treatment.” “ I shall be pleased to enter your name on my roll of members,” I answered. “ I will send you a form to fill up, and-” He waved his hand to interrupt me. “ Presently, presently,” he said; “ those matters are for the future. I have sent for you now to consult you as an ordinary physician. I want to ask you a plain question. Is—in your opinion—my father’s insanity (for he doubtless was insane in the latter years of his life) hereditary ? ” “Your father was insane for the last six months of his life; certainly not longer,” I answered. “ My friend Dr. Chetwynd and I studied his case most carefully. He had a peculiar mania, but it was not of long duration, and was itself of quite an innocent character.” “Ah,” he said; “well, I don’t agree with you. I have known the old man intimately for some time, and can prove that he was very queer for several years; but now for my question. My father died at the age of eighty—I am a man of five-and-fifty : am I likely to be similarly affected?” “ No,” I replied, boldly; “ if your father was insane, it by no means follows that his insanity was hereditary. But tell me what you complain of.” “ I am oppressed at times by an overpower¬ ing sense of fear, and since I came into this fine property I have in a most remarkable way lost every interest in life. I have gone through ups and downs in my rough-and- tumble existence, and I assure you there have 140 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . been moments in my miserable life when I have scarcely known how to provide for my next meal. You will scarcely credit this, seeing that I am the son of one of the richest men in the county; but he was peculiar, my dear sir, peculiar from the very first. Now, indeed, things have righted themselves, and in an extraordinary and providential manner. You see before you a rich man, Dr. Cato. I have many thousands at my credit in the bank, and, as you see for yourself, am the owner of a large estate and a fine house. I am also about to be married to a very pretty girl, and one I have long been fond of. It seems un¬ accountable, does it not, that with all these advantages, these showers of blessings, so to speak, I am still thoroughly wretched ? I sleep badly, and am troubled by dreams and nightmares of a terrifying description. Knowing what I do about my father, I have been getting quite fidgety of late, and thought I had best consult you at once. Naturally, before mar¬ riage, a man thinks of these things. Can you relieve my mind?” “Your symptoms are not quite pleasant ones,” I said, “ but at the same time there is nothing to be seriously alarmed about. Granted that your father did suffer from mania, it behoves you to be more careful than ordinary men, and a quiet, open- air life is what will suit you best. Avoid all excitement, and, what is far more important, excess of every kind.” “Well, I do that,” he said, with a laugh ; “ there is devilish little excitement here, and plenty of open air, so that’s all right.” “ Do you take much alcohol ? ” I asked. “ Oh, a nip now and then, and wine with meals.” “ Have your wine with meals, by all means,” I answered, “but I should stop the nips. A man who gets drunk once a month, and takes nothing in the interval, will live longer than a man who is never the worse for liquor but is constantly tippling; but pray remember, the man who does neither will outlive them both.” “ I have no doubt that is so,” he answered, “ but I could not exist without wine, and I never drink to excess. I am much obliged to you for your opinion, Dr. Cato. You can assure me there is no present cause for alarm ? ” “ None, if you will be moderate,” was my reply. “ I will tell Primrose what you say ; she will be relieved, poor girl. I think I quite frightened her a couple of evenings ago. I was in a somewhat mirthful state, and she did not think I showed sufficient respect for my late father’s memory. After all, Dr. Cato, I have nothing to thank him for. I should not be the owner of this property had he not over-reached himself and died intestate. But for that little fact Primrose would have been the heiress, and I should have been nowhere. Now matters are reversed, and I think I am behaving extremely well to the girl by marry¬ ing her.” “ But what does she say herself? ” I asked. “ Say ? What can she say ? She is natur¬ ally delighted—who would not be? It is not every girl who has the chance of being “ ‘do YOU TAKE MUCH ALCOHOL?’ I ASKED.” STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB . mistress of a fine property like this. The fact is, the whole thing is a most lucky escape for her. Had my father made a will, she would have inherited Court Royal and thrown herself away upon a fellow in town, of the name of Kelvin, an imbecile sort of chap. He poses as a maker of poetry, and writes a lot of silly stuff; you must know the sort of fellow for yourself. Primrose thought herself in love with him, and would have married him, had I not stepped in to inter¬ fere. Our wedding-bells will ring in a week ; and, now that you have quite relieved my mind, I can do what is left of my court¬ ship with a light heart.” As he spoke he left the room. I sat, feel¬ ing almost stunned, by the open window. I had now got the secret of Primrose’s trouble. But what hold had such a man over the poor girl? Why had she, even for a single moment, consented to marry him ? Why was there no will ? What did all this dark and inexplicable shadow mean ? Miss Seafield was not present at lunch ; but the old lady, Mrs. Hall, whom she had already mentioned, took the head of the table. Royal was in high spirits, both eating and drinking freely. He made loud jokes, and did not seem to miss his cousin in the very least. As soon as the meal was over he rose abruptly. “ What train do you take back to town ? ” he said, looking at me. “There is a good train, is there not, at 3.30 ? ” was my reply. “I should recommend the 4.30—that is an express. I am sure Mrs. Hall and my cousin Primrose will be glad to take you round the grounds. I will join you in an hour or so ; I always have a nap after lunch—I acquired the habit when in the East. Good-bye for the present.” He left the room, waving his hand as he did so in the direction of Mrs. Hall. “ Look after him,” he said to her. The moment the door closed behind my host, the good lady turned to me. “ Will you come at once to Primrose Seafield?’’she said. “We both knew that this would happen. He takes more wine than he can stand, and always goes away for his nap, as he expresses it. Dr. Cato, I know that you have been good to Primrose, and that she has in part confided her story to you. If you can help her, do, in the name of Heaven ; no girl ever wanted someone to guide her more than she does at present. She is very unhappy and, unless matters can be quickly put right, will have a miserable life in the future.” 141 As Mrs. Hall spoke, she led me from the dining-room down a long corridor, and a moment later we found ourselves in the late Mr. Royal’s study. It was a beautiful room, lined with books from floor to ceiling, and was situated in the west wing of the building. Primrose Seafield was already there. She was standing in one of the deep windows, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. As soon as I appeared she started forward. “ Ah, thank you,” she said. “ Mrs. Hall, will you leave us ? ” The old lady withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. “ There is not a moment to waste,” said Miss Seafield, speaking eagerly. “Take a chair, Dr. Cato, and please do not lose a word of what I am going to tell you.” I sat down in the nearest chair. “ Won’t you sit, too ? ” I said to her. “No, I cannot ; I am too restless to remain still for a moment. Please listen.” “ I am all attention,” I answered. “ Do you remember my telling you early in the spring about my dear uncle’s great passion for Roman relics ? ” “Yes,” I answered. “Well, the wretched story which I am about to confide to you has something to do with that fact, but I must start from another point. You know how suddenly my uncle died ; his funeral took place from the Sanctuary Club, and I came back here. The lawyers immediately searched for the will, but no will could be found. Knowing my uncle’s peculiarity with regard to hiding things of value, the search was most thorough and complete : not a corner of the old house was left without a complete investigation ; the gardens and grounds were searched from end to end, but nowhere up to the present has there been the smallest clue to any will. Two months after the death my cousin, James Royal, appeared. He brought a London lawyer with him, said that he had heard that his father had died intestate, and that he was going to take possession of every¬ thing. I need not go into particulars, nor tell you all that he said and that the lawyers on my side said, and the amount of angry words that passed between them. All that mattered little or nothing to me. I was stunned. I could not believe that my cousin was to be the owner of the property, and that I myself was penniless. It was not, as I have already told you, that I wanted money for its own sake; but, oh ! I)r. Cato, you do not know him. He will drag this noble 142 THE STRAND MAGAZINE . property through the very mire—there will be nothing of it left in a year or two.” She paused as she spoke; the light from outside fell all over her figure, and lit up her pale face, bringing out strong bronze lights in her rich hair. She looked almost ethereal, and very beautiful—the suffering on each feature but accentuated her loveliness. As I watched her I trembled for her health. Would she long endure the severe strain to which she was now exposed ? 44 Oh, money is of so little value,” she continued, “and yet what tragedies it causes ; but I must go on—please listen. You know, of course, that when I was at the Sanctuary Club I was engaged, with the full sanction of my own heart, and with every prospect of happiness, to the man I love best on earth, Jack Kelvin. You remember my telling you that once, some years ago, he got him¬ self into my cousin’s power—he had alluded to this once or twice, but I did not know any particulars. I was to learn them all too soon. Jack, as I have told you, has very strong literary tastes, and is already making a name for himself in London ; but in his early days he had serious troubles, and was once in severe money difficulties. At that time he knew my cousin, James Royal, well, and there was even a sort of friendship between them. Jack, in order to meet his liabilities, had borrowed money at very heavy interest from different money-lenders. “ One evening he confided the state of affairs to my cousin. It was just then that he and I had first met. He had fallen in love with me, and had even mentioned the hope that some day we should be husband and wife. James Royal discovered his feelings with regard to me. I cannot quite tell whether Jack confided in him or not, but James had a strange power in those early days of drawing people out; he could be full of tact when he pleased. Anyhow, he appeared then to be a very angel of sympathy. He had some money at the time, and told Jack that for my sake he would pay off some of his heaviest debts. He did so, taking over the mortgages himself, although the security