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The Lost Heir

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #36975 · 660,218 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lost Heir

Author: G. A. Henty


        
Release date: August 5, 2011 [eBook #36975]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36975

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
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        file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST HEIR ***




Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                            THE LOST HEIR

                            BY G. A. HENTY

AUTHOR OF "STURDY AND STRONG," "RUJUB, THE JUGGLER," "BY ENGLAND'S AID,"
ETC., ETC.


    THE MERSHON COMPANY
    RAHWAY, N. J.
    NEW YORK




CONTENTS.


       I. A BRAVE ACTION                      1

      II. IN THE SOUTH SEAS                  14

     III. A DEAF GIRL                        27

      IV. THE GYPSY                          40

       V. A GAMBLING DEN                     52

      VI. JOHN SIMCOE                        65

     VII. JOHN SIMCOE'S FRIEND               77

    VIII. GENERAL MATHIESON'S SEIZURE        90

      IX. A STRANGE ILLNESS                 102

       X. TWO HEAVY BLOWS                   112

      XI. A STARTLING WILL                  124

     XII. DR. LEEDS SPEAKS                  137

    XIII. NETTA VISITS STOWMARKET           150

     XIV. AN ADVERTISEMENT                  164

      XV. VERY BAD NEWS                     176

     XVI. A FRESH CLEW                      193

    XVII. NETTA ACTS INDEPENDENTLY          206

   XVIII. DOWN IN THE MARSHES               220

     XIX. A PARTIAL SUCCESS                 233

      XX. A DINNER PARTY                    247

     XXI. A BOX AT THE OPERA                262

    XXII. NEARING THE GOAL                  274

   XXIII. WALTER                            287

    XXIV. A NEW BARGE                       301

     XXV. A CRUSHING EXPOSURE               316

    XXVI. A LETTER FROM ABROAD              329




[Illustration: SIMCOE RAN IN WITH HIS KNIFE AND ATTACKED THE TIGER.
_--Page 4._]





THE LOST HEIR.




CHAPTER I.

A BRAVE ACTION.


A number of soldiers were standing in the road near the bungalow of
Brigadier-General Mathieson, the officer in command of the force in the
cantonments of Benares and the surrounding district.

"They are coming now, I think," one sergeant said to another. "It is a
bad business. They say the General is terribly hurt, and it was thought
better to bring him and the other fellow who was mixed up in it down in
doolies. I heard Captain Harvey say in the orderly-room that they have
arranged relays of bearers every five miles all the way down. He is a
good fellow is the General, and we should all miss him. He is not one of
the sort who has everything comfortable himself and don't care a rap how
the soldiers get on: he sees to the comfort of everyone and spends his
money freely, too. He don't seem to care what he lays out in making the
quarters of the married men comfortable, and in getting any amount of
ice for the hospital, and extra punkawallahs in the barrack rooms during
the hot season. He goes out and sees to everything himself. Why, on the
march I have known him, when all the doolies were full, give up his own
horse to a man who had fallen out. He has had bad luck too; lost his
wife years ago by cholera, and he has got no one to care for but his
girl. She was only a few months old when her mother died. Of course she
was sent off to England, and has been there ever since. He must be a
rich man, besides his pay and allowances; but it aint every rich man who
spends his money as he does. There won't be a dry eye in the cantonment
if he goes under."

"How was it the other man got hurt?"

"Well, I hear that the tiger sprang on to the General's elephant and
seized him by the leg. They both went off together, and the brute
shifted its hold to the shoulder, and carried him into the jungle; then
the other fellow slipped off his elephant and ran after the tiger. He
got badly mauled too; but he killed the brute and saved the General's
life."

"By Jove! that was a plucky thing. Who was he?"

"Why, he was the chap who was walking backwards and forwards with the
General when the band was playing yesterday evening. Several of the men
remarked how like he was to you, Sanderson. I noticed it, too. There
certainly was a strong likeness."

"Yes, some of the fellows were saying so," Sanderson replied. "He passed
close to me, and I saw that he was about my height and build, but of
course I did not notice the likeness; a man does not know his own face
much. Anyhow, he only sees his full face, and doesn't know how he looks
sideways. He is a civilian, isn't he?"

"Yes, I believe so; I know that the General is putting him up at his
quarters. He has been here about a week. I think he is some man from
England, traveling, I suppose, to see the world. I heard the Adjutant
speak of him as Mr. Simcoe when he was talking about the affair."

"Of course they will take him to the General's bungalow?"

"No; he is going to the next. Major Walker is away on leave, and the
doctor says that it is better that they should be in different
bungalows, because then if one gets delirious and noisy he won't disturb
the other. Dr. Hunter is going to take up his quarters there to look
after him, with his own servants and a couple of hospital orderlies."

By this time several officers were gathered at the entrance to the
General's bungalow, two mounted troopers having brought in the news a
few minutes before that the doolies were within a mile.

They came along now, each carried by four men, maintaining a swift but
smooth and steady pace, and abstaining from the monotonous chant usually
kept up. A doctor was riding by the side of the doolies, and two mounted
orderlies with baskets containing ice and surgical dressings rode fifty
paces in the rear. The curtains of the doolies had been removed to allow
of a free passage of air, and mosquito curtains hung round to prevent
insects annoying the sufferers.

There was a low murmur of sympathy from the soldiers as the doolies
passed them, and many a muttered "God bless you, sir, and bring you
through it all right." Then, as the injured men were carried into the
two bungalows, most of the soldiers strolled off, some, however,
remaining near in hopes of getting a favorable report from an orderly or
servant. A group of officers remained under the shade of a tree near
until the surgeon who had ridden in with the doolies came out.

"What is the report, McManus?" one of them asked, as he approached.

"There is no change since I sent off my report last night," he said.
"The General is very badly hurt; I certainly should not like to give an
opinion at present whether he will get over it or not. If he does it
will be a very narrow shave. He was insensible till we lifted him into
the doolie at eight o'clock yesterday evening, when the motion seemed to
rouse him a little, and he just opened his eyes; and each time we
changed bearers he has had a little ice between his lips, and a drink of
lime juice and water with a dash of brandy in it. He has known me each
time, and whispered a word or two, asking after the other."

"And how is he?"

"I have no doubt that he will do; that is, of course, if fever does not
set in badly. His wounds are not so severe as the General's, and he is a
much younger man, and, as I should say, with a good constitution. If
there is no complication he ought to be about again in a month's time.
He is perfectly sensible. Let him lie quiet for a day or two; after that
it would be as well if some of you who have met him at the General's
would drop in occasionally for a short chat with him; but of course we
must wait to see if there is going to be much fever."

"And did it happen as they say, doctor? The dispatch told us very little
beyond the fact that the General was thrown from his elephant, just as
the tiger sprang, and that it seized him and carried him into the
jungle; that Simcoe slipped off his pad and ran in and attacked the
tiger; that he saved the General's life and killed the animal, but is
sadly hurt himself."

"That is about it, except that he did not kill the tiger. Metcalf,
Colvin, and Smith all ran in, and firing together knocked it over stone
dead. It was an extraordinarily plucky action of Simcoe, for he had
emptied his rifle, and had nothing but it and a knife when he ran in."

"You don't say so! By Jove! that was an extraordinary act of pluck; one
would almost say of madness, if he hadn't succeeded in drawing the brute
off Mathieson, and so gaining time for the others to come up. It was a
miracle that he wasn't killed. Well, we shall not have quite so easy a
time of it for a bit. Of course Murdock, as senior officer, will take
command of the brigade, but he won't be half as considerate for our
comfort as Mathieson has been. He is rather a scoffer at what he calls
new-fangled ways, and he will be as likely to march the men out in the
heat of the day as at five in the morning."

The two sergeants who had been talking walked back together to their
quarters. Both of them were on the brigade staff. Sanderson was the
Paymaster's clerk, Nichol worked in the orderly-room. At the sergeants'
mess the conversation naturally turned on the tiger hunt and its
consequences.

"I have been in some tough fights," one of the older men said, "and I
don't know that I ever felt badly scared--one hasn't time to think of
that when one is at work--but to rush in against a wounded tiger with
nothing but an empty gun and a hunting-knife is not the sort of job
that I should like to tackle. It makes one's blood run cold to think of
it. I consider that everyone in the brigade ought to subscribe a day's
pay to get something to give that man, as a token of our admiration for
his pluck and of our gratitude for his having saved General Mathieson's
life."

There was a general expression of approval at the idea. Then Sanderson
said:

"I think it is a thing that ought to be done, but it is not for us to
begin it. If we hear of anything of that sort done by the officers, two
or three of us might go up and say that it was the general wish among
the non-coms. and men to take a share in it; but it would never do for
us to begin."

"That is right enough; the officers certainly would not like such a
thing to begin from below. We had better wait and see whether there is
any movement that way. I dare say that it will depend a great deal on
whether the General gets over it or not."

The opportunity did not come. At the end of five weeks Mr. Simcoe was
well enough to travel by easy stages down to the coast, acting upon the
advice that he should, for the present, give up all idea of making a
tour through India, and had better take a sea voyage to Australia or the
Cape, or, better still, take his passage home at once. Had the day and
hour of his leaving been known, there was not a white soldier in the
cantonments who would not have turned out to give him a hearty cheer,
but although going on well the doctor said that all excitement should be
avoided. It would be quite enough for him to have to say good-by to the
friends who had been in the habit of coming in to talk with him daily,
but anything like a public greeting by the men would be likely to upset
him. It was not, therefore, until Simcoe was some way down the river
that his departure became known to the troops.

Six weeks later there was a sensation in the cantonments. General
Mathieson had so far recovered that he was able to be carried up to the
hills, and the camp was still growling at the irritating orders and
regulations of his temporary successor in command, when the news spread
that Staff Pay-Sergeant Sanderson had deserted. He had obtained a
fortnight's furlough, saying that he wanted to pay a visit to some old
comrades at Allahabad; at the end of the fortnight he had not returned,
and the Staff Paymaster had gone strictly into his accounts and found
that there was a deficiency of over L300, which he himself would of
course be called upon to make good. He had, indeed, helped to bring
about the deficiency by placing entire confidence in the sergeant and by
neglecting to check his accounts regularly.

Letters were at once written to the heads of the police at Calcutta and
Bombay, and to all the principal places on the roads to those ports; but
it was felt that, with such a start as he had got, the chances were all
in his favor.

It was soon ascertained at Allahabad that he had not been there.
Inquiries at the various dak-bungalows satisfied the authorities that he
had not traveled by land. If he had gone down to Calcutta he had gone by
boat; but he might have started on the long land journey across to
Bombay, or have even made for Madras. No distinct clew, however, could
be obtained.

The Paymaster obtained leave and went down to Calcutta and inspected all
the lists of passengers and made inquiries as to them; but there were
then but few white men in the country, save those holding civil or
military positions and the merchants at the large ports, therefore there
was not much difficulty in ascertaining the identity of everyone who had
left Calcutta during the past month, unless, indeed, he had taken a
passage in some native craft to Rangoon or possibly Singapore.

On his arrival at Calcutta he heard of an event which caused deep and
general regret when known at Benares, and for a time threw even the
desertion of Sergeant Sanderson into the shade. The _Nepaul_, in which
John Simcoe had sailed, had been lost in a typhoon in the Bay of Bengal
when but six days out. There was no possible doubt as to his fate, for a
vessel half a mile distant had seen her founder, but could render no
assistance, being herself dismasted and unmanageable and the sea so
tremendous that no boat could have lived in it for a moment. As both
ships belonged to the East India Company, and were well known to each
other, the captain and officials of the _Ceylon_ had no doubt whatever
as to her identity, and, indeed, the remains of a boat bearing the
_Nepaul's_ name were picked up a few days later near the spot where she
had gone down.

"It's hard luck, that is what I call it," Sergeant Nichol said with
great emphasis when the matter was talked over in the sergeants' mess.
"Here is a man who faces a wounded tiger with nothing but a
hunting-knife, and recovers from his wounds; here is the General, whose
life he saved, going on first-rate, and yet he loses his life himself,
drowned at sea. I call that about as hard luck as anything I have heard
of."

"Hard luck indeed!" another said. "If he had died of his wounds it would
have been only what might have been expected; but to get over them and
then to get drowned almost as soon as he had started is, as you say,
Nichol, very hard luck. I am sure the General will be terribly cut up
about it. I heard Major Butler tell Captain Thompson that he had heard
from Dr. Hunter that when the General began to get round and heard that
Simcoe had gone, while he was lying there too ill to know anything about
it, he regularly broke down and cried like a child; and I am sure the
fact that he will never have the chance of thanking him now will hurt
him as bad as those tiger's claws."

"And so there is no news of Sanderson?"

"Not that I have heard. Maybe he has got clean away; but I should say
it's more likely that he is lying low in some sailors' haunt until the
matter blows over. Then, like enough, he will put on sea-togs and ship
under another name before the mast in some trader knocking about among
the islands, and by the time she comes back he could take a passage home
without questions being asked. He is a sharp fellow is Sanderson. I
never quite liked him myself, but I never thought he was a rogue. It
will teach Captain Smalley to be more careful in future. I heard that he
was going home on his long leave in the spring, but I suppose he will
not be able to do so now for a year or so; three hundred pounds is a big
sum to have to fork out."

The news of the loss of the _Nepaul_, with all hands, did indeed hit
General Mathieson very heavily, and for a time seriously delayed the
progress that he was making towards recovery.

"It's bad enough to think," he said, "that I shall never have an
opportunity of thanking that gallant fellow for my life; but it is even
worse to know that my rescue has brought about his death, for had it not
been for that he would have by this time been up at Delhi or in Oude
instead of lying at the bottom of the sea. I would give half my fortune
to grasp his hand again and tell him what I feel."

General Mathieson's ill luck stuck to him. He gained strength so slowly
that he was ordered home, and it was three years before he rejoined.
Four years later his daughter came out to him, and for a time his home
in Delhi, where he was now stationed, was a happy one. The girl showed
no desire to marry, and refused several very favorable offers; but after
she had been out four years she married a rising young civilian who was
also stationed at Delhi. The union was a happy one, except that the
first two children born to them died in infancy. They were girls. The
third was a boy, who at the age of eight months was sent home under the
charge of an officer's wife returning with her children to England. When
they arrived there he was placed in charge of Mrs. Covington, a niece of
the General's. But before he reached the shores of England he was an
orphan. An epidemic of cholera broke out at the station at which his
father, who was now a deputy collector, was living, and he and his wife
were among the first victims of the scourge.

General Mathieson was now a major-general, and in command of the troops
in the Calcutta district. This blow decided him to resign his command
and return to England. He was now sixty; the climate of India had suited
him, and he was still a hale, active man. Being generally popular he was
soon at home in London, where he took a house in Hyde Park Gardens and
became a regular frequenter of the Oriental and East Indian United
Service Clubs, of which he had been for years a member, went a good deal
into society, and when at home took a lively interest in his grandson,
often running down to his niece's place, near Warwick, to see how he was
getting on.

The ayah who had come with the child from India had been sent back a few
months after they arrived, for his mother had written to Mrs. Covington
requesting that he should have a white nurse. "The native servants," she
wrote, "spoil the children dreadfully, and let them have entirely their
own way, and the consequence is that they grow up domineering,
bad-tempered, and irritable. I have seen so many cases of it here that
Herbert and I have quite decided that our child shall not be spoilt in
this way, but shall be brought up in England as English children are, to
obey their nurses and to do as they are ordered."

As Mrs. Covington's was a large country house the child was no trouble;
an excellent nurse was obtained, and the boy throve under her care.

The General now much regretted having remained so many years in India,
and if an old comrade remarked, "I never could make out why you stuck to
it so long, Mathieson; it was ridiculous for a man with a large private
fortune, such as you have," he would reply, "I can only suppose it was
because I was an old fool. But, you see, I had no particular reason for
coming home. I lost my only sister three years after I went out, and had
never seen her only daughter, my niece Mary Covington. Of course I hoped
for another bout of active service, and when the chance came at last up
in the north, there was I stuck down in Calcutta. If it hadn't been for
Jane I should certainly have given it up in disgust when I found I was
practically shelved. But she always used to come down and stay with me
for a month or two in the cool season, and as she was the only person
in the world I cared for, I held on from year to year, grumbling of
course, as pretty well every Anglo-Indian does, but without having
sufficient resolution to throw it up. I ought to have stayed at home for
good after that mauling I got from the tiger; but, you see, I was never
really myself while I was at home. I did not feel up to going to clubs,
and could not enter into London life at all, but spent most of my time
at my own place, which was within a drive of Mary Covington's, who had
then just married.

"Well, you see, I got deucedly tired of life down there. I knew nothing
whatever of farming, and though I tried to get up an interest in it I
failed altogether. Of course there was a certain amount of society of a
sort, and everyone called, and one had to go out to dinner-parties. But
such dinner-parties! Why, a dinner in India was worth a score of them.
Most of them were very stiff and formal, and after the women had gone
upstairs, the men talked of nothing but hunting and shooting and crops
and cattle; so at last I could stand it no longer, but threw up six
months of my furlough and went out again. Yes, of course I had Jane, but
at that time she was but fourteen, and was a girl at school; and when I
talked of bringing her home and having a governess, everyone seemed to
think that it would be the worst thing possible for her, and no doubt
they were right, for the life would have been as dull for her as it was
for me.

"Of course now it is different. I feel as young and as well as I did
twenty years ago, and can thoroughly enjoy my life in London, though I
still fight very shy of the country. It is a satisfaction to me to know
that things are pretty quiet in India at present, so that I am losing
nothing that way, and if I were out there I should be only holding
inspections at Barrakpoor, Dumdum, or on the Maidan at Calcutta. Of
course it was pleasant enough in its way, for I never felt the heat; but
as a man gets on in life he doesn't have quite so much enjoyment out of
it as he used to do. The men around him are a good deal younger than
himself. He knows all the old messroom jokes, and one bit of scandal is
like scores of others he has heard in his time.

"I am heartily glad that I have come home. Many of you here are about my
own standing, and there is plenty to talk about of old friends and old
days. You were a young ensign when I was a captain, but Bulstrode and I
got our companies within a few days of each other. Of course he is only
a lieutenant-colonel, while I am a major-general, but that is because he
had the good sense to quit the service years ago. There are scores of
others in the club just about my own standing, and one gets one's rubber
of whist in the afternoon, and we dine together and run down the cooking
and wines, although every one of us knows at heart that they are both
infinitely better than we got in India, except at the clubs in the
Presidency towns.

"Then, of course, we all agree that the service is going to the dogs,
that the Sepoys are over-indulged and will some day give us a lot of
trouble. I keep my liver all right by taking a long ride every morning,
and altogether I think I can say that I thoroughly enjoy myself."

The General, on his first visit to England, had endeavored, but in vain,
to find out the family of John Simcoe. He had advertised largely, but
without effect.

"I want to find them out," he said to his niece; "I owe that man a debt
of gratitude I can never repay, but doubtless there are some of his
family who may be in circumstances where I could give them a helping
hand. There may be young brothers--of course I could get them cadetships
in the Indian army--maybe portionless sisters."

"But if he was traveling in India for pleasure he must have been a
well-to-do young fellow. Men cannot wander about in the East without
having a pretty full purse."

"Yes, no doubt; but I don't fancy it was so in his case, and he said
casually that he had come in for some money, and, as he had always had a
great desire to travel, he thought that he could do nothing better than
spend a year or two in the East, but that he hoped before it was gone
he should fall on his legs and obtain some sort of employment. He did
not care much what it was, so that it was not quill-driving. He thought
that he could turn his hands to most things. I laughed at the time, for
I was by no means sure that he was in earnest, but I have felt since
that he must have been. If it had not been so, my advertisements would
surely have caught the eye of someone who knew his family. A family
wealthy enough for one of the sons to start on two years' travel must be
in a fair position, whether in town or country. Had it been so I should
have heard of it, and therefore I think that what he said must have had
some foundation in fact. He was certainly a gentleman in manner, and my
idea now is that he belonged to a middle-class family, probably in some
provincial town, and that, having come into some money at the death of
his father or some other relative, he followed his natural bent and
started on a sort of roving expedition, thinking, as many people do
think, that India is a land where you have only to stretch out your
hands and shake the pagoda tree.

"He would have found out his mistake, poor fellow, if he had lived. The
days are long past when any dashing young adventurer can obtain a post
of honor in the pay of an Indian Rajah. Still, of course, after what he
did for me, had he remained in India, and I found that he really wanted
a berth, I might have done something for him. I know numbers of these
Indian princes, some of them intimately, and to some I have been of very
considerable service; and I fancy that I might have got him a berth of
some kind or other without much difficulty. Or had he made up his mind
to return to England I would have set him up in any business he had a
fancy for. He has gone now, and I wish I could pay someone he cared for
a little of the debt of gratitude I owe him. Well, I have done my best
and have failed, from no fault of my own; but remember that if ever you
hear of a family of the name of Simcoe, I want you to make inquiries
about them, and to give me full particulars concerning them."

But no news ever reached the General on this head, and it was a frequent
cause of lamentation to him, when he finally settled in town, that
although he had again advertised he had heard nothing whatever of the
family of which he was in search.




CHAPTER II.

IN THE SOUTH SEAS.


An island in the Pacific. The sun was shining down from a cloudless sky,
the sea was breaking on the white beach, there was just sufficient
breeze to move the leaves of the cocoanut trees that formed a dark band
behind the sands. A small brig of about a hundred tons' burden lay
anchored a short distance from the shore. The paint was off in many
places, and everywhere blistered by the sun. Her sails hung loosely in
the gaskets, and the slackness of her ropes and her general air of
untidiness alike showed the absence of any sort of discipline on board.

In front of a rough shanty, built just within the line of shade of the
cocoanuts, sat three men. Two drunken sailors lay asleep some fifty
yards away. On the stump of a tree in front of the bench on which the
three men were sitting were placed several black bottles and three tin
pannikins, while two gourds filled with water and covered with broad
banana leaves stood erect in holes dug in the sand.

"I tell you what it is, Atkins, your men are carrying it on too far.
Bill here, and I, were good friends with the natives; the chief gave us
wives, and we got on well enough with them. What with the cocoanuts,
which are free to us all, and the patches of ground to cultivate, we had
all we wanted, and with the store of beads and bright cotton we brought
here with us we paid the natives to fish for pearls for us, and have
collected enough copra to trade for rum and whatever else we want. You
have got all our copra on board, and a good stock of native trumperies,
and I should recommend you to be off, both for your own sake and ours.
Your men have been more or less drunk ever since they came here. I don't
mind a drinking bout myself now and again, but it does not do to keep
it up. However, it would be no odds to us whether your men were drunk
all the time or not if they would but get drunk on board, but they will
bring the liquor on shore, and then they get quarrelsome, use their
fists on the natives, and meddle with the women. Now, these fellows are
quiet and gentle enough if they are left alone and treated fairly, but I
don't blame them for getting riled up when they are ill-treated, and I
tell you they are riled up pretty badly now. My woman has spoken to me
more than once, and from what she says there is likely to be trouble,
not only for you but for us."

"Well, Sim," the man that he was addressing said, "there is reason
enough in what you say. I don't care myself a snap for these black
fellows; a couple of musket-shots would send them all flying. But, you
see, though I am skipper, the men all have shares and do pretty much as
they like. At present they like to stay here, and I suppose they will
stay here till they are tired of it."

"Well, Atkins, if I were in your place I should very soon make a change,
and if you like, Bill and I will help you. You have got six men; well,
if you shot three of them the other three would think better of it; and
if they didn't I would settle them too."

"It is all very well talking like that, Sim. How could I sail the brig
without hands? If I only kept three of them I should be very
short-handed, and if I ever did manage to get to port they would lay a
complaint against me for shooting the others. It is all very well for
you to talk; you have lived here long enough to know that one can only
get the very worst class of fellows to sail with one in craft like this
and for this sort of trade. It pays well if one gets back safely, but
what with the risk of being cast ashore or being killed by the natives,
who are savage enough in some of the islands, it stands to reason that a
man who can get a berth in any other sort of craft won't sail with us.
But it is just the sort of life to suit chaps like these; it means easy
work, plenty of loafing about, and if things turn out well a good lump
of money at the end of the voyage. However, they ought to have had
enough of it this job; the rum is nearly gone, and if you will come off
to-morrow I will let you have what remains, though if they are sober I
doubt if they will let you take it away."

"We will risk that," the third man said. "We are not nice about using
our pistols, if you are. I was saying to Simcoe here, things are going a
lot too far. Enough mischief has been done already, and I am by no means
sure that when you have gone they won't make it hot for us. We are very
comfortable here, and we are not doing badly, and I don't care about
being turned out of it."

"The pearl fishing is turning out well?" Atkins asked quietly.

"It might be worse and it might be better. Anyhow, we are content to
remain here for a bit.

"I don't like it, Jack," he said, as the skipper, having in vain tried
to rouse the two drunken men, rowed himself off to the brig. "My woman
told me this morning that there had been a big talk among the natives,
and that though they did not tell her anything, she thought that they
had made up their minds to wipe the whites out altogether. They said
that if we hadn't been here, the brig would not have come; which is like
enough, for Atkins only put in because he was an old chum of ours, and
thought that we should have got copra enough to make it worth his while
to come round. Well, if the niggers only wiped out the crew, and burned
the ship, I should say nothing against it, as long as they let Atkins
alone. He has stood by me in more than one rough-and-tumble business,
and I am bound to stand by him. But there aint no discrimination among
the niggers. Besides, I am not saying but that he has been pretty rough
with them himself.

"It makes all the difference whether you settle down and go in for
making a pile, or if you only stop to water and take in fruit; we agreed
as to that when we landed here. When we stopped here before and found
them friendly and pleasant, and we says to each other, 'If we can but
get on smooth with them and set them fishing for us we might make a good
thing out of it.' You see, we had bought some oysters one of them
brought up after a dive, and had found two or three pearls in them.

"Well, we have been here nine months, and I don't say I am not getting
tired of it; but it is worth stopping for. You know we reckoned last
week that the pearls we have got ought to be worth two or three thousand
pounds, and we agreed that we would stay here till we have two bags the
size of the one we have got; but unless Atkins gets those fellows off, I
doubt if we shan't have to go before that. There is no reasoning with
these niggers; if they had any sense they would see that we can't help
these things."

"Perhaps what the women tell us is untrue," the other suggested.

"Don't you think that," Simcoe said; "these black women are always true
to their white men when they are decently treated. Besides, none of the
natives have been near us to-day. That, of course, might be because they
are afraid of these chaps; but from this shanty we can see the canoes,
and not one has gone out to-day. Who is to blame them, when one of their
chiefs was shot yesterday without a shadow of excuse? I don't say that I
think so much of a nigger's life one way or another; and having been in
some stiff fights together, as you know, I have always taken my share.
But I am dead against shooting without some reason; it spoils trade, and
makes it unsafe even to land for water. I have half a mind, Bill, to go
on board and ask Atkins to take us away with him; we could mighty soon
settle matters with the crew, and if there was a fight and we had to
shoot them all, we could take the brig into port well enough."

"No, no," said Bill, "it has not come to that yet. Don't let us give up
a good thing until we are sure that the game is up."

"Well, just as you like; I am ready to run the risk if you are. It would
be hard, if the worst came to the worst, if we couldn't fight our way
down to our canoe, and once on board that we could laugh at them; for
as we have proved over and over again, they have not one that can touch
her."

"Well, I will be off to my hut; the sun is just setting and my supper
will be ready for me." He strolled off to his shanty, which lay back
some distance in the wood. Simcoe entered the hut, where a native woman
was cooking.

"Nothing fresh, I suppose?" he asked in her language.

She shook her head. "None of our people have been near us to-day."

"Well, Polly,"--for so her white master had christened her, her native
appellation being too long for ordinary conversation,--"it is a bad
business, and I am sorry for it; but when these fellows have sailed away
it will soon come all right again."

"Polly hopes so," she said. "Polly very much afraid."

"Well, you had better go to-morrow and see them, and tell them, as I
have told them already, we are very sorry for the goings on of these
people, but it is not our fault. You have no fear that they will hurt
you, have you? Because if so, don't you go."

"They no hurt Polly now," she said; "they know that if I do not come
back you be on guard."

"Well, I don't think there is any danger at present, but it is as well
to be ready. Do you take down to the canoe three or four dozen cocoanuts
and four or five big bunches of plantains, and you may as well take
three or four gourds of water. If we have to take to the boat, will you
go with me or stay here?"

"Polly will go with her master," the woman said; "if she stay here they
will kill her."

"I am glad enough for you to go with me, Polly," he said. "You have been
a good little woman, and I don't know how I should get on without you
now; though why they should kill you I don't know, seeing that your head
chief gave you to me himself."

"Kill everything belonging to white man," she said quietly; and the man
knew in his heart that it would probably be so. She put his supper on
the table and then made several journeys backwards and forwards to the
canoe, which lay afloat in a little cove a couple of hundred yards away.
When she had done she stood at the table and ate the remains of the
supper.

An hour later the man was sitting on the bench outside smoking his pipe,
when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps among the trees. He knew this
was no native tread.

"What is it, Bill?" he asked, as the man came up.

"Well, I came to tell you that there is a big row going on among the
natives. I can hear their tom-tom things beating furiously, and
occasionally they set up a tremendous yell. I tell you I don't like it,
Simcoe; I don't like it a bit. I sent my woman to see what it was all
about, but though she had been away three hours, she hadn't come back
when I started out to talk it over with you."

"There has been a biggish row going on on board the brig too," the other
said. "I have heard Atkins storming, and a good deal of shouting among
the men. I suppose you have got your pearls all right in your belt?
Things begin to have an awkward look, and we may have to bolt at short
notice."

"You trust me for that, Simcoe; I have had them on me ever since the
brig came in. I had no fear of the natives stealing them out of my hut,
but if one of those fellows were to drop in and see them he would think
nothing of knifing the woman and carrying them off."

"I see you have brought your gun with you."

"Yes, and my pistols too. I suppose you are loaded, and ready to catch
up at a moment's notice?"

"Yes; my girl has been carrying down cocoanuts and plantains to the
canoe, so, if we have to make a bolt, we can hold on comfortably enough
until we get to the next island, which is not above three days' sail,
and lies dead to leeward, as the wind is at present. Still, Bill, I hope
it is not coming to that. I think it is likely enough they may attack
the brig in their canoes, but they have always been so friendly with us
that I really don't think they can turn against us now; they must know
that we cannot help these people's doings."

"That is all very well," the other said, "but you and I know half a
dozen cases in which the niggers have attacked a ship, and in every case
beachcombers were killed too."

Simcoe made no answer; he knew that it was so, and could hardly hope
that there would be an exception in their case. After thinking for a
minute he said, "Well, Bill, in that case I think the safest plan will
be to take to the canoe at once. We can stay away a few weeks and then
come back here and see how matters stand."

"But how about Atkins?"

"Well, we will shout and get him ashore and tell him what we think of
it, and give him the choice of either stopping or going with us. Nothing
can be fairer than that. If he chooses to stop and harm comes of it we
cannot blame ourselves. If we come back in a few weeks of course we
should not land until we had overhauled one of their canoes and found
out what the feeling of the people was. They will have got over their
fit of rage, and like enough they will have said to each other, 'We were
better off when the two white men were here. They paid us for our
fishing and our copra, and never did us any harm. I wish they were back
again.'"

"That is reasonable enough," the other agreed. "What about the trade
things?"

"Well, we have only got some beads and small knick-knacks left. Polly
shall carry them down to the canoe; we shall want them for trading till
we come back here again."

He said a few words to the woman, who at once began to carry the things
down to the canoe. Then he went down to the beach and shouted, "Atkins!"

"Hullo!" came back from the brig.

"Come ashore; we want to talk to you about something particular." They
saw the dinghy pulled up to the ship's side, then Atkins rowed ashore.

"I have been having a row with the crew," he said. "I thought it was
coming to fighting. Two or three of them took up handspikes, but I drew
my pistols and things calmed down. What do you want me for?"

"Bill here has brought news that there is a row among the natives. They
are beating their drums and yelling like fiends, and we expect it means
mischief. At any rate it comes to this: we are so convinced that there
is going to be trouble that we mean to cut and run at once. We have got
enough grub put on board our canoe to take us to the next island, but we
did not want to leave you in the lurch, to be speared by the niggers, so
we have called you to offer you a seat in the canoe."

"That is friendly," Atkins said, "but I should lose the ship and cargo;
and pretty near all that I have got is in her. Why should not you two
bring your canoe off alongside and hoist her up? Then we could get up
anchor and be off. Three of the fellows are dead-drunk and the other
three half stupid. I would give you each a share in the profits of the
voyage."

"Well, what do you think of that, Simcoe?" Bill said.

"I tell you straight I don't care for it. You and I are both good
paddlers, and the canoe sails like a witch in a light wind. Once afloat
in her and we are safe, but you can't say as much for the brig. I have
sailed in her before now, and I know that she is slow, unless it is
blowing half a gale. It is like enough that the natives may be watching
her now, and if they saw us get under way they would be after her, and
would go six feet to her one. As to fighting, what could we three do?
The others would be of no use whatever. No, I like our plan best by
far."

"Well, I don't know what to say," Atkins said. "It is hard to make a
choice. Of course if I were sure that the natives really meant mischief
I would go with you, but we cannot be sure of that."

"I feel pretty sure of it anyhow," Bill said. "My girl would be safe to
follow me here when she got back and found the hut empty, but I am
mightily afraid that some harm has come to her, or she would have been
back long before this. It wasn't half a mile to go, and she might have
been there and back in half an hour, and she has been gone now over
three hours, and I feel nasty about it, I can tell you. I wish your crew
were all sober, Atkins, and that we had a score of men that I could put
my hand on among the islands. I should not be talking about taking to a
canoe then, but I would just go in and give it them so hot that they
would never try their pranks on again."

"Have you got all the things in, Polly?" Simcoe asked the woman, as she
crouched down by the door of the hut.

"Got all in," she said. "Why not go? Very bad wait here."

"Well, I think you are about right. At any rate, we will go and get on
board and wait a spear's-throw off the shore for an hour or so. If
Bill's Susan comes here and finds we have gone she is pretty safe to
guess that we shall be on board the canoe and waiting for her. What do
you say to that, Bill?"

"That suits me; nothing can be fairer. If she comes we can take her on
board, if she doesn't I shall know that they have killed her, and I will
jot it down against them and come back here some day before long and
take it out of them. And you, Atkins?"

"I will go straight on board. Like enough it is all a false alarm, and I
aint going to lose the brig and all that she has got on board till I am
downright certain that they----"

He stopped suddenly, and the others leaped to their feet as a burst of
savage yells broke out across the water.

"By Heavens, they are attacking the ship!" Simcoe cried; "they will be
here in a moment. Come on, Polly! come on, Atkins! we have no choice
now." Taking up his arms, he started to run. "Quick, quick!" he cried;
"I can hear them."

They had gone but some thirty yards when a number of natives burst from
the wood. Had they arrived a minute sooner at the hut none of its
occupants would have lived to tell the tale, but the impatience of those
in the canoes lying round the brig had caused the alarm to be given
before they had placed themselves in readiness for a simultaneous rush
on the hut. There was no further occasion for silence; a wild yell burst
out as they caught sight of the flying figures, and a dozen spears flew
through the air.

"Don't stop to fire!" Simcoe shouted; "we shall have to make a stand at
the boat and shall want every barrel."

They were three-quarters of the way to the boat and the natives were
still some twenty yards behind them. Suddenly Bill stumbled; then with a
savage oath he turned and emptied both barrels of his fowling-piece into
the natives, and the two leading men fell forward on their faces, and
some shouts and yells told that some of the shots had taken effect on
those behind.

"Are you wounded, Bill?" Simcoe asked.

"Yes, I am hit hard. Run on, man; I think I am done for."

"Nonsense!" Simcoe exclaimed. "Catch hold of my arm; I will help you
along."

One native was in advance of the rest. He raised his arm to hurl his
spear, but the native woman, who had all along been running behind
Simcoe, threw herself forward, and the spear pierced her through the
body. With an exclamation of fury Simcoe leveled his musket and shot the
native through the head.

"Throw your arms round my neck, Bill; the poor girl is done for, curse
them. Can you hold on?"

"Yes, I think so," he replied.

Simcoe was a very powerful man, and with his comrade on his back he ran
on almost as swiftly as before.

"Now, Atkins, give them every barrel that you have got, then lift Bill
into the boat, and I will keep them back. I am not going until I have
paid some of them out for poor Polly."

Atkins fired his pistols, and with so steady an aim that each shot
brought down a savage; then he lifted Bill from Simcoe's shoulders and
laid him in the canoe.

"Get up the sail!" Simcoe shouted. "They will riddle us with spears if
we paddle." He shot down four of the natives with his double-barreled
pistols, and then clubbing his gun threw himself with a hoarse shout
upon them. The loss of seven of their leaders had caused their followers
to hesitate, and the fury of Simcoe's attack and the tremendous blows he
dealt completed their discomfiture, and they turned and fled in dismay.

"Now is your time!" Atkins shouted; "I have cut the cord and got the
sail up." Turning, Simcoe was in a moment knee-deep in the water;
pushing the boat off, he threw himself into it.

"Lie down, man, lie down!" he shouted to Atkins. But the warning was too
late; the moment Simcoe turned the natives had turned also, and as they
reached the water's edge half a dozen spears were flung. Two of them
struck Atkins full in the body, and with a cry he threw up his arms and
fell over the side of the canoe. Then came several splashes in the
water. Simcoe drew the pistols from his companion's belt, and, raising
himself high enough to look over the stern, shot two of the savages who
were wading out waist deep, and were but a few paces behind.

The sail was now doing its work, and the boat was beginning to glide
through the water at a rate that even the best swimmers could not hope
to emulate. As soon as he was out of reach of the spears Simcoe threw
the boat up into the wind, reloaded his pistols and those of his
comrade, and opened fire upon the group of natives clustered at the
water's edge. Like most men of his class, he was a first-rate shot.
Three of the natives fell and the rest fled. Then with a stroke of the
paddle he put the boat before the wind again, and soon left the island
far behind.

"This has been a pretty night's work," he muttered. "Poor little Polly
killed! She gave her life to save me, and there is no doubt she did save
me too, for that fellow's spear must have gone right through me. I am
afraid that they have done for Bill too." He stooped over his comrade.
The shaft of the spear had broken off, but the jagged piece with the
head attached stuck out just over the hip. "I am afraid it is all up
with him; however, I must take it out and bandage him as well as I
can."

A groan burst from the wounded man as Simcoe with some effort drew the
jagged spear from the wound. Then he took off his own shirt and tore
some strips off it and tightly bandaged the wound.

"I can do nothing else until the morning," he said. "Well, Polly, I have
paid them out for you. I have shot seven or eight and smashed the skulls
of as many more. Of course they have done for those drunkards on board
the brig. I did not hear a single pistol fired, and I expect that they
knocked them on the head in their drunken sleep. The brutes! if they had
had their senses about them we might have made a fair fight; though I
expect that they would have been too many for us."

Just as daylight was breaking Bill opened his eyes.

"How do you feel, old man?"

"I am going, Simcoe. You stood by me like a man; I heard it all till
Atkins laid me in the boat. Where is he?"

"He is gone, Bill. Instead of throwing himself down in the boat, as I
shouted to him directly he got up the sail, he stood there watching, I
suppose, until I was in. He got two spears in his body and fell
overboard dead, I have no doubt."

"Look here, Sim!" The latter had to bend down his ear to listen. The
words came faintly and slowly. "If you ever go back home again, you look
up my brother. He is no more on the square than I was, but he is a
clever fellow. He lives respectable--Rose Cottage, Pentonville Hill.
Don't forget it. He goes by the name of Harrison. I wrote to him every
two or three years, and got an answer about the same. Tell him how his
brother Bill died, and how you carried him off when the blacks were
yelling round. We were fond of each other, Tom and I. You keep the
pearls, Sim; he don't want them. He is a top-sawyer in his way, he is,
and has offered again and again that if I would come home he would set
me up in any line I liked. I thought perhaps I should go home some day.
Tom and I were great friends. I remember----" His eyelids drooped, his
lips moved, and in another minute no sounds came from them. He gave one
deep sigh, and then all was over.

"A good partner and a good chum," Simcoe muttered as he looked down into
the man's face. "Well, well, I have lost a good many chums in the last
ten years, but not one I missed as I shall miss Bill. It is hard, he and
Polly going at the same time. There are not many fellows that I would
have lain down to sleep with, with fifteen hundred pounds' or so worth
of pearls in my belt, not out in these islands. But I never had any fear
with him. Well, well," he went on, as he took the bag of pearls from his
comrade's belt and placed it in his own, "There is a consolation
everywhere, though we might have doubled and trebled this lot if we had
stopped three months longer, which we should have done if Atkins had not
brought that brig of his in. I can't think why he did it. He might have
been sure that with that drunken lot of villains trouble would come of
it sooner or later. He wasn't a bad fellow either, but too fond of
liquor."




CHAPTER III.

A DEAF GIRL.


"Yes, Lady Moulton, I will undertake the gypsy tent business at your
fete; that is to say, I will see to the getting up of the tent, provide
a gypsy for you, and someone to stand at the door and let in one visitor
at a time and receive the money. Do you mean to make it a fixed charge,
or leave it to each to pay the gypsy?"

"Which do you think will be best, Hilda? Of course the great thing is to
get as much money for the decayed ladies as possible."

"I should say that it would be best to let them give what they like to
the gypsy, Lady Moulton."

"But she might keep some of it herself."

"I think I can guarantee that she won't do that; I will get a dependable
gypsy. You see, you could not charge above a shilling entrance, and very
likely she would get a good deal more than that given to her."

"Well, my dear, I leave it all to you. Spare no expense about the tent
and its fitting up. I have set my heart upon the affair being a success,
and I think everything else has been most satisfactorily arranged. It is
a very happy thought of yours about the gypsy; I hope that you will find
a clever one. But you must mind and impress upon her that we don't want
any evil predictions. Nothing could be in worse taste. It is all very
well when a girl is promised a rich husband and everything to match, but
if she were told that she would never get married, or would die young,
or something of that sort, it would be a most unpleasant business."

"I quite agree with you, and will see that everything shall be 'couleur
de rose' as to the future, and that she shall confine herself as much as
possible to the past and present."

"I leave it in your hands, and I am sure that it will be done nicely."

Lady Moulton was a leading member of society, a charming woman with a
rich and indulgent husband. Her home was a pleasant one, and her balls
were among the most popular of the season. She had, as her friends said,
but one failing, namely, her ardor for "The Society for Affording Aid to
Decayed Ladies." It was on behalf of this institution that she was now
organizing a fete in the grounds of her residence at Richmond. Hilda
Covington was an orphan and an heiress, and was the ward of her uncle,
an old Indian officer, who had been a great friend of Lady Moulton's
father. She had been ushered into society under her ladyship's auspices.
She had, however, rather forfeited that lady's favorable opinion by
refusing two or three unexceptionable offers.

"My dear," she remonstrated, "no girl can afford to throw away such
chances, even if she is, as you are, well endowed, pretty, and clever."

The girl laughed.

"I am not aware that I am clever at all, Lady Moulton. I speak German
and French perfectly, because I have been four or five years in Hanover;
but beyond that I am not aware of possessing any special
accomplishments."

"But you are clever, my dear," the other said decidedly. "The way you
seem to understand people's characters astonishes me. Sometimes it seems
to me that you are almost a witch."

"You are arguing against yourself," the girl laughed. "If I am such a
good judge of character I am not likely to make a mistake in such an
important matter as choosing a husband for myself."

Lady Moulton was silenced, but not convinced; however, she had good
sense enough to drop the subject. General Mathieson had already told her
that although he should not interfere in any way with any choice Hilda
might make, he should make it an absolute condition that she should not
marry until she came of age; and as she was at present but eighteen,
many things might occur in the three years' interval.

On her return home, after arranging to provide a gypsy for Lady
Moulton's fete, Hilda related what had occurred to a girl friend who was
staying with her.

"Of course, Netta, I mean to be the gypsy myself; but you must help me.
It would never do for me to be suspected of being the sorceress, and so
you must be my double, so that I can, from time to time, go out and mix
with the crowd. A few minutes at a time will do."

The other laughed. "But what should I say to them, Hilda?"

"Oh, it is as easy as A B C. All that you will have to do is to speak
ambiguously, hint at coming changes, foresee a few troubles in the way,
and prophesy a happy solution of the difficulties. I will take upon
myself the business of surprising them, and I fancy that I shall be able
to astonish a few of them so much that even if some do get only
commonplaces we shall make a general sensation. Of course, we must get
two disguises. I shall have a small tent behind the other where I can
change. It won't take a moment--a skirt, and a shawl to go over my head
and partly hide my face, can be slipped on and off in an instant. Of
course I shall have a black wig and some sort of yellow wash that can be
taken off with a damp towel. I shall place the tent so that I can leave
from behind without being noticed. As we shall have the tent a good deal
darkened there will be no fear of the differences between the two
gypsies being discovered, and, indeed, people are not likely to compare
notes very closely."

"Well, I suppose you will have your way as usual, Hilda."

"I like that!" the other said, with a laugh. "You were my guide and
counselor for five years, and now you pretend that I always have my own
way. Why, I cannot even get my own way in persuading you to come and
settle over here. I am quite sure that you would get lots of pupils,
when people understand the system and its advantages."

"That is all very well, Hilda, but, you see, in the first place I have
no friends here except yourself, and in the second it requires a good
deal of money to get up an establishment and to wait until one gets
pupils. My aunt would, I know, put in the money she saved when you were
with us if I were to ask her, but I wouldn't do so. To begin with, she
regards that as my fortune at her death. She has said over and over
again how happy the knowledge makes her that I shall not be left
absolutely penniless, except, of course, what I can get for the house
and furniture, and I would do anything rather than sell that. She admits
that I might keep myself by teaching deaf children, but, as she says, no
one can answer for their health. I might have a long illness that would
throw me out. I might suddenly lose a situation, say, from the death of
a pupil, and might be a long time before I could hear of another. She
said to me once, 'I do hope, Netta, you will never embark one penny of
the little money that will come to you in any sort of enterprise or
speculation, however promising it may look.' We had been talking of
exactly the plan that you are now speaking of. 'The mere furnishing of a
house in England large enough to take a dozen children would swallow up
a considerable sum. At first you might have to wait some time till you
could obtain more than two or three children, and there would be the
rent and expenses going on, and you might find yourself without money
and in debt before it began to pay its way; therefore I do hope that you
will keep the money untouched except to meet your expenses in times of
illness or of necessity of some kind. If you can save up money
sufficient to start an establishment, it will, I think, be a good thing,
especially if you could secure the promise of four or five pupils to
come to you at once. If in a few years you should see your way to insure
starting with enough pupils to pay your way, and I am alive at the time,
I would draw out enough to furnish the house and will look after it for
you.' That was a great concession on her part, but I certainly would
not let her do it, for she is so happy in her home now, and I know that
she would worry herself to death."

"Well, Netta, you know I am still ready to become the capitalist."

Both girls laughed merrily.

"Why not, Netta?" the speaker went on. "I know you said that you would
not accept money as a loan even from me, which, as I told you, was very
stupid and very disagreeable, but there is no reason why we should not
do it in a business way. Other women go into business, why shouldn't I?
As you know, I can't absolutely touch my money until I come of age, and
it is nearly three years before that; still, I feel sure that the
General would let me have some money, and we could start the Institute.
It would be great fun. Of course, in the first place, you would be
principal, or lady superintendent, or whatever you like to call
yourself, and you would draw, say, five hundred pounds a year. After
that we could divide the profits."

Again both girls laughed.

"And that is what you call a business transaction?" the other said. "I
know that your guardian is very kind, and indeed spoils you altogether,
but I don't think that you would get him to advance you money for such a
scheme."

"I am really in earnest, Netta."

"Oh, I don't say that you would not do it, if you could. However, I
think, anyhow, we had better wait until you come of age. There is plenty
of time. I am only twenty yet, and even in three years' time I doubt
whether I should quite look the character of professor or lady
superintendent."

"Well, directly I get of age I shall carry out my part of the plan,"
Hilda said positively, "and if you are disagreeable and won't do as I
want you, I shall write to the professor and ask him to recommend a
superintendent."

The other laughed again.

"You would have a difficulty, Hilda. You and I are, so far, the only
two English girls who have learned the system, and either your
superintendent would have to learn English or all her pupils would have
to learn German."

"We will not discuss it further at present, Miss Purcell," Hilda said
with dignity. "Oh, dear, those were happy days we had in that dear old
house, with its pretty garden, when you were thirteen and I was eleven.
I have got a great deal of fun from it since. One gets such curious
little scraps of conversation."

"Then the people do not know what you learned over with us?"

"No, indeed; as you know, it was not for a year after I came back that I
became altogether the General's ward, and my dear mother said to me just
before she died, 'It would be better for you, dear, not to say anything
about that curious accomplishment of yours. I know that you would never
use it to any harm, but if people knew it they would be rather afraid of
you.' Uncle said the same thing directly I got here. So of course I have
kept it to myself, and indeed if they had not said so I should never
have mentioned it, for it gives me a great deal of amusement."

When Hilda Covington was ten years old, she had, after a severe attack
of scarlet fever, lost her hearing, and though her parents consulted the
best specialists of the time, their remedies proved of no avail, and at
last they could only express a hope, rather than an opinion, that in
time, with added health and strength, nature might repair the damage. A
year after her illness Mr. Covington heard of an aurist in Germany who
had a European reputation, and he and Mrs. Covington took Hilda over to
him. After examining her he said, "The mischief is serious, but not, I
think, irreparable. It is a case requiring great care both as to
dieting, exercise, and clothing. If it could be managed I should like to
examine her ears once a fortnight, or once a month at the least. I have
a house here where my patients live when under treatment, but I should
not for a moment advise her being placed there. A child, to keep in
good health, requires cheerful companions. If you will call again
to-morrow I will think the matter over and let you know what I
recommend."

Mr. and Mrs. Covington retired much depressed. His opinion was, perhaps,
a little more favorable than any that they had received, but the thought
that their only child must either make this considerable journey once a
month or live there altogether was very painful to them. However, on
talking it over, they agreed that it was far better that she should
reside in Hanover for a time, with the hope of coming back cured, than
that she should grow up hopelessly deaf.

"It will only be as if she were at school here," Mr. Covington said.
"She will no doubt be taught to talk German and French, and even if she
is never able to converse in these languages, it will add to her
pleasures if she can read them."

The next day when they called upon the doctor he said, "If you can bring
yourself to part with the child, I have, I think, found the very thing
to suit her. In the first place you must know that there is in the town
an establishment, conducted by a Professor Menzel, for the instruction
of deaf mutes. It is quite a new system, and consists in teaching them
to read from the lips of persons speaking to them the words that they
are saying. The system is by no means difficult for those who have
still, like your daughter, the power of speech, and who have lost only
their hearing. But even those born deaf and dumb have learned to be able
to converse to a certain degree, though their voices are never quite
natural, for in nine cases out of ten deaf mutes are mutes only because
they have never learned to use their tongue. However, happily that is
beside the question in your daughter's case. I hope that she will regain
her hearing; but should this unfortunately not be the case, it will at
least be a great mitigation to her position to be able to read from the
lips of those who address her what is said, and therefore to converse
like an ordinary person. I can assure you that many of Herr Menzel's
pupils can converse so easily and rapidly that no one would have the
least idea of the misfortune from which they suffer, as in fact they
feel no inconvenience beyond the fact that they are not aware of being
addressed by anyone standing behind them, or whose face they do not
happen to be watching."

"That would indeed be a blessing!" Mrs. Covington exclaimed. "I never
heard of such a system."

"No, it is quite new, but as to its success there can be no question. I
called upon Professor Menzel last evening. He said that as your daughter
did not understand German the difficulties of her tuition would be very
great. He has, however, among his pupils a young English girl two years
older than your daughter. She lives with a maiden aunt, who has
established herself here in order that her niece might have the benefit
of learning the new system. Here is her name and address. The professor
has reason to believe that her income is a small one, and imagines that
she would gladly receive your daughter as a boarder. Her niece, who is a
bright girl, would be a pleasant companion, and, moreover, having in the
two years that she has been here made very great progress, she would be
able to commence your daughter's education by conversing with her in
English, and could act as her teacher in German also; and so soon as the
language was fairly mastered your daughter could then become a pupil of
the professor himself."

"That would be an excellent plan indeed," Mrs. Covington said, and her
husband fully agreed with her. The doctor handed her a slip of paper
with the name, "Miss Purcell, 2nd Etage, 5 Koenigstrasse."

Hilda had already been informed by the finger alphabet, which had been
her means of communication since her illness, of the result of the
conversation with the doctor on the previous day, and although she had
cried at the thought of being separated from her father and mother, she
had said that she would willingly bear anything if there was a hope of
her regaining her hearing. She had watched earnestly the conversation
between the doctor and her parents, and when the former had left and
they explained what was proposed, her face brightened up.

"That will be very nice," she exclaimed, "and if I could but learn to
understand in that way what people say, instead of watching their
fingers (and some of them don't know the alphabet, and some who do are
so slow that one loses all patience), it would be delightful."

Before going to see Miss Purcell, Mr. and Mrs. Covington talked the
matter over together, and they agreed that, if Miss Purcell were the
sort of person with whom Hilda could be happy, no plan could be better
than that proposed.

"It certainly would not be nice for her," Mrs. Covington said, "to be
living on a second floor in a street; she has always been accustomed to
be so much in the open air, and as the doctors all agree that much
depends upon her general health, I am sure it will be quite essential
that she should be so now. I think that we should arrange to take some
pretty little house with a good garden, just outside the town, and
furnish it, and that Miss Purcell and her niece should move in there. Of
course we should pay a liberal sum for board, and if she would agree, I
should say that it would be best that we should treat the house as ours
and should pay the expenses of keeping it up altogether. I don't suppose
she keeps a servant at present, and there are many little luxuries that
Hilda has been accustomed to. Then, of course, we would pay so much to
the niece for teaching Hilda German and beginning to teach her this
system. I don't suppose the whole thing would cost more than three
hundred pounds a year."

"The expense is nothing," Mr. Covington said. "We could afford it if it
were five times the amount. I think your idea is a very good one, and we
could arrange for her to have the use of a pony-carriage for two or
three hours a day whenever she was disposed. The great thing is for her
to be healthy and happy."

Ten minutes after they started with Hilda to see Miss Purcell, after
having explained to her the plan they proposed. At this she was greatly
pleased. The thought of a little house all to themselves and a girl
friend was a great relief to her, and she looked brighter and happier
than she had done since she had lost her hearing. When they knocked at
the door of the apartment on the second floor, it was opened by a
bright-faced girl of thirteen.

"This is Miss Purcell's, is it not?" Mrs. Covington asked.

"Yes, ma'am," the girl replied, with a slight expression of surprise
which showed that visitors were very rare.

"Will you give my card to her and say that we shall be glad if she will
allow us a few minutes' conversation with her?"

The girl went into the room and returned in a minute or two. "Will you
come in?" she said. "My aunt will be glad to see you."

Miss Purcell was a woman of some fifty years old, with a pleasant,
kindly face. The room was somewhat poorly furnished, but everything was
scrupulously neat and tidy, and there was an air of comfort pervading
it.

"We have called, Miss Purcell," Mrs. Covington began, "in consequence of
what we have learned from Dr. Hartwig, whom we have come over to
consult, and who has been good enough to see Professor Menzel. He has
learned from him that your niece here is acquiring the system of
learning to understand what is said by watching the lips of speakers.
The doctor is of opinion that our daughter may in time outgrow the
deafness that came on a year ago, after scarlet fever, but he wishes her
to remain under his eye, and he suggested that it would be well that she
should learn the new system, so that in case she does not recover her
hearing she would still be able to mingle with other people. Hilda is
delicate, and it is necessary that she should have a cheerful home;
besides which she could not begin to learn the system until she had
become familiar with German. The doctor suggested that if we could
persuade you to do us the great kindness of taking her under your charge
it would be the best possible arrangement."

"I should be glad to do so, madam, but I fear that I could not
accommodate her, for it is a mere closet that my niece sleeps in, and
the other apartments on this floor are all occupied. Were it not for
that I should certainly be glad to consider the matter. It would be
pleasant to Netta to have a companion, for it is but dull work for her
alone with me. We have few acquaintances. I do not mind saying frankly
that my means are straitened, and that I cannot indulge her with many
pleasures. She is a grandniece of mine; her father died some years ago,
her mother three years since, and naturally she came to me. Shortly
after, she lost her hearing through measles. Just at that time I
happened to hear from a German workman of the institution which had been
started in this town, of which he was a native. I had no ties in
England, and as I heard that living was cheap there, and that the fees
were not large, I decided to come over and have her taught this new
system, which would not only add greatly to her own happiness, but would
give her the means of earning her livelihood when she grew up; for
although I have a small pension, as my father was an Excise officer,
this, of course, will expire at my death."

"Happily, Miss Purcell, we are in a position to say that money is no
object to us. Hilda is our only child. We have talked it over, of
course, and will tell you exactly what we propose, and I hope that you
will fall in with the arrangement."

She then stated the plan that she and her husband had discussed.

"You see," she went on, "you would, in fact, be mistress of the house,
and would have the entire management of everything as if it was your
own. We are entirely ignorant of the cost of living here, or we might
have proposed a fixed monthly payment for the expenses of servants and
outgoings, and would still do that if you would prefer it, though we
thought that it would be better that you should, at the end of each
month, send us a line saying what the disbursements had been. We would
wish everything done on a liberal scale. Hilda has little appetite, and
it will, for a time, want tempting. However, that matter we could leave
to you. We propose to pay a hundred a year to you for your personal
services as mistress of the house, and fifty pounds to your niece as
Hilda's companion and instructor in German and in the system, until she
understands the language well enough to attend Professor Menzel's
classes. If the house we take has a stable we should keep a pony and a
light carriage, and a big lad or young man to look after it and drive,
and to keep the garden in order in his spare time. I do hope, Miss
Purcell, that you will oblige us by falling in with our plans. If you
like we can give you a day to consider them."

"I do not require a minute," she replied; "my only hesitation is because
the terms that you offer are altogether too liberal."

"That is our affair," Mrs. Covington said. "We want a comfortable, happy
home for our child, and shall always feel under a deep obligation to you
if you will consent."

"I do consent most willingly and gratefully. The arrangement will be a
delightful one for me, and I am sure for Netta."

Netta, who had been standing where she could watch the lips of both
speakers, clapped her hands joyously. "Oh, auntie, it will be splendid!
Fancy having a house, and a garden, and a pony-chaise!"

"You understand all we have been saying then, Netta?"

"I understand it all," the girl replied. "I did not catch every word,
but quite enough to know all that you were saying."

"That certainly is a proof of the goodness of the system," Mr. Covington
said, speaking for the first time. "How long have you been learning?"

"Eighteen months, sir. We have been here two years, but I was six months
learning German before I knew enough to begin, and for the next six
months I could not get on very fast, as there were so many words that I
did not know, so that really I have only been a year at it. The
professor says that in another year I shall be nearly perfect and fit to
begin to teach; and he has no doubt that he will be able to find me a
situation where I can teach in the daytime and still live with my aunt."

In a week the necessary arrangements were all made. A pretty, furnished
house, a quarter of a mile out of town, with a large garden and stables,
had been taken, and Netta and Hilda had already become friends, for as
the former had learned to talk with her fingers before she came out she
was able to keep up her share of the conversation by that means while
Hilda talked in reply.

"The fingers are useful as a help at first," Netta said, "but Professor
Menzel will not allow any of his pupils to use their fingers, because
they come to rely upon them instead of watching the lips."




CHAPTER IV.

THE GYPSY.


Mr. and Mrs. Covington remained for a week after Hilda was installed
with the Purcells in their new home. To her the house with its garden
and pretty pony-carriage and pony were nothing remarkable, but Netta's
enjoyment in all these things amused her, and the thought that she, too,
would some day be able to talk and enjoy life as her companion did,
greatly raised her spirits. Her father and mother were delighted at
hearing her merry laugh mingled with that of Netta as they walked
together in the garden, and they went home with lighter hearts and more
hopeful spirits than they had felt since the child's illness began.

Every three or four months--for a journey to Hanover was a longer and
more serious business in 1843 than it is at present--they went over to
spend a week there. There could be no doubt from the first that the
change was most beneficial to Hilda. Her cheeks regained their color and
her limbs their firmness. She lost the dull look and the apathy to
whatever was going on around her that had before distressed them. She
progressed very rapidly in her study of German, and at the end of six
months her conversations with Netta were entirely carried on in that
language. She had made some little progress in reading from her
companion's lips and had just entered at Herr Menzel's academy. She
could now take long walks with Netta, and every afternoon, or, as summer
came on, every evening, they drove together in the pony-chaise. With
renewed health and strength there had been some slight improvement in
her hearing. She could now faintly distinguish any loud sounds, such as
those of the band of a regiment marching past her or a sudden peal of
bells.

"I think that we shall make an eventual cure," Dr. Hartwig said. "It
will be slow, and possibly her hearing may never be absolutely good; but
at least we may hope that she may be able to eventually hear as well as
nine people out of ten."

In another year she could, indeed, though with difficulty, hear voices,
and when she had been at Hanover three years her cure was almost
complete, and she now went every morning to school to learn French and
music. She herself was quite content to remain there. She was very happy
in her life and surroundings, and could now read with the greatest
facility from the lips, and indeed preferred watching a speaker's mouth
to listening to the voice. It was a source of endless amusement to her
that she could, as she and Netta walked through the streets, read scraps
of conversation between persons on the other side of the street or
passing in carriages.

Another six months and both the doctor and Professor Menzel said that
they could do nothing more for her. She was still somewhat hard of
hearing; but not enough so to be noticeable; while she could with her
eyes follow the most rapid speaker, and the Professor expressed his
regret that so excellent an example of the benefit of his system should
not be in circumstances that would compel her to make a living by
becoming a teacher in it. Netta was now a paid assistant at the
institution.

The end of what had been a very happy time to Hilda came abruptly and
sadly, for three weeks before the date when her parents were to come
over to take her home, Miss Purcell, on opening a letter that came just
as they had finished breakfast, said, after sitting silent for a few
minutes, "You need not put on your things, Hilda; you cannot go to
school this morning; I have some bad news, dear--very bad news."

The tone of voice in which she spoke, even more than the words, sent a
chill into the girl's heart.

"What is it, aunt?" she said, for she had from the first used the same
term as Netta in addressing her.

"Your father has had a serious illness, my dear--a very, very serious
and sudden illness, and your mother wishes you to go home at once."

Hilda looked at her with frightened, questioning eyes, while every
vestige of color left her cheeks. "Is he--is he----" she asked.

"Here is an inclosure for you," Miss Purcell said, as she got up, and
taking Hilda's hand in one of hers drew her with the other arm close to
her; "your mother wrote to me that I might prepare you a little before
giving it to you. A terrible misfortune has happened. Your dear father
is dead. He died suddenly of an affection of the heart."

"Oh, no, no; it cannot be!" Hilda cried.

"It is true, my dear. God has taken him. You must be strong and brave,
dear, for your mother's sake."

"Oh, my poor mother, my poor mother!" Hilda cried, bursting into a
sudden flood of tears, "what will she do!"

It was not until some time afterwards that she was sufficiently composed
to read her mother's letter, which caused her tears to flow afresh.
After giving the details of her father's death, it went on:

"I have written to your uncle, General Mathieson, who is, I know,
appointed one of the trustees, and is joined with me as your guardian. I
have asked him to find and send over a courier to fetch you home, and no
doubt he will arrive a day or two after you receive this letter. So
please get everything ready to start at once, when he comes."

Two days later General Mathieson himself arrived, accompanied by a
courier. It was a great comfort to Hilda that her uncle had come for her
instead of a stranger.

"It is very kind of you to come yourself, uncle," she said as she threw
herself crying into his arms.

"Of course I should come, dear," he said. "Who should fetch you except
your uncle? I had to bring a courier with me, for I don't understand any
of their languages, and he will take all trouble off my hands. Now let
me look at your face." It was a pale, sad little face that was lifted
up, but two days of sorrow had not obliterated the signs of health and
well-being.

"Whiter than it ought to be," he said, "but clear and healthy, and very
different from what it was when I saw you before you came out. You have
grown wonderfully, child. Really, I should hardly have known you again."

And so he kept on for two or three minutes, to allow her to recover
herself.

"Now, dear, you must take me in and introduce me to your kind friends
here."

Hilda led the way into the sitting room.

"I have heard so much of you and your niece, Miss Purcell," he said as
he shook hands with her, "that I do do not feel that you are a stranger.
You certainly seem to have worked wonders between you for my niece, and
I must own that in the first place I thought it a mistake her being here
by herself, for I had no belief that either her hearing would be
restored or that she would ever be able to follow what people were
saying by only staring at their lips."

"Yes, indeed, Hanover has agreed with her, sir, and it is only a small
part of the credit that is due to us."

"I must differ from you entirely, madam. If she had not been perfectly
happy here with you, she would never have got on as she has done."

"Have you any luggage, sir? Of course you will stay with us to-night."

"No, thank you, Miss Purcell. We have already been to the Kaiserhof, and
long before this my courier will have taken rooms and made every
preparation for me. You see, I am accustomed to smoke at all times, and
could not think of scenting a house, solely inhabited by ladies, with
tobacco. Now, if you will excuse me, I will ask Hilda to put on her
bonnet and take a stroll with me."

"I shall be very glad for her to do so. It is just getting cool and
pleasant for walking, and half an hour in the fresh air will do her
good."

It was an hour before they returned. General Mathieson had gently told
her all there was to tell of her father's death, and turning from that
he spoke of her mother, and how nobly she was bearing her troubles, and
erelong her tears, which had burst out anew, flowed more quietly, and
she felt comforted. Presently she said suddenly:

"What is going to be done here, uncle? I have been thinking over that
ever since it was settled that I was to come home next month, and I am
sure that, although she has said nothing about it, Miss Purcell has felt
the change that is coming. She said the other day, 'I shall not go back
to the apartments where you found us, Hilda. You see, we are a great
deal better off than we were before. In the first place I have had
nothing whatever to spend, and during the four years the ridiculously
liberal sum paid to Netta and myself has been all laid aside and has
mounted up to six hundred pounds. My pension of eighty pounds a year has
also accumulated, with the exception of a small sum required for our
clothes, so that in fact I have nearly a thousand pounds laid by. Netta
is earning thirty pounds a year at the Institute; with that and my
pension and the interest on money saved we shall get on very
comfortably.' I should not like, uncle, to think of them in a little
stuffy place in the town. Having a nice garden and everything
comfortable has done a great deal for Miss Purcell. Netta told me that
she was very delicate before, and that she is quite a different woman
since she came out here from the town. You cannot tell how kind she has
always been. If I had been her own child, she could not have been more
loving. In fact, no one could have told by her manner that she was not
my mother and Netta my sister."

"Yes, dear, I ran down to your mother before starting to fetch you to
help in the arrangements, and she spoke about Miss Purcell. Under
ordinary circumstances, of course, at the end of the four years that you
have been here the house would be given up and she would, as you say, go
into a much smaller place; but your mother does not consider that these
are ordinary circumstances, and thinks that her care and kindness have
had quite as much to do with the improvement in your health as has the
doctor. Of course we had no time to come to any definite plan, but she
has settled that things are to go on here exactly as at present, except
that your friend Netta will not be paid for acting as companion to you.
I am to tell Miss Purcell that with that exception everything is to go
on as before, and that your mother will need a change, and will probably
come out here in a month or so for some time."

"Does she really mean that, uncle?"

"Certainly, and the idea is an excellent one. After such a shock as she
has had an entire change of scene will be most valuable; and as she
knows Miss Purcell well, and you like the place very much, I don't think
that any better plan could be hit upon. I dare say she will stay here
two or three months, and you can continue your studies. At the end of
that time I have no doubt some plan that will give satisfaction to all
parties will be hit upon."

Hilda returned to Hanover with her mother a month later. At the end of
three months Mrs. Covington bought the house and presented the deeds to
Miss Purcell, who had known nothing whatever of her intentions.

"I could not think of accepting it," she exclaimed.

"But you cannot help accepting it, dear Miss Purcell; here are the deeds
in your name. The house will be rather large for you at present, but in
a few years, indeed in two or three years, Netta could begin to take a
few pupils. As soon as she is ready to do so I shall, of course, mention
it among my friends, and be able to send a few children, whose parents
would be ready to pay well to have them taught this wonderful method of
brightening their lives, which is at present quite unknown in England."

So it was arranged; but a few months after her return to England Mrs.
Covington, who had never altogether recovered from the shock of her
husband's death, died after a short illness, and Hilda became an inmate
of her uncle's house. Since that time three years had elapsed, and Hilda
was now eighteen, and Netta was over for a two months' visit.

The scene in the grounds of Lady Moulton's charming villa at Richmond, a
fortnight after the conversation between that lady and Hilda, was a gay
one. Everyone in society had been invited and there were but few
refusals; the weather was lovely, and all agreed that even at Ascot the
costumes were not brighter or more varied.

Although the fete was especially on behalf of a charity, no admission
fees were charged to guests, but everyone understood that it would be
his duty to lay out money at the various picturesque tents scattered
about under the trees. In these were all the most popular entertainers
of the day. In one pavilion John Parry gave a short entertainment every
half-hour. In a larger one Mario, Grisi, Jenny Lind, and Alboni gave
short concerts, and high as were the prices of admission, there was
never a seat vacant. Conjurers had a tent, electro-biologists--then the
latest rage from the United States--held their seances, and at some
distance from the others Richardson's booth was in full swing. The
Grenadiers' band and a string band played alternately.

Not the least attraction to many was the gypsy tent erected at the edge
of a thick shrubbery, for it soon became rumored that the old gypsy
woman there was no ordinary impostor, but really possessed of
extraordinary powers of palmistry. Everything had been done to add to
the air of mystery pervading the place. Externally it was but a long,
narrow marquee. On entering, the inquirer was shown by an attendant to a
seat in an apartment carpeted in red, with black hangings and black
cloth lining the roof. From this hung a lamp, all other light being
excluded. As each visitor came out from the inner apartment the next in
order was shown in, and the heavy curtains shut off all sound of what
was passing. Here sat an apparently aged gypsy on an old stump of a
tree. A fire burned on the ground and a pot was suspended by a tripod
over it; a hood above this carried the smoke out of the tent. The
curtains here were red; the roof, as in the other compartment, black,
but sprinkled with gold and silver stars. A stool was placed for the
visitor close enough to the gypsy for the latter to examine her hand by
the light of two torches, which were fastened to a rough sapling stuck
in the ground.

Hilda possessed every advantage for making the most of the situation.
Owing to her intimacy with Lady Moulton, and her experience for a year
in the best London society, she knew all its gossip, while she had
gathered much more than others knew from the conversations both of the
dancers and the lookers-on.

The first to enter was a young man who had been laughingly challenged by
the lady he was walking with to go in and have his fortune told.

"Be seated, my son," the old woman said; "give me your hand and a piece
of money."

With a smile he handed her half a sovereign. She crossed his palm with
it and then proceeded attentively to examine the lines.

"A fair beginning," she said, "and then troubles and difficulties. Here
I see that, some three years back, there is the mark of blood; you won
distinction in war. Then there is a cross-mark which would show a
change. Some good fortune befell you. Then the lines darken. Things go
from bad to worse as they proceed. You took to a vice--cards or
horse-racing. Here are evil associates, but there is a white line that
runs through them. There is a girl somewhere, with fair hair and blue
eyes, who loves you, and whom you love, and whose happiness is imperiled
by this vice and these associates. Beyond, there is another cross-line
and signs of a conflict. What happens after will depend upon yourself.
Either the white line and the true love will prove too powerful for the
bad influences or these will end in ruin and--ah! sudden and violent
death. Your future, therefore, depends upon yourself, and it is for you
to say which influence must triumph. That is all."

Without a word he went out.

"You look pale, Mr. Desmond," the lady said when he rejoined her. "What
has she told you?"

"I would rather not tell you, Mrs. Markham," he said seriously. "I
thought it was going to be a joke, but it is very far from being one.
Either the woman is a witch or she knew all about me personally, which
is barely within the limits of possibility. At any rate she has given me
something to think of."

"I will try myself," the lady said; "it is very interesting."

"I should advise you not to," he said earnestly.

"Nonsense!" she laughed; "I have no superstitions. I will go in and hear
what she has to say." And leaving him, she entered the tent.

The gypsy examined her hand in silence. "I would rather not tell you
what I see," she said as she dropped the hand. "Oh, ridiculous!" the
lady exclaimed. "I have crossed your palm with gold, and I expect to get
my money's worth," and she held out her hand again.

The gypsy again examined it.

"You stand at the crossing of the ways. There are two men--one dark,
quiet, and earnest, who loves you. You love him, but not as he loves
you; but your line of life runs smoothly until the other line, that of a
brown man, becomes mixed up in it. He loves you too, with a hot,
passionate love that would soon fade. You had a letter from him a day or
two back. Last night, as he passed you in a dance, he whispered, 'I have
not had an answer,' and the next time he passed you, you replied, 'You
must give me another day or two.' Upon the answer you give the future of
your life will depend. Here is a broad, fair line, and here is a short,
jagged one, telling of terrible troubles and misery. It is for you to
decide which course is to be yours."

As she released her hold of the hand it dropped nerveless. The gypsy
poured out a glass of water from a jug by her side, but her visitor
waved it aside, and with a great effort rose to her feet, her face as
pale as death.

"My God!" she murmured to herself, "this woman is really a witch."

"They do not burn witches now," the gypsy said; "I only read what I see
on the palm. You cannot deny that what I have said is true. Stay a
moment and drink a glass of wine; you need it before you go out."

She took a bottle of wine from behind her seat, emptied the water on to
the earth, half filled a tumbler, and held it out. The frightened woman
felt that indeed she needed it before going out into the gay scene, and
tossed it off.

"Thank you!" she said. "Whoever you are, I thank you. You have read my
fate truly, and have helped me to decide it."

Desmond was waiting for her when she came out, but she passed him with a
gesture.

"You are right!" she said. "She is a witch indeed!"

Few other stories told were as tragic, but in nearly every case the
visitors retired puzzled at the knowledge the gypsy possessed of their
life and surroundings, and it soon became rumored that the old woman's
powers were something extraordinary, and the little ante-room was kept
filled with visitors waiting their turn for an audience. No one noticed
the long and frequent absences of Hilda Covington from the grounds. The
tent had been placed with its back hiding a small path through the
shrubbery. Through a peep-hole arranged in the curtain she was able to
see who was waiting, and each time before leaving said a few words as to
their lives which enabled Netta to support the character fairly. When
the last guest had departed and she joined Lady Moulton, she handed over
a bag containing nearly a hundred pounds.

"I have deducted five pounds for the gypsy," she said, "and eight pounds
for the hire of the tent and its fittings."

"That is at least five times as much as I expected, Hilda. I have heard
all sorts of marvelous stories of the power of your old woman. Several
people told me that she seemed to know all about them, and told them
things that they believed were only known to themselves. But how did she
get so much money?"

Hilda laughed. "I hear that they began with half-sovereigns, but as soon
as they heard of her real powers, they did not venture to present her
with anything less than a sovereign, and in a good many cases they gave
more--no doubt to propitiate her into giving them good fortunes. You
see, each visitor only had two or three minutes' interview, so that she
got through from twenty to thirty an hour; and as it lasted four hours
she did exceedingly well."

"But who is the gypsy, and where did you find her?"

"The gypsy has gone, and is doubtless by this time in some caravan or
gypsy tent. I do not think that you will ever find her again."

"I should have suspected that you played the gypsy yourself, Hilda, were
it not that I saw you half a dozen times."

"I have no skill in palmistry," the girl laughed, "and certainly have
not been in two places at once. I did my duty and heard Jenny Lind sing
and Parry play, though I own that I did not patronize Richardson's
booth."

"Well, it is extraordinary that this old woman should know the history
of such a number of people as went into her tent, few of whom she could
ever have heard of even by name, to say nothing of knowing them by
sight."

Several ladies called within the next few days, specially to inquire
from Lady Moulton about the gypsy.

"Everyone is talking about her," one said. "Certainly she told me
several things about the past that it was hardly possible that a woman
in her position could know. I have often heard that gypsies pick up
information from servants, or in the country from village gossip; but at
least a hundred people visited this woman's tent, and from what I hear
everyone was as astonished as I was myself at her knowledge of their
family matters. It is said that in some cases she went farther than
this, and told them things about the present known only to themselves
and two or three intimate friends. Some of them seemed to have been
quite seriously affected. I saw Mrs. Markham just after she had left the
tent, and she was as white as a sheet, and I know she drove away a few
minutes afterwards."

To all inquiries Lady Moulton simply replied:

"I know no more about the gypsy than you do. Miss Covington took the
entire management of the gypsy tent off my hands, saw to the tent being
erected, and engaged the gypsy. Where she picked her up I have no idea,
but I fancy that she must have got her from their encampment on Ham
Common. She turned the matter off when I asked her point-blank, and I
imagine that she must have given the old crone a promise not to let it
be known who she was. They are curious people, the gypsies, and for
aught I know may have an objection to any of the tribe going to a
gathering like ours to tell fortunes."

Some appeals were made to Hilda personally; but Lady Moulton had told
her the answer she had given, and taking her cue from it she was able to
so shape her replies that her questioners left her convinced that she
had really, while carrying out Lady Moulton's instructions, lighted on a
gypsy possessing some of the secrets of the almost forgotten science of
palmistry.




CHAPTER V.

A GAMBLING DEN.


In a corner of one of the winding courts that lie behind Fleet Street
stood a dingy-looking house, the lamp over the door bearing the words,
"Billiards and Pool." During the daytime no one would be seen to enter
save between the hours of twelve and two, when perhaps a dozen young
fellows, after eating a frugal lunch, would resort there to pass their
hour out of office in smoking and a game of billiards. Of an evening,
however, there were lights in every window, and the click of balls could
be heard from the ground floor and that above it. In each of these there
were two tables, and the play continued uninterruptedly from seven until
eleven or half-past.

The lights on the second floor, however, often burned until two or three
o'clock in the morning, and it was here that the proprietor reaped by
far the larger proportion of his profits. While the billiard-room
windows generally stood open, those of the large room on the second
floor were never raised, and when the lights below were extinguished,
heavy curtains were dropped across the windows to keep both the light
and the sounds within from being seen or heard in the court below. Here
was a large roulette table, while along the sides of the room were
smaller tables for those who preferred other games. Here almost every
evening some thirty or forty men assembled. Of these, perhaps a third
were clerks or shop assistants, the remainder foreigners of almost every
nationality. Betting lists were exposed at one end of the room.
Underneath these a bookmaker had a small table, and carried on his
trade.

In 1851 there were a score of such places in the neighborhood of the
Strand and Fleet Street, but few did a larger business than this. It was
generally understood that Wilkinson, the proprietor, had been a soldier;
but the belief originated rather from his upright carriage and a certain
soldierly walk than from anything he had himself said, and he was not
the sort of man whom even the most regular of the frequenters of his
establishment cared to question. He was a tall man, some five-and-forty
years of age, taciturn in speech, but firm in manner while business was
going on. He kept admirable order in the place. He was generally to be
found in the room on the second floor, but when a whistle blew, and one
of the markers whispered up a speaking-tube that there was a dispute
going on between the players or lookers-on, he was at once upon the
spot.

"Now, gentlemen," he would say, interposing between them, "you know the
rules of this establishment; the marker's decision on all points
connected with the game is final, and must be accepted by both parties.
I will have no quarrels or disputes here, and anyone making a row goes
straight out into the street, and never comes in here again."

In the vast majority of cases this settled the matter; but when the men
were flushed with liquor, and inclined to continue the dispute, they
were seized by the collar by Wilkinson's strong arm and were summarily
ejected from the house. In the inner room he preserved order as
strictly, but had much more difficulty in doing so among the foreign
element. Here quarrels were not uncommon, and knives occasionally drawn;
but Wilkinson was a powerful man and a good boxer, and a flush hit from
the shoulder always settled the business.

But though stern in the management of his establishment, Wilkinson was
popular among its frequenters. He was acquainted with most of their
callings and business. Indeed, none were admitted to the upper room
unless well introduced by _habitues_, or until he had made private
inquiries concerning them. Thus he knew among the foreigners whom he
could trust, and how far, when, after a run of ill luck, they came to
him and asked him for a loan, he could venture to go.

With the English portion of his customers he was still more liberal. He
knew that he should not be a loser from transactions with them; they
must repay him, for were it known to their employers that they were in
the habit of gambling, it would mean instant dismissal. There were among
them several lawyers' clerks, some of whom were, in comparison with
their means, deeply in debt to him. One or other of those he would often
invite up to his private room on the floor above, where a bottle of good
wine would be on the table, a box of excellent cigars beside it, and
here they would chat more or less comfortably until the roulette room
opened.

Mr. Wilkinson made no pretense that these meetings were simply for the
purpose of drinking his wine and smoking his cigars. "I am a
straightforward man," he would say, "and business is business. I oblige
you, and I expect you to oblige me. I have always had a fancy that there
is money to be made in connection with lawyers' businesses. There are
missing heirs to be hunted up; there are provisos in deeds, of whose
existence some one or other would give a good deal to know. Now, I am
sure that you are not in a position to pay me the amount I have lent
you, and for which I hold your I. O. U.'s. I have no idea of pressing
you for the money, and shall be content to let it run on so long as you
will let me know what is being done at your office. The arrangement is
that you will tell me anything that you think can be used to advantage,
and if money is made out of any information you may give me, I will
engage to pay you a third of what it brings in. Now, I call that a fair
bargain. What do you say?"

In some cases the offer was closed with at once; in others it was only
agreed to after threats that the debt must be at once paid or an
application would be made forthwith. So far the gambling-house keeper's
expectations had not met with the success he had looked for. He had
spent a good deal of time in endeavoring to find the descendants of
persons who stood in the direct line of succession to properties, but of
whom all clew had been lost. He had indeed obtained an insight into
various family differences that had enabled him to successfully extort
blackmail, but his gains in this way had not, so far, recouped him for
the sums he had, as he considered, invested in the speculation.

He was, however, a patient man, and felt, no doubt, that sooner or later
he should be able to make a coup that would set him up for life. Still
he was disappointed; his idea had been the one held by many ignorant
persons, that lawyers are as a class ready to resort to tricks of all
kinds, in the interests of their clients or themselves. He had found
that he had been altogether wrong, and that although there were a few
firms which, working in connection with money-lenders, financial agents,
and the lowest class of bill discounters, were mixed up in transactions
of a more or less shady character, these were the black sheep of the
profession, and that in the vast majority of cases the business
transacted was purely technical and connected with the property of their
clients. Nevertheless, he took copious notes of all he learned,
contending that there was no saying what might come in useful some day.

"Well, Dawkins," he said one day to a dark-haired young fellow with a
handsome face that already showed traces of the effect of late hours and
dissipation, "I suppose it is the usual thing; the lawsuit as to the
right of way at Brownsgrove is still going on, the settlements in Mr.
Cochrane's marriage to Lady Gertrude Ivory are being drawn up, and other
business of the same sort. You never give me a scrap of information that
is of the slightest use. I am afraid that your firm is altogether too
eminently respectable to have anything to do with doubtful
transactions."

"I told you so from the first, Wilkinson; that whatever your game might
be, there would be nothing in our office that could be of the least use
to you, even if you had copies of every deed drawn up in it. Ours is
what you might call a family business. Our clients have for the most
part dealt with the firm for the last hundred years; that is to say,
their families have. We have drawn their wills, their marriage
settlements, their leases, and done everything relating to their
property for years and years. My own work for the last two or three days
has been drafting and engrossing the will of a General Mathieson, whose
father and grandfather were our clients before him."

"Mathieson--he is an old Indian officer, isn't he, if it is the man I
mean? He was in command at Benares twenty years ago. He was a handsome
man, then, about my height and build."

"Yes, I have no doubt that is the man--John Le Marchand Mathieson."

"That is him. He was very popular with the troops. He used to spend a
good deal of money in improving their rations and making them
comfortable. Had a first-rate stable, and they used to say he was a rich
man. Anyhow, he spent a good deal more than his pay."

"Yes, he was a second son, but his elder brother died, and he came into
the property; but instead of coming home to enjoy it he stopped out in
India for years after he came into it."

"He had a daughter, quite a little girl, in those days; her mother died
out there. I suppose she inherits his property?"

"Well, no; she married some time back; she and her husband are both
dead, and their son, a boy, six or seven years old, lives with the old
man."

"How much does he leave?"

"Something over a hundred thousand pounds. At least I know that that is
about the value of the estates, for we have always acted as his agents,
collected the rents, and so on."

"I should like to see a copy of his will," Wilkinson said, after sitting
for some time silent. "I don't want all the legal jargon, but just the
list of the legacies."

"I can easily jot those down for you. The property goes to the grandson,
and if he dies before coming of age, to a niece, Hilda Covington, who is
his ward and lives with him. He leaves her beside only five hundred
pounds, because she is herself an heiress. There are a score of small
legacies, to old servants, soldiers, widows, and people of that sort."

"Well, you may as well give me the list entire."

Dawkins shrugged his shoulders.

"Just as you like," he said; "the will was signed yesterday, but I have
the note of instructions still by me, and will bring round the list
to-morrow evening; though, upon my word, I don't see what interest it
can possibly have for you."

"I don't know myself," the other said shortly, "but there is never any
saying."

After talking for a few minutes on other subjects he said, "The room is
open downstairs now, Dawkins, and as we have finished the bottle I will
not keep you any longer. In fact, the name of that old General has
called up some queer memories of old times, and I should like to think
them over."

When the clerk had left, Wilkinson sat for a long time in thought.

"It is a great idea," he murmured to himself at last; "it will want a
tremendous lot of planning to arrange it all, and of course it is
tremendously risky. Still, it can be done, and the stake is worth trying
for, even if it would be seven years' transportation if anything went
wrong. In the first place I have to get some proofs of my identity. I
own that I have neglected my family scandalously," and his face, which
had been stern and hard, softened into a smile. "Then, of course, I must
establish myself in chambers in the West End, and as I have three or
four thousand pounds in hand I can carry on for two or three years, if
necessary. At the worst the General is likely to add me to his list of
legatees, but of course that would scarcely be worth playing for alone.
The will is the thing. I don't see my way to that, but it is hard if it
can't be managed somehow. The child is, of course, an obstacle, but that
can certainly be got over, and as I don't suppose the old man is going
to die at present I have time to make my plans. When I see how matters
go I can put my hand on a man who could be relied on to help me carry
out anything I might put in his way. Well, I always thought that I
should hit on something good through these young scamps who come here,
but this is a bigger thing than I ever dreamed of. It will certainly be
a difficult game to play, but, knocking about all over the world as I
have been for fifteen years before I came back and set up this show, I
think that I have learned enough to pass muster anywhere."

Somewhat to the surprise of the _habitues_ of the room below it was
nearly eleven o'clock before the proprietor made his appearance there,
and even when he did so he took little interest in what was going on,
but moved restlessly from one room to another, smoking cigar after cigar
without intermission, and acknowledging but briefly the greetings of
those who were the most regular frequenters of his establishment.

Two days later the following advertisement appeared, not only in the
London papers, but in a large number of country journals:

     "JOHN SIMCOE: Any relatives of John Simcoe, who left England about
     the year 1830 or 1831, and is supposed to have been lost at sea in
     the Bay of Bengal, in the ship _Nepaul_, in December, 1832, are
     requested to communicate with J. W. Thompson & Co., Newspaper
     Agents, Fleet Street, when they will hear of something to their
     advantage."

Only one reply was received. It was dated "Myrtle Cottage, Stowmarket,"
and was as follows:

     "SIR: A friend has shown me the advertisement in the Ipswich paper,
     which must, I think, refer to my nephew, who left here twenty years
     ago. I received a letter from him dated December 2, 1832, from
     Calcutta, saying that he was about to sail for China in the
     _Nepaul_. I never heard from him again, but the Rector here kindly
     made some inquiries for me some months afterwards, and learned
     that the vessel had never been heard of after sailing, but was
     believed to have foundered with all hands in a great gale that took
     place a few days after she sailed. So far as I know I am his only
     relative. Awaiting a further communication from you,

     "I remain,
     "Your obedient servant,
     "MARTHA SIMCOE."

Great was the excitement caused by the advertisement at Myrtle Cottage.
Miss Simcoe, who with a tiny servant was the sole inmate of the cottage,
had called together all her female acquaintances, and consulted them as
to what the advertisement could mean, and as to the way in which she
should answer it.

"Do you think it would be safe to reply at all?" she inquired anxiously.
"You see, my nephew John was a very wild young fellow. I do not mean as
to his conduct here; no one could say anything against that. He was a
clerk in the bank, you know, and, I believe, was very well thought of;
but when his father died, and he came into two thousand pounds, it
seemed to turn his head. I know that he never liked the bank; he had
always wanted to be either a soldier or a sailor, and directly he got
the money he gave up his situation at the bank, and nothing would do but
that he must travel. Everyone told him that it was madness; his Aunt
Maria--poor soul, you all knew her--and I cried over it, but nothing
would move him. A fine-looking fellow he was, as some of you will
remember, standing six feet high, and, as everyone said, looking more
like a soldier officer than a clerk at a bank.

"We asked him what he would do when his money was gone, but he laughed
it off, and said that there were plenty of things for a man to do with a
pair of strong arms. He said that he might enter the service of some
Indian prince, or marry the daughter of a black king, or discover a
diamond mine, and all sorts of nonsense of that sort. He bought such an
outfit as you never did see--guns and pistols and all sorts of things;
and as for clothes, why, a prince could not have wanted more. Shirts by
the dozen, my dear; and I should say eight or ten suits of white
clothes, which I told him would make him look like a cricketer or a
baker. Why, it took three big trunks to hold all his things. But I will
say for him that he wrote regular, either to me or to my sister Maria.
Last time he wrote he said that he had been attacked by a tiger, but had
got well again and was going to China, though what he wanted to go there
for I am sure I don't know. He could not want to buy teacups and
saucers; they would only get broken sending home. Well, his death was a
great blow to us."

"I don't know whether I should answer the advertisement, Miss Simcoe,"
one of her friends said. "There is no saying what it might mean. Perhaps
he got into debt in India, and the people think that they might get paid
if they can find out his relations here."

The idea came like a douche of cold water upon the little gathering.

"But the advertisement says, 'will hear of something to their
advantage,' Mrs. Maberley," Miss Simcoe urged timidly.

"Oh, that is nothing, my dear. That may be only a lawyer's trick; they
are capable of anything, I have heard."

"But they could not make Miss Simcoe pay," another urged; "it seems to
me much more likely that her nephew may have left some of his money in
the hands of a banker at Calcutta, and now that it has been so many
years unclaimed they are making inquiries to see who is his heir. That
seems much more likely."

A murmur of assent ran round the circle, and after much discussion the
answer was drafted, and Miss Simcoe, in a fever of anxiety, awaited the
reply.

Two days later a tall, well-dressed man knocked at the door of Myrtle
Cottage. It was a loud, authoritative knock, such as none of Miss
Simcoe's usual visitors gave.

"It must be about the advertisement," she exclaimed.

The little servant had been enjoined to wear her Sunday clothes in case
a visitor should come, and after a hasty glance to see if she was tidy,
Miss Simcoe sat down in her little parlor, and tried to assume an
appearance of calmness. The front door opened, and a man's voice
inquired, "Is Miss Simcoe in?" Then the parlor door opened and the
visitor entered, pushing past the girl, who had been instructed how to
announce him in proper form, and exclaiming, "My dear Aunt Martha,"
fairly lifted the astonished old lady from her seat and kissed her.

"Dear me! Dear me!" she gasped, as he put her on her feet again, "can it
be that you are my nephew John?"

"Why, don't you know me, aunt? Twenty years of knocking about have
changed me sadly, I am afraid, but surely you must remember me."

"Ye--es," she said doubtfully, "yes, I think that I remember you. But,
you see, we all thought that you were dead; and I have only got that
likeness of you that was cut out in black paper by a man who came round
when you were only eighteen, and somehow I have always thought of you as
like that."

"Yes, I remember," he laughed. "Well, aunt, I have changed since then,
there is no doubt. So you see I was not drowned, after all. I was picked
up by a passing ship, clinging to a spar, but I lost all my money in the
wreck of the _Nepaul_. I shipped before the mast. We traded among the
islands for some months, then I had a row with the captain and ran away,
and threw in my lot with the natives, and I have been knocking about in
the East ever since, and have come back with enough to live on
comfortably, and to help you, if you need it."

"Poor Maria died four years ago," she said tearfully. "It would have
been a happiness to her indeed, poor creature, if you had come back
before."

"I am sorry indeed to hear that," he replied. "Then you are living here
all alone, aunt?"

"Yes, except for my little maid. You see, John, Maria and I laid out the
money our father left us in life annuities, and as long as we lived
together we did very comfortably. Since then, of course, I have had to
draw in a little, but I manage very nicely."

"Well, well, aunt, there will be no occasion for you to stint yourself
any more. As I said, I have come home with my purse warmly lined, and I
shall make you an allowance of fifty pounds a year. You were always very
kind to me as a boy, and I can very well afford it, and I dare say it
will make all the difference to you."

"My dear John, I could not think of taking such a sum from you."

"Pooh, pooh, aunt! What is the use of money if one cannot use it to make
one's friends comfortable? So that is settled, and I won't have anything
more said about it."

The old lady wiped her eyes. "It is good of you, John, and it will
indeed make all the difference to me. It will almost double my income,
and I shan't have to look at every halfpenny before I spend it."

"That is all right, aunt; now let us sit down comfortably to chat about
old times. You don't mind my smoking, I hope?"

Miss Simcoe, for almost the first time in her life, told a lie. "Not at
all, John; not at all. Now, how was it that you did not come down
yourself instead of putting in an advertisement, which I should never
have seen if my friend Mrs. Maberley had not happened to notice it in
the paper which she takes in regularly, and brought it in to show me?"

"Well, I could not bring myself to come down, aunt. Twenty years make
great changes, and it would have been horrible to have come down here
and found that you had all gone, and that I was friendless in the place
where I had been brought up as a boy. I thought that, by my putting it
into a local paper, someone who had known me would be sure to see it.
Now let me hear about all the people that I knew."

John Simcoe stayed for three days quietly at the cottage. The news of
his return spread rapidly, and soon many of the friends that had known
him came to welcome him. His aunt had told her own circle of her
nephew's wealth and liberality, and through them the news that John
Simcoe had returned home a wealthy man was imparted to all their
acquaintances. Some of his old friends declared that they should have
known him anywhere; others said frankly that now they knew who he was
they saw the likeness, but that if they had met him anywhere else they
did not think they should have recognized him.

John Simcoe's memory had been greatly refreshed by his aunt's incessant
talk about his early days and doings, and as his visitors were more
anxious to hear of his adventures abroad than to talk of the days long
past, he had no difficulty whatever in satisfying all as to his
identity, even had not the question been settled by his liberality to
his aunt, from whom no return whatever could possibly be expected. When
he left he handed her fifty pounds in gold.

"I may as well give you a year's money at once," he said; "I am a
careless man, and might forget to send it quarterly."

"Where can I write to you, John?" she asked.

"I cannot give you an address at present," he said; "I have only been
stopping at a hotel until I could find chambers to suit me. Directly I
do so I will drop you a line. I shall always be glad to hear of you, and
will run down occasionally to see you and have a chat again with some of
my old friends."

The return of John Simcoe served Stowmarket as a subject for
conversation for some time. He had spent his money generously while
there, and had given a dinner at the principal hotel to a score of those
with whom he had been most intimate when a boy. Champagne had flowed in
unstinted abundance, and it was generally voted that he was a capital
fellow, and well deserved the good fortune that had attended him. In the
quiet Suffolk town the tales of the adventures that he had gone through
created quite a sensation, and when repeated by their fathers set half
the boys of the place wild with a desire to imitate his example, and to
embark in a life which was at once delightful, and ended in acquiring
untold wealth. On leaving he pressed several of them, especially one who
had been a fellow-clerk with him at the bank, and was now its manager,
to pay him a visit whenever they came to town.

"I expect to be in diggings of my own in a week or two," he said, "and
shall make a point of having a spare bed, to put up a friend at any
time."

[Illustration: "YOU DON'T REMEMBER ME, GENERAL?"--_Page 65._]




CHAPTER VI.

JOHN SIMCOE.


General Mathieson was on the point of going out for a drive with his
niece, who was buttoning her glove, when a servant entered the drawing
room and said that a gentleman wished to speak to him.

"Who is he? Did he give you his name or say what was his business?"

"No, sir. I have not seen him before. He merely asked me to give you his
message."

"I suppose I had better see him, Hilda."

"Well, uncle, I will get out of the way and go downstairs when he has
come in. Don't let him keep you, for you know that when I have put you
down at your club I have an engagement to take Lina Crossley to do some
shopping first, and then for a drive in the park."

"I don't suppose that he will be five minutes, whoever he is."

Hilda slipped away just in time to avoid the visitor. As the manservant
opened the door the General looked with some interest at the stranger,
for such it seemed to him his visitor was. He was a tall man, well
dressed, and yet without the precision that would mark him as being a
member of a good club or an _habitue_ of the Row.

"You don't remember me, General?" he said, with a slight smile.

"I cannot say that I do," the General replied. "Your face does not seem
unfamiliar to me, though I cannot at the present moment place it."

"It is rather an uncommon name," the visitor said; "but I am not
surprised that you do not remember it or me, for it is some twenty years
since we met. My name is Simcoe."

"Twenty years!" the General repeated. "Then it must have been in India,
for twenty years ago I was in command of the Benares district. Simcoe!"
he broke off excitedly. "Of course I knew a gentleman of that name who
did me an inestimable service; in fact, he saved my life."

"I don't know that it was as much as that, but at least I saved you from
being mauled by a tiger."

"Bless me!" the General exclaimed, taking a step forward, "and you are
the man. I recognize you now, and had I not believed that you had been
lost at sea within a month after you had saved my life I should have
known you at once, though, of course, twenty years have changed you a
good deal. My dear sir, I am happy indeed to know that the report was a
false one, and to meet you again." And he shook hands with his visitor
with the greatest warmth.

"I am not surprised that you did not recognize me," the latter said; "I
was but twenty-five then, and have been knocking about the world ever
since, and have gone through some very rough times and done some very
hard work. Of course you saw my name among the list of the passengers on
board the _Nepaul_, which went down with, as was supposed, all hands in
that tremendous storm in the Bay of Bengal. Happily, I escaped. I was
washed overboard just as the wreck of the mainmast had been cut away. A
wave carried me close to it; I climbed upon it and lashed myself to
leeward of the top, which sheltered me a good deal. Five days later I
was picked up insensible and was carried to Singapore. I was in hospital
there for some weeks. When I quite recovered, being penniless, without
references or friends, I shipped on board a vessel that was going on a
trading voyage among the islands. I had come out to see the world, and
thought that I might as well see it that way as another. It would take a
long time to relate my after-adventures; suffice it that at last, after
numerous wanderings, I became chief adviser of a powerful chief in
Burmah, and finally have returned home, not exactly a rich man, but with
enough to live upon in more than comfort for the rest of my life."

"How long have you been in London?"

"I have been here but a fortnight; I ran down home to see if I had
relatives living, but found that an old lady was the sole survivor of my
family. I need scarcely say that my first business on reaching London
was to rig myself out in a presentable sort of way, and I may say that
at present I feel very uncomfortable in these garments after being
twenty years without putting on a black coat. I happened the other day
to see your name among those who attended the _levee_, and I said to
myself at once, 'I will call upon the General and see if he has any
remembrances of me.'"

At this moment a servant entered the room with a little note.

     "MY DEAR UNCLE: It is very naughty of you to be so long. I am
     taking the carriage, and have told them to put the other horse into
     the brougham and bring it round for you at once."

For more than an hour the two men sat talking together, and Simcoe, on
leaving, accepted a cordial invitation from the General to dinner on the
following day.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, uncle, who was it?" Hilda asked, when they met in the drawing
room a few minutes before the dinner hour. "You said you would not be
five minutes, and I waited for a quarter of an hour and then lost
patience. I asked when I came in how long he had stayed, and heard that
he did not leave until five o'clock."

"He was a man who had saved my life in India, child."

"Dear me! And have you never heard of him since, uncle?"

"No, dear. I did my best to find out his family, but had no idea of ever
seeing the man himself, for the simple reason that I believed that he
died twenty years ago. He had sailed in a vessel that was reported as
lost with all hands, so you may well imagine my surprise when he told me
who he was."

"Did you recognize him at once, uncle?"

"Not at first. Twenty years is a long time; and he was only about
five-and-twenty when I knew him, and of course he has changed greatly.
However, even before he told me who he was I was able to recall his
face. He was a tall, active young fellow then, and I could certainly
trace the likeness."

"I suppose he was in the army, uncle?"

"No; he was a young Englishman who was making a tour through India. I
was in command at Benares at the time, and he brought me letters of
introduction from a man who had come out in the same ship with him, and
also from a friend of mine in Calcutta. A few days after he arrived I
was on the point of going up with a party to do some tiger-shooting in
the Terai, and I invited him to come with us. He was a pleasant fellow
and soon made himself popular. He never said much about himself, but as
far as I understood him he was not a rich man, but he was spending his
money in seeing the world, with a sort of happy confidence that
something would turn up when his money was gone.

"We were out a week and had fair sport. As you have often heard me say,
I was passionately fond of big-game shooting, and I had had many narrow
escapes in the course of my life, but I never had so narrow a one as
happened to me on that occasion. We had wounded a tiger and had lost
him. We had spent a couple of hours in beating the jungle, but without
success, and had agreed that the brute could not have been hit as hard
as we had believed, but must have made off altogether. We were within
fifty yards of the edge of the jungle, when there was a sudden roar, and
before I could use my rifle the tiger sprang. I was not in a howdah, but
on a pad; and the tiger struck one of its forepaws on my knee. With the
other he clung for a moment to the pad, and then we went down together.
The brute seized me by the shoulder and sprang into the jungle again,
carried me a dozen yards or so, and then lay down, still holding me by
the shoulder.

"I was perfectly sensible, but felt somewhat dazed and stupid; I found
myself vaguely thinking that he must, after all, have been very badly
hit, and, instead of making off, had hid up within a short distance of
the spot where we saw him. I was unable to move hand or foot, for he was
lying on me, and his weight was pressing the life out of me. I know that
I vaguely hoped I should die before he took a bite at my shoulder. I
suppose that the whole thing did not last a minute, though to me it
seemed an interminable time. Suddenly there was a rustling in the bush.
With a deep growl the tiger loosed his hold of my shoulder, and, rising
to his feet, faced half round. What happened after that I only know from
hearsay.

"Simcoe, it seems, was riding in the howdah on an elephant behind mine.
As the tiger sprang at my elephant he fired and hit the beast on the
shoulder. It was that, no doubt, that caused its hold to relax, and
brought us to the ground together. As the tiger sprang with me into the
jungle Simcoe leaped down from the howdah and followed. He had only his
empty rifle and a large hunting-knife. It was no easy work pushing his
way through the jungle, but in a minute he came upon us. Clubbing his
gun, he brought it down on the left side of the tiger's head before the
brute, who was hampered by his broken shoulder, and weak from his
previous wound, could spring. Had it not been that it was the right
shoulder that was broken, the blow, heavy as it was, would have had
little effect upon the brute; as it was, having no support on that side,
it reeled half over and then, with a snarling growl, sprang upon its
assailant. Simcoe partly leaped aside, and striking again with the
barrel of his gun,--the butt had splintered with the first blow,--so far
turned it aside that instead of receiving the blow direct, which would
certainly have broken in his skull, it fell in a slanting direction on
his left shoulder.

"The force was sufficient to knock him down, but, as he fell, he drew
his knife. The tiger had leaped partly beyond him, so that he lay under
its stomach, and it could not for the moment use either its teeth or
claws. The pressure was terrible, but with his last remaining strength
he drove the knife to the full length of its blade twice into the
tiger's body. The animal rolled over for a moment, but there was still
life in it, and it again sprang to its feet, when a couple of balls
struck it in the head, and it fell dead. Three officers had slipped down
from their howdahs when they saw Simcoe rushing into the jungle, and
coming up just in time, they fired, and so finished the conflict.

"There was not much to choose between Simcoe and myself, though I had
certainly got the worst of it. The flesh of his arm had been pretty well
stripped off from the shoulder to the elbow; my shoulder had been
broken, and the flesh torn by the brute's teeth, but as it had not
shifted its hold from the time it first grasped me till it let go to
face Simcoe, it was not so bad as it might have been. But the wound on
the leg was more serious; its claws had struck just above the knee-cap
and had completely torn it off. We were both insensible when we were
lifted up and carried down to the camp. In a fortnight Simcoe was about;
but it was some months before I could walk again, and, as you know, my
right leg is still stiff. I had a very narrow escape of my life; fever
set in, and when Simcoe went down country, a month after the affair, I
was still lying between life and death, and never had an opportunity of
thanking him for the manner in which, practically unarmed, he went in to
face a wounded tiger in order to save my life. You may imagine, then, my
regret when a month later we got the news that the _Nepaul_, in which he
had sailed, had been lost with all hands."

"It was a gallant action indeed, uncle. You told me something about it
soon after I came here, when I happened to ask you how it was that you
walked so stiffly, but you did not tell it so fully. And what is he
going to do now?"

"He is going to settle in London. He has been, as he says, knocking
about in the East ever since, being engaged in all sorts of adventures;
he has been for some time in the service of a native chief some way up
near the borders of Burmah, Siam, and China, and somehow got possession
of a large number of rubies and other precious stones, which he has
turned into money, and now intends to take chambers and settle down to a
quiet life, join a club, and so on. Of course I promised to do all in my
power to further his object, and to introduce him into as much society
as he cared for."

"What is he like, uncle?"

"He is about my height, and I suppose about five-and-forty--though he
looks rather older. No wonder, after such a life as he has led. He
carries himself well, and he is altogether much more presentable than
you would expect under the circumstances. Indeed, had I not known that
he had never served, I should unhesitatingly have put him down as having
been in the army. There is something about the way he carries his
shoulders that you seldom see except among men who have been drilled. He
is coming here to dine to-morrow, so you will see him."

"That relieves me of anxiety, uncle; for you know you had a letter this
morning from Colonel Fitzhugh, saying that he had been unexpectedly
called out of town, and you said that you would ask somebody at the club
to fill his place, but you know you very often forget things that you
ought to remember."

"I certainly had forgotten that when I asked him to come, and as I came
home I blamed myself for not having asked someone else, so as to make up
an even number."

A month later Mr. Simcoe had become an intimate of General Mathieson's
house. It had always been a matter of deep regret to the General that he
had been unable to thank the man who at terrible risk to his life had
saved him from death, and that feeling was heightened when the news came
that his preserver had been drowned, and that the opportunity of doing
so was forever lost. He now spared no pains to further his wishes. He
constantly invited him to lunch or dinner at his club, introduced him to
all his friends in terms of the highest eulogium, and repeated over and
over again the story of his heroic action. As his own club was a
military one he could not propose him there, but he had no difficulty
in getting friends to propose and support him for two other clubs of
good standing.

Several of the officers to whom he introduced Simcoe had been at Benares
at the time he was hurt. These he recognized at once, and was able to
chat with them of their mutual acquaintances, and indeed surprised them
by his knowledge of matters at the station that they would hardly have
thought would be known to one who had made but a short stay there. One
of them said as much, but Simcoe said, laughing, "You forget that I was
laid up for a month. Everyone was very good to me, and I had generally
one or two men sitting with me, and the amount of gossip I picked up
about the station was wonderful. Of course there was nothing else to
talk about; and as I have a good memory, I think I could tell you
something about the private affairs of pretty nearly every civilian and
military man on the station."

Everyone agreed that Simcoe was a very pleasant and amusing companion.
He was full of anecdotes of the wild people that he had lived among and
of the adventures and escapes he had gone through. Although none of the
Benares friends of the General recognized Simcoe when they first met
him, they speedily recalled his features. His instant recognition of
them, his acquaintance with persons and scenes at and around Benares was
such that they never for a moment doubted his identity, and as their
remembrance of the General's visitor returned they even wondered that
their recognition of him had not been as instant as his of them. As to
his means, not even to the General had Simcoe explained his exact
position. He had taken good apartments in Jermyn Street, gave excellent
little dinners there, kept undeniably good wine and equally excellent
cigars, dressed well, and was regarded as being a thoroughly good
fellow.

The General was not a close observer. Had he been so, he would speedily
have noticed that his niece, although always polite and courteous to Mr.
Simcoe, did not receive him with the warmth and pleasure with which she
greeted those who were her favorites. On his part the visitor spared no
pains to make himself agreeable to her; he would at once volunteer to
execute any commission for her if she happened to mention in his
presence anything that she wanted. One evening when she was going to a
ball he sent her an expensive bouquet of flowers. The next day when she
saw him she said:

"I am very much obliged to you for those lovely flowers, and I carried
the bouquet last night, but please do not send any more. I don't think
that it is quite nice to accept presents from anyone except very near
relations. It was very kind of you to think of it, but I would really
rather that you did not do it again. Uncle gives me carte blanche in the
way of flowers, but I do not avail myself of it very largely, for the
scent is apt to make me feel faint, and beyond the smallest spray I
seldom carry any. I made an exception last night, for those you sent me
were most lovely. You don't mind my saying that, do you?"

"Not at all, Miss Covington; and I quite understand what you mean. It
seemed natural to me to send you some flowers. Out in the Pacific
Islands, especially at Samoa and Tahiti, and, indeed, more or less
everywhere, women wear a profusion of flowers in their hair, and no
present is so acceptable to them."

"I fancy flowers do not cost so much there as they do here, Mr. Simcoe?"

"No," the latter laughed; "for half a dollar one can get enough to
render a girl the envy of all others."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I think you were right to ask Mr. Simcoe not to repeat his present,
Hilda," the General said. "I particularly noticed the bouquet that you
carried last night."

"Yes, uncle, there was nothing equal to it in the room; it must have
cost three or four guineas."

"I don't think that you quite like him; do you, Hilda?"

"I like him, uncle, because he saved your life; but in other respects I
do not know that I do like him particularly. He is very pleasant and
very amusing, but I don't feel that I quite understand him."

"How do you mean that you don't understand him?"

"I cannot quite explain, uncle. To begin with, I don't seem to get any
nearer to him--I mean to what he really is. I know more of his
adventures and his life than I did, but I know no more of him himself
than I did three months ago when I first met him at dinner."

"At any rate you know that he is brave," the General said, somewhat
gravely.

"Yes, I know that, of course; but a man can be brave, exceptionally
brave, and yet not possess all other good qualities. He did behave like
a hero in your case, and I need not say that I feel deeply grateful to
him for the service that he rendered you; still, that is the only side
of his nature that I feel certain about."

"Pooh! pooh! Hilda," the General said, with some irritation. "What do
you know about nine-tenths of the men you meet? You cannot even tell
that they are brave."

"No, uncle; I know only the side they choose to present to me, which is
a pleasant side, and I do not care to know more. But it is different in
this case. Mr. Simcoe is here nearly every day; he has become one of our
inner circle; you are naturally deeply interested in him, and I am,
therefore, interested in him also, and want to know more of him than I
have got to know. He is brave and pleasant; is he also honest and
honorable? Is he a man of thoroughly good principles? We know what he
tells us of his life and his adventures, but he only tells us what he
chooses."

The General shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear child, you may say the same thing of pretty nearly every
unmarried man you meet. When a man marries and sets up a household one
does get to know something about him. There are his wife's relations,
who, as a rule, speak with much frankness concerning a man who has
married their daughter, sister, or cousin. But as to bachelors, as a
rule one has to take them at their own valuation. Of course, I know no
more than you do as to whether Simcoe is in all respects an honorable
gentleman. It is quite sufficient that he saved my life, almost at the
sacrifice of his own, and whatever the life he may have led since is no
business of mine. He is distinctly popular among those I have introduced
him to, and is not likely in any way to discredit that introduction."

That Hilda was not entirely satisfied was evident by the letter she
wrote when her uncle had, as usual, gone up one afternoon to his club.

     "MY DEAR NETTA: I have told you several times about the Mr. Simcoe
     who saved uncle's life out in India, and who is so intimate at the
     house. I can't say that either my acquaintance with or my liking
     for him increases. He does not stand the test of the system, and
     the more I watch his lips the less I understand him. He talks
     fluently and quickly, and yet somehow I feel that there is a
     hesitation in his speech, and that his lips are repeating what they
     have learned, and not speaking spontaneously. You know that we have
     noticed the same thing among those who have learned to speak by the
     system but are not yet perfect in it, so I need not explain further
     what I mean, as you will understand it. For example, I can always
     tell at a public meeting, or when listening to a preacher, whether
     he is speaking absolutely extemporarily or whether he has learned
     his speech by heart beforehand.

     "I really strongly misdoubt the man. Of course I know that he saved
     my uncle's life; beyond that I know nothing of him, and it is this
     very feeling that I do know nothing that disquiets me. I can no
     more see into him than I can into a stone wall. I can quite
     understand that it is of very great importance to him to stand well
     with the General. He came here a stranger with a queer history. He
     knew no one; he had money and wanted to get into society. Through
     my uncle he has done so; he has been elected to two clubs, has made
     a great number of acquaintances, goes to the Row, the Royal
     Academy, the theaters, and so on, and is, at any rate, on nodding
     terms with a very large number of people. All this he owes to my
     uncle, and I fail to see what else he can wish for. It would be
     natural with so many other engagements that he should not come to
     us so often as he used to do, but there is no falling off in that
     respect. He is the tame cat of the establishment. I dare say you
     think me silly to worry over such a thing, but I can't help
     worrying. I hate things I don't understand, and I don't understand
     this man.

     "Another thing is, Walter does not like him. He constantly brings
     the child toys, but Walter does not take to him, refuses absolutely
     to sit upon his knee, or to be petted by him in any way. I always
     think that it is a bad sign when a child won't take to a man.
     However, I will not bother you more about it now; I will keep him
     out of my letters as much as I can. I wish I could keep him out of
     my mind also. As I tell myself over and over again, he is nothing
     to me, and whether he possesses all the virtues or none of them is,
     or at any rate should be, a matter of indifference to me. I can't
     help wishing that you had come over here two months later, then I
     should have had the benefit of your advice and opinion, for you
     know, Netta, how accustomed I was for years to consider you almost,
     if not quite, infallible."




CHAPTER VII.

JOHN SIMCOE'S FRIEND.


There was a great sensation among the frequenters of the house in
Elephant Court when they were told that Wilkinson had sold the business,
and the new proprietor would come in at once. The feeling among those
who were in his debt was one of absolute dismay, for it seemed to them
certain the amounts would be at once called in. To their surprise and
relief Wilkinson went round among the foreigners, whose debts in no case
exceeded five pounds, and handed to them their notes of hand.

"I am going out of the business," he said, "and shall be leaving for
abroad in a day or so. I might, of course, have arranged with the new
man for him to take over these papers, but he might not be as easy as I
have been, and I should not like any of you to get into trouble. I have
never pressed anyone since I have been here, still less taken anyone
into court, and I should like to leave on friendly terms with all. So
here are your papers; tear them up, and don't be fools enough to borrow
again."

Towards his English clients, whose debts were generally from ten to
twenty pounds, he took the same course, adding a little good advice as
to dropping billiards and play altogether and making a fresh start.

"You have had a sharp lesson," he said, "and I know that you have been
on thorns for the last year. I wanted to show you what folly it was to
place yourself in the power of anyone to ruin you, and I fancy I have
succeeded very well. There is no harm in a game of billiards now and
then, but if you cannot play without betting you had better cut it
altogether. As for the tables, it is simply madness. You must lose in
the long run, and I am quite sure that I have got out of you several
times the amount of the I. O. U.'s that I hold."

Never were men more surprised and more relieved. They could hardly
believe that they were once more free men, and until a fresh set of
players had succeeded them the billiard rooms were frequently almost
deserted. To Dawkins Wilkinson was somewhat more explicit.

"You know," he said, "the interest I took in that will of General
Mathieson. It was not the will so much as the man that I was so
interested in. It showed me that he was most liberally disposed to those
who had done him a service. Now, it happens that years ago, when he was
at Benares, I saved his life from a tiger, and got mauled myself in
doing so. I had not thought of the matter for many years, but your
mention of his name recalled it to me. I had another name in those
days--men often change their names when they knock about in queer
places, as I have done. However, I called upon him, and he expressed
himself most grateful. I need not say that I did not mention the
billiard room to him. He naturally supposed that I had just arrived from
abroad, and he has offered to introduce me to many of his friends; and I
think that I have a good chance of being put down in his will for a
decent sum. I brought money home with me from abroad and have made a
goodish sum here, so I shall resume my proper name and go West, and drop
this affair altogether. I am not likely to come against any of the crew
here, and, as you see," and he removed a false beard and whiskers from
his face, "I have shaved, though I got this hair to wear until I had
finally cut the court. So you see you have unintentionally done me a
considerable service, and in return I shall say nothing about that fifty
pounds you owe me. Now, lad, try and keep yourself straight in future.
You may not get out of another scrape as you have out of this. All I ask
is that you will not mention what I have told you to anyone else. There
is no fear of my being recognized, with a clean-shaven face and
different toggery altogether, but at any rate it is as well that
everyone but yourself should believe that, as I have given out, I have
gone abroad again. I shall keep your I. O. U.'s, but I promise you that
you shall hear no more of them as long as you hold your tongue as to
what I have just told you. Possibly I may some day need your assistance,
and in that case shall know where to write to you."

It was not until after a great deal of thought that John Simcoe had
determined thus far to take Dawkins into his confidence, but he
concluded at last that it was the safest thing to do. He was, as he
knew, often sent by the firm with any communications that they might
have to make to their clients, and should he meet him at the General's
he might recognize him and give him some trouble. He had made no secret
that he had turned his hand to many callings, and that his doings in the
southern seas would not always bear close investigation, and the fact
that he had once kept a billiard room could do him no special harm. As
to the will, Dawkins certainly would not venture to own that he had
repeated outside what had been done in the office. The man might be
useful to him in the future. It was more than probable he would again
involve himself in debt, and was just the weak and empty-headed young
fellow who might be made a convenient tool should he require one.

So Elephant Court knew Mr. Wilkinson no more, and certainly none of the
_habitues_ could have recognized him in the smooth-shaven and
faultlessly dressed man whom they might meet coming out of a West End
club. Dawkins often turned the matter over in his mind, after his first
relief had passed at finding the debt that had weighed so heavily upon
him perfectly wiped out.

"There ought to be money in it," he said to himself, "but I don't see
where it comes in. In the first place I could not say he had kept a
gambling place without acknowledging that I had often been there, and I
could not say that it was a conversation of mine about the General's
will that put it into his head to call upon him, and lastly, he has me
on the hip with those I. O. U.'s. Possibly if the General does leave him
money, I may manage to get some out of him, though I am by no means
sure of that. He is not a safe man to meddle with, and he might
certainly do me more harm than I could do him."

       *       *       *       *       *

The matter had dropped somewhat from his mind when, three months later,
General Mathieson came into the office to have an interview with his
principals.

After he had left the managing clerk was called in. On returning, he
handed Dawkins a sheet of paper.

"You will prepare a fresh will for General Mathieson; it is to run
exactly as at present, but this legacy is to be inserted after that to
Miss Covington. It might just as well have been put in a codicil, but
the General preferred to have it in the body of the will."

Dawkins looked at the instruction. It contained the words: "To John
Simcoe, at present residing at 132 Jermyn Street, I bequeath the sum of
ten thousand pounds, as a token of my gratitude for his heroic conduct
in saving my life at the cost of great personal injury to himself from
the grip of a tiger, in the year 1831."

"By Jove, he has done well for himself!" Dawkins muttered, as he sat
down to his desk after the managing clerk had handed him the General's
will from the iron box containing papers and documents relating to his
affairs. "Ten thousand pounds! I wish I could light upon a general in a
fix of some sort, though I don't know that I should care about a tiger.
It is wonderful what luck some men have. I ought to get something out of
this, if I could but see my way to it. Fancy the keeper of a billiard
room and gaming house coming in for such a haul as this! It is
disgusting!"

He set about preparing a draft of the will, but he found it difficult to
keep his attention fixed upon his work, and when the chief clerk ran his
eye over it he looked up in indignant surprise.

"What on earth is the matter with you, Mr. Dawkins? The thing is full of
the most disgraceful blunders. In several cases it is not even sense.
During all the time that I have been in this office I have never had
such a disgraceful piece of work come into my hands before. Why, if the
office boy had been told to make a copy of the will, he would have done
it vastly better. What does it mean?"

"I am very sorry, sir," Dawkins said, "but I don't feel very well
to-day, and I have got such a headache that I can scarcely see what I am
writing."

"Well, well," his superior said, somewhat mollified, "that will account
for it. I thought at first that you must have been drinking. You had
better take your hat and be off. Go to the nearest chemist and take a
dose, and then go home and lie down. You are worse than of no use in the
state that you are. I hope that you will be all right in the morning,
for we are, as you know, very busy at present, and cannot spare a hand.
Tear up that draft and hand the will and instructions to Mr. Macleod.
The General will be down here at ten o'clock to-morrow to see it; he is
like most military men, sharp and prompt, and when he wants a thing done
he expects to have it done at once."

       *       *       *       *       *

"You are feeling better, I hope, this morning?" he said, when Dawkins
came into the office at the usual hour next day, "though I must say that
you look far from well. Do you think that you are capable of work?"

"I think so, sir; at any rate my head is better."

It was true that the clerk did not look well, for he had had no sleep
all night, but had tossed restlessly in bed, endeavoring, but in vain,
to hit on some manner of extracting a portion of the legacy from the
ex-proprietor of the gambling house. The more he thought, the more
hopeless seemed the prospect. John Simcoe was eminently a man whom it
would be unsafe to anger. The promptness and decision of his methods had
gained him at least the respect of all the frequenters of his
establishment, and just as he had sternly kept order there, so he would
deal with any individual who crossed his path. He held the best cards,
too; and while a disclosure of the past could hardly injure him
seriously, he had the means of causing the ruin and disgrace of Dawkins
himself, if he ventured to attack him.

The clerk was himself shrewd in his own way, but he had the sense to
feel that he was no match for John Simcoe, and the conclusion that he
finally came to was that he must wait and watch events, and that, so far
as he could see, his only chance of obtaining a penny of the legacy was
to follow implicitly the instructions Simcoe had given him, in which
case possibly he might receive a present when the money was paid.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a fortnight after he knew the will had been signed by General
Mathieson, Simcoe went down to a small house on Pentonville Hill, where
one of the ablest criminals in London resided, passing unsuspected under
the eyes of the police in the character of a man engaged in business in
the City. A peculiar knock brought him to the door.

"Ah, is it you, Simcoe?" he said; "why, I have not seen you for months.
I did not know you for the moment, for you have taken all the hair off
your face."

"I have made a change, Harrison. I have given up the billiard rooms, and
am now a swell with lodgings in Jermyn Street."

"That is a change! I thought you said the billiards and cards paid well;
but I suppose you have got something better in view?"

"They did pay well, but I have a very big thing in hand."

"That is the right line to take up," the other said. "You were sure to
get into trouble with the police about the card-playing before long, and
then the place would have been shut up, and you might have got three
months; and when you got out the peelers would have kept their eyes upon
you, and your chances would have been at an end. No, I have never had
anything to do with small affairs; I go in, as you know, for big things.
They take time to work out, it is true; and after all one's trouble,
something may go wrong at the last moment, and the thing has to be
given up. Some girl who has been got at makes a fool of herself, and
gets discharged a week before it comes off; or a lady takes it into her
head to send her jewels to a banker's, and go on to the Continent a week
earlier than she intended to do. Then there is a great loss in getting
rid of the stuff. Those sharps at Amsterdam don't give more than a fifth
of the value for diamonds. It is a heart-rending game, on the whole; but
there is such excitement about the life that when one has once taken it
up it is seldom indeed that one changes it, though one knows that,
sooner or later, one is sure to make a slip and get caught. Now, what
will you take? Champagne or brandy?"

"I know that your brandy is first-rate, Harrison, and I will sample it
again."

"I have often thought," went on the other, after the glasses had been
filled and cigars lighted, "what a rum thing it was that you should come
across my brother Bill out among the islands. He had not written to me
for a long time, and I had never expected to hear of him again. I
thought that he had gone down somehow, and had either been eaten by
sharks or killed by the natives, or shot in some row with his mates. He
was two years older than I was, and, as I have told you, we were sons of
a well-to-do auctioneer in the country; but he was a hard man, and we
could not stand it after a time, so we made a bolt for it. We were
decently dressed when we got to London. As we had been at a good school
at home, and were both pretty sharp, we thought that we should have no
difficulty in getting work of some sort.

"We had a hard time of it. No one would take us without a character, so
we got lower and lower, till we got to know some boys who took us to
what was called a thieves' kitchen--a place where boys were trained as
pick-pockets. The old fellow who kept it saw that we were fit for higher
game than was usual, and instead of being sent out to pick up what we
could get in the streets we were dressed as we had been before, and sent
to picture-galleries and museums and cricket matches, and we soon
became first-rate hands, and did well. In a short time we didn't see why
we should work for another man, and we left him without saying good-by.

"It was not long before he paid us out. He knew that we should go on at
the same work, and dressed up two or three of his boys and sent them to
these places, and one day when Bill was just pocketing a watch at Lord's
one of these boys shouted out, 'Thief! thief! That boy has stolen your
watch, sir,' and Bill got three months, though the boy could not appear
against him, for I followed him after they had nabbed Bill, and pretty
nearly killed him.

"Then I went on my travels, and was away two or three years from London.
Bill had been out and in again twice; he was too rash altogether. I took
him away with me, but I soon found that it would not do, and that it
would soon end in our both being shut up. So I put it fairly to him.

"'We are good friends, you know, Bill,' I said, 'but it is plain to me
that we can't work together with advantage. You are twenty and I am
eighteen, but, as you have often said yourself, I have got the best head
of the two. I am tired of this sort of work. When we get a gold ticker,
worth perhaps twenty pounds, we can't get above two for it, and it is
the same with everything else. It is not good enough. We have been away
from London so long that old Isaacs must have forgotten all about us. I
have not been copped yet, and as I have got about twenty pounds in my
pocket I can take lodgings as a young chap who has come up to walk the
hospitals, or something of that sort. If you like to live with me,
quiet, we will work together; if not, it is best that we should each go
our own way--always being friends, you know.'

"Bill said that was fair enough, but that he liked a little life and to
spend his money freely when he got it. So we separated. Bill got two
more convictions, and the last time it was a case of transportation. We
had agreed between ourselves that if either of us got into trouble the
other should call once a month at the house of a woman we knew to ask
for letters, and I did that regularly after he was sent out. I got a
few letters from him. The first was written after he had made his
escape. He told me that he intended to stay out there--it was a jolly
life, and a free one, I expect. Pens and paper were not common where he
was; anyhow he only wrote once a year or so, and it was two years since
I had heard from him when you wrote and said you had brought me a
message from Bill.

"Ever since we parted I have gone on the same line, only I have worked
carefully. I was not a bad-looking chap, and hadn't much difficulty in
getting over servant girls and finding out where things were to be had,
so I gradually got on. For years now I have only carried on big affairs,
working the thing up and always employing other hands to carry the job
out. None of them know me here. I meet them at quiet pubs and arrange
things there, and I need hardly say that I am so disguised that none of
the fellows who follow my orders would know me again if they met me in
the street. I could retire if I liked, and live in a villa and keep my
carriage. Why, I made five thousand pounds as my share of that bullion
robbery between London and Brussels. But I know that I should be
miserable without anything to do; as it is, I unite amusement with
business. I sometimes take a stall at the Opera, and occasionally I find
a diamond necklace in my pocket when I get home. I know well enough that
it is foolish, but when I see a thing that I need only put out my hand
to have, my old habit is too strong for me. Then I often walk into swell
entertainments. You have only to be well got up, and to go rather late,
so that the hostess has given up expecting arrivals and is occupied with
her guests, and the flunky takes your hat without question, and you go
upstairs and mix with the people. In that way you get to know as to the
women who have the finest jewels, and have no difficulty in finding out
their names. I have got hold of some very good things that way, but
though there would have been no difficulty in taking some of them at the
time, I never yielded to that temptation. In a crowded room one never
can say whose eyes may happen to be looking in your direction.

"I wonder that you never turned your thoughts that way. From what you
have told me of your doings abroad, I know that you are not squeamish in
your ideas, and with your appearance you ought to be able to go anywhere
without suspicion."

"I am certainly not squeamish," Simcoe said, "but I have not had the
training. One wants a little practice and to begin young, as you did, to
try that game on. However, just at present I have a matter in hand that
will set me up for life if it turns out well, but I shall want a little
assistance. In the first place I want to get hold of a man who could
make one up well, and who, if I gave him a portrait, could turn me out
so like the original that anyone who had only seen him casually would
take me for him."

"There is a man down in Whitechapel who is the best hand in London at
that sort of thing. He is a downright artist. Several times when I have
had particular jobs in hand, inquiries I could not trust anyone else to
make, I have been to him, and when he has done with me and I have looked
in the glass there was not the slightest resemblance to my own face in
it. I suppose the man you want to represent is somewhere about your own
height?"

"Yes, I should say that he is as nearly as may be the same. He is an
older man than I am."

"Oh, that is nothing! He could make you look eighty if you wanted it.
Here is the man's address; his usual fee is a guinea, but, as you want
to be got up to resemble someone else, he might charge you double."

"The fee is nothing," Simcoe said. "Then again, I may want to get hold
of a man who is a good hand at imitating handwriting."

"That is easy enough. Here is the address of a man who does little jobs
for me sometimes, and is, I think, the best hand at it in England. You
see, sometimes there is in a house where you intend to operate some
confoundedly active and officious fellow--a butler or a footman--who
might interrupt proceedings. His master is in London, and he receives a
note from him ordering him to come up to town with a dressing case,
portmanteau, guns, or something of that kind, as may be suitable to the
case. I got a countess out of the way once by a messenger arriving on
horseback with a line from her husband, saying that he had met with an
accident in the hunting-field, and begging her to come to him. Of course
I have always previously managed to get specimens of handwriting, and my
man imitates them so well that they have never once failed in their
action. I will give you a line to him, saying that you are a friend of
mine. He knows me under the name of Sinclair. As a stranger you would
hardly get him to act."

"Of course, he is thoroughly trustworthy?" Simcoe asked.

"I should not employ him if he were not," the other said. "He was a
writing-master at one time, but took to drink, and went altogether to
the bad. He is always more or less drunk now, and you had better go to
him before ten o'clock in the morning. I don't say that he will be quite
sober, but he will be less drunk than he will be later. As soon as he
begins to write he pulls himself together. He puts a watchmaker's glass
in his eye and closely examines the writing that he has to imitate,
writes a few lines to accustom himself to it, and then writes what he is
told to do as quickly and as easily as if it were his own handwriting.
He hands it over, takes his fee, which is two guineas, and then goes out
to a public-house, and I don't believe that the next day he has the
slightest remembrance of what he has written."

"Thank you very much, Harrison; I think that, with the assistance of
these two men, I shall be able to work the matter I have in hand without
fear of a hitch."

"Anything else I can do for you? You know that you can rely upon me,
Simcoe. You were with poor Bill for six years, and you stood by him to
the last, when the natives rose and massacred the whites, and you got
Bill off, and if he did die afterwards of his wounds, anyhow you did
your best to save him. So if I can help you I will do it, whatever it
is, short of murder, and there is my hand on it. You know in any case I
could not round on you."

"I will tell you the whole business, Harrison. I have thought the matter
pretty well out, but I shall be very glad to have your opinion on it,
and with your head you are like to see the thing in a clearer light than
I can, and may suggest a way out of some difficulties."

He then unfolded the details of his scheme.

"Very good!" the other said admiringly, when he had finished. "It does
credit to you, Simcoe. You risked your life, and, as you say, very
nearly lost it to save the General's, and have some sort of a right to
have his money when he has done with it. Your plan of impersonating the
General and getting another lawyer to draw out a fresh will is a capital
one; and as you have a list of the bequests he made in his old one, you
will not only be able to strengthen the last will, but will disarm the
opposition of those who would have benefited by the first, as no one
will suffer by the change. But how about the boy?"

"The boy must be got out of the way somehow."

"Not by foul play, I hope, Simcoe. I could not go with you there."

"Certainly not. That idea never entered my mind; but surely there can be
no difficulty in carrying off a child of that age. It only wants two to
do that: one to engage the nurse in talk, the other to entice the child
away, pop him into a cab waiting hard by, and drive off with him."

"I doubt whether the courts would hand over the property unless they had
some absolute proof that the child was dead."

"They would not do so for some time, no doubt, but evidence might be
manufactured. At any rate I could wait. They would probably carry out
all the other provisions of the will, and with the ten thousand pounds
and the three or four thousand I have saved I could hold on for a good
many years."

"How about the signature to the will?"

"I can manage that much," Simcoe said. "I had some work in that way
years ago, and I have been for the last three months practicing the
General's, and I think now that I can defy any expert to detect the
difference. Of course, it is a very different thing learning to imitate
a signature and writing a long letter."

The other agreed, and added, "I should be careful to employ a firm of
lawyers of long standing. If you were to go to shady people it would in
itself cause suspicion."

"Yes, I quite feel that, and I want, if possible, to get hold of people
who just know the General by sight, so as to have a fairly good idea of
his face without knowing him too well. I think I know of one. At the
club the other day Colonel Bulstrode, a friend of the General's, said to
him, 'I wish you would drive round with me to my lawyers'; their place
is in the Temple. I want someone to sign as a witness to a deed, and as
it is rather important, I would rather have it witnessed by a friend
than by one of the clerks. It won't take you a minute.'"

"I should think that would do very well; they would not be likely to
notice him very particularly, and probably the General would not have
spoken at all. He would just have seen his friend sign the deed, and
then have affixed his own signature as a witness. Well, everything seems
in your favor, and should you need any help you can rely upon me."




CHAPTER VIII.

GENERAL MATHIESON'S SEIZURE.


Three months later John Simcoe called for a letter directed to "Mr.
Jackson, care of William Scriven, Tobacconist, Fetter Lane." The address
was in his own handwriting. He carried it home before opening it. The
writing was rough and the spelling villainous.

     "SAMOA.

     "MY DEAR JACK: I was mitely glad when the old brig came in and
     Captain Jephson handed me a letter from you, and as you may guess
     still more pleased to find with it an order for fifty pounds. It
     was good and harty of you, but you allus was the right sort. I have
     dun as you asked me; I went to the wich man and for twelve bottles
     of rum he gave me the packet inclosed of the stuff he uses. There
     aint much of it, but it is mitely strong. About as much as will lie
     on the end of a knife will make a man foam at the mouth and fall
     into convulsions, three times as much as that will kill him
     outrite. He says there aint no taste in it. I hope this will suit
     your purpus. You will be sorry to hear that Long Peter has been
     wiped out; he was spered by a native, who thort Pete wanted to run
     away with his wife, wich I don't believe he did for she wernt no
     way a beuty. Vigors is in a bad way; he has had the shakes bad
     twice and I don't think that he can last much longer. Trade is bad
     here, but now I have got the rino I shall buy another cocoanut
     plantation and two or three more wives to work it, and shall be
     comfortible. I am a pore hand with the pen, so no more from your
     friend,

     "BEN STOKES."

A week later Hilda wrote to her friend:

     "MY DEAR NETTA: I am writing in great distress. Three days ago
     uncle had a terrible fit. He was seized with it at the club, and I
     hear that his struggles were dreadful. It was a sort of convulsion.
     He was sensible when he was brought home, but very weak; he does
     not remember anything about it. Fortunately, Dr. Pearson, who
     always attends us, was one of the party, and he sent off cabs for
     two others. Dr. Pearson came home with him. Of course I asked him
     what it was, and he said that it was a very unusual case, and that
     he and the other doctors had not yet come to any decision upon it,
     as none of them had ever seen one precisely like it. He said that
     some of the symptoms were those of an epileptic fit, but the
     convulsions were so violent that they rather resembled tetanus than
     an ordinary fit. Altogether he seemed greatly puzzled, and he would
     give no opinion as to whether it was likely to recur. Uncle is
     better to-day; he told me that he, Mr. Simcoe, and four others had
     been dining together. He had just drunk his coffee when the room
     seemed to swim round, and he remembered nothing more until he found
     himself in bed at home. Mr. Simcoe came home with him, and the
     doctor said, I must acknowledge, that no one could have been kinder
     than he was. He looked quite ill from the shock that he had had.
     But still I don't like him, Netta; in fact, I think I dislike him
     more and more every day. I often tell myself that I have not a
     shadow of reason for doing so, but I can't help it. You may call it
     prejudice: I call it instinct.

     "You can well imagine how all this has shocked me. Uncle seemed so
     strong and well that I have always thought he would live to a great
     age. He is sixty-eight, but I am sure he looks ten years
     younger--at least he did so; at present he might be ninety. But I
     can only hope that the change is temporary, and that he will soon
     be his dear self again. The three doctors are going to have a
     meeting here to-morrow. I shall be anxious, indeed, to hear the
     result. I hope that they will order him a change, and that we can
     go down together, either to his place or mine; then I can always be
     with him, whereas here he goes his way and I go mine, and except at
     meal-times we scarcely meet. If he does go I shall try and persuade
     him to engage a medical man to go with us. Of course, I do not know
     whether a doctor could be of any actual use in case of another
     attack, but it would be a great comfort to have one always at
     hand."

The letter stopped here, and was continued on the following evening.

     "The consultation is over; Dr. Pearson had a long talk with me
     afterwards. He said that it was without doubt an epileptic fit, but
     that it differed in many respects from the general type of that
     malady, and that all of them were to some extent puzzled. They had
     brought with them a fourth doctor, Sir Henry Havercourt, who is the
     greatest authority on such maladies. He had seen uncle, and asked
     him a few questions, and had a talk with Dr. Pearson, and had from
     him a minute account of the seizure. He pronounced it a most
     interesting and, as far as he knew, a unique case, and expressed a
     wish to come as a friend to see how the General was getting on. Of
     course he inquired about his habits, asked what he had had for
     dinner, and so on.

     "'The great point, Dr. Pearson,' I said, after the consultation was
     over, 'is, of course, whether there is likely to be any recurrence
     of the attack.' 'That is more than I can say,' he answered gravely;
     'at present he can hardly be said to have recovered altogether from
     the effects of this one, which is in itself an unusual feature in
     the case. As a rule, when a person recovers from an epileptic fit
     he recovers altogether--that is to say, he is able to walk and talk
     as before, and his face shows little or no sign of the struggle
     that he has undergone. In this case the recovery is not altogether
     complete. You may have noticed that his voice is not only weak, but
     there is a certain hesitation in it. His face has not altogether
     recovered its natural expression, and is slightly, very slightly,
     drawn on one side, which would seem to point to paralysis; while in
     other respects the attack was as unlike a paralytic stroke as it
     could well have been. Thus, you see, it is difficult in the extreme
     for us to give any positive opinion concerning a case which is so
     entirely an exceptional one. We can only hope for the best, and
     trust to the strength of his constitution. At any rate, we all
     agree that he needs absolute quiet and very simple and plain diet.
     You see, he has been a great diner-out; and though an abstemious
     man in the way of drinking, he thoroughly appreciates a good
     dinner. All this must be given up, at any rate for a time. I should
     say that as soon as he is a little stronger, you had better take
     him down into the country. Let him see as few visitors as possible,
     and only very intimate friends. I do not mean that he should be
     lonely or left to himself; on the contrary, quiet companionship and
     talk are desirable.'

     "I said that though the country might be best for him, there was no
     medical man within three miles of his place, and it would be
     terrible were we to have an attack, and not know what to do for it.
     He said that he doubted if anything could be done when he was in
     such a state as he was the other night, beyond sprinkling his face
     with water, and that he himself felt powerless in the case of an
     attack that was altogether beyond his experience. Of course he said
     it was out of the question that I should be down there alone with
     him, but that I must take down an experienced nurse. He strongly
     recommended that she should not wear hospital uniform, as this
     would be a constant reminder of his illness.

     "I said that I should very much like to have a medical man in the
     house. Money was no object, and it seemed to me from what he said
     that it would also be desirable that, besides being a skillful
     doctor, he should be also a pleasant and agreeable man, who would
     be a cheerful companion to him as well as a medical attendant.

     "He agreed that this would certainly be very desirable, and that he
     and the others were all anxious that the case should be watched
     very carefully. He said that he would think the matter over, and
     that if he could not find just the man that would suit, he would
     ask Sir Henry Havercourt to recommend us one.

     "He said there were many clever young men to whom such an
     engagement for a few months would be a godsend. He intended to run
     down himself once a fortnight, from Saturday until Monday, which he
     could do, as his practice was to a large extent a consulting one. I
     could see plainly enough that though he evidently put as good a
     face upon it as he could, he and the other doctors took by no means
     a hopeful view of the case.

     "It is all most dreadful, Netta, and I can hardly realize that only
     three days ago everything was bright and happy, while now it seems
     that everything is uncertain and dark. There was one thing the
     doctor said that pleased me, and that was, 'Don't let any of his
     town friends in to see him; and I think that it would be as well
     that none of them should go down to visit him in the country. Let
     him be kept altogether free from anything that would in the
     smallest degree excite him or set his brain working.' I told him
     that no one had seen him yet, and that I would take good care that
     no one should see him; and I need hardly tell you that Mr. Simcoe
     will be the first person to be informed of the doctor's orders."

A week later General Mathieson came downstairs for the first time. The
change in him was even greater than it had seemed to be when he was
lying on the sofa in his room; and Tom Roberts, who had been the
General's soldier-servant years before, and had been in his service
since he left the army, had difficulty in restraining his tears as he
entered, with his master leaning heavily on his arm.

"I am shaky, my dear Hilda, very shaky," the General said. "I feel just
as I did when I was laid up with a bad attack of jungle fever in India.
However, no doubt I shall pick up soon, just I did then. Pearson tells
me that he and the others agree that I must go down into the country,
and I suppose I must obey orders. Where is it we are to go?"

"To your own place, uncle."

"My own place?" he repeated doubtfully, and then after a pause, "Oh,
yes, of course! Oh, yes!"

There was a troubled look in his face, as if he was trying to recall
memories that had somehow escaped him, and Hilda, resolutely repressing
the impulse to burst into a flood of tears, said cheerfully:

"Yes, I shall be very glad to be back at Holmwood. We won't go down by
train, uncle. Dr. Pearson does not think that you are strong enough for
that yet. He is going to arrange for a comfortable carriage in which you
can lie down and rest. We shall make an early start. He will arrange for
horses to be sent down so that we can change every ten or twelve miles,
and arrive there early in the afternoon. It is only seventy miles, you
know."

"Yes, I have driven up from there by the coach many a time when I was a
boy, and sometimes since; have I not, Tom?"

"Yes, General. The railway was not made till six or seven years ago."

"No, the railway wasn't made, Hilda; at least, not all the way."

Hilda made signs to Tom not to leave the room, and he stood by his
master's shoulder, prompting him occasionally when his memory failed
him.

"You must get strong very fast, uncle, for Dr. Pearson said that you
cannot go until you are more fit to bear the fatigue."

"I shall soon get strong, my dear. What is to-day?"

"To-day is Friday, uncle."

"Somehow I have lost count of days," he said. "Well, I should think that
I shall be fit to go early next week; it is not as if we were going to
ride down. I was always fond of riding, and I hope I shall soon be after
the hounds again. Let me see, what month is this?"

"It is early in June, uncle; and the country will be looking its best."

"Yes, yes; I shall have plenty of time to get strong before cub-hunting
begins."

So the conversation dragged on for another half hour, the General's
words coming slower and slower, and at the end of that time he dropped
asleep. Hilda made a sign to Roberts to stay with him, and then ran up
to her own room, closed the door behind her, and burst into a passion of
tears. Presently there was a tap at the door, and her maid came in.

"Tom has just slipped out from the dining room, miss, and told me to
tell you that the General was sleeping as peacefully as a child, and he
thought it was like enough that he would not wake for hours. He said
that when he woke he and William would get him up to his own room."

"Thank you, Lucy." The door closed again. Hilda got up from the bed on
which she had lain down, and buried herself in the depths of a large
cushioned chair. There she sat thinking. For the first time she realized
how immense was the change in her uncle. She had seen him several times
each day, but he had spoken but a few words, and it only seemed to her
that he was drowsy and disinclined to talk. Now she saw how great was
the mental as well as the physical weakness.

"It is terrible!" she repeated over and over again to herself. "What a
wreck--oh, what a dreadful wreck! Will he ever get over it?"

She seemed absolutely unable to think. Sometimes she burst into sobs,
sometimes she sat with her eyes fixed before her, but seeing nothing,
and her fingers twining restlessly round each other. Presently the door
opened very gently, and a voice said, "May I come in?" She sprang to her
feet as if electrified, while a glad cry of "Netta!" broke from her
lips. A moment later the two girls were clasped in a close embrace.

"Oh, Netta, how good of you!" Hilda said, after she had sobbed for some
time on her friend's shoulder. "Oh, what a relief it is to me!"

"Of course I have come, you foolish girl. You did not suppose I was
going to remain away after your letter? Aunt is with me; she is
downstairs, tidying herself up. We shut up the house and left the
gardener in charge, and here we are, as long as you want us."

"But your pupils, Netta?"

"I handed them all over to another of the Professor's assistants, so we
need not bother about them. I told aunt that I should not be down for an
hour. Mrs. Brown is looking after her, and getting her a cup of tea, and
I asked her to bring two cups up here. I thought that you would prefer
for us to have a chat by ourselves. Now tell me all about it, dear; that
is, if there is anything fresh since you wrote."

Hilda told her the doctor's opinion and the plans that had been formed.

"Dr. Pearson brought a Dr. Leeds here with him this morning. He says he
is very clever. His term as house surgeon at Guy's or St. Bartholomew's,
I forget which, has just expired, and as he had not made any definite
plans he was glad to accept the doctor's offer to take charge of my
uncle. He seemed, from what little I saw of him, a pleasant man, and
spoke in a cheerful voice, which will be a great thing for uncle. I
should think that he is six or seven and twenty. Dr. Pearson said he was
likely to become a very distinguished man in his profession some day. He
is going to begin at once. He will not sleep here, but will spend most
of his time here, partly because he wants to study the case, and partly
because he wants uncle to get accustomed to him. He will travel down
with us, which will be a great comfort to me, for there is no saying how
uncle may stand the journey. I suggested that we should have another
carriage, as the invalid carriage has room for only one inside besides
the patient, but he laughed, and said that he would ride on the box with
Tom Roberts; there will be room for two there, as we are going to post
down. Of course, you and your aunt will go down by train, and be there
to meet us; it will make it so much brighter and more cheerful having
you to receive us than if we had to arrive all alone, with no one to say
welcome."

"And is your uncle so very weak?"

"Terribly weak--weak both mentally and physically," and she gave an
account of the interview that afternoon.

"That is bad indeed, Hilda; worse than I had expected. But with country
air, and you and me to amuse him, to say nothing of the doctor, we may
hope that he will soon be a very different man."

"Well, I will not stay talking here any longer, Netta; we have left your
aunt half an hour alone, and if she were not the kindest soul in the
world, she would feel hurt at being so neglected, after coming all this
way for my sake. You don't know what good your coming has effected.
Before you opened the door I was in the depth of despair; everything
seemed shaken, everything looked hopeless. There seemed to have been a
sort of moral earthquake that had turned everything in my life
topsy-turvy, but now I feel hopeful again. With you by my side I think
that I can bear even the worst."

They went down to the drawing room, where they found Mrs. Brown, the
housekeeper, having a long gossip over what had taken place with Miss
Purcell, whom, although a stranger, she was unaffectedly glad to see, as
it seemed to take some of her responsibilities off her shoulders, and
she knew that Netta's society would be invaluable to Hilda.

It was not until a week later that, after another consultation, the
doctors agreed that it was as well that the General should be moved down
to his country place. Dr. Pearson was opinion that there was some
improvement, but that it was very slight; the others could see no change
since they had seen him ten days before. However, they agreed with their
colleague that although there might be a certain amount of danger in
moving him to the country, it was best to risk that, as the change might
possibly benefit him materially.

"Have you formed any opinion of the case, Dr. Leeds?" Sir Henry asked.

"I can scarcely be said to have any distinct opinion, Sir Henry. The
symptoms do not tally with those one would expect to find after any
ordinary sort of seizure, although certainly they would point to
paralysis rather than epilepsy. I should, had the case come before me in
the ordinary way in the ward of a hospital, have come to the conclusion
that the seizure itself and the after-effects pointed rather to the
administration of some drug than to any other cause. I admit that I am
not acquainted with any drug whose administration would lead to any such
results; but then I know of no other manner in which they could be
brought about save by some lesion of a blood vessel in the brain of so
unusual a character that no such case has hitherto been reported in any
work with which I am acquainted. This, I say, would be my first theory
in the case of a patient of whose previous history I was entirely
unaware, and who came under my charge in a hospital ward; but I admit
that in the present case it cannot be entertained for a moment, and I
must, during my attendance upon General Mathieson, watch closely for
symptoms that would aid me in localizing brain lesion or other cause."

He spoke modestly and quietly in the presence, as he was, of some of the
leading men of his profession. The theory he had enunciated had not
occurred to any of them, but, as he spoke, they all recognized that the
symptoms might under other circumstances have led them to a similar
conclusion. They were silent for a minute when he ceased speaking, then
Sir Henry said gravely:

"I admit, Dr. Leeds, that some of the symptoms, indeed the fit itself,
might in the case of a patient of whose history we were ignorant seem to
point to some obscure form of poisoning, since they do not accord with
what one would expect in ordinary forms of brain seizures of this kind.
However, there is no doubt that we are all somewhat prone, when we meet
with a case possessing unusual or altogether exceptional features, to
fall back upon the theory of poisoning. In this case, fortunately, the
circumstances are such as to preclude the possibility of entertaining
the idea for a moment; and, as you say, you must endeavor to find,
watching him as you will do, some other cause of what I admit is a
mysterious and obscure case; and knowing you as I do, I am sure that you
will mention this theory, even as a theory, to no one.

"We are all aware that there are many cases which come before us where
we may entertain suspicions, and strong suspicions, that the patient has
been poisoned, and yet we dare not take any steps because, in the first
place, we have no clew as to how or by whom he or she has been poisoned,
and because, if after death an autopsy should prove that we were
mistaken, it would be nothing short of professional ruin. Here, as you
said, the theory is happily irreconcilable with the circumstances of the
case, and no drug known to European science would produce so strange a
seizure or the after-effects. Of course, as we all know, on the west
coast of Africa, and it is believed in India, the natives are acquainted
with poisons which are wholly unknown, and will probably remain unknown,
since medical men who have endeavored to investigate the matter have
almost always fallen victims themselves to poisons administered by the
people whose secrets they were endeavoring to discover.

"However, we can happily put that altogether aside. Dr. Pearson tells us
that he intends to go down once a fortnight, and has promised to furnish
us with the results of his own observations, and his own reports of this
very interesting case. If General Mathieson had, in the course of his
military career, ever been struck in the head by a bullet, I should say
unhesitatingly that some splinter, possibly very minute, had obtruded
into the brain matter; but this has, I learn, not been the case. The
only serious injury that he has ever received was when he was terribly
torn and nearly killed by a tiger some twenty years ago in India. It may
be useful to you, Dr. Leeds, to keep this in your mind. There can be no
doubt that scratches and bites, even of the domestic cat, occasionally
give rise to violent inflammations, and probably, indeed I believe it to
be the case, those of the great cats of India are still more poisonous.
As is the case with the bite of a mad dog, the poison may in some cases
remain latent for a considerable time, until some circumstance may
arouse it into activity. I would suggest that should any scars caused at
that time remain, you should examine them carefully, and ascertain
whether there is any sign of inflammatory action there. I grant the
improbability of any consequences arising so many years after the event,
but at the same time in a case of this kind, where we are perfectly at a
loss to explain what we see, it is as well to look for the cause in
every direction, however improbable it may appear."

"Thank you, Sir Henry; I will certainly do so. I was not aware before of
the General having suffered such an injury, and I will go this afternoon
and spend a few hours in looking through the medical works at the
library of the India Office to see if there are any records of serious
disturbance caused in the system by wounds inflicted by tigers a
considerable time after they have apparently healed."

The meeting then broke up, and two days later General Mathieson was
taken down to his seat in Warwickshire. Post horses were in readiness
all along the road, and the journey was accomplished quickly and without
fatigue to the patient, who slept the greater part of the distance. At
each change Dr. Leeds got down and had two or three minutes' talk with
Hilda, and when the General was awake gave him a spoonful of restorative
medicine. His presence close at hand was a great comfort to Hilda, upon
whom the strain of watching her uncle was very great, and she was
thankful indeed when they arrived at the end of the journey, and found
Netta and her aunt, who had gone down by that morning's train together
with the housekeeper and her own maid, waiting on the steps to receive
them.




CHAPTER IX.

A STRANGE ILLNESS.


For three months General Mathieson remained in the country. His
improvement was very gradual--so gradual, indeed, that from week to week
it was scarce noticeable, and it was only by looking back that it was
perceptible. At the end of that time he could walk unaided, there was
less hesitation in his speech, and his memory was distinctly clearer. He
passed much of his time on a sofa placed in the shade in the garden,
with Hilda and Netta sitting by him, working and talking.

Netta had always been a favorite of his from the time that he first met
her in Hanover; and he had, when she was staying with his niece the year
before, offered her a very handsome salary if she would remain with her
as her companion. The girl, however, was reluctant to give up her
occupation, of which she was very fond, still less would she leave her
aunt; and although the General would willingly have engaged the latter
also as an inmate of the house, to act as a sort of chaperon to Hilda
when she drove out alone shopping, Netta refused in both their names.

"You would not have left the army, General, whatever temptations might
have been held out to you. I am happy in thinking that I am doing good
and useful work, and I don't think that any offer, even one so kind and
liberal as yours, would induce me to relinquish it."

Her presence now was not only an inestimable comfort to Hilda, but of
great advantage to the General himself. Alone Hilda would have found it
next to impossible to keep the invalid interested and amused. He liked
to talk and be talked to, but it was like the work of entertaining a
child. Netta, however, had an inexhaustible fund of good spirits. After
her long intercourse with children who needed entertainment with
instruction, and whose attention it was absolutely necessary to keep
fixed, she had no difficulty in keeping the conversation going, and her
anecdotes, connected with her life in Germany and the children she had
taught, were just suited to the General's mental condition.

Little Walter was of great assistance to her. He had come down with his
nurse as soon as they were fairly settled at Holmwood, and his prattle
and play were a great amusement to his grandfather. Whenever the
conversation flagged Netta offered to tell him a story, which not only
kept him quiet, but was listened to with as much interest by the General
as by the child. Dr. Leeds was often a member of the party, and his
cheery talk always had its effect in soothing the General when, as was
sometimes the case, he was inclined to be petulant and irritable.

They had been a fortnight at Holmwood before the doctor discovered
Netta's infirmity. She happened to be standing at a window with her back
to him when he asked her a question. Receiving no reply, he repeated it
in a louder tone, but he was still unanswered. Somewhat surprised, he
went up to her and touched her; she faced round immediately.

"Were you speaking to me, Dr. Leeds?"

"Yes, I spoke to you twice, Miss Purcell, but you did not hear me."

"I have been perfectly deaf from childhood," she said; "I cannot hear
any sound whatever. I never talk about it; people ask questions and
wonder, and then, forgetting that I do not hear, they persist in
addressing me in loud tones."

"Is it possible that you are deaf?"

"It is a melancholy fact," she said with a smile, and then added more
seriously, "It came on after measles. When I was eight years old my good
aunt, who had taken me to some of the best aurists in London, happened
to hear that a Professor Menzel had opened an establishment in Hanover
for teaching deaf mutes to speak by a new system of watching people's
lips. She took me over there, and, as you see, the result was an
undoubted success, and I now earn my living by acting as one of the
professor's assistants, and by teaching two or three little girls who
board at my aunt's."

"The system must be an admirable one indeed," the doctor said. "I have,
of course, heard of it, but could not have believed that the results
were so excellent. It never entered my mind for a moment tha

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