Chapter II: Part 2

It happened one night that the púsári in one of his nocturnal rambles found himself at the river. It was now the height of the hot season, and the river was almost dry. Near where the path crossed the river was a small pool, the only water for miles around; to this the púsári went, and seated on the bank above, watched the wild animals coming to drink. It was a bright moonlight night, and the light reflected from the white sandy bed of the river made everything clearly visible. First came a pair of porcupines, which played about and chased each other, rattling their quills noisily, till the sudden appearance of an old she-bear with a cub on her back put them to flight. The bear drank and shuffled off; and then, with noiseless, stealthy step, a leopard glided out of the jungle into the moonlight. It looked about with its cruel, round gleaming eyes for a few moments, and then, lying down on its stomach, lapped its fill of water. Afterwards came a herd of wild-pigs, suspicious and wary, followed by a number of graceful spotted deer. As these were drinking, a slight noise in the distance caused them all to throw up their heads and listen in attitudes of alarm, and then to disappear in the jungle like shadows. A few moments later, with heavy but silent tread, a herd of elephants came along the river and drank at the pool, throwing copious showers of water over themselves with their trunks afterwards. The púsári had by this time quite lost all fear of wild animals, so he sat and watched them with pleasure and in perfect security.

Suddenly the púsári started to his feet, and with staring eyes and beating heart, gazed at something in the distance that had caught his eye. It was a brilliant glare of light over the trees. It was the pisási village at last! Without a moment’s hesitation, and breathless with anxiety, he hurried off in the direction of the light, going straight through the jungle towards it. Nearer and nearer appeared the light, till at last, with joy and exultation in his heart, he stepped out of the jungle into the well-remembered enchanted bazaar. But instead of the unearthly silence that had reigned in the bazaar the last time he was there, it was now filled with uproar. No particular sounds were distinguishable; but horrid shrieks and yells, awful execrations and hideous sounds of every sort, filled the air. Instead of taking no notice of him as before, the pisásis glared balefully at him, and seemed to snarl and show their teeth. The creatures in the shape of cattle and dogs followed him threateningly; and numbers of evil-looking birds and loathsome creatures with wings flapped and fluttered about his head. But undaunted and undeterred, the púsári walked steadily on, searching for the old she-pisási’s stall where he had drunk the magic potion. At last he found it. There sat the old hag, blinking and leering with the same hollow gourd of water before her. Seizing it, the púsári raised it to his lips, and in spite of the awful din that instantly arose, drained it to the bottom. As he put it down empty, he fell to the ground insensible.

It was daylight when he recovered and staggered to his feet. He remembered instantly what had happened during the night, and was filled with intense anxiety to ascertain whether his experiment had broken the spell that had bound him. He gazed at his arms and legs, and it seemed to him that they were real flesh and blood. He pinched them, and was sure he had felt the sensation. A thrill of joy passed through him, for he felt certain that he had recovered his human form. Taking his bearings by the sun, he made his way rapidly through the jungle to the river. As he descended the bank, he came upon a herd of deer, and it was with rapture that he saw them gaze in alarm at him and then dash hastily away. As he walked along the bed of the river, he noticed with intense satisfaction that he now had a shadow! There was no longer any doubt, and in the gladness of his heart the púsári began to sing at the top of his voice. As he turned into the path leading to Pandiyán, he caught sight of a man coming towards him; a moment later, he saw it was Valan Elúvan. On seeing the púsári, the young man stopped and looked at him with astonishment. After a moment’s hesitation, he came forward. ‘Why, iya, where have you been?’ he exclaimed.

‘I cannot tell you now, Valan,’ replied the púsári. ‘I am anxious to get to Pandiyán. Come with me, and I will tell you all.’

‘Then you are not afraid to go to the village, iya?’ said Valan hesitatingly.

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Have you not heard, then, of the murder of the múdliya and what is said about it?’

‘Yes, yes! I know all about it, and who the murderer is.’—Valan glanced quickly and searchingly at the púsári.—‘Ay, and I know more than that,’ continued the púsári, returning his glance with a smile. ‘I know how you have been making love to my daughter in my absence, and heard every word you said to her!’

Valan looked puzzled and confounded, but said nothing; and the two walked on together in silence, each buried in his own thoughts. Valan was wondering whether the púsári could possibly have been hidden in the jungle near his house all the time, and thus overheard his interviews with Vallee. He was also trying to account for his friendly manner towards him, so different from his former behaviour. He could not help feeling that the púsári was only feigning friendliness, and that he had some deep design in view, especially when he thought over his remark, that he knew who was the murderer of the headman; and who that was he felt only too sure—his own brother, and the other’s deadly enemy. Meanwhile, the púsári, filled with joyful thoughts and anticipations, strode along at such a rate that Valan could scarcely keep up with him.

At length they reached Pandiyán. A number of the villagers were standing about, and they no sooner saw who it was that accompanied Valan than the cry was raised; ‘The púsári has come back!’ and men, women, and children came running out of the houses, filled with astonishment and excitement. Vallee, however, was not to be seen, though both the men looked round for her. Without taking notice of anybody, the púsári walked through the village, past his own louse, to Iyan Elúvan’s hut. Valan followed, grave and silent. The púsári’s face was hard and stern as he entered the house. A glance round showed him there was no one there; it was, however, in great disorder, and something lying on the floor caught his eye. It was a torn fragment of cloth, and near it lay a small knife, its point stained with blood. The púsári picked them up and examined them; then, without a word, and followed by Valan and an intensely curious and excited but silent crowd of villagers, he left the hut, and entering the jungle at its back, made his way to the hollow tree where Iyan had hidden the valuables he had robbed the múdliya of. As the party neared the spot, a loud cry rose from the villagers, for lying at the foot of the tree was a dark object; it was the body of Iyan Elúvan!

Uttering an exclamation of horror, Valan knelt beside his brother and laid his hand upon his heart. The body was still warm, but Iyan was quite dead. His right hand was bound up with a strip of cloth. On this being unwound by Valan, a couple of small punctured wounds were discernible in the fleshy part near the thumb. Cries of, ‘It is a snake-bite!’ ‘He has been bitten by a snake!’ rose from the villagers crowding round, for they all recognised the marks. Meanwhile, the púsári, with the assistance of a stick, had drawn the bundle out of the hollow in the tree. With it came the freshly shed skin of a cobra, and it was at once seen how Iyan had come by his death. A cobra had taken up its abode in the hollow where Iyan had placed his ill-gotten treasure, and on his attempting to withdraw it, had bitten him in the hand. Iyan had then gone back to his house, and lanced and washed the wound and bound up his hand; but feeling the approach of death, had crawled back to the tree, but for what purpose was never known, and had there expired.

Opening the bundle, the púsári displayed to the astonished gaze of the villagers the money and jewels it contained. Every one of them knew at once that it was the stolen property of the murdered headman; but how it came to be hidden in the tree and what Iyan had to do with it, they were at a loss to guess. And now the púsári spoke, and in a few words told them all that had happened to him since they had last seen him. They listened eagerly and attentively, and believed every word. They frequently interrupted his story of what he had seen in the pisási village, with exclamations of horror and amazement, and when he finished, they one and all loudly expressed their satisfaction at his return, and belief in his innocence.

The whole party then returned to the village, carrying the body of Iyan, and taking with them the recovered treasure. The púsári went at once in search of his daughter, and soon found her in the thrashing-ground in the fields winnowing rice. The meeting was a very happy one. Vallee’s delight and joy knew no bounds. Could it have been possible to increase her happiness at her father’s return, the assurance he now gave her of regard for Valan Elúvan and his approval of him as her future husband, would have done so. The púsári’s next step was to go home accompanied by Vallee, and in a few cold, bitter words, to upbraid his relatives for their conduct and order them to leave his house at once. Ashamed and abashed, they went away without any attempt at explanation or apology. That afternoon, the young headman who had before inquired into the murder arrived at Pandiyán and at once instituted inquiries. The result was that the púsári’s innocence was established and the dead man’s guilt proved. The headman took charge of the stolen property.

‘Truly, iya,’ he said to the púsári as he departed, ‘you have much to be thankful for. Only by the favour of Púliya have you escaped from the wiles of the pisásis, and from the snare that Iyan Elúvan laid for you. ’Tis well, indeed, to be a favourite of the god. May you be happy and prosper!’

Before many days, Valan and Vallee were married, and went to live in an adjoining village. Relieved by the death of his enemy from constant worry and irritation, the púsári’s temper greatly improved. In course of time he became so much respected and so popular, that he was elected headman of the district. The secrets he learned when he wandered about the village invisible, proved to be of great value to him, as he was often able to turn his knowledge to account in his dealings with his fellow-villagers. He became in time a man of substance.

The púsári’s adventure was the subject of conversation through the whole country round for many weeks, and for a long time not a man, woman, or child dared enter the jungle after nightfall. But though in course of time the fear of the pisásis wore off, and on several occasions villagers were lost in the forest and wandered about there all night, no one ever found again the Haunted Jungle.

A STICK OF INDIAN INK.

Amongst familiar things that are of comparatively recent introduction we must include that artistic article inaccurately known as Indian ink. Even when the seventeenth century was more than half-spent, it was a rarity; and in the folio volume, published in 1672, descriptive of the Museo Moscarda, there is an engraving of a stick of Indian ink, which was included with some ‘giants’ teeth’—in reality mammoth bones—as amongst the chief curiosities of the collection. Notwithstanding its usual English name of ‘Indian ink,’ it is a Chinese manufacture. M. Maurice Jametel, a careful and accomplished French scholar, has compiled from Chinese sources an interesting monograph on its history and manufacture (_L’Encre de Chine, d’après des Documents Chinois_, traduits par M. Jametel: Paris, 1882). The historians of the Celestial kingdom, according to their usual custom in dealing with the affairs of their own land, attribute high antiquity to the use of ink; they say that it was invented by Tien-tchen, who flourished somewhere between 2697 and 2597 B.C. The Chinese at the time made use of a lacquer which was spread upon silk by the help of bamboo sticks. That, at least, is one interpretation of certain passages as to bamboo books. Next we are told that they used a sort of black stone, to which water was applied.

About two centuries and a half before the birth of Christ, a new departure arose in Kiang-si province, where they began to manufacture balls of lampblack made of a mixture of lacquer, firwood, and size. The new invention was warmly welcomed, and the processes rapidly improved. A poet, Ouï-fou-jen, celebrating the novel aid to literature, mentions with especial praise the ink that was made from the firs that grew on the hillsides of Lou-chan, in the province of Kiang-si. This province was celebrated for the fine quality of its ink; and under the Tang dynasty, in the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries of our era, there was an overseer who was a government official and whose functions were hereditary. Every year, a certain number of sticks of ink were sent to the Emperor as tribute.

During the reign of the Tang dynasty, we are told that the ink grew blacker with age, and that the size hardening, made the sticks as hard as stone. This points to the early development of the industry; for these characteristics of more than a thousand years ago are precisely those which are still regarded as the true tests of excellence. There is even some reason to think that there were state manufactories. The names of Li-tsao, Tchou-feung—whose place was called the Fir-burning Workshop—and of Li-tchao have been recorded as makers of excellence; but the son of the last-named, Li-ting-kouei, is still regarded as the most famous of ink-makers. He was an ingenious person, and moulded his ‘sticks’ of ink into a variety of quaint forms; and his ‘swords’ and ‘cakes’ were greatly admired. His reputation, however, rests on a more solid basis than a talent for fancy shapes. The sterling character of the man was reflected in his work; and the excellence and good quality of his ink attracted general admiration. It was said that if you wanted to test the genuineness of an ink-stick that professed to be from his workshop, you must break it in pieces, and throw the bits into a vessel of water. If the pieces at the end of a month remained intact and undissolved, it was a proof that the ink had come from the works of Li-ting-kouei.

There are points of contact between the manners of the East and West, for an honorific syllable or title was granted by the Emperor to the successful ink-maker, who thus became Lhi-ting-kouei. Another famous ink-maker was Tchang-yu, who was furnisher to the household of the Emperors under the dynasty of the Song, who flourished from 998 to 1023. The manufacture, however, declined in its artistic quality; but sometimes a maker arose who gave it a fresh impetus and importance. Two of these are named Pan-kou and Tchai-sin, the latter of whom is said to have rediscovered some of the antique processes by which Li-ting-kouei had gained his renown. A great variety of processes have been employed, and nearly every kind of combustible has been used for the production of the lampblack. The Emperor Hsiuan-tsong made use of perfumed rice-powder steeped in a decoction of _Hibiscus mutabilis_. At one locality where petroleum is used for lighting purposes, the lampblack resulting from its combustion is said to make an ink which for brilliance and blackness is superior to that made from firwood. The latter was, however, formerly the great source of Indian ink. After the lampblack or soot obtained by the burning of the wood, the most important thing is the size by which the particles are held together. This is frequently of animal origin. The horns of the stag and of the rhinoceros are said to be laid under contribution; as also the ox and various kinds of fishes. There is some reason to think that this industry came to the Middle Kingdom from Corea. At the present time, it is said that, instead of firwood, the oleaginous matters of the _Dryandra cordata_ and grains of hemp are almost universally used. In some places, the _Gleditschia sinensis_ is preferred, and even the cane-flower and the haricot do not escape. It is curious that the Chinese author Chen-ki-souen does not mention the _Sesamum orientale_, which is generally regarded as the chief source from which the soot of Indian ink is now obtained. The processes of the manufacture have been elaborately described, and Chinese artists have exerted their ingenuity to portray all the details of an industry so important both to literature and art. In Europe, Indian ink is used for drawings only; but in China, it is the instrument by which the poet writes his verses and by which the judge records his sentences, as well as that by which the artist embodies his fugitive fancies.

Chinese imagination has run riot in doing honour to ink. As there are divinities to preside over almost every object, the instruments of literature do not lack their supernatural guardians, and their place and precedence are settled by strict rules of etiquette. The ‘Prefect of the Black Perfume’ is the official style of the ink-deity, and he ranks higher than the ‘Guardian Spirit of the Pencil;’ whilst on a still lower level stands the ‘Genius of Paper.’ One day when the Emperor Hiuan-tsong, of the Tang dynasty, was at work in his study, suddenly there popped out from a stick of ink that lay upon his table a quaint figure no larger than a fly, but having all the appearance of a Taoist priest. The startled monarch was soon reassured by the words of the apparition. ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘the Genius of the Ink. My title is the Envoy of the Black Fir, and I have to announce to you that henceforth, when a man of true learning or genius writes, the Twelve Deities of Ink shall make their appearance to testify to the reality of his powers.’ Alas for literature! From that day to this, the Twelve Deities of Ink have remained invisible, although many centuries have passed away.

THE GREAT JEWEL ROBBERY.

The little world of fashionable London society was startled a few years ago by reports of a series of daring jewel robberies. The most costly gems seemed to disappear as if by magic under the very eyes of their owners. These robberies defied detection. A clue in one case was upset by the facts in another. When my aid as private detective was called in, I resolved to confine my attention to three distinct cases, though, of course, if useful information came in my way concerning other matters, I should know how to take advantage of it.

The first of the three on my list was the case of the Dowager Lady A., a somewhat eccentric old lady, who found her chief delight in arraying herself in her most valuable jewels and visiting in regular rotation all the West-end theatres. One night, when returning from one of these expeditions, her carriage had been overturned by colliding with an omnibus. The dowager was seriously injured, and within a few days she was dead. Then, apparently for the first time, it was discovered that the whole of the jewels worn by Lady A. on the night of the carriage accident had mysteriously disappeared. Her maid was so overcome by the sight of her injured mistress, that she failed altogether to remember what was done with these jewels at the moment when her ladyship was undressed. It was even a question whether they might not have been actually lost in the street during the confusion of the accident. At all events, no trace of them could be found, and it soon became evident that in the excitement of summoning relatives, fetching doctors, and, very soon, nurses and undertakers, half-a-dozen persons might have entered the house and walked off with the jewels without any chance of detection.

Then I turned my attention to the second case—that of the young Countess of B. There seemed less room for doubt in this instance. The fashionable wedding of the autumn had been that of the Earl of B. with Miss Blank. There had been a churchful of people at St George’s, Hanover Square, and a host of guests at the breakfast at the _Unique Hotel_. On the morning of the wedding, the earl had presented his bride with a magnificent tiara of diamonds. As the ‘happy pair’ were to start almost immediately for the continent, these diamonds, inclosed in a case, were hastily packed in a travelling bag, which the bride’s travelling maid was never to let out of her sight. On arriving at Paris, the bag was apparently intact; but on opening the jewel-case, the tiara was amissing. Clearly, it must have been cleverly extracted from the case while lying in the bride’s dressing-room, the empty case then being placed in the bag. Who had stolen the countess’s diamonds? The maid, the bride’s mother, and a younger brother had alone, as far as it was known, entered the room where the jewels were lying. I don’t mind saying I had some difficulty in believing that a _bonâ fide_ robbery had been committed. You may not believe it, but I am convinced that many a startling robbery of jewels would be explained, if we knew of all the private debts incurred by ladies of fashion, and of the sacrifices sometimes made by them to screen from disgrace themselves or some deeply involved connection.

Meanwhile, I made inquiries concerning robbery number three. This was at Colonel C.’s. There the only thing missed was a very valuable bracelet. There had been a dance at the house. During the evening, Mrs C. had slipped and sprained her ankle so severely that a doctor had to be summoned, and the party was somewhat prematurely brought to a close. Mrs C. distinctly remembered wearing the bracelet; but whether she had it on at the moment of falling, she could not remember. There had been naturally some confusion in the ballroom, and the lady had been carried to her own room. It was not for some hours that the loss of the bracelet was noticed. Then a search was made, but altogether without success.

In the first and third of these cases, suspicion seemed to point at once to some member of the household; but all my inquiries failed to find any trace of the missing property. The servants all willingly consented, nay, even offered, to have their boxes searched, and for some weeks I confessed myself baffled. The missing property had disappeared as completely as though it had never existed.

Again and again I went over the whole circumstances as they had been related to me. There was, I reflected, one circumstance common to all three of the robberies, if robberies they were. There had been at the time some unusual amount of confusion, all lending opportunity for a theft to take place without immediate detection. The Dowager Lady A.’s diamonds had been stolen during her illness, or about the time of her death. The Countess of B. had lost her diamonds during the excitement of a wedding breakfast at an hotel. At Colonel C.’s house, there had been a ball on the night when the bracelet was lost. Was there any one, I asked myself, who, by chance or intention, had been present at each place at the time of the robbery? Any occasional waiter, for example, or servant of any kind? I could not find that there had been. Yet, if the thief were not one of the household, how was it that a stranger should in three separate instances fix on an establishment where the circumstances were favourable to a robbery of valuable property? In two cases, there had been illness and a hasty summoning of doctors. That led to another thought: was it possible that some experienced thief or gang of thieves had laid themselves out to track the broughams of fashionable West-end physicians, on the chance of finding hall doors left open, and property somewhat loosely guarded?

I had not thought of such a thing seriously before; but it seemed now to be an idea worth following up. Once more I resumed inquiries. Who was the doctor summoned in the case of the Dowager Lady A.? I easily ascertained. It was one of the best known men, at that time, in London. He and his brougham would be familiar to every thief who frequented West-end thoroughfares. I next inquired at Colonel C.’s. To my satisfaction, I learnt that the same doctor had attended in this case. ‘Here,’ I said to myself, ‘I begin to see daylight.’ Shortly afterwards, I made a further discovery. The coachman who drove the famous physician to Lady A.’s on the night of the accident, and to Colonel C.’s on the night of the ball, had only been in his employ a few weeks; and on the date of the Earl of B.’s wedding, the man had driven the carriage of one of the guests at the breakfast.

The clue I felt was becoming strong. The thief, I grew convinced, was a confederate of the grave-faced man in spotless black who drove the fashionable doctor from one house of sickness to another. I resolved to obtain an interview with the doctor, and after explaining my suspicions, plan some mode of detecting so consummate a rascal. Circumstances occurred to make me resolve to carry out my purpose without delay.

My journey took me to one of the somewhat sombre-looking streets that run down to the Thames, from the Chelsea side, between Chelsea Bridge and Battersea Bridge. The name ‘Gideon West, M.D., Physician and Surgeon,’ inscribed on a brass plate told me when I had reached my destination. Dr West, I was informed, was still out, late though it was; and the time of his coming home was most uncertain. I was determined, however, not to return without seeing him; and after assuring the tired-looking servant that I should certainly await Dr West’s return, even if I had to spend the night on the doorstep, I was shown into the consulting-room, where a wood-fire was still burning on the hearth. Seating myself in an armchair with a high screen behind me, I settled down to my vigil, however long it might be.

I had often noticed the house; for who did not feel some interest in so famous a medical man as Gideon West? Why he had chosen such a house I did not learn until afterwards; but I knew it was an old-fashioned, rambling sort of place, with a room built on here at one time, and there at another time. Windows had been blocked up at one place, and windows had been let in at another. In fact, it was a house that seemed to defy a stranger to explain upon what rule, or what want of rule, it had been so constructed.

Those who first heard of Gideon West as one of the most famous physicians in London, asked in astonishment how he could live in such a ramshackle-looking building. Perhaps they forgot that even famous doctors were not born famous. Gideon West, when he entered on his professional career, was anything but famous, and he was as poor as he well could be. Father and mother were dead, brothers and sisters he had none. An almost forgotten god-mother had, to his surprise, left him the old house at Chelsea. This was about the time he received his diploma. Thereupon, Gideon West married, for love, a girl without a penny, settled himself in his new possession, had the brass plate affixed to the door, and awaited the patients who were to prove his skill and make his fortune. It was a weary waiting; but the young bride had unlimited trust in her husband, and Gideon West never for an instant lost faith in himself. Slowly, very slowly, a small practice grew upon his hands; but the struggle that only braced Gideon West for the battle of life proved too terrible for the frail young wife. But there was no complaining, no repining, no word to tell of doubt, much less of despair, and Gideon West battled on. He knew, as though it had already come, that he should at last prevail. He had measured his own strength, and felt that he could trust it. But—and it was that _but_ alone which troubled him—suppose he should have to wait years and years—suppose, as those years went by, he should see the colour pale on the face he loved; the brightness fade from the eyes he delighted to gaze into—suppose his long years of waiting were marked in the lines on his wife’s young face—suppose when the golden gates of fortune flew open, he should find it was—too late!

How long I sat dreaming in Dr West’s room, I know not; but it is certain I must have fallen asleep before the crackling embers. When I awoke, I found myself in all but darkness. The gas had been lowered, and only a flickering glow from the dying fire remained to cast drear and fantastic shadows on the ceiling. Many hours must have passed. I must have been forgotten when the servants retired to rest, and Dr West either had not returned, or had not been made aware of my presence. My position was embarrassing. To wake up in the middle of the night and to find myself in a strange house, was a new experience. I groped about the room and felt for the door by which I had entered. It was locked. Bell of any sort I could find none. I tried to raise my voice; but the death-stillness and darkness of the room seemed to stifle me. I found the window, and looked out. It opened high above a courtyard closed in by walls. Again I tried the door. Then I remembered that it was a sort of passage-room; that there was a door leading from it to an apartment beyond. I managed to find this door, covered as it was with heavy tapestry hangings. Feeling very much like a thief, I tried the handle. It turned in my hand, and the door yielded noiselessly. Beyond, I saw a large square chamber, evidently a bedroom; but the bed was unoccupied. It was a quaint and haunted-looking room, with high oaken skirting and panelled ceiling. A couple of candles burned on the dressing-table, and threw a faint light over the dark furniture and the tapestries that hung against the walls.

Once more I tried to call out; but my tongue seemed dried up, and my voice refused to be heard. Presently, to my relief I heard a human voice. It evidently came from an apartment beyond the one into which I had ventured. Impelled, I hardly knew how, I resolved to venture farther; and as my footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick carpet, I could hardly believe I was not wandering in a dream through the mysterious chambers of the dead.

Yet more and more distinctly I heard the sad low voice that had caught my ear; and I approached stealthily, and I confess with something like awe, the door, which, as I perceived, opened from the bedroom to the chamber whence the voice proceeded. Here, as before, a curtain of antique tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor, concealed the aperture; and trying cautiously the door, I found that it opened towards me. This gave me time to reflect before intruding, with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, into the privacy of this innermost chamber. Like a guilty creature, I stood and listened. The voice—for there seemed to be but one—was close at hand. It was a strangely melancholy voice, yet possessing a fascinating power that chained me to the spot.

‘Will you never, never speak to me again, my darling, my darling!’ I heard the words too plainly to mistake or forget them. ‘Will you never speak to me again! Year after year, as the day comes round, I have prayed to God to grant me but one sweet word—one word to tell me of your love! Oh, my darling, my darling, have I prayed in vain? Will those lips never again open with a smile, those eyes never again look into mine, even when I come to you on my knees, as I do this Christmas morning!’

These strange words reproached me. Into what sacred precincts had I intruded? What heart-breaking grief was I desecrating?

Suddenly the tone of voice changed. The sad pathos gave way to accents of joy. ‘See! see, my beloved one; here are gifts worthy of a queen. Did I not tell you the time would come when all our struggles would be over; when there would be no more fighting for very bread; no more daily care; no more dread of the future; no fears for success, because it would be already mine! Ah, Gertrude, my wife, my darling, you were good and patient to me in those days. If the clouds were dark, your eyes were always bright; if the heavens were overcast, your smile drove away the storm; your voice was the music of my life, your ceaseless trust was my lodestar. But all has changed. Those days have passed. I am rich now; they say I am famous. The day is now too short for my work, and the night too short for rest. And yet I need rest. I feel I cannot live much longer if I may not rest. My brain is ever reeling with its weariness, yet I cannot sleep. Night after night is one long vigil. No sleep, no rest, no peace! I have been waiting for this night, for you, my love, for you! And now the hour has come. It is Christmas morning.—Hark! already I hear the sound of the Christmas bells. Ah! no wonder, for my wife, my beloved, has come back to me at last—come back to me from the dead!’

In feverish excitement, I listened. But there was no answer—not a sound, when that trembling voice ceased, to break the stillness of the night.

Presently, it began again. ‘They tell me it is thirty years ago. Nonsense! That is only a dream. It was yesterday—yesterday, that you spoke to me for the last time—yesterday, that you bade me good-bye, and kissed me when I went away. And to-day, you are as you were then. No change, no change, none at all. You are as young and as fair as when I first took your hand in mine and called you “wife.”’

Then there was a pause, and I was conscious of some movement beyond the tapestry behind which I was guiltily hiding.

What followed startled me, but it called me back to life. With a voice thrilling with emotion, the man once more broke the silence. ‘Gertrude! These are yours. This is your birthday, and our old wedding-day, and I have not forgotten you. You do not yet believe that I am rich and famous, and that your husband has many friends. See! These are gifts from those whom I have rescued from death! They are thank-offerings to the “doctor’s wife.” Here is a bracelet. It is set with emeralds. No rarer could be found. Ah! how charming it looks on that dainty wrist! And here is something a princess might wear. It is a tiara of diamonds; and it is yours. Ah, my wife, let me place it on your brow! Oh, my queen, my queen!’

Unable to restrain myself longer, I cautiously drew aside the tapestry and peered into the chamber beyond it. It was comparatively small, but richly furnished, though in the fashion of olden times. It was, I thought, a lady’s boudoir; but from where I was concealed, only a portion of the room was revealed to my view. It was not the room that arrested my attention, but what it contained. On a small table, almost within reach, lay those very ornaments—the earrings, the necklet, the pendant—of rubies and pearls, the loss of which had first led me to unravel, if I could, the mystery of the great jewel robbery. I could not be mistaken. The description given me had been most minute. An exact counterpart of the set was not in existence; and here it lay on the table before me.

As I looked on with astonishment, from the part of the room I could not see there approached me, slowly and with pensive step and bowed head, like one walking in his sleep, the man whom I now almost dreaded to see—the famous doctor, Gideon West.

Could he be the author of these mysterious thefts? I could not believe it, and yet the proofs of his guilt lay before me. No longer hesitating, I stepped forward. So sudden and so unexpected was my appearance, that the man was unconscious of my presence until I had placed my hands upon his arm and gasped in trembling tones: ‘Dr West—I—arrest’—— But the sentence was never completed.

With a cry that might have been heard almost in the grave, the unhappy man shrank from me. At that instant, I turned in the direction to which he was pointing, with that agonised look upon his face; and as I did so, I loosened my hold and my hands fell powerless to my side. In the corner of the chamber hitherto hidden from me, I saw one of those old-fashioned bedsteads, with heavy draperies around it. The curtains were of silk, once a pearly white, now dulled and faded by age. The counterpane and pillow, once like driven snow, were white no more. Lying on the bed, with her head on the pillow, and her body partially concealed by the bed-linen, I saw the form of a woman—a woman who must once have been fair and beautiful to behold. Her luxuriant hair fell in wreaths on each side her face, and was then brought together over the bare white throat. Her arms were uncovered by the counterpane, and, clasping an infant child in their embrace, lay folded across her breast.

As I realised all the details of what seemed like a vision, I confess that my nerves failed me. I could only look at that cold pale face, lying so still on the pillow, with the child-face nestling beside it; and as I looked, I realised that the stillness was the stillness of death.

Like one entranced, I remained motionless for some moments, when again I was aroused to action.

A figure clothed in white—the face scarcely less pale than the face of the dead, the scanty locks of hair, white with age, hanging loosely about her shoulders, the eyes fixed on the bed, and the hands stretched out supplicatingly towards it—glided into the room. Then catching sight of the prostrate figure of the man who had cast himself beside the bed, with his hands spread out on the form that lay there, this apparition of woe, turning on me a glance of reproach that will haunt me to my dying day, exclaimed, amid streaming tears: ‘You have killed him! My son, my son!’

* * * * *

And now, how shall I finish my story without wearying you with explanations? Let me go back to that old question once asked by Gideon West: ‘What if success should come too late?’ For all the happiness it could bring him, it did come too late. His struggle with fate, if not a long, had been a bitter one. There fell a grievous sickness on the neighbourhood; disease and death stalked abroad, and mowed down their victims without counting the numbers. Against the grim tyrants, Gideon West fought day and night; his energy was endless, his courage undaunted; and he triumphed. No; not Gideon West; but the weapons of science triumphed in his hands. Disease and death were driven from the field; as they fled, they shot one last bolt at their victor—it glanced off his armour, but left his wife and child dead at his side.

Yes; he had won. But what was the victory worth? Fame, reward, wealth, all were his; but the one hope of his life was dead. Yet he never spared himself—never ceased work for a day—never hesitated at any sacrifice. He lived, he said, for only one object—it was to ‘wear out his life.’ The old home knew him to the end, and one faithful and devoted woman gave all her years to cheer the one hero of her life, the poor struggling surgeon, the great physician—the man who for pure love had married her only child: Gertrude’s husband!

But the end came suddenly at last, and outwardly there seemed to be no signs of failing power. The mind seemed as fresh and as vigorous as ever. Only in one direction did it give way. Years of never-ceasing brooding over his dead wife and child did its work; and as the sad anniversary of his wife’s birthday, her marriage, and of her death, once more approached, the strain overpowered him. A mania seized him; he must offer her the most costly treasures. Yet they must not appear to come from him, but from others, from those who owed their health, their life, to his skill. They must be proofs of his fame—proofs to the dead wife of her husband’s triumph. The mania grew upon him. Wherever he saw anything that was of peculiar value, he seemed to claim it as his own, fully persuaded, as I believe, that it was a willing offering to the memory of his dead wife. And so those once inexplicable disappearances were explained. No one suspected, would dream of suspecting, the great doctor; and sane in everything else, yet with his brilliant intellect already ripe for decay, the unhappy man for weeks past had been the victim of a mania he neither comprehended nor was able to resist. I learnt afterwards that a medical conference had taken him to the house where the countess’s diamonds were lost on that particular morning, and he must by accident have entered the room where the diamonds were momentarily left unguarded, and at once he had been led, by an irresistible impulse, to possess them.

* * * * *

Before I left that strangely haunted house at Chelsea on that Christmas morning, the twice-stricken mother led me to the dread bedside and placed my hands on the cold face. I looked at the mother, and then I felt the white hands that lay clasped before me. The woman read my thoughts.

‘No,’ she whispered; ‘it is not the flesh of mortal! It is but a fearful counterfeit of death. It was modelled from the dead wife and child, and was to have been reproduced in marble for Gertrude’s tomb. But Gideon West would not have it removed. Call it a morbid fancy or a passionate love, which you will; but for years he has spent the hours of his solitude beside this poor image of his wife!—Now, tell me, was yonder dead man a thief, or was he the victim to unconquerable mania?’

For Gideon West was dead, and his secret died with him.

We laid him on his own bed; and when the coroner’s jury said next day that he died ‘by the visitation of God,’ they spoke the truth.

The lost jewels were restored to their owners with the simple explanation that he who had taken them was beyond the reach of human justice.

For my part in the restitution, I was generously rewarded; but it was the last investigation I ever undertook. Many years have passed, and the world soon forgets; but I thought it would interest some to learn what I knew concerning the Great Jewel Robbery.

THE CULTIVATION OF CELERY.

Celery is an important and useful anti-scorbutic vegetable, which can be prepared for table in many ways, or simply used in soup. It is also by some held to be a good specific against rheumatism. Within the last seven years, celery-growing has become quite a business in North Notts and South Yorkshire. Within a radius of ten miles of Bawtry, in the latter county, twenty-five acres of land sufficed for the crop in 1878; but during 1885, upwards of four hundred acres were devoted to the cultivation of celery. Peat with a clayey or cool subsoil answers better for growing celery than stronger land. Most kinds of crops exhaust the land, but celery improves it.

The seed-beds are prepared in January and early in February, of leaves or manure, or any kind of heating material at hand. We learn from a communication by Mr C. M. Brewin, of Bawtry, that the earliest crops are ready for taking up the first week in September, and realise from two to three shillings per dozen roots retail price. The crop is worth from fifty-five to sixty pounds per acre, often more for very good crops; later crops from thirty-five to forty-five pounds per acre. The number of plants required per acre is sixteen thousand. Cost of labour in producing earliest crops on the ground: Average rent from thirty-five shillings to two pounds per acre; rates, taxes, and tithe, ten shillings per acre; manure, from nine to ten pounds per acre; labour, ten pounds per acre; carting to stations, four pounds per acre: leaving a profit for the best early crops of twenty-eight to thirty-two pounds. For late crops, labour is two pounds less, bringing a profit of ten to twenty pounds per acre. There are some failures, which are generally in the first year. The average quantity sent away weekly from various stations in the neighbourhood is two hundred tons.

Several labourers, very poor men, have started with small plots, and worked them in early morning before their ordinary day’s work began, and in the evenings, with the assistance of their wives and children. These men have now, some one horse and cart, and others two, and grow from two to five acres each.

SPRING’S ADVENT.

I looked forth on the world to-day,
As waked the rosy morn,
And every budding leaf and blade
Proclaimed the Spring was born.
The southern wind’s seductive wiles
My footsteps lured along
Far from the town’s unlovely ways,
Far from its madding throng.

O sweet the first glad greeting is
With nature, when the Spring
Is spreading forth her tender charms,
And flowers are blossoming!
O sweet to tread the soft green earth
When fresh the breezes blow,
Untrammelled by a thought of care,
And free to come or go!

The lambs were bleating on the hills
Where farmsteads nestling lie,
Safe sheltered from the rude fierce blasts
That storm the hill-tops high.
The swallow’s glanced on flashing wing;
Dear birds of promise they,
That speak the reign of winter past,
Dawn of a brighter day.

Down from the heavens the poet-lark
His numbers madly flung
In liquid notes of purest joy,
That through the valley rung;
And leaping streams, from winter’s yoke
So glad to be set free,
Took up the jocund minstrelsy,
And bore it to the sea.

In sportive glee the children trooped
The meadow-paths along,
And carolled forth, in happy voice,
A careless snatch of song.
Ah, well they know the sunlit spot
Where first the primrose sweet
Looks out upon the wooded copse
The waking earth to greet.

O happy children! life to you
Is full of light and flowers;
Athwart whose skies of tender blue
No threatening storm-cloud lowers.
I wonder, do ye ever think
Of children far away,
Who only see through vistas dim
God’s glorious light of day!

Whose lives are spent in narrow streets,
Or alleys foul with sin;
Where squalor, poverty, and death,
Alas! are rife within.
No fresh pure winds their tresses blow,
Green fields they never trod,
Or plucked the nodding flowers that grow
Fresh from the hand of God.

O little children! young, yet old
In life’s excess of woe,
I dread for you the dreary ways
Your faltering feet must go.
O little eyes, that never yet
Beheld a lovely thing,
I wonder what your joy shall be
Through God’s eternal Spring!

CHARLES H. BARSTOW.

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

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