Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

(MISS) PHŒBE MASTERMAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHOTOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DAVID’S SON SOLOMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Never redeemed?’

‘No.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Two thousand pounds,’ replied Miss Rachel.

‘Ah! A large price. May I see it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Two thousand pounds.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The very man!’ cried Mr Jones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

A NEW ART-GUILD.

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

A RETROSPECT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

J. B. L.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

_All Rights Reserved._