Chapter II: Part 2

‘I am utterly baffled,’ he wrote, in a very shaky hand. ‘The experiment from which I hoped so much has turned out an utter failure. All the substances submitted to me have been subjected to the most minute and delicate tests known to science, without discovering in any one of them the slightest trace of arsenic, or any other poison. I am in despair. I know that somehow my darling’s life is being undermined by poison, and yet I cannot trace it. I am powerless to interfere. I have nothing but suspicion to go upon, and dare not apply for a magistrate’s warrant. My only hope is in you, Miss Armitage!’

I knew I was but a slender reed to trust to; and I went up-stairs to the sickroom, feeling miserable to the last degree. Mrs Morrell was seated by the bedside. Edith looked paler and thinner than ever. She moaned out, when she saw me, that she was ‘so thirsty;’ and had hardly been supplied with a cooling draught, when the racking cramps from which she had lately suffered so terribly, came on, and she writhed in every limb. I wiped the cold dews from her forehead, afraid at the moment that she was dying, the attack was so terribly severe, and seemed to exhaust her so much. By-and-by, she fell into a doze, and Mrs Morrell went out of the room. Feeling perfectly desperate, I commenced a thorough search through the apartment for anything suspicious, without finding the smallest thing which could serve as a clue. Probably I aroused the invalid, for, in returning to the bedside, I found her staring at me with the fixed gaze of a sick person.

‘Edith, dear, tell me, have you ever seen Mrs Morrell—or anybody—put any powder or liquid into your medicine or your food? Have you ever noticed that it had a disagreeable taste, or a sediment at the bottom?’

‘No, never,’ she answered, with evident surprise. Her brain was clear enough between the paroxysms. ‘Never, Alice.’

Just then, a tap sounded at the door, and purblind old Dr Stevens came tottering in, nearly upsetting a small table, and seeming scarcely able to hold his patient’s wrist firm in his shaky old fingers. I watched him with the maddening feeling, that if ever two unscrupulous poisoners had the very medical man most desirable in their case, it was these two. Mrs Morrell came into the room, as usual during his visits, and followed him down-stairs.

I waylaid her later on in the day and asked her what Dr Stevens had said. She replied, that unfortunately their darling was very ill, but while there was life there was hope. Then summoning all my nerve, I boldly asked that I might be allowed to sit up with Edith that night. She looked rather astonished, then, thanking me warmly for my ‘kind offer,’ declined on the plea of not robbing me of my rest. I replied that it was not fair that she should have all the night-nursing; but all I got was a very decided ‘No.’

I went away convinced that the danger, whatever it was, was reserved for the night. When the invalid was left alone with her traitorous nurse, in some form the poison was administered.

‘Does Mrs Morrell sit beside you all night?’ I asked Edith, next time we were alone.

‘O no. She would, if I wanted her; but I don’t like it. It fidgets me to see her. Besides, I generally sleep pretty well the first part of the night. She puts on her dressing-gown and lies on the bed in the next room, ready to come if I call her.’

The mystery only seemed to grow the more inscrutable, the further I pursued it. I went thoughtfully to my room, in search of a book I was reading aloud to Edith, promising to return immediately. As I stooped to lift the volume from a low shelf, the one ring I wore, which had always been a great deal too large for me, slipped from my finger and rolled away across the floor, to disappear underneath the hangings of my large, old-fashioned bedstead. Much annoyed, and anxious to recover it, for it was priceless to me as my dear mother’s engagement ring, I went down on my hands and knees and tried to find it; but in vain. The darkness under the massive draperies was complete, and I could see nothing in the shadow.

I looked round for a light. But there was no gas at the Hall, and my candlestick was carried down-stairs every morning by the housemaid, to reappear no more until late in the evening, on the slab in the hall. I scarcely liked to ring for it, for my position disposed me to trouble the servants as little as possible. All at once, I recollected that the candlesticks were never taken out of Edith’s room, and that I could borrow one of hers. I did so, and lighted it, and setting it on the floor, I soon found my ring.

‘How badly that candle burns, to be sure!’ I remarked to myself as I rose to my feet. ‘The wax cannot be good.’ The light was anything but pure, being of a peculiar reddish colour; and the flame sputtered so much, that more than once I thought it was going out. At the same time it gave off a fine white smoke.

I stood watching the sputtering flame for some minutes, much puzzled, until I remembered that the invalid was alone all this time. So I carried the candle, still burning, back to her room. To explain my delay, I pointed out what I had noticed, saying that I thought the servants must have substituted some inferior articles of their own for good wax candles, either from carelessness or dishonesty.

‘The servants never meddle with my candlesticks,’ said Edith languidly. ‘They are not sent down to the kitchen; but when they want refilling, Mrs Morrell puts fresh ones in here. She keeps them in that cupboard; look, and you’ll see.’

I opened the cupboard for the first time—for I had never had occasion to go to it before—and there, sure enough, were three or four wooden boxes, which proved to be full of wax candles; thirty pounds-weight at least. Before I closed the door again, Mrs Morrell entered the room. I fancied that her face changed and she turned pale as she saw me standing by the cupboard; but if so, she quickly recovered, and when I made some remark about there being a large stock of candles, composedly answered: ‘Yes; she found it best to keep plenty ready at hand, so as not to have to disturb dear Edith by leaving the room to search for lights in the middle of the night.’

I made no further remark, as something warned me it was better to say no more; so I opened my book and began to read.

The next morning, as I was on my way to the invalid’s room about eleven o’clock, I became aware of high voices in the hall, and came upon Mrs Morrell and the housemaid Jane engaged in altercation. Jane, who was generally a civil and obliging girl, was flushed with anger, whilst her mistress was paler than usual.

‘Very well, then, ma’am, I’ll go somewhere else, where I shan’t be called to account for every paltry little bit of candle,’ said the housemaid as I approached.

‘You know perfectly well that it is not the candle I care about, but the disobedience to my express orders, Jane. A month to-day you leave my service.’

‘I’ll go to-day, ma’am; I don’t care if I do lose a month’s wages,’ returned the girl independently.

‘Very well. You need never refer to me for a character,’ said Mrs Morrell, biting her lips, as she followed me to Edith’s room. She said nothing to me in explanation, beyond merely stating that Jane had been very impertinent.

I found Edith in a terribly prostrate condition, and I could see that Dr Stevens, when he came, had very little hope. I watched Mrs Morrell as she hung over the invalid, and wondered whether I ought not to believe that she was the most tender, loving, and devoted of nurses; for I really almost thought that Dr Archer might be mistaken after all, and that her guardians were as anxious for her recovery as I was. She herself evidently realised her danger, for she asked to have the Bible read to her, and would insist upon pressing a valuable diamond ring upon me as a keepsake. My gentle little friend had so won my heart by her unvarying sweetness, that I could not restrain my tears, and retreated to my own room, where I could give free vent to my feelings.

By-and-by, a knock came at my door, and opening it, I confronted Jane in hat and jacket, ready for departure. ‘You’ve always treated me well, miss, and I thought before I go I’d like to tell you why I’m turned out like a thief, without a character, after being here three years!’ began the girl in honest indignation. ‘Mrs Morrell’s sure to take care you hear her story; so, if you please, you shall have mine first!’

‘But I would rather not. You know I am not my own mistress here. Mrs Morrell might not like’——

‘Oh, but, please, miss, do listen. It’s all on account of the candlesticks in Miss Edith’s room. You know, miss, Mrs Morrell never lets us servants touch them—they never go down to the kitchen. But this morning, when I went in at eight to see to the fire, I noticed that one candle had been guttering awfully, and the wax had run down over the sides, and made such a mess as you never saw! Mrs Morrell wasn’t there, and Miss Edith was asleep; so I took the candlestick down with me to clean it, meaning no harm. But I had the breakfast to get ready; and to tell you the truth, Miss Armitage, I forgot about it. By-and-by Mrs Morrell came down-stairs, looking reg’lar pale, and wanting to know who took one of the candlesticks away out of Miss Edith’s room. I said I had. Then Mrs Morrell went on at me awful, and wanted to know how I dared do such a thing; and I was to bring it back at once. Sarah had washed it; but when we came to look for the piece of candle that was in it, nowhere could we find it. I suspect Sarah threw it into the fire. I told Mrs Morrell it was only a little piece, not so long as my finger. But if you’ll believe me, Miss Armitage, she made as much fuss over losing that paltry bit of candle-end as some folks would over a diamond necklace. I really didn’t think missis was so mean. I suppose my temper got up, and when she said I was impertinent and should leave, I told her I’d go to-day.’

‘I fear you have been foolish and hasty, Jane,’ I said reprovingly.

But she went on: ‘The queerest thing of all, Miss Armitage, is, that when Mrs Morrell first came into the kitchen she was as white as a sheet. I should have said she was frightened—only it seems ridiculous that any lady could ever be afraid of losing a candle-end! I can’t make it out at all, miss. She always is so mortally stingy with those candles of Miss Edith’s. Do you know, is there anything about them, miss, that makes them more valuable than other candles?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘Well, really, do you know, miss, I’ve sometimes thought there must be something odd about them,’ said Jane, turning to go. ‘I know, for one thing, they’re not bought with the rest from the grocer at Beecham, but come all the way from London; so perhaps that’s why Mrs Morrell sets such store by them.—And now, miss, I’ll say good-bye.’

I gave the honest girl a little silk handkerchief as a parting gift, and sat down to ruminate on what I had just heard. A drowning man clutches at a straw; and in my terrible distress of mind, I was ready to clutch at any theory, however absurd, for solving the mystery of Edith’s illness. Jane’s casual remark about there being something queer about the candles so lavishly burned in the sickroom, had set me thinking whether after all there might not be something deleterious in them, intended to act injuriously upon the invalid. It was certain they burned very badly, as if there were some foreign substance incorporated in them. On the other hand, I had never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that there could be such things as poisonous candles. I had never heard of them before. The theory seemed to me at best a very wild one; but Edith’s life was at stake, and I was bound to do my very uttermost to aid her. Mrs Morrell’s conduct about the candles seemed odd and suspicious all through. The jealous watch she kept over them; her dread of losing them; her unwillingness to let me be in Edith’s room by candle-light—surely all these extraordinary precautions meant something.

Feeling perfectly desperate, I went back to the sickroom. Edith was lying back on her pillows in utter exhaustion, and Mrs Morrell was softly reading a chapter of St John’s Gospel. Seeing no other way out of the difficulty, I said boldly: ‘Mrs Morrell, if you will go down-stairs into the dining-room, I think Mr Foster wants to speak to you.’

It was an untruth; but I could not afford to be too scrupulous. Mrs Morrell disappeared. I sprang to the cupboard, and took two candles out of a box, and at once went to hide them in my room. When the widow came back, saying she could not find her brother anywhere—I had seen him leave the house some time before—I apologised, and professed to have misunderstood the message. She resumed her reading, whilst I slipped out of the room and hastily put on my outdoor garments. I knew that in going out without leave at such a moment, I risked losing my situation; but I did not care; I was in no mood to stand upon etiquette.

I made my way to the village, to the cottage of a trustworthy man who was sometimes employed to do odd jobs about the Hall. He readily promised to take my small parcel to Dr Archer at once. Had the distance not been three miles, I should have taken it myself.

I heard nothing from Dr Archer during the whole of the next day; and in a perfect torment of doubt and apprehension, I waited and waited, too agitated to eat or sleep, seeing Edith grow worse every hour, and fearing that after all she would die before the mystery of her illness could be solved. She was in a state of prostration fearful to witness. Restless and miserable, I sat in the sickroom or wandered about the house, and had the further trial of seeing that my behaviour had at last aroused suspicion in my employers’ minds, and that a quiet surveillance was kept upon my movements. Although I had made no appointment, and scarcely expected to meet Dr Archer, I endeavoured to be in the afternoon in the fir plantation which had already been the scene of several interviews; but Mr Foster so decidedly intimated his intention of accompanying me if I took a walk, that I abandoned the attempt. I detected under the mask of grief so cleverly assumed by both brother and sister, a subdued eagerness and restlessness, attributable no doubt to anxiety as to the success of their scheme.

I felt that all was as good as lost, when, on entering the sickroom on the second morning, I found Edith pallid and almost lifeless, and learned that Mrs Morrell, in real or pretended alarm, had already sent off a messenger for Dr Stevens.

Sick at heart, I sat down by the bedside, and watched the invalid, who was too far gone to recognise me, as she usually did. There came a tap at the door, and ‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted,’ in the voice of one of the maids; and the widow rose and noiselessly glided out of the room. My ears were quickened by anxiety, and my curiosity was intense at hearing a short sharp scream, a scuffle, and the sound of an authoritative man’s voice on the landing outside. Edith was too languid to notice anything; and even when the door opened again and Dr Archer and an elderly gentleman entered the room, she never opened her eyes.

‘My darling! Have the wretches brought you to this?’ was the young doctor’s quick exclamation; and hurrying to the window, which Mrs Morrell had always religiously kept closed, he opened it, and a stream of chilly but life-giving air came rushing in. The other doctor, who was, I afterwards found, an eminent physician from London, bent over the patient, examining her pulse and administering restoratives. I glanced interrogatively at Dr Archer and murmured one word.

‘Those candles? Poisoned. Thoroughly impregnated with arsenic. A very few nights more of breathing the poisoned air, and nothing could have saved her.—I don’t know how you came to hit upon the clue so cleverly, Miss Armitage; but I shall bless your sagacity all my life long.’

‘And Mrs Morrell and her brother?’

‘Are safely in charge of two policemen, and on their way to the county jail. I analysed those candles at once, and then applied for a magistrate’s warrant, telegraphing to Dr Weston to meet me here. Two policemen in plain clothes were detailed for the arrest, and the affair was managed very quietly, so that even the servants do not know precisely what has happened. Mr Foster was arrested in his study, and made no resistance, although he assumed a high tone of injured innocence.—Do you know, Miss Armitage, where the rest of the poisoned candles are kept?’

In reply I opened the door of the cupboard and pointed to the rows of boxes. He and Dr Weston then carefully locked and sealed up the door, until the state of the invalid should permit a fuller investigation of the apartment. Dr Archer then informed me that a nurse had been telegraphed for from the Nurses’ Home at the county town, and that I need feel no apprehension lest Edith should suffer from the want of skilled attendance.

Nurse Mary soon after arrived, and proved invaluable. All her care and skill, however, were needed to counteract the effects of the poison upon Edith’s delicate frame. For days she hung between life and death. Her convalescence was long and tedious; but at length she recovered sufficiently to leave Gorton Hall for the Isle of Wight, where the pure sea-breezes soon brought back the colour to her cheeks.

Investigation proved that the candles similar to those which had been burned nightly in the sickroom for over two months, were highly deleterious. The wax was pure, but the wicks were impregnated by a strong solution of arsenic. The remainder were analysed, and from them much of the poisonous drug was extracted. The closest research, however, failed to discover from whom they had been originally procured. Beyond the fact that the boxes came from London, their origin remains a mystery to this day. The plans of the conspirators had been so cleverly laid that it was almost impossible to bring their wrongdoing home to them.

I wish I could say that both Edith’s treacherous guardians received an exemplary punishment; but unfortunately, punishment in this world does not always overtake the criminal. Mr Foster maintained the assertion of his innocence to the last; nor was there one tittle of evidence, direct or indirect, against him. Ably defended by a most skilful advocate, he escaped absolutely scot-free. Mrs Morrell maintained the same line of conduct, and was merely sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Dr Archer and I were aghast and bitterly disappointed at such an obvious failure of justice. But we had one small consolation—that Edith’s fortune was secured to her, and that the scheming adventurers who had risked all to grasp her gold were not benefited, after all their trouble, by one farthing.

The Thorndyke family interfered, and her affairs were placed in trustworthy hands until her coming of age. Her twenty-first birthday was also the day of her marriage to Dr Archer; and they are indeed a united pair. I will not write down here all the expressions of gratitude I received from Edith, her lover, and her relatives, for my ‘courage’ and ‘sagacity’ in defeating her step-father’s murderous designs. I declined Edith’s offer of a home with her, for I believed that married people are happiest by themselves; but, though still working for my living, I spend all my holidays with her, and little voices already call me ‘Auntie.’

Their home is perfect in all its appointments; but one fact, which is never explained to casual visitors, sometimes strikes new-comers as strange: nothing will induce Dr Archer to have a wax candle in his house. They set it down as a fad and singular fancy; only Edith, he, and I know the truth.

THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.

These two terms, appendant one to the other, are now to most people somewhat vague, and seem to point out a state of things a little strange. Of course, we all know what a guest is; but we associate that term more with the friendly interchange of courtesy than with the relation between innkeeper and guest in modern times. The usage is derived from a condition of things that has to a great extent disappeared—when the means of communication between one part of the country and another were less rapid and more limited than now. The roads also were far from good; indeed, about the reign of Queen Elizabeth they were so bad that there were only a few coaches existing; and everything had to be done by means of packhorses and light gigs. To many places, especially in Cumberland, Westmorland, North Lancashire, Wales, and many of the western counties, there were no roads, only a beaten path over a huge lonely common, often a long way above the level of the sea, and extending for many hours’ journey. To get to Cumberland out of Westmorland was practically almost impossible, except with the aid of a guide who knew the various passes and the many dangers that lay in the route, including those from the footpad and mounted highwayman. If a traveller visited these lonely places, he would get rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if he came on horseback, his horse was fed and well taken care of.

In those remote times, therefore, the business of an innkeeper was an important accessory to every country village. His house was usually situated on the high-road, and was called by a variety of names, quaint and funny; and sometimes his sign bore the telling legend, which he did well to follow—that he

Selleth goode ale and beer,
And giveth to all righte goode cheer.

Thus the duty of an innkeeper came to be recognised as one which was most important to the state, one which it was the bounden duty of judges of the high courts to look well after.

It is long since the duty of an innkeeper to his guest or traveller was regulated by the common law of the land, while the abuses into which he is liable to fall, have also been made the subject of statute law regulation. The whole law on this subject in England and Scotland is derived from the famous Edict of the Roman prætor, beginning with the words: ‘_Nautæ caupones_.’ Here is a brief outline of what the innkeeper has to do, and what he has to guard against. Before he is allowed to have a license, his house must be proved to be substantial, and to have sufficient accommodation for man and beast. In fact, anything that a traveller may need or reasonably demand, he should and must supply him with. If the innkeeper refuses without any good or justifiable reason, he is liable to be sued for any damages that the traveller may think due to him for such refusal, and for the annoyance and inconvenience caused thereby. The innkeeper is compelled to let into his house at any time of the night any person who is a _bonâ fide_ traveller; immediately to supply him with refreshments, according to his needs, and to put up his horse and vehicle. When he takes the traveller into his house, the latter immediately becomes his guest, and the innkeeper himself is transformed into ‘mine host.’ Here begins the proper employment of the innkeeper. He takes care of his guest’s luggage, houses his carriage, feeds his horse, and does everything for the care and safety of the accompaniments of his guest. If the latter has servants, he puts them up, sees to their welfare and ease, and indeed becomes one of the most hospitable of men. Of course he knows he will be paid for his trouble—perhaps well paid—and this urges him to make everybody as comfortable as possible. It will be kept in view that a coffee-house, a boarding-house, or a lodging-house, is not an inn.

Let us suppose that some of the property of the guest is stolen; some village rogue has noticed the wealth of the traveller or the abundance of luggage, and has secretly—perhaps during the night—entered the house of the innkeeper and made off with something belonging to the traveller. Or, again, the inn might be set on fire, and except the inmates who would escape, everything within it would be destroyed and consumed. Who, then, is responsible for the traveller’s goods? If this had occurred in a friend’s house, or anywhere else, of course the owner would be the loser; but it happened in the house of an innkeeper, amenable to certain precedents of our common law, and he is liable to the full extent of the loss. But in Scotland, a loss by fire is regarded as _damnum fatale_, and the innkeeper is not liable unless a case of fire-raising by the servant of the inn is proved.

You may say this seems hard, and we answer it does; but still it is an exceptional case. At the same time, it shows what an innkeeper is bound to do, and gives additional security to the goods of a person, seeking the assistance of another unknown to him. The case is different from a person taking upon himself the custody of goods for a premium or charge according to the value of the goods so left with him; for it is not necessary that the innkeeper should even know that his guest had any property with him; and for what might appear to be the absurd carelessness of the owner, he is in many cases responsible.

But perhaps it will be better to give a few of the cases which have occurred on this subject, as proving definitely this peculiar feature of our law. We will first take a case which was tried at the Lancaster assizes in 1793, in which it appeared that a merchant called Bennet was accustomed to send his servant with goods to the market at Manchester. At the time in question, this man had bought certain goods, but had not been able to dispose of them. He consequently endeavoured to find a place where he could leave them until the next market-day. He went to an inn, and there asked the wife of the innkeeper—whose name was Mellor—if he might leave them there; but she replied that she could not tell, for they were full of parcels. The servant then sat down, put behind his chair the parcels of goods he had brought, and had some drink. After sitting a little while, he got up, and found that the parcels were missing. Bennet, the master of the servant and owner of the goods, then sued the innkeeper for their value, and obtained a verdict in his favour.

This case certainly gives the idea that the servant was very careless in allowing his goods to be stolen just behind him; but the matter was well argued out on a rule for a new trial of the cause, which was discharged, the judges holding that the man had immediately upon his entry and asking for something to drink become a guest; and the innkeeper was responsible for the care of the goods brought with him into the house, even though his wife had refused to take care of them until the next market-day, for that was a separate transaction.

But let us cite another case, in which a verdict was given for the innkeeper, it being proved that there were suspicious circumstances, which ought to have been guarded against by the owner of the goods sued for. Some seventy years ago, a Birmingham factor in the course of his business stopped at an inn in Oxford, having with him three boxes of valuable goods, chiefly jewellery. As he desired to show his wares to customers, he asked for a private room, which was provided him. The landlady also gave him the key to the room, so that he might lock the door when he went out. The boxes were removed into this room; and a customer calling, the factor opened his boxes and displayed his goods. Several purchases were made. During this time, the door of the room was twice opened; a stranger looked in, begged pardon, and immediately withdrew. The door was then bolted, to prevent further interruption. After they had completed their business, the customer left, and the factor packed up his goods, but did not lock the door. What was stranger still, he said afterwards that he did not know whether he had shut it or left it open. The door also opened into a gateway which led to the street, and on the outside of this door there was found a key. The result of this carelessness was that two of the boxes with their contents were stolen. The factor then endeavoured to recover their value from the innkeeper, but failed. The matter was brought before the superior courts, the judges of which, although they held that the giving of the key to the factor was not sufficient of itself to absolve the innkeeper from his liability, yet they decided he could not be held responsible, after the gross carelessness shown by the plaintiff.

Another case happened at Brighton in 1830, in which a gentleman named Kent sued to recover the value of a reticule and a number of bank-notes which were in it at the time it was stolen. The plaintiff, his wife, and a young lady called Miss Stratford, took a sitting-room and two bedrooms at an hotel in Brighton, so situated that when the door of the sitting-room was open, a person could see the entrances into both bedrooms. Mrs Kent, shortly after they had taken possession, went into one of the bedrooms, laid the reticule on the bed, and afterwards returned into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. After she had been there for about five minutes, she sent Miss Stratford for the reticule; but it was not to be found. Here the jury had no difficulty in finding a verdict for the plaintiff; the only question being, whether money came within the scope of the writ, in the same way as goods undoubtedly did. It being decided in the affirmative, the plaintiff succeeded.

There is no doubt that the liability of the innkeeper is excluded by the contributory negligence of the guest; but the innkeeper must show not only that the guest did not show the ordinary care that might be expected from a prudent man, but also that the loss would not have happened if such care had been shown. But as the guest is entitled to rely on the common-law obligation of the innkeeper, these cases of contributory negligence seldom arise, except where it may be inferred, from the acts or words of the parties, that the innkeeper’s liability has been qualified or superseded, or where the guest is put on his guard by suspicious circumstances. The usual notice on a bedroom wall about locking the door will not protect the innkeeper, unless the guest actually read it and made no objection. The only other case in which an innkeeper is not liable is that of _damnum fatale_, as where the goods are destroyed by a tempest.

Let us take three other cases, which will show a little diversity, but will further explain our subject. A man came to an inn with a horse, and left it under the innkeeper’s care to be fed. The latter put the horse into a field, whence it was stolen; and for this the innkeeper was held to be liable. In the same way, a gentleman, whilst taking refreshments within the house, left his carriage in the care of the hostler, who placed it, as was his custom, in the road; and it was stolen. The innkeeper was held to be responsible.

The peculiarity of these cases is not only in the fact that the place whence the horse and carriage were severally stolen was not in the inn, but also in the circumstance that they were put in a certain place without the sanction or knowledge of the owner. In a similar case, however, in which the owner had asked that the horse should be put out to pasture beyond the precincts of the inn, the innkeeper was exonerated from all liability in respect of its loss.

We think we have shown by these cases that the responsibility of an innkeeper is by no means a light one, and that it may be taken as a fact, that in ordinary and unexceptional cases, he is liable for the goods of his guest. Here we may add in parenthesis, that he is _not_ liable for the person of his guest beyond his own actions; that is, if the guest is assaulted or in any way maltreated on his premises, the innkeeper is not liable beyond what he may himself personally have contributed to such maltreatment. There are, however, many points which may be, and have been, raised, according to the particular circumstances of the case, as where there is attached to the inn an ordinary refreshment bar, and the owner of the goods only makes use of that part of the house; in which case he cannot recover. Again, the innkeeper is only responsible for what happens in his own house—with the exceptions we have before noticed—and by his default, or by that of his servants. He is protected, if the theft is committed by the servants or companions of the traveller. If his house is full, but a person says he will shift for himself among the guests, then he is not responsible for anything that is lost; neither is he, unless the relation of landlord and guest is established.

On this latter point, we will give one more case, which was tried at the last summer assizes at Carlisle. The plaintiff was a traveller for a firm of wine-merchants, and in the course of his journeys he alighted from the train at Carlisle station, to which is connected the _County Hotel_. He at once intrusted his luggage to the hotel porter, with the intention of staying until the next day and sleeping in the hotel. He went up the covered passage into the hotel; but there received a telegram, which he considered necessitated his going to Manchester that day. Before doing so, he asked for some refreshments, and was shown into the refreshment room, which was legally not part of the inn, and not endowed with the same liabilities as the other part, the inn proper. On his way to this room, he met the hotel porter, who asked the number of his room. He said that he did not know whether he was going to stay overnight or not. The porter then locked the luggage in a room in the passage used for that purpose. When the traveller required the luggage, part of it could not be found. For this he sued the innkeeper, but failed, as it was not considered to be satisfactorily proved that he had become a guest of the innkeeper.

By an Act passed in 1863 (26 and 27 Vict. c. 41), the liability of innkeepers for the goods of their guests was limited to the sum of thirty pounds, except in two cases: (1) where the goods were deposited for safe custody; (2) where the goods were stolen, lost, or injured through the wilful act or neglect of the innkeeper. The innkeeper must put up a notice of the Act in the hall of the inn, and he is entitled to require that deposited goods shall be in a sealed box. This Act does not apply to horses and carriages.

INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.

The collection of rents in Ireland is often an unpleasant duty; but amusing incidents sometimes arise. Last year, a farmer in the county of Cavan came to me on the rent-day and said he could not pay more than half the sum he owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times, and low prices, and I listened with patience until he had finished. I then reminded him that his rent had been reduced under the Land Act, and that I had voluntarily cancelled a considerable arrear; and I firmly refused to accept less than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that was his name—was married, and I knew his wife ruled the roast.

‘Now, Mickey,’ said I, ‘you ought to be ashamed of yourself! After what has been done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave better. I am sure your wife would not approve of your conduct.’

Mickey had frequently confided to me that ‘herself’—his wife—gave him ‘a sore life;’ and I desired to learn how far she had meddled in this matter.

After some hesitation, he replied: ‘Well, sir, if ye won’t discover on me, I’ll tell ye the thruth. Herself advised me to pay only half the rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the papers; an’ she tells me a new Land Act will soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out.—Will yer honour take the half-year?’

‘No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest, and pay the money you owe. I feel sure you have it all in your pocket.’

That was a hit; for Mickey, with an Irish peasant’s quick sense of the humour of the situation, replied: ‘Begorra, it’s in two pockets! Herself made up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’ put thim into different pockets, to purvint any mistake; an’ I was only to give yer honour one of thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.’

A few weeks later, when I was collecting rents in the county of Longford, one of the principal tenants came forward, before any money had been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others who were present, and asked for an abatement.

‘Why, Pat Molloy,’ said I, ‘you and all here hold your farms at reduced rents, which you agreed to pay under an amicable arrangement made only two years ago and according to the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot do what you ask; but if you really have not the full year’s rent, I will accept three-fourths of it and give you a reasonable time to pay the remainder.’

‘We thank yer honour,’ said Pat; ‘an’ here is my money.’

‘How much did you give me?’ said I, after I had carefully twice counted the bundle of notes.

‘Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound notes; an’ shure, it’s the hard work I had to make it!’

‘Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy!’ said a voice behind him; ‘faith, it’s not aisy to make the rint those times!’

‘Well, Pat,’ said I, ‘you have given me thirty-nine pounds; and I now have the pleasure of handing you the receipt for the same.’

Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to Pat Molloy in mistake for one pound, and its value was unknown to him, or that he had omitted to take it out of the bundle, could only be matter of conjecture. He kept a close mouth, and left the room.

The misadventure of their leader broke up the concerted union of the tenants; and when I announced, after Molloy departed, that I should insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes were apparently plentiful in the district—nearly all the tenants came forward and paid.

It is well known that a great part of the thirty million of deposits held by the Irish joint-stock banks have been lodged by farmers. I have often received deposit receipts when collecting rents. I remember a thrifty man who used to lodge his savings when they reached even five pounds. On the rent-day, it was his annual custom to enlarge on the badness of the times and the low prices; but he invariably supplied the best refutation of his statements by producing a number of deposit receipts for small sums and indorsing them with much pride.

When the land agitation was at its height a few years ago, a friend of mine was collecting rents one day in a town in the county of Leitrim. He was seated in a large room of a hotel, and nearly fifty tenants were present. Very little money had been paid. Abatements were asked which the agent had no power to make, and there was more conversation than business going on. But my friend understands the Irish character and its love of talk, and he knew that if he permitted the men to expatiate on the reasons why they could not pay, he would be more likely finally to get the money; so, he patiently listened to the usual jeremiades, and bided his time. But fortune favoured him. The ringleader, or chief Land-Leaguer, amongst the assembled tenants was Denis Lynch. He held a small farm, but was also a cattle-dealer, and his time was of value to him; and finding he could extract no further concession from the agent, who had offered a fair abatement, he announced that he would pay a half-year’s rent.

‘I must be off,’ he said, ‘to the fair of Boyle, sir, an’ can’t delay here, like those men. Here is a deposit receipt for ten pounds, an’ the half-year’s rint is nine pounds. But be all the saints, yer honour, I made the little thrifle by dealing, an’ not out of the farm!’

‘Well, Denis,’ said the agent, ‘you could not deal in cattle without a farm to feed and rest your stock; and I have told you that I am instructed not to accept less than a year’s rent. But’—glancing at the deposit receipt, which he had taken from the man, and turning it down on the table—‘indorse this receipt, and I will consider your case.’

Lynch wrote his name across the back of the document; and the other adding his own signature, said to his clerk: ‘Take this receipt to the bank up the street and fetch me pound-notes for it.’ He then proceeded to fill a form of receipt for a year’s rent, and handed it to Lynch, who was astute enough to see that he might profit by what he supposed was an error, and quietly folded up the receipt and put it into his pocket.

When the clerk returned, the agent said: ‘Now, Denis, here is your change;’ and he began counting and pushing across the table, to the astonished tenant, note after note.

‘O sir,’ cried Lynch, ‘what are ye doin’ at all?’

‘Why, Denis,’ replied the other, ‘I am paying what is due to you. You gave me a deposit receipt for one hundred pounds; you have got a receipt for a year’s rent; and here are eighty-two one-pound notes, together with eighteen shillings in silver, which is five per cent. discount on your rent. You can’t blame me for retaining a year’s rent—you accepted a receipt for it. And indeed, when a man has hundreds at his banker’s, he may fairly be required to pay his rent in full. Yet, I make you an allowance. You cannot suppose, after what has taken place, and your readiness to avail yourself of what you believed to be an error in the rent receipt, that you should receive the ten per cent. abatement offered to the tenants generally. I have given you half of it, not wishing to be severe. But your tricks have not succeeded; and I hope you won’t forget the lesson of to-day, and that you will remember in future that honesty is the best policy.’

All eyes in the room were turned on Lynch, who hastily gathered up the notes and stuffed them into his pockets; and as he made his way to the door, he was heard to murmur, ‘Begorra, ’twas the wrong receipt!’

He departed, feeling he had lost all title to leadership; and as men will still worship success, even when accidental, many voices joined in complimenting ‘his honour, who was too sharp for Denis Lynch, who thought to act the rogue, but met wid a mistake, glory be to God!’

‘His honour’ was soon busily employed in receiving the full rents, which nearly all the tenants had brought with them. But he believes his collection on that day would have been a very small one, if Denis Lynch had not presented the ‘wrong’ deposit receipt.

‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’

Dr Thomas Whipham, M.B., F.R.C.P., physician to St George’s Hospital, and in charge of the department for Diseases of the Throat there, claims to have discovered the origin of ‘clergyman’s sore throat,’ a disorder which often proves so troublesome to ministers of religion. He was struck, it appears, by the circumstance that barristers—from whom as great oratorical efforts are exacted as from clergymen—do not suffer from this highly painful and inconvenient form of sore throat. He looked around for an explanation, and endeavoured, at first, to trace it to adverse atmospheric conditions. But he early decided that the air of a crowded court of law must be more injurious than that of an ordinary place of worship; and hence he was forced to seek elsewhere a satisfactory solution of the problem he had set himself. At length the different positions, in relation to their auditors, from which clergymen and barristers spoke, suggested itself for consideration. While a barrister slightly threw back his head in addressing the judge and jury who were seated above him, the clergyman depressed his in addressing the congregation seated below him. Experiments were made with a man reading aloud with his head in the two positions. In the first, the tone of his voice was clear and penetrating, and phonation was practised with a minimum of exertion; in the second, the tone grew muffled, and the previous distinctness could only be approximated with additional effort. Nor was indistinct utterance the only result recorded of the experiment in the second position. The friction of the air passing through the throat of the reader was very much increased. Thus, says Dr Whipham, hyperæmia was established in the parts affected by this excessive friction; and temporary hyperæmia, if frequently encouraged, soon becomes chronic congestion. Dr Whipham was satisfied that he had arrived at the true cause of ‘clergyman’s sore throat;’ and facts soon came to confirm his impression. Two clergymen, hailing from different parts of the country, placed themselves under treatment for the disorder, which had long held a hold on them. They were directed, in speaking from the pulpit, for the future to hold their heads well up, instead of allowing them to droop forwards and downwards. Both soon reported ‘a speedy relief from their suffering.’

IN THE DISTANT YEARS.

We met last in the distant years,
And parted, ne’er to meet again;
My aching eyes were filled with tears,
My heart was sore with untold pain.
But, though we parted thus for aye,
A lingering hope my heart yet holds,
That we may meet again some day
Ere Death shall shroud us in his folds.

We parted; ’twas the old, old way;
A too well-trusted friend’s deceit
Had taken each from each away,
Both hoping nevermore to meet.
_He_ thought that I was false; while _I_,
Enshadowed under falsehood’s spell,
In anger said a last good-bye
To him I once had loved so well.

But now I know the truth at last;
I would I knew _he_ knew the same,
To come to me from out the past
And tell me I was not to blame.
But, ah! ’tis maybe all too late:
That day of joy may never dawn;
I can no more than watch and wait,
And through the future years hope on.

J. A. M‘DONALD.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

_All Rights Reserved._