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Title: Mr. Meeson's Will

Author: H. Rider Haggard

Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11913]
                Most recently updated: April 9, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Charles Aldarondo, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. MEESON'S WILL ***




Mr. Meeson’s Will

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 CHAPTER I. AUGUSTA AND HER PUBLISHER
 CHAPTER II. HOW EUSTACE WAS DISINHERITED
 CHAPTER III. AUGUSTA’S LITTLE SISTER
 CHAPTER IV. AUGUSTA’S DECISION
 CHAPTER V. THE R.M.S. KANGAROO
 CHAPTER VI. MR. TOMBEY GOES FORWARD
 CHAPTER VII. THE CATASTROPHE
 CHAPTER VIII. KERGUELEN LAND
 CHAPTER IX. AUGUSTA TO THE RESCUE
 CHAPTER X. THE LAST OF MR. MEESON
 CHAPTER XI. RESCUED
 CHAPTER XII. SOUTHAMPTON QUAY
 CHAPTER XIII. EUSTACE BUYS A PAPER
 CHAPTER XIV. AT HANOVER-SQUARE
 CHAPTER XV. EUSTACE CONSULTS A LAWYER
 CHAPTER XVI. SHORT ON LEGAL ETIQUETTE
 CHAPTER XVII. HOW AUGUSTA WAS FILED
 CHAPTER XVIII. AUGUSTA FLIES
 CHAPTER XIX. MEESON _v._ ADDISON AND ANOTHER
 CHAPTER XX. JAMES BREAKS DOWN
 CHAPTER XXI. GRANT AS PRAYED
 CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE’S, HANOVER-SQUARE
 CHAPTER XXIII. MEESON’S ONCE AGAIN




CHAPTER I.
AUGUSTA AND HER PUBLISHER.


Everybody who has any connection with Birmingham will be acquainted
with the vast publishing establishment still known by the short title
of “Meeson’s,” which is perhaps the most remarkable institution of the
sort in Europe. There are—or rather there were, at the date of the
beginning of this history—three partners in Meeson’s—Meeson himself,
the managing partner; Mr. Addison, and Mr. Roscoe—and people in
Birmingham used to say that there were others interested in the affair,
for Meeson’s was a “company” (limited).

However this may be, Meeson and Co. was undoubtedly a commercial
marvel. It employed more than two thousand hands; and its works, lit
throughout with the electric light, cover two acres and a quarter of
land. One hundred commercial travellers, at three pounds a week and a
commission, went forth east and west, and north and south, to sell the
books of Meeson (which were largely religious in their nature) in all
lands; and five-and-twenty tame authors (who were illustrated by
thirteen tame artists) sat—at salaries ranging from one to five hundred
a year—in vault-like hutches in the basement, and week by week poured
out that hat-work for which Meeson’s was justly famous. Then there were
editors and vice-editors, and heads of the various departments, and
sub-heads, and financial secretaries, and readers, and many managers;
but what their names were no man knew, because at Meeson’s all the
employees of the great house were known by numbers; personalities and
personal responsibility being the abomination of the firm. Nor was it
allowed to anyone having dealings with these items ever to see the same
number twice, presumably for fear lest the number should remember that
he was a man and a brother, and his heart should melt towards the
unfortunate, and the financial interests of Meeson’s should suffer. In
short, Meeson’s was an establishment created for and devoted to
money-making, and the fact was kept studiously and even insolently
before the eyes of everybody connected with it—which was, of course, as
it should be, in this happy land of commerce. After all that has been
written, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the partners in
Meeson’s were rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Their palaces would
have been a wonder even in ancient Babylon, and would have excited
admiration in the corruptest and most luxurious days of Rome. Where
could one see such horses, such carriages, such galleries of sculpture
or such collections of costly gems as at the palatial halls of Messrs.
Meeson, Addison, and Roscoe?

“And to think,” as the Mighty Meeson himself would say, with a lordly
wave of his right hand, to some astonished wretch of an author whom he
has chosen to overwhelm with the sight of this magnificence, “to think
that all this comes out of the brains of chaps like you! Why, young
man, I tell you that if all the money that has been paid to you
scribblers since the days of Elizabeth were added together it would not
come up to my little pile; but, mind you, it ain’t so much fiction that
has done the trick—it’s religion. It’s piety as pays, especially when
it’s printed.”

Then the unsophisticated youth would go away, his heart too full for
words, but pondering how these things were, and by-and-by he would pass
into the Meeson melting-pot and learn something about it.

One day King Meeson sat in his counting house counting out his money,
or, at least, looking over the books of the firm. He was in a very bad
temper, and his heavy brows were wrinkled up in a way calculated to
make the counting-house clerks shake on their stools. Meeson’s had a
branch establishment at Sydney, in Australia, which establishment had,
until lately, been paying—it is true not as well as the English one,
but, still, fifteen or twenty per cent. But now a wonder had come to
pass. A great American publishing firm had started an opposition house
in Melbourne, and their “cuteness” was more than the “cuteness” of
Meeson. Did Meeson’s publish an edition of the works of any standard
author at threepence per volume the opposition company brought out the
same work at twopence-halfpenny; did Meeson’s subsidise a newspaper to
puff their undertakings, the opposition firm subsidised two to cry them
down, and so on. And now the results of all this were becoming
apparent: for the financial year just ended the Australian branch had
barely earned a beggarly net dividend of seven per cent.

No wonder Mr. Meeson was furious, and no wonder that the clerks shook
upon their stools.

“This must be seen into, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, bringing his fist
down with a bang on to the balance-sheet.

No. 3 was one of the editors; a mild-eyed little man with blue
spectacles. He had once been a writer of promise; but somehow Meeson’s
had got him for its own, and turned him into a publisher’s hack.

“Quite so, Sir,” he said humbly. “It is very bad—it is dreadful to
think of Meeson’s coming down to seven per cent—seven per cent!” and he
held up his hands.

“Don’t stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, fiercely;
“but suggest something.”

“Well, Sir,” said No. 3 more humbly than ever, for he was terribly
afraid of his employer; “I think, perhaps, that somebody had better go
to Australia, and see what can be done.”

“I know one thing that can be done,” said Mr. Meeson, with a snarl:
“all those fools out there can be sacked, and sacked they shall be;
and, what’s more, I’ll go and sack them myself. That will do No. 3;
that will do;” and No. 3 departed, and glad enough he was to go.

As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man.

“Miss Augusta Smithers,” he read; then with a grunt, “show Miss Augusta
Smithers in.”

Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived. She was a tall, well-formed
young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey
eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she
looked very nervous.

“Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?” asked the publisher.

“I came, Mr. Meeson—I came about my book.”

“Your book, Miss Smithers?” this was an affectation of forgetfulness;
“let me see?—forgive me, but we publish so many books. Oh, yes, I
remember; ‘Jemima’s Vow.’ Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly.”

“I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day,” put in
Miss Smithers, apologetically.

“Did we—did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do,” and he
looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he
considered the interview was ended.

Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again.
“The fact is, Mr. Meeson,” she said—“The fact is, that, I thought that,
perhaps, as ‘Jemima’s Vow’ had been such a great success, you might,
perhaps—in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in
addition to what I have received.”

Mr. Meeson looked up. His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy
eyebrows nearly hid the sharp little eyes.

“What!” he said. “_What_!”

At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in.
He was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair
skin and jolly blue eyes—in short, a typical young Englishman of the
better sort, aetate suo twenty-four. I have said that he came slowly
in, but that scarcely conveys the gay and _dégagé_ air of independence
which pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck
any observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the
worm-like attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson. This
young man had not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat,
which was stuck upon the back of his head, his hands were in his
pockets, a sacrilegious whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the
door of the sanctum sanctorum of the Meeson establishment _with a
kick_!

“How do, uncle?” he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting
there behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he
were an ordinary man. “Why, what’s up?”

Just then, however, he caught sight of the very handsome young lady who
was seated in the office, and his whole demeanour underwent a most
remarkable change; out came the hands from his pockets, off went the
hat, and, turning, he bowed, really rather nicely, considering how
impromptu the whole performance was.

“What is it, Eustace?” asked Mr. Meeson, sharply.

“Oh, nothing, uncle; nothing—it can bide,” and, without waiting for an
invitation, he took a chair, and sat down in such a position that he
could see Miss Smithers without being seen of his uncle.

“I was saying, Miss Smithers, or rather, I was going to say,” went on
the elder Meeson, “that, in short, I do not in the least understand
what you can mean. You will remember that you were paid a sum of fifty
pounds for the copyright of ‘Jemima’s Vow.’”

“Great Heavens!” murmured Master Eustace, behind; “what a do!”

“At the time an alternative agreement, offering you seven per cent on
the published price of the book, was submitted to you, and, had you
accepted it, you would, doubtless, have realized a larger sum,” and Mr.
Meeson contracted his hairy eyebrows and gazed at the poor girl in a
way that was, to say the least, alarming. But Augusta, though she felt
sadly inclined to flee, still stood to her guns, for, to tell the
truth, her need was very great.

“I could not afford to wait for the seven per cent, Mr. Meeson,” she
said humbly.

“Oh, ye gods! seven per cent, when he makes about forty-five!” murmured
Eustace, in the background.

“Possibly, Miss Smithers; possibly;” went on the great man. “You must
really forgive me if I am not acquainted with the exact condition of
your private affairs. I am, however, aware from experience that the
money matters of most writing people are a little embarrassed.”

Augusta winced, and Mr. Meeson, rising heavily from his chair, went to
a large safe which stood near, and extracted from it a bundle of
agreements. These he glanced at one by one till he found what he was
looking for.

“Here is the agreement,” he said; “let me see? ah, I thought
so—copyright fifty pounds, half proceeds of rights of translation, and
a clause binding you to offer any future work you may produce during
the next five years to our house on the seven per cent agreement, or a
sum not exceeding one hundred pounds for the copyright. Now, Miss
Smithers, what have you to say? You signed this paper of your own free
will. It so happens that we have made a large profit on your book:
indeed, I don’t mind telling you that we have got as much as we gave
you back from America for the sale of the American rights; but that is
no ground for your coming to ask for more money than you agreed to
accept. I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my
professional experience; never!” and he paused, and once more eyed her
sternly.

“At any rate, there ought to be something to come to me from the rights
of translation—I saw in the paper that the book was to be translated
into French and German,” said Augusta, faintly.

“Oh! yes, no doubt—Eustace, oblige me by touching the bell.”

The young gentleman did so, and a tall, melancholy-looking clerk
appeared.

“No. 18,” snarled Mr. Meeson, in the tone of peculiar amiability that
he reserved for his employés, “make out the translation account of
‘Jemima’s Vow,’ and fill up a cheque of balance due to the author.”

No. 18 vanished like a thin, unhappy ghost, and Mr. Meeson once more
addressed the girl before him. “If you want money, Miss Smithers,” he
said, “you had better write us another book. I am not going to deny
that your work is good work—a little too deep, and not quite orthodox
enough, perhaps; but still good. I tested it myself, when it came to
hand—which is a thing I don’t often do—and saw it was good selling
quality, and you see I didn’t make a mistake. I believe ‘Jemima’s Vow’
will sell twenty thousand without stopping—here’s the account.”

As he spoke the spectre-like clerk put down a neatly-ruled bit of paper
and an unsigned cheque on the desk before his employer, and then smiled
a shadowy smile and vanished.

Mr. Meeson glanced through the account, signed the cheque, and handed
it, together with the account to Augusta, who proceeded to read it. It
ran thus:—

AUGUSTA SMITHERS _in account with_ MEESON & Co.

                                               £  s d To Sale of Right
                                               of Translation of       
                                                    7  0 0 “Jemima’s
                                               Vow” into French......
                                               Do.  do.  do. into
                                               German                  
                                                  7  0 0 ———— £14  0 0
                                               ======== £  s d Less
                                               amount due to Messrs.
                                               Meeson, being       7  0
                                               0 one-half of net
                                               proceeds Less
                                               Commission, &c          
                                                                3 19 0
                                               ————— £10 19 0
                                               ========== Balance due
                                               to Author, as per cheque
                                                       £ 3  1 0
                                               herewith.               
                                                                   ————


Augusta looked, and then slowly crumpled up the cheque in her hand.

“If I understand, Mr. Meeson,” she said, “you have sold the two rights
of translation of my book, which you persuaded me to leave in your
hands, for £14; out of which I am to receive £3 1s.?”

“Yes, Miss Smithers. Will you be so kind as to sign the receipt; the
fact is that I have a good deal of business to attend to.”

“No, Mr. Meeson,” suddenly said Augusta, rising to her feet and looking
exceedingly handsome and imposing in her anger. “No; I will not sign
the receipt, and I will not take this cheque. And, what is more, I will
not write you any more books. You have entrapped me. You have taken
advantage of my ignorance and inexperience, and entrapped me so that
for five years I shall be nothing but a slave to you, and, although I
am now one of the most popular writers in the country, shall be obliged
to accept a sum for my books upon which I cannot live. Do you know that
yesterday I was offered a thousand pounds for the copyright of a book
like ‘Jemima’s Vow’?—it’s a large sum; but I have the letter. Yes, and
I have the book in manuscript now; and if I could publish it I should
be lifted out of poverty, together with my poor little sister!” and she
gave a sob. “But,” she went on, “I cannot publish it, and I will not
let you have it and be treated like this; I had rather starve. I will
publish nothing for five years, and I will write to the papers and say
why—because I have been _cheated_, Mr. Meeson!”

“Cheated!” thundered the great man. “Be careful, young lady; mind what
you are saying. I have a witness; Eustace, you hear, ‘_cheated_’!
Eustace, ‘_cheated_’!”

“_I_ hear,” said Eustace, grimly.

“Yes, Mr. Meeson, I said ‘_cheated_’; and I will repeat it, whether I
am locked up for it or not. Good morning, Mr. Meeson,” and she
curtseyed to him, and then suddenly burst into a flood of tears.

In a minute Eustace was by her side.

“Don’t cry, Miss Smithers; for Heaven’s sake, don’t. I can’t bear to
see it,” he said.

She looked up, her beautiful grey eyes full of tears, and tried to
smile.

“Thank you,” she said; “I am very silly, but I am so disappointed. If
you only knew—. There, I will go. Thank you,” and in another instant
she had drawn herself up and left the room.

“Well,” said Mr. Meeson, senior, who had been sitting at his desk with
his great mouth open, apparently too much astonished to speak. “Well,
there is a vixen for you. But she’ll come round. I’ve known them to do
that sort of thing before—there are one or two down there,” and he
jerked his thumb in the direction where the twenty and five tame
authors sat each like a rabbit in his little hutch and did hat-work by
the yard, “who carried on like that. But they are quiet enough now—they
don’t show much spirit now. I know how to deal with that sort of
thing—half-pay and a double tale of copy—that’s the ticket. Why, that
girl will be worth fifteen hundred a year to the house. What do you
think of it, young man, eh?”

“I think,” answered his nephew, on whose good-tempered face a curious
look of contempt and anger had gathered, “I think that you ought to be
ashamed of yourself!”




CHAPTER II.
HOW EUSTACE WAS DISINHERITED.


There was a pause—a dreadful pause. The flash had left the cloud, but
the answering thunder had not burst upon the ear. Mr. Meeson gasped.
Then he took up the cheque which Augusta had thrown upon the table and
slowly crumpled it.

“What did you say, young man?” he said at last, in a cold, hard voice.

“I said that you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” answered his nephew,
standing his ground bravely; “and, what is more, I meant it!”

“Oh! Now will you be so kind as to explain exactly why you said that,
and why you meant it?”

“I meant it,” answered his nephew, speaking in a full, strong voice,
“because that girl was right when she said that you had cheated her,
and you know that she was right. I have seen the accounts of ‘Jemima’s
Vow’—I saw them this morning—and you have already made more than a
thousand pounds clear profit on the book. And then, when she comes to
ask you for something over the beggarly fifty pounds which you doled
out to her, you refuse, and offer her three pounds as her share of the
translation rights—three pounds as against your eleven!”

“Go on,” interrupted his uncle; “pray go on.”

“All right; I am going. That is not all: you actually avail yourself of
a disgraceful trick to entrap this unfortunate girl into an agreement,
whereby she becomes a literary bondslave for five years! As soon as you
see that she has genius, you tell her that the expense of bringing out
her book, and of advertising up her name, &c., &c., &c., will be very
great—so great, indeed, that you cannot undertake it, unless, indeed,
she agrees to let you have the first offer of everything she writes for
five years to come, at somewhere about a fourth of the usual rate of a
successful author’s pay—though, of course, you don’t tell her that. You
take advantage of her inexperience to bind her by this iniquitous
contract, knowing that the end of it will be that you will advance her
a little money and get her into your power, and then will send her down
there to the Hutches, where all the spirit and originality and genius
will be crushed out of her work, and she will become a hat-writer like
the rest of them—for Meeson’s is a strictly commercial undertaking, you
know, and Meeson’s public don’t like genius, they like their literature
dull and holy!—and it’s an infernal shame! that’s what it is, uncle!”
and the young man, whose blue eyes were by this time flashing fire, for
he had worked himself up as he went along, brought his fist down with a
bang upon the writing table by way of emphasising his words.

“Have you done?” said his uncle.

“Yes, I’ve done; and I hope that I have put it plain.”

“Very well; and now might I ask you, supposing that you should ever
come to manage this business, if your sentiments accurately represent
the system upon which you would proceed?”

“Of course they do. I am not going to turn cheat for anybody.”

“Thank you. They seem to have taught you the art of plain speaking up
at Oxford—though, it appears,” with a sneer, “they taught you very
little else. Well, then, now it is my turn to speak; and I tell you
what it is, young man, you will either instantly beg my pardon for what
you have said, or you will leave Meeson’s for good and all.”

“I won’t beg your pardon for speaking the truth,” said Eustace, hotly:
“the fact is that here you never hear the truth; all these poor devils
creep and crawl about you, and daren’t call their souls their own. I
shall be devilish glad to get out of this place, I can tell you. All
this chickery and pokery makes me sick. The place stinks and reeks of
sharp practice and money-making—money-making by fair means or foul.”

The elder man had, up till now, at all events to outward appearance,
kept his temper; but this last flower of vigorous English was
altogether too much for one whom the possession of so much money had
for many years shielded from hearing unpleasant truths put roughly. The
man’s face grew like a devil’s, his thick eyebrows contracted
themselves, and his pale lips quivered with fury. For a few seconds he
could not speak, so great was his emotion. When, at length, he did, his
voice was as thick and laden with rage as a dense mist is with rain.

“You impudent young rascal!” he began, “you ungrateful foundling! Do
you suppose that when my brother left you to starve—which was all that
you were fit for—I picked you out of the gutter for this: that you
should have the insolence to come and tell me how to conduct my
business? Now, young man, I’ll just tell you what it is. You can be off
and conduct a business of your own on whatever principles you choose.
Get out of Meeson’s, Sir; and never dare to show your nose here again,
or I’ll give the porters orders to hustle you off the premises! And,
now, that isn’t all. I’ve done with you, never you look to me for
another sixpence! I’m not going to support you any longer, I can tell
you. And, what’s more, do you know what I’m going to do just now? I’m
going off to old Todd—that’s my lawyer—and I’m going to tell him to
make another will and to leave every farthing I have—and that isn’t
much short of two millions, one way and another—to Addison and Roscoe.
They don’t want it, but that don’t matter. You shan’t have it—no, not a
farthing of it; and I won’t have a pile like that frittered away in
charities and mismanagement. There now, my fine young gentleman, just
be off and see if your new business principles will get you a living.”

“All right, uncle; I’m going,” said the young man, quietly. “I quite
understand what our quarrel means for me, and, to tell you the truth, I
am not sorry. I have never wished to be dependent on you, or to have
anything to do with a business carried on as Meeson’s is. I have a
hundred a year my mother left me, and with the help of that and my
education, I hope to make a living. Still, I don’t want to part from
you in anger, because you have been very kind to me at times, and, as
you remind me, you picked me out of the gutter when I was orphaned or
not far from it. So I hope you will shake hands before I go.”

“Ah!” snarled his uncle; “you want to pipe down now, do you? But that
won’t do. Off you go! and mind you don’t set foot in Pompadour Hall,”
Mr. Meeson’s seat, “unless it is to get your clothes. Come, cut!”

“You misunderstand me,” said Eustace, with a touch of native dignity
which became him very well. “Probably we shall not meet again, and I
did not wish to part in anger, that was all. Good morning.” And he
bowed and left the office.

“Confound him!” muttered his uncle as the door closed, “he’s a good
plucked one—showed spirit. But I’ll show spirit, too. Meeson is a man
of his word. Cut him off with a shilling? not I; cut him off with
nothing at all. And yet, curse it, I like the lad. Well, I’ve done with
him, thanks to that minx of a Smithers girl. Perhaps he’s sweet on her?
then they can go and starve together, and be hanged to them! She had
better keep out of my way, for she shall smart for this, so sure as my
name is Jonathan Meeson. I’ll keep her up to the letter of that
agreement, and, if she tries to publish a book inside of this country
or out of it, I’ll crush her—yes, I’ll crush her, if it cost me five
thousand to do it!” and, with a snarl, he dropped his fist heavily upon
the table before him.

Then he rose, put poor Augusta’s agreement carefully back into the
safe, which he shut with a savage snap, and proceeded to visit the
various departments of his vast establishment, and to make such hay
therein as had never before been dreamt of in the classic halls of
Meeson’s.

To this hour the clerks of the great house talk of that dreadful day
with bated breath—for as bloody Hector raged through the Greeks, so did
the great Meeson rage through his hundred departments. In the very
first office he caught a wretched clerk eating sardine sandwiches.
Without a moment’s hesitation he took the sandwiches and threw them
through the window.

“Do you suppose I pay you to come and eat your filthy sandwiches here?”
he asked savagely. “There, now you can go and look for them; and see
you here: you needn’t trouble to come back, you idle, worthless fellow.
Off you go! and remember you need not send to me for a character. Now
then—double quick!”

The unfortunate departed, feebly remonstrating, and Meeson, having
glared around at the other clerks and warned them that unless they were
careful—very careful—they would soon follow in his tracks, continued
his course of devastation.

Presently he met an editor, No. 7 it was, who was bringing him an
agreement to sign. He snatched it from him and glanced through it.

“What do you mean by bringing me a thing like this?” he said: “It’s all
wrong.”

“It is exactly as you dictated to me yesterday, Sir,” said the editor
indignantly.

“What, do you mean to contradict me?” roared Meeson. “Look here No. 7,
you and I had better part. Now, no words: your salary will be paid to
you till the end of the month, and if you would like to bring an action
for wrongful dismissal, why, I’m your man. Good morning, No. 7; good
morning.”

Next he crossed a courtyard where, by slipping stealthily around the
corner, he came upon a jolly little errand boy, who was enjoying a
solitary game of marbles.

_Whack_ came his cane across the seat of that errand boy’s trousers,
and in another minute he had followed the editor and the
sandwich-devouring clerk.

And so the merry game went on for half an hour or more, till at last
Mr. Meeson was fain to cease his troubling, being too exhausted to
continue his destroying course. But next morning there was promotion
going on in the great publishing house; eleven vacancies had to be
filled.

A couple of glasses of brown sherry and a few sandwiches, which he
hastily swallowed at a neighboring restaurant, quickly restored him,
however; and, jumping into a cab, he drove post haste to his lawyers’,
Messrs. Todd and James.

“Is Mr. Todd in?” he said to the managing clerk, who came forward
bowing obsequiously to the richest man in Birmingham.

“Mr. Todd will be disengaged in a few minutes, Sir,” he said. “May I
offer you the _Times_?”

“Damn the _Times_!” was the polite answer; “I don’t come here to read
newspapers. Tell Mr. Todd I must see him at once, or else I shall go
elsewhere.”

“I am much afraid Sir”—began the managing clerk.

Mr. Meeson jumped up and grabbed his hat. “Now then, which is it to
be?” he said.

“Oh, certainly, Sir; pray be seated,” answered the manager in great
alarm—Meeson’s business was not a thing to be lightly lost. “I will see
Mr. Todd instantly,” and he vanished.

Almost simultaneously with his departure an old lady was
unceremoniously bundled out of an inner room, clutching feebly at a
reticule full of papers and proclaiming loudly that her head was going
round and round. The poor old soul was just altering her will for the
eighteenth time in favor of a brand new charity, highly recommended by
Royalty; and to be suddenly shot from the revered presence of her
lawyer out into the outer darkness of the clerk’s office, was really
too much for her.

In another minute, Mr. Meeson was being warmly, even enthusiastically,
greeted by Mr. Todd himself. Mr. Todd was a nervous-looking, jumpy
little man, who spoke in jerks and gushes in such a way as to remind
one of a fire-hose through which water was being pumped intermittently.

“How do you do, my dear Sir? Delighted to have this pleasure,” he began
with a sudden gush, and then suddenly dried up, as he noticed the
ominous expression on the great man’s brow. “I am sure I am very sorry
that you were kept waiting, my dear Sir: but I was at the moment
engaged with an excellent and most Christian testator.”—

Here he suddenly jumped and dried up again, for Mr. Meeson, without the
slightest warning, ejaculated: “Curse your Christian testator! And look
here, Todd, just you see that it does not happen again. I’m a Christian
testator too; and Christians of my cut aren’t accustomed to be kept
standing about just like office-boys or authors. See that it don’t
happen again, Todd.”

“I am sure I am exceedingly grieved. Circumstances”—

“Oh, never mind all that—I want my will.”

“Will—will—Forgive me—a little confused, that’s all. Your manner is so
full of hearty old middle-age’s kind of vigour”—

Here he stopped, more suddenly even than usual, for Mr. Meeson fixed
him with his savage eye, and then jerked himself out of the room to
look for the document in question.

“Little idiot!” muttered Meeson; “I’ll give him the sack, too, if he
isn’t more careful. By Jove! why should I not have my own resident
solicitor? I could get a sharp hand with a damaged character for about
£300 a year, and I pay that old Todd quite £2000. There is a vacant
place in the Hutches that I could turn into an office. Hang me, if I
don’t do it. I will make that little chirping grasshopper jump to some
purpose, I’ll warrant,” and he chuckled at the idea.

Just then Mr. Todd returned with the will, and before he could begin to
make any explanations his employer cut him short with a sharp order to
read the gist of it.

This the lawyer proceeded to do. It was very short, and, with the
exception of a few legacies, amounting in all to about twenty thousand
pounds, bequeathed all the testator’s vast fortune and estates,
including his (by far the largest) interest in the great publishing
house, and his palace with the paintings and other valuable contents,
known as Pompadour Hall, to his nephew, Eustace H. Meeson.

“Very well,” he said, when the reading was finished; “now give it to
me.”

Mr. Todd obeyed, and handed the document to his patron, who
deliberately rent it into fragments with his strong fingers, and then
completed its destruction by tearing it with his big white teeth. This
done, he mixed the little pieces up, threw them on the floor, and
stamped upon them with an air of malignity that almost frightened jerky
little Mr. Todd.

“Now then,” he grimly said, “there’s an end of the old love; so let’s
on with the new. Take your pen and receive my instructions for my
will.”

Mr. Todd did as he was bid.

“I leave all my property, real and personal, to be divided in equal
shares between my two partners, Alfred Tom Addison and Cecil Spooner
Roscoe. There, that’s short and sweet, and, one way and another, means
a couple of millions.”

“Good heavens! Sir,” jerked out Mr. Todd. “Why, do you mean to quite
cut out your nephew—and the other legatees?” he added by way of an
afterthought.

“Of course I do; that is, as regards my nephew. The legatees may stand
as before.”

“Well all I have to say,” went on the little man, astonished into
honesty, “Is that it is the most shameful thing I ever heard of!”

“Indeed, Mr. Todd, is it? Well now, may I ask you: am I leaving this
property, or are you? Don’t trouble yourself to answer that, however,
but just attend. Either you draw up that will at once, while I wait, or
you say good-bye to about £2000 a year, for that’s what Meeson’s
business is worth, I reckon. Now you take your choice.”

Mr. Todd did take his choice. In under an hour, the will, which was
very short, was drawn and engrossed.

“Now then,” said Meeson, addressing himself to Mr. Todd and the
managing clerk, as he took the quill between his fingers to sign, “do
you two bear in mind that at the moment I execute this will I am of
sound mind, memory, and understanding. There you are; now do you two
witness.”


It was night, and King capital, in the shape of Mr. Meeson, sat alone
at dinner in his palatial dining-room at Pompadour. Dinner was over,
the powdered footman had departed with stately tread, and the head
butler was just placing the decanters of richly coloured wine before
the solitary lord of all. The dinner had been a melancholy failure.
Dish after dish, the cost of any one of which would have fed a poor
child for a month, had been brought up and handed to the master only to
be found fault with and sent away. On that night Mr. Meeson had no
appetite.

“Johnson,” he said to the butler, when he was sure the footman could
not hear him, “has Mr. Eustace been here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Has he gone?”

“Yes, Sir. He came to fetch his things, and then went away in a cab.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know, Sir. He told the man to drive to Birmingham.”

“Did he leave any message?”

“Yes, Sir, he bade me say that you should not be troubled with him
again; but that he was sorry that you had parted from him in anger.”

“Why did you not give me that message before?”

“Because Mr. Eustace said I was not to give it unless you asked after
him.”

“Very good. Johnson!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will give orders that Mr. Eustace’s name is not to be mentioned in
this house again. Any servant mentioning Mr. Eustace’s name will be
dismissed.”

“Very good, Sir”; and Johnson went.

Mr. Meeson gazed round him. He looked at the long array of glass and
silver, at the spotless napery and costly flowers. He looked at the
walls hung with works of art, which, whatever else they might be, were
at least expensive; at the mirrors and the soft wax-lights; at the
marble mantelpieces and the bright warm fires (for it was November); at
the rich wall paper and the soft, deep-hued carpet; and reflected that
they were all his. And then he sighed, and his coarse, heavy face sank
in and grew sad. Of what use was this last extremity of luxury to him?
He had nobody to leave it to, and to speak the truth, it gave him but
little pleasure. Such pleasure as he had in life was derived from
making money, not from spending it. The only times when he was really
happy were when he was in his counting house directing the enterprises
of his vast establishment, and adding sovereign by sovereign to his
enormous accumulations. That had been his one joy for forty years, and
it was still his joy.

And then he fell to thinking of his nephew, the only son of his
brother, whom he had once loved, before he lost himself in publishing
books and making money, and sighed. He had been attached to the lad in
his own coarse way, and it was a blow to him to cut himself loose from
him. But Eustace had defied him, and—what was worse—he had told him the
truth, which he, of all men, could not bear. He had said that his
system of trade was dishonest, that he took more than his due, and it
was so. He knew it; but he could not tolerate that it should be told
him, and that his whole life should thereby be discredited, and even
his accumulated gold tarnished—stamped as ill-gotten; least of all
could he bear it from his dependent. He was not altogether a bad man;
nobody is; he was only a coarse, vulgar tradesman, hardened and defiled
by a long career of sharp dealing. At the bottom, he had his feelings
like other men, but he could not tolerate exposure or even
contradiction; therefore he had revenged himself. And yet, as he sat
there, in solitary glory, he realized that to revenge does not bring
happiness, and could even find it in his heart to envy the steadfast
honesty that had defied him at the cost of his own ruin.

Not that he meant to relent or alter his determination. Mr. Meeson
never relented, and never changed his mind. Had he done so he would not
at that moment have been the master of two millions of money.




CHAPTER III.
AUGUSTA’S LITTLE SISTER.


When Augusta left Meeson’s she was in a very sad condition of mind, to
explain which it will be necessary to say a word or two about that
young lady’s previous history. Her father had been a clergyman, and,
like most clergymen, not overburdened with the good things of this
world. When Mr. Smithers—or, rather, the Rev. James Smithers—had died,
he left behind him a widow and two children—Augusta, aged fourteen, and
Jeannie, aged two. There had been two others, both boys, who had come
into the world between Augusta and Jeannie, but they had both preceded
their father to the land of shadows. Mrs. Smithers, had, fortunately
for herself, a life interest in a sum of £7000, which, being well
invested, brought her in £350 a year: and, in order to turn this little
income to the best possible account and give her two girls the best
educational opportunities possible under the circumstances, she, on her
husband’s death, moved from the village where he had for many years
been curate, into the city of Birmingham. Here she lived in absolute
retirement for some seven years and then suddenly died, leaving the two
girls, then respectively nineteen and eight years of age, to mourn her
loss, and, friendless as they were, to fight their way in the hard
world.

Mrs. Smithers had been a saving woman, and, on her death, it was found
that, after paying all debts, there remained a sum of £600 for the two
girls to live on, and nothing else; for their mother’s fortune died
with her. Now, it will be obvious that the interest arising from six
hundred pounds is not sufficient to support two young people, and
therefore Augusta was forced to live upon the principal. From an early
age, however, she (Augusta) had shown a strong literary tendency, and
shortly after her mother’s death she published her first book at her
own expense. It was a dead failure and cost her fifty-two pounds, the
balance between the profit and loss account. After awhile, however, she
recovered from this blow, and wrote “Jemima’s Vow,” which was taken up
by Meeson’s; and, strange as it may seem, proved the success of the
year. Of the nature of the agreement into which she entered with
Meeson’s, the reader is already acquainted, and he will not therefore
be surprised to learn that under its cruel provisions Augusta,
notwithstanding her name and fame, was absolutely prohibited from
reaping the fruits of her success. She could only publish with
Meesons’s, and at the fixed pay of seven per cent on the advertised
price of her work. Now, something over three years had elapsed since
the death of Mrs. Smithers, and it will therefore be obvious that there
was not much remaining of the six hundred pounds which she had left
behind her. The two girls had, indeed, lived economically enough in a
couple of small rooms in a back street; but their expenses had been
enormously increased by the serious illness, from a pulmonary
complaint, of the little girl Jeannie, now a child between twelve and
thirteen years of age. On that morning, Augusta had seen the doctor and
been crushed into the dust by the expression of his conviction, that,
unless her little sister was moved to a warmer climate, for a period of
at least a year, she would not live through the winter, and _might_ die
at any moment.

Take Jeannie to a warmer climate! He might as well have told Augusta to
take her to the moon. Alas, she had not the money and did not know
where to turn to get it! Oh! reader, pray to Heaven that it may never
be your lot to see your best beloved die for the want of a few hundred
pounds wherewith to save her life!

It was in this terrible emergency that she had—driven thereto by her
agony of mind—tried to get something beyond her strict and legal due
out of Meeson’s—Meeson’s that had made hundreds and hundreds out of her
book and paid her fifty pounds. We know how she fared in that attempt.
On leaving their office, Augusta bethought her of her banker. Perhaps
he might be willing to advance something. It was a horrible task, but
she determined to undertake it; so she walked to the bank and asked to
see the manager. He was out, but would be in at three o’clock. She went
to a shop near and got a bun and glass of milk, and waited till she was
ashamed to wait any longer, and then she walked about the streets till
three o’clock. At the stroke of the hour she returned, and was shown
into the manager’s private room, where a dry, unsympathetic looking
little man was sitting before a big book. It was not the same man whom
Augusta had met before, and her heart sank proportionately.

What followed need not be repeated here. The manager listened to her
faltering tale with a few stereotyped expressions of sympathy, and,
when she had done, “regretted” that speculative loans were contrary to
the custom of the bank, and politely bowed her out.

It was nearly four o’clock upon a damp, drizzling afternoon—a November
afternoon—that hung like a living misery over the black slush of the
Birmingham streets, and would in itself have sufficed to bring the
lightest hearted, happiest mortal to the very gates of despair, when
Augusta, wet, wearied, and almost crying, at last entered the door of
their little sitting-room. She entered very quietly, for the
maid-of-all-work had met her in the passage and told her that Miss
Jeannie was asleep. She had been coughing very much about dinner-time,
but now she was asleep.

There was a fire in the grate, a small one, for the coal was economised
by means of two large fire-bricks, and on a table (Augusta’s writing
table), placed at the further side of the room, was a paraffin-lamp
turned low. Drawn up in front, but a little to one side of the fire,
was a sofa, covered with red rep, and on the sofa lay a fair-haired
little form, so thin and fragile that it looked like the ghost or
outline of a girl, rather than a girl herself. It was Jeannie, her sick
sister, and she was asleep. Augusta stole softly up to look at her. It
was a sweet little face that her eyes fell on, although it was so
shockingly thin, with long, curved lashes, delicate nostrils, and a
mouth shaped like a bow. All the lines and grooves which the chisel of
Pain knows so well how to carve were smoothed out of it now, and in
their place lay the shadow of a smile.

Augusta looked at her and clenched her fists, while a lump rose in her
throat, and her grey eyes filled with tears. How could she get the
money to save her? The year before a rich man, a man who was detestable
to her, had wanted to marry her, and she would have nothing to say to
him. He had gone abroad, else she would have gone back to him and
married him—at a price. Marry him? yes she would marry him: she would
do anything for money to take her sister away! What did she care for
herself when her darling was dying—dying for the want of two hundred
pounds!

Just then Jeannie woke up, and stretched her arms out to her.

“So you are back at last, dear,” she said in her sweet childish voice.
“It has been so lonely without you. Why, how wet you are! Take off your
jacket at once, Gussie, or you will soon be as ill as”—and here she
broke out into a terrible fit of coughing, that seemed to shake her
tender frame as the wind shakes a reed.

Her sister turned and obeyed, and then came and sat by the sofa and
took the thin little hand in hers.

“Well, Gussie, and how did you get on with the Printer-devil” (this was
her impolite name for the great Meeson); “will he give you any more
money?”

“No, dear; we quarrelled, that was all, and I came away.”

“Then I suppose that we can’t go abroad?”

Augusta was too moved to answer; she only shook her head. The child
buried her face in the pillow and gave a sob or two. Presently she was
quiet, and lifted it again. “Gussie, love,” she said, “don’t be angry,
but I want to speak to you. Listen, my sweet Gussie, my angel. Oh,
Gussie, you don’t know how I love you! It is all no good, it is useless
struggling against it, I must die sooner or later; though I am only
twelve, and you think me such a child, I am old enough to understand
that. I think,” she added, after pausing to cough, “that pain makes one
old: I feel as though I were fifty. Well, so you see I may as well give
up fighting against it and die at once. I am only a burden and anxiety
to you—I may as well die at once and go to sleep.”

“Don’t, Jeannie! don’t!” said her sister, in a sort of cry; “you are
killing me!”

Jeannie laid her hot hand upon Augusta’s arm, “Try and listen to me,
dear,” she said, “even if it hurts, because I do so want to say
something. Why should you be so frightened about me? Can any place that
I can go be worse than this place? Can I suffer more pain anywhere, or
be more hurt when I see you crying? Think how wretched it has all been.
There has only been one beautiful thing in our lives for years and
years, and that was your book. Even when I am feeling worst—when my
chest aches, you know—I grow quite happy when I think of what the
papers wrote about you: the _Times_ and the _Saturday Review_, and the
_Spectator_, and the rest of them. They said that you had genius—true
genius, you remember, and that they expected one day to see you at the
head of the literature of the time, or near it. The Printer-devil can’t
take away that, Gussie. He can take the money; but he can’t say that he
wrote the book; though,” she added, with a touch of childish spite and
vivacity, “I have no doubt that he would if he could. And then there
were those letters from the great authors up in London; yes, I often
think of them too. Well, dearest old girl, the best of it is that I
know it is all true. I _know_, I can’t tell you how, that you will be a
great woman in spite of all the Meesons in creation; for somehow you
will get out of his power, and, if you don’t, five years is not all
one’s life—at least, not if people have a life. At the worst, he can
only take all the money. And then, when you are great and rich and
famous, and more beautiful than ever, and when the people turn their
heads as you come into the room, like we used to at school when the
missionary came to lecture, I know that you will think of me (because
you won’t forget me as some sisters do), and of how, years and years
before, so long ago that the time looks quite small when you think of
it, I told you that it would be so just before I died.”

Here the girl, who had been speaking with a curious air of certainty
and with a gravity and deliberation extraordinary for one so young,
suddenly broke off to cough. Her sister threw herself on her knees
beside her, and, clasping her in her arms, implored her in broken
accents not to talk of dying. Jeannie drew Augusta’s golden head down
on her breast and stroked it.

“Very well, Gussie, I won’t say any more about it,” she said; “but it
is no good hiding the truth, dear. I am tired of fighting against it;
it is no good—none at all. Anyhow we have loved each other very much,
dear; and perhaps—somewhere else—we may again.”—And the brave little
heart again broke down, and, overcome by the prescience of approaching
separation, they both sobbed bitterly there upon the sofa. Presently
came a knock at the door, and Augusta sprang up and turned to hide her
tears. It was the maid-of-all-work bringing the tea; and, as she came
blundering in, a sense of the irony of things forced itself into
Augusta’s soul. Here they were plunged into the most terrible sorrow,
weeping at the inevitable approach of that chill end, and still
appearances must be kept up, even before a maid-of-all-work. Society,
even when represented by a maid-of-all-work, cannot do away with the
intrusion of domestic griefs, or any other griefs, and in our hearts we
know it and act up to it. Far gone, indeed, must we be in mental or
physical agony before we abandon the attempt to keep up appearances.

Augusta drank a little tea and ate a very small bit of
bread-and-butter. As in the case of Mr. Meeson, the events of the day
had not tended to increase her appetite. Jeannie drank a little milk
but ate nothing. When this form had been gone through, and the
maid-of-all-work had once more made her appearance and cleared the
table, Jeannie spoke again.

“Gus,” she said, “I want you to put me to bed and then come and read to
me out of ‘Jemima’s Vow’—where poor Jemima dies, you know. It is the
most beautiful thing in the book, and I want to hear it again.”

Her sister did as she wished, and, taking down “Jemima’s Vow,”
Jeannie’s _own_ copy as it was called, being the very first that had
come into the house, she opened it at the part Jeannie had asked for
and read aloud, keeping her voice as steady as she could. As a matter
of fact, however, the scene itself was as powerful as it was pathetic,
and quite sufficient to account for any unseemly exhibitions of feeling
on the part of the reader. However, she struggled through it till the
last sentence was reached. It ran thus:—“And so Jemima stretched out
her hand to him and said ‘Good-bye.’ And presently, knowing that she
had now kept her promise, and being happy because she had done so, she
went to sleep.”

“Ah!” murmured the blue-eyed child who listened. “I wish that I was as
good as Jemima. But though I have no vow to keep I can say ‘Good-bye,’
and I can go to sleep.”

Augusta made no answer, and presently Jeannie dozed off. Her sister
looked at her with eager affection. “She is giving up,” she said to
herself, “and, if she gives up, she will die. I know it, it is because
we are not going away. How can I get the money, now that that horrible
man is gone? how can I get it?” and she buried her head in her hand and
thought. Presently an idea struck her: she might go back to Meeson and
eat her words, and sell him the copyright of her new book for £100, as
the agreement provided. That would not be enough, however; for
travelling with an invalid is expensive; but she might offer to bind
herself over to him for a term of years as a tame author, like those
who worked in the Hutches. She was sure that he would be glad to get
her, if only he could do so at his own price. It would be slavery worse
than any penal servitude, and even now she shudders at the prospect of
prostituting her great abilities to the necessities of such work as
Meeson’s made their thousands out of—work out of which every spark of
originality was stamped into nothingness, as though it were the mark of
the Beast. Yes, it would be dreadful—it would break her heart; but she
was prepared to have her heart broken and her genius wrung out of her
by inches, if only she could get two hundred pounds wherewith to take
Jeannie away to the South of France. Mr. Meeson would, no doubt, make a
hard bargain—the hardest he could; but still, if she would consent to
bind herself for a sufficient number of years at a sufficiently low
salary, he would probably advance her a hundred pounds, besides the
hundred for the copyright of the new book.

And so having made up her mind to the sacrifice, she went to bed, and,
wearied out with misery, to sleep. And even as she slept, a Presence
that she could not see was standing near her bed, and a Voice that she
could not hear was calling through the gloom. Another mortal had bent
low at the feet of that Unknown God whom men name Death, and been borne
away on his rushing pinions into the spaces of the Hid. One more human
item lay still and stiff, one more account was closed for good or evil,
the echo of one more tread had passed from the earth for ever. The old
million-numbered tragedy in which all must take a part had repeated
itself once more down to its last and most awful scene. Yes; the grim
farce was played out, and the little actor Jeannie was white in death!

Just at the dawn, Augusta dreamed that somebody with cold breath was
breathing on her face, and woke up with a start and listened. Jeannie’s
bed was on the other side of the room, and she could generally hear her
movements plainly enough, for the sick child was a restless sleeper.
But now she could hear nothing, not even the faint vibration of her
sister’s breath. The silence was absolute and appalling; it struck
tangibly upon her sense, as the darkness struck upon her eye-balls and
filled her with a numb, unreasoning terror. She slipped out of bed and
struck a match. In another few seconds she was standing by Jeannie’s
white little bed, waiting for the wick of the candle to burn up.
Presently the light grew. Jeannie was lying on her side, her white face
resting on her white arm. Her eyes were wide open; but when Augusta
held the candle near her she did not shut them or flinch. Her hand,
too—oh, Heavens! the fingers were nearly cold.

Then Augusta understood, and lifting up her arms in agony, she shrieked
till the whole house rang.




CHAPTER IV.
AUGUSTA’S DECISION.


On the second day following the death of poor little Jeannie Smithers,
Mr. Eustace Meeson was strolling about Birmingham with his hands in his
pockets, and an air of indecision on his decidedly agreeable and
gentlemanlike countenance. Eustace Meeson was not particularly cast
down by the extraordinary reverse of fortune which he had recently
experienced. He was a young gentleman of a cheerful nature; and,
besides, it did not so very much matter to him. He was in a blessed
condition of celibacy, and had no wife and children dependent upon him,
and he knew that, somehow or other, it would go hard if, with the help
of the one hundred a year that he had of his own, he did not manage,
with his education, to get a living by hook or by crook. So it was not
the loss of the society of his respected uncle, or the prospective
enjoyment of two millions of money, which was troubling him. Indeed,
after he had once cleared his goods and chattels out of Pompadour Hall
and settled them in a room in an Hotel, he had not given the matter
much thought. But he had given a good many thoughts to Augusta
Smithers’ grey eyes and, by way of getting an insight into her
character, he had at once invested in a copy of “Jemima’s Vow,”
thereby, somewhat against his will, swelling the gains of Meeson’s to
the extent of several shillings. Now, “Jemima’s Vow,” though simple and
homely, was a most striking and powerful book, which fully deserved the
reputation that it had gained, and it affected Eustace—who was in so
much different from most young men of his age that he really did know
the difference between good work and bad—more strongly than he would
have liked to own. Indeed, at the termination of the story, what
between the beauty of Augusta’s pages, the memory of Augusta’s eyes,
and the knowledge of Augusta’s wrongs, Mr. Eustace Meeson began to feel
very much as though he had fallen in love. Accordingly, he went out
walking, and meeting a clerk whom he had known in the Meeson
establishment—one of those who had been discharged on the same day as
himself—he obtained from him Miss Smithers’ address, and began to
reflect as to whether or no he should call upon her. Unable to make up
his mind, he continued to walk till he reached the quiet street where
Augusta lived, and, suddenly perceiving the house of which the clerk
had told him, yielded to temptation and rang.

The door was answered by the maid-of-all-work, who looked at him a
little curiously, but said that Miss Smithers was in, and then
conducted him to a door which was half open, and left him in that
kindly and agreeable fashion that maids-of-all-work have. Eustace was
perplexed, and, looking through the door to see if anyone was in the
room, discovered Augusta herself dressed in some dark material, seated
in a chair, her hands folded on her lap, her pale face set like a
stone, and her eyes gleaming into vacancy. He paused, wondering what
could be the matter, and as he did so his umbrella slipped from his
hand, making a noise that rendered it necessary for him to declare
himself.

Augusta rose as he advanced, and looked at him with a puzzled air, as
though she was striving to recall his name or where she had met him.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, “I must introduce myself, as the
girl has deserted me—I am Eustace Meeson.”

Augusta’s face hardened at the name. “If you have come to me from
Messrs. Meeson and Co.”—she said quickly, and then broke off, as though
struck by some new idea.

“Indeed, no,” said Eustace. “I have nothing in common with Messrs.
Meeson now, except my name, and I have only come to tell you how sorry
I was to see you treated as you were by my uncle. You remember I was in
the office?”

“Yes,” she said, with a suspicion of a blush, “I remember you were very
kind.”

“Well, you see,” he went on, “I had a great row with my uncle after
that, and it ended in his turning me out of the place, bag and baggage,
and informing me that he was going to cut me off with a shilling,
which,” he added reflectively, “he has probably done by now.”

“Do I understand you, Mr. Meeson, to mean that you quarrelled with your
uncle about me and my books?”

“Yes; that is so,” he said.

“It was very chivalrous of you,” she answered, looking at him with a
new-born curiosity. Augusta was not accustomed to find knights-errant
thus prepared, at such cost to themselves, to break a lance in her
cause. Least of all was she prepared to find that knight bearing the
hateful crest of Meeson—if, indeed, Meeson had a crest.

“I ought to apologise,” she went on presently, after an awkward pause,
“for making such a scene in the office, but I wanted money so
dreadfully, and it was so hard to be refused. But it does not matter
now. It is all done with.”

There was a dull, hopeless ring about her voice that awoke his
curiosity. For what could she have wanted the money, and why did she no
longer want it?

“I am sorry,” he said. “Will you tell me what you wanted it so much
for?”

She looked at him, and then, acting upon impulse rather then
reflection, said in a low voice,

“If you like, I will show you.”

He bowed, wondering what was coming next. Rising from her chair,
Augusta led the way to a door which opened out of the sitting-room, and
gently turned the handle and entered. Eustace followed her. The room
was a small bed-room, of which the faded calico blind had been pulled
down; as it happened, however, the sunlight, such as it was, beat full
upon the blind, and came through it in yellow bars. They fell upon the
furniture of the bare little room, they fell upon the iron bedstead,
and upon something lying on it, which he did not at first notice,
because it was covered with a sheet.

Augusta walked up to the bed and gently lifted the sheet, revealing the
sweet face, fringed round about with golden hair, of little Jeannie, in
her coffin.

Eustace gave an exclamation, and started back violently. He had not
been prepared for such a sight; indeed it was the first such sight that
he had ever seen, and it shocked him beyond words. Augusta,
familiarised as she was herself with the companionship of this
beauteous clay cold Terror, had forgotten that, suddenly and without
warning to bring the living into the presence of the dead, is not the
wisest or the kindest thing to do. For, to the living, more especially
to the young, the sight of death is horrible. It is such a fearsome
comment on their health and strength. Youth and strength are merry; but
who can be merry with yon dead thing in the upper chamber? Take it
away! thrust it underground! it is an insult to us; it reminds us that
we, too, die like others. What business has its pallor to show itself
against our ruddy cheeks?

“I beg your pardon,” whispered Augusta, realising something of all this
in a flash, “I forgot, you do not know—you must be shocked—Forgive me!”

“Who is it?” he said, gasping to get back his breath.

“My sister,” she answered. “It was to try and save her life that I
wanted the money. When I told her that I could not get it, she gave up
and died. Your uncle killed her. Come.”

Greatly shocked, he followed her back into the sitting-room, and
then—as soon as he got his composure—apologised for having intruded
himself upon her in such an hour of desolation.

“I am glad to see you,” she said simply, “I have seen nobody except the
doctor once, and the undertaker twice. It is dreadful to sit alone hour
after hour face to face with the irretrievable. If I had not been so
foolish as to enter into that agreement with Messrs. Meeson, I could
have got the money by selling my new book easily enough; and I should
have been able to take Jeannie abroad, and I believe that she would
have lived—at least I hoped so. But now it is finished, and cannot be
helped.”

“I wish I had known,” blundered Eustace, “I could have lent you the
money. I have a hundred and fifty pounds.”

“You are very good,” she answered gently, “but it is no use talking
about it now, it is finished.”

Then Eustace rose and went away; and it was not till he found himself
in the street that he remembered that he had never asked Augusta what
her plans were. Indeed, the sight of poor Jeannie had put everything
else out of his head. However, he consoled himself with the reflection
that he could call again a week or ten days after the funeral.

Two days later, Augusta followed the remains of her dearly beloved
sister to their last resting place, and then came home on foot (for she
was the only mourner), and sat in her black gown before the little
fire, and reflected upon her position. What was she to do? She could
not stay in these rooms. It made her heart ache every time her eyes
fell upon the empty sofa opposite, dinted as it was with the accustomed
weight of poor Jeannie’s frame. Where was she to go, and what was she
to do. She might get literary employment, but then her agreement with
Messrs. Meeson stared her in the face. That agreement was very widely
drawn. It bound her to offer all literary work of any sort, that might
come from her pen during the next five years, to Messrs. Meeson at the
fixed rate of seven per cent, on the published price. Obviously, as it
seemed to her, though perhaps erroneously, this clause might be
stretched to include even a newspaper article, and she knew the
malignant nature of Mr. Meeson well enough to be quite certain that, if
possible, that would be done. It was true she might manage to make a
bare living out of her work, even at the beggarly pay of seven per
cent, but Augusta was a person of spirit, and determined that she would
rather starve than that Meeson should again make huge profits out of
her labour. This avenue being closed to her, she turned her mind
elsewhere; but, look where she might, the prospect was equally dark.

Augusta’s remarkable literary success had not been of much practical
advantage to her, for in this country literary success does not mean so
much as it does in some others. As a matter of fact, indeed, the
average Briton has, at heart, a considerable contempt, if not for
literature, at least for those who produce it. Literature, in his mind,
is connected with the idea of garrets and extreme poverty; and,
therefore, having the national respect for money, he in secret, if not
in public, despises it. A tree is known by its fruit, says he. Let a
man succeed at the Bar, and he makes thousands upon thousands a year,
and is promoted to the highest offices in the State. Let a man succeed
in art, and he will be paid one or two thousand pounds apiece for his
most “pot-boilery” portraits. But your literary men—why, with a few
fortunate exceptions, the best of them barely make a living. What can
literature be worth, if a man can’t make a fortune out of it? So argues
the Briton—no doubt with some of his sound common-sense. Not that he
has no respect for genius. All men bow to true genius, even when they
fear and envy it. But he thinks a good deal more of genius dead than
genius living. However this may be, there is no doubt but that if
through any cause—such, for instance, as the sudden discovery by the
great and highly civilised American people that the seventh commandment
was probably intended to apply to authors, amongst the rest of the
world—the pecuniary rewards of literary labor should be put more upon
an equality with those of other trades, literature—as a profession—will
go up many steps in popular esteem. At present, if a member of a family
has betaken himself to the high and honourable calling (for surely, it
is both) of letters, his friends and relations are apt to talk about
him in a shy and diffident, not to say apologetic, way; much as they
would had he adopted another sort of book-making as a means of
livelihood.

Thus it was that, notwithstanding her success, Augusta had nowhere to
turn in her difficulty. She had absolutely no literary connection.
Nobody had called upon her, and sought her out in consequence of her
book. One or two authors in London, and a few unknown people from
different parts of the country and abroad, had written to her—that was
all. Had she lived in town it might have been different; but,
unfortunately for her, she did not.

The more she thought, the less clear did her path become; until, at
last, she got an inspiration. Why not leave England altogether? She had
nothing to keep her here. She had a cousin—a clergyman—in New Zealand,
whom she had never seen, but who had read “Jemima’s Vow,” and written
her a kind letter about it. That was the one delightful thing about
writing books; one made friends all over the world. Surely he would
take her in for a while, and put her in the way of earning a living
where Meeson would not be to molest her? Why should she not go? She had
twenty pounds left, and the furniture (which included an expensive
invalid chair), and books would fetch another thirty or so—enough to
pay for a second-class passage and leave a few pounds in her pocket. At
the worst it would be a change, and she could not go through more there
than she did here, so that very night she sat down and wrote to her
clergyman cousin.




CHAPTER V.
THE R.M.S. KANGAROO.


It was on a Tuesday evening that a mighty vessel was steaming
majestically out of the mouth of the Thames, and shaping her imposing
course straight at the ball of the setting sun. Most people will
remember reading descriptions of the steamship Kangaroo, and being
astonished at the power of her engines, the beauty of her fittings, and
the extraordinary speed—about eighteen knots—which she developed in her
trials, with an unusually low expenditure of coal. For the benefit of
those who have not, however, it may be stated that the Kangaroo, “the
Little Kangaroo,” as she was ironically named among sailor men, was the
very latest development of the science of modern ship-building.
Everything about her, from the electric light and boiler tubes up, was
on a new and patent system.

Four hundred feet and more she measured from stem to stern, and in that
space were crowded and packed all the luxuries of a palace, and all the
conveniences of an American hotel. She was a beautiful and a wonderful
thing to look on; as, with her holds full of costly merchandise and her
decks crowded with her living freight of about a thousand human beings,
she steamed slowly out to sea, as though loth to leave the land where
she was born. But presently she seemed to gather up her energies and to
grow conscious of the thousands and thousands of miles of wide tossing
water, which stretched between her and the far-off harbour where her
mighty heart should cease from beating and be for a while at rest.
Quicker and quicker she sped along, and spurned the churning water from
her swift sides. She was running under a full head of steam now, and
the coast-line of England grew faint and low in the faint, low light,
till at last it almost vanished from the gaze of a tall, slim girl, who
stood forward, clinging to the starboard bulwark netting and looking
with deep grey eyes across the waste of waters. Presently Augusta, for
it was she, could see the shore no more, and turned to watch the other
passengers and think. She was sad at heart, poor girl, and felt what
she was—a very waif upon the sea of life. Not that she had much to
regret upon the vanished coast-line. A little grave with a white cross
over it—that was all. She had left no friends to weep for her, none.
But even as she thought it, a recollection rose up in her mind of
Eustace Meeson’s pleasant, handsome face, and of his kind words, and
with it came a pang as she reflected that, in all probability, she
should never see the one or hear the other again. Why, she wondered,
had he not come to see her again? She should have liked to bid him
“Good-bye,” and had half a mind to send him a note and tell him of her
going. This, on second thoughts, however, she had decided not to do;
for one thing, she did not know his address, and—well, there was an end
of it.

Could she by the means of clairvoyance have seen Eustace’s face and
heard his words, she would have regretted her decision. For even as
that great vessel plunged on her fierce way right into the heart of the
gathering darkness, he was standing at the door of the lodging-house in
the little street in Birmingham.

“Gone!” he was saying. “Miss Smithers gone to New Zealand! What is her
address?”

“She didn’t leave no address, sir,” replies the dirty maid-of-all-work
with a grin. “She went from here two days ago, and was going on to the
ship in London.”

“What was the name of the ship?” he asked, in despair.
“Kan—Kon—Conger-eel,” replies the girl in triumph, and shuts the door
in his face.

Poor Eustace! He had gone to London to try and get some employment, and
having, after some difficulty, succeeded in obtaining a billet as
reader in Latin, French and English to a publishing house of good
repute, at a salary of £180 a year, he had hurried back to Birmingham
for the sole purpose of seeing Miss Augusta Smithers, with whom, if the
whole truth must be told, he had, to his credit be it said, fallen
deeply, truly, and violently in love. Indeed, so far was he in this way
gone, that he had determined to make all the progress that he could,
and if he thought that there was any prospect of success, to declare
his passion. This was, perhaps, a little premature; but then in these
matters people are apt to be more premature than is generally supposed.
Human nature is very swift in coming to conclusions in matters in which
that strange mixture we call the affections are involved; perhaps
because, although the conclusion is not altogether a pleasing one, the
affections, at any rate in the beginning, are largely dependent on the
senses.

Pity a poor young man! To come from London to Birmingham to woo one’s
grey-eyed mistress, in a third-class carriage too, and find her gone to
New Zealand, whither circumstances prevented him from following her,
without leaving a word or a line, or even an address behind her! It was
too bad. Well, there was no remedy in the matter; so he walked to the
railway station, and groaned and swore all the way back to London.

Augusta, on board the Kangaroo, was, however, in utter ignorance of
this act of devotion on the part of her admirer; indeed, she did not
even know that he was her admirer. Feeling a curious sinking sensation
within her, she was about to go below to her cabin, which she shared
with a lady’s-maid, not knowing whether to attribute it to sentimental
qualms incidental to her lonely departure from the land of her birth,
or to other qualms connected with the first experience of life upon the
ocean wave. About that moment, however, a burly quarter-master
addressed her in gruff tones, and informed her that if she wanted to
see the last of “hold Halbion,” she had better go aft a bit, and look
over the port side, and she would see the something or other light.
Accordingly, more to prove to herself that she was not sea-sick than
for any other reason, she did so, and, standing as far aft as the
second-class passengers were allowed to go, stared at the quick flashes
of the light-house, as second by second, they sent their message across
the great waste of sea.

As she stood there, holding on to a stanchion to steady herself, for
the vessel, large as she was, had begun to get a bit of a roll on, she
was suddenly aware of a bulky figure of a man which came running or
rather reeling against the bulwarks alongside of her, where it—or
rather he—was instantly and violently ill. Augusta was, not
unnaturally, almost horrified into following the figure’s example,
when, suddenly growing faint or from some other cause, it loosed its
hold and rolled into the scuppers, where it lay feebly swearing.
Augusta, obeying a tender impulse of humanity, hurried forward and
stretched out the hand of succour, and presently, between her help and
that of the bulwark netting, the man struggled to his feet. As he did
so his face came close to hers, and in the dim light she recognised the
fat, coarse features, now blanched with misery, of Mr. Meeson, the
publisher. There was no doubt about it, it was her enemy; the man whose
behavior had indirectly, as she believed, caused the death of her
little sister. She dropped his hand with an exclamation of disgust and
dismay, and as she did so he recognised who she was.

“Hullo!” he said, with a faint and rather feeble attempt to assume his
fine old crusted publishing-company manners. “Hullo! Miss
Jemima—Smithers, I mean; what on earth are you doing here?”

“I am going to New Zealand, Mr. Meeson,” she answered sharply; “and I
certainly did not expect to have the pleasure of your company on the
voyage.”

“Going to New Zealand,” he said, “are you? Why, so am I; at least, I am
going there first, then to Australia. What do you mean to do there—try
and run round our little agreement, eh? It won’t be any good, I tell
you plainly. We have our agents in New Zealand, and a house in
Australia, and if you try to get the better of Meeson’s there, Meeson’s
will be even with you, Miss Smithers—Oh, Heavens! I feel as though I
were coming to pieces.”

“Don’t alarm yourself, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “I am not going to
publish any more books at present.”

“That is a pity,” he said, “because your stuff is good selling stuff.
Any publisher would find money in it. I suppose you are second-class,
Miss Smithers, so we shan’t see much of each other; and, perhaps, if we
should meet, it might be as well if we didn’t seem to have any
acquaintance. It don’t look well for a man in my position to know
second-class passengers, especially young lady passengers who write
novels.”

“You need not be afraid, Mr. Meeson: I have no wish to claim your
acquaintance,” said Augusta.

At this point, her enemy was taken violently worse again, and, being
unable to stand the sight and sound of his writhing and groaning, she
fled forward; and, reflecting on this strange and awkward meeting, went
down to her own berth, where, with lucid intervals, she remained
helpless and half stupid for the next three days. On the fourth day,
however, she reappeared on deck quite recovered, and with an excellent
appetite. She had her breakfast, and then went and sat forward in as
quiet a place as she could find. She did not want to see Mr. Meeson any
more, and she did want to escape from the stories of her cabin-mate,
the lady’s-maid. This good person would, after the manner of her kind,
insist upon repeating to her a succession of histories connected with
members of the families with whom she had lived, many of which were
sufficient to make the hair of a respectable young lady like Augusta
stand positively on end. No doubt they were interesting to her in her
capacity of a novelist; but, as they were all of the same colour, and
as their tendency was absolutely to destroy any belief she might have
in virtue as an inherent quality in highly developed woman or honour in
man, Augusta soon wearied of these _chroniques scandaleuses_. So she
went forward, and was sitting looking at the “white horses” chasing
each other across the watery plain, and reflecting upon what the
condition of mind of those ladies whose histories she had recently
heard would be if they knew that their most secret, and in some cases
disgraceful and tragic, love affairs were the common talk of a dozen
servants’ halls, when suddenly she was astonished by the appearance of
a splendid official bearing a book. At first, from the quantity of gold
lace with which his uniform was adorned, Augusta took him to be the
captain; but it presently transpired that he was only the chief
steward.

“Please, Miss,” he said, touching his hat and holding out the book in
his hand towards her, “the captain sends his compliments and wants to
know if you are the young lady who wrote this.”

Augusta glanced at the work. It was a copy of “Jemima’s Vow.” Then she
replied that she was the writer of it, and the steward vanished.

Later on in the morning came another surprise. The gorgeous official
again appeared, touched his cap, and said that the captain desired him
to say that orders had been given to have her things moved to a cabin
further aft. At first Augusta demurred to this, not from any love of
the lady’s-maid, but because she had a truly British objection to being
ordered about.

“Captain’s orders, Miss,” said the man, touching his cap again; and she
yielded.

Nor had she any cause to regret doing so; for, to her huge delight, she
found herself moved into a charming deck-cabin on the starboard side of
the vessel, some little way abaft the engine-room. It was evidently an
officer’s cabin, for there, over the head of the bed, was the picture
of a young lady he adored, and also some neatly fitted shelves of
books, a rack of telescopes, and other seaman-like contrivances.

“Am I to have this cabin to myself?” asked Augusta of the steward.

“Yes, Miss; those are the captain’s orders. It is Mr. Jones’s cabin.
Mr. Jones is the second officer; but he has turned in with Mr. Thomas,
the first officer, and given up the cabin to you.”

“I am sure it’s very kind of Mr. Jones,” murmured Augusta, not knowing
what to make of this turn of fortune. But surprises were not to end
there. A few minutes afterwards, just as she was leaving the cabin, a
gentleman in uniform came up, in whom she recognized the captain. He
was accompanied by a pretty fair-haired woman very becomingly dressed.

“Excuse me; Miss Smithers, I believe?” he said, with a bow.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Alton. I hope you like your new cabin. Let me introduce
you to Lady Holmhurst, wife of Lord Holmhurst, the New Zealand
Governor, you know. Lady Holmhurst, this is Miss Smithers, whose book
you were talking so much about.”

“Oh! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Smithers,” said the
great lady in a manner that evidently was not assumed. “Captain Alton
has promised that I shall sit next to you at dinner, and then we can
have a good talk. I don’t know when I have been so much delighted with
anything as I was with your book. I have read it three times, what do
you think of that for a busy woman?”

“I think there is some mistake,” said Augusta, hurriedly and with a
slight blush. “I am a second-class passenger on board this ship, and
therefore cannot have the pleasure of sitting next to Lady Holmhurst.”

“Oh, that is all right, Miss Smithers,” said the captain, with a jolly
laugh. “You are my guest, and I shall take no denial.”

“When we find genius for once in our lives, we are not going to lose
the opportunity of sitting at its feet,” added Lady Holmhurst, with a
little movement towards her which was neither curtsey nor bow, but
rather a happy combination of both. The compliment was, Augusta felt,
sincere, however much it exaggerated the measure of her poor
capacities, and, putting other things aside, was, coming as it did from
one woman to another, peculiarly graceful and surprising. She blushed
and bowed, scarcely knowing what to say, when suddenly, Mr. Meeson’s
harsh tones, pitched just now in a respectful key, broke upon her ear.
Mr. Meeson was addressing no less a person than Lord Holmhurst,
G.C.M.G. Lord Holmhurst was a stout, short, dark little man, with a
somewhat pompous manner, and a kindly face. He was a Colonial Governor
of the first water, and was perfectly aware of the fact.

Now, a Colonial Governor, even though he be a G.C.M.G. when he is at
home, is not a name to conjure with, and does not fill an exclusive
place in the eye of the English world. There are many Colonial
Governors in the present and past tense to be found in the purlieus of
South Kensington, where their presence creates no unusual excitement.
But when one of this honourable corps sets foot upon the vessel
destined to bear him to the shores that he shall rule, all this
changes. He puts off the body of the ordinary betitled individual and
puts on the body of the celestial brotherhood. In short, from being
nobody out of the common he becomes, and very properly so, a great man.
Nobody knew this better than Lord Holmhurst, and to a person fond of
observing such things nothing could have been more curious to notice
than the small, but gradual increase of the pomposity of his manner, as
the great ship day by day steamed further from England and nearer to
the country where he was King. It went up, degree by degree, like a
thermometer which is taken down into the bowels of the earth or
gradually removed into the sunlight. At present, however, the
thermometer was only rising.

“I was repeating, my Lord,” said the harsh voice of Mr. Meeson, “that
the principle of an hereditary peerage is the grandest principle our
country has yet developed. It gives us something to look forward to. In
one generation we make the money; in the next we take the title which
the money buys. Look at your Lordship. Your Lordship is now in a proud
position; but, as I have understood, your Lordship’s father was a
trader like me.”

“Hum!—well, not exactly, Mr. Meeson,” broke in Lord Holmhurst. “Dear
me, I wonder who that exceedingly nice-looking girl Lady Holmhurst is
talking to can be!”

“Now, your Lordship, to put a case,” went on the remorseless Meeson,
who, like most people of his stamp, had an almost superstitious
veneration for the aristocracy, “I have made a great deal of money, as
I do not mind telling your Lordship; what is there to prevent my
successor—supposing I have a successor—from taking advantage of that
money, and rising on it to a similar position to that so worthily
occupied by your Lordship?”

“Exactly, Mr. Meeson. A most excellent idea for your successor. Excuse
me, but I see Lady Holmhurst beckoning to me.” And he fled
precipitately, still followed by Mr. Meeson.

“John, my dear!” said Lady Holmhurst, “I want to introduce you to Miss
Smithers—_the_ Miss Smithers whom we have all been talking about, and
whose book you have been reading. Miss Smithers, my husband!”

Lord Holmhurst, who, when he was not deep in the affairs of State, had
a considerable eye for a pretty girl—and what man worthy of the name
has not?—bowed most politely, and was proceeding to tell Augusta, in
very charming language, how delighted he was to make her acquaintance,
when Mr. Meeson arrived on the scene and perceived Augusta for the
first time. Quite taken aback at finding her, apparently, upon the very
best of terms with people of such quality, he hesitated to consider
what course to adopt; whereon Lady Holmhurst in a somewhat formal way,
for she was not very fond of Mr. Meeson, mistaking his hesitation, went
on to introduce him. Thereupon, all in a moment, as we do sometimes
take such resolutions, Augusta came to a determination. She would have
nothing more to do with Mr. Meeson—she would repudiate him then and
there, come what would of it.

So, as he advanced upon her with outstretched hand, she drew herself
up, and in a cold and determined voice said, “I already know Mr.
Meeson, Lady Holmhurst; and I do not wish to have anything more to do
with him. Mr. Meeson has not behaved well to me.”

“‘Pon my word,” murmured Lord Holmhurst to himself, “I don’t wonder she
has had enough of him. Sensible young woman, that!”

Lady Holmhurst looked a little astonished and a little amused.
Suddenly, however, a light broke upon her.

“Oh! I see,” she said. “I suppose that Mr. Meeson published ‘Jemima’s
Vow.’ Of course that accounts for it. Why, I declare there is the
dinner bell! Come along, Miss Smithers, or we shall lose the place the
captain has promised us.” And, accordingly, they went, leaving Mr.
Meeson, who had not yet realized the unprecedented nature of the
position, positively gasping on the deck. And on board the Kangaroo
there were no clerks and editors on whom he could wreak his wrath!

“And now, my dear Miss Smithers,” said Lady Holmhurst when, dinner
being over, they were sitting together in the moonlight, near the
wheel, “perhaps you will tell me why you don’t like Mr. Meeson, whom,
by-the-way, I personally detest. But don’t, if you don’t wish to, you
know.”

But Augusta did wish to, and then and there she unfolded her whole sad
story into her new-found friend’s sympathetic ear; and glad enough the
poor girl was to find a confidante to whom she could unbosom her
sorrows.

“Well, upon my word!” said Lady Holmhurst, when she had listened with
tears in her eyes to the history of poor little Jeannie’s death, “upon
my word, of all the brutes I ever heard of, I think that this publisher
of yours is the worst! I will cut him, and get my husband to cut him
too. But no, I have a better plan than that. He shall tear up that
agreement, so sure as my name is Bessie Holmhurst; he shall tear it up,
or—or”—and she nodded her little head with an air of infinite wisdom.




CHAPTER VI.
MR. TOMBEY GOES FORWARD.


From that day forward, the voyage on the Kangaroo was, until the last
dread catastrophe, a very happy one for Augusta. Lord and Lady
Holmhurst made much of her, and all the rest of the first-class
passengers followed suit, and soon she found herself the most popular
character on board. The two copies of her book that there were on the
ship were passed on from hand to hand till they would hardly hang
together, and, really, at last she got quite tired of hearing of her
own creations. But this was not all; Augusta was, it will be
remembered, an exceedingly pretty woman, and melancholy as the fact may
seem, it still remains a fact that a pretty woman is in the eyes of
most people a more interesting object than a man, or than a lady, who
is not “built that way.” Thus it came to pass that what between her
youth, her beauty, her talent, and her misfortunes—for Lady Holmhurst
had not exactly kept that history to herself—Augusta was all of a
sudden elevated into the position of a perfect heroine. It really
almost frightened the poor girl, who had been accustomed to nothing but
sorrow, ill-treatment and grinding poverty, to suddenly find herself in
this strange position, with every man on board that great vessel at her
beck and call. But she was human, and therefore, of course she enjoyed
it. It _is_ something when one has been wandering for hour after hour
in the wet and melancholy night, suddenly to see the fair dawn breaking
and burning overhead, and to know that the worst is over, for now there
will be light whereby to set our feet. It is something, too, to the
most Christian soul, to utterly and completely triumph over one who had
done all in his power to crush and destroy you; whose grasping greed
has indirectly been the cause of the death of the person you loved best
in the whole world round. And she did triumph. As Mr. Meeson’s conduct
to her got about, the little society of the ship—which was, after all,
a very fair example of all society in miniature—fell away from this
publishing Prince, and not even the jingling of his money-bags could
lure it back. He the great, the practically omnipotent, the owner of
two millions, and the hard master of hundreds upon whose toil he
battened, was practically _cut_. Even the clerk, who was going out on a
chance of getting a place in a New Zealand bank, would have nothing to
say to him. And what is more, he felt it more even than an ordinary
individual would have done. He, the “Printer-devil,” as poor little
Jeannie used to call him, he to be slighted and flouted by a pack of
people whom he could buy up three times over, and all on account of a
wretched authoress—an authoress, if you please! It made Mr. Meeson very
wild—a state of affairs which was brought to a climax when one morning
Lord Holmhurst, who had for several days been showing a growing dislike
to his society, actually almost cut him dead; that is, he did not
notice his outstretched hand, and passed him with a slight bow.

“Never mind, my Lord—never mind!” muttered Mr. Meeson after that
somewhat pompous but amiable nobleman’s retreating form. “We’ll see if
I can’t come square with you. I’m a dog who can pull a string or two in
the English press, I am! Those who have the money and have got a hold
of people, so that they must write what they tell them, ain’t people to
be cut by any Colonial Governor, my Lord!” And in his anger he fairly
shook his fist at the unconscious Peer.

“Seem to be a little out of temper, Mr. Meeson,” said a voice at his
elbow, the owner of which was a big young man with hard but kindly
features and a large moustache. “What has the Governor been doing to
you?”

“Doing, Mr. Tombey? He’s been cutting me, that’s all—me,
Meeson!—cutting me as dead as offal, or something like it. I held out
my hand and he looked right over it, and marched by.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Tombey, who was a wealthy New Zealand landowner; “and
now, why do you suppose he did that?”

“Why? I’ll tell you why. It’s all about that girl.”

“Miss Smithers, do you mean?” said Tombey the big, with a curious flash
of his deep-set eyes.

“Yes, Miss Smithers. She wrote a book, and I bought the book for fifty
pounds, and stuck a clause in that she should give me the right to
publish anything she wrote for five years at a price—a common sort of
thing enough in one way and another, when you are dealing with some
idiot who don’t know any better. Well, as it happened this book sold
like wild-fire; and, in time the young lady comes to me and wants more
money, wants to get out of the hanging clause in the agreement, wants
everything, like a female Oliver Twist; and when I say, ‘No, you
don’t,’ loses her temper, and makes a scene. And it turns out that what
she wanted the money for was to take a sick sister, or cousin, or aunt,
or someone, out of England; and when she could not do it, and the
relation died, then she emigrates, and goes and tells the people on
board ship that it is all my fault.”

“And I suppose that that is a conclusion that you do not feel drawn to,
Mr. Meeson?”

“No Tombey, I don’t. Business is business; and if I happen to have got
to windward of the young woman, why, so much the better for me. She’s
getting her experience, that’s all; and she ain’t the first, and won’t
be the last. But if she goes saying much more about me, I go for her
for slander, that’s sure.”

“On the legal ground that the greater the truth, the greater the libel,
I presume?”

“Confound her!” went on Meeson, without noticing his remark, and
contracting his heavy eyebrows, “there’s no end to the trouble she has
brought on me. I quarrelled with my nephew about her, and now she’s
dragging my name through the dirt here, and I’ll bet the story will go
all over New Zealand and Australia.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Tombey, “I fancy you will find it take a lot of
choking; and now, Mr. Meeson, with your permission I will say a word,
and try and throw a new light upon a very perplexing matter. It never
seems to have occurred to you what an out-and-out blackguard you are,
so I may as well put it to you plainly. If you are not a thief, you
are, at least, a very well-coloured imitation. You take a girl’s book
and make hundreds upon hundreds out of it, and give her fifty. You tie
her down, so as to provide for successful swindling of the same sort,
during future years, and then, when she comes to beg a few pounds of
you, you show her the door. And now you wonder, Mr. Meeson, that
respectable people will have nothing to do with you! Well, now, I tell
you, _my_ opinion is that the only society to which you would be really
suited is that of cow-hide. Good morning,” and the large young man
walked off, his very moustachios curling with wrath and contempt. Thus,
for a second time, did the great Mr. Meeson hear the truth from the
lips of babes and sucklings, and the worst of it was that he could not
disinherit Number Two as he had Number One.

Now this will strike the reader as being very warm advocacy on the part
of Mr. Tombey, who, being called in to console and bless, cursed with
such extraordinary vigour. It may even strike the discerning reader—and
all readers, or, at least, nearly all readers, are of course
discerning: far too much so, indeed—that there must have been a reason
for it; and the discerning reader will be right. Augusta’s grey eyes
had been too much for Mr. Tombey, as they had been too much for Eustace
Meeson before him. His passion had sprung up and ripened in that
peculiarly rapid and vigorous fashion that passions do on board ship. A
passenger steamer is Cupid’s own hot-bed, and in this way differs from
a sailing-ship. On the sailing-ship, indeed, the preliminary stages are
the same. The seed roots as strongly, and grows and flowers with equal
vigour; but here comes the melancholy part—it withers and decays with
equal rapidity. The voyage is too long. Too much is mutually revealed.
The matrimonial iron cannot be struck while it is hot, and long before
the weary ninety days are over it is once more cold and black, or at
the best glows with but a feeble heat. But on the steamship there is no
time for this, as any traveller knows. Myself—I, the historian—have,
with my own eyes seen a couple meet for the first time at Maderia, get
married at the Cape, and go on as man and wife in the same vessel to
Natal. And, therefore, it came to pass that very evening a touching,
and, on the whole melancholy, little scene was enacted near the
smoke-stack of the Kangaroo.

Mr. Tombey and Miss Augusta Smithers were leaning together over the
bulwarks and watching the phosphorescent foam go flashing past. Mr.
Tombey was nervous and ill at ease; Miss Smithers very much at ease,
and reflecting that her companion’s moustachios would very well become
a villain in a novel.

Mr. Tombey looked at the star-spangled sky, on which the Southern Cross
hung low, and he looked at the phosphorescent sea; but from neither did
inspiration come. Inspiration is from within, and not from without. At
last, however, he made a gallant and a desperate effort.

“Miss Smithers,” he said in a voice trembling with agitation.

“Yes, Mr. Tombey,” answered Augusta, quietly; “what is it?”

“Miss Smithers,” he went on—“Miss Augusta, I don’t know what you will
think of me, but I must tell you, I can’t keep it any longer, I love
you!”

Augusta fairly jumped. Mr. Tombey had been very, even markedly, polite,
and she, not being a fool, had seen that he admired her; but she had
never expected this, and the suddenness with which the shot was fired
was somewhat bewildering.

“Why, Mr. Tombey,” she said in a surprised voice, “you have only known
me for a little more than a fortnight.”

“I fell in love with you when I had only known you for an hour,” he
answered with evident sincerity. “Please listen to me. I know I am not
worthy of you! But I do love you so very dearly, and I would make you a
good husband; indeed I would, I am well off; though, of course that is
nothing; and if you don’t like New Zealand, I would give it up and go
to live in England. Do you think that you can take me? If you only knew
how dearly I love you, I am sure you would.”

Augusta collected her wits as well as she could. The man evidently did
love her; there was no doubting the sincerity of his words, and she
liked him and he was a gentleman. If she married him there would be an
end of all her worries and troubles, and she could rest contentedly on
his strong arm. Woman, even gifted woman, is not made to fight the
world with her own hand, and the prospect had allurements. But while
she thought, Eustace Meeson’s bonny face rose before her eyes, and, as
it did so, a faint feeling of repulsion to the man who was pleading
with her took form and colour in her breast. Eustace Meeson, of course,
was nothing to her; no word or sign of affection had passed between
them; and the probability was that she would never set her eyes upon
him again. And yet that face rose up between her and this man who was
pleading at her side. Many women, likely enough, have seen some such
vision from the past and have disregarded it, only to find too late
that that which is thrust aside is not necessarily hidden; for alas!
those faces of our departed youth have an uncanny trick of rising from
the tomb of our forgetfulness. But Augusta was not of the great order
of opportunists. Because a thing might be convenient, it did not,
according to the dictates of her moral sense, follow that it was
lawful. Therefore, she was a woman to be respected. For a woman who,
except under most exceptional circumstances, gives her instincts the
lie in order to pander to her convenience or her desire for wealth and
social ease, is not altogether a woman to be respected.

In a very few seconds she had made up her mind.

“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Tombey,” she said; “you have done
me a great honour, the greatest honour man can do to a woman; but I
cannot marry you.”

“Are you sure?” gasped the unfortunate Tombey, for his hopes had been
high. “Is there no hope for me? Perhaps there is somebody else!”

“There is nobody else, Mr. Tombey; and, I am sorry to say, you don’t
know how much it pains me to say it, I cannot hold out any prospect
that I shall change my mind.”

He dropped his head upon his hands for a minute, and then lifted it
again.

“Very well,” he said slowly; “it can’t be helped. I never loved any
woman before, and I never shall again. It is a pity “—(with a hard,
little laugh)—“that so much first-class affection should be wasted.
But, there you are; it is all part and parcel of the pleasant
experiences which make up our lives. Good-bye, Miss Smithers; at least,
good-bye as a friend!”

“We can still be friends,” she faltered.

“Oh, no,” he answered, with another laugh; “that is an exploded notion.
Friendship of that nature is not very safe under any circumstances,
certainly not under these. The relationship is antagonistic to the
facts of life, and the friends, or one or other of them, will drift
either into indifference and dislike, or—something warmer. You are a
novelist, Miss Smithers; perhaps some day you will write a book to
explain why people fall in love where their affection is not wanted,
and what purpose their distress can possibly serve. And now, once more,
good bye!” and he lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it, and
then, with a bow, turned and went.

From all of which it will be clearly seen that Mr. Tombey was decidedly
a young man above the average, and one who took punishment very well.
Augusta looked after him, and sighed deeply, and even wiped away a
tear. Then she turned and walked aft, to where Lady Holmhurst was
sitting enjoying the balmy southern air, through which the great ship
was rushing with outspread sails like some huge white bird, and
chatting to the captain. As she came up, the captain made his bow and
departed, saying that he had something to see to, and for a minute Lady
Holmhurst and Augusta were left alone.

“Well, Augusta?” said Lady Holmhurst, for she called her “Augusta” now.
“And what have you done with that young man, Mr. Tombey—that very nice
young man?” she added with emphasis.

“I think that Mr. Tombey went forward,” said Augusta.

The two women looked at each other, and, womanlike, each understood
what the other meant. Lady Holmhurst had not been altogether innocent
in the Tombey affair.

“Lady Holmhurst,” said Augusta, taking the bull by the horns, “Mr.
Tombey has been speaking to me and has”—

“Proposed to you,” suggested Lady Holmhurst, admiring the Southern
Cross through her eyeglasses. “You said he went forward, you know.”

“Has proposed to me,” answered Augusta, ignoring the little joke. “I
regret,” she went on hurriedly, “that I have not been able to fall in
with Mr. Tombey’s plans.”

“Ah!” said Lady Holmhurst; “I am sorry, for some things. Mr. Tombey is
such a very nice young man, and so very gentlemanlike. I thought that
perhaps it might suit your views, and it would have simplified your
future arrangements. But as to that, of course, while you are in New
Zealand, I shall be able to see to that. By-the-way, it is understood
that you come to stay with us for a few months at Government House,
before you hunt up your cousin.”

“You are very good to me, Lady Holmhurst,” said Augusta, with something
like a sob.

“Suppose, my dear,” answered the great lady, laying her little hand
upon Augusta’s beautiful hair, “that you were to drop the ‘Lady
Holmhurst’ and call me ‘Bessie?’ it sounds so much more sociable, you
know, and, besides; it is shorter, and does not waste so much breath.”

Then Augusta sobbed outright, for her nerves were shaken: “You don’t
know what your kindness means to me,” she said; “I have never had a
friend, and since my darling died I have been so very lonely!”




CHAPTER VII.
THE CATASTROPHE.


And so these two fair women talked, making plans for the future as
though all things endured forever, and all plans were destined to be
realized. But even as they talked, somewhere up in the high heavens the
Voice that rules the world spoke a word, and the Messenger of Fate
rushed forth to do its bidding. On board the great ship was music and
laughter and the sweet voices of singing women; but above it hung a
pall of doom. Not the most timid heart dreamed of danger. What danger
could there be aboard of that grand ship, which sped across the waves
with the lightness and confidence of the swallow? There was naught to
fear. A prosperous voyage was drawing to its end, and mothers put their
babes to sleep with as sure a heart as though they were on solid
English ground. Oh! surely when his overflowing load of sorrows and
dire miseries was meted out to man, some gentle Spirit pleaded for
him—that he should not have foresight added to the tale, that he should
not see the falling knife or hear the water lapping that one day shall
entomb him? Or, was it kept back because man, having knowledge, would
be man without reason?—for terror would make him mad, and he would end
his fears by hurrying their fulfilment! At least, we are blind to the
future, and let us be thankful for it.

Presently Lady Holmhurst got up from her chair, and said that she was
going to bed, but that, first of all, she must kiss Dick, her little
boy, who slept with his nurse in another cabin. Augusta rose and went
with her, and they both kissed the sleeping child, a bonny boy of five,
and then they kissed each other and separated for the night.

Some hours afterwards Augusta woke up, feeling very restless. For an
hour or more she lay thinking of Mr. Tombey and many other things, and
listening to the swift “lap, lap,” of the water as it slipped past the
vessel’s sides, and the occasional tramp of the watch as they set fresh
sails. At last her feeling of unrest got too much for her, and she rose
and partially, very partially, dressed herself—for in the gloom she
could only find her flannel vest and petticoat—twisted her long hair in
a coil round her head, put on a hat and a thick ulster that hung upon
the door—for they were running into chilly latitudes—and slipped out on
deck.

It was getting towards dawn, but the night was still dark. Looking up,
Augusta could only just make out the outlines of the huge bellying
sails, for the Kangaroo was rushing along before the westerly wind
under a full head of steam, and with every inch of her canvas set to
ease the screw. There was something very exhilarating about the
movement, the freshness of the night, and the wild, sweet song of the
wind as it sang amongst the rigging. Augusta turned her face toward it,
and, being alone, stretched out her arms as though to catch it. The
whole scene awoke some answering greatness in her heart; something that
slumbers in the bosom of the higher race of human beings, and only
stirs—and then but faintly—when the passions move them, or when nature
communes with her nobler children. She felt that at that moment she
could write as she had never written yet. All sorts of beautiful ideas,
all sorts of aspirations after that noble calm, and purity of thought
and life for which we pray and long, but are not allowed to reach, came
flowing into her heart. She almost thought that she could hear her lost
Jeannie’s voice calling down the gale, and her strong imagination began
to paint her hovering like a sea-bird upon white wings high above the
mainmast’s taper point, and gazing through the darkness into the soul
of her she loved. Then, by those faint and imperceptible degrees with
which thoughts fade one into another, from Jeannie her thought got
round to Eustace Meeson. She wondered if he had ever called at the
lodgings at Birmingham after she left? Somehow, she had an idea that he
was not altogether indifferent to her; there had been a look in his
eyes she did not quite understand. She almost wished now she had sent
him a line or a message. Perhaps she would do so from New Zealand. Just
then her meditations were interrupted by a step, and, turning round,
she found herself face to face with the captain.

“Why, Miss Smithers!” he said, “what on earth are you doing here at
this hour?—making up romances?”

“Yes,” she answered, laughing, and with perfect truth. “The fact of the
matter is, I could not sleep, and so I came on deck; and very pleasant
it is!”

“Yes,” said the captain, “If you want something to put into your
stories you won’t find anything better than this. The Kangaroo is
showing her heels, isn’t she, Miss Smithers? That’s the beauty of her,
she can sail as well as steam; and when she has a strong wind like this
abaft, it would have to be something very quick that would catch her. I
believe that we have been running over seventeen knots an hour ever
since midnight. I hope to make Kerguelen Island by seven o’clock to
correct my chronometers.”

“What is Kerguelen Island?” asked Augusta.

“Oh! it is a desert place where nobody goes, except now and then a
whaler to fill up with water. I believe that the astronomers sent an
expedition there a few years ago, to observe the transit of Venus: but
it was a failure because the weather was so misty—it is nearly always
misty there. Well, I must be off, Miss Smithers. Good night; or,
rather, good morning.”

Before the words were well out of his mouth, there was a wild shout
forward—“_ship ahead_!” Then came an awful yell from a dozen
voices—“_starboard! Hard-a-starboard, for God’s sake_.”

With a wild leap, like the leap of a man suddenly shot, the captain
left her side and rushed on to the bridge. At the same instant the
engine-bell rang and the steering-chains began to rattle furiously on
the rollers at her feet as the steam steering-gear did its work. Then
came another yell—

“_It’s a whaler!—no lights_!” and an answering shriek of terror from
some big black object that loomed ahead. Before the echoes had died
away, before the great ship could even answer to her helm, there was a
crash, such as Augusta had never heard, and a sickening shock, that
threw her on her hands and knees on the deck, shaking the iron masts
till they trembled as though they were willow wands, and making the
huge sails flap and for an instant fly aback. The great vessel, rushing
along at her frightful speed of seventeen knots, had plunged into the
ship ahead with such hideous energy that she cut her clean in two—cut
her in two and passed over her, as though she were a pleasure-boat!

Shriek upon shriek of despair came piercing the gloomy night, and then,
as Augusta struggled to her feet, she felt a horrible succession of
bumps, accompanied by a crushing, grinding noise. It was the Kangaroo
driving right over the remains of the whaler.

In a very few seconds it was done, and looking astern, Augusta could
just make out something black that seemed to float for a second or two
upon the water, and then disappear into its depths. It was the
shattered hull of the whaler.

Then there arose a faint murmuring sound, that grew first into a hum,
then into a roar, and then into a clamour that rent the skies, and up
from every hatchway and cabin in the great ship, human beings—men,
women, and children—came rushing and tumbling, with faces white with
terror—white as their night-gear. Some were absolutely naked, having
slipped off their night-dress and had no time to put on anything else;
some had put on ulsters and great-coats, others had blankets thrown
round them or carried their clothes in their hands. Up they came,
hundreds and hundreds of them (for there were a thousand souls on board
the Kangaroo), pouring aft like terrified spirits flying from the mouth
of Hell, and from them arose such a hideous clamour as few have lived
to hear.

Augusta clung to the nettings to let the rush go by, trying to collect
her scattered senses and to prevent herself from catching the dreadful
contagion of the panic. Being a brave and cool-headed woman, she
presently succeeded, and with her returning clearness of vision she
realized that she and all on board were in great peril. It was clear
that so frightful a collision could not have taken place without injury
to their own vessel. Nothing short of an iron-clad ram could have stood
such a shock, probably they would founder in a few minutes, and all be
drowned. In a few minutes she might be dead! Her heart stood still at
the horror of the thought, but once more she recovered herself. Well,
after all, life had not been pleasant; and she had nothing to fear from
another world, she had done no wrong. Then suddenly she began to think
of the others. Where was Lady Holmhurst? and where were the boy and the
nurse? Acting upon the impulse she did not stay to realize, she ran to
the saloon hatchway. It was fairly clear now, for most of the people
were on deck, and she found her way to the child’s cabin with but
little difficulty. There was a light in it, and the first glance showed
her that the nurse had gone; gone, and deserted the child—for there he
lay, asleep, with a smile upon his little round face. The shock had
scarcely wakened the boy, and, knowing nothing of ship-wrecks, he had
just shut his eyes and gone to sleep again.

“Dick, Dick!” she said, shaking him.

He yawned and sat up, and then threw himself down again saying, “Dick
sleepy.”

“Yes, but Dick must wake up, and Auntie” (he called her “auntie”) “will
take him up on deck to look for Mummy. Won’t it be nice to go on deck
in the dark.”

“Yes,” said Dick, with confidence; and Augusta took him on her knee and
hurried him into such of his clothes as came handy, as quickly as she
could. On the cabin-door was a warm little pea-jacket which the child
wore when it was cold. This she put on over his blouse and flannel
shirt, and then, by an after-thought, took the two blankets off his
bunk and wrapped them round him. At the foot of the nurse’s bed was a
box of biscuits and some milk. The biscuits she emptied into the
pockets of her ulster, and having given the child as much of the milk
as he would drink, swallowed the rest herself. Then, pinning a shawl
which lay about round her own shoulders, she took up the child and made
her way with him on to the deck. At the head of the companion she met
Lord Holmhurst himself, rushing down to look after the child.

“I have got him, Lord Holmhurst,” she cried; “the nurse has run away.
Where is your wife?”

“Bless you,” he said fervently; “you are a good girl. Bessie is aft
somewhere: I would not let her come. They are trying to keep the people
off the boats—they are all mad!”

“Are we sinking?” she asked faintly.

“God knows—ah! here is the captain,” pointing to a man who was walking,
or rather pushing his way, rapidly towards them through the maddened,
screeching mob. Lord Holmhurst caught him by the arm.

“Let me go,” he said roughly, trying to shake himself loose. “Oh! it is
you, Lord Holmhurst.”

“Yes; step in here for one second and tell us the worst. Speak up, man,
and let us know all!”

“Very well, Lord Holmhurst, I will. We have run down a whaler of about
five hundred tons, which was cruising along under reduced canvas and
showing no lights. Our fore compartment is stove right in, bulging out
the plates on each side of the cut-water, and loosening the fore
bulkhead. The carpenter and his mates are doing their best to shore it
up from the inside with balks of timber, but the water is coming in
like a mill race, and I fear there are other injuries. All the pumps
are at work, but there’s a deal of water, and if the bulkhead goes”—

“We shall go, too,” said Lord Holmhurst, calmly. “Well, we must take to
the boats. Is that all?”

“In Heaven’s name, is that not enough!” said the captain, looking up,
so that the light that was fixed in the companion threw his ghastly
face into bold relief. “No, Lord Holmhurst, it is not all. The boats
will hold something over three hundred people. There are about one
thousand souls aboard the Kangaroo, of whom more than three hundred are
women and children.”

“Therefore the men must drown,” said Lord Holmhurst, quietly. “God’s
will be done!”

“Your Lordship will, of course, take a place in the boats?” said the
captain, hurriedly. “I have ordered them to be prepared, and,
fortunately, day is breaking. I rely upon you to explain matters to the
owners if you escape, and clear my character. The boats must make for
Kerguelen Land. It is about seventy miles to the eastward.”

“You must give your message to someone else, captain,” was the answer;
“I shall stay and share the fate of the other men.”

There was no pomposity about Lord Holmhurst now—all that had gone—and
nothing but the simple gallant nature of the English gentleman
remained.

“No, no,” said the captain, as they hurried aft, pushing their way
through the fear-distracted crowd. “Have you got your revolver?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, keep it handy; you may have to use it presently: they will
try and rush the boats.”

By this time the grey dawn was slowly breaking, throwing a cold and
ghastly light upon the hideous scene of terror. Round about the boats
were gathered the officers and some of the crew, doing their best to
prepare them for lowering. Indeed, one had already been got away. In it
was Lady Holmhurst, who had been thrown there against her will,
shrieking for her child and husband, and about a score of women and
children, together with half-a-dozen sailors and an officer.

Augusta caught sight of her friend’s face in the faint light “Bessie!
Bessie! Lady Holmhurst!” she cried, “I have got the boy. It is all
right—I have got the boy!”

She heard her, and waved her hand wildly towards her; and then the men
in the boat gave way, and in a second it was out of earshot. Just then
a tall form seized Augusta by the arm. She looked up: it was Mr.
Tombey, and she saw that in his other hand he held a revolver.

“Thank God!” he shouted in her ear, “I have found you! This way—this
way, quick!” And he dragged her aft to where two sailors, standing by
the davits that supported a small boat, were lowering her to the level
of the bulwarks.

“Now then, women!” shouted an officer who was in charge of the
operation. Some men made a rush.

“Women first! Women first!”

“I am in no hurry,” said Augusta, stepping forward with the trembling
child in her arms; and her action for a few seconds produced a calming
effect, for the men stopped.

“Come on!” said Mr. Tombey, stooping to lift her over the side, only to
be nearly knocked down by a man who made a desperate effort to get into
the boat. It was Mr. Meeson, and, recognising him, Mr. Tombey dealt him
a blow that sent him spinning back.

“A thousand pounds for a place!” he roared. “Ten thousand pounds for a
seat in a boat!” And once more he scrambled up at the bulwarks,
trampling down a child as he did so, and was once more thrown back.

Mr. Tombey took Augusta and the child into his strong arms and put her
into the boat. As he did so, he kissed her forehead and murmured, “God
bless you, good-bye!”

At that instant there was a loud report forward, and the stern of the
vessel lifted perceptibly. The bulkhead had given way, and there arose
such a yell as surely was seldom heard before. To Augusta’s ears it
seemed to shape itself into the word “_Sinking_!”

Up from the bowels of the ship poured the firemen, the appearance of
whose blackened faces, lined with white streaks of perspiration, added
a new impulse of terror to the panic-stricken throng. Aft they came,
accompanied by a crowd of sailors and emigrants.

“Rush the boats,” sung out a voice with a strong Irish accent, “or sure
we’ll be drowned!”

Taking the hint, the maddened mob burst towards the boats like a flood,
blaspheming and shrieking as it came. In a moment the women and
children who were waiting to take to the boat, in which Augusta and the
two sea-men were already, were swept aside, and a determined effort was
made to rush it, headed by a great Irishman, the same who had called
out.

Augusta saw Mr. Tombey, Lord Holmhurst, who had come up, and the
officer lift their pistols, which exploded almost simultaneously, and
the Irishman and another man pitched forward on to their hands and
knees.

“Never mind the pistols, lads,” shouted a voice; “as well be shot as
drown. There isn’t room for half of us in the boats; come on!” And a
second fearful rush was made, which bore the three gentlemen, firing as
they went, right up against the nettings.

“Bill,” halloaed the man who was holding on to the foremost tackle,
“lower away; we shall be rushed and swamped!”

Bill obeyed with heart and soul, and down sank the boat below the level
of the upper decks, just as the mob was getting the mastery. In five
seconds more they were hanging close over the water, and whilst they
were in this position a man leapt at the boat from the bulwarks. He
struck on the thwarts, rolled off into the water, and was no more seen.
A lady, the wife of a Colonial Judge, threw her child; Augusta tried to
catch it, but missed, and the boy sank and was lost. In another moment
the two sailors had shoved off from the ship’s side. As they did so,
the stern of the Kangaroo lifted right out of the water so that they
could see under her rudder-post. Just then, too, with a yell of terror,
Mr. Meeson, in whom the elementary principle of self-preservation at
all costs was strongly developed, cast himself from the side and fell
with a splash within a few feet of the boat. Rising to the surface, he
clutched hold of the gunwale, and implored to be taken in.

“Knock the old varmint over the knuckles, Bill,” shouted the other man;
“he’ll upset us!”

“No; no!” cried Augusta, her woman’s heart moved at seeing her old
enemy in such a case. “There is plenty of room in the boat.”

“Hold on then,” said the man addressed, whose name was Johnnie; “when
we get clear we’ll haul you in.”

And, the reader may be sure, Mr. Meeson did hold on pretty tight till,
after rowing about fifty yards, the two men halted, and proceeded, not
without some risk and trouble—for there was a considerable sea
running—to hoist Mr. Meeson’s large form over the gunwale of the boat.

Meanwhile, the horrors on board the doomed ship were redoubling, as she
slowly settled to her watery grave. Forward, the steam fog-horn was
going unceasingly, bellowing like a thousand furious bulls; while, now
and again, a rocket still shot up through the misty morning air. Round
the boats a hideous war was being waged. Augusta saw a great number of
men jump into one of the largest life-boats, which was still hanging to
the davits, having evidently got the better of those who were
attempting to fill it with the women and children. The next second they
lowered the after tackle, but, by some hitch or misunderstanding, not
the foremost one; with the result that the stern of the boat fell while
the bow remained fixed, and every soul in it, some forty or fifty
people, was shot out into the water. Another boat was overturned by a
sea as it settled on the water. Another one, full of women and
children, got to the water all right, but remained fastened to the ship
by the bow tackle. When, a couple of minutes afterwards, the Kangaroo
went down, nobody had a knife at hand wherewith to cut the rope, and
the boat was dragged down with her, and all its occupants drowned. The
remaining boats, with the exception of the one in which Lady Holmhurst
was, and which had been got away before the rush began, were never
lowered at all, or sank as soon as lowered. It was impossible to lower
them owing to the mad behaviour of the panic-stricken crowds, who
fought like wild beasts for a place in them. A few gentlemen and
sober-headed sailors could do nothing against a mob of frantic
creatures, each bent on saving his own life, if it cost the lives of
all else on board.

And thus it was exactly twenty minutes from the time that the Kangaroo
sank the whaler (for, although these events have taken some time to
describe, they did not take long to enact) that her own hour came, and,
with the exception of some eight-and-twenty souls, all told, the hour
also of every living creature who had taken passage in her.




CHAPTER VIII.
KERGUELEN LAND.


As soon as Mr. Meeson, saved from drowning by her intervention, lay
gasping at the bottom of the boat, Augusta, overcome by a momentary
faintness, let her head fall forward on to the bundle of blankets in
which she had wrapped up the child she had rescued, and who, too
terrified to speak or cry, stared about him with wide-opened and
frightened eyes. When she lifted it, a few seconds later, a ray from
the rising sun had pierced the mist, and striking full on the sinking
ship, as, her stern well out of the water and her bow well under it,
she rolled sullenly to and fro in the trough of the heavy sea, seemed
to wrap her from hull to truck in wild and stormy light.

“She’s going!—by George, she’s going!” said the seaman Johnnie; and as
he said it the mighty ship slowly reared herself up on end. Slowly—very
slowly, amidst the hideous and despairing shrieks of the doomed
wretches on board of her, she lifted her stern higher and higher, and
plunged her bows deeper and deeper. They shrieked, they cried to Heaven
for help; but Heaven heeded them not, for man’s agony cannot avert
man’s doom. Now, for a space, she was standing almost upright upon the
water, out of which about a hundred feet of her vast length towered
like some monstrous ocean growth, whilst men fell from her in showers,
like flies benumbed by frost, down into the churning foam beneath. Then
suddenly, with a swift and awful rush, with a rending sound of breaking
spars, a loud explosion of her boilers, and a smothered boom of
bursting bulkheads, she plunged down into the measureless deeps, and
was seen no more forever.

The water closed in over where she had been, boiling and foaming and
sucking down all things in the wake of her last journey, while the
steam and prisoned air came up in huge hissing jets and bubbles that
exploded into spray on the surface.

The men groaned, the child stared stupefied, and Augusta cried out,
“_Oh! oh_!” like one in pain.

“Row back!” she gasped, “row back and see if we cannot pick some of
them up.”

“No! no!” shouted Meeson; “they will sink the boat!”

“‘Taint much use anyway,” said Johnnie. “I doubt that precious few of
them will come up again. They have gone too deep!”

However, they got the boat’s head round again—slowly enough, Augusta
thought—and as they did so they heard a feeble cry or two. But by the
time that they had reached the spot where the Kangaroo went down, there
was no living creature to be seen; nothing but the wash of the great
waves, over which the mist once more closed thick and heavy as a pall.
They shouted, and once they heard a faint answer, and rowed towards it;
but when they got to the spot whence the sound seemed to proceed, they
could see nothing except some wreckage. They were all dead, their agony
was done, their cries no more ascended to the pitiless heavens; and
wind, and sky, and sea were just as they had been.

“Oh, my God! my God!” wept Augusta, clinging to the thwarts of the
tossing boat.

“One boat got away—where is it?” asked Mr. Meeson, who, a wet and
wretched figure, was huddled up in the stern-sheets, as he rolled his
wild eyes round striving to pierce the curtain of the mist.

“There’s something,” said Johnnie, pointing through a fog-dog in the
mist, that seemed to grow denser rather than otherwise as the light
increased, at a round, boat-like object that had suddenly appeared to
the starboard of them.

They rowed up to it; it was a boat, but empty and floating bottom
upwards. Closer examination showed that it was the cutter, which, when
full of women and children, had been fastened to the vessel and dragged
down with her as she sank. At a certain depth the pressure of the water
had been too great and had torn the ring in the bow bodily out of her,
so that she returned to the surface. But those in her did not return—at
least, not yet. Once more, two or three days hence, they would arise
from the watery depths and look upon the skies with eyes that could not
see, and then vanish for ever.

Turning from this awful and most moving sight, they rowed slowly
through quantities of floating wreckage—barrels, hencoops (in one of
these they found two drowned fowls, which they secured), and many other
articles, such as oars and wicker deck-chairs—and began to shout
vigorously in the hope of attracting the attention of the survivors in
the other boat, which they imagined could not be far off. Their
efforts, however, proved fruitless, owing to the thickness of the fog;
and in the considerable sea which was running it was impossible to see
more than twenty yards or so. Also, what between the wind, and the wash
and turmoil of the water, the sound of their voices did not travel far.
The ocean is a large place, and a rowing-boat is easily lost sight of
upon its furrowed surface; therefore it is not wonderful that, although
the two boats were at the moment within half a mile of each other, they
never met, and each took its separate course in the hope of escaping
the fate of the vessel. The boat in which were Lady Holmhurst and some
twenty other passengers, together with the second officer and a crew of
six men, after seeing the Kangaroo sink and picking up one survivor,
shaped a course for Kerguelen Land, believing that they, and they
alone, remained to tell the tale of that awful shipwreck. And here it
may be convenient to state that before nightfall they were picked up by
a sealing-whaler, that sailed with them to Albany, on the coast of
Australia. Thence an account of the disaster, which, as the reader will
remember, created a deep impression, was telegraphed home, and thence,
in due course, the widowed Lady Holmhurst and most of the other women
who escaped were taken back to England.

To return to our heroine and Mr. Meeson.

The occupants of the little boat sat looking at each other with white
scared faces, till at last the man called Johnnie, who, by-the-way, was
not a tar of a very amiable cast of countenance, possibly owing to the
fact that his nose was knocked almost flat against the side of his
face, swore violently, and said “It was no good stopping there all the
etceteraed day.” Thereupon Bill, who was a more jovial-looking man,
remarked “that he, Johnnie, was etceteraed well right, so they had
better hoist the fore-sail.”

At this point Augusta interposed, and told them that the captain, just
as the vessel came into collision, had informed her that he was making
Kerguelen Land, which was not more than sixty or seventy miles away.
They had a compass in the boat, and they knew the course the Kangaroo
was steering when she sank. Accordingly, without wasting further time,
they got as much sail up as the little boat could carry in the stiff
breeze, and ran nearly due east before the steady westerly wind. All
day long they ran across the misty ocean, the little boat behaving
splendidly, without sighting any living thing, till, at last, the night
closed in again. There was, fortunately, a bag of biscuits in the boat,
and a breaker of water; also there was, unfortunately, a breaker of
rum, from which the two sailors, Bill and Johnnie, were already taking
quite as much as was good for them. Consequently, though they were cold
and wet with the spray, they had not to face the added horrors of
starvation and thirst. At sundown, they shortened sail considerably,
only leaving enough canvas up to keep the boat ahead of the sea.

Somehow the long night wore away. Augusta scarcely closed her eyes; but
little Dick slept like a top upon her bosom, sheltered by her arms and
the blanket from the cold and penetrating spray. In the bottom of the
boat lay Mr. Meeson, to whom Augusta, pitying his condition—for he was
shivering dreadfully—had given the other blanket, keeping nothing for
herself except the woollen shawl.

At last, however, there came a faint glow in the east, and the daylight
began to break over the stormy sea. Augusta turned her head and stared
through the mist.

“What is that?” she said, in a voice trembling with excitement, to the
sailor Bill, who was taking his turn at the tiller; and she pointed to
a dark mass that loomed up almost over them.

The man looked, and then looked again; and then halloaed out joyfully,
“Land—land ahead!”

Up struggled Mr. Meeson on to his knees—his legs were so stiff that he
could not stand—and began to stare wildly about him.

“Thank God!” he cried. “Where is it? Is it New Zealand? If ever I get
there, I’ll stop there. I’ll never get on a ship again!”

“New Zealand!” growled the sailor. “Are you a fool? It’s Kerguelen
Land, that’s what it is—where it rains all day, and nobody lives—not
even a nigger. It’s like enough that you’ll stop there, though; for I
don’t reckon that anybody will come to take you off in a hurry.”

Mr. Meeson collapsed with a groan, and a few minutes afterwards the sun
rose, while the mist grew less and less till at last it almost
disappeared, revealing a grand panorama to the occupants of the boat.
For before them was line upon line of jagged and lofty peaks,
stretching as far as the eye could reach, gradually melting in the
distance into the cold white gleam of snow. Bill slightly altered the
boat’s course to the southward, and, sailing round a point, she came
into comparatively calm water. Then, due north of them, running into
the land, they saw the mouth of a great fjord, bounded on each side by
towering mountain banks, so steep as to be almost precipitous, around
whose lofty sides thousands of sea fowl wheeled, awaking the echoes
with their clamour. Right into this beautiful fjord they sailed, past a
line of flat rocks on which sat huge fantastic monsters that the
sailors said were sea-lions, along the line of beetling cliff, till
they came to a spot where the shore, on which grew a rank,
sodden-looking grass, shelved gently up from the water’s edge to the
frowning and precipitous background. And here, to their huge delight,
they discovered two huts roughly built of old ship’s timbers, placed
within a score of yards of each other, and a distance of some fifty
paces from the water’s edge.

“Well, there’s a house, anyway,” said the flat-nosed Johnnie, “though
it don’t look as though it had paid rates and taxes lately.”

“Let us land, and get out of this horrible boat,” said Mr. Meeson,
feebly: a proposition that Augusta seconded heartily enough.
Accordingly, the sail was lowered, and, getting out the oars, the two
sailors rowed the boat into a little, natural harbour that opened out
of the main creek, and in ten minutes her occupants were once more
stretching their legs upon dry land; that is, if any land in Kerguelen
Island, that region of perpetual wet, could be said to be dry.

Their first care was to go up to the huts and examine them, with a
result that could scarcely be called encouraging. The huts had been
built some years—whether by the expedition which, in 1874, came thither
to observe the transit of Venus, or by former parties of shipwrecked
mariners, they never discovered—and were now in a state of ruin. Mosses
and lichens grew plentifully upon the beams, and even on the floor;
while great holes in the roof let in the wet, which lay in little slimy
puddles beneath. Still, with all their drawbacks, they were decidedly
better than the open beach; a very short experience of which, in that
inclement climate, would certainly have killed them; and they
thankfully decided to make the best of them. Accordingly, the smaller
of the two huts was given up to Augusta and the boy Dick, while Mr.
Meeson and the sailors took possession of the large one. Their next
task was to move up their scanty belongings (the boat having first been
carefully beached), and to clean out the huts and make them as
habitable as possible by stretching the sails of the boat on the damp
floors and covering up the holes in the roof as best they could with
stones and bits of board from the bottom of the boat. The weather was,
fortunately, dry, and as they all (with the exception of Mr. Meeson,
who seemed to be quite prostrated) worked with a will, not excepting
Master Dick—who toddled backwards and forwards after Augusta in high
glee at finding himself on terra firma—and by midday everything that
could be done was done. Then they made a fire of some drift-wood—for,
fortunately, they had a few matches—and Augusta cooked the two fowls
they had got out of the floating hen-coop as well as circumstances
would allow—which, as a matter of fact, was not very well—and they had
dinner, of which they all stood sadly in need.

After dinner they reckoned up their resources. Of water there was an
ample supply, for not far from the huts a stream ran down into the
fjord. For food they had the best part of a bag of biscuits weighing
about a hundred pounds. Also there was the cask of rum, which the men
had moved into their own hut. But that was not all, for there were
plenty of shellfish about if they could find means to cook them, while
the rocks around were covered with hundreds of penguins, including
specimens of the great “King penguin,” which only required to be
knocked on the head. There was, therefore, little fear of their
perishing of starvation, as sometimes happens to ship wrecked people.
Indeed, immediately after dinner, the two sailors went out and returned
with as many birds’ eggs—mostly penguin—as they could carry in their
hats. Scarcely had they got in, however, when the rain, which is the
prevailing characteristic of these latitudes, set in, in the most
pitiless fashion; and soon the great mountains with which they were
surrounded, and those before them, were wrapped in dense veils of
fleecy vapour. Hour after hour the rain fell without ceasing,
penetrating through their miserable roof, and falling—drop, drip,
drop—upon the sodden floor. Augusta sat by herself in the smaller hut,
doing what she could to amuse little Dick by telling him stories.
Nobody knows how hard she found it to have to invent stories when she
was thus overwhelmed with misfortune; but it was the only way of
keeping the poor child from crying, as the sense of cold and misery
forced itself into his little heart. So she told him about Robinson
Crusoe, and then she told him that they were playing at being Robinson
Crusoe, to which the child very sensibly replied that he did not at all
like the game, and wanted his mamma.

And meanwhile it grew darker and colder and damper hour by hour, till
at last the light went out, and left her with nothing to keep her
company but the moaning wind, the falling rain, and the wild cries of
the sea-birds when something disturbed them from their rest. The child
was asleep at last, wrapped up in a blanket and one of the smaller
sails; and Augusta, feeling quite worn out with solitude and the
pressure of heavy thoughts, began to think that the best thing she
could do would be to try to follow his example, when suddenly there
came a knock at the boards which served for a door to the shanty.

“Who is it?” she cried, with a start.

“Me—Mr. Meeson,” answered a voice. “Can I come in?”

“Yes; if you like,” said Augusta, sharply, though in her heart she was
really glad to see him, or, rather, to hear him, for it was too dark to
see anything. It is wonderful how, under the pressure of a great
calamity, we forget our quarrels and our spites, and are ready to jump
at the prospect of the human companionship of our deadliest enemy. And
“the moral of that is,” as the White Queen says, that as we are all
night and day face to face with the last dread calamity—Death—we should
throughout our lives behave as though we saw the present shadow of his
hand. But that will never happen in the world while human nature is
human nature—and when will it become anything else?

“Put up the door again,” said Augusta, when, from a rather rawer rush
of air than usual, she gathered that her visitor was within the hut.

Mr. Meeson obeyed, groaning audibly. “Those two brutes are getting
drunk,” he said, “swallowing down rum by the gallon. I have come
because I could not stop with them any longer—and I am so ill, Miss
Smithers, so ill! I believe that I am going to die. Sometimes I feel as
though all the marrow in my bones were ice, and—and—at others just as
though somebody were shoving a red-hot wire up them. Can’t you do
anything for me?”

“I don’t see what is to be done,” answered Augusta, gently, for the
man’s misery touched her in spite of her dislike for him. “You had
better lie down and try to go to sleep.”

“To sleep!” he moaned; “how can I sleep? My blanket is wringing wet and
my clothes are damp,” and he fairly broke down and began to groan and
sob.

“Try and go to sleep,” urged Augusta again.

He made no answer, but by degrees he grew quieter, overwhelmed,
perhaps, by the solemn presence of the darkness. Augusta laid her head
against the biscuit-bag, and at last sank into blissful oblivion; for
to the young, sleep is a constant friend. Once or twice she woke, but
only to drop off again; and when she finally opened her eyes it was
quite light and the rain had ceased.

Her first care was for little Dick, who had slept soundly throughout
the night and appeared to be none the worse. She took him outside the
hut and washed his face and hands in the stream and then sat him down
to a breakfast of biscuit. As she returned she met the two sailors,
who, although they were now fairly sober, bore upon their faces the
marks of a fearful debauch. Evidently they had been drinking heavily.
She drew herself up and looked at them, and they slunk past her in
silence.

Then she returned to the hut. Mr. Meeson was sitting up when she
entered, and the bright light from the open door fell full upon his
face. His appearance fairly shocked her. The heavy cheeks had fallen
in, there were great purple rings round his hollow eyes, and his whole
aspect was one of a man in the last stage of illness.

“I have had such a night” he said, “Oh, Heaven! such a night! I don’t
believe that I shall live through another.”

“Nonsense!” said Augusta, “eat some biscuit and you will feel better.”

He took a piece of the biscuit which she gave him, and attempted to
swallow it, but could not.

“It is no use,” he said; “I am a dying man. Sitting in those wet
clothes in the boat has finished me.”

And Augusta, looking at his face, could not but believe him.




CHAPTER IX.
AUGUSTA TO THE RESCUE.


After breakfast—that is, after Augusta had eaten some biscuit and a
wing that remained from the chickens she had managed to cook upon the
previous day—Bill and Johnnie, the two sailors, set to work, at her
suggestion, to fix up a long fragment of drift-wood on a point of rock,
and to bind it on to a flag that they happened to find in the locker of
the boat. There was not much chance of its being seen by anybody in
that mist-laden atmosphere, even if anybody came there to see it, of
which there was still less chance; still they did it as a sort of duty.
By the time this task was finished it was midday, and, for a wonder,
there was little wind, and the sun shone out brightly. On returning to
the huts Augusta got the blankets out to dry, and set the two sailors
to roast some of the eggs they had found on the previous day. This they
did willingly enough, for they were now quite sober, and very much
ashamed of themselves. Then, after giving Dick some more biscuit and
four roasted eggs, which he took to wonderfully, she went to Mr.
Meeson, who was lying groaning in the hut, and persuaded him to come
and sit out in the warmth.

By this time the wretched man’s condition was pitiable, for, though his
strength was still whole in him, he was persuaded that he was going to
die, and could touch nothing but some rum-and-water.

“Miss Smithers,” he said, as he sat shivering upon the rocks, “I am
going to die in this horrible place, and I am not fit to die! To think
of me,” he went on with a sudden burst of his old fire, “to think of me
dying like a starved dog in the cold, when I have two millions of money
waiting to be spent there in England! And I would give them all—yes,
every farthing of them—to find myself safe at home again! By Jove! I
would change places with any poor devil of a writer in the Hutches!
Yes, I would turn author on twenty pounds a month!—that will give you
some idea of my condition, Miss Smithers! To think that I should ever
live to say that I would care to be a beggarly author, who could not
make a thousand a year if he wrote till his fingers fell off!—oh! oh!”
and he fairly sobbed at the horror and degradation of the thought.

Augusta looked at the poor wretch and then bethought her of the proud
creature she had known, raging terribly through the obsequious ranks of
clerks, and carrying desolation to the Hutches and the many-headed
editorial department. She looked, and was filled with reflections on
the mutability of human affairs.

Alas! how changed that Meeson!

“Yes,” he went on, recovering himself a little, “I am going to die in
this horrible place, and all my money will not even give me a decent
funeral. Addison and Roscoe will get it—confound them!—as though they
had not got enough already. It makes me mad when I think of those
Addison girls spending my money, or bribing Peers to marry them with
it, or something of that sort. I disinherited my own nephew, Eustace,
and kicked him out to sink or swim; and now I can’t undo it, and I
would give anything to alter it! We quarrelled about you, Miss
Smithers, because I would not give you any more money for that book of
yours. I wish I had given it to you—anything you wanted. I didn’t treat
you well; but, Miss Smithers, a bargain is a bargain. It would never
have done to give way, on principle. You must understand that, Miss
Smithers. Don’t revenge yourself on me about it, now that I am
helpless, because, you see, it was a matter of principle.”

“I am not in the habit of revenging myself, Mr. Meeson,” answered
Augusta, with dignity; “but I think that you have done a very wicked
thing to disinherit your nephew in that fashion, and I don’t wonder
that you feel uncomfortable about it.”

The expression of this vigorous opinion served to disturb Mr. Meeson’s
conscience all the more, and he burst out into laments and regrets.

“Well,” said Augusta at last, “if you don’t like your will you had
better alter it. There are enough of us here to witness a will, and, if
anything happens to you, it will override the other—will it not?”

This was a new idea, and the dying man jumped at it.

“Of course, of course,” he said; “I never thought of that before. I
will do it at once, and cut Addison and Roscoe out altogether. Eustace
shall have every farthing. I never thought of that before. Come, give
me your hand; I’ll get up and see about it.”

“Stop a minute,” said Augusta. “How are you going to write a will
without pen or pencil, or paper or ink?”

Mr. Meeson sank back with a groan. This difficulty had not occurred to
him.

“Are you sure nobody has got a pencil and a bit of paper?” he asked.
“It would do, so long as the writing remained legible.”

“I don’t think so,” said Augusta, “but I will inquire.” Accordingly she
went and asked Bill and Johnnie: but neither of them had a pencil or a
single scrap of paper, and she returned sadly to communicate the news.

“I have got it, I have got it,” said Mr. Meeson, as she approached the
spot where he lay upon the rock. “If there is no paper or pen, we must
write it in blood upon some linen. We can make a pen from the feathers
of a bird. I read somewhere in a book of somebody who did that. It will
do as well as anything else.”

Here was an idea, indeed, and one that Augusta jumped at. But in
another moment her enthusiasm received a check. Where was there any
linen to write on?

“Yes,” she said, “if you can find some linen. You have got on a flannel
shirt, so have the two sailors, and little Dick is dressed in flannel,
too.”

It was a fact. As it happened, not one of the party had a scrap of
linen on them, or anything that would answer the purpose. Indeed, they
had only one pocket-handkerchief between them, and it was a red rag
full of holes. Augusta had had one, but it had blown overboard when
they were in the boat. What would they not have given for that
pocket-handkerchief now!

“Yes,” said Mr. Meeson, “it seems we have none. I haven’t even get a
bank-note, or I might have written in blood upon that; though I have
got a hundred sovereigns in gold—I grabbed them up before I bolted from
the cabin. But I say—excuse me, Miss Smithers, but—um—ah—oh! hang
modesty—haven’t you got some linen on, somewhere or other, that you
could spare a bit of? You shan’t lose by giving it to me. There, I
promise that I will tear up the agreement if ever I get out of
this—which I shan’t—which I shan’t—and I will write on the linen that
it is to be torn up. Yes, and that you are to have five thousand pounds
legacy too, Miss Smithers. Surely you can spare me a little bit—just
off the skirt, or somewhere, you know, Miss Smithers? It never will be
missed, and it is so _very_ important.”

Augusta blushed, and no wonder. “I am sorry to say I have nothing of
the sort about me, Mr. Meeson—nothing except flannel,” she said. “I got
up in the middle of the night before the collision, and there was no
light in the cabin, and I put on whatever came first, meaning to come
back and dress afterwards when it got light.”

“Stays!” said Mr. Meeson, desperately. “Forgive me for mentioning them,
but surely you put on your stays? One could write on them, you know.”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “but I did not put any
on.”

“Not a cuff or a collar?” he said, catching at a last straw of hope.

Augusta shook her head sadly.

“Then there is an end of it!” groaned Mr. Meeson. “Eustace must lose
the money. Poor lad! poor lad! I have behaved very badly to him.”

Augusta stood still, racking her brain for some expedient, for she was
determined that Eustace Meeson should not lose the chance of that
colossal fortune if she could help it. It was but a poor chance at the
best, for Mr. Meeson might not be dying, after all. And if he did die,
it was probable that his fate would be their fate also, and no record
would remain of them or of Mr. Meeson’s testamentary wishes. As things
looked at present, there was every prospect of their all perishing
miserably on that desolate shore.

Just then the sailor Bill, who had been up to the flagstaff on the rock
on the chance of catching sight of some passing vessel, came walking
past. His flannel shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbows of his
brawny arms, and as he stopped to speak to Augusta she noticed
something that made her start, and gave her an idea.

“There ain’t nothing to be seen,” said the man, roughly; “and it is my
belief that there won’t be neither. Here we are, and here we stops till
we dies and rots.”

“Ah, I hope not,” said Augusta. “By-the-way, Mr. Bill, will you let me
look at the tattoo on your arm?”

“Certainly, Miss,” said Bill, with alacrity, holding his great arm
within an inch of her nose. It was covered with various tattoos: flags,
ships, and what not, in the middle of which, written in small letters
along the side of the forearm, was the sailor’s name—Bill Jones.

“Who did it, Mr. Bill?” asked Augusta.

“Who did it? Why I did it myself. A chap made me a bet that I could not
tattoo my own name on my own arm, so I showed him; and a poor sort of
hand I should have been at tattooing if I could not.”

Augusta said no more till Bill had gone on, then she spoke.

“Now, Mr. Meeson, do you see how you can make your will?” she said
quietly.

“See? No.” he answered, “I don’t.”

“Well, I do: you can tattoo it—or, rather get the sailor to tattoo it.
It need not be very long.”

“Tattoo it! What on, and what with?” he asked, astonished.

“You can have it tattooed on the back of the other sailor, Johnnie, if
he will allow you; and as for material, you have some revolver
cartridges; if the gunpowder is mixed with water, it would do, I should
think.”

“‘Pon my word,” said Mr. Meeson, “you are a wonderful woman! Whoever
would have thought of such a thing except a woman? Go and ask the man
Johnnie, there’s a good girl, if he would mind my will being tattooed
upon his back.”

“Well,” said Augusta; “it’s a queer sort of message; but I’ll try.”
Accordingly, taking little Dick by the hand, she went across to where
the two sailors were sitting outside their hut, and putting on her
sweetest smile, first of all asked Mr. Bill if he would mind doing a
little tattooing for her. To this Mr. Bill, finding time hang heavy
upon his hands, and wishing to be kept out of the temptation of the
rum-cask, graciously assented, saying that he had seen some sharp
fish-bones lying about which would be the very thing, though he shook
his head at the idea of using gunpowder as the medium. He said it would
not do at all well, and then, as though suddenly seized by an
inspiration, started off down to the shore.

Then Augusta, as gently and nicely as she could, approached the
question with Johnnie, who was sitting with his back against the hut,
his battered countenance wearing a peculiarly ill-favored expression,
probably owing to the fact that he was suffering from severe pain in
his head, as a result of the debauch of the previous night.

Slowly and with great difficulty, for his understanding was none of the
clearest, she explained to him what was required; and that it was
suggested that he should provide the necessary _corpus vile_ upon which
it was proposed that the experiment should be made. When at last he
understood what it was asked that he should do, Johnnie’s countenance
was a sight to see, and his language was more striking than correct.
The upshot of it was, however, that he would see Mr. Meeson
collectively, and Mr. Meeson’s various members separately, especially
his eyes, somewhere first.

Augusta retreated till his wrath had spent itself, and then once more
returned to the charge.

She was sure, she said, that Mr. Johnnie would not mind witnessing the
document, if anybody else could be found to submit to the pain of the
tattooing. All that would be necessary would be for him to touch the
hand of the operator while his (Johnnie’s) name was tattooed as witness
to the will. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know how as I mind doing that,
since it’s you as asked me, Miss, and not the d——d old hulks of a
Meeson. I would not lift a finger to save him from ‘ell Miss, and
that’s a fact!”

“Then that is a promise, Mr. Johnnie?” said Augusta, sweetly ignoring
the garnishing with which the promise was adorned; and on Mr. Johnnie
stating that he looked at it in that light, she returned to Mr. Meeson.
On her way she met Bill, carrying in his hands a loathsome-looking
fish, with long feelers and a head like a parrot, in short, a
cuttle-fish.

“Now, here’s luck, Miss,” said Bill, exultingly; “I saw this gentleman
lying down on the beach there this morning. He’s a cuttle, that’s what
he is; and I’ll have his ink-bag out of him in a brace of shakes; just
the ticket for tattooing, Miss, as good as the best
Indian-ink—gunpowder is a fool to it.”

By this time they had reached Mr. Meeson, and here the whole matter,
including Johnnie’s obstinate refusal to be tattooed was explained to
Bill.

“Well,” said Augusta at length, “it seems that’s the only thing to be
done; but the question is, how to do it? I can only suggest, Mr.
Meeson, that the will should be tattooed on you.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Meeson, feebly, “on me! Me tattooed like a
savage—tattooed with my own will!”

“It wouldn’t be much use, either, governor, begging your pardon,” said
Bill, “that is, if you are agoing to croak, as you say; ‘cause where
would the will be then? We might skin you with a sharp stone, perhaps,
after you’ve done the trick, you know,” he added reflectively. “But
then we have no salt, so I doubt if you’d keep; and if we set your hide
in the sun, I reckon the writing would shrivel up so that all the
courts of law in London could not make head or tail of it.”

Mr. Meeson groaned loudly, as well he might. These frank remarks would
have been trying to any man; much more were they so to this opulent
merchant prince, who had always set the highest value on what Bill
rudely called his “hide.”

“There’s the infant,” went on Bill, meditatively. “He’s young and
white, and I fancy his top-crust would work wonderful easy; but you’d
have to hold him, for I expect that he’d yell proper.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Meeson; “let the will be tattooed upon the child. He’d
be some use that way.”

“Yes,” said Bill; “and there’d allus be something left to remind me of
a very queer time, provided he lives to get out of it, which is
doubtful. Cuttle-ink won’t rub out, I’ll warrant.”

“I won’t have Dick touched,” said Augusta, indignantly. “It would
frighten the child into fits; and, besides, nobody has a right to mark
him for life in that way.”

“Well, then, there’s about an end of the question,” said Bill; “and
this gentleman’s money must go wherever it is he don’t want it to.”

“No,” said Augusta, with a sudden flush, “there is not. Mr. Eustace
Meeson was once very kind to me, and rather than he should lose the
chance of getting what he ought to have, I—I will be tattooed.”

“Well, bust me!” said Bill, with enthusiasm, “bust me! if you ain’t a
good-plucked one for a female woman; and if I was that there young man
I should make bold to tell you so.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Meeson, “that is an excellent idea. You are young and
strong, and as there is lots of food here, I dare say that you will
take a long time to die. You might even live for some months. Let us
begin at once. I feel dreadfully weak. I don’t think that I can live
through the night, and if I know that I have done all I can to make
sure that Eustace gets his own, perhaps dying will be a little easier!”




CHAPTER X.
THE LAST OF MR. MEESON.


Augusta turned from the old man with a gesture of impatience not
unmixed with disgust. His selfishness was of an order that revolted
her.

“I suppose,” she said sharply to Bill, “that I must have this will
tattooed upon my shoulders.”

“Yes, Miss; that’s it,” said Bill. “You see, Miss, one wants space for
a doccymint. If it were a ship or a flag, now, or a fancy pictur of
your young man, I might manage it on your arm, but there must be
breadth for a legal doccymint, more especially as I should like to make
a good job of it while I is about it. I don’t want none of them laryers
a-turning up their noses at Bill Jones’ tattooing.”

“Very well,” said Augusta, with an inward sinking of the heart; “I will
go and get ready.”

Accordingly she adjourned into the hut and removed the body of her
dress and turned down the flannel garment underneath it in such a
fashion as to leave as much of her neck bare as is to be seen when a
lady has on a moderately low dress. Then she came out again, dressed,
or rather undressed, for the sacrifice. Meanwhile, Bill had drawn out
the ink-bag of the cuttle, had prepared a little round fragment of wood
which he sharpened like a pencil by rubbing it against a stone, and had
put a keen edge on to a long white fishbone that he had selected.

“Now, Mr. Bill, I am ready,” said Augusta, seating herself resolutely
upon a flat stone and setting her teeth.

“My word, Miss; but you have a fine pair of shoulders!” said the
sailor, contemplating the white expanse with the eye of an artist. “I
never had such a bit of material to work on afore. Hang me if it ain’t
almost a pity to mark ‘em! Not but what high-class tattooing is an
ornimint to anybody, from a Princess down; and in that you are
fortunit, Miss, for I larnt tattooing from them as _can_ tattoo, I
did.”

Augusta bit her lip, and the tears came into her eyes. She was only a
woman, and had a woman’s little weakness; and, though she had never
appeared in a low dress in her life, she knew that her neck was one of
her greatest beauties, and was proud of it. It was hard to think that
she would be marked all her life with this ridiculous will—that is, if
she escaped—and, what was more, for the benefit of a young man who had
no claim upon her at all.

That was what she said to herself; but as she said it, something in her
told her that it was not true. Something told her that this young Mr.
Eustace Meeson _had_ a claim upon her—the highest claim that a man
could have upon a woman, for the truth must out—she loved him. It
seemed to have come home to her quite clearly here in this dreadful
desolate place, here in the very shadow of an awful death, that she did
love him, truly and deeply. And that being so, she would not have been
what she was—a gentle-natured, devoted woman—had she not at heart
rejoiced at this opportunity of self-sacrifice, even though that
self-sacrifice was of the hardest sort, seeing that it involved what
all women hate—the endurance of a ridiculous position. For love can do
all things: it can even make its votaries brave ridicule.

“Go on,” she said sharply, “and let us get it over as soon as
possible.”

“Very well, Miss. What is it to be, old gentleman? Cut it short, you
know.”

“‘_I leave all my property to Eustace H. Meeson_,’ that’s as short as I
can get it; and, if properly witnessed, I think that it will cover
everything,” said Mr. Meeson, with a feeble air of triumph. “Anyhow, I
never heard of a will that is to carry about two millions being got
into nine words before.”

Bill poised his fishbone, and, next second, Augusta gave a start and a
little shriek, for the operation had begun.

“Never mind, Miss,” said Bill, consolingly; “you’ll soon get used to
it.”

After that Augusta set her teeth and endured in silence, though it
really hurt her very much, for Bill was more careful of the artistic
effect and the permanence of the work than of the feelings of the
subject. _Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_, he would have said had he
been conversant with the Classics, without much consideration for the
_corpus vile_. So he pricked and dug away with his fishbone, which he
dipped continually in the cuttle-ink, and with the sharp piece of wood,
till Augusta began to feel perfectly faint.

For three hours the work continued, and at the end of that time the
body of the will was finished—for Bill was a rapid worker—being written
in medium-sized letters right across her shoulders. But the signatures
yet remained to be affixed.

Bill asked her if she would like to let them stand over till the
morrow?—but this, although she felt ill with the pain she declined to
do. She was marked now, marked with the ineffaceable mark of Bill, so
she might as well be marked to some purpose. If she put off the signing
of the document till the morrow, it might be too late, Mr. Meeson might
be dead, Johnnie might have changed his mind, or a hundred things. So
she told them to go on and finish it as quickly as possible, for there
was only about two hours more daylight.

Fortunately Mr. Meeson was more or less acquainted with the formalities
that are necessary in the execution of a will, namely: that the
testator and the two witnesses should all sign in the presence of each
other. He also knew that it was sufficient, if, in cases of illness,
some third person held the pen between the testator’s fingers and
assisted him to write his name, or even if someone signed for the
testator in his presence and by his direction; and, arguing from this
knowledge, he came to the conclusion—afterwards justified in the great
case of Meeson _v._ Addison and Another—that it would be sufficient if
he inflicted the first prick of his signature, and then kept his hand
upon Bill’s while the rest was done. This accordingly, he did, clumsily
running the point of the sharp bone so deep into the unfortunate
Augusta that she fairly shrieked aloud, and then keeping his hand upon
the sailor’s arm while he worked in the rest of the signature, “_J.
Meeson_.” When it was done, the turn of Johnnie came. Johnnie had at
length aroused himself to some interest in what was going on, and had
stood by watching all the time, since Mr. Meeson having laid his finger
upon Augusta’s shoulder, had solemnly declared the writing thereon to
be his last will and testament. As he (Johnnie) could not tattoo, the
same process was gone through with reference to his signature, as in
the case of Mr. Meeson. Then Bill Jones signed his own name, as the
second witness to the will; and just as the light went out of the sky
the document was finally executed—the date of the execution being alone
omitted. Augusta got up off the flat stone where she had been seated
during this torture for something like five hours, and staggering into
the hut, threw herself down upon the sail, and went off into a dead
faint. It was indeed only by a very strong exercise of the will that
she had kept herself from fainting long before.

The next thing she was conscious of was a dreadful smarting in her
back, and on opening her eyes found that it was quite dark in the hut.
So weary was she, however, that after stretching out her hand to assure
herself that Dick was safe by her side, she shut her eyes again and
went fast asleep. When she woke, the daylight was creeping into the
damp and squalid hut, revealing the heavy form of Mr. Meeson tossing to
and fro in a troubled slumber on the further side. She got up, feeling
dreadfully sore about the back; and, awaking the child, took him out to
the stream of water and washed him and herself as well as she could. It
was very cold outside; so cold that the child cried, and the rain
clouds were coming up fast, so she hurried back to the hut, and,
together with Dick, made her breakfast off some biscuit and some roast
penguin’s eggs, which were not at all bad eating. She was indeed, quite
weak with hunger, having swallowed no food for many hours, and felt
proportionately better after it.

Then she turned to examine the condition of Mr. Meeson. The will had
been executed none too soon, for it was evident to her that he was in a
very bad way indeed. His face was sunken and hectic with fever, his
teeth were chattering, and his talk, though he was now awake, was quite
incoherent. She tried to get him to take some food; but he would
swallow nothing but water. Having done all that she could for him, she
went out to see the sailors, and met them coming down from the
flagstaff. They had evidently been, though not to any great extent, at
the rum cask again, for Bill looked sheepish and shaky, while the
ill-favored Johnnie was more sulky than ever. She gazed at them
reproachfully, and then asked them to collect some more penguin’s eggs,
which Johnnie refused point-blank to do, saying that he wasn’t going to
collect eggs for landlubbers to eat; she might collect eggs for
herself. Bill, however, started on the errand, and in about an hour’s
time returned, just as the rain set in in good earnest, bearing six or
seven dozen fresh eggs tied up in his coat.

Augusta, with the child by her, sat in the miserable hut attending to
Mr. Meeson; while outside the pitiless rain poured down in a steady
unceasing sheet of water that came through the wretched roof in
streams. She did her best to keep the dying man dry, but it proved to
be almost an impossibility; for even when she succeeded in preventing
the wet from falling on him from above, it got underneath him from the
reeking floor, while the heavy damp of the air gathered on his garments
till they were quite sodden.

As the hours went on his consciousness came back to him, and with it
his terror for the end and his remorse for his past life, for alas! the
millions he had amassed could not avail him now.

“I am going to die!” he groaned. “I am going to die, and I’ve been a
bad man: I’ve been the head of a publishing company all my life!”

Augusta gently pointed out to him that publishing was a very
respectable business when fairly and properly carried on, and not one
that ought to weigh heavy upon a man at the last like the record of a
career of successful usury or burgling.

He shook his heavy head. “Yes, yes,” he groaned; “but Meeson’s is a
company and you are talking of private firms. They are straight, most
of them; far too straight, I used always to say. But you don’t know
Meeson’s—you don’t know the customs of the trade at Meeson’s.”

Augusta reflected that she knew a good deal more about Meeson’s than
she liked.

“Listen,” he said, with desperate energy, sitting up upon the sail,
“and I will tell you—I must tell you.”

Asterisks, so dear to the heart of the lady novelist, will best
represent the confession that followed; words are not equal to the
task.


Augusta listened with rising hair, and realised how very trying must be
the life of a private confessor.

“Oh, please stop!” she said faintly, at last. “I can’t bear it—I can’t,
indeed.”

“Ah!” he said, as he sunk back exhausted. “I thought that when you
understood the customs at Meeson’s you would feel for me in my present
position. Think, girl, think what I must suffer, with such a past,
standing face to face with an unknown future!”

Then came a silence.

“Take him away! Take him away!” suddenly shouted out Mr. Meeson,
staring around him with frightened eyes.

“Who?” asked Augusta; “who?”

“Him—the tall, thin man, with the big book! I know him; he used to be
Number 25—he died years ago. He was a very clever doctor; but one of
his patients brought a false charge against him and ruined him, so he
had to take to writing, poor devil! We made him edit a medical
encyclopaedia—twelve volumes for £300, to be paid on completion; and he
went mad and died at the eleventh volume. So, of course, we did not pay
his widow anything. And now he’s come for me—I know he has. Listen!
he’s talking! Don’t you hear him? Oh, Heavens! He says that I am going
to be an author, and he is going to publish for me for a thousand
years—going to publish on the quarter-profit system, with an annual
account, the usual trade deductions, and no vouchers. Oh! oh!
Look!—they are all coming!—they are pouring out of the Hutches! they
are going to murder me!—keep them off! keep them off!” and he howled
and beat the air with his hands.

Augusta, utterly overcome by this awful sight, knelt down by his side
and tried to quiet him, but in vain. He continued beating his hands in
the air, trying to keep off the ghostly train, till, at last, with one
awful howl, he fell back dead.

And that was the end of Meeson. And the works that he published, and
the money that he made, and the house that he built, and the evil that
he did—are they not written in the Book of the Commercial Kings?

“Well,” said Augusta faintly to herself when she had got her breath
back a little, “I am glad that it is over; anyway, I do hope that I may
never be called on to nurse the head of another publishing company.”

“Auntie! auntie!” gasped Dick, “why do the gentleman shout so?”

Then, taking the frightened child by the hand, Augusta made her way
through the rain to the other hut, in order to tell the two sailors
what had come to pass. It had no door, and she paused on the threshold
to prospect. The faint foggy light was so dim that at first she could
see nothing. Presently, however, her eyes got accustomed to it, and she
made out Bill and Johnnie sitting opposite to each other on the ground.
Between them was the breaker of rum. Bill had a large shell in his
hand, which he had just filled from the cask; for Augusta saw him in
the act of replacing the spigot.

“My go!—curse you, my go!” said Johnnie, as Bill lifted the shell of
spirits to his lips. “You’ve had seven goes and I’ve only had six!”

“You be blowed!” said Bill, swallowing the liquor in a couple of great
gulps. “Ah! that’s better! Now I’ll fill for you, mate: fair does, I
says, fair does and no favour,” and he filled accordingly.

“Mr. Meeson is dead,” said Augusta, screwing up her courage to
interrupt this orgie.

The two men stared at her in drunken surprise, which Johnnie broke.

“Now is he, Miss?” he said, with a hiccough: “is he? Well, a good job
too, says I; a useless old landlubber he was. I doubt he’s off to a
warmer place than this ‘ere Kerguelen Land, and I drinks his health,
which, by-the-way, I never had the occasion to do before. Here’s to the
health of the departed,” and he swallowed the shellfull of rum at a
draught.

“Your sentiment I echoes,” said Bill. “Johnnie, the shell; give us the
shell to drink the ‘ealth of the dear departed.”

Then Augusta returned to her hut with a heavy heart. She covered up the
dead body as best she could, telling little Dick that Mr. Meeson was
gone by-by, and then sat down in that chill and awful company. It was
very depressing; but she comforted herself somewhat with the reflection
that, on the whole, Mr. Meeson dead was not so bad as Mr. Meeson in the
animated flesh.

Presently the night set in once more, and, worn out with all that she
had gone through, Augusta said her prayers and went to sleep with
little Dick locked fast in her arms.

Some hours afterwards she was awakened by loud and uproarious shouts,
made up of snatches of drunken songs and that peculiar class of English
that hovers ever round the lips of the British Tar. Evidently Bill and
Johnnie were raging drunk, and in this condition were taking the
midnight air.

The shouting and swearing went reeling away towards the water’s edge,
and then, all of a sudden, they culminated in a fearful yell—after
which came silence.

What could it mean? wondered Augusta and whilst she was still wondering
dropped off to sleep again.




CHAPTER XI.
RESCUED.


Augusta woke up just as the dawn was stealing across the sodden sky. It
was the smarting of her shoulders that woke her. She rose, leaving Dick
yet asleep, and, remembering the turmoil of the night, hurried to the
other hut. It was empty.

She turned and looked about her. About fifteen paces from where she was
lay the shell that the two drunkards had used as a cup. Going forward,
she picked it up. It still smelt disgustingly of spirits. Evidently the
two men had dropped it in the course of their midnight walk, or rather
roll. Where had they gone to?

Straight in front of her a rocky promontory ran out fifty paces or more
into the waters of the fjord-like bay. She walked along it aimlessly
till presently she perceived one of the sailor’s hats lying on the
ground, or, rather, floating in a pool of water. Clearly they had gone
this way. On she went to the point of the little headland, sheer over
the water. There was nothing to be seen, not a single vestige of Bill
and Johnnie. Aimlessly enough she leant forward and stared over the
rocky wall, and down into the clear water, and then started back with a
little cry.

No wonder that she started, for there on the sand, beneath a fathom and
a half of quiet water, lay the bodies of the two ill-fated men. They
were locked in each other’s arms, and lay as though they were asleep
upon that ocean bed. How they came to their end she never knew. Perhaps
they quarrelled in their drunken anger and fell over the little cliff;
or perhaps they stumbled and fell not knowing whither they were going.
Who can say? At any rate, there they were, and there they remained,
till the outgoing tide floated them off to join the great army of their
companions who had gone down with the Kangaroo. And so Augusta was left
alone.

With a heavy heart she returned to the hut, pressed down by the weight
of solitude, and the sense that in the midst of so much death she could
not hope to escape. There was no human creature left alive in that vast
lonely land, except the child and herself, and so far as she could see
their fate would soon be as the fate of the others. When she got back
to the hut, Dick was awake and was crying for her.

The still, stiff form of Mr. Meeson, stretched out beneath the sail,
frightened the little lad, he did not know why. Augusta took him into
her arms and kissed him passionately. She loved the child for his own
sake; and, besides, he, and he alone, stood between her and utter
solitude. Then she took him across to the other hut, which had been
vacated by the sailors, for it was impossible to stay in the one with
the body, which was too heavy for her to move. In the centre of the
sailors’ hut stood the cask of rum which had been the cause of their
destruction. It was nearly empty now—so light, indeed, that she had no
difficulty in rolling it to one side. She cleaned out the place as well
as she could, and returning to where Mr. Meeson’s body lay, fetched the
bag of biscuits and the roasted eggs, after which they had their
breakfast.

Fortunately there was but little rain that morning, so Augusta took
Dick out to look for eggs, not because they wanted any more, but in
order to employ themselves. Together they climbed up on to a rocky
headland, where the flag was flying, and looked out across the troubled
ocean. There was nothing in sight so far as the eye could see—nothing
but the white wave-horses across which the black cormorants steered
their swift, unerring flight. She looked and looked till her heart sank
within her.

“Will Mummy soon come in a boat to take Dick away?” asked the child at
her side, and then she burst into tears.

When she had recovered herself they set to collecting eggs, an
occupation which, notwithstanding the screams and threatened attacks of
the birds, delighted Dick greatly. Soon they had as many as she could
carry; so they went back to the hut and lit a fire of drift-wood, and
roasted some eggs in the hot ashes; she had no pot to boil them in.
Thus, one way and another the day wore away, and at last the darkness
began to fall over the rugged peaks behind and the wild wilderness of
sea before. She put Dick to bed and he went off to sleep. Indeed, it
was wonderful to see how well the child bore the hardships through
which they were passing. He never had an ache or a pain, or even a cold
in the head.

After Dick was asleep Augusta sat, or rather lay, in the dark listening
to the moaning of the wind as it beat upon the shanty and passed away
in gusts among the cliffs and mountains beyond. The loneliness was
something awful, and together with the thought of what the end of it
would probably be, quite broke her spirit down. She knew that the
chances of her escape were small indeed. Ships did not often come to
this dreadful and uninhabited coast, and if one should happen to put in
there, it was exceedingly probable that it would touch at some other
point and never see her or her flag. And then in time the end would
come. The supply of eggs would fail, and she would be driven to
supporting life upon such birds as she could catch, till at last the
child sickened and died, and she followed it to that dim land that lies
beyond Kerguelen and the world. She prayed that the child might die
first. It was awful to think that perhaps it might be the other way
about: she might die first, and the child might be left to starve
beside her. The morrow would be Christmas Day. Last Christmas Day she
had spent with her dead sister at Birmingham. She remembered that they
went to church in the morning, and after dinner she had finished
correcting the last revises of “Jemima’s Vow.” Well, it seemed likely
that long before another Christmas came she would have gone to join
little Jeannie. And then, being a good and religious girl, Augusta rose
to her knees and prayed to Heaven with all her heart and soul to rescue
them from their terrible position, or, if she was doomed to perish, at
least to save the child.

And so the long cold night wore away in thought and vigil, till at
last, some two hours before the dawn, she got to sleep. When she opened
her eyes again it was broad daylight, and little Dick, who had been
awake some time beside her, was sitting up playing with the shell which
Bill and Johnnie had used to drink rum out of. She rose and put the
child’s things a little to rights, and then, as it was not raining,
told him to run outside while she went through the form of dressing by
taking off such garments as she had, shaking them, and putting them on
again. She was slowly going through this process, and wondering how
long it would be before her shoulders ceased to smart from the effects
of the tattooing, when Dick came running in without going through the
formality of knocking.

“Oh, Auntie! Auntie!” he sang out in high glee, “here’s a big ship
coming sailing along. Is it Mummie and Daddie coming to fetch Dick?”

Augusta sank back faint with the sudden revulsion of feeling. If there
was a ship, they were saved—snatched from the very jaws of death. But
perhaps it was the child’s fancy. She threw on the body of her dress;
and, her long yellow hair—which she had in default of better means been
trying to comb out with a bit of wood—streaming behind her, she took
the child by the hand, and flew as fast as she could go down the little
rocky promontory off which Bill and Johnnie had met their end. Before
she got half-way down it, she saw that the child’s tale was true—for
there, sailing right up the fjord from the open sea, was a large
vessel. She was not two hundred yards from where she stood, and her
canvas was being rapidly furled preparatory to the anchor being
dropped.

Thanking Providence for the sight as she never thanked anything before,
Augusta sped on till she got to the extreme point of the promontory,
and stood there waving Dick’s little cap towards the vessel, which
moved slowly and majestically on, till presently, across the clear
water, came the splash of the anchor, followed by the sound of the
fierce rattle of the chain through the hawse-pipes. Then there came
another sound—the glad sound of human voices cheering. She had been
seen.

Five minutes passed, and then she saw a boat lowered and manned. The
oars were got out, and presently it was backing water within ten paces
of her.

“Go round there,” she called, pointing to the little bay, “and I will
meet you.”

By the time that she had got to the spot the boat was already beached,
and a tall, thin, kindly-faced man was addressing her in an
unmistakable Yankee accent, “Cast away, Miss?” he said interrogatively.

“Yes,” gasped Augusta; “we are the survivors of the Kangaroo, which
sank in a collision with a whaler about a week ago.”

“Ah!” said the captain, “with a whaler? Then I guess that’s where my
consort has gone to. She’s been missing about a week, and I put in here
to see if I could get upon her tracks—also to fill up with water. Well,
she was well insured, anyway, and when last we spoke her, she had made
a very poor catch. But perhaps, Miss, you will, at your convenience,
favour me with a few particulars?”

Accordingly, Augusta sketched the history of their terrible adventure
in as few words as possible; and the tale was one that made even the
phlegmatic Yankee captain stare. Then she took him, followed by the
crew, to the hut where Meeson lay dead, and to the other hut, where she
and Dick had slept upon the previous night.

“Wall, Miss,” said the captain, whose name was Thomas, “I guess that
you and the youngster will be almost ready to vacate these apartments;
so, if you please, I will send you off to the ship, the Harpoon—that’s
her name—of Norfolk, in the United States. You will find her well
flavoured with oil, for we are about full to the hatches; but, perhaps,
under the circumstances, you will not mind that. Anyway, my Missus, who
is aboard—having come the cruise for her health—and who is an
Englishwoman like you, will do all she can to make you comfortable. And
I tell you what it is, Miss; if I was in any way pious, I should just
thank the Almighty that I happened to see that there bit of a flag with
my spyglass as I was sailing along the coast at sun-up this morning,
for I had no intention of putting in at this creek, but at one twenty
miles along. And now, Miss, if you’ll go aboard, some of us will stop
and just tuck up the dead gentleman as well as we can.”

Augusta thanked him from her heart, and, going into the hut, got her
hat and the roll of sovereigns which had been Mr. Meeson’s, but which
he had told her to take, leaving the blankets to be brought by the men.

Then two of the sailors got into the little boat belonging to the
Kangaroo, in which Augusta had escaped, and rowed her and Dick away
from that hateful shore to where the whaler—a fore-and-aft-schooner—was
lying at anchor. As they drew near, she saw the rest of the crew of the
Harpoon, among whom was a woman, watching their advent from the deck,
who, when she got her foot upon the companion ladder, one and all set
up a hearty cheer. In another moment she was on deck—which,
notwithstanding its abominable smell of oil, seemed to her the fairest
and most delightful place that her eyes had ever rested on—and being
almost hugged by Mrs. Thomas, a pleasant-looking woman of about thirty,
the daughter of a Suffolk farmer who had emigrated to the States. And
then, of course, she had to tell her story all over again; after which
she was led off to the cabin occupied by the captain and his wife (and
which thenceforth was occupied by Augusta, Mrs. Thomas, and little
Dick), the captain shaking down where he could. And here, for the first
time for nearly a week, she was able to wash and dress herself
properly. And oh, the luxury of it! Nobody knows what the delights of
clean linen really mean till he or she has had to dispense with it
under circumstances of privation; nor have they the slightest idea of
what a difference to one’s well-being and comfort is made by the
possession or non-possession of an article so common as a comb. Whilst
Augusta was still combing out her hair with sighs of delight, Mrs.
Thomas knocked at the door and was admitted.

“My! Miss; what beautiful hair you have, now that it is combed out!”
she said in admiration; “why, whatever is that upon your shoulders?”

Then Augusta had to tell the tale of the tattooing, which by the way,
it struck her, it was wise to do, seeing that she thus secured a
witness to the fact, that she was already tattooed on leaving Kerguelen
Land, and that the operation had been of such recent infliction that
the flesh was still inflamed with it. This was the more necessary as
the tattooing was undated.

Mrs. Thomas listened to the story with her mouth open, lost between
admiration of Augusta’s courage, and regret that her shoulders should
have been ruined in that fashion.

“Well, the least that he” (alluding to Eustace) “can do is to marry you
after you have spoilt yourself in that fashion for his benefit,” said
the practical Mrs. Thomas.

“Nonsense! Mrs. Thomas,” said Augusta, blushing till the tattoo marks
on her shoulders looked like blue lines in a sea of crimson, and
stamping her foot with such energy that her hostess jumped.

There was no reason why she should give an innocent remark such a warm
reception; but then, as the reader will no doubt have observed, the
reluctance that some young women show to talking of the possibility of
their marriage to the man they happen to have set their hearts on, is
only equalled by the alacrity with which they marry him when the time
comes.

Having set Dick and Augusta down to a breakfast of porridge and coffee,
which both of them thought delicious, though the fare was really rather
coarse, Mrs. Thomas, being unable to restrain her curiosity, rowed off
to the land to see the huts and also Mr. Meeson’s remains, which,
though not a pleasant sight, were undoubtedly an interesting one. With
her, too, went most of the crew, bent upon the same errand, and also on
obtaining water, of which the Harpoon was short.

As soon as she was left alone, Augusta went back to the cabin, taking
Dick with her, and laid herself down on the berth with a feeling of
safety and thankfulness to which she had long been a stranger, where
very soon she fell sound asleep.




CHAPTER XII.
SOUTHAMPTON QUAY.


When Augusta opened her eyes again she became conscious of a violent
rolling motion that she could not mistake. They were at sea.

She got up, smoothed her hair, and went on deck, to find that she had
slept for many hours, for the sun was setting. She went aft to where
Mrs. Thomas was sitting near the wheel with little Dick beside her, and
after greeting them, turned to watch the sunset. The sight was a
beautiful one enough, for the great waves, driven by the westerly wind,
which in these latitudes is nearly always blowing half a gale, were
rushing past them wild and free, and the sharp spray of their foaming
crests struck upon her forehead like a whip. The sun was setting, and
the arrows of the dying light flew fast and far across the billowy
bosom of the deep. Fast and far they flew from the stormy glory in the
west, lighting up the pale surfaces of cloud, and tinging the grey
waters of that majestic sea with a lurid hue of blood. They kissed the
bellying sails, and seemed to rest upon the vessel’s lofty trucks, and
then travelled on and away, and away, through the great empyrean of
space till they broke and vanished upon the horizon’s rounded edge.
There behind them—miles behind—Kerguelen Land reared its fierce cliffs
against the twilight sky. Clear and desolate they towered in an
unutterable solitude, and on their snowy surfaces the sunbeams beat
coldly as the warm breath of some human passion beating on Aphrodite’s
marble breast.

Augusta gazed upon those drear cliffs that had so nearly proved her
monumental pile and shuddered. It was as a hideous dream.

And then the dark and creeping shadows of the night threw their veils
around and over them, and they vanished. They were swallowed up in
blackness, and she lost sight of them and of the great seas that
forever beat and churn about their stony feet; nor except in dreams,
did she again set her eyes upon their measureless solitude.

The Night arose in strength and shook a golden dew of stars from the
tresses of her streaming clouds, till the wonderful deep heavens
sparkled with a myriad gemmy points. The west wind going on his way
sung his wild chant amongst the cordage, and rushed among the sails as
with a rush of wings. The ship leant over like a maiden shrinking from
a kiss, then, shivering, fled away, leaping from billow to billow as
they rose and tossed their white arms about her, fain to drag her down
and hold her to ocean’s heaving breast.

The rigging tautened, and the huge sails flapped in thunder as the
Harpoon sped upon her course, and all around was greatness and the
present majesty of power. Augusta looked aloft and sighed, she knew not
why. The swift blood of youth coursed through her veins, and she
rejoiced exceedingly that life and all its possibilities yet lay before
her. But a little more of that dreadful place and they would have lain
behind. Her days would have been numbered before she scarce had time to
strike a blow in the great human struggle that rages ceaselessly from
age to age. The voice of her genius would have been hushed just as its
notes began to thrill, and her message would never have been spoken in
the world. But now Time was once more before her, and oh! the nearness
of Death had taught her the unspeakable value of that one asset on
which we can rely—Life. Not, indeed, that life for which so many
live—the life led for self, and having for its principle, if not its
only end, the gratification of the desires of self; but an altogether
higher life—a life devoted to telling that which her keen instinct knew
was truth, and, however imperfectly, painting with the pigment of her
noble art those visions of beauty which sometimes seemed to rest like
heavenly shadows on her soul.


Three months have passed—three long months of tossing waters and
ever-present winds. The Harpoon, shaping her course for Norfolk, in the
United States, had made but a poor passage of it. She got into the
south-east trades, and all went well till they made St. Paul’s Rocks,
where they were detained by the doldrums and variable winds. Afterwards
she passed into the north-east trades, and then, further north, met a
series of westerly gales, that ultimately drove her to the Azores, just
as her crew were getting very short of water and provisions. And here
Augusta bid farewell to her friend the Yankee skipper; for the whaler
that had saved her life and Dick’s, after refitting once more, set sail
upon its almost endless voyage. She stood on the breakwater at Ponta
Delgada, and watched the Harpoon drop past. The men recognized her and
cheered lustily, and Captain Thomas took off his hat; for the entire
ship’s company, down to the cabin-boy, were head-over-heels in love
with Augusta; and the extraordinary offerings that they had made her on
parting, most of them connected in some way or other with that noble
animal the whale, sufficed to fill a good-sized packing-case. Augusta
waved her handkerchief to them in answer; but she could not see much of
them, because her eyes were full of tears. She had had quite enough of
the Harpoon, and yet she was loth to say farewell to her; for her days
on board had in many respects been restful and happy ones; they had
given her space and time to brace herself up before she plunged once
more into the struggle of active life. Besides, she had throughout been
treated with that unvarying kindness and consideration for which the
American people are justly noted in their dealings with all persons in
misfortune.

But Augusta was not the only person who with sorrow watched the
departure of the Harpoon. First, there was little Dick, who had
acquired a fine Yankee drawl, and grown quite half an inch on board of
her, and who fairly howled when his particular friend, a remarkably
fierce and grisly-looking boatswain, brought him as a parting offering
a large whale’s tooth, patiently carved by himself with a spirited
picture of their rescue on Kerguelen Land. Then there was Mrs. Thomas
herself. When they finally reached the island of St. Michael, in the
Azores, Augusta had offered to pay fifty pounds, being half of the
hundred sovereigns given to her by Mr. Meeson, to Captain Thomas as a
passage fee, knowing that he was by no moans overburdened with the
goods of this world. But he stoutly declined to touch a farthing,
saying that it would be unlucky to take money from a castaway. Augusta
as stoutly insisted; and, finally, a compromise was come to. Mrs.
Thomas was anxious, being seized with that acute species of
home-sickness from which Suffolk people are no more exempt than other
folk, to visit the land where she was born and the people midst whom
she was bred up. But this she could not well afford to do. Therefore,
Augusta’s proffered fifty pounds was appropriated to this purpose, and
Mrs. Thomas stopped with Augusta at Ponta Delgada, waiting for the
London and West India Line Packet to take them to Southampton.

So it came to pass that they stood together on the Ponta Delgada
breakwater and together saw the Harpoon sail off towards the setting
sun.

Then came a soft dreamy fortnight in the fair island of St. Michael,
where nature is ever as a bride, and never reaches the stage of the
hard-worked, toil-worn mother, lank and lean with the burden of
maternity. The mental act of looking back to this time, in after years,
always recalled to Augusta’s senses the odor of orange-blossoms, and
the sight of the rich pomegranate-bloom blushing the roses down. It was
a pleasant time, for the English Consul there most hospitably
entertained them—with much more personal enthusiasm, indeed, than he
generally considered it necessary to show towards shipwrecked
voyagers—a class of people of whom consular representatives abroad must
get rather tired with their eternal misfortunes and their perennial
want of clothes. Indeed, the only drawback to her enjoyment was that
the Consul, a gallant official, with red hair, equally charmed by her
adventures, her literary fame, and her person, showed a decided
disposition to fall in love with her, and a red-haired and therefore
ardent Consular officer is, under those circumstances, a somewhat
alarming personage. But the time went on without anything serious
happening; and, at last, one morning after breakfast, a man came
running up with the information that the mail was in sight.

And so Augusta took an affectionate farewell of the golden-haired
Consul, who gazed at her through his eyeglass, and sighed when he
thought of what might have been in the sweet by-and-by; and the ship’s
bell rang, and the screw began to turn, leaving the Consul still
sighing on the horizon; and in due course Augusta and Mrs. Thomas found
themselves standing on the quay at Southampton, the centre of an
admiring and enthusiastic crowd.

The captain had told the extraordinary tale to the port officials when
they boarded the vessel, and on getting ashore the port officials had
made haste to tell every living soul they met the wonderful news that
two survivors of the ill-fated Kangaroo—the history of whose tragic end
had sent a thrill of horror through the English-speaking world—were
safe and sound on board the West India boat. Thus, by the time that
Augusta, Mrs. Thomas, and Dick were safe on shore, their story, or
rather sundry distorted versions of it, was flashing up the wires to
the various press agencies, and running through Southampton like
wild-fire. Scarcely were their feet set upon the quay, when, with a
rush and a bound, wild men, with note-books in their hands, sprang upon
them, and beat them down with a rain of questions. Augusta found it
impossible to answer them all at once, so contented herself with
saying, “Yes,” “Yes,” “Yes,” to everything, out of which mono-syllable,
she afterwards found to her surprise, these fierce and active pressmen
contrived to make up a sufficiently moving tale; which included glowing
accounts of the horrors of the shipwreck, and, what rather took her
aback, a positive statement that she and the sailors had lived for a
fortnight upon the broiled remains of Mr. Meeson. One interviewer,
being a small man, and, therefore, unable to kick and fight his way
through the ring which surrounded Augusta and Mrs. Thomas, seized upon
little Dick, and commenced to chirp and snap his fingers at him in the
intervals of asking him such questions as he thought suitable to his
years.

Dick, dreadfully alarmed, fled with a howl; but this did not prevent a
column and a half of matter, headed “The Infant’s Tale of Woe,” from
appearing that very day in a journal noted for the accuracy and
unsensational character of its communications. Nor was the army of
interviewers the only terror that they had to face. Little girls gave
them bouquets; an old lady, whose brain was permeated with the idea
that shipwrecked people went about in a condition of undress for much
longer than was necessary after the event, arrived with an armful of
under-clothing streaming on the breeze; and last, but not least, a tall
gentleman, with a beautiful moustache, thrust into Augusta’s hand a
note hastily written in pencil, which, when opened, proved to be an
_offer of marriage_!

However, at last they found themselves in a first-class carriage, ready
to start, or rather starting. The interviewing gentlemen, two of whom
had their heads jammed through the window, were forcibly drawn
away—still asking questions, by the officials—the tall gentleman with
the moustache, who was hovering in the background, smiled a soft
farewell, in which modesty struggled visibly with hope, the
station-master took off his cap, and in another minute they were
rolling out of Southampton Station.

Augusta sank back with a sigh of relief, and then burst out laughing at
the thought of the gentleman with the fair moustachios. On the seat
opposite to her somebody had thoughtfully placed a number of the day’s
papers. She took up the first that came to hand and glanced at it idly
with the idea of trying to pick up the thread of events. Her eyes fell
instantly upon the name of Mr. Gladstone printed all over the sheet in
type of varying size, and she sighed. Life on the ocean wave had been
perilous and disagreeable enough, but at any rate she had been free
from Mr. Gladstone and his doings. Whatever evil might be said of him,
he was _not_ an old man of the sea. Turning the paper over impatiently
she came upon the reports of the Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division
of the High Court. The first report ran thus:—


BEFORE THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE PRESIDENT.

IN THE MATTER OF MEESON, DECEASED.

This was an application arising out of the loss of R.M.S. Kangaroo, on
the eighteenth of December last. It will be remembered that out of
about a thousand souls on board that vessel the occupants of one boat
only—twenty-five people in all—were saved. Among the drowned was Mr.
Meeson, the head of the well-known Birmingham publishing company of
Meeson, Addison, and Roscoe, and Co. (Limited), who was at the time on
a visit to New Zealand and Australia in connection with the business of
the company.

Mr. Fiddlestick, Q.C., who with Mr. Pearl appeared for the applicants
(and who was somewhat imperfectly heard), stated that the facts
connected with the sinking of the Kangaroo would probably still be so
fresh in his Lordship’s mind that it would not be necessary for him to
detail them, although he had them upon affidavit before him. His
Lordship would remember that but one boat-load of people had survived
from this, perhaps the most terrible shipwreck of the generation. Among
the drowned was Mr. Meeson; and this application was on behalf of the
executors of his will for leave to presume his death. The property
which passed under the will was very large indeed; amounting in all,
Mr. Fiddlestick understood, to about two millions sterling, which,
perhaps, might incline his Lordship to proceed very carefully in
allowing probate to issue.

The President: Well—the amount of the property has got nothing to do
with the principles on which the Court acts with regard to the
presumption of death, Mr. Fiddlestick.

Quite so, my Lord, and I think that in this case your Lordship will be
satisfied that there is no reason why probate should not issue. It is,
humanly speaking, impossible that Mr. Meeson can have escaped the
general destruction.

The President: Have you any affidavit from anybody who saw Mr. Meeson
in the water?

No, my Lord; I have an affidavit from a sailor named Okers, the only
man who was picked up in the water after the Kangaroo foundered, which
states that he believes that he saw Mr. Meeson spring from the ship
into the water, but the affidavit does not carry the matter further. He
cannot swear that it was Mr. Meeson.

The President: Well, I think that that will do. The Court is
necessarily adverse to allowing the presumption of death, except on
evidence of the most satisfactory nature. Still, considering that
nearly four months have now passed since the foundering of the Kangaroo
under circumstances which make it exceedingly improbable that there
were any other survivors, I think that it may fairly presume that Mr.
Meeson shared the fate of the other passengers.

Mr. Fiddlestick: The death to be presumed from the 18th of December.

The President: Yes, from the eighteenth.

Mr. Fiddlestick: If your Lordship pleases.


Augusta put down the paper with a gasp. There was she, safe and sound,
with the true last will of Mr. Meeson tattooed upon her; and “probate
had issued”—whatever that mysterious formula might mean—to another
will, not the real last will. It meant (as she in her ignorance
supposed) that her will was no good, that she had endured that
abominable tattooing to no purpose, and was, to no purpose, scarred for
life.

It was too much; and, in a fit of vexation, she flung the _Times_ out
of the window, and cast herself back on the cushion, feeling very much
inclined to cry.




CHAPTER XIII.
EUSTACE BUYS A PAPER.


In due course the train that bore Augusta and her fortunes, timed to
reach Waterloo at 5.40 p.m., rolled into the station. The train was a
fast one, but the telegraph had been faster. All the evening papers had
come out with accounts, more or less accurate, of their escape, and
most of them had added that the two survivors would reach Waterloo by
the 5.40 train. The consequence was, that when the train drew up at the
platform, Augusta, on looking out, was horrified to see a dense mass of
human beings being kept in check by a line of policemen.

However, the guard was holding the door open, so there was nothing for
it but to get out, which she did, taking Dick by the hand, a proceeding
that necessarily put her identity beyond a doubt. The moment she got
her foot on to the platform, the crowd saw her, and there arose such a
tremendous shout of welcome that she very nearly took refuge again in
the carriage. For a moment she stood hesitating, and the crowd, seeing
how sweet and beautiful she was (for the three months of sea air had
made her stouter and even more lovely), cheered again with that
peculiar enthusiasm which a discerning public always shows for a pretty
face. But even while she stood bewildered on the platform she heard a
loud “Make way—make way there!” and saw the multitude being divided by
a little knot of officials, who were escorting somebody dressed in
widow’s weeds.

In another second there was a cry of joy, and a sweet, pale faced
little lady had run at the child Dick, and was hugging him against her
heart, and sobbing and laughing both at once.

“Oh! my boy! my boy!” cried Lady Holmhurst, for it was she, “I thought
you were dead—long ago dead!”

And then she turned, and, before all the people there, clung about
Augusta’s neck and kissed her and blessed her, because she had saved
her only child, and half removed the deadweight of her desolation.
Whereat the crowd cheered, and wept, and yelled, and swore with
excitement, and blessed their stars that they were there to see.

And then, in a haze of noise and excitement, they were led through the
cheering mob to where a carriage and pair were standing, and were
helped into it, Mrs. Thomas being placed on the front seat, and Lady
Holmhurst and Augusta on the back, the former with the gasping Dick
upon her knee.

And now little Dick is out of the story.

Then another event occurred, which we must go back a little to explain.

When Eustace Meeson had come to town, after being formally
disinherited, he had managed to get a billet as Latin, French, and Old
English reader in a publishing house of repute. As it happened, on this
very afternoon he was strolling down the Strand, having finished a
rather stiff day’s work, and with a mind filled with those idle and
somewhat confused odds and ends of speculation with which most brain
workers will be acquainted. He looked older and paler than when we last
met him, for sorrow and misfortune had laid their heavy hands upon him.
When Augusta had departed, he had discovered that he was head over
heels in love with her in that unfortunate way—for ninety-nine times
out of a hundred, it is unfortunate—in which many men of susceptibility
do occasionally fall in love in their youth—a way that brands the heart
for life in a fashion that can no more be effaced than the stamp of a
hot iron can be effaced from the physical body. Such an affection—which
is not altogether of the earth—will, when it overcomes a man, prove
either the greatest blessing of his life or one of the heaviest, most
enduring curses that a malignant fate can heap upon his head. For if he
achieves his desire, even though he serve his seven years, surely for
him life will be robbed of half its evil. But if he lose her, either
through misfortune or because he gave all this to one who did not
understand the gift, or one who looked at love and on herself as a
currency wherewith to buy her place and the luxury of days, then he
will be of all men among the most miserable. For nothing can give him
back that which has gone from him.

Eustace had never seen Augusta but twice in his life; but then passion
does not necessarily depend upon constant previous intercourse with its
object. Love at first sight is common enough, and in this instance
Eustace was not altogether dependent upon the spoken words of his
adored, or on his recollection of her very palpable beauty. For he had
her books. To those who know something of the writer—sufficient, let us
say, to enable him to put an approximate value on his or her
sentiments, so as to form a more or less accurate guess as to when he
is speaking from his own mind, when he is speaking from the mind of the
puppet in hand, and when he is merely putting a case—a person’s books
are full of information, and bring that person into a closer and more
intimate contact with the reader than any amount of personal
intercourse. For whatever is best and whatever is worst in an
individual will be reflected in his pages, seeing that, unless he is
the poorest of hack authors, he must of necessity set down therein the
images that pass across the mirrors of his heart.

Thus it seemed to Eustace, who knew “Jemima’s Vow” and also her
previous abortive work almost by heart, that he was very intimately
acquainted with Augusta, and as he was walking home that May evening,
he was reflecting sadly enough of all that he had lost through that
cruel shipwreck. He had lost Augusta, and, what was more, he had lost
his uncle and his uncle’s vast fortune. For he, too, had seen the
report of the application re Meeson in the _Times_, and, though he knew
that he was disinherited, it was a little crushing. He had lost the
fortune for Augusta’s sake, and now he had lost Augusta also; and he
reflected, not without dismay, on the long dreary existence that
stretched away before him, filled up as it were with prospective piles
of Latin proofs. With a sigh he halted at the Wellington-street
crossing in the Strand, which, owing to the constant stream of traffic
at this point, is one of the worst in London. There was a block at the
moment, as there generally is, and he stood for some minutes watching
the frantic dashes of an old woman, who always tried to cross it at the
wrong time, not without some amusement. Presently, however, a boy with
a bundle of unfolded _Globes_ under his arm came rushing along, making
the place hideous with his howls.

“Wonderful escape of a lady and han infant!” he roared. “Account of the
survivors of the Kangaroo—wonderful escape—desert island—arrival of the
Magnolia with the criminals.”

Eustace jumped, and instantly bought a copy of the paper, stepping into
the doorway of a shop where they sold masonic jewels of every size and
hue, in order to read it. The very first thing that his eye fell on was
an editorial paragraph.

“In another column,” ran the paragraph, “will be found a short account,
telegraphed to us from Southampton just as we are going to press, of
the most remarkable tale of the sea that we are acquainted with. The
escape of Miss Augusta Smithers and of the little Lord Holmhurst—as we
suppose that we must now call him—from the ill-fated Kangaroo, and
their subsequent rescue, on Kerguelen Land, by the American whaler,
will certainly take rank as the most romantic incident of its kind in
the recent annals of shipwreck. Miss Smithers, who will be better known
to the public as the authoress of that charming book ‘Jemima’s Vow,’
which took the town by storm about a year ago, will arrive at Waterloo
Station by the 5.40 train, and we shall then—”

Eustace read no more. Sick and faint with an extraordinary revulsion of
feeling, he leant against the door of the masonic shop, which promptly
opened in the most hospitable manner, depositing him upon his back on
the floor of the establishment. In a second he was up, and had bounded
out of the shop with such energy that the shopman was on the point of
holloaing “Stop thief!” It was exactly five o’clock, and he was not
more than a quarter of a mile or so from Waterloo Station. A hansom was
sauntering along in front of him, he sprang into it. “Waterloo, main
line,” he shouted, “as hard as you can go,” and in another moment he
was rolling across the bridge. Five or six minutes’ drive brought him
to the station, to which an enormous number of people were hurrying,
collected together partly by a rumour of what was going on, and partly
by that magnetic contagion of excitement which runs through a London
mob like fire through dry grass.

He dismissed the hansom, throwing the driver half-a-crown, which,
considering that half-crowns were none too plentiful with him, was a
rash thing to do, and vigorously shouldered his way through the crush
till he reached the spot where the carriage and pair were standing. The
carriage was just beginning to move on.

“Stop!” he shouted at the top of his voice to the coachman, who pulled
up again. In another moment he was alongside, and there, sweeter and
more beautiful than ever, he once more saw his love.

She started at his voice, which she seemed to know, and their eyes met.
Their eyes met and a great light of happiness shot into her sweet face
and shone there till it was covered up and lost in the warm blush that
followed.

He tried to speak, but could not. Twice he tried, and twice he failed,
and meanwhile the mob shouted like anything. At last, however, he got
it out—“Thank God!” he stammered, “thank God you are safe!”

For answer, she stretched out her hand and gave him one sweet look. He
took it, and once more the carriage began to move on.

“Where are you to be found?” he had the presence of mind to ask.

“At Lady Holmhurst’s. Come to-morrow morning; I have something to tell
you,” she answered, and in another minute the carriage was gone,
leaving him standing there in a condition of mind which really “can be
better imagined than described.”




CHAPTER XIV.
AT HANOVER-SQUARE.


Eustace could never quite remember how he got through the evening of
that eventful day. Everything connected with it seemed hazy to him. As,
however, fortunately for the reader of this history, we are not
altogether dependent on the memory of a young man in love, which is
always a treacherous thing to deal with, having other and exclusive
sources of information, we may as well fill the gap. First of all he
went to his club and seized a “Red-book,” in which he discovered that
Lord Holmhurst’s, or, rather, Lady Holmhurst’s, London house was in
Hanover-square. Then he walked to his rooms in one of the little
side-streets opening out of the Strand, and went through the form of
eating some dinner; after which a terrible fit of restlessness got
possession of him, and he started out walking. For three solid hours
did that young man walk, which was, no doubt, a good thing for him, for
one never gets enough exercise in London; and at the end of that time,
having already been to Hammersmith and back, he found himself
gravitating towards Hanover-square. Once there, he had little
difficulty in finding the number. There was a light in the drawing-room
floor, and, the night being warm, one of the windows was open, so that
the lamp-light shone softly through the lace curtains. Eustace crossed
over to the other side of the street, and, leaning against the iron
railings of the square, looked up. He was rewarded for his pains, for,
through the filmy curtain, he could make out the forms of two ladies,
seated side by side upon an ottoman, with their faces towards the
window, and in one of these he had no difficulty in recognising
Augusta. Her head was leaning on her hand, and she was talking
earnestly to her companion. He wondered what she was talking of, and
had half a mind to go and ring, and ask to see her. Why should he wait
till to-morrow morning? Presently, however, better counsels prevailed,
and, though sorely against his will, he stopped where he was till a
policeman, thinking his rapt gaze suspicious, gruffly requested him to
move on.

To gaze at one’s only love through an open window is, no doubt, a
delightful occupation, if a somewhat tantalising one; but if Eustace’s
ears had been as good as his eyes, and he could have heard the
conversation that was proceeding in the drawing-room, he would have
been still more interested.

Augusta had just been unfolding that part of her story which dealt with
the important document tattooed upon her shoulders, to which Lady
Holmhurst had listened “ore rotundo.”

“And so the young man is coming here to-morrow morning,” said Lady
Holmhurst; “how delightful! I am sure he looked a very nice young man,
and he had very fine eyes. It is the most romantic thing that I ever
heard of.”

“It may be delightful for you, Bessie,” said Augusta, rather tartly,
“but I call it disgusting. It is all very well to be tattooed upon a
desert island—not that that was very nice, I can tell you; but it is
quite another thing to have to show the results in a London
drawing-room. Of course, Mr. Meeson will want to see this will,
whatever it may be worth; and I should like to ask you, Bessie, how I
am to show it to him? It is on my neck.”

“I have not observed,” said Lady Holmhurst, drily, “that ladies, as a
rule, have an insuperable objection to showing their necks. If you have
any doubt on the point, I recommend you to get an invitation to a
London ball. All you will have to do will be to wear a low dress. The
fact of being tattooed does not make it any more improper for you to
show your shoulders, than it would be if they were not tattooed.”

“I have never worn a low dress,” said Augusta, “and I do not want to
show my shoulders.”

“Ah, well,” said Lady Holmhurst, darkly; “I daresay that that feeling
will soon wear off. But, of course, if you won’t, you won’t; and, under
those circumstances, you had better say nothing about the will—though,”
she added learnedly, “of course that would be compounding a felony.”

“Would it? I don’t quite see where the felony comes in.”

“Well, of course, it is this way: you steal the will—that’s felony; and
if you don’t show it to him, I suppose you compound it; it is a double
offence—compound felony.”

“Nonsense!” answered Augusta to this exposition of the law, which was,
it will be admitted, almost as lucid and convincing as that of an
average Q.C. “How can I steal my own shoulders? It is impossible.”

“Oh, no; not at all. You don’t know what funny things you can do. I
once had a cousin whom I coached for his examination for the Bar, and I
learnt a great deal about it then. Poor fellow! he was plucked eight
times.”

“I am sure I don’t wonder at it,” said Augusta, rudely. “Well, I
suppose I must put on this low dress; but it is horrid—perfectly
horrid! You will have to lend me one, that is all.”

“My dear,” answered Lady Holmhurst, with a glance at her widow’s weeds.
“I have no low dresses: though, perhaps, I can find some among the
things I put away before we sailed,” and her eyes filled with tears.

Augusta took her hand, and they began to talk of that great bereavement
and of their own wonderful survival, till at last she led the
conversation round to little Dick, and Bessie Holmhurst smiled again at
the thought that her darling boy, her only child, was safe asleep up
stairs, and not, as she had believed, washing to and fro at the bottom
of the ocean. She took Augusta’s hand and kissed it, and blessed her
for having saved her child, till suddenly, somewhat to the relief of
the latter, the butler opened the door and said that two gentlemen
wanted very particularly to speak to Miss Smithers. And then she was
once more handed over to her old enemies, the interviewers; and after
them came the representatives of the company, and then more special
reporters, and then an artist from one of the illustrated papers, who
insisted upon her giving him an appointment in language that, though
polite, indicated that he meant to have his way; and so on till nearly
midnight, when she rushed off to bed and locked her door.

Next morning Augusta appeared at breakfast dressed in an exceedingly
becoming low dress, which Lady Holmhurst sent up to her with her hot
water. She had never worn one before, and it certainly is trying to put
on a low dress for the first time in full daylight—indeed, she felt as
guilty as does a person of temperate habits when he is persuaded to
drink a brandy and soda before getting up. However, there was no help
for it; so, throwing a shawl over her shoulders, she descended.

“My dear, do let me see,” said Lady Holmhurst, as soon as the servant
had left the room.

With a sigh Augusta uncovered her shoulders, and her friend ran round
the table to look at them. There, on her neck, was the will. The cuttle
ink had proved an excellent medium, and the tattooing was as fresh as
the day on which it had been done, and would, no doubt, remain so till
the last hour of her life.

“Well,” said Lady Holmhurst, “I hope the young man will be duly
grateful. I should have to be very much in love,” and she looked
meaningly at Augusta, “before I would spoil myself in that fashion for
any man.”

Augusta blushed at the insinuation, and said nothing. At ten o’clock,
just as they were half through breakfast, there came a ring at the
bell.

“Here he is,” said Lady Holmhurst, clapping her hands. “Well, if this
isn’t the very funniest thing that I ever heard of! I told Jones to
show him in here.”

Hardly were the words out of her mouth when the butler, who looked as
solemn as a mute in his deep mourning, opened the door and announced
“Mr. Eustace Meeson,” in those deep and commanding tones which
flunkeys, and flunkeys alone, have at their command. There was a
moment’s pause. Augusta half rose from her chair, and then sat down
again; and, noticing her embarrassment, Lady Holmhurst smiled
maliciously. Then came in Eustace himself, looking rather handsome,
exceedingly nervous, and beautifully got up—in a frock-coat, with a
flower in it.

“Oh! how do you do?” he said to Augusta, holding out his hand, which
she took rather coldly.

“How do you do, Mr. Meeson,” she answered. “Let me introduce you to
Lady Holmhurst. Mr. Meeson, Lady Holmhurst.” Eustace bowed, and put his
hat down on the butter-dish, for he was very much overcome.

“I hope that I have not come too early,” he said in great confusion, as
he perceived his mistake. “I thought that you would have done
breakfast.”

“Oh, not at all Mr. Meeson,” said Lady Holmhurst. “Won’t you have a cup
of tea? Augusta, give Mr. Meeson a cup of tea.”

He took the tea, which he did not want in the least, and then there
came an awkward silence. Nobody seemed to know how to begin the
conversation.

“How did you find the house, Mr. Meeson?” said Lady Holmhurst, at last.
“Miss Smithers gave you no address, and there are two Lady
Holmhursts—my mother-in-law and myself.”

“Oh, I looked it out, and then I walked here last night and saw you
both sitting at the window.”

“Indeed!” said Lady Holmhurst. “And why did you not come in? You might
have helped to protect Miss Smithers from the reporters.”

“I don’t know,” he answered confusedly. “I did not like to; and,
besides, a policeman thought I was a suspicious character and told me
to move on.”

“Dear me, Mr. Meeson; you must have been having a good look at us.”

Here Augusta interposed, fearing lest her admirer—for with an unerring
instinct, she now guessed how matters stood—should say something
foolish. A young man who is capable of standing to stare at a house in
Hanover-square is, she thought, evidently capable of anything.

“I was surprised to see you yesterday,” she said. “How did you know we
were coming?”

Eustace told her that he had seen it in the _Globe_. “I am sure you
cannot have been so surprised as I was,” he went on, “I had made sure
that you were drowned. I went up to Birmingham to call on you after you
had gone, and found that you had vanished and left no address. The
maid-servant declared that you had sailed in a ship called the ‘Conger
Eel’—which I afterwards found out was Kangaroo. And then she went down;
and after a long time they published a full list of the passengers and
your name was not among them, and I thought that after all you might
have got off the ship or something. Then, some days afterwards, came a
telegram from Albany, in Australia, giving the names of Lady Holmhurst
and the others who were saved, and specially mentioning ‘Miss
Smithers—the novelist’ and Lord Holmhurst as being among the drowned,
and that is how the dreadful suspense came to an end. It was awful, I
can tell you.”

Both of the young women looked at Eustace’s face and saw that there was
no mistaking the real nature of the trial through which he had passed.
So real was it, that it never seemed to occur to him that there was
anything unusual in his expressing such intense interest in the affairs
of a young lady with whom he was outwardly, at any rate, on the terms
of merest acquaintance.

“It was very kind of you to think so much about me,” said Augusta,
gently. “I had no idea that you would call again, or I would have left
word where I was going.”

“Well, thank God you are safe and sound, at any rate,” answered
Eustace; and then, with a sudden burst of anxiety, “you are not going
back to New Zealand just yet, are you?”

“I don’t know. I am rather sick of the sea just now.”

“No, indeed, she is not,” said Lady Holmhurst; “she is going to stop
with me and Dick. Miss Smithers saved Dick’s life, you know, when the
nurse, poor thing, had run away. And now, dear, you had better tell Mr.
Meeson about the will.”

“The will. What will?” asked Eustace.

“Listen, and you will hear.”

And Eustace did listen with open eyes and ears while Augusta, getting
over her shyness as best she might, told the whole story of his uncle’s
death, and of the way in which he had communicated his testamentary
wishes.

“And do you mean to tell me,” said Eustace, astounded, “that you
allowed him to have his confounded will tattooed upon your neck?”

“Yes,” answered Augusta, “I did; and what is more, Mr. Meeson, I think
that you ought to be very much obliged to me; for I daresay that I
shall often be sorry for it.”

“I am _very_ much obliged,” answered Eustace; “I had no right to expect
such a thing, and, in short, I do not know what to say. I should never
have thought that any woman was capable of such a sacrifice for—for a
comparative stranger.”

Then came another awkward pause.

“Well, Mr. Meeson,” said Augusta, at last rising brusquely from her
chair, “the document belongs to you, and so I suppose that you had
better see it. Not that I think that it will be of much use to you,
however, as I see that ‘probate had been allowed to issue,’ whatever
that may mean, of Mr. Meeson’s other will.”

“I do not know that that will matter,” said Eustace, “as I heard a
friend of mine, Mr. Short, who is a barrister, talk about some case the
other day in which probate was revoked on the production of a
subsequent will.”

“Indeed!” answered Augusta, “I am very glad to hear that. Then,
perhaps, after all I have been tattooed to some purpose. Well; I
suppose you had better see it,” and with a gesture that was half shy
and half defiant she drew the lace shawl from her shoulders, and turned
her back towards him so that he might see what was inscribed across it.

Eustace stared at the broad line of letters which with the signatures
written underneath might mean a matter of two millions of money to him.

“Thank you,” he said at last, and, taking up the lace shawl, he threw
it over her again.

“If you will excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Meeson,” interrupted Lady
Holmhurst at this point; “I have to go to see about the dinner,” and
before Augusta could interfere she had left the room.

Eustace closed the door behind her, and turned, feeling instinctively
that a great crisis in his fortunes had come. There are some men who
rise to an emergency and some who shrink from it, and the difference
is, that difference between him who succeeds and him who fails in life,
and in all that makes life worth living.

Eustace belonged to the class that rises and not to that which shrinks.




CHAPTER XV.
EUSTACE CONSULTS A LAWYER.


Augusta was leaning against the marble mantelpiece—indeed, one of her
arms was resting upon it, for she was a tall woman. Perhaps she, too,
felt that there was something in the air; at any rate, she turned away
her head, and began to play with a bronze Japanese lobster which
adorned the mantelpiece.

“Now for it,” said Eustace to himself, drawing a long breath, to try
and steady the violent pulsations of his heart.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Smithers,” he began.

“Best say nothing more about it,” she put in quickly. “I did it, and I
am glad that I did it. What do a few marks matter if a great wrong is
prevented thereby? I am not ever likely to have to go to court.
Besides, Mr. Meeson, there is another thing; it was through me that you
lost your inheritance; it is only right that I should try to be the
means of bringing it back to you.”

She dropped her head again, and once more began to play with the bronze
lobster, holding her arm in such a fashion that Eustace could not see
her face. But if he could not see her face she could see his in the
glass, and narrowly observed its every change, which, on the whole,
though natural, was rather mean of her.

Poor Eustace grew pale and paler yet, till his handsome countenance
became positively ghastly. It is wonderful how frightened young men are
the first time that they propose. It wears off afterwards—with practice
one gets accustomed to anything.

“Miss Smithers—Augusta,” he gasped, “I want to say something to you!”
and he stopped dead.

“Yes, Mr. Meeson,” she answered cheerfully, “what is it?”

“I want to tell you”—and again he hesitated.

“What you are going to do about the will?” suggested Augusta.

“No—no; nothing about the will—please don’t laugh at me and put me
off!”

She looked up innocently—as much as to say that she never dreamed of
doing either of these things. She had a lovely face, and the glance of
the grey eyes quite broke down the barrier of his fears.

“Oh, Augusta, Augusta,” he said, “don’t you understand? I love you! I
love you! No woman was ever loved before as I love you. I fell in love
with you the very first time I saw you in the office at Meeson’s, when
I had the row with my uncle about you; and ever since then I have got
deeper and deeper in love with you. When I thought that you were
drowned it nearly broke my heart, and often and often I wished that I
were dead, too!”

It was Augusta’s turn to be disturbed now, for, though a lady’s
composure will stand her in good stead up to the very verge of an
affair of this sort, it generally breaks down _in medias res_. Anyhow,
she certainly dropped her eyes and colored to her hair, while her
breast began to heave tumultuously.

“Do you know, Mr. Meeson,” she said at last, without daring to look at
his imploring face, “that this is only the fourth time that we have
seen each other, including yesterday.”

“Yes, I know,” he said; “but don’t refuse me on that account; you can
see me as often as you like”—(this was generous of Master Eustace)—“and
really I know you better than you think. I should think that I have
read each of your books twenty times.”

This was a happy stroke, for, however free from vanity a person may be,
it is not in the nature of a young woman to hear that somebody has read
her book twenty times without being pleased.

“I am not my books,” said Augusta.

“No; but your books are part of you,” he answered, “and I have learnt
more about your real self through them than I should have done if I had
seen you a hundred times instead of four.”

Augusta slowly raised her grey eyes till they met his own, and looked
at him as though she were searching out his soul, and the memory of
that long, sweet look is with him yet.

He said no more, nor had she any words; but somehow nearer and nearer
they drew one to the other, till his arms were around her, and his lips
were pressed upon her lips. Happy man and happy girl! they will live to
find that life has joys (for those who are good and are well off) but
that it has no joys so holy and so complete as that which they were now
experiencing—the first kiss of true and honest love.

A little while afterwards the butler came in in a horribly sudden
manner, and found Augusta and Eustace, the one very red and the other
very pale, standing suspiciously close to each other. But he was a very
well-trained butler and a man of experience, who had seen much and
guessed more; and he looked innocent as a babe unborn.

Just then, too, Lady Holmhurst came in again and looked at the pair of
them with an amused twinkle in her eye. Lady Holmhurst, like her
butler, was also a person of experience.

“Won’t you come into the drawing room?” she said. And they did, looking
rather sheepish.

And there Eustace made a clean breast of it, announcing that they were
engaged to be married. And although this was somewhat of an assumption,
seeing that no actual words of troth had passed between them, Augusta
stood there, never offering a word in contradiction.

“Well, Mr. Meeson,” said Lady Holmhurst, “I think that you are the
luckiest man of my acquaintance, for Augusta is not only one of the
sweetest and loveliest girls that I have ever met, she is also the
bravest and the cleverest. You will have to look out, Mr. Meeson, or
you will be known as the husband of the great Augusta Meeson.”

“I will take the risk,” he answered humbly. “I know that Augusta has
more brains in her little finger than I have in my whole body. I don’t
know how she can look at a fellow like me.”

“Dear me, how humble we are!” said Lady Holmhurst. “Well, that is the
way of men before marriage. And now, as Augusta carries both your
fortunes on her back as well as in her face and brain, I venture to
suggest that you had better go and see a lawyer about the matter; that
is, if you have quite finished your little talk. I suppose that you
will come and dine with us, Mr. Meeson, and if you like to come a
little early, say half-past six, I daresay that Augusta will arrange to
be in, to hear what you have found out about this will, you know. And
now—au revoir.”

“I think that that is a very nice young man, my dear,” said Lady
Holmhurst as soon as Eustace had bowed himself out. “It was rather
audacious of him to propose to you the fourth time that he set eyes
upon you; but I think that audacity is, on the whole, a good quality in
the male sex. Another thing is, that if that will is worth anything he
will be one of the wealthiest men in the whole of England; so, taking
it altogether, I think I may congratulate you, my dear. And now I
suppose that you have been in love with this young man all along. I
guessed as much when I saw your face as he ran up to the carriage
yesterday, and I was sure of it when I heard about the tattooing. No
girl would allow herself to be tattooed in the interest of abstract
justice. Oh, yes! I know all about it; and now I am going out walking
in the park with Dick, and I should advise you to compose yourself, for
that artist is coming to draw you at twelve.”

And she departed and left Augusta to her reflections, which were—well,
not unpleasant ones.

Meanwhile Eustace was marching towards the Temple. As it happened, in
the same lodging-house where he had been living for the last few
months, two brothers of the name of Short had rooms, and with these
young gentlemen he had become very friendly. The two Shorts were twins,
and so like one another that it was more than a month before Eustace
could be sure which of them he was speaking to. When they were both at
college their father died, leaving his property equally between them;
and as this property on realisation was not found to amount to more
than four hundred a year, the twins very rightly concluded that they
had better do something to supplement their moderate income.
Accordingly, by a stroke of genius they determined that one of them
should become a solicitor and the other a barrister, and then tossed up
as to which should take to which trade. The idea, of course, was that
in this manner they would be able to afford each other mutual comfort
and support. John would give James briefs, and James’ reflected glory
would shine back on John. In short, they were anxious to establish a
legal long firm of the most approved pattern.

Accordingly, they passed their respective examinations, and John took
rooms with another budding solicitor in the City, while James hired
chambers in Pump-court. But there the matter stopped, for as John did
not get any work, of course he could not give any to James. And so it
came to pass that for the past three years neither of the twins had
found the law as profitable as they anticipated. In vain did John sit
and sigh in the City. Clients were few and far between: scarcely enough
to pay his rent. And in vain did James, artistically robed, wander like
the Evil One, from court to court, seeking what he might devour.
Occasionally he had the pleasure of taking a note for another barrister
who was called away, which means doing another man’s work for nothing.
Once, too, a man with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, rushed up to
him, and, thrusting a brief into his hands, asked him to hold it for
him, telling him that it would be on in a short time, and that there
was nothing in it—“nothing at all.” Scarcely had poor James struggled
through the brief when the case was called on, and it may suffice to
say that at its conclusion, the Judge gazed at him mildly, over his
spectacles, and “could not help wondering that any learned counsel had
been found who would consent to waste the time of the Court in such a
case as the one to which he had been listening.” Clearly James’ friend
would not so consent, and had passed on the responsibility, minus the
fee. On another occasion, James was in the Probate Court on motion day,
and a solicitor—a real live solicitor—came up to him and asked him to
make a motion (marked Mr.——, 2 gns.) for leave to dispense with a
co-respondent. This motion he made, and the co-respondent was dispensed
with in the approved fashion; but when he turned round the solicitor
had vanished, and he never saw him more or the two guineas either.
However, the brief, his only one, remained, and, after that, he took to
hovering about the Divorce Court, partly in the hope of once more
seeing that solicitor, and partly with a vague idea of drifting into
practice in the Division.

Now, Eustace had often, when in the Shorts’ sitting-room in the
lodging-house in the Strand, heard the barrister James hold forth
learnedly on the matter of wills, and, therefore, he naturally enough
turned towards him in his recent dilemma. Knowing the address of his
chambers in Pump-court, he hurried thither, and was in due course
admitted by a very small child, who apparently filled the responsible
office of clerk to Mr. James Short and several other learned gentlemen,
whose names appeared upon the door.

The infant regarded Eustace, when he opened the door, with a look of
such preternatural sharpness, that it almost frightened him. The
beginning of that eagle glance was full of inquiring hope, and the end
of resigned despair. The child had thought that Eustace might be a
client come to tread the paths which no client ever had trod. Hence the
hope and the despair in his eyes. Eustace had nothing of the
solicitor’s clerk about him. Clearly he was not a client.

Mr. Short was in “that door to the right.” Eustace knocked, and entered
into a bare little chamber about the size of a large housemaid’s
closet, furnished with a table, three chairs (one a basket easy), and a
book-case, with a couple of dozen of law books, and some old volumes of
reports, and a broad window-sill, in the exact centre of which lay the
solitary and venerated brief.

Mr. James Short was a short, stout young man, with black eyes, a hooked
nose, and a prematurely bald head. Indeed, this baldness of the head
was the only distinguishing mark between James and John, and,
therefore, a thing to be thankful for, though, of course, useless to
the perplexed acquaintance who met them in the street when their hats
were on. At the moment of Eustace’s entry Mr. Short had been engaged in
studying that intensely legal print, the _Sporting Times_, which,
however, from some unexplained bashfulness, he had hastily thrown under
the table, filling its space with a law book snatched at hazard from
the shelf.

“All right, old fellow,” said Eustace, whose quick eyes had caught the
quick flutter of the vanishing paper; “don’t be alarmed, it’s only me.”

“Ah!” said Mr. James Short, when he had shaken hands with him, “you see
I thought that it might have been a client—a client is always possible,
however improbable, and one has to be ready to meet the possibility.”

“Quite so, old fellow,” said Eustace; “but do you know, as it happens,
I am a client—and a big one, too; it is a matter of two millions of
money—my uncle’s fortune. There was another will, and I want to take
your advice.”

Mr. Short fairly bounded out of the chair in exultation, and then,
struck by another thought, sank back into it again.

“My dear Meeson,” he said, “I am sorry I cannot hear you.”

“Eh,” said Eustace; “what do you mean?”

“I mean that you are not accompanied by a solicitor, and it is not the
etiquette of the profession to which I belong to see a client
unaccompanied by a solicitor.”

“Oh, hang the etiquette of the profession!”

“My dear Meeson, if you came to me as a friend I should be happy to
give you any legal information in my power, and I flatter myself that I
know something of matters connected with probate. But you yourself said
that you have come as a client, and in that case the personal
relationship sinks into the background and is superseded by the
official relationship. Under these circumstances it is evident that the
etiquette of the profession intervenes, which overmastering force
compels me to point out to you how improper and contrary to precedent
it would be for me to listen to you without the presence of a properly
qualified solicitor.”

“Oh, Lord!” gasped Eustace, “I had no idea that you were so particular;
I thought perhaps that you would be glad of the job.”

“Certainly—certainly! In the present state of my practice,” as he
glanced at the solitary brief, “I should be the last to wish to turn
away work. Let me suggest that you should go and consult my brother
John, in the Poultry. I believe business is rather slack with him just
now, so I think it probable that you will find him disengaged. Indeed,
I dare say that I may go so far as to make an appointment for him
here—let us say in an hour’s time. Stop! I will consult my clerk!
Dick!”

The infant appeared.

“I believe that I have no appointment for this morning?”

“No, Sir,” said Dick, with a twinkle in his eye. “One moment, Sir, I
will consult the book,” and he vanished, to return presently with the
information that Mr. Short’s time was not under any contributions that
day.

“Very good,” said Mr. Short; “then make an entry of an appointment with
Mr. John Short and Mr. Meeson, at two precisely.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Dick, departing to the unaccustomed task.

As soon as Eustace had departed from Tweedledum to Tweedledee, or, in
other words, from James, barrister, to John, solicitor, Dick was again
summoned and bade go to a certain Mr. Thomson on the next floor. Mr.
Thomson had an excellent library, which had come to him by will. On the
strength of this bequest, he had become a barrister-at-law, and the
object of Dick’s visit was to request the loan of the eighth volume of
the statutes revised, containing the Wills Act of 1 Vic., cap. 26,
“Brown on Probate,” “Dixon on Probate,” and “Powles on Brown,” to the
study of which valuable books Mr. James Short devoted himself earnestly
whilst awaiting his client’s return.

Meanwhile, Eustace had made his way in a two-penny ‘bus to one of those
busy courts in the City where Mr. John Short practised as a solicitor.
Mr. Short’s office was, Eustace discovered by referring to a notice
board, on the seventh floor of one of the tallest houses he had ever
seen. However, up he went with a stout heart, and after some five
minutes of a struggle, that reminded him forcibly of climbing the
ladders of a Cornish mine, he arrived at a little door right at the
very top of the house on which was painted “Mr. John Short, solicitor.”
Eustace knocked and the door was opened by a small boy, so like the
small boy he had seen at Mr. James Short’s at the temple that he fairly
started. Afterwards the mystery was explained. Like their masters, the
two small boys were brothers.

Mr. John Short was within, and Eustace was ushered into his presence.
To all appearance he was consulting a voluminous mass of correspondence
written on large sheets of brief paper; but when he looked at it
closely, it seemed to Eustace that the edges of the paper were very
yellow, and the ink was much faded. This, however, was not to be
wondered at, seeing that Mr. John Short had taken them over with the
other fixtures of the office.




CHAPTER XVI.
SHORT ON LEGAL ETIQUETTE.


“Well, Meeson, what is it? Have you come to ask me to lunch?” asked Mr.
John Short. “Do you know I actually thought that you might have been a
client.”

“Well, by Jove, old fellow, and so I am,” answered Eustace. “I have
been to your brother, and he has sent me on to you, because he says
that it is not the etiquette of the profession to see a client unless a
solicitor is present, so he has referred me to you.”

“Perfectly right, perfectly right of my brother James, Meeson.
Considering how small are his opportunities of becoming cognizant with
the practice of his profession, it is extraordinary how well he is
acquainted with its theory. And now, what is the point?”

“Well, do you know, Short, as the point is rather a long one, and as
your brother said that he should expect us at two precisely, I think
that we had better take the ‘bus back to the Temple, when I can tell
the yarn to both of you at once.”

“Very well. I do not, as a general rule, like leaving my office at this
time of day, as it is apt to put clients to inconvenience, especially
such of them as come from a distance. But I will make an exception for
you, Meeson. William,” he went on, to the counterpart of the Pump-court
infant, “if anyone calls to see me, will you be so good as to tell them
that I am engaged in an important conference at the chambers of Mr.
Short, in Pump-court, but that I hope to be back by half-past three?”

“Yes, Sir,” said William, as he shut the door behind them: “certainly,
Sir.” And then, having placed the musty documents upon the shelf,
whence they could be fetched down without difficulty on the slightest
sign of a client, that ingenious youth, with singular confidence that
nobody would be inconvenienced thereby, put a notice on the door to the
effect that he would be back immediately, and adjourned to indulge in
the passionately exhilarating game of “chuck farthing” with various
other small clerks of his acquaintance.

In due course, Eustace and his legal adviser arrived at Pump-court,
and, oh! how the heart of James, the barrister, swelled with pride
when, for the first time in his career, he saw a real solicitor enter
his chambers accompanied by a real client. He would, indeed, have
preferred it if the solicitor had not happened to be his twin-brother,
and the client had been some other than his intimate friend; but still
it was a blessed sight—a very blessed sight!

“Will you be seated, gentlemen?” he said with much dignity.

They obeyed.

“And now, Meeson, I suppose that you have explained to my brother the
matter on which you require my advice?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Eustace; “I thought I might as well explain it to
you both together, eh?”

“Hum,” said James; “it is not quite regular. According to the etiquette
of the profession to which I have the honour to belong, it is not
customary that matters should be so dealt with. It is usual that papers
should be presented; but that I will overlook, as the point appears to
be pressing.”

“That’s right,” said Eustace. “Well, I have come to see about a will.”

“So I understand,” said James; “but what will, and where is it?”

“Well, it’s a will in my favour, and is tattooed upon a lady’s neck.”

The twins simultaneously rose from their chairs, and looked at Eustace
with such a ridiculous identity of movement and expression that he
fairly burst out laughing.

“I presume, Meeson, that this is not a hoax,” said James, severely. “I
presume that you know too well what is due to learned counsel to
attempt to make one of their body the victim of a practical joke?”

“Surely, Meeson,” added John, “you have sufficient respect for the
dignity of the law not to tamper with it in any such way as my brother
has indicated?”

“Oh, certainly not. I assure you it is all square. It is a true bill,
or rather a true will.”

“Proceed,” said James, resuming his seat. “This is evidently a case of
an unusual nature.”

“You are right there, old boy,” said Eustace. “And now, just listen,”
and he proceeded to unfold his moving tale with much point and
emphasis.

When he had finished John looked at James rather helplessly. The case
was beyond him. But James was equal to the occasion. He had mastered
that first great axiom which every young barrister should lay to
heart—“Never appear to be ignorant.”

“This case,” he said, as though he were giving judgment, “is,
doubtless, of a remarkable nature, and I cannot at the moment lay my
hand upon any authority bearing on the point—if, indeed, any such are
to be found. But I speak off-hand, and must not be held too closely to
the _obiter dictum_ of a _viva voce_ opinion. It seems to me that,
notwithstanding its peculiar idiosyncrasies, and the various ‘cruces’
that it presents, it will, upon closer examination, be found to fall
within those general laws that govern the legal course of testamentary
disposition. If I remember aright—I speak off-hand—the Act of 1. Vic.,
cap. 26, specifies that a will shall be in writing, and tattooing may
fairly be defined as a rude variety of writing. It is, I admit, usual
that writing should be done on paper or parchment, but I have no doubt
that the young lady’s skin, if carefully removed and dried, would make
excellent parchment. At present, therefore, it is parchment in its
green stage, and perfectly available for writing purposes.

“To continue. It appears—I am taking Mr. Meeson’s statement as being
perfectly accurate—that the will was properly and duly executed by the
testator, or rather by the person who tattooed in his presence and at
his command: a form of signature which is very well covered by the
section of the Act of 1. Vic., cap. 26. It seems, too, that the
witnesses attested in the presence of each other and of the testator.
It is true that there was no attestation clause: but the supposed
necessity for an attestation clause is one of those fallacies of the
lay mind which, perhaps, cluster more frequently and with a greater
persistence round questions connected with testamentary disposition
than those of any other branch of the law. Therefore, we must take the
will to have been properly executed in accordance with the spirit of
the statute.

“And now we come to what at present strikes me as the crux. The will is
undated. Does that invalidate it? I answer with confidence, no. And
mark: evidence—that of Lady Holmhurst—can be produced that this will
did not exist upon Miss Augusta Smithers previous to Dec. 19, on which
day the Kangaroo sank; and evidence can also be produced—that of Mrs.
Thomas—that it did exist on Christmas Day, when Miss Smithers was
rescued. It is, therefore, clear that it must have got upon her back
between Dec. 19 and Dec. 25.”

“Quite so, old fellow,” said Eustace, much impressed at this
coruscation of legal lore. “Evidently you are the man to tackle the
case. But, I say, what is to be done next? You see, I’m afraid it’s too
late. Probate has issued, whatever that may mean.”

“Probate has issued!” echoed the great James, struggling with his
rising contempt; “and is the law so helpless that probate which has
been allowed to issue under an erroneous apprehension of the facts
cannot be recalled? Most certainly not! So soon as the preliminary
formalities are concluded, a writ must be issued to revoke the probate,
and claiming that the Court should pronounce in favour of the later
will; or, stay, there is no executor—there is no executor!—a very
important point—claiming a grant of letters of administration with the
will annexed: I think that will be the better course.”

“But how can you annex Miss Smithers to a ‘grant of letters of
administration,’ whatever that may mean?” said Eustace, feebly.

“That reminds me,” said James, disregarding the question and addressing
his brother, “you must at once file Miss Smithers in the registry, and
see to the preparation of the usual affidavit of scripts.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said John, as though this were the most simple
business in the world.

“What?” gasped Eustace, as a vision of Augusta impaled upon an enormous
bill-guard rose before his eyes. “You can’t file a lady; it’s
impossible!”

“Impossible or not, it must be done before any further steps are taken.
Let me see; I believe that Dr. Probate is the sitting Registrar at
Somerset House this sittings. It would be well if you made an
appointment for to-morrow.”

“Yes,” said John.

“Well,” went on James, “I think that is all for the present. You will,
of course, let me have the instructions and other papers with all
possible speed. I suppose that other counsel besides myself will be
ultimately retained?”

“Oh! that reminds me,” said Eustace; “about money, you know. I don’t
quite see how I am going to pay for all this game. I have got about
fifty pounds spare cash in the world, and that’s all: and I know enough
to be aware that fifty pounds do not go far in a lawsuit.”

Blankly James looked at John and John at James. This was very trying.

“Fifty pounds will go a good way in out-of-pocket fees,” suggested
James, at length, rubbing his bald head with his handkerchief.

“Possibly,” answered John, pettishly; “but how about the remuneration
of the plaintiff’s legal advisers? Can’t you”—addressing
Eustace—“manage to get the money from someone?”

“Well,” said Eustace, “there’s Lady Holmhurst. Perhaps if I offered to
share the spoil with her, if there was any.”

“Dear me, no,” said John; “that would be ‘maintenance.’”

“Certainly not,” chimed in James, holding up his hand in dismay. “Most
clearly it would be ‘Champerty’; and did it come to the knowledge of
the Court, nobody can say what might not happen.”

“Indeed,” answered Eustace, with a sigh, “I don’t quite know what you
mean, but I seem to have said something very wrong. The odds on a
handicap are child’s play to understand beside this law,” he added
sadly.

“It is obvious, James,” said John, that, “putting aside other matters,
this would prove, independent of pecuniary reward, a most interesting
case for you to conduct.”

“That is so, John,” replied James; “but as you must be well aware, the
etiquette of my profession will not allow me to conduct a case for
nothing. Upon that point, above all others, etiquette rules us with a
rod of iron. The stomach of the bar, collective and individual, is
revolted and scandalised at the idea of one of its members doing
anything for nothing.”

“Yes,” put in Eustace, “I have always understood they were regular
nailers.”

“Quite so, my dear James; quite so,” said John, with a sweet smile. “A
fee must be marked upon the brief of learned counsel, and that fee be
paid to him, together with many other smaller fees; for learned counsel
is like the cigarette-boxes and new-fashioned weighing-machines at the
stations: he does not work unless you drop something down him. But
there is nothing to prevent learned counsel from returning that fee,
and all the little fees. Indeed, James, you will see that this practice
is common amongst the most eminent of your profession, when, for
instance, they require an advertisement or wish to pay a delicate
compliment to a constituency. What do they do then? They wait till they
find £500 marked upon a brief, and then resign their fee. Why should
you not do the same in this case, in your own interest? Of course, if
we win the cause, the other side or the estate will pay the costs; and
if we lose, you will at least have had the advantage, the priceless
advantage, of a unique advertisement.”

“Very well, John; let it be so,” said James, with magnanimity. “Your
cheques for fees will be duly returned; but it must be understood that
they are to be presented.”

“Not at the bank,” said John, hastily. “I have recently had to oblige a
client,” he added by way of explanation to Eustace, “and my balance is
rather low.”

“No,” said James; “I quite understand. I was going to say ‘are to be
presented to my clerk.’”

And with this solemn farce, the conference came to an end.




CHAPTER XVII.
HOW AUGUSTA WAS FILED.


That very afternoon Eustace returned to Lady Holmhurst’s house in
Hanover-square, to tell his dear Augusta that she must attend on the
following morning to be filed in the Registry at Somerset House. As may
be imagined, though willing to go any reasonable length to oblige her
new-found lover, Augusta not unnaturally resisted this course
violently, and was supported in her resistance by her friend Lady
Holmhurst, who, however, presently left the room, leaving them to
settle it as they liked.

“I do think that it is a little hard,” said Augusta with a stamp of her
foot, “that, after all that I have gone through, I should be taken off
to have my unfortunate back stared at by a Doctor some one or other,
and then be shut up with a lot of musty old wills in a Registry.”

“Well, my dearest girl,” said Eustace, “either it must be done or else
the whole thing must be given up. Mr. John Short declares that it is
absolutely necessary that the document should be placed in the custody
of the officer of the Court.”

“But how am I going to live in a cupboard, or in an iron safe with a
lot of wills?” asked Augusta, feeling very cross indeed.

“I don’t know, I am sure,” said Eustace; “Mr. John Short says that that
is a matter which the learned Doctor will have to settle. His own
opinion is that the learned Doctor—confound him!—will order that you
should accompany him about wherever he goes till the trial comes off;
for, you see, in that way you would never be out of the custody of an
officer of the Court. But,” went on Eustace, gloomily, “all I can tell
him, if he makes that order, is, that if he takes you about with him he
will have to take me too.”

“Why?” said Augusta.

“Why? Because I don’t trust him—that’s why. Old? oh, yes; I dare say he
is old. And, besides, just think: this learned gentleman has practised
for twenty years in the Divorce Court! Now, I ask you, what can you
expect from a gentleman, however learned, who has practised for twenty
years in the Divorce Court? I know him,” went on Eustace,
vindictively—“I know him. He will fall in love with you himself. Why,
he would be an old duffer if he didn’t.”

“Really,” said Augusta, bursting out laughing, “you are too ridiculous,
Eustace.”

“I don’t know about being ridiculous, Augusta; but if you think I am
going to let you be marched about by that learned Doctor without my
being there to look after you, you are mistaken. Why, of course he
would fall in love with you, or some of his clerks would; nobody could
be near you for a couple of days without doing so.”

“Do you think so?” said Augusta, looking at him very sweetly.

“Yes, I do,” he answered, and thus the conversation came to an end and
was not resumed till dinner-time.

On the following morning at eleven o’clock, Eustace, who had managed to
get a few days’ leave from his employers, arrived with Mr. John Short
to take Augusta and Lady Holmhurst—who was going to chaperon her—to
Somerset House, whither, notwithstanding her objections of the previous
day, she had at last consented to go. Mr. Short was introduced, and
much impressed both the ladies by the extraordinary air of learning and
command which was stamped upon his countenance. He wanted to inspect
the will at once; but Augusta struck at this, saying that it would be
quite enough to have her shoulders stared at once that day. With a sigh
and a shake of the head at her unreasonableness, Mr. John Short
submitted, and then the carriage came round and they were all driven
off to Somerset House. Presently they were there, and after threading
innumerable chilly passages, reached a dismal room with an almanack, a
dirty deal table, and a few chairs in it, wherein were congregated
several solicitors’ clerks, waiting their turn to appear before the
Registrar. Here they waited for half-an-hour or more, to Augusta’s
considerable discomfort, for she soon found that she was an object of
curiosity and closest attention to the solicitors’ clerks, who never
took their eyes off her. Presently she discovered the reason, for
having remarkably quick ears, she overheard one of the solicitors’
clerks, a callow little man with yellow hair and an enormous diamond
pin, whose appearance somehow reminded her of a new-born chicken, tell
another, who was evidently of the Jewish faith, that she (Augusta) was
the respondent in the famous divorce case of Jones _v._ Jones, and was
going to appear before the Registrar to submit herself to cross
examination in some matter connected with a grant of alimony. Now, as
all London was talking about the alleged iniquities of the Mrs. Jones
in question, whose moral turpitude was only equalled by her beauty,
Augusta did not feel best pleased, although she perceived that she
instantly became an object of heartfelt admiration to the clerks.

Presently, however, somebody poked his head through the door, which he
opened just wide enough to admit it, and bawling out—

“Short, re Meeson,” vanished as abruptly as he had come.

“Now, Lady Holmhurst, if you please,” said Mr. John Short, “allow me to
show the way, if you will kindly follow with the will—this way,
please.”

In another minute, the unfortunate “will” found herself in a large and
lofty room, at the top of which, with his back to the light, sat a most
agreeable-looking middle-aged gentleman, who, as they advanced, rose
with a politeness that one does not generally expect from officials on
a fixed salary, and, bowing, asked them to be seated.

“Well, what can I do for you? Mr.—ah! Mr.”—and he put on his
eye-glasses and referred to his notes—“Mr. Short—you wish to file a
will, I understand; and there are peculiar circumstances of some sort
in the case?”

“Yes, Sir; there are,” said Mr. John Short, with much meaning. “The
will to be filed in the Registry is the last true will of Jonathan
Meeson, of Pompadour Hall, in the county of Warwick, and the property
concerned amounts to about two millions. Upon last motion day, the
death of Jonathan Meeson, who was supposed to have sunk in the
Kangaroo, was allowed to be presumed, and probate has been taken out.
As a matter of fact, however, the said Jonathan Meeson perished in
Kerguelen Land some days after the shipwreck, and before he died he
duly executed a fresh will in favour of his nephew, Eustace H. Meeson,
the gentleman before you. Miss Augusta Smithers”—

“What,” said the learned Registrar, “is this Miss Smithers whom we have
been reading so much about lately—the Kerguelen Land heroine?”

“Yes; I am Miss Smithers,” she said with a little blush; “and this is
Lady Holmhurst, whose husband”—and she checked herself.

“It gives me much pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Smithers,”
said the learned Doctor, courteously shaking hands, and bowing to Lady
Holmhurst—proceedings which Eustace watched with the jaundiced eye of
suspicion. “He’s beginning already,” said that ardent lover to himself.
“I knew how it would be. Trust my Gus into his custody?—never! I had
rather be committed for contempt.”

“The best thing that I can do, Sir,” went on John Short, impatiently,
for, to his severe eye, these interruptions were not seemly, “will be
to at once offer you inspection of the document, which, I may state, is
of an unusual character,” and he looked at Augusta, who, poor girl,
coloured to the eyes.

“Quite so, quite so,” said the learned Registrar. “Well, has Miss
Smithers got the will? Perhaps she will produce it.”

“Miss Smithers _is_ the will,” said Mr. John Short.

“Oh—I am afraid that I do not quite understand”—

“To be more precise, Sir, the will is tattooed on Miss Smithers.”

“_What_?” almost shouted the learned Doctor, literally bounding from
his chair.

“The will is tattooed upon Miss Smithers’s back,” continued Mr. John
Short, in a perfectly unmoved tone; “and it is now my duty to offer you
inspection of the document, and to take your instructions as to how you
propose to file it in the Registry”—

“Inspection of the document—inspection of the document?” gasped the
astonished Doctor; “How am I to inspect the document?”

“I must leave that to you, Sir,” said Mr. John Short, regarding the
learned Registrar’s shrinking form with contempt not unmixed with pity.
“The will is on the lady’s back, and I, on behalf of the plaintiff,
mean to get a grant with the document annexed.”

Lady Holmhurst began to laugh; and as for the learned Doctor, anything
more absurd than he looked, intrenched as he was behind his office
chair, with perplexity written on his face, it would be impossible to
imagine.

“Well,” he said at length, “I suppose that I must come to a decision.
It is a painful matter, very, to a person of modest temperament.
However, I cannot shrink from my duty, and must face it. Therefore,” he
went on with an air of judicial sternness, “therefore, Miss Smithers, I
must trouble you to show me this alleged will. There is a cupboard
there,” and he pointed to the corner of the room, “where you can
make—‘um—make the necessary preparations.”

“Oh, it isn’t quite so bad as that,” said Augusta, with a sigh, and she
began to remove her jacket.

“Dear me!” he said, observing her movement with alarm, “I suppose she
is hardened,” he continued to himself: “but I dare say one gets used to
this sort of thing upon desert islands.”

Meanwhile poor Augusta had got her jacket off. She was dressed in an
evening dress, and had a white silk scarf over her shoulder: this she
removed.

“Oh,” he said, “I see—in evening dress. Well, of course, that is quite
a different matter. And so that is the will—well, I have had some
experience, but I never saw or heard of anything like it before. Signed
and attested, but not dated. Ah! unless,” he added, “the date is lower
down.”

“No,” said Augusta, “there is no date; I could not stand any more
tattooing. It was all done at one sitting, and I got faint.”

“I don’t wonder at it, I am sure. I think it is the bravest thing I
ever heard of,” and he bowed with much grace.

“Ah,” muttered Eustace, “he’s beginning to pay compliments now,
insidious old hypocrite!”

“Well,” went on the innocent and eminently respectable object of his
suspicions, “of course the absence of a date does not invalidate a
will—it is matter for proof, that is all. But there, I am not in a
position to give any opinion about the case; it is quite beyond me, and
besides, that is not my business. But now, Miss Smithers, as you have
once put yourself in the custody of the Registry in the capacity of a
will, might I ask if you have any suggestion to make as to how you are
to be dealt with. Obviously you cannot be locked up with the other
wills, and equally obviously it is against the rules to allow a will to
go out of the custody of the Court, unless by special permission of the
Court. Also it is clear that I cannot put any restraint upon the
liberty of the subject and order you to remain with me. Indeed, I doubt
if it would be possible to do so by any means short of an Act of
Parliament. Under these circumstances I am, I confess, a little
confused as to what course should be taken with reference to this
important alleged will.”

“What I have to suggest, Sir,” said Mr. Short, “is that a certified
copy of the will should be filed, and that there should be a special
paragraph inserted in the affidavit of scripts detailing the
circumstances.”

“Ah,” said the learned Doctor, polishing his eye-glasses, “you have
given me an idea. With Miss Smithers’ consent we will file something
better than a certified copy of the will—we will file a photographic
copy. The inconvenience to Miss Smithers will be trifling, and it may
prevent questions being raised hereafter.”

“Have you any objections to that, my dear?” asked Lady Holmhurst.

“Oh, no, I suppose not,” said Augusta mournfully; “I seem to be public
property now.”

“Very well, then; excuse me for a moment,” said the learned Doctor.
“There is a photographer close by whom I have had occasion to employ
officially. I will write and see if he can come round.”

In a few minutes an answer came back from the photographer that he
would be happy to wait upon Doctor Probate at three o’clock, up to
which hour he was engaged.

“Well,” said the Doctor, “it is clear that I cannot let Miss Smithers
out of the custody of the Court till the photograph is taken. Let me
see, I think that yours was my last appointment this morning. Now, what
do you say to the idea of something to eat? We are not five minutes
drive from Simpson’s, and I shall feel delighted if you will make a
pleasure of a necessity.”

Lady Holmhurst, who was getting very hungry, said that she should be
most pleased, and, accordingly, they all—with the exception of Mr. John
Short, who departed about some business, saying that he would return at
three o’clock—drove off in Lady Holmhurst’s carriage to the restaurant,
where this delightful specimen of the genus Registrar stood them a most
sumptuous champagne lunch, and made himself so agreeable, that both the
ladies nearly fell in love with him, and even Eustace was constrained
to admit to himself that good things can come out of the Divorce Court.
Finally, the doctor wound up the proceedings, which were of a most
lively order, and included an account of Augusta’s adventures, with a
toast.

“I hear from Lady Holmhurst,” he said, “that you two young people are
going to take the preliminary step—um—towards a possible future
appearance in that Court with which I had for many years the honor of
being connected—that is, that you are going to get married. Now,
matrimony is, according to my somewhat extended experience, an
undertaking of a venturesome order, though cases occasionally come
under one’s observation where the results have proved to be in every
way satisfactory; and I must say that, if I may form an opinion from
the facts as they are before me, I never knew an engagement entered
into under more promising or more romantic auspices. Here the young
gentleman quarrels with his uncle in taking the part of the young lady,
and thereby is disinherited of vast wealth. Then the young lady, under
the most terrible circumstances, takes steps of a nature that not one
woman in five hundred would have done to restore to him that wealth.
Whether or no those steps will ultimately prove successful I do not
know, and, if I did, like Herodotus, I should prefer not to say; but
whether the wealth comes or goes, it is impossible but that a sense of
mutual confidence and a mutual respect and admiration—that is, if a
more quiet thing, certainly, also, a more enduring thing, than mere
‘love’—must and will result from them. Mr. Meeson, you are indeed a
fortunate man. In Miss Smithers you are going to marry beauty, courage,
and genius, and if you will allow an older man of some experience to
drop the official and give you a word of advice, it is this: always try
to deserve your good fortune, and remember that a man who, in his
youth, finds such a woman, and is enabled by circumstances to marry
her, is indeed—

Smiled on by Joy, and cherished of the Gods.


“And now I will end my sermon, and wish you both health and happiness
and fulness of days,” and he drank off his glass of champagne, and
looked so pleasant and kindly that Augusta longed to kiss him on the
spot, and as for Eustace, he shook hands with him warmly, and then and
there a friendship began between the two which endures till now.

And then they all went back to the office, and there was the
photographer waiting with all his apparatus, and astonished enough he
was when he found out what the job was that he had to do. However, the
task proved an easy one enough, as the light of the room was suitable,
and the dark lines of cuttle ink upon Augusta’s neck would, the man
said, come out perfectly in the photograph. So he took two or three
shots at her back and then departed, saying that he would bring a
life-sized reproduction to be filed in the Registry in a couple of
days.

And after that the learned Registrar also shook hands with them, and
said that he need detain them no longer, as he now felt justified in
allowing Augusta out of his Custody.

And so they departed, glad to have got over the first step so
pleasantly.




CHAPTER XVIII.
AUGUSTA FLIES.


Of course, Augusta’s story, so far as it was publicly known, had
created no small stir, which was considerably emphasised when pictures
of her appeared in the illustrated papers, and it was discovered that
she was young and charming. But the excitement, great as it was, was as
nothing compared to that which arose when the first whispers of the
tale of the will, which was tattooed upon her shoulders, began to get
about. Paragraphs and stories about this will appeared in the papers,
but of course she took no notice of these.

On the fourth day, however, after she had been photographed for the
purposes of the Registry, things came to a climax. It so happened that
on that morning Lady Holmhurst asked Augusta to go to a certain shop in
Regent-street to get some lace which she required to trim her widow’s
dresses, and accordingly at about half-past twelve o’clock she started,
accompanied by the lady’s maid. As soon as they shut the front door of
the house in Hanover-square she noticed two or three doubtful-looking
men who were loitering about, and who instantly followed them, staring
at her with all their eyes. She made her way along, however, without
taking any notice until she got to Regent-street, by which time there
were quite a score of people walking after her whispering excitedly at
each other. In Regent-street itself, the first thing that she saw was a
man selling photographs. Evidently he was doing a roaring trade, for
there was a considerable crowd round him, and he was shouting something
which she could not catch. Presently a gentleman, who had bought one of
the photographs, stopped just in front of her to look at it, and as he
was short and Augusta was tall, she could see over his shoulder, and
the next second started back with an indignant exclamation. “No
wonder!” for the photograph was one of herself as she had been taken in
the low dress in the Registry. There was no mistake about it—there was
the picture of the will tattooed right across her shoulders.

Nor did her troubles end there, for at that moment a man came bawling
down the street carrying a number of the first edition of an evening
paper—

“Description and picture of the lovely ‘eroine of the Cockatoo,” he
yelled, “with the will tattooed upon ‘er! Taken from the original
photograph! Facsimile picture!”

“Oh, dear me,” said Augusta to the maid, “that is really too bad. Let
us go home.”

But meanwhile the crowd at her back had gathered and increased to an
extraordinary extent and was slowly inclosing her in a circle. The fact
was, that the man who had followed her from Hanover-square had told the
others who joined their ranks, who the lady was, and she was now
identified.

“That’s her,” said one man.

“Who?” said another.

“Why, the Miss Smithers as escaped from the Kangaroo and has the will
on her back, in course.”

There was a howl of exultation from the mob, and in another second the
wretched Augusta was pressed, together with the lady’s maid, who began
to scream with fright, right up against a lamp-post, while a crowd of
eager faces, mostly unwashed, were pushed almost into her own. Indeed,
so fierce was the crowd in its attempt to get a glimpse of the latest
curiosity, that she began to think that she would be thrown down and
trampled under foot, when timely relief arrived in the shape of two
policemen and a gentleman volunteer, who managed to rescue her and get
them into a hansom cab, which started for Hanover-square, pursued by a
shouting crowd of nondescript individuals.

Now, Augusta was a woman of good nerve and resolution; but this sort of
thing was too trying, and, accordingly, accompanied by Lady Holmhurst,
she went off, that very day, to some rooms in a little riverside hotel
on the Thames.

When Eustace, walking down the Strand that afternoon, found every
photograph-shop full of accurate pictures of the shoulders of his
beloved, he was simply furious; and, rushing to the photographer who
had taken the picture in the Registry, threatened him with proceedings
of every sort and kind. The man admitted outright that he had put the
photographs upon the market, saying that he had never stipulated not to
do so, and that he could not afford to throw away five or six hundred
pounds when a chance of making it came in his way.

Thereon Eustace departed, still vowing vengeance, to consult the legal
twins. As a result of this, within a week, Mr. James Short made a
motion for and injunction against the photographer, restraining the
sale of the photographs in question, on the ground that such sale,
being of copies of a document vital to a cause now pending in the
Court, those copies having been obtained through the instrumentality of
an officer of the court, Dr. Probate, the sale thereof amounted to a
contempt, inasmuch as, if for no other reason, the photographer who
obtained them became technically, and for that purpose only, an officer
of the Court, and had, therefore, no right to part with them, or any of
them, without the leave of the Court. It will be remembered that this
motion gave rise to some very delicate questions connected with the
powers of the Court in such a matter, and also incidentally with the
law of photographic copyright. It is also memorable for the unanimous
and luminous judgment finally delivered by the Lords Justices of
Appeal, whereby the sale of the photographs was stopped, and the
photographer was held to have been guilty of a technical contempt. This
judgment contained perhaps the most searching and learned definition of
constructive contempt that has yet been formulated: but for the text of
this, I must refer the student to the law reports, because, as it took
two hours to deliver, I fear that it would, notwithstanding its many
beauties, be thought too long for the purpose of this history.
Unfortunately, however, it did not greatly benefit Augusta, the victim
of the unlawful dissemination of photographs of her shoulders, inasmuch
as the judgment was not delivered till a week after the great case of
Meeson _v._ Addison and Another had been settled.

About a week after Augusta’s adventure in Regent-street, a motion was
made in the Court of Probate on behalf of the defendants, Messrs.
Addison and Roscoe, who were the executors and principal beneficiaries
under the former will of November, 1885, demanding that the Court
should order the plaintiff to file a further and better affidavit of
scripts, with the original will got up by him attached, the object, of
course, being to compel an inspection of the document. This motion,
which first brought the whole case under the notice of the public, was
strenuously resisted by Mr. James Short, and resulted in the matter
being referred to the learned Registrar for his report. On the next
motion day this report was presented, and, on its appearing from it
that the photography had taken place in his presence and accurately
represented the tattoo marks on the lady’s shoulders, the Court
declined to harass the “will” by ordering her to submit to any further
inspection before the trial. It was on this occasion that it transpired
that the will was engaged to be married to the plaintiff, a fact at
which the Court metaphorically opened its eyes. After this the
defendants obtained leave to amend their answer to the plaintiff’s
statement of claim. At first they had only pleaded that the testator
had not duly executed the alleged will in accordance with the
provisions of 1 Vic., cap. 26, sec. 2, and that he did not know and
approve the contents thereof. But now they added a plea to the effect
that the said alleged will was obtained by the undue influence of
Augusta Smithers, or, as one of the learned counsel for the defendants
put it much more clearly at the trial, “that the will had herself
procured the will, by an undue projection of her own will upon the
unwilling mind of the testator.”

And so the time went on. As often as he could, Eustace got away from
London, and went down to the little riverside hotel, and was as happy
as a man can be who has a tremendous law suit hanging over him. The
law, no doubt, is an admirable institution, out of which a large number
of people make a living, and a proportion of benefit accrues to the
community at large. But woe unto those who form the subject-matter of
its operations. For instance, the Court of Chancery is an excellent
institution in theory, and looks after the affairs of minors upon the
purest principles. But how many of its wards after, and as a result of
one of its well-intentioned interferences, have to struggle for the
rest of their lives under a load of debt raised to pay the crushing
costs! To employ the Court of Chancery to look after wards is something
as though one set a tame elephant to pick up pins. No doubt he could
pick them up, but it would cost something to feed him. It is a
perfectly arguable proposition that the Court of Chancery produces as
much wretchedness and poverty as it prevents, and it certainly is a
bold step, except under the most exceptionable circumstances, to place
anybody in its custody who has money that can be dissipated in law
expenses. But of course these are revolutionary remarks, which one
cannot expect everybody to agree with, least of all the conveyancing
counsel of the Court.

However this may be, certainly his impending lawsuit proved a fly in
Eustace’s honey. Never a day passed but some fresh worry arose. James
and John, the legal twins, fought like heroes, and held their own
although their experience was so small—as men of talent almost
invariably do when they are put to it. But it was difficult for Eustace
to keep them supplied even with sufficient money for out-of-pocket
expenses; and, of course, as was natural in a case in which such
enormous sums were at stake, and in which the defendants were already
men of vast wealth, they found the flower of the entire talent and
weight of the Bar arrayed against them. Naturally Eustace felt, and so
did Mr. James Short—who, notwithstanding his pomposity and the
technicality of his talk, was both a clever and sensible man—that more
counsel, men of weight and experience, ought to be briefed; but there
were absolutely no funds for this purpose, nor was anybody likely to
advance any upon the security of a will tattooed upon a young lady’s
back. This was awkward, because success in law proceedings so very
often leans towards the weightiest purse, and Judges however impartial,
being but men after all, are more apt to listen to an argument which is
urged upon their attention by an Attorney-General than on one advanced
by an unknown junior.

However, there the fact was, and they had to make the best of it; and a
point in their favour was that the case, although of a most remarkable
nature, was comparatively simple, and did not involve any great mass of
documentary evidence.




CHAPTER XIX.
MEESON _v._ ADDISON AND ANOTHER.


The most wearisome times go by at last if only one lives to see the end
of them, and so it came to pass that at length on one fine morning
about a quarter to ten of the Law Courts’ clock, that projects its
ghastly hideousness upon unoffending Fleet-street, Augusta, accompanied
by Eustace, Lady Holmhurst, and Mrs. Thomas, the wife of Captain
Thomas, who had come up from visiting her relatives in the Eastern
counties in order to give evidence, found herself standing in the big
entrance to the new Law Courts, feeling as though she would give five
years of her life to be anywhere else.

“This way, my dear,” said Eustace; “Mr. John Short said that he would
meet us by the statue in the hall.” Accordingly they passed into the
archway by the oak stand where the cause-lists are displayed. Augusta
glanced at them as she went, and the first thing that her eyes fell on
was “Probate and Divorce Division Court I., at 10.30, Meeson _v._
Addison and Another,” and the sight made her feel ill. In another
moment they had passed a policeman of gigantic size, “monstrum
horrendum, informe, ingens,” who watches and wards the folding-doors
through which so much human learning, wretchedness, and worry pass day
by day, and were standing in the long, but narrow and ill-proportioned
hall which appears to have been the best thing that the architectural
talent of the nineteenth century was capable of producing.

To the right of the door on entering is a statue of the architect of a
pile of which England has certainly no cause to feel proud, and here, a
black bag full of papers in his hand, stood Mr. John Short, wearing
that air of excitement upon his countenance which is so commonly to be
seen in the law courts.

“Here you are,” he said, “I was beginning to be afraid that you would
be late. We are first on the list, you know; the judge fixed it
specially to suit the convenience of the Attorney-General. He’s on the
other side, you know,” he added, with a sigh. “I’m sure I don’t know
how poor James will get on. There are more than twenty counsel against
him, for all the legatees under the former will are represented. At any
rate, he is well up in his facts, and there does not seem to me to be
very much law in the case.”

Meanwhile, they had been proceeding up the long hall till they came to
a poky little staircase which had just been dug out in the wall, the
necessity for a staircase at that end of the hall, whereby the court
floor could be reached having, to all appearance, originally escaped
the attention of the architect. On getting to the top of the staircase
they turned to the left and then to the left again. If they had had any
doubt as to which road they should take it would have been speedily
decided by the long string of wigs which were streaming away in the
direction of Divorce Court No. 1. Thicker and thicker grew the wigs; it
was obvious that the _cause célèbre_ of Meeson _v._ Addison and Another
would not want for hearers. Indeed, Augusta and her friends soon
realised the intensity of the public interest in a way that was as
impressive as it was disagreeable, for just past the Admiralty Court
the passage was entirely blocked by an enormous mass of barristers;
there might have been five hundred or more of them. There they were,
choked up together in their white-wigged ranks, waiting for the door of
the court to be opened. At present it was guarded by six or eight
attendants, who, with the help of a wooden barrier, attempted to keep
the surging multitude at bay—while those behind cried, “Forward!” and
those in front cried “Back!”

“How on earth are we going to get through?” asked Augusta, and at that
moment Mr. John Short caught hold of an attendant who was struggling
about in the skirts of the crowd like a fly in a cup of tea, and asked
him the same question, explaining that their presence was necessary to
the show.

“I’m bothered if I know, Sir; you can’t come this way. I suppose I must
let you through by the underground passage from the other court. Why,”
he went on, as he led the way to the Admiralty Court, “hang me, if I
don’t believe that we shall all be crushed to death by them there
barristers: It would take a regiment of cavalry to keep them back. And
they are a ‘ungry lot, they are; and they ain’t no work to do, and
that’s why they comes kicking and tearing and worriting just to see a
bit of painting on a young lady’s shoulders.”

By this time they had passed through the Admiralty Court, which was not
sitting, and been conducted down a sort of well, that terminated in the
space occupied by the Judge’s clerks and other officers of the Court.
In another minute they found themselves emerging in a similar space in
the other court.

Before taking the seat that was pointed out to her and the other
witnesses in the well of the court, immediately below those reserved
for Queen’s counsel, Augusta glanced round. The body of the court was
as yet quite empty, for the seething mob outside had not yet burst in,
though their repeated shouts of “Open the door!” could be plainly
heard. But the jury box was full, not with a jury, for the case was to
be tried before the Court itself, but of various distinguished
individuals, including several ladies, who had obtained orders. The
little gallery above was also crowded with smart-looking people. As for
the seats devoted to counsel in the cause, they were crammed to
overflowing with the representatives of the various defendants—so
crammed, indeed, that the wretched James Short, sole counsel for the
plaintiff, had to establish himself and his papers in the centre of the
third bench sometimes used by solicitors.

“Heavens!” said Eustace to Augusta, counting the heads; “there are
twenty-three counsel against us. What will that unfortunate James do
against so many?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Augusta, with a sigh. “It doesn’t seem
quite fair, does it? But then, you see, there was no money.”

Just then John Short came up. He had been to speak to his brother.
Augusta being a novelist, and therefore a professional student of human
physiognomy, was engaged in studying the legal types before her, which
she found resolved themselves into two classes—the sharp, keen-faced
class and the solid, heavy-jawed class.

“Who on earth are they all?” she asked.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s the Attorney-General. He appears with
Fiddlestick, Q.C., Pearl, and Bean for the defendant Addison. Next to
him is the Solicitor-General, who, with Playford, Q.C., Middlestone,
Blowhard, and Ross, is for the other defendant, Roscoe. Next to him is
Turphy, Q.C., with the spectacles on; he is supposed to have a great
effect on a jury. I don’t know the name of his junior, but he looks as
though he were going to eat one—doesn’t he? He is for one of the
legatees. That man behind is Stickon; he is for one of the legatees
also. I suppose that he finds probate and divorce an interesting
subject, because he is always writing books about them. Next to him is
Howles, who, my brother says, is the best comic actor in the court. The
short gentleman in the middle is Telly; he reports for the _Times_. You
see, as this is an important case, he has got somebody to help him to
take it—that long man with a big wig. He, by-the-way, writes novels,
like you do, only not half such good ones. The next”—but at this moment
Mr. John Short was interrupted by the approach of a rather good-looking
man, who wore an eye-glass continually fixed in his right eye. He was
Mr. News, of the great firm News and News, who were conducting the case
on behalf of the defendants.

“Mr. Short, I believe?” said Mr. News, contemplating his opponent’s
youthful form with pity, not unmixed with compassion.

“Yes.”

“Um, Mr. Short, I have been consulting with my clients and—um, the
Attorney and Solicitor-General and Mr. Fiddlestick, and we are quite
willing to admit that there are circumstances of doubt in this case
which would justify us in making an offer of settlement.”

“Before I can enter into that, Mr. News,” said John, with great
dignity, “I must request the presence of my counsel.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. News, and accordingly James was summoned from
his elevated perch, where he was once more going through his notes and
the heads of his opening speech, although he already knew his
brief—which, to do it justice, had been prepared with extraordinary
care and elaboration—almost by heart, and next moment, for the first
time in his life, found himself in consultation with an Attorney and a
Solicitor-General.

“Look here, Short,” said the first of these great men addressing James
as though he had known him intimately for years, though, as a matter of
fact, he had only that moment ascertained his name from Mr.
Fiddlestick, who was himself obliged to refer to Bean before he could
be sure of it—“look here, Short: don’t you think that we can settle
this business? You’ve got a strongish case; but there are some ugly
things against you, as no doubt you know.”

“I don’t quite admit that,” said James.

“Of course—of course,” said Mr. Attorney; “but still, in my judgment,
if you will not be offended at my expressing it, you are not quite on
firm ground. Supposing, for instance, your young lady is not allowed to
give evidence?”

“I think,” said a stout gentleman behind who wore upon his countenance
the very sweetest and most infantile smile that Eustace had ever seen,
breaking in rather hastily, as though he was afraid that his learned
leader was showing too much of his hand, “I think that the case is one
that, looked at from either point of view, will bear settlement better
than fighting—eh, Fiddlestick? But then, I’m a man of peace,” and again
he smiled most seductively at James.

“What are your terms?” asked James.

The eminent counsel on the front bench turned round and stuck their
wigs together like a lot of white-headed crows over a bone, and the
slightly less eminent but still highly distinguished juniors on the
second bench craned forward to listen.

“They are going to settle it,” Eustace heard the barrister who was
reporting for the _Times_ say to his long assistant.

“They always do settle every case of public interest,” grunted the long
man in answer; “we shan’t see Miss Smithers’ shoulders now. Well, I
shall get an introduction to her, and ask her to show them to me. I
take a great interest in tattooing.”

Meanwhile, Fiddlestick, Q.C., had been writing something on a strip of
paper and handed to his leader, the Attorney-General (who, Mr. James
Short saw with respectful admiration, had 500 guineas marked upon his
brief). He nodded carelessly, and passed it on to his junior, who gave
it in turn to the Solicitor-General and Playford, Q.C. When it had gone
the rounds, Mr. News took it and showed it to his two privileged
clients, Messrs. Addison and Roscoe. Addison was a choleric-looking,
fat-faced man. Roscoe was sallow, and had a thin, straggly black beard.
When they looked at it, Addison groaned fiercely as a wounded bull, and
Roscoe sighed, and that sigh and groan told Augusta—who, womanlike, had
all her wits about her, and was watching every act of the drama—more
than it was meant to do. It told her that these gentlemen were doing
something that they did not like, and doing it because they evidently
believed that they had no other course open to them. Then Mr. News gave
the paper to Mr. John Short, who glanced at it and handed it on to his
brother, and Eustace read it over his shoulder. It was very short, and
ran thus:—“Terms offered: Half the property, and defendants pay all
costs.”

“Well, Short,” said Eustace, “what do you say, shall we take it?”

James removed his wig, and thoughtfully rubbed his bald head. “It is a
very difficult position to be put in,” he said. “Of course a million is
a large sum of money; but there are two at stake. My own view is that
we had better fight the case out; though, of course, this is a
certainty, and the result of the case is not.”

“I am inclined to settle,” said Eustace; “not because of the case, for
I believe in it, but because of Augusta—of Miss Smithers: you see she
will have to show the tattooing again, and that sort of thing is very
unpleasant for a lady.”

“Oh, as to that,” said James loftily, “at present she must remember
that she is not a lady, but a legal document. However, let us ask her.”

“Now, Augusta, what shall we do?” said Eustace, when he had explained
the offer; “you see, if we take the offer you will be spared a very
disagreeable time. You must make up your mind quick, for the Judge will
be here in a minute.”

“Oh, never mind me,” said Augusta, quickly; “I am used to
disagreeables. No, I shall fight, I tell you they are afraid of you. I
can see it in the face of that horrid Mr. Addison. Just now he
positively glared at me and ground his teeth, and he would not do that
if he thought that he was going to win. No, dear; I shall fight it out
now.”

“Very well,” said Eustace, and he took a pencil and wrote, “Declined
with thanks,” at the foot of the offer.

Just at that moment there came a dull roar from the passage beyond. The
doors of the court were being opened. Another second, and in rushed and
struggled a hideous sea of barristers. Heavens, how they fought and
kicked! A maddened herd of buffaloes could not have behaved more
desperately. On rushed the white wave of wigs, bearing the strong men
who held the door before them like wreckage on a breaker. On they came
and in forty seconds the court was crowded to its utmost capacity, and
still there were hundreds of white wigged men behind. It was a fearful
scene.

“Good gracious!” thought Augusta to herself, “how on earth do they all
get a living?” a question that many of them would have found it hard
enough to answer.

Then suddenly an old gentleman near her, whom she discovered to be the
usher, jumped up and called “Silence!” in commanding accents, without
producing much effect, however, on the palpitating mass of humanity in
front. Then in came the officers of the Court; and a moment afterwards,
everybody rose as the Judge entered, and, looking, as Augusta thought,
very cross when he saw the crowded condition of the court, bowed to the
bar and took his seat.




CHAPTER XX.
JAMES BREAKS DOWN.


The Registrar, not Augusta’s dear doctor Probate, but another
Registrar, rose and called on the case of Meeson _v._ Addison and
Another, and in an instant the wretched James Short was on his legs to
open the case.

“What is that gentleman’s name?” Augusta heard the Judge ask of the
clerk, after making two or three frantic efforts to attract his
attention—a proceeding that the position of his desk rendered very
difficult.

“Short, my Lord.”

“Do you appear alone for the plaintiff, Mr. Short?” asked the Judge,
with emphasis.

“Yes, my Lord, I do,” answered James, and as he said it every pair of
eyes in that crowded assembly fixed themselves upon him, and a sort of
audible smile seemed to run round the court. The thing not unnaturally
struck the professional mind as ludicrous and without precedent.

“And who appears for the defendant?”

“I understand, my Lord,” said the learned Attorney-General, “that all
my learned friends on these two benches appear together, with myself,
for one or other of the defendants, or are watching the case in the
interest of legatees.”

Here a decided titter interrupted him.

“I may add that the interests involved in this case are very large
indeed, which accounts for the number of counsel connected in one way
or other with the defence.”

“Quite so, Mr. Attorney,” said the Judge: “but, really, the forces seem
a little out of proportion. Of course the matter is not one in which
the Court can interfere.”

“If your Lordship will allow me,” said James, “the only reason that the
plaintiff is so poorly represented is that the funds to brief other
counsel were, I understand, not forthcoming. I am, however, well versed
in the case and, with your Lordship’s permission, will do my best with
it.”

“Very well, Mr. Short,” said the learned Judge, looking at him almost
with pity, “state your case.”

James—in the midst of a silence that could be felt—unfolded his
pleadings, and, as he did so, for the first time a sickening sense of
nervousness took hold of him and made him tremble, and, of a sudden,
his mind became dark. Most of us have undergone this sensation at one
time or another, with less cause then had poor James. There he was, put
up almost for the first time in his life to conduct, single-handed, a
most important case, upon which it was scarcely too much to say the
interest of the entire country was concentrated. Nor was this all.
Opposed to him were about twenty counsel, all of them men of
experience, and including in their ranks some of the most famous
leaders in England: and, what was more, the court was densely crowded
with scores of men of his own profession, every one of whom was, he
felt, regarding him with curiosity not unmixed with pity. Then, there
was the tremendous responsibility which literally seemed to crush him,
though he had never quite realised it before.

“May it please your Lordship,” he began; and then, as I have said, his
mind became a ghastly blank, in which dim and formless ideas flitted
vaguely to and fro.

There was a pause—a painful pause.

“Read your pleadings aloud,” whispered a barrister who was sitting next
him, and realised his plight.

This was an idea. One can read pleadings when one cannot collect one’s
ideas to speak. It is not usual to do so. The counsel in a cause states
the substance of the pleadings, leaving the Court to refer to them if
it thinks necessary. But still there was nothing absolutely wrong about
it; so he snatched at the papers and promptly began:

“(I.) The plaintiff is the sole and universal legatee under the true
last will of Jonathan Meeson, deceased, late of Pompadour Hall, in the
County of Warwick, who died on the 23rd of December, 1885, the said
will being undated, but duly executed on, or subsequent to, the 22nd
day of December, 1885.”

Here the learned Judge lifted his eyebrows in remonstrance, and cleared
his throat preparatory to interfering; but apparently thought better of
it, for he took up a blue pencil and made a note of the date of the
will.

“(II.),” went on James. “On the 21st day of May, 1886, probate of an
alleged will of the said Jonathan Meeson was granted to the defendants,
the said will bearing date the 10th day of November, 1885. The
plaintiff claims—

“(1.) That the court shall revoke probate of the said alleged will of
the said Jonathan Meeson, bearing date the 10th day of November, 1885,
granted to the defendants on the 21st day of May, 1886.

“(2.) A grant of letters of administration to the plaintiff with the
will executed on or subsequent to the 22nd day of December,1885,
annexed. (Signed) JAMES SHORT.”

“May it please your Lordship,” James began, again feeling dimly that he
had read enough pleadings, “the defendants have filed an answer
pleading that the will of the 22nd of December was not duly executed in
accordance with the statute, and that the testator did not know and
approve its contents, and an amended answer pleading that the said
alleged will, if executed, was obtained by the undue influence of
Augusta Smithers”—and once more his nervousness overcame him, and he
pulled up with a jerk.

Then came another pause even more dreadful than the first.

The Judge took another note, as slowly as he could, and once more
cleared his throat; but poor James could not go on. He could only wish
that he might then and there expire, rather than face the hideous
humiliation of such a failure. But he would have failed, for his very
brain was whirling like that of a drunken man, had it not been for an
occurrence that caused him for ever after to bless the name of
Fiddlestick, Q.C., as the name of an eminent counsel is not often
blessed in this ungrateful world. For Fiddlestick, Q.C., who, it will
be remembered, was one of the leaders for the defendants, had been
watching his unfortunate antagonist, till, realising how sorry was his
plight, a sense of pity filled his learned breast. Perhaps he may have
remembered some occasion, in the dim and distant corner of the past,
when he had suffered from a similar access of frantic terror, or
perhaps he may have been sorry to think that a young man should lose
such an unrivalled opportunity of making a name. Anyhow, he did a noble
act. As it happened, he was sitting at the right-hand corner of the
Queen’s counsel seats, and piled upon the desk before him was a
tremendous mass of law reports which his clerk had arranged there,
containing cases to which it might become necessary to refer. Now, in
the presence of these law reports, Mr. Fiddlestick, in the goodness of
his heart, saw an opportunity of creating a diversion, and he created
it with a vengeance. For, throwing his weight suddenly forward as
though by accident, or in a movement of impatience, he brought his bent
arm against the pile with such force, that he sent every book, and
there must have been more than twenty of them, over the desk, right on
to the head and shoulders of his choleric client, Mr. Addison, who was
sitting immediately beneath, on the solicitors’ bench.

Down went the books with a crash and a bang, and, carried away by their
weight, down went Mr. Addison on to his nose among them—a contingency
that Fiddlestick, Q.C., by-the-way, had not foreseen, for he had
overlooked the fact of his client’s vicinity.

The Judge made an awful face, and then, realising the ludicrous nature
of the scene, his features relaxed into a smile. But Mr. Addison did
not smile. He bounded up off the floor, books slipping off his back in
every direction, and, holding his nose (which was injured) with one
hand, came skipping right at his learned adviser.

“You did it on purpose!” he almost shouted, quite forgetting where he
was; “just let me get at him, I’ll have his wig off!” and then, without
waiting for any more, the entire audience burst out into a roar of
laughter, which, however, unseemly, was perfectly reasonable; during
which Mr. Fiddlestick could be seen apologising in dumb show, with a
bland smile upon his countenance, while Mr. News and Mr. Roscoe between
them dragged the outraged Addison to his seat, and proffered him
handkerchiefs to wipe his bleeding nose.

James saw the whole thing, and forgetting his position, laughed too;
and, for some mysterious reason, with the laugh his nervousness passed
away.

The usher shouted “Silence!” with tremendous energy, and before the
sound had died away James was addressing the Court in a clear and
vigorous voice, conscious that he was a thorough master of his case,
and the words to state it in would not fail him. Fiddlestick, Q.C., had
saved him!

“May it please your Lordship,” he began, “the details of this case are
of as remarkable an order as any that to my knowledge have been brought
before the Court. The plaintiff, Eustace Meeson, is the sole
next-of-kin of Jonathan Meeson, Esquire, the late head of the well
known Birmingham publishing firm of Meeson, Addison, and Roscoe. Under
a will, bearing date the 8th of May, 1880, the plaintiff was left sole
heir to the great wealth of his uncle—that is, with the exception of
some legacies. Under a second will, now relied on by the defendants,
and dated the 10th November, 1885, the plaintiff was entirely
disinherited, and the present defendants, together with some six or
eight legatees, were constituted the sole beneficiaries. On or about
the 22nd December, 1885, however, the testator executed a third
testamentary document under which the plaintiff takes the entire
property, and this is the document now propounded. This testamentary
document, or, rather, will—for I submit that it is in every sense a
properly executed will—is tattooed upon the shoulders”—(Sensation in
the court)—“is tattooed upon the shoulders of a young lady, Miss
Augusta Smithers, who will presently be called before your Lordship;
and to prevent any misunderstanding, I may as well at once state that
since this event this lady has become engaged to be married to the
plaintiff (Renewed sensation.)

“Such, my Lord, are the main outlines of the case that I have to
present for the consideration of the Court, which I think your Lordship
will understand is of so remarkable and unprecedented a nature that I
must crave your Lordship’s indulgence if I proceed to open it at some
length, beginning the history at its commencement.”

By this time James Short had completely recovered his nerve, and was,
indeed, almost oblivious of the fact that there was anybody present in
the court, except the learned Judge and himself. Going back to the
beginning, he detailed the early history of the relationship between
Eustace Meeson and his uncle, the publisher, with which this record has
nothing to do. Thence he passed to the history of Augusta’s relation
with the firm of Meeson and Co., which, as nearly everybody in the
court, not excepting the Judge, had read “Jemima’s Vow,” was very
interesting to his auditors. Then he went on to the scene between
Augusta and the publisher, and detailed how Eustace had interfered,
which interference had led to a violent quarrel, resulting in the young
man’s disinheritance. Passing on, he detailed how the publisher and the
published had taken passage in the same vessel, and the tragic
occurrences which followed down to Augusta’s final rescue and arrival
in England, and finally ended his spirited opening by appealing to the
Court not to allow its mind to be influenced by the fact that since
these events the two chief actors had become engaged to be married,
which struck him, he said, as a very fitting climax to so romantic a
story.

At last he ceased, and amidst a little buzz of applause, for the speech
had really been a very fine one, sat down. As he did so he glanced at
the clock. He had been on his legs for nearly two hours, and yet it
seemed to him but a very little while. In another moment he was up
again and had called his first witness—Eustace Meeson.

Eustace’s evidence was of a rather formal order, and was necessarily
limited to an account of the relations between his uncle and himself,
and between himself and Augusta. Such as it was, however, he gave it
very well, and with a complete openness that appeared to produce a
favorable impression on the Court.

Then Fiddlestick, Q.C., rose to cross-examine, devoting his efforts to
trying to make Eustace admit that his behaviour had been of a nature to
amply justify his uncle’s behaviour. But there was not very much to be
made out of it. Eustace detailed all that had passed freely enough, and
it simply amounted to the fact that there had been angry words between
the two as regards the treatment that Augusta had met with at the hands
of the firm. In short, Fiddlestick could not do anything with him, and,
after ten minutes of it, sat down without having advanced the case to
any appreciable extent. Then several of the other counsel asked a
question or two apiece, after which Eustace was told to stand down, and
Lady Holmhurst was called. Lady Holmhurst’s evidence was very short,
merely amounting to the fact that she had seen Augusta’s shoulders on
board the Kangaroo, and that there was not then a sign of tattoo marks
upon them, and when she saw them again in London they were tattooed. No
attempt was made to cross-examine her, and on the termination of her
evidence, the Court adjourned for lunch. When it reassembled James
Short called Augusta, and a murmur of expectation arose from the
densely crowded audience, as—feeling very sick at heart, and looking
more beautiful than ever—she stepped towards the box.

As she did so the Attorney-General rose.

“I must object, my Lord,” he said, “on behalf of the defendants, to
this witness being allowed to enter the box.”

“Upon what grounds, Mr. Attorney?” said his Lordship.

“Upon the ground that her mouth is, _ipso facto_, closed. If we are to
believe the plaintiff’s story, this young lady is herself the will of
Jonathan Meeson, and, being so, is certainly, I submit, not competent
to give evidence. There is no precedent for a document giving evidence,
and I presume that the witness must be looked upon as a document.”

“But, Mr. Attorney,” said the Judge, “a document is evidence, and
evidence of the best sort.”

“Undoubtedly, my Lord; and we have no objection to the document being
exhibited for the court to draw its own conclusion from, but we deny
that it is entitled to speak in its own explanation. A document is a
thing which speaks by its written characters. It cannot take to itself
a tongue, and speak by word of mouth also; and, in support of this, I
may call your Lordship’s attention to the general principles of law
governing the interpretation of written documents.”

“I am quite aware of those principles, Mr. Attorney, and I cannot see
that they touch this question.”

“As your Lordship pleases. Then I will fall back upon my main
contention, that Miss Smithers is, for the purposes of this case, a
document and nothing but a document, and has no more right to open her
mouth in support of the plaintiff’s case, than would any paper will, if
it could be miraculously endowed with speech.”

“Well,” said the Judge, “it certainly strikes me as a novel point. What
have you to say to it, Mr. Short?”

All eyes were now turned upon James, for it was felt that if the point
was decided against him the case was lost.

“The point to which I wish you to address yourself, Mr. Short,” went on
the learned Judge, “is—Is the personality of Miss Smithers so totally
lost and merged in what, for want of a better term I must call her
documentary capacity, as to take away from her the right to appear
before this Court like any other sane human being, and give evidence of
events connected with its execution?”

“If your Lordship pleases,” said James, “I maintain that this is not
so. I maintain that the document remains the document; and that for all
purposes, including the giving of evidence concerning its execution,
Miss Smithers still remains Miss Smithers. It would surely be absurd to
argue that because a person has a deed executed upon her she was, _ipso
facto_, incapacitated from giving evidence concerning it, on the mere
ground that she was _it_. Further, such a decision would be contrary to
equity and good policy, for persons could not so lightly be deprived of
their natural rights. Also, in this case, the plaintiff’s action would
be absolutely put an end to by any such decision, seeing that the
signature of Jonathan Meeson and the attesting witnesses to the will
could not, of course, be recognised in their tattooed form, and there
is no other living person who could depose under what circumstances the
signature came to be there. I submit that the objection should be
overruled.”

“This,” said his Lordship, in giving his decision, “is a very curious
point, and one which, when first raised by the learned
Attorney-General, struck me with some force; but, on considering it and
hearing Mr. Short, I am convinced that it is an objection that cannot
be supported” (here Eustace gave a sigh of relief). “It is argued on
the part of the defendant that Miss Smithers is, for the purposes of
this case a document, a document, and nothing but a document, and as
such that her mouth is shut. Now, I think that the learned
Attorney-General cannot have thought this matter out when he came to
that conclusion. What are the circumstances? A will is supposed to have
been tattooed upon this lady’s skin; but is the skin the whole person?
Does not the intelligence remain, and the individuality? I think that I
can put what I mean more clearly by means of an illustration. Let us
suppose that I were to uphold the defendant’s objection, and that, as a
consequence, the plaintiff’s case were to break down. Then let us
suppose that the plaintiff had persuaded the witness to be partially
skinned”—(here Augusta nearly jumped from her seat)—“and that she,
having survived the operation, was again tendered to the court as a
witness, would the Court then be able, under any possibility, to refuse
to accept her evidence? The document, in the form of human parchment,
would then be in the hands of the officers of the Court, and the person
from whom the parchment had been removed, would also be before the
Court. Could it be still maintained that the two were so identical and
inseparable that the disabilities attaching to a document must
necessarily attach to the person? In my opinion, certainly not. Or, to
take another case, let us suppose that the will had been tattooed upon
the leg of a person, and, under similar circumstances, the leg were cut
off and produced before the Court, either in a flesh or a mummified
condition; could it then be seriously advanced that because the
inscribed leg—standing on the table before the Court—had once belonged
to the witness sitting in the witness-box, therefore it was not
competent for the witness to give evidence on account of his or her
documentary attributes? Certainly it could not. Therefore, it seems to
me that that which is separable must, for the purpose of law, be taken
as already separated, and that the will on the back of this witness
must be looked upon as though it were in the hands at this moment, of
the officers of the Court, and consequently I overrule the objection.”

“Will your Lordship take a note of your Lordship’s decision?” asked the
Attorney-General in view of an appeal.

“Certainly, Mr. Attorney. Let this witness be sworn.”




CHAPTER XXI.
GRANT AS PRAYED.


Accordingly, Augusta was sworn, and Eustace observed that when she
removed her veil to kiss the Book the sight of her sweet face produced
no small effect upon the crowded court.

Then James began his examination in chief, and, following the lines
which he had laid down in his opening speech, led her slowly, whilst
allowing her to tell her own story as much as possible, to the time of
the tattooing of the will on Kerguelen Land. All along, the history had
evidently interested everybody in the court—not excepting the
Judge—intensely; but now the excitement rose to boiling point.

“Well,” said James, “tell his Lordship exactly how it came to pass that
the will of Mr. Meeson was tattooed upon your shoulders.”

In quiet but dramatic language Augusta accordingly narrated every
detail, from the time when Meeson confided to her his remorse at having
disinherited his nephew up to the execution of the will at her
suggestion by the sailor upon her own shoulders.

“And now, Miss Smithers,” said James, when she had done, “I am very
sorry to have to do so; but I must ask you to exhibit the document to
the Court.”

Poor Augusta coloured and her eyes filled with tears, as she slowly
undid the dust-cloak which hid her shoulders (for, of course, she had
come in low dress). The Judge, looking up sharply, observed her natural
distress.

“If you prefer it, Miss Smithers,” said his Lordship, courteously, “I
will order the court to be cleared of every-one except those who are
actually engaged in the case.”

At these ominous words a shudder of disgust passed through the
densely-packed ranks. It would indeed, they felt, after all their
striving, be hard if they were deprived of the sight of the will; and
they stared at her despairingly, to see what she would answer.

“I thank your Lordship,” she said, with a little bow; “but there would
still be so many left that I do not think that it would greatly matter.
I hope that everybody will understand my position, and extend their
consideration to me.”

“Very well,” said the Judge, and without further ado she took off the
cloak, and the silk handkerchief beneath it, and stood before the court
dressed in a low black dress.

“I am afraid that I must ask you to come up here,” said his Lordship.
Accordingly she walked round, mounted the bench, and then turned her
back to the Judge, in order that he might examine what was written on
it. This he did very carefully with the aid of a magnifying glass,
referring now and again to the photographic copy which Doctor Probate
had filed in the Registry.

“Thank you,” he said presently, “that will do. I am afraid that the
learned counsel below will wish to have an opportunity of inspection.”

So Augusta had to descend and slowly walk along the ranks, stopping
before every learned leader to be carefully examined, while hundreds of
eager eyes in the background were fixed upon her unfortunate neck.
However, at last it came to an end.

“That will do, Miss Smithers,” said the Judge, for whose consideration
she felt deeply grateful; “you can put on your cloak again now.”
Accordingly she did so and re-entered the box.

“The document which you have just shown the Court, Miss Smithers,” said
James, “is the one which was executed upon you in Kerguelen Land on or
about the 22nd day of December last year?”

“It is.”

“It was, I understand, executed in the presence of the testator and the
two attesting witnesses, all three being present together, and the
signature of each being tattooed in the presence of the other?”

“It was.”

“Was the testator, so far as you could judge, at the time of the
dictation and execution of the will, of sound mind, memory, and
understanding?”

“Most certainly he was.”

“Did you, beyond the suggestions of which you have already given
evidence, in any way unduly influence the testator’s mind, so as to
induce him to make this will?”

“I did not.”

“And to those facts you swear?”

“I do.”

Then he passed on to the history of the death of the two sailors who
had attested the will, and to the account of Augusta’s ultimate rescue,
finally closing his examination-in-chief just as the clock struck four,
whereon the Court adjourned till the following day.

As may be imagined, though things had gone fairly well so far, nobody
concerned of our party passed an over-comfortable night. The strain was
too great to admit of it; and really they were all glad to find
themselves in the court—which was, if possible, even more crowded on
the following morning—filled with the hope that that day might see the
matter decided one way or the other.

As soon as the Judge had come in, Augusta resumed her place in the
witness-box, and the Attorney-General rose to cross-examine her.

“You told the Court, Miss Smithers, at the conclusion of your evidence,
that you are now engaged to be married to Mr. Meeson, the plaintiff.
Now, I am sorry to have to put a personal question to you, but I must
ask you—Were you at the time of the tattooing of the will, in love with
Mr. Meeson?”

This was a home-thrust, and poor Augusta coloured up beneath it;
however, her native wit came to her aid.

“If you will define, Sir, what being in love is, I will do my best to
answer your question,” she said. Whereat the audience, including his
Lordship, smiled.

The Attorney-General looked puzzled, as well he might; for there are
some things which are beyond the learning of even an Attorney-General.

“Well,” he said, “were you matrimonially inclined towards Mr. Meeson?”

“Surely, Mr. Attorney-General,” said the Judge, “the one thing does not
necessarily include the other?”

“I bow to your Lordship’s experience,” said Mr. Attorney, tartly.
“Perhaps I had better put my question in this way—Had you, at any time,
any prospect of becoming engaged to Mr. Meeson?”

“None whatever.”

“Did you submit to this tattooing, which must have been painful, with a
view of becoming engaged to the plaintiff?”

“Certainly not. I may point out,” she added, with hesitation, “that
such a disfigurement is not likely to add to anybody’s attractions.”

“Please answer my questions, Miss Smithers, and do not comment on them.
How did you come, then, to submit yourself to such a disagreeable
operation?”

“I submitted to it because I thought it right to do so, there being no
other apparent means at hand of attaining the late Mr. Meeson’s end.
Also”—and she paused.

“Also what?”

“Also I had a regard for Mr. Eustace Meeson, and I knew that he had
lost his inheritance through a quarrel about myself.”

“Ah! now we are coming to it. Then you were tattooed out of regard for
the plaintiff, and not purely in the interests of justice?”

“Yes; I suppose so.”

“Well, Mr. Attorney,” interposed the Judge, “and what if she was?”

“My object, my Lord, was to show that this young lady was not the
purely impassive medium in this matter that my learned friend, Mr.
Short, would lead the Court to believe. She was acting from motive.”

“Most people do,” said the Judge drily. “But it does not follow that
the motive was an improper one.”

Then the learned gentleman continued his cross-examination, directing
all the ingenuity of his practised mind to trying to prove by Augusta’s
admissions, first, that the testator was acting under the undue
influence of herself; and secondly, that when the will was executed he
was _non compos mentis_. To this end he dwelt at great length on every
detail of the events between the tattooing of the will and the death of
the testator on the following day, making as much as was possible out
of the fact that he died in a fit of mania. But do what he would, he
could not shake her evidence upon any material point, and when at last
he sat down James Short felt that his case had not received any serious
blow.

Then a few more questions having been asked in cross-examination by
various other counsel, James rose to re-examine, and, with the object
of rebutting the presumption of the testator’s mental unsoundness, made
Augusta repeat all the details of the confession that the late
publisher had made to her as regards his methods of trading. It was
beautiful to see the fury and horror portrayed upon the countenance of
the choleric Mr. Addison and the cadaverous Mr. Roscoe, when they saw
the most cherished secrets of the customs of the trade, as practised at
Meeson’s, thus paraded in the open light of day, while a dozen
swift-pencilled reporters took every detail down.

Then at last Augusta was told to stand down, which she did thankfully
enough, and Mrs. Thomas, the wife of Captain Thomas, was called. She
proved the finding of Augusta on the island, and that she had seen the
hat of one of the sailors, and the rum-cask two-thirds empty, and also
produced the shell out of which the men had drunk the rum (which shell
the Judge had called Augusta to identify). What was most important,
however, was that she gave the most distinct evidence that she had
herself seen the late Mr. Meeson interred, and identified the body as
that of the late publisher by picking out his photograph from among a
bundle of a dozen that were handed to her. Also she swore that when
Augusta came aboard the whaler the tattoo marks on her back were not
healed.

No cross-examination of the witness worth the name having been
attempted, James called a clerk from the office of the late owners of
the R.M.S. Kangaroo, who produced the roll of the ship, on which the
names of the two sailors, Johnnie Butt and Bill Jones, duly appeared.

This closed the plaintiff’s case, and the Attorney-General at once
proceeded to call his witnesses, reserving his remarks till the
conclusion of the evidence. He had only two witnesses, Mr. Todd, the
lawyer who drew and attested the will of Nov. 10, and his clerk, who
also attested it, and their examination did not take long. In
cross-examination, however, both these witnesses admitted that the
testator was in a great state of passion when he executed the will, and
gave details of the lively scene that then occurred.

Then the Attorney-General rose to address the Court for the defendants.
He said there were two questions before the Court, reserving, for the
present, the question as to the admissibility of the evidence of
Augusta Smithers; and those were—first, did the tattoo marks upon the
lady’s neck constitute a will at all? and secondly, supposing that they
did, was it proved to the satisfaction of the Court that these undated
marks were duly executed by a sane and uninfluenced man, in the
presence of the witnesses, as required by the statute. He maintained,
in the first place, that these marks were no will within the meaning of
the statute; but, feeling that he was not on very sound ground on this
point, quickly passed on to the other aspects of the case. With much
force and ability he dwelt upon the strangeness of the whole story, and
how it rested solely upon the evidence of one witness, Augusta
Smithers. It was only if the Court accepted her evidence as it stood
that it could come to the conclusion that the will was executed at all,
or, indeed, that the two attesting witnesses were on the island at all.
Considering the relations which existed between this witness and the
plaintiff, was the Court prepared to accept her evidence in this
unreserved way? Was it prepared to decide that this will, in favour of
a man with whom the testator had violently quarrelled, and had
disinherited in consequence of that quarrel, was not, if indeed it was
executed at all, extorted by this lady from a weak and dying, and
possibly a deranged, man? and with this question the learned gentleman
sat down.

He was followed briefly by the Solicitor-General and Mr. Fiddlestick;
but though they talked fluently enough, addressing themselves to
various minor points, they had nothing fresh of interest to adduce, and
finishing at half-past three, James rose to reply on the whole case on
behalf of the plaintiff.

There was a moment’s pause while he was arranging his notes, and then,
just as he was about to begin, the Judge said quietly, “Thank you, Mr.
Short, I do not think that I need trouble you,” and James sat down with
a gasp, for he knew that the cause was won.

Then his Lordship began, and, after giving a masterly summary of the
whole case, concluded as follows:—“Such are the details of the most
remarkable probate cause that I ever remember to have had brought to my
notice, either during my career at the Bar or on the Bench. It will be
obvious, as the learned Attorney-General has said, that the whole case
really lies between two points. Is the document on the back of Augusta
Smithers a sufficient will to carry the property? and, if so, is the
unsupported story of that lady as to the execution of the document to
be believed? Now, what does the law understand by the term ‘Will’?
Surely it understands some writing that expresses the wish or will of a
person as to the disposition of his property after his decease? This
writing must be executed with certain formalities; but if it is so
executed by a person not labouring under any mental or other disability
it is indefeasible, except by the subsequent execution of a fresh
testamentary document, or by its destruction or attempted destruction,
_animo revocandi_, or by marriage. Subject to these formalities
required by the law, the form of the document—provided that its meaning
is clear—is immaterial. Now, do the tattoo marks on the back of this
lady constitute such a document, and do they convey the true last will
or wish of the testator? That is the first point that I have to decide,
and I decide it in the affirmative. It is true that it is not usual for
testamentary documents to be tattooed upon the skin of a human being;
but, because it is not usual, it does not follow that a tattooed
document is not a valid one. The ninth section of the Statute of 1
Vic., cap. 26, specifies that no will shall be valid unless it shall be
in writing; but cannot this tattooing be considered as writing within
the meaning of the Act? I am clearly of opinion that it can, if only on
the ground that the material used was ink—a natural ink, it is true,
that of the cuttle-fish, but still ink; for I may remark that the
natural product of the cuttle-fish was at one time largely used in this
country for that very purpose. Further, in reference to this part of
the case, it must be borne in mind that the testator was no eccentric
being, who from whim or perversity chose this extraordinary method of
signifying his wishes as to the disposal of his property. He was a man
placed in about as terrible a position as it is possible to conceive.
He was, if we are to believe the story of Miss Smithers, most sincerely
anxious to revoke a disposition of his property which he now, standing
face to face with the greatest issue of this life, recognised to be
unjust, and which was certainly contrary to the promptings of nature as
experienced by most men. And yet in this terrible strait in which he
found himself, and notwithstanding the earnest desire which grew more
intense as his vital forces ebbed, he could find absolutely no means of
carrying out his wish. At length, however, this plan of tattooing his
will upon the living flesh on a younger and stronger person is
presented to him, and he eagerly avails himself of it; and the
tattooing is duly carried out in his presence and at his desire, and as
duly signed and witnessed. Can it be seriously argued that a document
so executed does not fulfil the bare requirements of the law? I think
that it cannot, and am of opinion that such a document is as much a
valid will as though it had been engrossed upon the skin of a sheep,
and duly signed and witnessed in the Temple.

“And now I will come to the second point. Is the evidence of Miss
Smithers to be believed? First, let us see where it is corroborated. It
is clear, from the testimony of Lady Holmhurst, that when on board the
ill-fated Kangaroo, Miss Smithers had no tattoo marks upon her
shoulders. It is equally clear from the unshaken testimony of Mrs.
Thomas, that when she was rescued by the American whaler, her back was
marked with tattooing, then in the healing stage—with tattooing which
could not possibly have been inflicted by herself or by the child, who
was her sole living companion. It is also proved that there was seen
upon the island by Mrs. Thomas the dead body of a man, which she was
informed was that of Mr. Meeson, and which she here in court identified
by means of a photograph. Also, this same witness produced a shell
which she picked up in one of the huts, said to be the shell used by
the sailors to drink the rum that led to their destruction; and she
swore that she saw a sailor’s hat lying on the shore. Now, all this is
corroborative evidence, and of a sort not to be despised. Indeed, as to
one point, that of the approximate date of the execution of the
tattooing, it is to my mind final. Still, there does remain an enormous
amount that must be accepted or not, according as to whether or no
credence can be placed in the unsupported testimony of Miss Smithers,
for we cannot call on a child so young as the present Lord Holmhurst,
to bear witness in a Court of Justice. If Miss Smithers, for instance,
is not speaking the truth when she declares that the signature of the
testator was tattooed upon her under his immediate direction, or that
it was tattooed in the presence of the two sailors, Butt and Jones,
whose signatures were also tattooed in the presence of the testator and
of each other—no will at all was executed, and the plaintiff’s case
collapses, utterly, since, from the very nature of the facts, evidence
as to handwriting would, of course, be useless. Now, I approach the
decision of this point after anxious thought and some hesitation. It is
not a light thing to set aside a formally executed document such as the
will of Nov. 10, upon which the defendants rely, and to entirely alter
the devolution of a vast amount of property upon the unsupported
testimony of a single witness. It seems to me, however, that there are
two tests which the Court can more or less set up as standards,
wherewith to measure the truth of the matter. The first of these is the
accepted probability of the action of an individual under any given set
of circumstances, as drawn from our common knowledge of human nature;
and the second, the behaviour and tone of the witness, both in the box
and in the course of circumstances that led to her appearance there. I
will take the last of those two first, and I may as well state, without
further delay, that I am convinced of the truth of the story told by
Miss Smithers. It would to my mind be impossible for any man, whose
intelligence had been trained by years of experience in this and other
courts, and whose daily duty it is to discriminate as to the
credibility of testimony, to disbelieve the history so circumstantially
detailed in the box by Miss Smithers (Sensation). I watched her
demeanour both under examination and cross-examination very closely
indeed, and I am convinced that she was telling the absolute truth so
far as she knew it.

“And now to come to the second point. It has been suggested, as
throwing doubt upon Miss Smithers’ story, that the existence of an
engagement to marry, between her and the plaintiff, may have prompted
her to concoct a monstrous fraud for his benefit; and this is suggested
although at the time of the execution of the tattooing no such
engagement did, as a matter of fact, exist, or was within measurable
distance of the parties. It did not exist, said the Attorney-General;
but the disposing mind existed: in other words, that she was then ‘in
love’—if, notwithstanding Mr. Attorney’s difficulty in defining it, I
may use the term with the plaintiff. This may or may not have been the
case. There are some things which it is quite beyond the power of any
Judge or Jury to decide, and one of them certainly is—at what exact
period of her acquaintance with a future husband a young lady’s regard
turns into a warmer feeling? But supposing that the Attorney-General is
right, and that although she at that moment clearly had no prospect of
marrying him, since she had left England to seek her fortune at the
Antipodes, the plaintiff was looked upon by this lady with that kind of
regard which is supposed to precede the matrimonial contract, the
circumstance, in my mind, tells rather in his favour than against him.
For in passing I may remark that this young lady has done a thing which
is, in its way, little short of heroic; the more so because it has a
ludicrous side. She has submitted to an operation which must not only
have been painful, but which is and always will be a blot upon her
beauty. I am inclined to agree with the Attorney-General when he says
that she did not make the sacrifice without a motive, which may have
sprung from a keen sense of justice, and of gratitude to the plaintiff
for his interference on her behalf, or from a warmer feeling. In either
case there is nothing discreditable about it—rather the reverse, in
fact; and, taken by itself, there is certainly nothing here to cause me
to disbelieve the evidence of Miss Smithers.

“One question only seems to me to remain. Is there anything to show
that the testator was not, at the time of the execution of the will, of
a sound and disposing mind? and is there anything in his conduct or
history to render the hypothesis of his having executed his will so
improbable that the Court should take the improbability into account?
As to the first point, I can find nothing. Miss Smithers expressly
swore that it was not the case; nor was her statement shaken by a very
searching cross-examination. She admitted, indeed, that shortly before
death he wandered in his mind, and thought that he was surrounded by
the shades of authors waiting to be revenged upon him. But it is no
uncommon thing for the mind thus to fail at the last, and it is not
extraordinary that this dying man should conjure before his brain the
shapes of those with some of whom he appears to have dealt harshly
during his life. Nor do I consider it in any way impossible that when
he felt his end approaching he should have wished to reverse the
sentence of his anger, and restore his nephew, whose only offence had
been a somewhat indiscreet use of the language of truth, the
inheritance to vast wealth of which he had deprived him. Such a course
strikes me as being a most natural and proper one, and perfectly in
accordance with the first principles of human nature. The whole tale is
undoubtedly of a wild and romantic order, and once again illustrates
the saying that ‘truth is stranger than fiction.’ But I have no choice
but to accept the fact that the deceased did, by means of tattooing,
carried out by his order, legally execute his true last will in favour
of his next-of-kin, Eustace H. Meeson, upon the shoulders of Augusta
Smithers, on or about the 22nd day of December, 1885. This being so, I
pronounce for the will propounded by the plaintiff, and there will be a
grant as prayed.”

“With costs, my Lord?” asked James, rising.

“No, I am not inclined to go that length. This litigation has arisen
through the testator’s own act, and the estate must bear the burden.”

“If your Lordship pleases,” said James, and sat down.

“Mr. Short,” said the Judge, clearing his throat, “I do not often speak
in such a sense, but I do feel called upon to compliment you upon the
way in which you have, single-handed, conducted this case—in some ways
one of the strangest and most important that has ever come before
me—having for your opponents so formidable an array of learned
gentlemen. The performance would have been creditable to anybody of
greater experience and longer years; as it is, I believe it to be
unprecedented.”

James turned colour, bowed, and sat down, knowing that he was a made
man, and that it would be his own fault if his future career at the Bar
was not now one of almost unexampled prosperity.




CHAPTER XXII.
ST. GEORGE’S, HANOVER-SQUARE.


The Court broke up in confusion, and Augusta, now that the strain was
over, noticed with amusement that the dark array of learned counsel who
had been fighting with all their strength to win the case of their
clients did not seem to be particularly distressed at the reverse that
they had suffered, but chatted away gaily as they tied up their papers
with scraps of red tape. She did not, perhaps, quite realize that,
having done their best and earned their little fees, they did not feel
called on to be heart-broken because the Court declined to take the
view they were paid to support. But it was a very different matter with
Messrs. Addison and Roscoe, who had just seen two millions of money
slip from their avaricious grasp. They were rich men already; but that
fact did not gild the pill, for the possession of money does not
detract from the desire for the acquisition of more. Mr. Addison was
purple with fury, and Mr. Roscoe hid his saturnine face in his hands
and groaned. Just then the Attorney-General rose, and seeing James
Short coming forward to speak to his clients, stopped him, and shook
hands with him warmly.

“Let me congratulate you, my dear fellow,” he said. “I never saw a case
better done. It was a perfect pleasure to me, and I am very glad that
the Judge thought fit to compliment you—a most unusual thing,
by-the-way. I can only say that I hope that I may have the pleasure of
having you as my junior sometimes in the future. By-the-way, if you
have no other engagement I wish that you would call round at my
chambers to-morrow about twelve.”

Mr. Addison, who was close by, overheard this little speech, and a new
light broke upon him. With a bound he plunged between James and the
Attorney-General.

“I see what it is now,” he said, in a voice shaking with wrath, “I’ve
been sold! I am a victim to collusion. You’ve had five hundred of my
money, confound you!” he shouted, almost shaking his fist in the face
of his learned and dignified adviser; “and now you are congratulating
this man!” and he pointed his finger at James. “You’ve been bribed to
betray me, Sir. You are a rascal! yes, a rascal!”

At this point the learned Attorney-General, forgetting his learning and
the exceeding augustness of his position, actually reverted to those
first principles of human nature of which the Judge had spoken, and
doubled his fist. Indeed, had not Mr. News, utterly aghast at such a
sight, rushed up and dragged his infuriated client back, there is no
knowing what scandalous thing might not have happened.

But somehow he was got rid of, and everybody melted away, leaving the
ushers to go round and collect the blotting-paper and pens which
strewed the empty court.

“And now, good people,” said Lady Holmhurst, “I think that the best
thing that we can do is all to go home and rest before dinner. I
ordered it at seven, and it is half-past five. I hope that you will
come, too, Mr. Short, and bring your brother with you; for I am sure
that you, both of you, deserve your dinner, if ever anybody did.”

And so they all went, and a very jolly dinner they had, as well they
might. At last, however, it came to an end, and the legal twins
departed, beaming like stars with happiness and champagne. And then
Lady Holmhurst departed also, and left Eustace and Augusta alone.

“Life is a queer thing,” said Eustace; “here this morning I was a
publisher’s reader at £180 a year; and now, to-night, if this verdict
holds, it seems that I am one of the wealthiest men in England.”

“Yes, dear,” said Augusta, “and with all the world at your feet, for
life is full of opportunities to the rich. You have a great future
before you, Eustace; I really am ashamed to marry so rich a man.”

“My darling,” he said, putting his arm round her; “whatever I have I
owe to you. Do you know there is only one thing that I fear about all
this money, if it really comes to us; and that is that you will be so
taken up with what pleasure-seeking people call social duties, and the
distribution of it, that you will give up your writing. So many women
are like that. Whatever ability they have seems to vanish utterly away
upon their wedding-day. They say afterwards that they have no time, but
I often think it is because they do not choose to make time.”

“Yes,” answered Augusta; “but then that is because they do not really
love their work, whatever it may be. Those who really love their art as
I love mine, with heart and soul and strength, will not be so easily
checked. Of course, distractions and cares come with marriage; but, on
the other hand, if one marries happily, there comes quiet of mind and
cessation from that ceaseless restlessness that is so fatal to good
work. You need not fear, Eustace; if I can, I will show the world that
you have not married a dullard; and if I can’t—why, my dear, it will be
because I am one.”

“That comes very nicely from the author of ‘Jemima’s Vow,’” said
Eustace, with sarcasm. “Really, my dear, what between your fame as a
writer and as the heroine of the shipwreck and of the great will case,
I think that I had better take a back seat at once, for I shall
certainly be known as the husband of the beautiful and gifted Mrs.
Meeson”—

“Oh! no,” answered Augusta; “don’t be afraid, nobody would dream of
speaking slightingly of the owner of two millions of money.”

“Well; never mind chaffing about the money,” said Eustace; “we haven’t
got it yet, for one thing. I have got something to ask you.”

“I must be going to bed,” said Augusta, firmly.

“No—nonsense!” said Eustace. “You are not going,” and he caught her by
the arm.

“Unhand me, Sir!” said Augusta, with majesty. “Now what do you want,
you silly boy?”

“I want to know if you will marry me next week.”

“Next week? Good gracious! No,” said Augusta. “Why I have not got my
things, and, for the matter of that, I am sure I don’t know where the
money is coming from to pay for them with.”

“Things!” said Eustace, with fine contempt. “You managed to live on
Kerguelen Land without things, so I don’t see why you can’t get married
without them—though, for the matter of that, I will get anything you
want in six hours. I never did hear such bosh as women talk about
‘things.’ Listen, dear. For Heaven’s sake let’s get married and have a
little quiet! I can assure you that if you don’t, your life won’t be
worth having after this. You will be hunted like a wild thing, and
interviewed, and painted, and worried to death; whereas, if you get
married—well, it will be better for us in a quiet way, you know.”

“Well, there is something in that,” said Augusta. “But supposing that
there should be an appeal, and the decision should be reversed, what
would happen then?”

“Well, then we should have to work for our living—that’s all. I have
got my billet, and you could write for the press until your five years’
agreement with Meeson and Co. has run out. I would put you in the way
of that. I see lots of writing people at my shop.”

“Well,” said Augusta, “I will speak to Bessie about it.”

“Oh, of course, Lady Holmhurst will say no,” said Eustace, gloomily.
“She will think about the ‘things’; and, besides, she won’t want to
lose you before she is obliged.”

“That is all that I can do for you, Sir,” said Augusta, with decision.
“There—come—that’s enough! Good-night.” And breaking away from him, she
made a pretty little curtsey and vanished.

“Now, I wonder what she means to do,” meditated Eustace, as the butler
brought him his hat. “I really should not wonder if she came round to
it. But then, one never knows how a woman will take a thing. If she
will, she will, etc., etc.”


And now, it may strike the reader as very strange, but, as a matter of
fact, ten days from the date of the above conversation, there was a
small-and-early gathering at St. George’s, Hanover-square, close by. I
say “small,” for the marriage had been kept quite secret, in order to
prevent curiosity-mongers from marching down upon it in their
thousands, as they would certainly have done had it been announced that
the heroine of the great will case was going to be married. Therefore
the party was very select. Augusta had no relations of her own; and so
she had asked Dr. Probate, with whom she had struck up a great
friendship, to come and give her away; and, though the old gentleman’s
previous career had had more connection with the undoing of the nuptial
tie than with its contraction, he could not find it in his heart to
refuse.

“I shall be neglecting my duties, you know, my dear young lady,” he
said, shaking his head. “It’s very wrong—very wrong, for I ought to be
at the Registry; but—well, perhaps I can manage to come—very wrong,
though—very wrong, and quite out of my line of business! I expect that
I shall begin to address the Court—I mean the clergyman—for the
petitioner.”

And so it came to pass that on this auspicious day the registering was
left to look after itself; and, as a matter of history, it may be
stated that no question was asked in Parliament about it.

Then there was Lady Holmhurst, looking very pretty in her widow’s
dress; and her boy Dick, who was in the highest spirits, and bursting
with health and wonder at these strange proceedings on the part of his
“Auntie”; and, of course, the legal twins brought up the rear.

And there in the vestry stood Augusta in her bridal dress, as sweet a
woman as ever the sun shone on; and looking at her beautiful face, Dr.
Probate nearly fell in love with her himself. And yet it was a sad face
just then. She was happy—very, as a loving woman who is about to be
made a wife should be; but when a great joy draws near to us it comes
companioned by the shadows of our old griefs.

The highest sort of happiness has a peculiar faculty of recalling to
our minds that which has troubled them in the past, the truth being,
that extremes in this, as in other matters, will sometimes touch, which
would seem to suggest that sorrow and happiness—however varied in their
bloom—yet have a common root. Thus it was with Augusta now. As she
stood in the vestry there came to her mind a recollection of her dear
little sister, and of how she had prophesied happy greatness and
success for her. Now the happiness and the success were at hand, and
there in the aisle stood her own true love; but yet the recollection of
that dear face, and of the little mound that covered it, rested on them
like a shadow. It passed with a sigh, and in its place there came the
memory of poor Mr. Tombey, but for whom she would not have been
standing there a bride, and of his last words as he put her into the
boat. He was food for fishes now, poor fellow, and she was left alone
with a great and happy career opening out before her—a career in which
her talents would have free space to work. And yet how odd to think it:
two or three score of years and it would all be one, and she would be
as Mr. Tombey was. Poor Mr. Tombey! perhaps it was as well that he was
not there to see her happiness; and let us hope that wherever it is we
go after the last event we lose sight of the world and those we knew
therein. Otherwise there must be more hearts broken in heaven above
than in earth beneath.

“Now, then, Miss Smithers,” broke in Dr. Probate, “for the very last
time—nobody will call you that again, you know—take my arm; his
Lordship—I mean the parson—is there.”


It was done, and they were man and wife. Well, even the happiest
marriage is always a good thing to get over. It was not a long drive
back to Hanover-square, and the very first sight that greeted them on
their arrival was the infant from the City (John’s), accompanied by his
brother, the infant from Pump-court (James’), who had, presumably, come
to show him the way, or more probably because he thought that there
would be eatables going—holding in his hand a legal-looking letter.

“Marked ‘_immediate_,’ Sir; so I thought that I had better serve it at
once,” said the first infant, handing the letter to John.

“What is it?” asked Eustace, nervously. He had grown to hate the sight
of a lawyer’s letter with a deadly hate.

“Notice of appeal, I expect,” said John.

“Open it, man!” said Eustace, “and let’s get it over.”

Accordingly, John did so, and read as follows:—

“MEESON _v._ ADDISON AND ANOTHER


“Dear Sir,—After consultation with our clients, Messrs. Addison and
Roscoe, we are enabled to make you the following offer. If no account
is required of the mesne profits”—

“That’s a wrong term,” said James, irritably. “Mesne profits refer to
profits derived from real estate. Just like a solicitor to make such a
blunder.”

“The term is perfectly appropriate,” replied his twin, with warmth.
“There was some real estate, and, therefore, the term can properly be
applied to the whole of the income.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t argue but get on!” said Eustace. “Don’t you
see that I am on tenterhooks?”

“—my clients,” continued John, “are ready to undertake that no appeal
shall be presented to the recent case of Meeson _v._ Addison and
Another. If, however, the plaintiff insists upon an account, the usual
steps will be taken to bring the matter before a higher
court.—Obediently yours,

“NEWS AND NEWS.
John Short, Esq.


“P.S.—An immediate reply will oblige.”


“Well, Meeson, what do you say to that?” said John; “but I beg your
pardon, I forgot; perhaps you would like to take counsel’s advice,” and
he pointed to James, who was rubbing his bald head indignantly.

“Oh, no, I should not,” answered Eustace; “I’ve quite made up my mind.
Let them stick to their mesne” (here James made a face); “Well, then,
to their middle or intermediate or their anything else profits. No
appeals for me, if I can avoid it. Send News a telegram.”

“That,” began James, in his most solemn and legal tones, “is a view of
the matter in which I am glad to be able to heartily coincide, although
it seems to me that there are several points, which I will touch on one
by one.”

“Good gracious! no,” broke in Lady Holmhurst; “but I think it is rather
_mean_ of them, don’t you, Mr. Short?”

James looked puzzled. “I do not quite take Lady Holmhurst’s point,” he
said plaintively.

“Then you must be stupid,” said Eustace, “Don’t you see the
joke?—‘_mesne_ profits,’ _mean_ of them?”

“Ah,” said James, with satisfaction; “I perceive. Lady Holmhurst does
not seem to be aware that although ‘mesne’—a totally erroneous word—is
pronounced ‘mean,’ it is spelt m-e-s-n-e.”

“I stand corrected,” said Lady Holmhurst, with a little curtsey. “I
thought that Mr. James Short would take my ignorance into account, and
understand what I _mean_!”

This atrocious pun turned the laugh against the learned James, and
then, the telegram to News and News having been dispatched, they all
went in to the wedding breakfast.

In a general way, wedding breakfasts are not particularly lively
affairs. There is a mock hilarity about them that does not tend to true
cheerfulness, and those of the guests who are not occupied with graver
thoughts are probably thinking of the dyspepsia that comes after. But
this particular breakfast was an exception. For the first time since
her husband’s unfortunate death, Lady Holmhurst seemed to have entirely
recovered her spirits and was her old self, and a very charming self it
was, so charming, indeed, that even James forgot his learning and the
responsibilities of his noble profession and talked like an ordinary
Christian. Indeed, he even went so far as to pay her an elephantine
compliment; but as it was three sentences long, and divided into
points, it shall not be repeated here.

And then, at length, Dr. Probate rose to propose the bride’s health;
and very nicely he did it, as might have been expected from a man with
his extraordinary familiarity with matrimonial affairs. His speech was
quite charming, and aptly sprinkled with classical quotations.

“I have often,” he ended, “heard it advanced that all men are in
reality equally favoured by the Fates in their passage through the
world. I have always doubted the truth of that assertion, and now I am
convinced of its falsity. Mr. Eustace is a very excellent young man,
and, if I may be allowed to say so, a very good-looking young man; but
what, I would ask this assembled company, has Mr. Meeson done above the
rest of men to justify his supreme good fortune? Why should this young
gentleman be picked out from the multitude of young gentlemen to
inherit two millions of money, and to marry the most charming—yes, the
most charming, the most talented, and the bravest young lady that I
have ever met—a young lady who not only carries twenty fortunes on her
face, but another fortune in her brain, and his fortune on her neck—and
such a fortune, too! Sir”—and he bowed towards Eustace—

“‘Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the goods the gods provide thee.’


“I salute you, as all men must salute one so supremely favoured.
Humbly, I salute you; humbly I pray that you may continually deserve
the almost unparalleled good that it has pleased Providence to bestow
upon you.”

And then Eustace rose and made his speech, and a very good speech it
was, considering the trying circumstances under which it was made. He
told them how he had fallen in love with Augusta’s sweet face the very
first time that he had set eyes upon it in the office of his uncle at
Birmingham. He told them what he had felt when, after getting some work
in London, he had returned to Birmingham to find his lady-love flown,
and of what he had endured when he heard that she was among the drowned
on board the Kangaroo. Then he came to the happy day of the return, and
to that still happier day when he discovered that he had not loved her
in vain, finally ending thus—

“Dr. Probate has said that I am a supremely fortunate man, and I admit
the truth of his remark. I am, indeed, fortunate above my deserts, so
fortunate that I feel afraid. When I turn and see my beloved wife
sitting at my side, I feel afraid lest I should after all be dreaming a
dream, and awake to find nothing but emptiness. And then, on the other
hand, is this colossal wealth, which has come to me through her, and
there again I feel afraid. But, please Heaven, I hope with her help to
do some good with it, and remembering always that it is a great trust
that has been placed in my hands. And she also is a trust and a far
more inestimable one, and as I deal with her so may I be dealt with
here and hereafter.” Then, by an afterthought, he proposed the health
of the legal twins, who had so nobly borne the brunt of the affray
single-handed, and disconcerted the Attorney-General and all his
learned host.

Thereon James rose to reply in terms of elephantine eloquence, and
would have gone through the whole case again had not Lady Holmhurst in
despair pulled him by the sleeve and told him that he must propose her
health, which he did with sincerity, lightly alluding to the fact that
she was a widow by describing her as being in a “discovert condition,
with all the rights and responsibilities of a ‘femme sole.’”

Everybody burst out laughing, not excepting poor lady Holmhurst
herself, and James sat down, not without indignation that a giddy world
should object to an exact and legal definition of the status of the
individual as set out by the law.

And after that Augusta went and changed her dress, and then came the
hurried good-byes; and, to escape observation, they drove off in a
hansom cab amidst a shower of old shoes.

And there in that hansom cab we will leave them.




CHAPTER XXIII.
MEESON’S ONCE AGAIN.


A month had passed—a month of long, summer days and such happiness as
young people who truly love each other can get out of a honeymoon spent
under the most favourable circumstances in the sweetest, sunniest spots
of the Channel Islands. And now the curtain draws up for the last time
in this history, where it drew up for the first—in the inner office of
Meeson’s huge establishment.

During the last fortnight certain communications had passed between Mr.
John Short, being duly authorized thereto, and the legal
representatives of Messrs. Addison and Roscoe, with the result that the
interests of these gentlemen in the great publishing house had been
bought up, and that Eustace Meeson was now the sole owner of the vast
concern, which he intended to take under his personal supervision.

Now, accompanied by John Short, whom he had appointed to the post of
his solicitor both of his business and his private affairs, and by
Augusta, he was engaged in formally taking over the keys from the head
manager, who was known throughout the establishment, as No. 1.

“I wish to refer to the authors’ agreements of the early part of last
year,” said Eustace.

No. 1 produced them somewhat sulkily. He did not like the appearance of
this determined young owner upon the scene, with his free and
un-Meeson-like ways.

Eustace turned them over, and while he did so, his happy wife stood by
him, marvelling at the kaleidoscopic changes in her circumstances. When
last she had stood in that office, not a year ago, it had been as a
pitiful suppliant begging for a few pounds wherewith to try and save
her sister’s life, and now—

Suddenly Eustace stopped turning, and drawing a document from the
bundle, glanced at it. It was Augusta’s agreement with Meeson and Co.
for “Jemima’s Vow,” the agreement binding her to them for five years
which had been the cause of all her troubles, and, as she firmly
believed, of her little sister’s death.

“There, my dear,” said Eustace to his wife, “there is a present for
you. Take it!”

Augusta took the document, and having looked to see what it was,
shivered as she did so. It brought the whole thing back so painfully to
her mind.

“What shall I do with it,” she asked; “tear it up?”

“Yes,” he answered. “No, stop a bit,” and taking it from her he wrote
“cancelled” in big letters across it, signed and dated it.

“There,” he said, “now send it to be framed and glazed, and it shall be
hung here in the office, to show how they used to do business at
Meeson’s.”

No. 1 snorted, and looked at Eustace aghast. What would the young man
be after next?

“Are the gentlemen assembled in the hall?” asked Eustace of him when
the remaining documents were put away again.

No. 1 said that they were, and accordingly, to the hall they went,
wherein were gathered all the editors, sub-editors, managers,
sub-managers of the various departments, clerks, and other employees,
not forgetting the tame authors, who, a pale and mealy regiment, had
been marched up thither from the Hutches, and the tame artists with
flying hair—and were now being marshalled in lines by No. 1, who had
gone on before. When Eustace and his wife and John Short got to the top
of the hall, where some chairs had been set, the whole multitude bowed,
whereon he begged them to be seated—a permission of which the tame
authors, who sat all day in their little wooden hutches, and sometimes
a good part of the night also, did not seem to care to avail themselves
of. But the tame artists, who had, for the most part, to work standing,
sat down readily.

“Gentlemen,” said Eustace, “first let me introduce you to my wife, Mrs.
Meeson, who, in another capacity, has already been—not greatly to her
own profit—connected with this establishment, having written the best
work of fiction that has ever gone through our printing-presses”—(Here
some of the wilder spirits cheered, and Augusta blushed and bowed)—“and
who will, I hope and trust, write many even better books, which we
shall have the honour of giving to the world.” (Applause.) “Also,
gentlemen, let me introduce you to Mr. John Short, my solicitor, who,
together with his twin brother, Mr. James Short, brought the great
lawsuit in which I was engaged to a successful issue.

“And now I have to tell you why I have summoned you all to meet me
here. First of all, to say that I am now the sole owner of this
business, having bought out Messrs. Addison and Roscoe”—(“And a good
job too,” said a voice)—“and that I hope we shall work well together;
and secondly, to inform you that I am going to totally revolutionise
the course of business as hitherto practised in this
establishment”—(Sensation)—“having, with the assistance of Mr. Short,
drawn up a scheme for that purpose. I am informed in the statement of
profits on which the purchase price of the shares of Messrs. Addison
and Roscoe was calculated, that the average net profits of this house
during the last ten years have amounted to fifty-seven and a fraction
per cent on the capital invested. Now, I have determined that in future
the net profits of any given undertaking shall be divided as
follows:—Ten per cent to the author of the book in hand, and ten per
cent to the House. Then, should there be any further profit, it will be
apportioned thus: One-third—of which a moiety will go towards a pension
fund—to the employés of the House, the division to be arranged on a
fixed scale”—(Enormous sensation, especially among the tame
authors)—“and the remainder to the author of the work. Thus, supposing
that a book paid cent. per cent., I shall take ten per cent., and the
employés would take twenty-six and a fraction per cent., and the author
would take sixty-four per cent.”

And here an interruption occurred. It came from No. 1, who could no
longer retain his disgust.

“I’ll resign,” he said; “I’ll resign! Meeson’s content with ten per
cent, and out-of-pocket expenses, when an author—a mere author—gets
sixty! It’s shameful—shameful!”

“If you choose to resign, you can,” said Eustace, sharply; “but I
advise you to take time to think it over. Gentlemen,” went on Eustace,
“I daresay that this seems a great change to you, but I may as well say
at once that I am no wild philanthropist. I expect to make it pay, and
pay well. To begin with, I shall never undertake any work that I do not
think will pay—that is, without an adequate guarantee, or in the
capacity of a simple agent; and my own ten per cent will be the first
charge on the profits; then the author’s ten. Of course, if I speculate
in a book, and buy it out and out, subject to the risks, the case will
be different. But with a net ten per cent certain, I am, like people in
any other line of business, quite prepared to be satisfied; and, upon
those terms, I expect to become the publisher of all the best writers
in England, and I also expect that any good writer will in future be
able to make a handsome income out of his work. Further, it strikes me
that you will most of you find yourselves better off at the end of the
year than you do at present” (Cheers). “One or two more matters I must
touch on. First and foremost the Hutches, which I consider a scandal to
a great institution like this, will be abolished”—(Shouts of joy from
the tame authors)—“and a handsome row of brick chambers erected in
their place, and, further, their occupants will in future receive a
very permanent addition to their salaries “—(renewed and delirious
cheering). “Lastly, I will do away with this system—this horrid
system—of calling men by numbers, as though they were convicts instead
of free Englishmen. Henceforth everybody in this establishment will be
known by his own name.” (Loud cheers.)

“And now one more thing: I hope to see you all at dinner at Pompadour
Hall this day next week, when we will christen our new scheme and the
new firm, which, however, in the future as in the past, will be known
as Meeson & Co., for, as we are all to share in the profits of our
undertaking, I consider that we shall still be a company, and I hope a
prosperous and an honest company in the truest sense of the word.” And
then amidst a burst of prolonged and rapturous cheering, Eustace and
his wife bowed, and were escorted out to the carriage that was waiting
to drive them to Pompadour Hall.

In half-an-hour’s time they were re-entering the palatial gates from
which, less than a year before, Eustace had been driven forth to seek
his fortune. There, on either side, were drawn up the long lines of
menials, gorgeous with plush and powder (for Mr. Meeson’s servants had
never been discharged), and there was the fat butler, Johnson, at their
head, the same who had given his farewell message to his uncle.

“Good gracious!” said Augusta, glancing up the marble steps, “there are
six of those great footmen. What on earth shall I do with them all”—

“Sack them,” said Eustace, abruptly; “the sight of those overfed brutes
makes me sick!”

And then they were bowed in—and under the close scrutiny of many pairs
of eyes, wandered off with what dignity they could command to dress for
dinner.

In due course they found themselves at dinner, and such a dinner! It
took an hour and twenty minutes to get through, or rather the six
footmen took an hour and twenty minutes to carry the silver dishes in
and out. Never since their marriage had Eustace and Augusta felt so
miserable.

“I don’t think that I like being so rich,” said Augusta rising and
coming down the long table to her husband, when at last Johnson had
softly closed the door. “It oppresses me!”

“So it does me,” said Eustace; “and I tell you what it is, Gussie,” he
went on, putting his arm round her, “I won’t stand having all these
infernal fellows hanging round me. I shall sell this place, and go in
for something quieter.”

And at that moment there came a dreadful diversion. Suddenly, and
without the slightest warning, the doors at either end of the room
opened. Through the one came two enormous footmen laden with coffee and
cream, etc., and through the other Johnson and another powdered monster
bearing cognac and other liquors. And there was Augusta with Eustace’s
arm round her, absolutely too paralysed to stir. Just as the men came
up she got away somehow, and stood looking like an idiot, while Eustace
coloured to his eyes. Indeed, the only people who showed no confusion
were those magnificent menials, who never turned a single powdered
hair, but went through their solemn rites with perfectly unabashed
countenances.

“I can’t stand this,” said Augusta, feebly, when they had at length
departed. “I am going to bed; I feel quite faint.”

“All right,” said Eustace, “I think that it is the best thing to do in
this comfortless shop. Confound that fellow, Short, why couldn’t he
come and dine? I wonder if there is any place where one could go to
smoke a pipe, or rather a cigar—I suppose those fellows would despise
me if I smoked a pipe? There was no smoking allowed here in my uncle’s
time, so I used to smoke in the house-keeper’s room; but I can’t do
that now”—

“Why don’t you smoke here?—the room is so big it would not smell,” said
Augusta.

“Oh, hang it all, no,” said Eustace; “think of the velvet curtains! I
can’t sit and smoke by myself in a room fifty feet by thirty; I should
get the blues. No, I shall come upstairs, too, and smoke there”—

And he did.

Early, very early in the morning, Augusta woke, got up, and put on a
dressing-gown.

The light was streaming through the rich gold cloth curtains, some of
which she had drawn. It lit upon the ewers, made of solid silver, on
the fine lace hangings of the bed, and the priceless inlaid furniture,
and played round the faces of the cupids on the frescoed ceiling.
Augusta stared at it all and then thought of the late master of this
untold magnificence as he lay dying in the miserable hut in Kerguelen
Land. What a contrast was here!

“Eustace,” she said to her sleeping spouse, “wake up, I want to say
something to you.”

“Eh! what’s the matter?” said Eustace, yawning.

“Eustace, we are too rich—we ought to do something with all this
money.”

“All right,” said Eustace, “I’m agreeable. What do you want to do?”

“I want to give away a good sum—say, two hundred thousand, that isn’t
much out of all you have—to found an institution for broken-down
authors.”

“All right,” said Eustace; “only you must see about it, I can’t be
bothered. By-the-way,” he added, waking up a little, “you remember what
the old boy told you when he was dying? I think that starving authors
who have published with Meeson’s ought to have the first right of
election.”

“I think so, too,” said Augusta, and she went to the buhl writing-table
to work out that scheme on paper which, as the public is aware, is now
about to prove such a boon to the world of scribblers.

“I say, Gussie!” suddenly said her husband. “I’ve just had a dream!”

“Well!” she said sharply, for she was busy with her scheme; “what is
it?”

“I dreamt that James Short was a Q.C., and making twenty thousand a
year, and that he had married Lady Holmhurst.”

“I should not wonder if that came true,” answered Augusta, biting the
top of her pen.

Then came another pause.

“Gussie,” said Eustace, sleepily, “are you quite happy?”

“Yes, of course I am, that is, I should be if it wasn’t for those
footmen and the silver water-jugs.”

“I wonder at that,” said her husband.

“Why?”

“Because”—(yawn)—“of that will upon your neck”—(yawn). “I should not
have believed that a woman could be quite happy”—(yawn)—“who
could—never go to Court.”

And he went to sleep again; while, disdaining reply, Augusta worked on.

THE END.






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