Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

I turned away from him, wrestling with my temper.

"'Bout ship!" I cried. Barlow took no notice whatsoever. Then my hand went to my pistol-pocket and I knew the worst. They had taken the revolver while I slept. I was one against four, and the launch was running over a calm sea to Ascension Isle and the discovery which inevitably awaited us there.

III.

We steamed all that day upon a fair sea, but at sundown the truth came out. We had not coal enough for another hour's run and were still a hundred miles from Ascension. I watched the faces of the men when Nicolson told them. They seemed to care nothing. The gold greed was upon them; the ingots were piled up everywhere about the launch and the hands hugged them as children, dearer than anything afloat or ashore. Nicolson got curses for his pains and went below again.

I watched the scene gloomily from the stern--it was beginning to dawn upon me that no man would see land again; and when an hour and a half had passed and the engines of the launch suddenly stopped I could not call myself a pessimist. The hands themselves, awed by the mishap, began to talk of sailing ships which would pick them up and of a story they must have ready. Nicolson was to be the captain of a ship which had stranded; Barlow was his mate. They did not name me; and, as the day is my witness, I believe they intended to murder me.

You may think that this sent a man to his supper with a good appetite. Truth to tell, I lay down in my blanket at ten o'clock and never expected to see the sun again. A shadow passing by me, a voice, a whisper, made me start like a frightened hare. Once I found the nigger Sam bending over me, and I jumped up, wet through with perspiration. Even a child would have seen that these madmen, lost to all sense of reason, would never take me ashore with them. Then when would they make an end of it? Soon, I hoped, if it must be. The suspense was making an old man of me. Every evil glance that was turned upon me seemed like a warning anew. I believe to this hour that they would have shot me before dawn but for the wind, the truest friend a man ever had in the hour of his need. Yes, to the wind and the sea, twin brothers to a sailor, I owed my life. It began to blow about seven bells in the first watch, and by dawn the waves were running as they run on no other ocean but the Atlantic. Laden as we were, deep down in the seas, our chances of weathering the gale may be imagined. Had we still owned a fire the first wash over would have snuffed it out. The good launch staggered at every blow, like a boxer badly hit. I said that the gold must go--and not a man aboard who did not know that I spoke the truth.

I have witnessed some strange scenes in my life--niggers running amuck in St. Louis, French sailors among the drink in a panic, a liner sinking with more than a hundred women aboard; but for honest madness about money the scene on that launch defies my words. No sooner was it plain that we should sink if we could not raise her in the water than the men (but chiefly the Irishman and the nigger Sam) got the gold open again and fell on it, blubbering and raving like children. Drink they had from somewhere, that I was sure of--even Nicolson the engineer showed the whites of his eyes when he staggered up to them; and what with their terror of the sea, their greed of the gold, and the whisky they had drunk, they might have been raving madmen let loose from Bedlam.

I said that the launch could not last another hour. The shrieking of the wind, the monster green seas gathered up in walls of jade-like water, the great hollows into which we went rushing like a switchback, cascades of foam and spindrift, the scudding masses of cloud, they terrified these wretched men, and would have appalled the heart of the strongest. If we were to have any hope at all, the gold must go. Again I said it; and fearful for my own life, yet caring nothing what they might do to me, I stepped forward and addressed them.

"This is your share and share alike, is it?" I cried--"the little bit that Joey Castle will not miss. Well, it's got to go overboard, my lads, and pretty soon about it. Nicolson, you're no fool; Barlow, you know how long the game can last. Do you want to live or die? It's come to that, as you pretty well see."

They heard me in sullen silence. A big wave catching the launch amidships heeled her so far over that I thought she would never recover. It threw Nicolson off his feet; and as he fell and turned over my own revolver dropped from his pocket. You need not ask me if I snatched it up. It was in my hand and smoking before ten seconds had passed. And there was one man less upon the launch.

So it came about. The great Irishman, standing ankle-deep in the gold, leaped out upon me when the launch righted herself. What quite happened I can scarcely tell you, but I know that I felt his colossal arms crushing the life out of me and that I saw it was his hour or mine. Then a report rang loud in my ears, and I was free once more; while the man tumbled backward, clutching at the air; and the sea engulfed him, and there were four in peril where five had been. From that moment the fear of God, I do believe, fell upon the others. They neither spoke nor stirred for many minutes together. The terrible wind howled its wildest--the heavens were black as night. I said that the sea was with me, and, crying out to them to save themselves, I began to drop the ingots overboard.

One by one, each a fortune to a poor man, we cast the gold bars into the ocean. That which would have meant so much to us ashore meant nothing here in the face of death and the storm. And yet I could not but think of the pleasures this very dross (as it seemed there upon the high seas) would give to many a home, to honest toilers and starving children in the great cities I had known. Nevertheless, it must be swallowed by the green water, lost for ever upon the bed of the Atlantic. And moment by moment the launch rose higher and higher upon the mountainous seas, like a bird that has been weighed down but now is free. I began to tell them that we should make Ascension Isle after all. I did not know that we should have no need to make it.

The last of the ingots had been cast overboard, the wind had begun to fall, when the British cruiser picked us up. There was no need for explanations. She had searched the _Oceanus_ at dawn and seized her treasure before Joey Castle could get what was left of it away. She knew that we had ingots for our cargo, and she followed us westward. We went aboard her to laugh at the chagrin of her commander and to show him our empty well.

"What you seek is a thousand fathoms down," said I, a little bitterly; "you don't need to ask me why."

"Mr. Lorimer," he cried, with a smile, "if all the gold in the world were in the same place, what a pleasant place this old globe would be to live on!"

I knew what he meant--but, after all, if men weren't cutting each other's throats for gold they would be doing the same for shells or silver or other rubbish, as any philosopher will tell you.

_Our Grandmothers' Fashion-Plates._

BY ARABELLA DRYSDALE-DAVIS.

What philosopher being propounded the query, "Which are the most popular pictures in the world?" could reply other than "Fashion-plates"? Are they not rapturously studied and admired weekly by millions of women? Do they not elicit the furtive interest--not unmingled, perhaps, with astonishment--of millions of men?

"Grotesque forecasts of ephemeral plumes and deciduous fig-leaves," as a famous novelist, Kingsley, called fashion-plates, are only an invention of less than a century and a quarter ago. A lady of the olden time, who wished to learn the very latest mode in skirts, bodices, hats, bonnets, or shoes, betook herself at certain seasons to her dressmaker, where dressed _poupées_ straight from Paris were on view. The making and dressing of these dolls was quite a business in the French capital before coloured fashion-plates came to oust them from favour in the closing years of Louis XVI.'s reign. Prior to this period drawings of fashionably-attired ladies had appeared from time to time in the magazines and periodicals devoted to the interests of the fair sex--such as the first in the present series, showing a lady in full dress for 1770--and these may have imparted to country cousins an idea of what was being worn in the Faubourg St. Germain and Mayfair--but the _beau monde_ never relied on these.

It is probable that the earliest coloured examples were produced in 1784-85. In the latter year the _Cabinet des Modes_ appeared in Paris, consisting of twenty-four parts annually, three coloured designs with each part. In England many years before we had had the _Lady's Magazine_, which had devoted much space to dress, but seems to have just missed the idea of fashion-plates, although its descriptions of current modes are often most diverting. "Dress," it says, in its very first number, "is like the sunshine introduced into the designs of Titian: it animates the figures and gives them all their embellishment."

"The hoop or circumference of charms," we read in 1785, "is a most essential part of contemporary costume. The magnificence of the full-dress hoop carries with it a most noble and majestic appearance, and I hope will never be given up or _hors de la mode_ as long as England can boast of such fine women as appear within the circle of a Drawing Room."

But the French Revolution burst into boudoirs and salons and "the hoop or circumference of charms" disappeared, and in the next few years was witnessed an entire change of style.

Here is a simple little afternoon dress for 1796: "The hair dressed in light curls and ringlets; Armenian turban, made of white and York flame-coloured satin, crossed in the front with two strings of pearls, and the ends trimmed with gold fringe; a white ostrich and a blue esprit feather on the left side; Armenian robe of embroidered muslin, the train with a broad hem; full short sleeves; trimming of blond round the neck and at the top of the sleeves; tucker of blond; gold cord with two large tassels round the waist, tied at the left side; two strings of pearls, and a festoon gold chain with a medallion round the neck; diamond earrings; white shoes and gloves."

In 1800 we read that the newest fashion is "a simple blue tunic, bound by tassels at the waist." "Nothing is now so elegant as a straw hat: they are worn either ornamented with the flower called convolvulus or coloured like a shell." "Ribbons are worn either clouded or striped; the latter are nankeen."

It is strange that, notwithstanding the horror which the conduct of the French had excited throughout Europe, and especially in England, there should be found any votaries of French fashions. It is even stranger that, while French modes were still worn with us, in France there was a general adoption, in 1802, of English fashions such as are shown herewith for that year. "The head-dress for undress," we read, "is frequently only a piece of muslin, sometimes enlivened with pearls. In full dress turbans are principally worn."

Our next illustration forecasts the fashions for 1806. "Never was there a period that exhibited a greater variety of female decorations than the present; and it is as difficult to find a costume to condemn as to describe one that has a decided preference." Nevertheless we find men's large beaver hats already in vogue. What will ladies of 1904 think of the following: "MORNING WALKING DRESS.--A plain muslin dress, walking length, made high in front and forms a shirt collar, richly embroidered; long sleeves, also embroidered round the wrists and at the bottom of the dress; a pelisse opera coat without any seam in back, composed of orange blossom tinged with brown, made of Angola cloth or sarsnet, trimmed with rich Chincheally fur, tipped with gold. The pelisse sets close to the form on one side, fastened on the right shoulder with a brooch."

It seems odd that there was ever a time when there were public defenders of false complexions for ladies; yet we find in _La Belle Assemblée_ for March, 1806, a writer pleading in favour of rouge, "which may be rendered extremely innocent, and may be applied with such art as sometimes to give an expression to the figure which it would never have without that auxiliary. The colour of modesty has many charms; and in an age when women blush so little ought we not to value this innocent artifice, which is capable at least of exhibiting to us the picture of modesty? We ought to be thankful to the sex which, in the absence of estimable virtue, knows at least how to preserve its portrait."

In this fashion-plate for 1809 we see a lady very coolly attired in a white jaconot frock--somewhat scanty and diaphanous--and rejoicing in a gorgeous parasol. Here is the exact description:--

"PROMENADE COSTUME.--A white jaconot muslin high dress, with long sleeves and collar of needlework; treble flounces of plaited muslin round the bottom; wrist and collar confined with a silk cord and tassel. The hair disposed in the Eastern style, with a fancy flower in front or on one side. A Vittoria cloak, or Pyrennean mantle, of pomona-green sarsnet, trimmed with Spanish fringe of a correspondent shade, and confined in graceful folds on the left shoulder. A white lace veil thrown over the head-dress. A large Eastern parasol, the colour of the mantle, with deep Chinese awning. Roman shoe, or Spanish slipper, of pomona-green kid, or jean. Gloves of primrose or amber-coloured kid."

One is perpetually surprised at the scantiness of the attire of those days. It offers such a contrast to the rotundity of the hoop or "circumference of fashion," or to the later crinoline. For 1809 bonnets have suddenly assumed gigantic dimensions--as in the picture herewith--but the question amongst the fair sex doubtless was, Will they last?

In turning over the thousands of fashion-plates of the first quarter of the last century one is constantly confronted by designs bearing such titles as "Costume for the Seaside," "Toilette for the Seaside," "Dress for the Seashore." Seaside in those days meant Margate, Weymouth, and Scarborough; and we naturally expect to find trim little frocks, accompanied by tight sailor hats, capable of withstanding the stiffest breeze. But instead of this we find transparent, flowing gossamers and top-lofty turbans, which would never weather the mildest gale.

About the same time we read: "As our families of rank are fast migrating either to their country seats or some fashionable watering-place, and as the Metropolis at this season offers little of novel elegance save an occasional display at Vauxhall, we shall follow the varying goddess to all her favourite haunts, and contemplate her fair votaries as they ramble on the sea-shore, saunter on the lawns, or lounge at the libraries, as they grace the _déjeuné_, animate the social party, or illume the theatre and ballroom."

Of our next illustration (1810) we may glean a notion from the following extract from a contemporary fashion letter:--

"Mantles and coats of green vigonia or merino cloth of various shades, from the sober hue of the Spanish fly to the more lively pea-green, have succeeded to the purple, which, though a colour most pleasing in itself, is now become too general to find a place in a select wardrobe. Scarlet cloaks are no longer seen on genteel women, except as wraps for the theatres; the satiated eye turns, overpowered by their universal glare, to rest on more chaste and more refreshing shades. Mantles and pelisses are now considered more elegant when trimmed with gold or silver lace, or binding; or with black velvet, bound or laid flat, and which is sometimes finished at its terminations with a narrow gold edging of flat braid. Some are decorated with borders of coloured chenille."

Albeit every year sees the attire growing less scanty--even the fashions for 1811 display more generous draperies; besides which the latter are flanked and reinforced by huge muffs now coming into vogue and recently made familiar to us in Mr. Barrie's play of "Quality Street." Accompanied, as they occasionally were, by huge beaver hats, these Gargantuan muffs--which must surely have required the pelts of more than one fox to produce, if not of an entire bear--demanded all the attention from their fair wearers, as well as from the gallants of the day. The next illustration shows a carriage dress, conveniently short, for 1811.

Coal-scuttle bonnets are likewise growing in favour, as may be seen by the picture at the top of this page. Still more interesting is the style of coiffure of the period. Nothing more fantastic, we venture to say, ever came out of the brain of the most imaginative coiffeur. We especially call the attention of those readers who inveigh against the over-elaboration of twentieth-century head-dressing to the rear view of the bottom right-hand elegant cranium. It resembles nothing more closely than a bouquet of turnips, carrots, and other homely vegetables.

When we approach the "twenties" we are fain to perceive more gravity in the fashions of the day. Indeed, nothing could well be more grave--we might even say more awkward--than the back view of the (doubtless) charming lady of the above illustration. It certainly does not suggest the lightness and lissom grace of the earlier designs. What a great change the fashions have undergone since 1809 may be seen by the plate for 1829.

Here we doubtless confront just such a pair of fashionable ladies as are described in the pages of Dickens, Bulwer, and Disraeli, with their Liliputian ruffs--which fortunately did not become a permanent fashion--their leg-of-mutton sleeves, and quintuple rows of lace "insertion." We are fain to speculate upon the countenance of one of these pre-Victorian young ladies, for it is wholly obscured by a magnificently-plumed "blush-concealer," as the coal-scuttle bonnets were facetiously called.

In order that our fair readers may have a peep at the dress of the juvenile portion of the community in that same year, we give a spirited drawing from a French fashion journal. The costume may perhaps hardly commend itself to the children of 1904, but it doubtless appeared quite appropriate to the mammas of the time, as well as to the artist. As to the artists of these fashion-plates, it must be remembered that they were usually struggling young painters and draughtsmen, who were glad to get work of this kind, and many of them afterwards became famous. Both Doré and Meisonier drew fashions for the magazines and _Cabinets des Modes_ of their day. Moreover, our own Hablot K. Browne ("Phiz") was responsible for many such, the accompanying plate for 1837 being attributed to him; while there is no doubt of John Leech's authorship of the fashion-plate for 1851, which we also reproduce.

Before we approach the "sixties," with their extraordinary revival of the hoop or crinoline fashion, we must remark on the extraordinary fashion-plate promulgated for the year 1854. What would the ladies say to such a tyrannical dictate of fashion to-day? It is inconceivable now; but many a fair dame and damsel seeing it in that year must inwardly have quaked with terror at the prospect of facing her beloved Adolphus in Bloomerian garb. Happily, the prophets proved false for once, and the fashion passed away, just as a year or two ago the threatened crinoline scare passed away with us. Crinoline had to run its course although not before it had been guilty of many enormities, as will be seen by the appended plate. The ladies' heads herein appear but as the apexes of pyramids; and the singular cut of the bodices and the rotundity of the young ladies' skirts appear to us, in this age, ludicrous.

On the whole, it may be our vanity and self-sufficiency, or it may be our superior taste; but to us it seems (and we trust the reader, on comparing these fashion-plates of our grandmothers with the last of our series that for 1904--will agree with us) that however our past generations dressed, and whatever Worth and Paquin have in store for the future, our English girl of the present has decidedly the best of the sartorial bargain.

(By courtesy of Messrs. Weldons, Ltd.)]

_A Willing Scape-Goat._

BY S. B. ROBINSON.

Jack Selden only half suppressed an exclamation of angry despair by a simulated fit of coughing, as he read at breakfast the solitary letter that had fallen to his share from the mail-bag. It was not pleasant reading: it was a thinly-veiled command to pay, within three days, a card and betting debt to the tune of two hundred pounds.

He raised his face, from which the colour had fled, and glanced furtively round at the other occupants of the table, as he crushed the letter into his pocket.

His father, Dr. Selden, a tall, grey, ascetic-looking man--blind for some years through a disease of the optic nerve--had not noticed the exclamation; neither had Madge Westbrook, his _fiancée_, a handsome girl, who chanced to be too deeply occupied with her duties of hostess, in the absence of Miss Selden, the doctor's sister. Cyril Wayne, a fair, resolute-looking young fellow of Jack's age, the doctor's amanuensis, was the only one of the trio who had perceived the trouble.

Jack dropped his eyes guiltily, and made a show of continuing his meal while he mentally reviewed the situation. It seemed to be a desperate one, and he cursed his fate. He could expect no assistance from his father. A college career that had resulted in nothing but heavy debts was too fresh in his memory for that. Jack had been told by his exasperated parent that never again would he receive assistance beyond his ample allowance; and, further, that the bulk of the property would go to Madge, the doctor's niece. Jack could only, in a sense, become his father's heir by marrying his cousin when she came of age.

At the time this arrangement had been made Madge had acquiesced to her share in it without any effort and, indeed, without much thought. It pleased her uncle, and that had been enough to decide her. As for Jack, he would have preferred a free hand; but since he was not to have it he consoled himself with the thought that Madge was a very presentable encumbrance.

But the arrival of Cyril Wayne at Highbank--the country residence which the doctor had occupied since his blindness--had opened a new chapter in Madge's uneventful life. The new-comer, intelligent, accomplished, masterful, made a startling contrast to the weak-willed, illiterate Jack, who was intellectually lost when he ventured outside the precincts of the stable.

The result of the companionship into which Madge and Cyril insensibly drifted was as inevitable as the course of time. There was no one to warn them of the danger. The doctor could not see it; Miss Selden was too deeply engrossed in her charities, and Jack in his own affairs. There came a moment then when the pair found out for themselves how imperceptible is the boundary sometimes that separates friendship and love. Madge discovered with horror that her thoughtless promise was repugnant to her, and Cyril that he was in love with another man's betrothed! The pleasant intercourse was broken from that moment, without a word of explanation on either side.

With Cyril Wayne this discovery could only have one result: he immediately commenced his preparations for leaving Highbank, sore in heart and self-respect.

This morning at breakfast Jack's stifled exclamation had warned him that some mischief was afoot, and he was anxious to know what it was. What concerned Jack concerned Madge, alas! When the meal was concluded, instead of at once following the doctor to his study he stepped through the open French window on to the terrace, where the _enfant prodigue_ had already preceded him.

He was standing at the stone balustrade reperusing his letter. When he heard Cyril's footsteps on the flags behind him he started, crushed the paper in his hand, and turned round.

"Jack, I want to speak to you for a few moments," said Cyril, as he advanced.

"What's up?" asked Jack, shortly. He thrust the letter into his pocket and took out his pipe.

"Well----" Cyril hesitated a moment to ransack his brain for some reasonable pretext; then it occurred to him that it was nearly a certainty his listener's trouble was a pecuniary one. To feign a like predicament for himself might evoke Jack's confidence.

"Well," said he, "I want you to lend me twenty-five pounds. I'm hard pressed for it at this moment."

Madge had approached the window to speak to Jack. She caught Cyril Wayne's remark, and, drawing back at once, turned away unperceived by both of the young men.

Jack fell an easy prey to the trap that had been laid for him. He gazed at Cyril in astonishment and let the match he had lighted die out in his hand.

"Lend you twenty-five pounds? Great Scot!" he exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Twenty-five pounds! You've come to the wrong shop this time, old man!" Then he suddenly lowered his voice and bent his head forward, anxiously. "Can you tell me where I can get just eight times that amount?" he asked. "I want it badly."

"Oh! So that is the reason for the letter you received just now?"

Jack nodded his head and flushed.

"Two hundred pounds!" exclaimed Cyril, aghast. "Let me hear the whole business," he continued. "I can't lend you the money, but I may be able to suggest something."

It was the same old story of betting and cards. Cyril had heard it all before, in the same stumbling phraseology of contrition. "And the brute gives me only three days--three days, or he will write to the governor," concluded Jack, turning suddenly savage.

"Then forestall him," replied Cyril, "for as far as I can see there is no remedy but to ask your father to help you out of the mire once more."

"Ask the governor? You can just bet I sha'n't do that," said Jack, sullenly. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared hard at the ground.

"Then, no money-lenders," replied Cyril. "It will only make bad worse. Come!" He caught Jack by the arm. "Make a clean breast of it to your father. He has much more than the sum you require in the house at present, and you may not find him so difficult as you imagine."

Jack started. More money than he required for his wants in the house! So near him! Oh, if he only had it! He shook his arm free with impatience.

"No, no, I sha'n't do that," said he.

"Very well," said Cyril. "But you will do nothing without consulting me? Is that understood?"

Jack nodded his head and, turning quickly, stared blindly across the fields that sloped and stretched from the terrace. He didn't see them. His brain was working just then as it had never worked before. Cyril's words about the money had raised a sudden storm of temptation in him which seemed to carry him out of himself. He must try to think--to decide.

At midnight Cyril turned in, but could not sleep; his thoughts were too busily occupied with Madge, Jack, and the present uncertainty of his own future. He had heard the clock in the little sitting-room adjoining chime every hour from midnight to three. Then a strange thing happened. As he lay broad awake in the dark, a slender pencil of yellow light stole across the carpet from his door. Jack's room was next to his. He heard no sound in the corridor, though he sat up in his bed and listened intently. The pencil of light remained stationary a few moments, then wavered, and finally, sweeping slowly round the room, disappeared.

Something prompted Cyril to rise and investigate. Putting on his dressing-gown and slippers, he noiselessly crossed his room and looked out. The feeble yellow light was dancing on the ceiling of the corridor, but the bearer of it, unseen, was already descending the broad oak staircase.

Cyril hurried quietly along the corridor and, looking over the balustrade, saw Jack. He was at the foot of the stairs, and about to enter the lower corridor.

Cyril remained where he was in the darkness a few moments, when the light began to reappear and a cool breath of air swept up the stair.

Jack must have opened the French window which gave access to the garden. He now approached the foot of the stair with stealthy tread; but, instead of mounting it, he passed on in the direction of the other wing.

Cyril felt instinctively that something was wrong, and descending the stairs he followed in Jack's wake. Turning the corner of the corridor he was just in time to see the young man insert a key in the lock of the study door, and then enter.

By the time Cyril had arrived Jack had placed his candle on the writing-table and was stooping, with his back to the door, in front of his father's safe, which he had just opened.

This safe was of peculiar construction. For the convenience of the doctor it opened by means of the simple pressure of a small button in the wainscot. But the room in itself was a safe, for the door was of steel with a powerful lock, and the one window was heavily shuttered within and barred without.

All unconscious of a watcher, Jack was cautiously engaged in disconnecting the wires switched on to an alarm in the doctor's room above, when Cyril, unable to contain his feelings any longer, stepped forward.

"Jack!" he exclaimed, sternly, "what is the meaning of this?"

Jack bounded to his feet in horror. His hand fell nervelessly from the stud he had been manipulating, and, catching in one of the drawers, drew it partially open. It was sufficient to actuate the mechanism. A faint whirr in the room above responded to the movement of the drawer; and at the same time the study door, as if impelled by an invisible hand, swung quickly to and closed with a faint click.

The two young men were prisoners. There was no means of egress except by the door, and that could only be opened now from the outside. The doctor's burglar trap had fulfilled its purpose admirably.

For the space of two or three moments the pair stood motionless facing each other, Jack had gripped the back of the doctor's study chair and was staring with haggard eyes at the door. Then suddenly, with a half-frenzied exclamation, he threw himself at it and tore desperately with his fingers at its smooth, hard surface. It was of no use. He fell back with a groan of despair and, dropping heavily into a chair, covered his face with his hands.

"Good Heaven! My father!--Madge! What will they think of me?" said he, hoarsely, as he passed his hand over his damp forehead. "Oh, I must have been mad--mad!"

Cyril Wayne looked down at the wretched Jack, half pitying, half despising him. Was this crouching, would-be thief to become Madge's husband? What a match! Was it not for the best that the innocent girl should be undeceived before it was too late? But the cruelty of it! He shrank involuntarily from the idea of witnessing the death-blow that was to be dealt at her affection. He pictured to himself a misery, an anguish, a hundred-fold greater than this cowering wretch was capable of feeling. Oh, it was impossible!

"Jack!" said he, stooping suddenly and shaking the abject figure by the shoulder. "Look up, man! Do you hear?"

Jack lifted his head and stared at Cyril stupidly.

"Just collect your wits and listen to me," said Cyril, imperiously, as he fixed Jack's gaze with his own. "If you get out of this scrape scot-free--you understand?"--Jack nodded hungrily--"will you swear never to touch a card or back a horse again?"

"Get out of it? Oh, Wayne--Cyril, old man, how? How?" implored Jack, with trembling lips, half rising from his seat.

Cyril pushed him back impatiently. "That is not the answer I want," said he. He repeated his question. "Do you swear?" he asked. "Quick! Quick, man! I can hear footsteps. A moment more and it won't matter what you say."

"Yes, yes, I swear, I swear!" repeated Jack, fervently, as he gulped down something that had risen in his throat.

"Very good!" Cyril's grasp closed like a steel vice on his shoulder. "Jack Selden," continued the young man, sternly, "what I am going to do I shall do for Madge's--your cousin's--sake; but if you fail to keep that oath you have just made, do you know that you will be the meanest, pitifullest hound that ever walked God's earth? If you _do_ fail--" he paused, "well, never cross my path, that's all. Now rouse up. Look like yourself, man; they are here."

It was true. There was a sound of slippered feet outside the study door. Jack rose from his chair and stood behind it, his face drawn, his eyes roving. He felt sick with the fear clutching at his heart.

"Not a word from you," whispered Cyril, rapidly; "leave everything to me."

There was the sharp click of a pistol-trigger outside; a pause; and then the study door was flung wide open. In the corridor stood the doctor and Madge alone. The latter was holding a candle above her head in her left hand; with her right she pointed a revolver.

"You may give up. There is no escape. If you move you will be shot down without mercy," said the doctor, rapidly. "How many, Madge?"' he added, in a lower tone.

Madge had with great difficulty checked the exclamation that had risen to her lips as her glance fell on Cyril and Jack. Both arms dropped to her side. What did this mean? Her startled, questioning glance dwelt on each of the young men alternately, but no explanation came. They stood before her like two statues. Jack hung his head; he could not even face his father's sightless eyes. Cyril looked at her, silent, calm, and speechless.

"How many, Madge?" repeated the doctor, impatiently.

"Two," she gasped, with a great effort.

"Do you recognise them?"

There was a momentary pause. Jack trembled so violently that his grasp shook the chair he held. He felt that his fate hung on Madge's lips, and his torture was exquisite. Cyril did not blench.

Again Madge swept the faces of the two young men with her keen, questioning glance. Still no attempt at explanation! Oh, this obstinate silence! Jack's shrinking figure, Cyril's cool hardihood, were convincing proofs of guilt. Know them! Know _them_! The cowardly thieves! She coloured hotly; her eyes flashed, and her lips curled with the intensest scorn.

"No, I do not," she replied.

With a sudden and unexpected movement the doctor closed the door with a crash. He rubbed his hands excitedly.

"We have them, Madge; we have them safe, the scoundrels," said he. "Like rats in a trap! Now to get Wayne and Jack, at once, to secure them."

There was a choking sob at his side. Madge had turned and laid her forehead against the wall; the hot tears were coursing down her cheeks. The doctor heard her, and reaching forward caught a hand that was hanging limply down.

"Why, why, my dear!" said he, with sudden compunction, as he felt Madge's fingers trembling in his grasp. "It was too bad of me to put you to such a trial. I ought to have waited for Wayne and Jack. I didn't stop to think. Your nerves are shaken, and no wonder. There! there!"

No wonder, indeed! They went upstairs side by side, Madge scarcely hearing, and still less heeding, the doctor's flow of exculpation.

When they reached the doctor's room the old man wished Madge to rest there while he went to call his son and secretary and alarm the house generally. But to this proposal Madge objected with astonishing energy. She herself would go and no one else. She was quite recovered now and did not feel the slightest fear. Would he promise her to remain quietly in his room until she returned with the others?

The doctor reluctantly yielded his consent, and then Madge slipped from the room with a wildly beating heart. Instead, however, of turning along the corridor towards the rooms occupied by Cyril, Wayne and Jack, she swiftly descended the stairs, and reaching the study door flung it wide open.

"Come!" said she, addressing Jack--she did not look at Cyril--"your father sent me to your room to call you--to your _room_!" She paused a moment, and then continued, with flashing eyes and a bitter emphasis: "Oh, deceive him still, if you can! If you can keep him from learning to what you have fallen, do so! You need expect no opposition from me--for his sake, but never, never, dare to speak to me again!"

"Jack is not to blame in the least," said Cyril, quietly. "I am the culprit; he is as innocent as you are, Miss Westbrook."

Madge started and blanched; that coolly-worded confession seemed to stab her like a knife. Then like lightning there flashed across her brain the request she had overheard for a loan of twenty-five pounds. Oh, this was all so horrible--so incomprehensible! Jack had lifted his head as Cyril spoke, but had quickly let it fall again.

"Jack followed me, only to watch me," continued Cyril, in the same even tones. "He was caught by the closing of the door when I opened the drawer--you know how it works--that is all as far as he is concerned. I throw myself on your mercy, Miss Westbrook. I offer no useless excuses. If I dared ask a favour of you I would say, keep my secret--at least until I am free of Highbank."

Madge paused a moment, overwhelmed; then she turned on him with passionate scorn. "Oh, how you have deceived us! Then all the time you have been here you were only a thief--a common thief, at heart. Oh!"--she waved her hand with a gesture of horror--"you acted well as a pretender, a masquerader, a specious, lying counterfeit of honesty." She turned to her cousin: "Jack! Jack! speak!"

"For Heaven's sake, Madge, don't go on so. I--I can't stand it, I tell you," exclaimed Jack, violently. "I--I----"

"Hush! hush! There is no need to say anything further," broke in Cyril, hastily. "Miss Westbrook will keep silence, I am sure. I only ask for a few hours' grace."

Madge swept out of the study without another word. Cyril pushed the reluctant Jack and then followed him. At the doctor's door Madge left them and, her heart broken with passion, sought her room. The old man had been awaiting the arrival of the young men in a fever of impatience. The first excitement consequent on the capture of the burglars having subsided somewhat, he had had time to reflect. It had occurred to him then that the thieves must have effected their entrance by the study door; they could scarcely have done so by the window. In this case they had, he thought, probably entered by means of a skeleton key and had escaped in the same manner.

It was a pitiful, distasteful farce to Cyril, but it had to be acted through to the finale. The birds had flown, of course, and equally of course by the French window found open in the corridor.

Search parties were sent out, and Cyril wondered with a pang what could be Madge's feelings as the flickering lights wandered to and fro in the garden on their wild-goose chase.

The next day Madge did not leave her room, and Cyril Wayne, feeling that he was the cause, hastened his departure. One more lie, he bitterly told himself, and his career of deception was concluded. It was an intense relief, sore as his heart might be, to get away as far as possible from Highbank. He had spent there the happiest and the most painful hours of his existence.

* * * * *

In less than a fortnight after Cyril's departure Jack Selden was watching, with a feeling of considerable satisfaction, from the deck of a "liner," the English coast-line fading in the distance. His debts had been paid and a hardly-won consent obtained to try the experiment of sheep-farming in Australia. His father, aunt and Madge had accompanied him to Tilbury Docks; and Jack was wondering vaguely, as he puffed his cigar and the summer night gathered round, what Madge was at that precise moment thinking of him.

Before leaving he had written a letter for Madge, which she would have received on her return to the hotel from the docks. In it Jack had done full justice to Cyril Wayne. He had concealed nothing relating to the crime which he had so nearly committed, and which Cyril, to shield him, had so quixotically taken upon his own shoulders. In conclusion he had begged Madge to keep his secret from his father, and to consider that as far as he, Jack, was concerned she was free.

Madge had found Jack's letter on her dressing-table, and had read its frank out-pouring with quickened pulse, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes. What a dull, crushing weight it had suddenly lifted from her heart! She did not attempt to analyze her feelings, but the crime seemed nearly trivial now that she knew it was Jack's. And then an uncontrollable desire seized her to make amends to Cyril. Jack had evidently anticipated this; for, with wonderful thoughtfulness, he had supplied the address, and Madge recognised with a thrill that it was not distant more than five minutes' walk from the spot where she was at that moment standing.

Should she write to Cyril or should she go to him? A moment's thought decided that question. The cruel words she had used could only be withdrawn personally; so, without bestowing a moment's reflection on the proprieties, she crushed Jack's precious epistle in her hand and, hurrying down the stairs, left the hotel.

It was with a beating heart that she presently found herself at the house where Cyril was living. He was acting as _locum tenens_ for a friend who was enjoying his holiday abroad. The servant, thinking she was a late patient, ushered her into a little waiting-room, and from there, a few moments later, into the consulting-room. Cyril, who was standing at the window, turned and started in astonishment as he recognised her.

"What! Miss Westbrook!" he exclaimed, as he hurried forward. "The doctor----?"

Madge held out her hand impulsively.

"No," said she; and then, without further preamble, she plunged tumultuously into the reason that had brought her there.

"I have come to beg your pardon. Oh, you must forgive me for what--what I said. I'm so sorry--oh, so sorry; but I couldn't help it. Please read this before you say anything."

She thrust Jack's letter into Cyril's hand. The young man took it, glanced at the super-scription, and flushed.

"Ah! so Jack has betrayed me!" said he, as he commenced to read. "And you are not angry at my deception?" He looked into her eager, appealing face. "It is I who must ask forgiveness, but----"

"But you hurt me very much indeed," broke in Madge. "You should not have done it; no, you should not. I said things--I misjudged you, because you--oh, you had disappointed me--wounded me so much." Her eyes grew humid and her last words faltered and fell almost to a whisper.

"I--I thought the end justified the means," stammered Cyril. He scarcely knew what to say. He turned to the letter again.

There followed a momentary silence while Cyril read on. Suddenly his heart bounded wildly, and the writing swam before his eyes as he came to Jack's declaration of freedom. He dropped the letter and turned to her.

"Miss Westbrook--Madge--tell me--you must! Did you love him?"

"I--I had promised," she whispered, with drooping eyelids.

"Promised! Promised! Only promised? I always thought you loved him," exclaimed Cyril.

Madge did not reply, but the colour surged sudden and warm into her half-averted cheek.

"My dear! my dear!" said he, passionately, as he caught both her hands in his. "It was I that loved you after all--not Jack. I deceived you for your sake, not for his. What could I do? Could I see you suffer? I have loved you from the first, but I never thought to tell you this. Is it useless for me to do so now? Madge, dear, is it? Is it?"

There was no reply, but as he drew her unresisting form towards him he read his answer in her uplifted, happy eyes.

By S. K. LUDOVIC.

_From the Painting by F. Charderon._

By permission of Braun, Clément, & Co.]

Childhood's joys and childhood's sorrows, its beauty, and even its little frailties--in fact, everything connected with the dawn of life, has its own especial charm. It is, perhaps, not given to all of us to detect with a sympathetic eye the picturesque in a very naughty young person, who hits at every moment on a fresh idea to make his fellow-creatures uncomfortable: nor is the spectacle of children in their best-loved state of dirty happiness too pleasing to the average observer. But the artist's eye sees things differently. Happily so; his imaginative brain sees the humour of the little self-assertions, and the pathetic side of the joy of living even in the gutter. Yet, after all is said, it remains, of course, a certain truth that there are many aspects of child-life which can only in reality be fully understood by mothers.

The subject of our first picture--"Asleep," by the French painter, F. Charderon--is a little masterpiece of its kind. There may be prettier children than this one, but the natural and unconscious grace of the little warm and rosy body is infinitely charming.

Charming, too, is the face in the medallion in the heading of this article--the face of a child-angel, which seems to watch over the figure of the human child asleep below. It is taken from a painting by Bernardo Strozzi.

_From the Painting by Schwentzen._

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.]

The picture reproduced above, entitled "Flower of the Heath," by the German painter, Schwentzen, is another delightful study. It is that of a child wandering alone over a flowery plain--or not quite alone, for she is accompanied by a shaggy terrier, who carries in his mouth a basket, from which protrudes a bottle. That bottle, as often happens with accessories of a picture which may seem quite unimportant at first sight, is not there for nothing. It tells, or at least elucidates, the story of the picture. The little girl has been the bearer of her father's dinner, and is returning through the flowering heather, filling her apron with blossoms as she goes. The whole picture--sunny landscape, flowers, dog, and child--is full of delicate power and subtle charm.

The three child-heads in the medallions above given must not be passed without a word of notice. The upper one is by Gainsborough, and a more winsome and delightful little face it is impossible to imagine. That on the right is from the same picture--the two children being named respectively Habbenal and Ganderetta. The head in the medallion on the left-hand side is from the portrait of James, the young Earl of Salisbury, by Kneller.

We come now to a picture full of pathetic meaning--"Tired Gleaners"--by our well-known English painter, Mr. Fred Morgan. They look so poor and sad, these pretty little girls, who have at the very outset of life already known so much of its hardship. The elder one has a mother's instinct of kindly care for the weaker little sister; her face expresses the self-forgetting resignation of a life filled with love for others. The little one, more beautiful than the elder sister, is one of those beings who are in all stations of life predestined to be loved and cared for. A whole touching life-story is in these two children's faces--beautiful but sad.

_From the Painting by Fred Morgan._

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.]

The examples which have been selected to fill the medallions given in this article comprise illustrations of children's heads contained in some of the most celebrated pictures in the world. It is impossible in a limited space to give an adequate idea of the beauty and charm with which the old masters have immortalized childhood--or perhaps it would be more accurate to say babyhood, since the great majority are representations of the Child with the Madonna, and, though varying in age from a few weeks upwards, the infant is seldom shown as older than a year or two at most. These studies of what may, in a double sense, be called the divinity of childhood differ widely according to the nationality of the painter. As we shall see presently, in some of the examples given in these pages farther on, we can enumerate among the artists of this country certain painters, such as Gainsborough and Reynolds, who as delineators of child-life and character are not easily excelled. There are those, however, who would say that in this respect the Italian masters have never been surpassed. Raphael's child-head of Christ from the painting entitled the "Madonna Aldobrandini," which is reproduced in the first medallion above, will through all ages illustrate, perhaps without a rival, the mission of the eternally beautiful--the dignity of innocence, the holiness of love. Bernardo Strozzi, later than Raphael, painted a human child in the arms of the Holy Virgin. It is reproduced in the right-hand medallion above. The childish charm and smile are most alluring. Here we find an allegory of Christianity; but it is not, like the child's head in Raphael's "Madonna Aldobrandini," an allegory of the divinity.

_By Fred Morgan._

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.]

Here is another of Mr. Fred Morgan's studies of child-life--a study notable for its expression of unreflecting and unconscious happiness. To be five years old and to play hide-and-seek among the blossoms, to feel them closing you in entirely, so that you can only just peep through and see with joy the others pass your hiding-place, to hold back the flowery branches and save with the other hand the little frock from the thorns--what pleasure! And there, right over head, is baby heard crowing; she comes nearer and nearer, held high above the flowers and thorns by her strong elder sister. She is sure to catch you! Can one ever feel in after years such delight, excitement, and suspense?

_By Louise Jopling. From a Photo. by H. Dixon._]

In the picture entitled "For Mother's Birthday," by Louise Jopling, a large-eyed little maiden is seen carrying so huge a jar of flowers that she can scarcely hold it. The painter of this picture must be a lover of children; only those who are sensitive to the charm of children can observe their characteristics with so much acuteness. The little girl is so prim and tidy, her best frock and hair-ribbon have been put on with such care, the suppressed excitement and the consciousness of the great importance of the event are so well expressed in her closed mouth, in the fixed gaze of the eyes, that we feel that the painter has caught the fleeting moment to perfection. The next instant that spell of solemnity will be broken, when her mother will have received her birthday present and will have taken her in her arms and kissed her: and the child's expression, as she goes dancing back to the nursery, no longer with the measured steps with which she left it, will be, though not less child-like, the opposite in kind.

_From the Painting by A. Dieffenbach._

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.]