If he could read a copy of the "Life of Sternhold Baskette," perhaps he might be able to get a better understanding of the facts.

He deeply regretted now that he had not purchased a copy, as he might have done so easily at Stirmingham, on the stall of the itinerant bookseller. Then he had a little money; now he had none.

He called his landlady, took up his great coat, and gave it to her-- could she sell it? She looked it over, found many faults, but finally went out with it. In half an hour she returned with eighteen shillings.

Aymer had given three pounds for it just before his wedding-day. He paid the old lady her half-crown, and hurried back to Holywell Street.

The book he wanted, however, was not so easily to be found. All had heard of it--but no one had it.

In time he was directed to a man who dealt in genealogical works, sold deeds, autographs, and similar trash. Here he found the book, and had a haggle for it, finally securing it for seven shillings and sixpence; the fellow would have been glad of three shillings, for it had been on his shelves for years, but Aymer was burning with impatience. In the preface he found a scanty account of the Sibbolds, not one-fifth as much as he had reckoned upon, for the book was devoted to Sternhold, the representative man of the Baskettes. There was, however, a pretty accurate narrative of the murder of Will Baskette, and from that Aymer incidentally obtained much that he wanted. Reflecting upon the murder, and trying to put himself in Arthur Sibbold's place, Aymer arrived at a nearly perfect conception of the causes which led him to bury himself, as it were, out of sight.

One of two things was clear--either Arthur Sibbold had actually partic.i.p.ated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved for ever to abandon the home of his ancestors.

Probably he had travelled as far as possible from the scene of the murder--perhaps to London (this was the case)--got employment, and, being successful, finally married into the Waldron family, and changed his name. He would naturally be reticent about his ancestors. The next generation would forget all about it, and the third would never think to inquire.

Had the vast estate been in existence before Arthur Sibbold's death, most probably he would have made himself known; but it was clear that it had not grown to one-fiftieth part of its present magnificence till long after.

The silence of Arthur Sibbold, and Arthur Sibbold's descendant, was thus readily and reasonably accounted for. Reading further, Aymer came to the bargain which Sternhold Baskette had made with the sons of James Sibbold, and of their transhipment to America. Here the legal knowledge that he had picked up in the office of Mr Broughton enabled him to perceive several points that would not otherwise have occurred to him.

That transaction was obviously null and void, if at the time it was concluded either Arthur Sibbold, or Arthur Sibbold's descendants, were living. They were the lawful owners of the old farm at Wolf's Glow, and of the Dismal Swamp, and it was impossible for James Sibbold's children to transfer the estate to another person. All then that it was necessary to prove was that Violet was the direct descendant of Arthur Sibbold, and her claim would be at once irresistible. Then it occurred to him that at the family council he had often heard mention made of a certain deed of entail which was missing, and for which the members of the Sibbold detachment had offered large sums of money.

The long, long hours and days that he had spent in the Sternhold Hall chronicling the proceedings of the council, and which he had at the time so heartily hated soon proved of the utmost value. He could at once understand what was wanted, and perceive the value of the smallest link of evidence. Here was one link obviously wanting--the deed. Without that deed the descent of Violet from Arthur Sibbold was comparatively of small account. It was possible that even then she might be a co-heiress; but without that deed--which specially included female heiresses--she would not be able to claim the entire estate. Yet even then, as the direct descendant of the elder brother, her claim would be extremely valuable, and far more likely to succeed than the very distant chance of the American Sibbolds or Baskettes, all of whom laboured under the disadvantage that their forefathers had sold their birthright for a mess of pottage. Another and far more serious difficulty which occurred to him as he thought over the matter, far into the night, was the absence of proof of Arthur Sibbold's marriage. It was clear from the little book whose notes had opened his eyes, that the register of the church at Bury Wick, World's End, had been searched, and no record found. His memorandum of the advertis.e.m.e.nt of change of name described Arthur Sibbold as of Middles.e.x; the marriage therefore might have taken place in London. Probably Sibbold had met the Miss Waldron he had afterwards married in town. Where then was he to find the register of marriage? Middles.e.x was a wide definition. How many churches were there in Middles.e.x? What a Herculean labour to search through them all!

He was too much excited to sleep. Despite of all these drawbacks--the disappearance of the deed, and the absence of the marriage certificate-- there was no reasonable doubt that Violet was the heiress of the Stirmingham estates. The difficulties that were in the way appeared to him as nothing; he would force his way through them. She should have her rights--and then! He would search every church in London till he did find the register of Arthur Sibbold's marriage. It must be in existence somewhere. If it was in existence he would find it. Towards two o'clock in the morning he fell asleep, and, as a result, did not wake till ten next day. Hurrying to his daily task, he was met with frowns and curses for neglect, and venturing to remonstrate, was discharged upon the spot.

Here seemed an end at once to all his golden dreams. He walked back into the City, and pa.s.sing along Fleet Street, was stopped for a moment by a crowd of people staring into the window of a print and bookshop, and talking excitedly. A momentary curiosity led him to press through the crowd, till he could obtain a view of the window. There he saw-- wonder of wonders--one of his own sketches, an ill.u.s.tration from his book, greatly enlarged, and printed in colours. It was this that had attracted the crowd. The humour and yet the pathos of the picture--the touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin--had gone straight to their hearts. On every side he heard the question, "Whose is it?"--"Who drew it?"--"What's the artist's name?" Then the t.i.tle of the book was repeated, and "Who's it by?"--"Who wrote it?"--"I'll get a copy! Third Edition already--it must be good."

Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened (it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced to turn over a leaf of the MS, which was lying where Aymer had left it, on the publisher's wide desk. This man had a world-wide reputation, and feared no compet.i.tor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was greatly struck with the sketches.

"This man will make hid fortune," he said. "Why on earth do you let the book lie here mouldering?"

The publisher said nothing, but next day the ma.n.u.script was put in hand, hurried out, and well advertised. The first and second edition sold out in a week, and Aymer heard nothing of it till accident led him into the crowd round the shop window in Fleet Street.

It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher's with a glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition.

Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible--the booksellers had not paid yet--the expense had been enormous-- advertising, etc, there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser--the clerk who had told him to publish at his own risk. This man, or rather gentleman, said he had expected him for days, and wondered why he had not come.

"Wait till one o'clock," said he, "and I will accompany you."

At one they revisited the offices of the publisher. The upshot was that Aymer was presented with a cheque for fifty pounds, being his own forty pounds, and ten pounds additional.

"Now," said his friend, "you call on my employers--I will mention your name--and offer them a work you have in hand."

Aymer did so, and obtained a commission to write a work for them, to be ill.u.s.trated by himself, and was presented with a twenty-pound note as earnest-money. Thus in a few hours, from a penniless outcast, he found himself with seventy pounds in his pocket--with a name, and with a prospect of constant and highly remunerative employment. If this continued, and of course it would--not all his disappointments could quench his faith in his destiny--he would marry Violet almost immediately. With this money he could search out, and establish her claim; he would employ her own late employer, Mr Broughton. He was anxious to write to Violet, but he had not tasted food that day yet. He entered a restaurant and treated himself to a really good dinner, with a little of the generous juice of the grape. Towards five o'clock he sat himself down in his old room to write to Violet, and to Mr Broughton.

He wrote and wrote and wrote, and still he could not conclude; his heart was full, and he knew that there was a loving pair of eyes which would read every line with delight. First about his book--sending, of course, two copies by the same post--one for Violet, one for Lady Lechester-- telling Violet of the excitement it had caused, of the crowd in the street, of the anxiety to learn the author's name, of the first, second, third edition, and the fourth in the press. Was it to be wondered at that he dilated upon this subject?

Then he told her of his troubles, of his work at the wharf, and explained why he had not written, and finally came to the discovery that Violet was the heiress of Stirmingham. He had a difficult task to explain to her how this arose; he had to review the whole history of the case in as short a compa.s.s as possible, and to put the links of evidence clearly, so that a non-technical mind could grasp them. He finished with a declaration of his intention to spare neither trouble, time, nor expense to establish Violet's right; he would search every church register in London; she should ride in her carriage yet. If only poor Jason had been alive to rejoice in all this!

This was the same man, remember, who not many weeks before had written to Violet from Stirmingham in the midst of the turmoil of the election, expressing his deep sense of the responsibility that must of necessity fall upon the owner of that marvellous city; he would not be that man for worlds. The self-same man was now intent on nothing less than becoming, through Violet, the very thing he had said he would not be at any price. Still the same omnipotent circ.u.mstances over which we have no control, and which can alter cases, and change the whole course of man's nature.

To Broughton he wrote in more businesslike style. He could not help triumphing a little after the other's positive prophecy of his failure; he sent him also a copy of the third edition. But the ma.s.s of his letter referred to Violet's claim upon the estate, and went as fully into details as he could possibly do. He referred Mr Broughton to the number and date of the Barnham newspaper, which contained the advertis.e.m.e.nt of Arthur Sibbold's change of name. Would Mr Broughton take up the case?

Who can trace the wonderful processes of the mind, especially when that mind is excited by unusual events, by unusual indulgence, and by a long previous course of hard thinking? That evening Aymer treated himself to the theatre, and saw his beloved Shakespeare performed for the first time. It was _Hamlet_--the greatest of all tragedies. Who can tell?

It may be that the intricate course of crime and bloodshed, he had seen displayed upon the stage, had preternaturally excited him; had caused him to think of such things. Perhaps the wine he had taken--a small quant.i.ty indeed, but almost unprecedented for him--had quickened his mental powers. Be it what it might, towards the grey dawn Aymer dreamt a dream--inchoate, wild, frenzied, horrible, impossible to describe.

But he awoke with the drops of cold perspiration upon his forehead, with a great horror clinging to him, and he asked himself the question--Who murdered Jason Waldron, true heir to Stirmingham city? His legal knowledge suggested the immediate reply--Those who had an interest and a motive so to do. The man who had an interest was--John Marese Baskette.

There was not a shadow of proof, but Aymer rose that morning weighed down with the firm moral conviction that it was he and no other who had instigated the deed. He recalled to his mind the circ.u.mstances of that mysterious crime--a crime which had never been even partially cleared up. He thought of Violet--his Violet--the next heir. Oh, G.o.d! if she were taken too. Should he go down to her at once? No; it was the fancy of his distempered mind. He would conquer it. She was perfectly safe at The Towers; and yet Marese came their sometimes. No; where could she be safer than amid that household and troop of servants? But he wrote and hinted his dark suspicions to her; warned her to be on her guard.

This, he said, he was determined upon--he would establish her right, and he would punish the murderer of poor Jason. That very day he had commenced his search among the churches.

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

When Aymer's first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with pleasure.

His triumph was her triumph--his fame her fame--and in the excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered every obstacle. As she had read Marese's letters to Agnes, so it was only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her.

Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible--a marvel undreamt of.

Marese was the heir--there could not be two--and in Marese she was personally interested. Together they re-read that portion of Aymer's letter, and wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his conclusions--but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the ident.i.ty?

The whole thing appeared so strange and _bizarre_, that Agnes said she really thought he must be romancing--drawing on his imagination, as he had in the book she held in her hand.

Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once telling her that her great-grandfather's name was Sibbold, or something like that--she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it, because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of time, that may be bridged by three or four persons' successive memories.

He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or Sibald, and _he_ again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought at Culloden in '45. If it had not been for that circ.u.mstance, the name would have escaped her altogether.

The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be the heir if this were the case--perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never been mentioned at the family council--surely that was in itself sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese--to herself--to credit such nonsense. Aymer must be ill--over-excited.

Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward struggle had warped her nature--as if in vigorously, aggressively defending Marese, she was defending herself.

The incident caused a coolness between them--the first that had sprung up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of engulfing them in the seething waters of contention.

In the morning came Aymer's second letter, imputing the worst of all crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation.

Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole scene pa.s.sed again before her eyes--the terrible scene in the dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out--the pool of blood upon the carpet--Jason's head lying helplessly against the back of the armchair--the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full force, and she reproached herself with a too ready forgetfulness--reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by Aymer--the interest, the motive--seemed irresistible. Not for a moment did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name--it was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt.

A great horror fell upon her--a horror only less great than had fallen that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her father's murderer--she had eaten at the same table--she had shaken hands with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and abhorrence, there rose a horror--almost a fear. Next to being in the presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most awful. She could not stay at The Towers--she could not remain, when at any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his actual hands--the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter dislike to The Towers fell upon her--a hatred of the place. It seemed as if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to a.s.sociate with the one person of all others whom love, duty, religion-- all taught her to avoid. She must go--no matter where. She had a little money--the remnant left after all. Jason's debts had been paid-- only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. Mr Merton had sent it to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place which was still hers; but no, that could not be--she could not, could not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the very walls.

She would go to some small village where living was cheap; where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would keep her-- till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated to write to him--she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of necessaries to give her luxuries.

That very day she set to work to pack her trunk, pausing at times to ask herself if she should, or should not, tell Lady Agnes that her lover was a murderer. Well she knew that Agnes would draw herself up in bitter scorn--would not deign even to listen to her--and yet it was wrong to let her go on in the belief that Marese Baskette was the soul of honour.

Clearly it was her duty to warn Agnes of the terrible fate which hung over her--to warn her from accepting a hand stained with the blood of an innocent, unoffending man. One course was open to her, and upon that she finally decided--it was to leave a note for Agnes, enclosing Aymer's letter.

It was Agnes' constant practice to go for a drive about three in the afternoon; Violet usually accompanied her. This day she feigned a headache, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight sent for the groom, and asked him to take her to the railway station.

The man at once got the dog-cart ready, and in half an hour, with her trunk behind her, Violet was driving along the road. She would not look back--she would not take a last glance at that horrible place. The groom, in a respectful manner, hoped that Miss Waldron was not going to leave them--she had made herself liked by all the servants at The Towers. She said she must, and offered him a crown from her slender store. The man lifted his hat, but refused to take the money.

This incident touched her deeply--she had forgotten that, in leaving The Towers, she might also leave hearts that loved her. The groom wished to stay and get her ticket, but she dismissed him, anxious that he should not know her destination. Two hours afterwards she alighted at a little station, or "road," as it was called. "Belthrop Road" was two and a half miles from Belthrop village; but she got a boy to carry her trunk, and reached the place on foot just before dusk.

On the outskirts of Belthrop dwelt an old woman who in her youth had lived at World's End, and had carried Violet in her arms many and many a time. She married, and removed to her husband's parish, and was now a widow.

Astonished beyond measure, but also delighted, the honest old lady jumped at Violet's proposal that she should be her lodger. The modest sum per week which Violet offered seemed in that outlying spot a mine of silver. Hannah Bond was only afraid lest her humble cottage should be too small--she had really good furniture for a cottage, having had many presents from the persons she had nursed, and particularly prided herself upon her feather beds. Here Violet found an asylum--quiet and retired, and yet not altogether uncomfortable. Her only fear was lest Aymer should be alarmed, and she tried to devise some means of a.s.suring him of her safety, without letting him know her whereabouts.

Circ.u.mstances over which no one as usual had had any control, made that spring a memorable one in the quiet annals of Belthrop. The great agricultural labourers' movement of the Eastern counties had extended even to this village; a branch of the Union had been formed, meetings held, and fiery language indulged in. The delegate despatched to organise the branch, looked about him for a labourer of some little education to officiate as secretary, and to receive the monthly contributions from the members.