the house, and going direct to St. George's Hospital, demanded to see the body, with apparent calmness. With the same outward tranquillity, he looked long and steadily on those features, his love for which had formed the only link which was not physical between himself and humanity. And then he turned and went silently out into the dark world. St. George's Hospital was the last place to which Jobson could ever trace him. It was strange that he did not commit suicide. He had no belief in a God or a future state, and as little fear of death as is possible to man. What had he to live for? The words of the old Roman might have been well applied to him years and years before, especially if one may be allowed to put the coarse sentiment into coarse lan guage And the only reason he could have given for loitering was that his son had taken his place at the festive board, and he felt pleasure in seeing him enjoy. But the youth had been dashed down, and hurled out into darkness with the cup still in his hand; and yet he remained. Nor could it have been the dread of any parting pang which restrained him; for there never was a man more recklessly brave. And yet the idea of putting an end to himself never occurred to him. In truth, it is very difficult to form any theory about suicide: the most timid will have recourse to it on very slight provocation; the man of strongest nerve will bear the extremes of degradation and misery without trying the obvious remedy. It seems to be a matter of constitutional temperament, and one feels a sympathy with coroners' juries, who mostly cut the Gordian knot with a verdict of temporary insanity. But Clements was not mad; though, indeed, his brain was on the verge of turning at least, his actions had sufficient method in them to repel the assumption of actual insanity. He returned home, took what money he had, put a few things into a carpet bag, and drove down to the London docks, where he went on board the first foreign steamer he came to. He had no plan, no purpose; but acted as a sick man appears to do in a fever dream, impelled to go hither or thither without any object or exertion of will, or perhaps influenced by the instinct which teaches the hunted animal to fly from its pursuers. Was it the hand of destiny or blind chance that led him on board a Spanish vessel bound for the very port which, if in the due possession of his faculties, he would have most avoided? Certain it is that he landed at a town from which he had fled a few months before, after the perpetration of a crime which had excited the somewhat sluggish vigilance of the authorities to the utmost; and, before he had been in the place an hour, he was arrested and thrown into prison. CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. WILLIAM FLETCHER IN A NEW PART. THE life of a well-to-do, idle bachelor, residing in London, is generally passed amongst roses; and though the crumpled leaves may and do fret his luxurious skin, he keeps pretty clear of the thorns. William Fletcher had hitherto enjoyed an unusual immunity from all mortal ills and distressing scenes. He had lost his parents at an age too early for prolonged sorrow, and sickness, anxiety, and death had been mere names to him; so that when he found himself installed at the cottage he felt quite a different being. Everything depended upon him. He had to console the bereaved husband and daughter; to make arrangements for the funeral; to take Mr. Lennard, in the first depth of affliction, to identify the body of Dubourg; to manage that he should not be further harassed and distressed by having to attend the inquest; to conduct the household affairs, settle all matters of business for Mr. Lennard-who was too much prostrated to do anything; and, after awhile, to determine where the family should go to, and what should be their future plans. Edith lies buried in a pretty little churchyard, on the shores of a neighbouring lake. The stone which marks the spot merely bears her name and age, with an expression of humble trust in the mercy of the All Merciful; but the story of the London lady who came for health and pleasure to that lovely but secluded spot, and found death, is a legend of the valley which will last longer than the monument. Hard by, a nameless mound shows where the murdered man sleeps in his bloody shroud; and father and daughter, who never knew each other in life, lie side by side in death. The excitement caused by the discovery of Dubourg's body on the mountain, and the subsequent inquest and verdict of "Wilful murder against some person unknown," lasted beyond the mystic nine days at the expiration of which puppies see, and wonders mostly go blind. Sensations are rare in Snowdonia, and the present one was kept vibrating by inquisitive people from distant localities, who came over to inspect the scene of the tragedy, picnic in the immediate vicinity, and bear away bits of rock, ferns, or anything else they fancied as relics. So there was a rare season in the valley that beautiful autumn, and Mr. Boniface made his profit out of it; while Fletcher was very anxious to get away, as it was impossible for either of his charges to walk out, and especially to visit the churchyard, without meeting parties of the curiosity-mongers. So they presently took leave of Mrs. Jones, whose kindness had been excessive, and removed to Tenby, where Fletcher broached the little plan he had formed for their future residence, which was that a house belonging to himself at Hamborough-on-Thames, the tenant of which was then quitting, should be taken by Mr. Lennard; and as this was not his only property in that neighbourhood-his father, a man fond of speculating in the building of new localities, having been the original founder of Hamborough-he intended to fix his own residence likewise in a place which combined the advantages of the country with those of an easy access to London. Such an arrangement would, it seemed to him, be convenient during the period which must elapse before his marriage with Mary; and when that pleasing event at last came off, it would be more cheerful for his fatherin-law to live near them, unless indeed Mr. Lennard preferred to reside in the same house, which Fletcher, knowing his character, tastes, and habits, and inclined to take that optimist view of his future wife's belongings not uncommon before marriage, had not the slightest objection to. get a lodging in the neighbourhood, saw them daily, and watched how Mary gradually recovered from the effect of the shock she had received, under the soothing influences of love and time. To attempt to console Mr. Lennard was for some time a more difficult task. He had been a very model of chivalrous constancy— loving his wife from boyhood, in spite of absence, coldness, and almost contempt; and just as at last her heart seemed to be softening towards him, it was for ever frozen by the icy touch of death. Probably his regrets were delusive, and he sorrowed-as through life he had yearned-for an unreality. If Edith had lived, and the cloud which had overshadowed their life for the last few months been dissipated, her old manner towards her husband would most likely have returned. Her nature was a very honest one, with very little deceptive power about it; and if she despised her husband, she would not have been long able to conceal the fact. As to any real alteration in her feelings towards him, was it not too late now for that? No habit is so inveterate as a habit of estimation. It is odds that his anticipated happiness would have proved exceedingly bitter. But when those we love are dead and buried, we forget their bad points, and only think of their good ones; and the memory of a deceased spouse is like that of a bygone summer: the fine days have made a vivid impression, the wet ones-were there any wet days last summer? But even the widower began to grow cheerful after a while, and then the horizon brightened rapidly. The first thing he took any great interest in was Jobson's pursuit of Clements; for though his poor wife was never able to express herself clearly about the matter, he was convinced, by incoherent expressions of which he alone had the clue, that the monster had made a last effort to terrify her into submission, and that it was the fright which had given the fatal turn to her illness-an idea for which he This, like everything else which he pro- had the professional authority of Dr. Thomas posed, seemed to the mourners, who de--and he was anxious for revenge. He depended upon him, the best thing to be done; so Fletcher plunged into a voluminous and sustained correspondence with his agent and an upholsterer, and even journeyed twice But whether he would have put this deterup to London and Hamborough himself-mination into practice cannot be settled; for no light matter for a man like Fletcher. After the funeral the widower and orphan removed to their new and chastened home; and Fletcher, who for the present could only clared that if the villain was caught, and proved guilty of murdering Dubourg, he would have a window and see him hanged. though the detective found plentiful evidence as to the bad character of Clements in France, Germany, and Italy-for he had gone about scattering misdeeds as if he was leading a Continental paper-chase, and, running short of paper, had used sins for scent-he could not lay hands on the man himself, never could hear of him after his visit to his son's corpse at St. George's Hospital. TABLE TALK. REFERRING to our recent notes on the adulteration of coffee, we have received a long letter from a correspondent who is connected with the tea and coffee interest in the City of London. We learn this from the card enclosed, for the letter is signed-"One who knows good Coffee." The remarks in our article were carefully considered, and founded on fact; but of course it is impossible to expose abuses without treading on somebody's corns. Our hits were made not at the honest but at the unscrupulous dealer; and, as always happens in our experience, the person who writes to complain is "A Subscriber to ONCE A WEEK from the first." We hardly ever recollect having a letter of complaint from anybody who was not-and we have had a good many. Our correspondent gives a recipe for making coffee. It is-"Buy some fine old fresh-roasted Mocha, grind it, pour on as much water again as the bulk of the coffee, add boiling milk, cool with good cream, sweeten with white sugar-candy;" and he recommends us then "to write another article on coffee before the soothing effect is lost; at the same time making a careful estimate of the cost per annum of providing the luxury for a moderate family." to use for the purpose. Burnt sugar was used in very small quantities to clarify and darken the liquor; but, since the duty has been placed upon chicory, that has been forbidden and abandoned. I never heard of or saw an imitation coffee berry in all my experience; and should like to see the machine, and have an estimate of the cost of making the imitation berries. I suppose the inventor's address is St. Luke's, or Basinghall-street. I believe, some years ago, certain parties used roasted corn; but I never heard that toast and water injured the constitution. And, after all, who encourages the trader to adulterate but the consumer?—the cheap and nasty, and the two-shilling tea and seven-and-sixpenny cosy section of the public, who want brass to look like goldnot the poor or the mechanic, who generally buy better things. Competition is so great, that if pure ground coffee was wanted by the public, plenty of dealers would supply them, and glad to do it. I find that the general public will not, as a rule, buy berry coffee, and many that do so also buy chicory to mix it themselves. The continual interference of Parliment with trade by such absurd legislation as that of the late Act is useless, and enables the unprincipled trader to rob his neighbours of their customers by underselling them; but no Government will make the people sober or honest by Acts of Parliment. Anything injurious to health found mixed in articles of consumption should subject the mixer vendor to severe penalties, but beyond this point Acts of Parliment should not attempt to go." It is only fair that both sides of a question should be heard. In that spirit we have printed our correspondent's remarks; but it is with a feeling of profound regret that we find a gentleman who has "subscribed to this journal from its commencement," spelling "Parliament" three times in one sentence and only making use of three "As." The authors of the articles in ONCE A WEEK reserve to themselves the right of translation. AS THE OPINIONS of a practical man always have some value, we make further extracts from the letter above quoted. The writer says:-" As a rule, tell the public it is coffee and chicory, and they will not buy; give them pure coffee, and they bring it back, simply because they have to pay nearly double for the same quantity of liquor. In the one case they have what suits their taste and pocket, and in the other that which does neither. Chicory Every MS. should bear the Name and Address of which I do not like-is not an insipid root, but of a bitter-sweet taste, and an improvement to cheap coffee-as the writer would think, had he to supply breakfast to a large family upon an income of say thirty shillings per week. Of the other articles mentioned by the writer as used to adulterate chicory, I never knew any of them cheap enough the Sender. Contributions should be legibly written, and only on The Editor will only be responsible for their being MARVELLOUS EXPERIENCES pleasant domestic phenomenon of a damp OF ELIZABETH WINTERBOURNE. BY JOHN C. DENT. I. N that ceiling and floor. The chimney, too, was shockingly out of repair, and when the wind was contrary it smoked most intolerably. And, oh, how the wind does blow and shriek across Crabtree Moor on dark November nights! In that dwelling, on the 19th of Novempart of ber, 183—, resided Matthew Winterbourne, merry labourer, and Esther, his wife; together Eng- with their daughter and only child, Elizaland beth (atat eighteen), whose strange expecalled riences I am going to relate. Lin coln shire, and in that parish of Lincolnshire formerly called St. Olaf's, and in that certain part of the parish formerly called St. Olaf's which I shall not venture to further particularize, there is a tract of waste land known as Crabtree Moor. It is about two miles long by a mile and a half broad, and is remarkable for an almost complete absence of vegetation-for the stunted furze, which is sparsely scattered over the surface, scarcely deserves the name of vegetation; and this furze, and an old half-decayed crab tree-from which, it is to be presumed, the moor derives its name-are all the indications of fruitfulness which proclaim it to be more productive than the Sahara. The old crab tree to which allusion has been made is situated nearly midway between the two ends of the moor; and within ten yards of it, not many years ago, there stood—indeed, it may be there still, for all I know to the contrary-a humble mud dwelling. Humble, said I? I might have employed a stronger term without being guilty of exaggeration. For one thing, it was very indifferently thatched. In rainy weatherand it did and does rain most tremendously down in Lincolnshire sometimes-the occu II. Crabtree Moor could boast of no other habitation than Matthew Winterbourne's mud cabin. Indeed, as has been suggested, that habitation was not much to boast of. So, you see, it must have been a very desolate spot indeed. But if Crabtree Moor had been gifted with the faculty of speech-and from the manner in which the November blasts shrieked across it sometimes, it might almost have been supposed to be so endowed-it could reasonably enough have boasted of possessing, in the person of Elizabeth Winterbourne aforesaid, one of the prettiest girls in Lincolnshire. Don't be alarmed: I am not going to occupy many lines in describing her. She was simply a very beautiful girl, with a better education than belonged to most country girls of her class thirty-five years ago. She had lived for six years with a spinster aunt -a sister of her mother's-in the north; and during the greater part of that time had attended a free school. On her seventeenth birthday she had returned to her parents, and since then had contributed not a little to the household support by taking in plain sewing. There were three young ladies at Harrowfield Manor who used to employ her pretty extensively; and on the evening of this identical 19th of November she is stitch, stitch, stitching away most assiduously in their behalf. She has promised to complete and deliver the piece of work on which she is at present engaged by eight o'clock. She will scarcely keep her word, though; for she has still a good hour's work before her, and the old clock on the mantelpiece proclaims it to be five minutes past eight already. "How long will it take you to finish, Lizzie?" her mother asks. "Rather better than an hour," is the reply. Stitch, stitch, stitch-how nimbly the white fingers fly over the yet whiter muslin! "There, mother, I have done. Pray fold it up for me, while I put on my bonnet and shawl." "Lawk, Lizzie, you can never take it home at this time o' night." "I can, and must. Miss Harriet made me promise to have it home by eight; and she'll never place any dependence upon me again if I don't take it some time to-night. Father can come with me." Old Matthew was comfortably nodding in his chair before the fireplace. He had been labouring hard all day, and the comfortable fire had produced a soporific effect upon his nerves. Besides, it was about his usual bedtime. "Father, don't you hear me? You are to come along with me to the Manor. I don't like crossing the moor alone at this time of night." Come, Matthew," chimed in the mother, "I know you be gey tired; but it isn't far, and Lizzie doesn't like to go back of her word to Miss Harriet." Thus adjured, but with no very good will, the old man aroused himself from his dreams, possessed himself of his hat, comforter, and stick, and prepared to accompany his daughter to Harrowfield Manor. The night was cold, with a pretty sharp breeze. It would have been bright moonlight, only the sky was partially obscured by clouds. It was nearly two miles to the Manor. "I won't stop a minute, mother," exclaimed Lizzie, as she stepped forth on to the desolate moor; "and as we shall walk as fast as we can-or, at any rate, as fast as father can-you may expect us back soon after ten. Come, father." Father and daughter trudged on briskly across the moor for a quarter of an hour, when the latter became conscious, from the quick and heavy breathing of old Matthew, that the pace was trying his mettle. "Poor father, you are tired; and no wonder, after your day's work. You shall go no farther. Rest you on this stone, and I will go on by myself. I shall not be one bit frightened. Why, you can see me nearly all the way, and I won't go.up to the Hall at all. I'll just give the bundle to old Martin, at the lodge, and he'll take it up to Miss Harriet for me, and I'll run right back." The old man made no violent objections to this arrangement. It was barely threequarters of a mile farther; and if the moon had been very bright he could actually have watched his daughter's progress the greater part of the way, as the road was perfectly straight, and there were no trees intervening. Besides, he was really somewhat blown with his rapid exercise, and never dreamed that Lizzie would encounter any obstacle. He seated himself very complacently on the stone, and Lizzie sped away on her journey with redoubled haste. "I shall be back in ten minutes, father," said she, as she left him. "Ten minutes;" muttered the old man to himself" no, that you won't. Clever and all as you are, I defy you to do it in less nor twice that time. Meanwhiles I'll light my pipe." And as soon as his breath began to come a little easier, he did light his pipe, and abandoned himself to reflection. I have intimated that the temperature was very far removed from sultry; and the breeze was altogether too keen out there, on the moor, to render reflection an easy matter for delicately nurtured people. Matthew, however, was used to cold and wind, and didn't mind them much. Turning his back windward, he puffed away with the utmost composure. 66 Yes," said he to himself, "she is a clever girl; and, what's more, she's a good girlthough I, which am her father, say it on her. Let me see-eighteen year old the beginning of last month, as sure as I sit here. That makes me fifty-three, come next January. It seems like t'other day as she wur Eighteen year old! A very few years born. |