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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 55 
 
 72
 
 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 a Mcvcl 
 
 y 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 'ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN" "CHILDREN OF GIBEON ' 
 " THE REBEL QUEEN " ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPEU A: IJllOTIIEHS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1895
 
 Copyriglit, 18'J5, bv Haki'kr k Hrothers 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I, A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 1 
 
 II. A PACKET OF PAPERS . , ". 7 
 
 III. "THE CHILD IS DEAD " 13 
 
 IV. AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 19 
 
 V. THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 2G 
 
 VI. THE NURSERY 32 
 
 VII. THE PRODIGAL SON 40 
 
 AlII. THE PORTRAITS 44 
 
 IX. THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS , . 65 
 
 X. ARE WE COUSINS ? 66 
 
 XI. YOUTH IN A GARRET 78 
 
 XII. " AUNT LUCINDA " 90 
 
 XIII. THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 101 
 
 XIV. A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 112 
 
 XV. HUNDREDS OF CLAIMANTS 123 
 
 XVI. THE MISSING LINK 129 
 
 XVII. THE BEGINNING OF THE CLOUD 135 
 
 XVIIL THE BOX OF ACCOUNT-BOOKS 142 
 
 XIX. CALVERT BURLEY's ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER . . 148 
 
 XX. LUCIAN ON THE DOCUMENT 159 
 
 XXI. LUCINDA AVEKV 162 
 
 XXII. THE AUSTRALIANS 174 
 
 XXIII. THE FIRST PATIENT 185 

 
 IV CONTEXTS 
 
 rnAPTKR PACE 
 
 XXIV. IlERBEUT AND THE PORTRAITS 195 
 
 XXV. WHO AM I ? 202 
 
 XXVI. A SlIAKV PARTNERSHIP 208 
 
 XXVII. THE GENEALOGIST 217 
 
 , XXVIII. A physician's ADVICE 229 
 
 XXIX. THE MIRACLE 237 
 
 XXX. " CONFESS YE YOUR SINS " 243 
 
 XXXI. "IMPOSSIBLE TO Bfi FOUND OUT !" 250 
 
 XXXII. THE SHAME OF IT ! 259 
 
 XXXIII. THE STORY OF A DREAM 204 
 
 XXXIV. ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 273 
 
 XXXV. FAREWELL I 284 
 
 »5 
 
 XXXVII. A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 298 
 
 XXXVIII. WHAT THE PRESS SAID 309 
 
 XXXIX. EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE . . . .318 
 XL. THE NOBLER WAY 329 
 
 XXXVI. THE LAST REMONSTRANCE 295
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "'there! he has given in'" Frontispiece 
 
 " ' REST, FATHER,' SAID THE SON, TOUCHING THE SICK MAN's 
 
 PULSE " Facing page 4 
 
 " ' THE HOCSE-KEEPER TOOK US UP TO THE FIRST FLOOR ' " . . " 28 
 
 " ' BEHOLD HIM ! HE STANDS BEFORE YOU ' " " 64 
 
 "MARGARET RAN IN WITH A LIGHT HEART" " 102 
 
 " ' AUNTIE, we've got EXACTLY THREE POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS 
 
 and sixpence ' " " 1 14 
 
 in thk old cathedral " 138 
 
 "'you all have the same face'" " 166 
 
 "and arranged the mesmeric smile" " 208 
 
 " ' 1 have come to carry you away ' " " 242 
 
 "ELLA took her HAND AND KISSED IT " " 260 
 
 "a strange, weird PICTURE SHE MADE" " 280
 
 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 
 
 " LuciAN !" The sick man was propped up by pillows. His 
 hands lay folded outside the coverings. All that could be seen 
 of a face covered with an iron-gray beard was deathly pale. His 
 deep-set eyes were bright. His square, strong brow, under a 
 mass of black hair hardly touched with gray, was pale. " Lu- 
 cian, I say." His voice was strong and firm, although the 
 patient repose of his head and bands showed that movement 
 was either difficult or impossible. " Lucian, it is no use trying 
 to deceive me." 
 
 " I do not try to deceive you. There is always hope." 
 
 " I have none. Sit down now and let us talk quietly. It 
 is the last chance, very likely, and I have a good deal to say. 
 Sit down, my son — there — so that I may see you." 
 
 The son obeyed. He placed a chair by the bedside and sat 
 down. He was a young man about seven-and-twenty years of 
 age. He had the same square forehead as his father, and the 
 same deep-set bright black eyes ; the same straight black eye- 
 brows. His face was beardless ; the features were strong and 
 clearly cut ; it was a face of resolution : not what girls call a 
 handsome face, but a face of intellectual power, a responsible 
 face, a masterful face. Plis broad shoulders and tall, strong 
 figure increased the sense of personal force which accompanied 
 the presence of Lucian Calvert.
 
 2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " The weakest point about human knowledge," said the sick 
 man, pliilosopliizing from habit, " is that we never seem to make 
 any real advance in keeping the machinery in order, or in set- 
 ting it right when it gets wrong." He was a mechanical en- 
 gineer by calling, and of no mean reputation. " When the 
 machinery goes wrong, the works stop. Then we have to throw 
 away the engine. She can't be repaired. Why don't you learn 
 how to tinker it up, you doctors ?" 
 
 The son, who was a physician, shook his head. 
 
 " We do our best," he said. "But we are only beginning." 
 
 "Why don't you learn how to set the thing going again? 
 Let the machine run down, and then take it to pieces and mend 
 it. Get up steam again, and then run her for another spell. 
 That's what you ought to do, Lucian." 
 
 " You are talking like yourself again, father." 
 
 " I suppose," he went on, " that if men had by their own wit 
 invented this machine of the body, if they had built it up, bit by 
 bit, as we fellows have done with our engines, they would un- 
 derstand the thing better. As it is, we must pay for ignorance. 
 A man finds he has got to die at fifty-five because the doctors 
 know nothing but symptoms. Fifty-five ! In the very middle 
 of one's work ! It's disgusting. Just beginning, so to speak, 
 and all his knowledge wasted — gone — dissipated — unless, some- 
 how, there's the conservation of intellectual energy." 
 
 "Perhaps there is," said liis son. "As you say, we under- 
 stand little more than symptoms, which is the reason why there 
 is always hope." 
 
 But he spoke without assurance. 
 
 " Never mind myself," the father replied. " About you, 
 Lucian." 
 
 " Don't think about me ; I shall do very well." 
 
 " I must think about you, my dear boy, because it is impos- 
 sible to think about myself. Last night I had a dream. I was 
 floating in dark space, with nothing to think about. And it 
 was maddening. I don't suppose that death means that. Well, 
 I shall learn what it means in a day or two. There's the money 
 question. I never tried to save money. I was set dead against 
 saving quite early in life. Had good reason to hate and loathe 
 savin<^ But T believe that Tom Nicholson has got something
 
 A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 3. 
 
 of mine — something that rolled in — and there's your mother's 
 money. You won't starve. And you've got your profession." 
 
 " I shall do, sir." 
 
 " I think you will. I've always thought you would. You've 
 got it written on your face. If you keep your eyes in the right 
 direction — in the direction of work — you'll do very well. You 
 will either go up steadily or you will go down swiftly. It is 
 the gutter or the topmost round for you." 
 
 He paused. The exertion of talking was too great for his 
 strength. 
 
 " Rest, father," said the son, touching the sick man's pulse. 
 " Rest, and talk again to-morrow." 
 
 "Who will talk with me to-morrow? Wait a moment, Lu- 
 cian. Lift my head. So. That's better. I breathe again. 
 Now — as soon as I am buried, you must communicate the news 
 of my death — to my father." 
 
 " To whom ?" Lucian started. He thought his father was 
 off his head. 
 
 " To my father, Lncian. I have never told you that I have 
 a father still living." 
 
 Imagine, dear reader. This young man had lived seven-and- 
 tvventy years in the world, and always in the belief that his 
 father was an only child, and that his grandfather was dead, 
 and that there were no cousins, or if any, then perhaps cousins 
 not desirable. If you remember this, you may perhaps under- 
 stand the amazement of this young man. He sprang to his feet 
 and bent over the sick man. No; his eyes were steady. There 
 was no outward sijjn of wanderiuii:. 
 
 " My father, Lucian," he repeated. " I am not delirious, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Your father ? Why ? Where is he ? What is he ? Is he 
 — perhaps — poor ?" 
 
 " He is a very old man ; he is over ninety years of age. And 
 he is not poor at all. His poverty is not the reason why you 
 have never heard of him." 
 
 " Oil ! Tlicn, why—" 
 
 "Patience, my son. He is neither poor nor obscure. Tic is 
 famous ; in fact, so famous that I resolved to begin the world 
 for myself without his reputation on my back. A parent's
 
 4 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 greatness may hamper a young man at tlie outset. So I left 
 him." 
 
 '* His reputation ? We are, tlien, connected with a man of 
 reputation." But Lucian spoke dubiously. 
 
 " You arc, as you will shortly, perhaps, discover. I suppose 
 he no longer follows his profession, being now so old." 
 
 " What profession ?" 
 
 "Destruction and Ruin," replied the sick man, shortly. 
 
 " Oh !" His son asked no further questions. Perhaps he 
 felt that to learn more Avould make him no happier. A strange 
 profession, however, " Destruction and Ruin." 
 
 " I changed my name when I left the family home. So that 
 you have no ancestors, fortunately, except myself. You are 
 like Seth, the son of Adam." 
 
 " No ancestors? But we must have ancestors." 
 
 " If you want to learn all about them, you can. Tom Nichol- 
 son knows. Tom Nicholson, the lawyer — he knows. He has 
 got some papers of mine, that I drew up a long time ago. It 
 might be better for you to go on in ignorance. On the other 
 hand — well, choose for yourself. Read the papers, if you like, 
 and iind out what manner of people your ancestors were. Nich- 
 olson will give you your grandfather's address. Tell him, with- 
 out revealing yourself or the name that I have borne — or your 
 own relation to me — tell him simply that I am dead." 
 
 " Very well, sir. I will do what you desire." 
 
 " One thing more. It is my earnest wish — I do not com- 
 mand, my son ; no man, not even a father, has the right to 
 command another — but it is my wish that you may never be 
 invited or tompted to resume the name that I abandoned, or to 
 claim kin with any of the family which I have renounced, or 
 to take one single farthiuf; of the fortune which your ancestors 
 have amassed. Our money has been the curse of us for two 
 hundred years. You may learn, if you please, from Tom Nich- 
 olson the history of the family. From father to son — from 
 father to son. It was got by dishonor; it has been increased 
 and multiplied by dishonor; it has been attended with dishonor. 
 Fraud and crime, madness, selfishness, hardness of heart — piti- 
 less hardness of heart — have gone with it. Lucian, when yoii 
 have learned the history of your ancestors, you will understand
 
 
 V. 
 
 
 c
 
 A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 5 
 
 why I left the house full of wretched memories and renounced 
 them all. And if I judge you aright, you will be ready to re- 
 nounce them, too." 
 
 " I shall remember your wish, sir," said his son, grave- 
 ly. " But I do not understand how the question of money 
 can arise, since your father is in ignorance of my very exist- 
 ence." 
 
 " Best so ; best so," said the sick man. " Then you cannot 
 be tempted." 
 
 For one so weak this long conversation was a great effort. 
 He closed his eyes and spoke no more. 
 
 The young man sat down again and watched. But he was 
 strangely agitated. What did his father mean ? What kind 
 of profession was that which could be described as Destruction 
 and Ruin? 
 
 Nothing more was said upon the subject at all, for the ma- 
 chinery proved so much out of gear that it suddenly stopped. 
 And as no one could possibly set it going again, there was 
 nothing left but to put away the engine in the place where 
 people put away all the broken engines. 
 
 When the funeral was over, the two principal mourners, 
 Lucian Calvert and a certain Mr. Nicholson, old friend and 
 legal adviser of his father, above referred to as Tom, drove 
 away together. They went back to the house. 
 
 " Now," said Lucian, " tell me things. All I know is that my 
 name is not Calvert, and that my grandfather is still living." 
 
 "That is all you know, is it? Well, Lucian, in my opinion 
 you know too much for your own happiness already. I ad- 
 vised your father to keep you in ignorance. I saw that you 
 would get on, as he had done, without the help of money or 
 the hinderance of connections. But he thought you ought to 
 have the opportunity of knowing everything if you choose." 
 
 " Certainly, I do choose." 
 
 " Well, then, your father was my oldest friend. We were 
 boys together, at Westminster School. He was unhappy at 
 home, for reasons which you may learn if you like. At the age 
 of seventeen he ran away from home and fought his way up 
 through the engineering shops. His name was not John Cal- 
 vert, but John Calvert Burley."
 
 6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Burley ? My name is Bnrley, then ? Go on." 
 "Your grandfather lives in Great College Street, Westmin- 
 ster. Your father never had any communication with him af- 
 ter he left the house." Mr. Nicholson lugged out of his coat- 
 pockgt a little roll of papers. " Here is a bundle of papers 
 which liavc long been in my keeping. They contain-an account 
 of the Burley family, drawn up by your father for you. There 
 are also some letters and memorials of his mother and others, 
 taken from her desk after she died. And that is all." 
 
 " You have told me notliing at all about the Burley people." 
 " No. Read the papers which your father prepared for you, 
 and you will learn all you want to learn, and perhaps more." 
 
 He took his hat. " And, Lucian, if you choose to resume 
 your true name and to join your own people, I will look through 
 the papers for you and communicate with your grandfather. 
 But I rather think, my dear boy, that you will prefer to remain 
 Lucian Calvert. Don't change your name. Far better to be 
 the son of John Calvert, civil engineer, than the grandson of 
 John Calvert Burley. Toss the papers in the fire when you 
 have read them, and think no more about the matter." 
 
 Lucian, left with the packet of papers, handled them sus- 
 piciously, looked at the fireplace in which there was no fire, 
 began to untie, but desisted. Finally he put the roll into his 
 pocket and sallied forth. He was engaged — not an unusual 
 thing for a young man — and what is the good of being engaged 
 if you cannot put a disagreeable task upon the Jiancee ?
 
 CHAPTER II 
 A PACKET OF PAPERS 
 
 The girl, Margaret by name, sat with her hands folded in her 
 lap, looking up at her lover as he stood over her. 
 
 It has never yet been decided whether those marriages are 
 the happier when the couple are alike or when they are unlike 
 in what we call essentials. For my own part, I think that the 
 latter marriage presents the greater chance of happiness, if only 
 for the infinite possibilities of unexpectedness ; also for the re- 
 production of the father in the daughter and the mother in the 
 son. These two were going to try love in unlikeness. The 
 girl was fair in complexion, with blue eyes which could easily 
 become dreamy and were always luminous ; there was at the 
 moment the sweet seriousness in them that so well becomes 
 a beautiful woman ; she was a tall girl, as becomes the fash- 
 ion of the time, dressed as one who respects her own beauty, 
 and would become, in her lover's eyes, as attractive as she 
 could; a strong and healthy girl; able to hold her own yet, 
 as one mio-ht conclude from her attitude in the presence of her 
 lover ; one who, when she promised to give herself, meant to 
 give everything, and already had no thought but for him. As 
 she sat under him, as he stood over her, every one could un- 
 derstand here was man masterful, the Lord of Creation, and 
 here was woman obedient to the man she loved ; that here was 
 man creative, and here was woman receptive ; that out of her 
 submission would spring up her authority. What more can 
 the world desire ? What more did Nature intend ? 
 
 "Now that everything is over," he said, "it is time for us to 
 talk and think about ourselves." 
 
 " Already, Lucian ?" 
 
 " Already. The dead are dead ; we are the living. His
 
 8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 memory will live awliilc — lonijcr than most men's memories, 
 because he did good work. AVith us Lis memory will last all 
 our lives. Now, Marjorie, I have got something wonderful to 
 tell you. Listen with both ears." 
 
 He took a chair and sat down, and held one of her hands. 
 
 "Both ears I want. Two or three days before he died, my 
 father told me a thing which greatly amazed me. I said noth- 
 ing to you about it, but waited." 
 
 " What was it, Lucian ?" 
 
 " After the funeral, this morning, I came away with Mr. 
 Nicholson, my father's old friend and his lawyer. He drove 
 home with me and we had a talk." 
 
 Lucian told his tale and produced the packet of papers. 
 
 " I confess," he said, " that I shrink from reading these docu- 
 ments. If I were superstitious, I should think that the read- 
 ing of the document would bring disaster. That's absurd, of 
 course. But it is certain that there must be something disa- 
 greeable about it — perhaps something shameful — why, else, did 
 my father run away from home? Why did he, as he said, re- 
 nounce his ancestors ? Why did he speak of a fortune created 
 by dishonor? Why did he say that my grandfather's profession 
 was ' Destruction and Ruin ' ?" 
 
 "'Destruction and Ruin!' Did he say that? Destruction 
 and Ruin? What did he mean? What kind of profession is 
 that ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Now, Madge, this is the position : I have 
 never had any cousins at all, or any ancestors on my father's 
 side. His people don't know of my existence, even. But there 
 is in this packet the revelation of the family to which I belong 
 — to which you will belong. They may be disgraceful people — 
 probably they are." 
 
 " Since they do not know of your existence, it is evident you 
 need not tell them who you are." 
 
 " They must be in some way disreputable. ' Destruction and 
 Ruin !' That was my grandfather's profession. Do you think 
 he is Napoleon the Great, not dead after all, but survivor of all 
 his generation ? ' Destruction and Ruin,' " he laughed. " It 
 would make an attractive advertisement, a handbill for distri- 
 bution on the curb outside the shop door — ' Destruction and
 
 A PACKET OF PAPERS 9 
 
 Ruin !' There's your heading in big letters. ' By John Cal- 
 vert Burley !' There's your second line. ' Destruction and 
 Ruin ' — this is where your circular begins — ' Destruction and 
 Ruin in all their branches undertaken and performed with the 
 utmost certainty, secrecy, and despatch — and on reasonable 
 terms. The Nobility and Gentry waited on personally. Every- 
 body destroyed completely. Ruin effected in the most thor- 
 ough manner. Destruction superintended from the office. Re- 
 covery hopeless. Ruin, moral, material, physical, and mental, 
 guaranteed and executed as per order. Strictest confidence. 
 Customers may depend on being satisfied with same.' They 
 always say • same,' you know. ' No connection with any other 
 house. Tackle of the newest and most destructive kind to be 
 had on the Three Years' Hire System. Painless Self-Destruc- 
 tion taught in six lessons. Terms — strictly cash.'" 
 
 " Hush, hush, Lucian ! Not to make a jest of it." But she 
 laughed gently. 
 
 " We need not cry over it. But — hang it ! What can it be 
 — ' Destruction and Ruin ' ?" 
 
 " Do you think — do you think — he made a quack medicine 
 that will cure everything?" 
 
 " Perhaps. * The Perfect, Pleasant, and Peremptory Pill. 
 Children cry for it. The baby won't be happy till he gets it.' 
 Very likely. Or he may be a Socialist." 
 
 " Ye — yes; — or — do you think he is a solicitor ? Your father 
 always hated lawyers." 
 
 " I don't know ; — or the proprietor of a paper on the other 
 side ? He was a great Liberal." 
 
 " Perhaps; — or a jerry builder? He hated bad workmen of 
 all kinds." 
 
 "Perhaps; — or a turncoat politician? Or a critic? Or a 
 cheap sausage - maker ? Or the advertiser of soap ? Or — " 
 When one is still young it is easy to turn everything into ma- 
 terial for smiles, if not laughter. These two guessed at many 
 things for a profession which could fitly be described by these 
 two words. But the real thing did not occur to tlicni. 
 
 " It was a fat profession," the young man continued, " be- 
 cause ray father was so anxious that I should never be tempted 
 to take part in the fortune. Since my existence is unknown, it
 
 10 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 is not likely that the temptation will arise. I wonder what it 
 was ?" 
 
 " Yon wish to know the contents of those papers?" 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 " You will never rest till you do know them. Well, Lucian, 
 let me read tliem for you. Perhaps you need not inquire any 
 farther. Perhaps your curiosity will be satisfied with a single 
 broad fact. It" — "It" meant the profession — " it could not 
 have been so very disgraceful, for your father was a "Westmin- 
 ster scholar, and has been a life-long friend of Mr. Nicholson, a 
 most respectable person." 
 
 Lucian gave her the papers. " Take them, Madge. Read 
 them, and tell me this evening as much as you please about 
 them." 
 
 In the evening he called again. Margaret received him with 
 a responsible face and a manner as of one who has a dillicult 
 duty to perform. 
 
 " Well, Madge ? You have read the papers ?" 
 
 " They are written by your father. Your grandfather's ad- 
 dress is 77, Great College Street, Westminster, and his name is 
 John Calvert Barley." 
 
 ** Yes — so much I knew before. And the wonderful profes- 
 sion?" 
 
 "Lucian, it is really disagreeable. Can't you let the matter 
 just rest where it is?" 
 
 " Not now. I must know as well as you. What ? You are 
 to be burdened with disagreeable discoveries and I am not to 
 know? Call this the Equality of Love? What about that pro- 
 fession ? What about Destruction and Ruin ?" 
 
 " My dear Lucian, your father began a new family. You may 
 be contented with him." 
 
 *' So long as you carry it on with me," said her lover, with 
 a lover-like illustration of the sentiment, " I shall be quite con- 
 tented. We will renounce oar ancestors and all their works 
 and ways — their fortunes and their misfortunes. But who they 
 were, and who they are, I must know. Tell me, then, first, 
 what is that profession called Destruction and Ruin ?" 
 
 *' Well, Lucian, your grandfather had several professions, and 
 all of them disgraceful. First of all — he must now be a very
 
 A PACKET OF PAPERS H 
 
 old man — he began by keeping a gambling-house — a most noto- 
 rious gambling-place." 
 
 " Kind of Crockford's, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Burley's in Piccadilly. It was open all night long, and the 
 keeper was always present looking after the tables, lending 
 money to the gamesters, and encouraging them to play. Thou- 
 sands were ruined over his tables. He provided supper and 
 wine and everything. Well, that is the first part of it." 
 
 " A noble beginning. Pray go on." 
 
 "Then he was the proprietor of a place where people, detest- 
 able people — danced and drank all night long. It appears to 
 have been a most horrible place." 
 
 " Oh ! Do we get much lower V 
 
 " I don't know. In addition to all these things he was the 
 most fashionable money-lender in London— and that appears to 
 have been, of late years, the profession by which he was best 
 known. And because he was such a byword, your father could 
 not bear to remain at home, and ran away, changing his name. 
 And that, Lucian, is all that you need to know about your 
 people. There is a lot about his forefathers and his brothers. 
 There is a great deal of wickedness and of misfortune. The 
 story is all told in these papers." She offered them, but he re- 
 fused them. 
 
 " Keep them, Margaret. I think I have heard all I want to 
 know — at least, for the present. I will write to the old man. I 
 should like to gaze upon him, but that is out of the question, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " lie lives in the house that has been the family house since 
 the first Burley of whom anything is known built it." 
 
 " I'll go and sec the outside of the house. Don't be afraid, 
 my child. I will not reveal my existence. I will not try to see 
 this gentleman of so many good and pious memories. But he 
 is over ninety ; surely he must have outlived his old fame — " 
 
 " His infamy, you mean," she corrected him, severely. 
 
 "Fame or infamy — it matters little after all these years. If 
 you were to talk about Burley's gambling-house of sixty or 
 seventy years ago, who would remember it ? It is forty years 
 and more since my father left him. I suppose that, forty years 
 ago, there might have been some prejudice — but now?"
 
 13 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Some prejudice ? Only some, Liician ?" She spoke with re- 
 proach. She expected much more moral indignation. 
 
 " The world quickly forgets the origin of wealth. My father, 
 had he pleased, might have defied the opinion of the world. 
 Still, he was doubtless right. Well, Maggie, I am glad to know 
 the truth. It might have been worse." 
 
 " What could be worse ?" 
 
 " You yourself suggested quack medicines. But we need 
 not make comparisons, Burley's Gambling- Hell ; Burley's 
 Dancing- Crib ; Burley's Money -Lending Business. lie must 
 have been a man of great powers. Wickedness on an extensive 
 scale requires genius. There are retail dealers in wickedness 
 by the thousand ; but tbe wholesale merchant in the wicked 
 line — the man who lives on the vices of his fellows — all the 
 vices he can encourage and manipulate — he is rare. Looking 
 at Jobn Burley from the outside, and not as a prejudiced de- 
 scendant, I can see that he must have been a very strong man. 
 Now I will tell him that bis son is dead."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 "the child is dead" 
 
 In his back parlor — since the building of the house in 1'721 
 the house had always contained a front parlor, a back parlor, 
 and a best parlor — the owner and tenant of the house sat in his 
 arm-chair beside the fire. 
 
 It was quite a w^arm day in early summer, yet there was a 
 fire ; outside a leafy branch of a vine swept windows which 
 had not been cleaned for a longer time than, to most house- 
 wives, seems desirable ; the same vine — a large and generous 
 vine — climbed over half the back of the house and the whole 
 of a side wall in the little garden ; there was also a mulberry- 
 tree in the garden ; and there were bumps, lumps, and anfract- 
 uosities of the ground covered with a weedy, seedy grass, which 
 marked the site of former flower-beds in the little enclosure. 
 
 The man in the arm-chair sat doubled up and limp — he had 
 once been a tall man. Pillows were placed in the chair beside 
 and behind him, so that he was propped and comforted on every 
 side ; his feet rested on a footstool. His wrinkled hands lay 
 folded in his lap ; his head was protected by a black silk skull- 
 cap ; his face as he lay back was covered with multitudinous 
 wrinkles — an old, old face — the face of a very ancient man. 
 The house was very quiet. To begin with, you cannot find 
 anywhere in London a quieter place than Great College Street, 
 Westminster. Then there were but two occupants of this 
 house — the old man in the chair, and an old woman, his house- 
 keeper, in the kitchen below — and they were both asleep, for 
 it was four o'clock in the afternoon. On the table, beside this 
 aged man, stood a decanter containing the generous wine that 
 kept him alive. There were also pens, paper, and account- 
 books, one of them lying open, his spectacles on the page.
 
 14 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Literature to this man meant account- books — his own ac- 
 count-books — the record of his own investments. lie read 
 nothing else, not the newspapers, not any printed books ; all 
 his world was in the account-books. Of men and women he 
 took no thought ; he was as dead to humanity as a Cistercian 
 monk ; he Avas, perhaps, the only living man who had com- 
 pletely achieved what he desired and lived to enjoy the fruit 
 of his labors : to sit rejoicing in his harvest. 
 
 How many of us enjoy our harvest? The rich man generally 
 dies before he has made enough ; the poet dies before his fame 
 is established ; but this man, who had all his life desired noth- 
 ing but money, had made so much that he desired no more ; 
 his soul was satisfied. Perhaps in extreme old age desire itself 
 had died away. But he was satisfied. No one knew except 
 himself how much he had accumulated: he sat all dav lonir in 
 his old age reading, adding, counting, enjoying his wealth, watch- 
 ing it grow and spread, and bear golden fruits. For this man 
 was Burley of the gambling-hell ; Barley of the dancing-cribs ; 
 Barley the money-lender — in his extreme old age, in his last days. 
 
 The house was always quiet ; no one knocked at the door 
 except his manager, the man who was the head of the great 
 house filled with clerks — some of them passed solicitors — where 
 his affairs were conducted, his rents collected, and his vast in- 
 come invested as it came in day by day. Otherwise the house 
 was perfectly quiet. No letters came ; no telegrams ; the oc- 
 cupant was forgotten by the world ; nobody knew that he was 
 still living. The old money-lender sat at home, by himself» 
 counting the money which he lent no more ; most of those with 
 whom he had formerly done business were dead — they could 
 curse him no more ; all those who had thrown away their money 
 at his gaming-table were dead — they could curse him no more. 
 As for the nightly orgies, the dancing-cribs, the all-night fin- 
 ishes, if their memory survives, that of their proprietor had 
 long since been forgotten. And the dancers themselves — the 
 merry, joyous, laughing, singing, but their voices were hoarse ; 
 careless, yet their eyes were restless — happy company of nymphs 
 and swains of sixty years ago, not one was left to curse him 
 for the madness of the pace or to weep over the memory of a 
 ruined youth.
 
 "the child is dead" 15 
 
 He had outlived, as his grandson suggested, his infamy. 
 Nobody talked about him. In his own den he had quite 
 forgotten — wholly forgotten — that at any time there had been 
 any persons whom he had injured. He was serenely forget- 
 ful; he was in a haven of rest, where no curses could reach 
 him, and where no tempests could be raised by memories of the 
 past. 
 
 Those who study manners and customs of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury have read of I3urley's Hell. It was a kind of club to which 
 every one who had money and wore the dress and assumed the 
 manners of society was freely admitted. The scandalous me- 
 moirs of the time talk of Burley's chef and his wines, and the 
 table at which he was always present all night long, always the 
 same — calm, grave, unmoved ; whatever the fortunes of the 
 night, always ready to lend anybody — that is, anybody he knew 
 — any sum of money he wanted on his note of hand. Great 
 fortunes were lost at Burley's. Men walked out of Burley's 
 with despair in their hearts and self-murder in their minds. 
 Yet — old history 1 old history 1 as Lucian Calvert said. Only 
 those who are students of life in London, when the Corinthian 
 and his friends were enjoying it, still talk about the Finish — 
 Burley's crib — where the noble army of the godless assembled 
 nio-ht after nicfht, younof men and old men, and ladies remark- 
 able for their sprightliness as well as their beauty, and danced 
 and laughed and had supper and drank pink champagne — 
 too sweet — in long glasses. There was generally some kind 
 of fight or a row ; there was always some kind of a gamble in 
 some little room up -stairs. But — old history! old history! 
 Those who read it never thought of Burley at all. "Who cares, 
 after fifty years, to inquire about a man who once ran an all- 
 night dancing-crib ? Mr. Burley had outlived his infamy. 
 
 And always, till past eighty years of age, the prince of money- 
 lenders. Everybody went to Burley. He found money for 
 everybody. His terms were hard, and you had to keep to your 
 agreement. But the money was there if the security was forth- 
 coming. No tears, no entreaties, no prayers, no distress would 
 induce him to depart from his bond. It is indeed impossible 
 to carry on such a business successfully without an adamantine 
 heart. But it was nearly fifteen years since he retired from
 
 16 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 practice, and tlic world spoke of liim no more. He had out- 
 lived Ins infamy. 
 
 lie was startled out of his sleep by the postman's knock, 
 lie sat up, looked about him, recovered his wandering wits, 
 and drank a little port, which strengthened liim so that he was 
 able to understand that his house-keeper was bringing him a 
 letter. 
 
 " Give it to me," he said, surprised, because letters came no 
 more to that house, lie put on his spectacles and read the 
 address, "John Calvert Burley." '"It is for me," he said. He 
 then laid the letter on the table and looked at his house-keeper. 
 She knew what he meant, and retired. The old man at his time 
 of life was not going to begin doing business in the presence 
 of a servant. When she was gone he took it up again and 
 opened it slowly. 
 
 It was short, and written in the third person. 
 
 " Tlie writer begs to inform Mr. Burley that his son, John 
 Calvert Burley, died five days ago, on the 16th of May, of rheu- 
 matic fever, and was buried yesterday. At the request of the 
 deceased this information is conveyed to Mr. Burley." 
 
 There was no date, and there was no address. But, the old 
 man thought, there could be no reason to doubt the fact. Why 
 should it be invented? 
 
 His memory, strong enough about the far-distant past when 
 he was young, was weak as regards matters that occurred only 
 forty or fifty years ago. It cost him an effort to recall — it was 
 a subject of which he never liked to think — how his son had 
 left him after protesting against what he called the infamy of 
 the money-lending business. Infamy ! he said. Infamy ! Of 
 a respectable and lucrative business ! Infamy ! when the in- 
 come was splendid ! 
 
 "An undutiful son!" murmured his father. "A disrespect- 
 ful son !" lie read the letter again. " So : he is dead." He 
 threw the letter and the envelope on the fire. " I have left off 
 thinking about him. Why should I begin again? I won't. I 
 will forget him. Dead, is he ? I used to think that perhaps 
 he would come back and make submission for the sake of the 
 money. And even then I wouldn't have left him any. I re- 
 member. That was when I made up my mind what should bo
 
 " THE CHILD IS DEAD 17 
 
 done with it. Ho ! ho ! I thought how disappointed he would 
 be. Dead, is he ? Then he won't be disappointed. It's a pity. 
 Now there's nobody left, nobody left at all." 
 
 This reflection seemed to please him, for he laughed a little 
 and rubbed his hands. At the age of ninety-four, or there- 
 abouts, it is dangerous to give way to any but the simplest and 
 most gentle emotions. It is quite wonderful what a little thing 
 may stop the pulse at ninety-four, and still the heart. 
 
 Even such a little thing as the announcement of the death 
 of a son one has not seen for forty years, and the revival of 
 an old, angry, and revengeful spirit, may do it. When the 
 house-keeper brought in the tea at five o'clock she found that, 
 to use the old man's last words, " There was nobody left at 
 all." 
 
 " Look, Marjorie." Lucian showed her a newspaper. " The 
 old man, my grandfather, is dead. Read. 'On the 15th, sud- 
 denly, at his residence, Great College Street, Westminster, John 
 Calvert Burley, aged ninety-four years.' " 
 
 " On the 15th ? Two days ago ! That was when he received 
 your letter." 
 
 " If he did receive it. Perhaps he died before it reached the 
 house. Here is a paragraph about him. See that ? lie did 
 not quite outlive his infamy." 
 
 The paragraph ran as follows : 
 
 " The death, this day announced, of Mr. John Calvert Burley, 
 carries us back sixty years and more, to the time when gam- 
 bling-hells were openly kept, and when there were all-night 
 saloons ; to the days when the pace of the young prodigal was 
 far faster than in this degenerate generation. Mr. Burley was 
 the firm friend of that young prodigal. He gave him a gambling- 
 table with free drinks ; he gave him dancing-cribs ; he lent him 
 money ; he encouraged him to keep the ball a-roUing, Sixty 
 years ago Mr. Burley's name was well known to all followers of 
 Comus. For many years he has lived retired in his house at 
 Westminster. The present generation knows nothing of him. 
 But it will be a surprise to old men, if any survive, of the 
 twenties or the thirties, that John Burley lived to the age of 
 ninety-four and only died yesterday. He must have outlived all 
 those who drank his champagne and lost their money at his
 
 IS BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 tables ; he must have outlived most of the young prodigals for 
 whom he ran his dancing-saloon and to whom he lent money at 
 50 per cent." 
 
 Margaret read it aloud. " Yes," she said, " some prejudices 
 linger, don't they, Lucian? Better to be a Calvert without any 
 other ancestors than an honorable father, than a Burlcy with 
 this man behind you." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Lucian, thoughtfully. " But a man can no 
 more get rid of his ancestors than he can get rid of his face 
 and his hereditary tendencies. Well, my dear, the name may 
 go. And as for the money — I suppose there was a good deal 
 of money — that has been left to some one, and I hope he will 
 enjoy it. As for us, we have nothing to do with it."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 
 
 The door of the house in Great College Street stood wide 
 open — a policeman was stationed on the door-step. Something 
 of a public character was therefore going on : at private family 
 functions — as a wedding, a christening, a funeral — there is no 
 policeman. But there was no crowd or any public curiosity — in 
 fact, you could not raise a crowd in Great College Street on any 
 pretext whatever. Once a horse fell down in order to try. He 
 had to get up, unnoticed. From time to time a man stepped 
 briskly up the street, spoke to the policeman, and went in. 
 
 Presently there came along the street a young man — Mr. 
 Lucian Calvert, in fact — who walked more slowly, and looked 
 about him. lie had come to see the outside of a certain house. 
 lie arrived at the house, read the number, and saw the open 
 door and the policeman on the steps. 
 
 "What is going on?" he asked. 
 
 " Coroner's inquest." 
 
 '* An inquest ? Is not this the house of the late Mr. Burley ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. That was the party's name. He's left no will, 
 and there's an inquest. You can go in, if you like. It's in the 
 ground-floor back." 
 
 The young man hesitated. Then he accepted the invitation 
 and stepped in. He had come to see the outside of his grand- 
 father's house. Chance gave him an opportunity for seeing the 
 inside as well. Other men walked up the street and spoke to 
 the policeman and stepped in. Then there drove up to the 
 door a cab with two men. One had the unmistakable look of a 
 man in office ; the other the equally unmistakable look of a 
 middle-aged clerk. After a certain time of life we all appear 
 to be what we arc. This is as it should be : in early life we
 
 20 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 can make-up. I have known a young duke look like a car- 
 penter, and a young compositor like a belted earl. When these 
 two had entered, the policeman left the door and followed the 
 others into the ground - floor back — more poetically, the back 
 parlor. 
 
 The twelve men gathered there were the twelve good men 
 and true who had been summoned to form a jury. They repre- 
 sented, after the manner of their forefathers, the wisdom of the 
 nation. The man of office represented the ancient and honor- 
 able post of coroner. The policeman represented the authority 
 of the Court. A reporter, together with the young gentleman 
 who had been invited to assist, represented the publicity of the 
 Court — no Star-Chambcr business there, if you please. All 
 above-board and open. There were one or two others — an el- 
 derly gentleman, well dressed, with the look of ability and the 
 air of business experience — this was Mr. Burley's manager; an 
 old woman in black, wbo held a handkerchief in her hand and 
 patted her eyes with it at intervals with a perfunctory moan — 
 these were witnesses. There was also a young man who might 
 have been something in the City. He was in reality a short- 
 hand clerk employed at the office where the Burley estate was 
 managed, and he came with the manager to take down the pro- 
 ceedings. And standing in a corner Lucian observed, to his 
 astonishment, Mr. Nicholson, his father's friend and solicitor. 
 " You here, Lucian ! Who told you ?" 
 " I am here by accident. What does it mean ?" 
 " It means that they can't find any will. Good Lord ! What 
 a windfall it will be for somebody !" He remembered that 
 Lucian was the grandson. " That is, for anybody who would 
 proclaim his relationship to such a man." 
 
 Lucian looked about the room. It was wainscoted and the 
 panels were painted drab — a good, useful color, which can ab- 
 sorb a good deal of dirt Avithout showing it, and lasts a long 
 time. It was formerly a favorite color for this if for no other 
 reason, all through the last century. In the panels were hang- 
 ing colored prints, their frames once gilt, now almost black. 
 The low window looked out upon a small garden, in which stood 
 a mulberry-tree, while on the wall grew an immense vine. Cur- 
 tains which had long lost their virginal color hung from a ma-
 
 AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 21 
 
 hogany curtain -pole. On the mantel-shelf was a tobacco- jar 
 with two broken pipes, and two wax candles in silver candle- 
 sticks. The floor was covered with a worn carpet, faded like 
 the curtains ; in front of the fire it had gone into holes — there 
 was no hearth-rug. As for the furniture, it consisted of a pon- 
 derous mahogany table, black with age, a mahogany sideboard 
 of ancient fashion, with a large punch-bowl upon it and a cop- 
 per coal-scuttle below it ; a tall bookcase filled with books, all in 
 the leather and sheepskin binding of the last century ; three or 
 four chairs of the straight-backed kind and a modern wooden 
 arm-chair stood against the wall. The fireplace was of the 
 eighteenth-century pattern, with an open chimney and a hob : 
 on the hob was a copper kettle. The brass fender was one of 
 the old-fashioned high things, to match the grate and to keep as 
 much heat as possible out of the room. Two benches had been 
 placed in the room for the accommodation of the jury. 
 
 The coroner bustled into the room, and took his seat at the 
 head of the table in the arm - chair. His clerk placed papers 
 before him and stood in readiness, the New Testament in his 
 hand. The reporter and the short-hand clerk took chairs at the 
 lower end of the table — the policeman closed the door and 
 stood beside it on guard — the jury took their seats on the 
 wooden benches, the old lady renewed her sobs, the manager 
 took a chair behind the reporter, and the public, represented by 
 Mr. Nicholson and Lucian, shrank deeper into the corner. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the coroner, rising and looking slowly 
 round the room with importance, " I am about to open the 
 Court — this Court," he repeated, " for this inquest." 
 
 The jury murmured and cleared their throats. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the coroner, "you will first be sworn." 
 
 This was done by the coroner's clerk, who handed round the 
 New Testament with the customary form of words. 
 
 " And now, gentlemen^" the coroner began, absently, " we 
 will proceed to view the cor — 1 mean, of course, we will pro- 
 ceed to the business before us. This, gentlemen, as you have 
 heard, is not an ordinary inquest ; it is not, for once, an in- 
 quiry into the cause of death of any person for which I invite 
 your intelligent assistance this morning. It is a more formal 
 duty that lies before us. Equally important — even, in this
 
 22 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 case pcrliaps, more important. It is what lawyers call an * In- 
 quest of Otlioc.' " He repeated these words with greater 
 solemnity, and- every man of the jury sat upright and cleared 
 his throat again. " An Inquest of Office !" Not an ordinary 
 inquest, you sec. This was an Inquest of Office. 
 
 " Gentlemen," the coroner continued, after a pause, to allow 
 these words time to settle in the collective mind, " the facts are 
 these : The owner and tenant of this house, who died and was 
 buried a fortnight ago, was one John Calvert Burley." 
 
 "Known to all of us," one of the jury interrupted. 
 
 " John Calvert Burley," the magistrate repeated, with a 
 judicial frown, " upon whose estate — not his body — we now 
 hold this inquiry, lie has died, so far as has been discovered, 
 intestate. An announcement of his death has appeared in the 
 papers ; paragraphs concerning him have also gone the round of 
 the papers — for the deceased was, as most of us know, a person 
 formerly of considerable — of unenviable — notoriety. But so 
 far, oddly enough, no heirs have appeared. This is the more 
 extraordinary as it is reported that the deceased possessed very 
 great wealth. In fact" — the magistrate assumed a confidential 
 manner — " the estate is reported to be enormous — enormous !" 
 — he spread out his hands in order to assist the jurv to give 
 play to their imaginations — he sat upright in his chair in order 
 to lift up the grovelling — " we must rise to loftier levels. How- 
 ever," he sank back again, " the magnitude of the estate does 
 not concern us. This Court has to do with an estate, large or 
 small. And now, gentlemen, I shall offer you such evidence as 
 we have to show that there is no will, and that there has been, 
 so far, no claimant. I call Rachel Draire." 
 
 The old lady in black answered to her name, wiped her eyes, 
 and stood up to give evidence. 
 
 She said that she had been house-keeper to Mr. John Calvert 
 Burley for forty years. Asked if he was a married man, she said 
 that she had always understood that he was a widower ; but he 
 liad never spoken to her about his family. She could not say 
 what caused her to believe that he was a widower. Asked if 
 there were any children, supposing there had been a marriage, 
 she said that there was a nursery which had a child's crib and 
 a chest of drawci's with children's clothing in it, but she knew
 
 AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 23 
 
 nothing more. Her master never spoke of his family affairs. 
 Asked if there were any relations, said that she had never heard 
 of any. If there were any, and if they ever called on the deceased 
 gentleman, it must have been at the office, not the house ; not a 
 single visitor had ever called at the house or been admitted to 
 this room — Mr. Burley's living-room — during the forty years of 
 her residence. He had no friends ; he never went out in the 
 evenings ; he never went to church or chapel ; he lived quite 
 alone. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the president of the Court, "the impor- 
 tant part of this evidence is the fact that for forty years no one 
 ever called upon the deceased — neither son, nor grandson, nor 
 cousin, nor nephew. Yet his wealth Avas notorious. Rich men, 
 as most of you, I hope, know very well, are generally surrounded 
 by their relations." 
 
 One of the jury asked a question which led to others. They 
 bore upon the deceased's way of living, and had nothing to 
 do with the business before the Court. But since we are all 
 curious as to the manners and customs of that interesting 
 people — the rich — the coroner allowed these questions. When 
 the jury had learned all about the conduct of an extremely par- 
 simonious household, and when the old lady had explained that 
 her master, though near as to his expenditure, was a good man, 
 who was surely in Abraham's bosom if ever any one was, she 
 was permitted to retire, though unwilling, into the obscurity of 
 a back seat. 
 
 The manager gave his evidence. He had been employed by 
 the deceased for thirty years. He was now the chief manager 
 of his estates. Everything connected with the estates was 
 managed at the house, where solicitors, architects, and other 
 professional people were employed on salaries. He was familiar 
 with the details of the estate ; there were enormous masses of 
 papers. He knew nothing of any will. Had a will passed 
 tlirough liis hands he sliould certainly have remembered it. 
 Naturally, he was anxious to know what would be done with so 
 great a property. He supposed that Mr. Burlcy had employed 
 a solicitor outside his own office for the purpose of drawing up 
 a will. He had never spoken to Mr. Burlcy on the subject; he 
 knew nothing of Mr. Burley's familv or connections; be under-
 
 24 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 stood that Mr. Jjiirlcy had once been married ; he believed, but 
 he did not know for certain, that there liad been a child or 
 children. lie had himself sent the announcement of the dcatli 
 to the papers ; he had seen one or two paragraphs concerning 
 the early life of the deceased, but could not say, from his own 
 knowledge, whether they were true or false. 
 
 He was asked by one of the jury whether the deceased was 
 as ricb as was reported. lie replied that he could not tell 
 until the report reached him. Other questions as to the extent 
 and value of the estate he fenced with. There was, he said, a 
 great deal of property, but lie declined absolutely to commit 
 himself to any estimate at all. So that the curiosity of the 
 jury was baflled. They had learned, however, that the estate 
 was so large and important that it had to be managed at a 
 house specially used for the purpose, by a manager and a large 
 staff of accountants and clerks. This was something — such an 
 estate must be worth untold thousands. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the coroner, " you have now heard all 
 the evidence that we have to offer. Here is an estate. Where 
 is the late owner's will ? There is none. Where are the heirs ? 
 They do not appear. For forty years no member of the de- 
 ceased's family has visited him. lie might have had sons, 
 grandsons, great-grandsons. None have turned up. But there 
 must be, one would think, nephews — grand-nephews — cousins. 
 If he had brothers, they must have had descendants ; if he had 
 uncles, they must liave had descendants. Now, in the lower 
 classes nothing is more common than for a man to change his 
 place of residence so that his children grow up in ignorance abso- 
 lute of their ancestry and cousins. But this man, whatever his 
 origin, was at one time before the world, notorious or famous, 
 whatever you please; he was a public character; he was owner of 
 theatres, dancing-places, gambling-liells; he was a well-known 
 money-lender. All the world knew the usurer John Calvert Bur- 
 ley. He stood on a kind of pinnacle — unenviable, perhaps, I)Ut 
 still on a pinnacle of publicity. His relations must have fol- 
 lowed liis course with interest — who would not watch with in- 
 terest the course of a childless cousin ? Yes, he is dead ; and 
 where are the cousins and the nephews ? It is a very remark- 
 able case. A poor man may have no one to claim kii'ship at
 
 AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 25 
 
 his death. But for a rich man, and a notorious man — It is, 
 indeed, wonderful ! Gentlemen, you have only to declare the 
 estate, in default of heirs, escheated and vested in the Crown. 
 You all understand, however, that her Majesty the Queen will 
 not be enriched by this windfall. The Treasury and not the 
 Sovereign receives all those estates for which an heir is wanting." 
 
 The jury thereupon returned their verdict — " That until, or 
 unless, the lawful heirs, or heir, shall substantiate a claim to the 
 estate of the late John Calvert Burley, the said estate shall be, 
 and is, escheated and become vested in the Crown." 
 
 "Then, gentlemen," said the coroner, "nothing more remains 
 except for you to alBx your signatures to this verdict, and for 
 me to thank you, one and all, for the intelligence and care 
 which you have brought to bear upon this important case." 
 
 In this manner and with such formalities the estate of tlie 
 deceased was transferred to the Treasury, to be by it held and 
 administered in the name of the Crown unless the rightful 
 claimant should be able to establish his right. 
 
 " That's done," said Mr. Nicholson. " Now, let us look over 
 the house. I haven't been here for forty years and more. 
 Come and see where your father was born, Lucian."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 
 
 " Margaret !" She had never seen her lover so flushed and 
 excited. Mostly he preserved, whatever happened, the philo- 
 sophic calm that befits the scientific mind. " Margaret, I have 
 had the most wonderful morning ! I have made discoveries ! I 
 have heard revelations !" 
 
 " What is it, Lucian ?" 
 
 ** It is about my grandfather. I told yon I should go to see 
 the house. Well, 1 had no time to go there till to-day. I have 
 been there — I walked over there this morning. And I have been 
 rewarded. A most remarkable coincidence ! The very moment 
 when I arrived there was opened an inquest in the house itself. 
 Not an ordinary inquest, you know — the poor old man has been 
 buried a month — but what they call an Inquest of Ofl^icc. For 
 since his death they have been searching for his will, and they 
 haven't found it. And it really seems, my dear Margaret, as if 
 the one thing most unlikely of all to happen has happened : 
 that this ricli man has actually died intestate, in which case I, 
 oven I myself, am the sole heir to everything V 
 
 " Oh, Lucian ! Is it possible ?" 
 
 " It is almost certain. They liave searched everywhere. 
 There are piles of papers : they have all been examined. No 
 will has been found. Now, if lie had made a will, it is certain 
 that I could not have come into it, unless through my father, 
 and it is not probable that he would have had anything. l>ut 
 there is, apparently, no will, and the estates are handed over to 
 the Treasury until — unless — they find the rightful hoir — me — 
 wliom they cannot find." 
 
 " Oh, Lucian ! It is wonderful ! But, of course, you are not 
 going to claim this terrible money — the profits of gambling- 
 saloons and wicked places and money-lending ?"
 
 THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 27 
 
 " No, m.y dear, I am not. Yet " — he laughed — " my dear 
 child, it is a thousand pities, for the pile is enormous. You sit 
 there as quiet as a nun : you don't understand what it means. 
 Why, my dear Margaret, simple as you look, you should be, 
 when you marry me, if you had your rights, the richest woman 
 in the country — the richest woman, perhaps, in the world !" 
 
 " Don't take away my breath ! Even to a nun such an an- 
 nouncement would be interesting." 
 
 " The richest woman in the world ! That is all — wealth be- 
 yond the dreams of avarice — only that. And we give it up ! 
 Now, I'll tell you — I can't sit down, I must walk about, because 
 the thought of this most wonderful thing won't let me keep 
 still. Very well, then. Now listen. Mr. Nicholson, my father's 
 old friend, you know, was there. He had heard of the inquest 
 from the manager. All the Burley estates are managed at a 
 house in Westminster — it is a great house filled with clerks, 
 accountants, solicitors, architects, builders, rent- collectors — ev- 
 erything, all under a manager, who is a friend of Mr. Nich- 
 olson. Nobody knows what the estate is worth, but when 
 this old man's father died he left the son an income of £20,000 
 a year, which at 5 per cent, is £400,000. That was what 
 he began with at iive-and-twenty. There was no need for 
 him to do any work at all. But he did all those things that 
 we know." 
 
 " Yes ?" — for Lucian paused. 
 
 "He lived quite simply. The whole of that income must 
 have accumulated at compound interest. Do you know what 
 that means ?" 
 
 '* No. But these figures are beginning to frighten me. What 
 does it matter to us how much there is ?" 
 
 "Why, my dear, I am the heir — only in name, I know; still 
 — well, Marjorie, money at 5 per cent, doubles itself every thir- 
 teen years or so. That is to say, the sura of £100 in seventy 
 years would become, at 5 per cent., £3200, and tlic sum of 
 £400,000 wonltl become in the same period over twelve mill- 
 ions. I don't suppose the old man always got his 5 per cent., 
 but it is certain that the original principal has grown and devel- 
 oped enormously — enormously ! Without counting the money- 
 lending business and the other enterprises, there must be mill-
 
 28 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 ions. Nicholson says there is no doubt that the estate is worth 
 many millions. My father knew of this enormous wealth, but 
 he kept silence." 
 
 " Your father would not touch that dreadful and ill-gotten 
 money, Lucian. Tell me no more — I cannot think in millions ; 
 I think in hundreds. So many hundreds — you have two or 
 tliree, I believe — will keep our modest household. Do not let 
 us talk or think about other people's millions." 
 
 " They are mine, Margaret, mine, if I choose to put out my 
 hand. I only wish you to understand, dear, what it is — this 
 tritie we are throwing away in obedience to my father's wish." 
 
 " Do not let us think about this horrid money, Lucian. "We 
 should end by regretting that you did not claim it. Your father 
 renounced his name and his inheritance." 
 
 " Yes "—but he looked doubtful. " If that binds me—" 
 
 " Of course it binds us. It must bind us, Lucian. Besides, 
 there is a curse — remember j^our father's words — a curse upon 
 the money. Got with dishonor — " 
 
 " My dear child ! A curse ! Do not, pray, let us talk medi- 
 scval superstitions. The money may be given to anybody, for 
 all I care. At the same time, to throw away such a chance 
 makes one a little — eh ? — agitated. You must allow, pretty 
 I'uritan, for some natural weakness." 
 
 " Yes, Lucian. But you are a man of science, not a money- 
 grubber. What would money do for you ?" 
 
 *' Let me tell you about the house." 
 
 " I do not want to hear about the house, or the occupants, or 
 the money, or anything. I want to forget all about it. I am 
 sorry we read those papers, since they have disturbed your mind." 
 
 "Listen a moment only, and I will have done. The house- 
 keeper took us up to the first floor — Nicholson and myself. It 
 is a wonderful place. The furniture is at least a hundred years 
 old. Neither the old man nor his father — who was a miser: 
 quite a famous miser: they talk of him still — would ever buy 
 anything new or send away anything old." 
 
 " I should like to see that part of it." 
 
 "Of course you would. On the walls are portraits — my an- 
 cestors ; although my grandfather ran dancing-cribs, they have 
 been a respectable stock for ever so long."
 
 '"TIIK HOUSK-KEEPER TOOK TS UP TO THE FIRST FLOOR
 
 THE FORTUXE AND THE HOUSE 29 
 
 ** They have been disreputable since the time of Queen Anne," 
 said Margaret. " I do not know what they were before that 
 time." 
 
 " Very well. There they are, in Queen Anne wigs and 
 George II. wigs, and hair tied behind. And, I say, Margaret, 
 you know, whatever they were, it is pleasant to feel that one 
 has forefathers, like other men. Perhaps they were not alto- 
 gether stalwart Christians — but, yet — " 
 
 " One would like, at least, honorable ancestors." 
 
 " We must take what is helped. We can't choose our ances- 
 tors for ourselves. This is their family house, in which they 
 have lived all these years. It is a lovely old house. Three sto- 
 ries, and garrets in the red-tiled roof ; steps up to the door like 
 a Dutch stoop ; the whole front covered with a thick hanging 
 creeper — a green curtain ; the front window looking out upon 
 the old gray wall of the Abbey garden ; at the back a little gar- 
 den with a huge vine — " 
 
 "Your father must have played in it," said Margaret, attract- 
 ed against her will by the description. 
 
 " Then he played under a mulberry and beside a splendid 
 vine. The stairs are broad and low ; the whole house is wain- 
 scoted. Marjorie mine !" He sat down, stopping suddenly, and 
 took her hand. 
 
 " What is it, Lucian ?" 
 
 Now these two young people were not only engaged to each 
 other, but they were fully resolved to gather the roses while 
 they might, and not to wait for the sere and yellow leaf. They 
 would marry, as so many brave young people do now marry, in 
 these days of tightness, on a small income, hopeful for the fut- 
 ure. What that income was, you may guess from the first chap- 
 ter of this history. 
 
 *' I have an idea. It is this : The house will suit us exactly. 
 Let us take it and set up our tent there. Don't jump up, my 
 dear. I renounce my ancestors as much as you like — their 
 trades and callings — their little iniquities — their works and 
 their ways. Their enormous fortune I renounce. I go about 
 with a name that does not belong to me, and I won't take my 
 own true name. All the same, they are my ancestors. They 
 are ; we cannot get clear of that fact."
 
 30 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " But wliy go and live in their house and be always reminded 
 of the fact ?" 
 
 *' Can one ever forget the fact of one's own ancestry ? They 
 are an accident of the house ; they won't affect us. We shall 
 go in as strangers. As for that curse of the money — which is 
 an idle superstition — that cannot fall upon us, because we shall 
 have nothing to do with the money ; and it is so quiet ; the 
 street itself is like — well, it reminds one of those old-fashioned 
 river-side docks — quiet old places which the noise of the river 
 seems never to reach. Great College Street is a peaceful little 
 dock running up out of the broad high river of the street for 
 the repose of humans. And it is close to the Abbey, which you 
 would like. And at the back is a Place — not a street — a Place 
 which is more secluded than any Cathedral Close anywhere. You 
 would think you were in a nunnery, and you would walk there, 
 in the sunshine of a winter morning, and meditate after your own 
 heart. It is as quiet as a nunnery and as peaceful. Now, child, 
 let me say right out what is in my mind. I want a place — don't 
 I ? — where I can put up my plate and make a bid for a practice 
 — Lucian Calvert, M.D. Well, I looked about. The position 
 is central ; the street is quiet ; there are lots of great people 
 about. The members of Parliament would only have to step 
 across Palace Yard; the Speaker can run over and speak to me 
 about his symptoms, noble lords can drop in to consult me ; 
 the Dean and Canons of Westminster have only to open the 
 garden gate in order to find me." 
 
 " Oh, Lucian ! I am so sorry that you have seen the house. 
 Oh ! I am so sorry that you ever heard anything about this 
 great fortune." » 
 
 " Of course I mean that we should take the house with all 
 that it contains." 
 
 "All your ancestors' portraits?" she laughed, scornfully. 
 " Why, if you knew who and what they were — " 
 
 " I do not expect virtue. Their private characters have noth- 
 ing to do with us. We have cut ourselves off. Only, it will be 
 pleasant to feel that they are there always with us. My dear, 
 after all these years, say that it is pleasant to find that one has 
 ancestors." 
 
 " And you want to go and live with them ! You have changed
 
 THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 31 
 
 3'our name and refused your inheritance. Why, Lucian, if you 
 live among them, it will be like a return to the family traditions 
 — and — and — I don't know — misfortune and disaster — you have 
 not read the history of the family." 
 
 " A family curse !" he repeated, with impatience. " Non- 
 sense ! The place is most suitable ; the house is most conven- 
 ient — and — besides — the house should be mine ; my own people 
 have always lived in it ; I belong to the house. The portraits 
 are mine ; I ought to be with them. One would say that they 
 call me."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE N U II S E R V 
 
 LuciAN turned away and said no more that day. But the 
 next day — and the next — and every day he returned to the sub- 
 ject. Sometimes openly, sometimes indirectly ; always by some- 
 thing that he said, showing that his mind was dwelling on his 
 newly recovered ancestors and on their house at Westminster. 
 She knew that he walked across the park every day to look at 
 it. She perceived that his proposal to take the house, so far 
 from bcina: abandoned or forgotten, was cfrowinij in his mind, 
 and had taken root there. Her heart sank with forebodings — 
 those forebodings which have no foundation, yet are warnings 
 and prophecies. 
 
 "You are thinkmg still," she said, "of those portraits." 
 
 "There is re})roach in your voice, my Marjorie," he replied. 
 " Yes, I think of them still, I have seen them again — several 
 times. They are the portraits of my own people. A man can- 
 not cut himself off from his own people any more than he can 
 cut himself off from his own posterity." 
 
 " If you will only read the history of your ancestors as your 
 father set it down, you will no longer desire to belong to them." 
 
 " Wrong, Marjorie, wrong. It is not a question of what I 
 should wish ; it is the stubborn fact that I belong to them. 
 Their history may be tragic, or criminal, or sordid, or anything 
 you please ; but it is part of my history as well." 
 
 " Then read those papers." 
 
 "No, I will not read them. You shall tell me, if you please, 
 some time or other. Now, I have talked it over with Nicholson. 
 He quite thinks the house' would suit us." 
 
 "Does Mr. Nicholson, your father's old fiiend, approve?" 
 
 " I have not asked for his approval."
 
 THE NURSERY 33 
 
 Lncian did not explain that Mr. Nicholson had expressed a 
 strong opinion on the other side, nor did he inform her of Mr. 
 Nicholson's last words, which were: "If you take this house, 
 Lucian, you will end by claiming the estates. I have no rig-fet • 
 to say anything ; but — it is ill-gotten money." 
 
 " I say," Lucian repeated, " that I act on my own approval. 
 Well, Nicholson has found at the office — my grandfather's office 
 — that I can take the house on reasonable terms, and that I can 
 have the furniture and everything at a valuation." 
 
 " Oh ! Those portraits drag you to the house, Lucian." 
 
 " They do. I am not a superstitious man, my dear ; I laugh 
 at the alleged curse on the money ; yet I accede to my father's 
 ■wish, and I will not claim that great fortune — we don't want to 
 be rich; nor will I resume ray proper name, which would cause 
 awkwardness. But I want to feel myself a link in the chain." 
 
 " Alas," she sighed, " what a chain !" 
 
 " And I want to return to my own people. They may keep 
 their fortune. But since they have transmitted to me their 
 qualities — s^uch as they are — I would live among them, Mar- 
 jorie !" He held out his hands. " You know my wish." 
 
 She took them. She fell into his arms. " Oh ! my dear," 
 she cried, laughing and crying, " who can resist you ? Since you 
 must, you must. Being so very wilful, you must. We will go — 
 those faces on the walls are stronger than I — we will go there 
 — since nothing else will please you. But, oh ! my Lucian, 
 what will happen to us when we get there ?" 
 
 This step once resolved upon, it was agreed that she should 
 first see the house. But she made one condition. 
 
 " If," she said, " we take that house and buy those pictures, 
 I must tell you who and what were the people whose portraits 
 they are. At least, Lucian, you should not be tempted to pay 
 them any reverence." 
 
 " As you please, Margaret," he replied, carelessly. " Of 
 course, I don't expect chronicles of virtue ; they would be mo- 
 notonous. I am sure that the forefathers of the deceased must, 
 like him, have had a rooted dislike to the monotony of virtue." 
 
 And then occurrcil a vcrv curious thiiiof. The fjirl's mind liad 
 been filled with terror, gloomy forebodings, presentiments. She 
 had read those papers, she knew the family history, she was 
 
 2»
 
 34 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 weighed down by the sins of all these ancestors. But when it 
 was resolved to take the house, when the possible became the 
 actual, she found to her astonishment that the ghosts vanished — ■ 
 as Lucian had said, the past was old history — old history — what 
 did it matter to them ? 
 
 It was, she found, a lovely old house. Steps, side steps, with 
 a good old iron railing, led to the stoop and to the front door. 
 There were three stories, each with three windows ; there was a 
 steep red-tiled roof with dormer-windows. Over the whole front 
 hung a thick green curtain of Virginia- creeper. The shut- 
 ters, indeed, were closed, which partly concealed the uncleaned 
 condition of the windows. On the other side of the street was 
 the old gray wall of the Cathedral precincts — did Edward the 
 Confessor build that wall, or was it an earlier work still ? — the 
 work of Dunstan, what time his Majesty King Edgar endowed 
 the Abbey ? 
 
 " Is it a lovely old place outside ?" asked Lucian, eagerly. 
 " Is it a quiet, peaceful spot?" 
 
 " It is all that you say, Lucian." 
 
 " Now, my dear, you shall see the inside of it. Remember 
 that it has not been cleaned for ever so long. Don't judge of 
 it, quite, by its present aspect." 
 
 With his borrowed latch-key Lucian opened the door, and 
 they stepped in. The place was quite empty ; the old woman 
 was gone ; the shutters were closed ; the furniture, it is true, 
 was left; but furniture without life makes a house feel more 
 deserted than even when the rooms are empty. Another well- 
 known point about an empty house is that, as soon as people go 
 out, it is instantly seized upon by echoes; if it remains long 
 empty it receives a large collection of echoes. When Lucian 
 shut the street door, the reverberation echoed up the walls of 
 the stairs from side to side ; then it came down again more 
 slowly, and then more slowly still climbed up the walls again, 
 dying away with obvious reluctance. Lucian said something, a 
 word of welcome ; his voice rolled about the stairs, and was 
 repeated from wall to wall ; he walked across the hall, his foot- 
 steps followed his voice, as his voice had followed the shutting 
 of the door. 
 
 " The house is all echoes," said Margaret. Her voice was
 
 THE NURSERY 35 
 
 not strong enough to be rolled up the stairs, but her sibilants 
 were caught, and Echo returned a prolonged hiss. 
 
 " Only because it is empty. Echoes are odd things. Thev 
 never stay in an inhabited house. They like solitary places, I 
 suppose." Lucian opened the door of the back parlor, which, 
 with the shutters closed, looked like a black cave in which any- 
 thing might be found. "This is the room" — he lowered his 
 voice — " in which the old man lived and died. Quite a happy 
 old man, he is said to have been. Serenely happy in the mem- 
 ory of his little iniquities. He was no more troubled with re- 
 morse in his age than he was with scruples in his manhood. 
 Curious ! Most very wicked people are happy, I believe. Seems 
 a kind of compensation — doesn't it ?" He pulled back the shut- 
 ters and let in the sunliofht. 
 
 " There ! Now, Margaret, my dear, you behold the con- 
 sulting-room of Lucian Calvert, M.D. Here he will sit and 
 receive his patients. They will flock to him by crowds — the 
 lords ; the members of Parliament ; the Canons of West- 
 minster ; the engineers from George Street ; the people from 
 the Treasury, the Colonial Office, the India Office, the Board of 
 AVorks, the Board of Trade, the Educational Department — they 
 will all flock to me for consultation. They will wait in the front 
 room. Not a physician in Harley Street will be better housed 
 than I. AVe will breakfast and dine in the waiting-room. Up- 
 stairs you shall have your own rooms — drawing-room, boudoir, 
 everything. This is to be the patients' waiting-room." 
 
 He opened the door of communication with the front room, 
 and strode across in the darkness to open the shutters. The 
 room was furnished with a dining-table, but no one had dined 
 in it for a hundred years. In the miser's time there was no 
 dinner at all ; in his successor's time the room at the back was 
 used as a living-room. The place was inconceivably dirty and 
 neglected. 
 
 "Oh! what dust and dirt!" cried the girl. "Shall we ever 
 get it clean and presentable ? Look at the windows ! When 
 were they cleaned last? And the ceilings ! They are black!" 
 
 " Dirt is only matter in the wrong place. Bring along a mop 
 and a bucket and transfer it to the right place. We will trans- 
 form these rooms. A little new paint — pearl -gray, do you
 
 36 BEYOND TIIK PREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 think? With a toncli of color for the panels and the dado, a 
 new carpet, new curtains, white ceiling, clean windows — " 
 
 "What a lot of money it will take !" 
 
 " We will make the money. Patients will flock in ; I shall 
 finish my book. Courage, dear girl. And now, if you please, 
 we will go right up to the top floor first. How the old house 
 echoes!" He lifted his voice and sang a few bars as they 
 stepped back into the hall. Instantly there was awakened a 
 choir of voices — a hundred voices at least, all singing, ringing, 
 repeating the notes backward and forward and up and down. 
 
 " I believe the house is full of ghosts," said Margaret. " With- 
 out you, Lucian, I should be afraid to go up the stairs." 
 
 " I wish it was full of ghosts," Lucian replied. And up and 
 down the stairs the echoes repeated: "I wish— I wish — I wish 
 — it was — was — was — " 
 
 Margaret laughed, 
 
 " When I am the wife of a scientific person," she said, " I 
 must leave off believing in ghosts. Just at present and in this 
 empty house I seem to feel the ghosts of your ancestors. They 
 are coming up-stairs with us." 
 
 They were broad and ample stairs, such as builders loved when 
 these were constructed. 
 
 " But they were made for hoops," said Margaret. 
 
 Tlie old carpet, worn into holes and shreds, its outlines gone, 
 still stuck by force of habit in its place. 
 
 "There were two misers in succession," said Margaret; "there- 
 fore this carpet must be a hundred years old at least. I wonder 
 it has lasted so long." 
 
 " My grandfather stepped carefully upon the holes," said Lu- 
 cian, " in order to preserve the rest. I think I see him going 
 up and down very carefully." 
 
 " If we were to meet one of the ancestors stepping down the 
 stairs in a satin coat and a wig and laced ruflles, should you be 
 surprised, Lucian V 
 
 " Not a bit. First floor. Let us go on. It is a noble stair- 
 case, and when we've got through with the whitewasher and the 
 painter, and have the stair- window cleaned, it will look very fine. 
 Second floor — one more flight." 
 
 They stood on the landing at the top of the stairs ; two or
 
 THE NURSERY 
 
 three dust-covered boxes lay scattered about carelessly, as if no 
 one had been up there for a very long time. Two closed doors 
 faced them. In one was a key ; Lucian unlocked it and threw 
 the door open. 
 
 " It's the nursery !" cried Margaret. " Why, it is the old, old 
 nursery !" She stepped in and threw open the windows — they 
 were the two picturesque dormers that had caught her eyes in 
 the street. "There! A little fresh air — and now — " She 
 turned and looked again at the evidence of ancient history. 
 " Why !" she said, sitting on the bed. " Here grew up the 
 innocent children who afterwards — they were innocent then, I 
 suppose — afterwards became — what they were. Here they 
 played with their innocent mothers. Oh ! Lucian, my history 
 says so little about the wives and mothers. They had some 
 brief time of happiness, I hope, in this room while the babes 
 grew into little children, and the children grew tall — and my 
 history says nothing about the girls. There must have been 
 girls. Did they run away ? Did they disgrace their name and 
 themselves? Do you think they were girls as much ashamed 
 of their people as we can be, Lucian ? — because thy people are 
 my people, you know, and where thou goest, I go too. And in 
 this house I shall become a successor to these wives, whose 
 sons were your grandfathers." The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Nay, my Margaret, but not an unhappy successor. What 
 does it matter if these women were unhappy? Old histories — 
 old histories 1 Let us trust, my dear, in ourselves, and fear no 
 bogies." 
 
 " Yes, we will trust in ourselves, Lucian." She got up and 
 examined the room more closely. 
 
 Against the wall there stood a cradle ; not one of the little 
 dainty baskets of modern custom, but a stout, solid, wooden 
 cradle, with strong wooden rollers, carved sides, and a carved 
 wooden head ; a thing that may have been hundreds of years 
 old. The little blankets were lying folded up ready for use on 
 the little feather-bod, but both blankets and bed were moth- 
 eaten and covered with dust — for the room had not been opened 
 for fifty years. Beside the cradle was a low washing arrange- 
 ment, for children's use, a thing used before the invention of the 
 inodern bath ; in one corner was a small wooden bed, a four-
 
 38 HEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 poster, witliout head or hangings, but with a fcather-hcd also 
 eaten in holes and gaps; in anotlior forncr the children's bed, 
 a low truckle-bed of the time when children were put two and 
 three together in one bed ; on the mantel-shelf were basins and 
 spoons, and a tinder-box, and an old-fashioned night-light in its 
 pierced iron frame. There were two or three chairs, a chest of 
 drawers, a small table, a high brass fender, a!id a cupboard. 
 
 " The nursery," Margaret repeated, with a kind of awe. The 
 discovery moved her strangely. The dust lay thick upon the 
 beds and the cradle and everything. When the last children 
 died, and the mother died, and the last son left the house, the 
 door of the nursery was shut, and for fifty years remained 
 shut. She pulled open the top drawer of the chest. There 
 were lying in it, carefully folded and put away, the complete 
 trousseau of a baby. Such beautiful clothes they were, with 
 such cunning and craft of embroidery and needle-work as be- 
 lono-ed to the time when things were made and not bought. In 
 those ancient days things, because they were made, and excel- 
 lently made with skill and patience and pride, were much 
 prized, and were handed down from mother to daughter-in-law, 
 insomuch that this dainty frock in long clothes might have 
 served for generation after generation of babies in this family 
 of Burlev. Margaret turned over the things with the artistic 
 curiosity of one who recognizes good work more than with the 
 sympathetic interest of a possible matron, who considers the use 
 for which it was designed. 
 
 The other drawers contained things belonging to children a 
 little older — frocks, socks, shoes, sashes, ribbons, petticoats, and 
 whatever is wanted to adorn and protect a child of three or 
 four. 
 
 " See," she said, holding up a long baby frock, " the beauty. 
 of the work. Ah ! In such a house as this it relieves the 
 mind only to see such evidences of loving work. Love means 
 happiness, Lucian, for a woman at least. While the patient fin- 
 gers were embroidering this frock, the woman's heart must have 
 been at rest and in happiness. Yet they were going to be so 
 miserable from mother to daughter-in-law, all of them. Oh ! I am 
 so glad we have seen this room. It is like a gleam and glimpse of 
 sunshine. Five generations of women lived here — all of them,
 
 THE NURSERY 39 
 
 one after the other, doomed in the end to misery. Five gen- 
 erations ! And we, Lucian — we begin afresh. If I thouglit 
 otherwise — but these poor women had unrighteous lords — and 
 I—" 
 
 He stooped and kissed her hand. " "We begin anew," he 
 said. "Courage! we begin anew." 
 
 She threw open the cupboard. There were hanging up 
 within two or three dresses of ancient fashion. 
 
 " Strange," said Margaret, " that these things should be left. 
 See, they belong to the time of George IV. The sleeves are re- 
 turning to that fashion. I suppose the last two tenants would 
 suffer nothing to be destroyed. Look — here are their toys — 
 even the children's toys kept ! Here they are : broken dolls, 
 battledoors, Noah's arks, cup and ball, wooden soldiers, puzzles, 
 picture-books. I must come up here again," she added ; "I must 
 come up alone and turn out this cupboard at my leisure. Lu- 
 cian, in such a place as this — in the old nursery one feels the 
 reality of the family. There are women and children, mothers, 
 wives, daughters, in the family. You can't understand it simply 
 by reading about the wickedness of the men. It is like a his- 
 tory which concerns itself only with the campaigns of generals 
 and the oppression of kings. Here one feels the presence of the 
 mothers and the children." She sighed again. " Poor unfort- 
 unate mothers !" she said. " Lucian, I charge you, when you 
 send in your workmen, leave the nursery untouched. This shall 
 be mine." 
 
 '* Yes, dear, it shall be yours — your own." 
 
 '* The room is full of ghosts, Lucian. " I am not afraid of 
 tliem ; but I feel them. If I were to stay here long, I should 
 see them. Let us go into the next room."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 THE PRODIGAL SON 
 
 The other room, the back attic, was loclced, and there was no 
 key in the door. Lucian turned the handle and pressed with 
 his shoulder. Tlie lock broke otf inside, and the door Hew open. 
 
 " Ouf !" cried Lucian. " What a dust ! What an atmos- 
 phere !" The sun was struggling through the window, which 
 was covered inside with cobweb, and outside with the unwashed 
 layers of many years' coal smoke. He tried to throw up the 
 sash, but the cords were broken ; he lifted it up and proi)ped 
 it with a book which he took from a shelf hanijinfj beside the 
 window. " So !" he said. " Why, what in the world have we 
 here?" 
 
 The room was furnished with a four-post bed. The hangings, 
 which liad never been removed, were in colorless tatters ; every- 
 thing was devoured by moth ; but the bed was still made — 
 sheets, blankets, and coverlet — and so had remained for a hun- 
 dred and fifty years. There was a single chair in the room — a 
 wooden chair; there was a maliogany table, small, but of good 
 workmanship ; on the table were the brushes and palette of a 
 painter ; a violin-case lay half under the bed ; the inkstand with 
 the quilUpens, the paper, and the pouncet-box still lay on the 
 table as they had been left ; the books on the shelf — Lucian 
 looked at them — were chiefly volumes of poetry. 
 
 " See, Lucian ! The walls are covered with paintings !" 
 
 So they were ; the sloping walls of the attic, whicli had been 
 plastered white, were covered all over with paintings in oil. 
 Tliey represented nymphs and satyrs, flowers and fountains, 
 woods and lakes, terraces and walks, gardens and alleys of the 
 Dutch kind, streets with signs hanging before the houses, and 
 ladies with hoops. The paintings were not exactly executed by
 
 THE PRODIGAL SON 41 
 
 tlie hand of a master ; the drawing was weak and the color faded. 
 Each picture was signed in the left-hand corner "J. C. B.," 
 with dates varying from 1725 to 1*735. 
 
 " What is the history of these things?" 
 
 " I think I know," Margaret said, softly. " There is a pict- 
 ure. Oh !" she shuddered, " I am sure the date corresponds, 
 IIow shall I tell you, Lucian ?" 
 
 Tlie picture hung over the mantel - shelf, turned face to the 
 wall. Lucian turned it round. It represented a young man 
 about twenty-five years of age. He was richly dressed in the 
 fashion of the time — about 1735 ; he wore a purple coat with a 
 flowered silk waistcoat and lace ruffles. His hat was trimmed 
 with gold lace ; his fingers, covered with rings, resting lightly 
 on the gold hilt of his sword. 
 
 " The man was a gentleman, at least !" cried his descendant. 
 
 His handsome face was filled with gallantry and pride. One 
 could see that he was a young man with a good deal of eigh- 
 teenth - century side and swagger ; one recognized his kind — 
 always ready for love or for fighting ; one could picture him 
 standing up in the pit of the theatre, sitting among the rufilers and 
 bullies of the tavern, the terror of the street, a gallant in the 
 Park. 
 
 Margaret said something to this effect, but not much, because, 
 in truth, her knowledge of the eighteenth century was limited. 
 " He is handsome," she said, " but not in the best way. It is 
 a sensual face, though it is so young. See — Lucian ! There 
 are his initials, J. C. B., with the date 1735. It is the painter 
 of these pictures. I will tell you about him, Lucian. This is 
 clearly Ins own room, the place where he practised art when he 
 ■was a boy — where he lived until he left his father's house. His 
 name was the same that they all bore, you know, John Calvert 
 Burley, and he was the son of Calvert Burloy — of whom I will 
 tell you presently — the man who began the fortunes of the fam- 
 ily. When this man was young he was full of promise ; he was 
 an artist — these must be his paintings ; he was a musician. 
 See — " She pointed to the violin-case. " He was a poet, or at 
 least a writer of songs." The book-shelf was filled with books 
 of verse. " He was a dramatist who wrote a comedy which was 
 played at Drury Lane; and there were other things in which
 
 43 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 he was skilled that I do not remember. All these facts are 
 noted in your father's papers." 
 
 Lucian nodded to his ancestor. " I am glad," he said, " that 
 I have a forefather of so much distinction. Permit me to say- 
 so much, sir, although I have renounced you." 
 
 " Wait, Lucian. This room has been locked up since his 
 death. That was in 1750. Your father mentions the room 
 that was always locked up. It was this man's room. Upon him, 
 your father writes, the vengeance first fell for his father's sins." 
 
 " Oil !" Lucian interrupted, impatiently, " please do not talk 
 to me about vengeance for another man's sins. How can such 
 a thing be? Besides, had this man none of his own ?" 
 
 " Unfortunately — yes. That was part of the vengeance. He 
 was all wickedness. Clever as he was, bright and clever, and 
 good-looking when he was young, he became a profligate and — 
 and — everything that you can imagine in the way of wicked- 
 ness, after he grew up. People must have spoiled him when he 
 was a boy. There is a great deal about him in your father's 
 papers. His name should have been Absalom. I have been 
 thinking lately about this unhappy man. People should not 
 spoil clever boys. He was good-looking — well, look at tlie 
 portrait. Handsome Jack Burlcy they used to call him. He 
 quarrelled with his father — I do not know why — and then he 
 lived by his wits — lived on the town. How did young men 
 live on the town, Lucian, a hundred years ago ?" 
 
 " I don't very well know. Much as they do now, I suppose. 
 They played cards and won ; and games of chance, and won ; 
 they borrowed money of their friends and did not pay it back ; 
 they took presents from rich ladies — whose hearts they after- 
 wards broke; they ran away with heiresses; finally, they got 
 into the Fleet Prison and starved, or they took to the road and 
 were hanged. Then my ancestor here was quite a model profli- 
 gate, I take it. Perhaps Tom Jones had this man's career be- 
 fore him as a model." 
 
 " You have stated his case exactly. He married an liciress 
 
 and he squandered her fortune. Then she left him and came 
 
 here with her child. He was brought up in the nursery we 
 
 have just left; 1 suppose that we have seen his baby-clothes." 
 
 "Well, and what became of that prodigal? Did he repent
 
 THE PRODIGAL SON 43 
 
 and come home again ? Or was he presently brought to the 
 Fleet Prison ?" 
 
 " No, Lucian," she replied, gravely. " This bright and gal- 
 lant gentleman" — she pointed to the picture — "who looks as 
 if there were no laws of God to be feared, chose one of the 
 two lines you have indicated. But it was the road, and not the 
 Debtor's Prison. And it led to — the other kind of prison." 
 
 " Oh !" But Lucian's face flushed a little. " You mean, 
 Margaret, that this gay and gallant gentleman was — in point 
 of fact—" 
 
 " Yes. A fitting end for him, but it was disgraceful to his 
 people. This ancestor was hanged at Tyburn for a highway 
 robbery. His father turned the portrait to the wall and locked 
 the door. That was in the year 1750. And the room has never 
 been opened since." 
 
 " Humph !" Lucian stroked his chin gravely. " Have you 
 any more such stories to tell me ?" 
 
 " Two or three more." 
 
 " After all — old history — old history ! Who would care now 
 if one's descent from a man who was hanged in the year 1750 
 was published from the house-top ? No one. Old history, Mag. 
 And as to vengeance for his father's sins, why, you've made it 
 clear that he had enough of his own to justify the final suspen- 
 sion. Shall we ever use this room, Maggie?" 
 
 She shuddered. " Who could sleep hcTc ?" she said. " We 
 will turn it, perhaps, into a storehouse of all the old things — the 
 children's dresses and the dolls, perhaps, out of the nursery ; 
 and the toys and the cradle and everything else that belongs to 
 the innocent life. If the ghost of this wicked man still haunts 
 the roonj, he may profitably be reminded of the days of inno- 
 cence. Perhaps he has repented, long since, of the days of prod- 
 igaHty. I don't think we could make a bedroom here." 
 
 " Call you that renouncing of my ancestors, Marjorie ? Why, 
 you are bringing all the mischief you can upon your own head 
 by acknowledging that you know the stories. The wisest thing 
 to do would be to clear out the room — both rooms — burn the 
 rubbish, put the portrait somewhere else, and give the old-fash- 
 ioned things to a museum of domestic manners and customs. 
 Let us go down-stairs."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE PORTRAITS 
 
 They closed the door and went down to the next floor. Here 
 there were three bedrooms, all furnished alike and with solid- 
 ity. Each had a great mahogany four-poster, a mahogany chest 
 of drawers, a mahogany dressing-table, and two maliogany 
 chairs; there was a carpet in each ; and the liangings were still 
 round the beds, but in dusty, moth-eaten tatters and rags. There 
 were also shelves and a cuj)board in each room. On the sliclves 
 were books — school-books of the early part of this century. Lat- 
 in grammars in Latin, Greek grammars in Latin, Ovid and Cic- 
 ero and Cornelius Nepos, Gordon's Geography, the Greek Testa- 
 ment, and so forth. There seemed no reason to linger in the room. 
 But Margaret opened the drawers. Strange ! they were all filled 
 with things. She looked into the cupboards; they also were 
 filled with things — clothes, personal effects. " Why," she cried, 
 " they did not even take away their clothes ! Oh ! I know now. 
 They left them here when they ran away, and here they have re- 
 mained ever since. I will tell you directly all about them, Lu- 
 cian. Look ! These silk gloves must have belonged to Lucinda 
 — your great-aunt. She ran away. And in the other room 
 there are things with the initials IL C. B. — your great- uncle 
 Henry ; and others with the initials of C. C. B. and or J. C. B. 
 — your great-uncles Charles and James. They, too, ran away. 
 I will tell you why presently." 
 
 On the first floor there were two rooms onl}', at the front 
 and the back. They opened the door of the room at the back. 
 
 It was furnished exactly like the rooms overhead, only that 
 the four-poster was larger. The carpet and the hangings and 
 the curtains were quite as moth-eaten and ragged as those up- 
 stairs.
 
 THE PORTRAITS 45 
 
 "This is the room of the master," said Margaret — "your 
 grandfather's room. For fifty years he was alone. His wife died 
 about the year 1850 ; and when his son, your father, left him he 
 was quite alone, and the house has been in silence ever since. 
 Fancy a house, a thing that ought never to be without young 
 people, condemned to silence for fifty years ! It isn't used to 
 noise. The echoes take up your voice on the stairs ; the walls 
 whisper it, as if they were afraid to speak out loud. All these 
 years of silence ! And all the time down-stairs he sat and reck- 
 oned up his money." 
 
 She turned away and closed the door. 
 
 " Lucian !" — she laid her hand upon his arm — " before we 
 go to see the portraits, think. In your father's papers is an 
 account of them all. Better have nothing to do with them — 
 better know nothing about them." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! If I do not hear now I shall be wanting to 
 read the confounded papers myself. You need not soften the 
 facts, Margaret. I am not afraid. Besides, old histories ! old 
 histories !" 
 
 lie opened the door of the drawing-room, which in the old 
 days when it was furnished was called the best parlor. This 
 was the state-room of the house, never used at all except for 
 weddings, christenings, and funerals. 
 
 The furniture was stiff and rather quaint. The chairs and 
 sofa had been upholstered with stuff once green ; there had also 
 been gilt about the legs and backs ; there was a round table in 
 the middle ; there was a card-table between the windows ; there 
 was a cabinet containing a few curiosities; there was a faded 
 carpet, partly moth-eaten ; the fireplace and fender were of the 
 old fashion ; and there was nothing else in the room. 
 
 " I wonder," said Margaret, "if there has ever been any festivity 
 at all in this room ? Certainly there can have been none for 
 two hundred years. Is there anywhere else in this city a house 
 with a drawing-room which for two hundred years has never 
 been used ?" 
 
 But the walls ! Round the wainscoted walls there were hung 
 on every panel the portraits of the family ; the men were all 
 there ; the wives and the daughters were all there. Two or 
 three of the upper shutters of the windows were half open, and
 
 46 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 the faces were jast visible in tlic dim liglit. Liician threw open 
 all the shutters. 
 
 It was the custom all through the last century in every family 
 of the least pretensions or importance to have all their portraits 
 taken. In the time of great Queen Anne the limner went about 
 the country from house to house. He charged, I believe, a 
 guinea for a portrait. You may see specimens of his skill pre- 
 served in country-houses to this day. Portraits, in time, began 
 to rise in price ; it became an outward sign of prosperity to 
 liave your portrait taken. During this present century many 
 most respectable families have gone without portraits alto- 
 gether. Photographs, of course, do not count. In the Burley 
 familv the custom prevailed during the whole of last century 
 and wt'll into this. All the sons and daughters of this House 
 were figured and hung in frames, which sadly wanted regilding, 
 upon the walls. 
 
 " My ancestors." Liician bowed with a comprehensive sweep 
 of his arm. "Ancestors! I present to you your granddaugh- 
 ter-in-law that will be. We have renounced your works and 
 ways, but we recognize the fact of the relationship. Maggie, 
 you have something rather uncommon to tell me about our an- 
 cestors, I believe ? With your permission, ancestors !" Again 
 he bowed gravely. 
 
 " Yes, but what is it ? Very odd ! Oh ! I see. Most of 
 them are following me with their eyes wherever I go. What 
 an uncanny thing! How came the painters to make all their 
 eves like that? It looks as if they were curious to see the 
 living representative." 
 
 "Let them follow," said Lucian. "Now, historiographer of 
 the ancient House of Burloy, I listen — I sit at your feet — I wait 
 to learn." 
 
 Marirarct was walking round the room lookinij at the names 
 and dates on the frames. "Yes," she said, "these are your 
 ancestors; all are here, except that unhappy man for whose 
 sake the room up-stairs has been closed all those years. Now 
 Lucian, if vou arc prepared — mind, I could tell yon a groat deal 
 about evcrv one — i>ut 1 will confine myself to the principal facts. 
 You will find them bad enough." 
 
 " You ought to have a white wand." Lucian sat down.
 
 THE PORTRAITS 47 
 
 « Now — it is odd liow tlie eyes are staring at me — I am ready 
 to hear the worst." 
 
 Over the mantel-shelf hung the effigy of a gentleman in a 
 large wig — a wig of the year 1720, or thereabouts. A certain 
 fatness of cheek with a satisfied smugness of expression cliarac- 
 terizes most portraits of this period. Both were wanting in 
 this face. It was hard ; the eyes were hard ; the mouth was 
 hard ; the face was determined; the forehead showed power, the 
 mouth and chin determination. Time, who is often an excellent 
 finisher of portraits, and occasionally brings out the real charac- 
 ter of the subject much more effectively than the original lim- 
 ner (but he takes a good many years over the job), had cov- 
 ered this face with a cloud of gloom and sadness. 
 
 " We begin with this man," said Margaret. " lie is Calvert 
 Burley. He began, however, as a clerk, or servant of some 
 kind, to a City merchant. He must have been a young man of 
 ability, because he rapidly rose, and became factor or confi- 
 dential clerk. What he did was this : He persuaded his 
 master, who entirely trusted him, to invest a great sum in South 
 Sea stock. With a part of the money he bought shares in his 
 cwn name, falsifying the figures to prevent being found out. 
 The shares, as he expected, went higher and higher, till they 
 reached — I don't know what — and then he sold his own shares 
 to his own master at the highest price. Then the crash came. 
 He really looks, Lucian, as if he heard every word we are say- 
 ing." 
 
 " Let him answer the charge, then." 
 
 "Well, the unfortunate merchant was ruined ; his clerk who 
 had made an immense profit upon every share he held — 'I know 
 not how many there were — stepped into his place. This was 
 the origin of the fortunes of the House." 
 
 " And the confiding: merchant?" 
 
 " He died in the Fleet. His former clerk would not send him 
 so much as a guinea when he was starving. Well, Calvert 
 from a servant became a master; from a factor he became a 
 merchant. 1 suppose that no one found out what he had 
 done." 
 
 " How was it found out, then?" 
 
 " I do not know. I read it in your father's papers.
 
 48 UEYONl) THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "ITiimpli! I slioiikl like to licar Mr. Calvert Barley's own 
 account of the transaction." 
 
 "That was what your father meant when he said that the 
 fortunes of the House were founded on dishonor." 
 
 " Vcs." Lucian looked at the portrait, who fixed upon liini 
 from under black eyebrows a pair of keen, searching eyes. He 
 got up and looked more closely. " Yes," he repeated, " I should 
 like to hear your own account of the transaction, my ancestor. 
 Because you look as if you could put it differently." 
 
 " Lucian, stand there a moment beside the portrait, so the 
 light upon your face is the same. Oh ! you are so like him. 
 You have the same strong face, the same eyes, and the same 
 mouth, Lucian, your strength was his, but he turned his 
 strength to evil purposes." 
 
 Lucian laughed. " At all events, my Marjorie, I shall not 
 invest my master's money in my own name." 
 
 " You are exactly like him. But, of course, what does it 
 matter ? Well, you heard up-stairs how vengeance fell upon 
 this man through his son." 
 
 " Not at all. I heard up-stairs how the son was rightly pun- 
 ished for his own crimes — not for his father's crimes at all. I 
 am (piitc sure that the judge who sentenced him made no al- 
 lusion to his father." 
 
 " Well, he had no liappiness with his money ; for his eldest 
 child ended as you have heard, and liis only daughter died of 
 smallpox at the age of twenty-two. I expect this must be her 
 portrait." It was one of a very pretty girl ; dark-eyed, animat- 
 ed, evidently a vivacious and pleasing girl. *' Poor child ! to 
 die so young ; an<l his youngest, a boy of sixteen, disappeared. 
 They thought he was kidnapped. It is all in your father's 
 papers." 
 
 " How did he know?" asked Lucian. 
 
 " I think I can tell you. lieside the men of a family, there 
 are the women. The men work — for good or evil. The women 
 watch ; they watch, they observe, and they remember. Do you 
 tliink that the wife of Calvert Burley — the unhappy wife of this 
 man — did not know what her husband had done ? When her 
 sons and her daughter were taken from her, do you think she 
 hid in her heart the things she knew — the money got by fraud,
 
 THE PORTRAITS 49 
 
 the starving prisoner in the Fleet? Oh no! She told her 
 danghter-in-law, who in time told hers, and so the story was 
 handed down as far as your motlier, who told her son." 
 
 " It is possible. I did not think of that." 
 
 "Men never think of the women who watch. If they did, 
 how long would the wickedness of the world endure V 
 
 " You are bitter, my Margaret." 
 
 " It is because my mind is full of the women of your own 
 House. Am I not going to become one ? See — the next panel 
 is empty. That is because the portrait is up-stairs in the room 
 that you burst open. This one is his wife. Poor wretch ! 
 She is young now, with all her troubles before her — and an 
 heiress. See how beautifully she is dressed ! My dear Lucian, 
 when her husband had spent all her money and deserted her ; 
 wlien she came here with her infant ; when the news arrived of 
 her husband's shameful end — do you think that the bereaved 
 wife and the bereaved mother did not sit and whisper to each 
 other words of the Lord's vengeance ?" 
 
 " It is possible," Lucian replied, gravely. " Old supersti- 
 tions !" 
 
 Margaret went on to the next portrait. It liad upon it the 
 date of 1760. The big wig had given place to a more modest 
 gear. The face was that of a young man. " He is the son of 
 the man up-stairs," said Margaret. 
 
 There was little of his father's swagger visible in this young 
 man's face. He was like all the men of the family, endowed 
 with black eyes and black hair ; there was no force of character 
 ill his face: his mouth was weak; his eyes looked upward 
 — there was a strange, expectant light in tlunn — while his fore- 
 liead was marked with a straight vertical line. The expression 
 of this man's face seemed out of harmony with those around him. 
 
 " The only sun of his mother," said Margaret. " He married 
 and had children, but I know not how many, nor what became 
 of any except the eldest. I believe that they all died young 
 except that one. And this poor man — what he did I know not 
 — whether he advanced the fortunes of the family I cannot ti'Il 
 you — but — he went mad — " 
 
 " Mad ! He doesn't seem mad." Yet as Lucian looked closer, 
 he saw the possibilities of madness in those eyes.
 
 60 DEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " It was a time, you know, when people thought a great deal 
 about the safety of their souls. Many became mad from relig- 
 ious terrors. It was in this way that he went mad. For twelve 
 years he was chained to the floor in one of the rooms up-stairs. 
 I said there was nothing to keep us there — 1 was afraid of find- 
 ing the marks of the bolt in the floor. After twelve years he 
 died. This was his wife." 
 
 " The history becomes more cheerful as we go along. Really," 
 said Lucian, " there never was such an unlucky House. And all 
 because of that little fraudulent transaction in stocks. Pray go 
 on." 
 
 "There is not much more in the way of horrors. The next 
 picture, this with the hair tied behind, is the son of the mad- 
 man. You see it is dated 1790. He lived to the year 1820, 
 when he died, at the age of fifty. What should you say, from 
 the look of the man's face, was his character ?" 
 
 " Well, it is a dark and rather a gloomy face ; it has a look of 
 the original Calvert, but without his power. This man was small; 
 he looks small and narrow ; there is some determination in his 
 face ; and, somehow, the painter has left out the intellect. Per- 
 haps he had none. What did he do? To look at him he might 
 have been a small retail trader, counting up his little profits every 
 day." 
 
 " Lucian, you are cleverer at character-reading than I thought. 
 He was a little retail trader — that is to say, he became a miser 
 — quite a celebrated miser — one of the misers you read of in 
 books. He used to wander about the streets j)icking up crusts 
 and bones ; he would have no fire in the coldest weather ; he 
 would have no servant in the house — had he not a wife and a 
 daucrhter? He went in raijs himself: his sons should learn to 
 do the same. It is said that at night he would beg in the 
 streets, or hold a horse or call a hackney-coach. But he left 
 off going into the streets because the boys followed and hooted 
 him. He weighed out the food, which was of the commonest 
 and cheapest kind. He bought scraps of the butchers and stale 
 loaves of the bakers. Nothing was too bad for him." 
 
 " Oh ! This was my groat-grandfather. Very pleasant, in- 
 deed — a charming ancestor!" 
 
 " I suppose he had some family feeling, because he had act-
 
 - THK PORTRAITS 51 
 
 iially spent money on having his children painted. Perliaps 
 he got it done for nothing. But here they are — first his wife ; 
 I suppose they are the family jewels which she wears. You 
 must have an immense number of cousins, Lucian ; but I do not 
 know who they are because the papers contain no information 
 about their wives. She is a handsome woman, is she not, your 
 great-grandmother? That is her daughter Lucinda. AVhenever 
 there is a daughter, the name is always Lucinda. You see, she 
 wears thesame jewels as her mother; she borrowed them, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " Did she distinguish herself ?" asked Lucian. 
 
 " She rebelled against the miserly rule at home and ran away. 
 It is also stated that she married, but her married name is not 
 recorded, and I know nothing more about her. These are the 
 four sons — there were five children altogether. They are a 
 good-looking lot of boys, are they not ? Do they look like the 
 sons of a miser ?'' 
 
 Their portraits had all been taken in the same year — probably 
 at'So much the job — by a painter very much down in his-luck. 
 They were not ill-painted. The young men were from seven- 
 teen to two or three and twenty ; their hair was curled for the 
 occasion, because a sitting for a portrait was like going to a 
 party. They wore high stocks, and every one had a watch-chain 
 hanging from the fob. 
 
 " It is the same watch and chain," said Margaret, " lent to one 
 after the other." 
 
 " These are my grandfather and my great-uncles." 
 
 " Yes. That is your grandfather. lie is like Calvert, is he 
 not ? Curious how the face reappears — first in him and then 
 in you. It is a much larger face than his predecessor's: tliere 
 is more intellect in it. As for the others, tell me what you 
 think of this one — the second." 
 
 " He is exactly like the gallant higliwayman. Did he also 
 take to the road ? Was he, too, conducted in triumph to the 
 fatal tree ?" 
 
 " No. Like the highwayman, he had all kinds of clever- 
 nesses: he could make music on anything, and he could sing and 
 make verses. He ran away as soon as he was eighteen years of 
 age — he ran away and became an actor."
 
 53 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Very sensible thing, too — mucli better tlian taking to the 
 road." 
 
 " Much better. lie succeeded, too. He was a good actor, and 
 became, at one time, lessee and manager of the York Theatre." 
 
 " His grandchildren will put in a claim to the estate, I sup- 
 pose !" 
 
 " You will not mind if they do," Margaret replied quickly. 
 ' '' Very well. Let us go on to the next. Who is this fellow ? 
 Why, he looks like the man who went mad — his grandfather. 
 Has he a history, too?" 
 
 " That was Charles. I said that there were other tragedies. 
 This unlucky young man ran away from home, and I think 
 there is something said about an aunt who befriended him. He 
 was put into a place in the City, and — I hardly know what he 
 did ; T think it was a forgery " (Lucian groaned) ; " and he was 
 tried and sentenced to be hanged, but the sentence was com- 
 muted to transportation for life. So he went to Australia." 
 
 " Australia is not so far off as it was. The convict's grand- 
 children are doubtless on their way home to get the estate." 
 
 *' Very likely." Margaret went on to another : " This was 
 the youngest son, James." 
 
 " There is a touch of the higliwayman about him, too," said 
 Lucian. " How did he distinguish himself T' 
 
 " Well, he ran away, of course ; and he became a solicitor — 
 I don't know how ; and then he — lie took away his employer's 
 young wife, and went to America." 
 
 Lucian sat down. " Why !" he cried. " It is a great — it is 
 a glorious family ! They vie with each othe- in greatness." 
 
 " That is all, Lucian." 
 
 " Thank you, dear cicerone. You have spun out a very pret- 
 ty history — one that could be told of very few families — very 
 few indeed. I think I ought to be proud of such an ancestry." 
 
 He lapsed into silence. As he sat theic looking up at the 
 portrait of Calvert Burley the resemblance became stronger, 
 llis face assumed a gloomy look, which still more increased the 
 resemblance. 
 
 " After all, Margaret," he said, presently, "why should we not 
 take over this great inheritance? We only know, in general 
 terms, how it was amassed. Old histories! Old histories! What
 
 THE PORTRAITS 53 
 
 does the world care about the long string of obscure money- 
 grubbers and criminals?" 
 
 " Is it the question what the world knows, Lucian ?" 
 
 He sprang to his feet and shook himself. *' I believe, with 
 that old fellow looking down upon me, I could persuade myself 
 into anything. Come, my dear, let us have done with them. 
 We have renounced their works and their ways." 
 
 " Take down the portraits and burn them, Lucian. Put an 
 end to the memories of this house." 
 
 " No ; I like feeling that I can sit among my forefathers, 
 though their record is disgraceful. But, Marjorie mine, you 
 have seen the house. Do you think that you can make your 
 home here, in spite of all these memories ?" 
 
 " I think, Lucian," she replied, slowly and with hesitation, 
 " that wjien we have had the place cleaned and painted and 
 whitewashed, and these pictures regilt, and carpets laid down, 
 and modern things put in, and some of the old hangings carted 
 away, that it will be different. And there is the nursery. And 
 if the men who have sinned are here upon the walls, so are the 
 women, who have suffered and wept and prayed. It seems as 
 if they will protect us from sorrows like their own." 
 
 " Child of superstition ! You to become the wife of a scien- 
 tific man ? From sorrows, my dear ? I will protect you from 
 sorrows." 
 
 He laid his arms — his stronsf arms — about her neck and kissed 
 her forehead. 
 
 " Now," he said, " claimants will turn up from the children 
 of all these grand-uncles. Of one thing I am quite resolved, my 
 dear. If I am not to take this inheritance, I'm hanged if any- 
 body else shall. My ancestors " — he waved his hand compre- 
 licnsively — " you approve, I hope, of this resolution ?" 
 
 It was as if the portraits all with accord bowed their heads 
 in affirmation. I say "as if," because neither would have as- 
 serted, positively, that the portraits actually showed this inter- 
 est in things mundane ; but Margaret afterwards declared that 
 she had a feeling — a creepy, supernatural feeling — as if some- 
 thing of the sort had happened. The whole science of spiritual- 
 ism is built upon foundations no stronger. 
 
 " Oh, dear Lucian !" she said, " it is only by giving up what
 
 54 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 they valued so much that we can escape the consequences of 
 belonging to this House. Do not scoff. In some way or other 
 the cliildrcn must suffer from the father's sins. You are the 
 grandchikl of the man who ruined thousands by his money-lend- 
 ing ; of the miser who ruined liis whole family for the sate of 
 his hoards; of the poor madman, chained to the floor up-stairs 
 because he thought his soul was lost ; of the highwayman who 
 was hanged ; of the man who grew rich by ruining the master 
 who trusted him. What a record ! Oh, my Lucian ! if I thought 
 that you would resemble any of these men, I would pray — since 
 I learned their history I have prayed — that you might die sud- 
 denly and at once — that we might die together. But you cannot 
 resemble tliem!" 
 
 " Margaret, dear" — his eyes and his voice softened — "do not 
 be troubled. 1 make you a promise that I will never act against 
 my father's wish unless with your approvah Are you satisfied?"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 
 
 It was about this time — viz., a month or six weeks after the 
 death of the old man — that the newspapers began. 
 
 First there appeared in all the journals a paragraph reporting 
 the Inquest of Office ; but, as the news editor was not posted 
 up in the difference between an ordinary coroner's inquest and 
 a coroner's Inquest of Office, and he had no time to ask ques- 
 tions and to hunt up nice points of law, the report appeared 
 among those of the ordinary inquests. In most of the papers 
 it was jammed in between an inquiry into the death of a man 
 found drowned and that of a child run over by a cab. There- 
 fore, the thing attracted, at first, little attention. Moreover, the 
 reporter, a young man of small imaginative power, was not in 
 the least carried away by the coroner's flights of fancy and poet- 
 ical dream of half-millions. He went by the evidence. Nothing 
 in the evidence proved the extent of the estate — in fact, as you 
 liave seen, little was said in the evidence on this point. There- 
 fore, with a moderation and self-restraint unusual in his profes- 
 sion, he only said that the coroner appeared to think that the 
 estate might prove to be of considerable value. 
 
 Nothing could be more guarded, or less likely to excite any 
 interest, " Considerable value !" One would use this adjective, 
 for instance, in speaking of an estate worth a thousand pounds. 
 " Considerable " means anything. Nobody could possibly divine 
 the truth, or anything like a fraction of the truth. Such a co- 
 lossal truth as this cannot be divined or imagined, or even real- 
 ized. We realize great riches by one simple rule or formula. 
 Man says to man — with mouth wide open and awe-struck eyes : 
 " Sir, he might give me a thousand pounds and never feel it I" 
 That is the only way in which wo can arrive at anything like
 
 56 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 an understanding of the rich man's mind and the rich man's 
 fortune. 
 
 As the present order continues, fortunes increase, so that he 
 who was a very rich man indeed a liuiidred years ago is now 
 reckoned to be no more than easy in liis circumstances. Our an- 
 cestors thought very higldy of tlieir success if they found them- 
 selves worth a hundred tliousand jiounds, poetically called a 
 " plum !" Hut what is a plum now ? The word itself remains 
 of course, a conifortal)le, soft, self-satisfied word — a pluin ; hut 
 what is it? A hare hundred thousand pounds — no more than 
 three thousand pounds a year. Call that great wealth? Why, 
 a man with a modern fortune of ten millions or thereabouts — 
 which is, one admits, a large fortune, even in America — gets 
 three plums and a lialf every year at a little over 3 i)er cent. ; 
 lie gets more than a thousand pounds a day, not counting Sun- 
 days. That is something like a fortune, and since there are but 
 one or two men in our country who possess anything like this 
 income, the possibility of so much belonging to any one man is 
 by the general run of us quite unsuspected. 
 
 No <me, then, outside Mr. Burley's ofhce, wIktc the estate was 
 administered, had the least suspicion of the truth, nor was the 
 whole truth known to any one, not even excepting the chief man- 
 ager, so mixed up and spread about was the property. At the 
 office, however, they knew a good deal, and from that centre, 
 which the journalists speedily found out, the talk began. At 
 first it was nothing but the plain fact that another person liad 
 died intestate, and apparently without heirs. The Crown had, 
 therefore, got something. Everybody supposed that the Crown 
 meant the Queen ; one or two papers waxed indignant over this 
 prerogative of the Crown ; people asked each other how much 
 fell into her Majesty's lap every year by these windfalls; the 
 intelligent outsiders who wrote letters to the papers asked scath- 
 ing questions about the Royal conscience. But their letters did 
 not appear. 
 
 Then those journalists who were barristers saw their oppor- 
 tunity in the novelty of the court — an Inquest of Court. No- 
 body knew anything about such a court; they began to liunt it 
 up, they wrote paragraphs, short leaders, long leaders, letters, 
 communicating their information ; they contradicted eacli other,
 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 57 
 
 they carried on a wordy war, they wrote sarcastic things con- 
 cerninof each other. 
 
 Next, for the subject proved of unexpected interest, they wrote 
 about the history, the duties, and the attributes of the ancient 
 office of coroner. 
 
 This opened up a very hvely discussion. For some main- 
 tained, and very learnedly argued, that the office, as shown by 
 the illustrious Verstegan, Leland, Ducarel, and Dryasdust, was 
 established by King Alfred himself, and that the first court was 
 held on the body of a Dane found just outside the Royal wagon, 
 with his brains beaten out at the back of his head. The verdict 
 was Felo-de-se^ which the King, with an arch smile, received as 
 a very proper verdict, and what he expected of such a judge 
 and such a jury, and that the office should, therefore, be per- 
 manently established. Others — with the late learned Dr. Free- 
 man — rejected the legend of the Dane, and would have it that 
 the office was established in the thirteenth century by King 
 Henry III. 
 
 The next step was a discussion on the whole subject of un- 
 claimed property. Then followed a boom of letters on this sub- 
 ject. Indeed, it interests the whole world. For what could be 
 more delightful than to learn suddenly that one had inherited a 
 noble fortune ? Everybody read these letters ; the circulation 
 of the paper advanced by leaps and bounds. In train and in 
 tram and in omnibus everybody became pensive, dreaming that 
 he had become heir to a vast fortune, which lifted him far — 
 very far — above the heads of his fellows, and won him the re- 
 spect and the affection of the whole world. This was last year. 
 No one, since the appearance of these letters, has, so far as I 
 have heard, unexpectedly stepped into a vast estate, but the 
 dream of " comino- in " for an immense fortune still continues. 
 It has its uses ; it shows the young man and the young girl 
 what a very noble person he or she would become if he or she 
 were suddenly to " come in " for money. For in these dreams 
 about it they always picture themselves as gods making crooked 
 things straight and compelling all to virtue. 
 
 Lucian read all the letters and laughed over them. "They 
 haven't found out," he said. " Presently they will — then from 
 Greenland's icy mountains and India's coral strands, from Aus- 
 
 3*
 
 58 UEVOND THE UltEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 tralia's flincfy deserts anrl Wisconsin's prairie-lands, the claimants 
 will begin to flock in. If they only knew ! lieoause, my dear 
 Maggie, as I said before, if I can't tackle this pile, no one else 
 shall !" 
 
 "Don't think about them, Luclan," she replied. " Let who 
 will fight over the fortune : let who will enjoy it." 
 
 The thing made him restless. He thought of it night and 
 day; he talked of it continually. When he did not talk of it, 
 he was thinking about it; he had long moods of silence. 
 
 " I must think about it, Maggie," he said. " Why, I don't 
 believe there ever was a man in such a strange case. I have 
 been without a f;imily and without ancestors fur six-and-twciity 
 years. Tlicn 1 find out my [jcuple — only to be told that I nmst 
 renounce them, because they are too disgraceful for any decent 
 descendant to acknowledge. And the next moment I find my- 
 self the sole undisputed heir to wealth colossal — and that I 
 must not, on account of scruples as to the way it was gotten, 
 put in my claim. Isn't that worth thinking about?" 
 
 " It is worth forgetting, Lucian. AVhat was your grand- 
 father's profession ?" 
 
 " Destruction and Ruin. The Profession of the Tornado. Let 
 me talk about it a little with you, dear girl. Let me have my 
 little grumble, and then we will settle down contentedly to 
 poverty and pinch." 
 
 She shook Iior head and sighed. lie had never before grum- 
 bled at his poverty, which, after all, was an independence, and 
 lie had never before felt any pinch. Had he not four hundred 
 pounds a year ? It is a competence. 
 
 " I must think about it, Madge. I dare say I shall get accus- 
 tomed to the thought of it. Presently it will become — what? 
 A tender regret? A thing to be ashamed of?" 
 
 Then the papers found out the truth — something like the 
 whole truth ; an approach to the colossal reality. The manager 
 told some one something about it; the clerks talked ; represent- 
 atives went to the office and interviewed the manager ; some 
 of the people at the Treasury got to know the facts. Then — 
 we know how to present things dramatically — there was an an- 
 nouncement. Not a little paragraph in a corner — but an 
 announcement in large type, after the leading articles, which in-
 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 59 
 
 formed a gasping, gaping, wondering, admiring, envying world 
 that the estate of the late John Calvert Barley, which was in 
 the hands of the Treasury by reason of intestacy and the fail- 
 ure of heirs, was ascertained to be worth — if the property was 
 to be realized — in lands, houses, and investments of every kind 
 — that is, of every safe kind — over eleven millions certainly ; 
 perhaps over twelve millions — possibly more. And you could 
 hear the national gasp all over the islands of Great Britain and 
 Ireland. 
 
 Of course there was an article upon the subject. What fol- 
 lows is a part of this remarkable commentary : 
 
 "The Treasury seems to have received a windfall in the estate 
 of the late John Calvert Burley which surpasses all previous ex- 
 perience. It beats the record of windfalls. One or two there 
 have been in which the estates have been valued at the hundred 
 thousand. The estate which has lately been escheated to the 
 Crown in failure of heirs — who may, however, turn up — is now, 
 it is said, proved to be worth nothing less than the enormous 
 sum of eleven or twelve millions sterling. 
 
 " So great a fortune, representing an annual income of at least 
 £400,000, places its possessor among the very few really rich 
 men of his time. How many men, in fact, are there in the world 
 whose rent-roll, with all deductions made, actually touches these 
 fiifures? How many men are there whose investments, scattered 
 about in every kind of security, actually produce the income of 
 £400,000 sterling? Are there five -and - twenty in the whole 
 world ? Probably not so matiy. 
 
 " Great — very great — has been the increase of incomes and 
 the magnitude of fortunes during the last fifty years, especially 
 in America ; but there have been few cases on record of so large 
 a fortune bcinof amassed as that which has now fallen in 'to the 
 Crown.' It is so splendid a windfall that the Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer — unless, which is not improbable, an heir presents 
 himself — will have to reckon with it as an asset of no inconsider- 
 able importance. It would pay the income-tax for a whole year ; 
 it would give us twenty new war-ships; it would pay the whole 
 expenses, forever, at British rate of pay and maintenance, of an 
 army of 4000 men ; it would pay for education, science, art, law, 
 and justice for a whole year; it would be easy to enumerate the
 
 60 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 way in whicli such a windfall of eleven millions might Lo spent. 
 Probably tlie importance of the amount may be realized when we 
 consider that, suppose others of corresponding wealth were to 
 give, or to lose, their fortunes to the country, it is easy to per- 
 ceive how the national burdens might be lightened. 
 
 "The questions which everybody will ask are, how this im- 
 mense sura was accumulated ? and who was the fortunate man its 
 last possessor? John Calvert Burlcy was once as well known a 
 man in London as Crockford. Like him, he ran a gambling- 
 house, which was open to all comers ; like him, he advanced 
 money in large sums to young spendthrifts. If any player had 
 lost his money, he had but to ask, and there was more — for 
 John Burley knew the private history and resources of every 
 one who frequented his place. The gamester was supplied with 
 the means of continuing his play so long as any moans wore 
 left, lie then had to go away. In addition to his gaming- 
 house, John Burley practised the trade of money-lending, which 
 he carried on with the relentless, pitiless hardness of heart 
 by which alone this trade can be made successful. There was 
 no necessity for him to carry on any trade, for he began life 
 with such a fortune as should have satisfied him. But to make 
 money — more money — always more money, was with him an in- 
 stinct. As a usurer he enjoyed a much better reputation than 
 many of his brother practitioners, for though he took great in- 
 terest, and exacted his bond to the letter, he advanced his nioncv 
 in full without making his victim take half in bad champagne or 
 villanous cigars. For this reason he enjoyed the reputation, 
 such as it was, of being the prince of money-lenders. He ac- 
 quired at one time, so little did he care liow his money was 
 made, some interest, if not the whole, in an infamous all-night 
 danoing-dcn. 
 
 " Theatrical speculations, newspaper speculations — even rac- 
 ing speculations — were undertaken by him, with, it is reporfjcd, 
 an unvarying success. Fortune followed him. Until a few vcars 
 before his death, when he retired, he continued to carry on the 
 trade of money-lender. Of late he led a perfectly retired life, 
 quite alone, friendless and childless, but not, it is said, unha[»py, 
 because he could contemplate the great pyramid of gold which 
 he had erected. He died at the great age of ninety-four, illus-
 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 61 
 
 trating by his long life the lesson that he who would live mnst 
 avoid emotions, and know neither love, nor hatred, nor jealousy, 
 nor envy, nor any other passion whatever. 
 
 " It is certain that there have been many usurers, but none 
 have been so abundantly successful as this man ; and that to 
 amass eleven millions of money even in a life of nearly a hun- 
 dred years is a task which might well be deemed impossible 
 save by some exceptionally lucky accident, some discovery of 
 diamonds or emeralds, some purchase for next to nothing of a 
 silver mine when silver was worth digging up. 
 
 " Some explanation of the mystery is found in the history of 
 the family. This man's father was one of those mentally dis- 
 eased unfortunate persons who become misers. He was an his- 
 torical miser — in any of the books which treat of eccentric 
 characters and uncommon traits, the misers are always por- 
 trayed — among these, next to John Elwcs comes John Barley. 
 He was born to a good fortune — perhaps not an enormous, but 
 a respectable fortune. He lived for fifty years ; for thirty he 
 was in possession of this fortune. He developed the disease in 
 its most pronounced form. He would spend nothing; he pur- 
 sued his morbid parsimony to the utmost limits; he would have 
 no fire in cold weather, no light after dark, no new clothes, the 
 coarsest and simplest food. He prowled the streets at night in 
 search of crusts and remnants ; he bought the odds and ends of 
 the batchers. 
 
 " This man was a perfectly well-known character in Westmin- 
 ster; the memory of him still lingers, it is said, though there are 
 not, probably, any living men who remember the ragged old 
 miser who used to prowl about the streets in the twilight ; he 
 died about the year 1825, of his self-inflicted privations. He 
 left his son the whole of the property thus increased and multi- 
 plied. According to his biographers, the fortune amounted to 
 £400,000. His son proved to be as eager to make money as his 
 father, yet not contented with the slow process of saving it. He 
 appears also to have inherited much of his father's parsimony 
 without the extreme developments of the miserly character. His 
 eagerness to make more money caused him to embark in busi- 
 ness of the kind which requires the greatest astuteness and the 
 coldest temperament, His desire to save caused him to live in
 
 G2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 SO simple a fashion that he may fairly be said to have saved the 
 whole of his income every year. 
 
 " In other words, besides the money which he made by his 
 profession and his investments, he saw for seventy years his 
 original capital multiplying at compound interest. Now the 
 sum of £400,000 at compound interest and at 5 per cent, be- 
 comes £800,000 in thirteen years, and in seventy years it has 
 become more than twelve millions. Since, therefore, Mr. Bur- 
 ley's estate is said to be no more than about eleven millions, 
 it would seem as if the unfortunate gentleman must have had 
 losses. Or perhaps he did not of late years manage to make 
 so much as 5 per cent. Smaller men than he have had to be 
 contented with three. 
 
 " Who — what — where are the heirs ? They must be some- 
 where. Any one who casts an eye on the line of descent as set 
 forth in a certain well-known law-book must understand that it 
 is almost impossible for a man to die without heirs. For the 
 property cither descends or mounts up the main line. First, the 
 man Burlcy : had he children ? Presumably not. Then, had he 
 brothers and sisters? Perhaps not. If he had, it is not credible 
 that they, or their cliildren, would ignore their connection with 
 this incredibly rich man. Avery wealthy man is the head of the 
 family ; he is like the man who enjoys the family title, and has 
 inherited the family estates ; he is the great man of the family. 
 For this man, we must remember, did not hide liimself away un- 
 til he grew very old ; lie lived, so to speak, openly. He person- 
 ally conducted his gaming-house ; his money-lending was openly 
 conducted in a public office with clerks and servants. It was al- 
 ways in evidence. 
 
 " Again, he was not a self-made man ; he began life so rich 
 that he needed not to work at all. He did work because he 
 had an active intellect, and he chose what is thought to be dis- 
 graceful work because he saw that he could make money by it, 
 and because he was indifferent to the opinion of men. Again, 
 his father, the miser, inherited, and did not make his fortune. 
 How was it made? That is not known; but we have certainly 
 three generations of easy circumstances. If the miser had one 
 child only, had he any brotliers and sisters? Was he an only 
 child ? This is very improbable. Then where are the descend-
 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 63 
 
 ants of these brothers and sisters ? Or had the miser's father 
 any brothers and sisters ? If so, where are they ? It is per- 
 fectly certain that somewhere or other the main stock must be 
 struck by some branch which will thus become the heirs to this 
 vast property. 
 
 " Here we find a remarkable illustration of the strange apathy 
 displayed by the middle-class Englishman concerning his own 
 ancestry. He neither knows nor cares to inquire into his origin 
 and connections. Considering this family, it seems almost im- 
 possible that its members should be so split up as actually to 
 lose in two generations the knowledge of their own relationship 
 to so rich a man. Yet it is not impossible. Mr. Galton has 
 somewhere pointed out that it is unusual for a middle-class 
 family to know their own great-grandfather. They do not in- 
 vestigate the question ; partly they do not care ; partly they 
 fear to find their ancestors in the gutter, or at least upon the 
 curb. It is foolish fear, because when one says middle-class 
 one says everything; the middle-class is perpetually going up 
 or going down. It should be most interesting for a family to 
 know its own history, whether that has been passed in obscu- 
 rity or otherwise. 
 
 " Our people do not care for ancestry, unless they can claim 
 descent from a distinguished House ; in that case they care very 
 imich for the connection ; so that we see, side by side with the 
 greatest neglect of ancestry, the greatest respect for ancestors. 
 This very neglect it is which cuts oil so many branches which 
 have fallen into poverty and deprives them of their forefathers. 
 Probably that branch of the Barleys who at this moment are 
 the true and lawful heirs of all this fortune are down in the 
 gutter, or on the curb; behind a counter, or carrying a rifle; 
 absolutely unable, for want of knowledge or want of papers, to 
 connect themselves with the money-lender, the prince of money- 
 lenders — or his father the miser of Westminster, or his un- 
 known father who, perhaps, first made the money by careful at- 
 tention to business among the nobility and gentry of Tothill 
 Street and Petty France." 
 
 " There's a leading article for you !" Lucian read it right 
 through to Margaret. 
 
 " It makes one burn with shame," she replied, " only to
 
 64 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 think of putting in a claim. The miser — the money-lender — 
 the money-lender — the miser — the contempt of it all !" 
 
 " But they have found out — they have found out at last. I 
 knew they would, and now for the claimants. They will come 
 forward in shoals." 
 
 First, however, everybody read this leading article, or some 
 of the others on the same subject, which, as you have seen, was 
 of a kind which goes straight to everybody's heart. An im- 
 mense fortune, with nobody to claim it ! Heard one ever the 
 like? Why, it might be — as the coroner wisely said — you, or 
 me, or both of us — Quick ! Where is the family genealogy ? 
 Who knows what our grandfather was ? — mother's fatlicr ? Per- 
 haps he was a Barley ! Does nobody know ? Cousin Maria 
 knows; she knows everything, good old girl — capital thing to 
 have a Cousin Maria. Who was he, then ? Not a Burley at 
 all ; he was a Sniithers, and a journeyman shoe — Oh ! Cousin 
 Maria knows nothing, stupid old thing ! lias she no pride of 
 family, then? And what about the family coat of arms? 
 
 There was a great searching into family records and origins, 
 and such secret humblings of family pride as the world has 
 never seen. But, then, the world did not see these things be- 
 cause they were kept in the family ; the girls hid away the 
 papers or destroyed them, and went to church next Sunday with 
 their chins stuck out more than ever, and the family arms dis- 
 played upon the covers of their prayer-books. 
 
 Other papers, of course, took up the subject from other 
 points of view ; they hunted up stories of great fortunes, un- 
 looked-for inheritances, men suddenly raised from the deepest 
 poverty to great wealth ; a Book of Successions was drawn 
 up in twenty-four hours by an eminent hand for an enterprising 
 publisher, who did well with it; people reminded each other 
 also, by letters to the papers, that there were other estates un- 
 claimed. Everybody bought the Gazette, which contains the 
 official list. It was not the Burleys only that were in demand, 
 but all kinds of names. Surely in such a long list it would not 
 be hard to make out one's right to something. Alas ! the lists 
 are long, but after all they only amount to a few hundreds, 
 whereas the number of families in Great Britain, Ireland, and 
 the Colonies amounts to — I know not how many ; but as there
 
 ,/ / 
 
 '"BF.noi.1) him! iik stands before you
 
 THE PRESS UPON WINDFALLS 65 
 
 are five millions of families, of whom a great many come from 
 the same stock, perhaps we may reckon as separate families 
 those families so far and so long separated that they have for- 
 gotten their relationship and changed the spelling of the name. 
 Very possibly there are a million of separate families. The list 
 is therefore a lottery — an immoral, speculative, gambling, un- 
 settling, corrupting State lottery, in which there are a million of 
 tickets (one for every family) and about two hundred prizes. 
 
 The Spectator had an article which very nearly guessed the 
 truth. The writer assumed for his purposes that family pride 
 was the leading characteristic and the strongest passion of the 
 modern Englishman. 
 
 " Here," the article said, " we see one of the greatest estates 
 ever known ; an estate comparable with that of the famous 
 widow of the Peloponnese, or with that of the landlord of New 
 York, or with that of any American railway king, and it fairly 
 goes a-begging. The heirs will not come forward. Why ? 
 Most probably because they are asliamed — they dare not face 
 the shame of proclaiming themselves. The heirs of the money- 
 lender and the miser — they will not touch money so made. At 
 first one respects this dignity, this self-respect. Then one asks 
 whether a truer courage would not be shown in accepting the 
 whole — the awful — responsibility of so much wealth as a trust, 
 to be devoted to some form of good works which shall not pau- 
 perize or demoralize. It is easy to think of many ways in 
 which such a trust would be usefully employed, and no doubt 
 a whole life might be nobly devoted to the administration of 
 such a trust. But perhaps the courage is wanting — the courage 
 of taking the first step — that of advancing to the front before 
 all the world and saying aloud : ' The heir of the money-lender 
 and the miser? Behold him ! lie stands before you !' " 
 
 " There !" cried Lucian, reading this article aloud. " You 
 see, Madge, the Spectator has got the truth — not quite by the 
 right way ; but still — the pride of family will not, however, be 
 strong enough to deter more than one possible claimant from 
 stepping forward. IIow devoutly does all the world wish that 
 they could so step forward and declare themselves ! Claimants? 
 There will be claimants by the thousand !"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ARE WE COUSINS? 
 
 Five fair daughters, running up, like Pandean pipes, from 
 fourteen to twenty, named respectively, though their names 
 n)atter little to us, Lucy, Cathie, Polly, Nelly, and Dot — or, in 
 full, Lncinda, Catherine, Marian, Eleanor, and Dorothy — com- 
 posed the greater part of Sir John Burleigh's family. Lady 
 Burleigh was, however, in herself a considerable part, and the 
 Reverend Herbert Burleigh, B.A,, formerly of Kadley and 
 Trinity, and now curate, or assistant priest, of St. Lazarus, 
 Bethnal Green, completed the family. 
 
 Sir John, ex-Premier of New Zealand, and K.C.M.G., arrived 
 in this country in the month of June. It was fifty years since 
 he had exchanged, being then of tender years, and therefore not 
 consulted in the matter. Great Britain for New Zealand. His 
 wife and daughters had never before visited the mother-coun- 
 try. Everything was new to them : it was their first journey ; 
 it was thoir first evening in England ; they were all excited and 
 ha[)py ; and they had their brother with them, the first time 
 for ten long years. 
 
 On the hearth-rug stood the father of this family, a gentle- 
 man of fifty-six or so, bearing his years cheerfully, his arch of 
 black hair tinged with gray, his figure somewhat portly, but 
 erect and strong, his face capable, his smile kindly, his appear- 
 ance prosperous ; his whole manner contented. He surveyed 
 the group before him with the satisfaction of one' who is proud 
 of his daughters, able to leave them something substantial, and 
 willing to postpone that legacy as long as possible. Oh! the 
 unspeakable cheerfulness of the man who has " got on," in ways 
 esteemed honorable, beyond his own expectations, and keeps 
 his teeth and his taste for claret, and " enjoys " nothing nasty
 
 ARE WE COUSINS? 67 
 
 in the way of rheumatics or other blessings, and has daughters 
 pretty and loving and sweet-tempered ! Beside him, in an arm- 
 chair, sat his wife, comfortable and satisfied, well dressed and 
 happy. 
 
 Nothing could be prettier than the group before him. There 
 were the five girls, all animated, rosy, graceful, formed in a 
 hollow square or linked in a loving circle round their brother. 
 They took his hands and held them tight ; they laid their own 
 hands on his shoulders ; they kissed him in turns ; they purred 
 over him ; they discussed him openly. 
 
 " Oh !" cried one, " I like him so much better in his clerical 
 dress. It is much more becoming than the football blazer." 
 
 " So much more intellectual," said another ; " but is it quite 
 so becoming as the undergraduate cap and gown ? Perhaps, 
 however — " she laid her head on one side. " The collar is 
 sweet." 
 
 The Reverend Herbert was a youth of striking appearance, 
 tall and strongly built. His smooth-shaven face, with the high 
 and narrow forehead under an arch of black hair, like his 
 father's, was already, though he was still a deacon, distinctly 
 ecclesiastical. Even in ordinary tweeds, even in hunting scar- 
 let, he would be recognized as a cleric. He was very proper- 
 ly attired, as becomes an ecclesiastic who respects himself. 
 Whether in the slums or at court, the modern abbe is always 
 dressed for the part. In the Church there is no Piccadilly. 
 What struck one most in Herbert Burleigh were his keen, 
 piercing black eyes set deep under square eyebrows. They 
 were not only bright eyes, but they were restless ; they made 
 one think of the zealot; they were the eyes of the Dominican 
 eager for the true doctrine ; they were the eyes of the martyr. 
 
 He suffered his sisters' caresses with a patience which one 
 could see would be but short-lived. They had not seen him 
 for ten years ; his youngest sister, Dot, could hardly recollect 
 him. 
 
 " He looks pale," said another ; it was quite true — the young 
 man had the pallor of an ascetic. Perhaps he wore a hair 
 shirt ; perhaps he lived on lentils. " It is that nasty parish 
 work." 
 
 " Nelly," he interrupted, " it is the work of the Church."
 
 68 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Yes, I know." The girls had the colonial freedom from 
 respect to authority. " We shall have to t;dce him away with 
 us when we go home. New Zealand sunshine is what he wants. 
 At present all he gets is New Zealand mutton, poor dear !" 
 
 The young clergyman smiled faintly. "As for n!y dress," 
 he said, " we must remind ourselves daily and hourly of our 
 sacred profession. And in this outward and visible manner 
 we must remind the world. A clergyman going about the 
 world should be a standing and silent sermon, or catechism at 
 least, "What is he ? Why is he ? What power has he ? How 
 shall we use him ?" 
 
 " You make us afraid, Herbert," said one. " Suppose you 
 change your coat for one of father's jackets. Then we could 
 all sit down and laugh and tell stories just as we used to do." 
 The clergyman smiled sadly. " You remember, when we used 
 to make up and pretend ? Do you never laugh now ?" 
 
 " We have our idle moments. They are rare. But — per- 
 haps — sometimes — " he sighed. 
 
 " Well," said the sister who preferred the undergraduate, 
 "you can't be always taking services or tramping around the 
 slums. Then you will come to us and sit in your shirt-sleeves, 
 if you like." 
 
 " My work," said the young man, solemnly, " lies among the 
 slums, at present. But all the world is a slum — rightly con- 
 sidered." 
 
 " If that is the case," the same girl answered, " we are all in 
 the same boat, and we should try to make the best of the 
 slum." 
 
 " Oh !" cried the eldest. " And we haven't asked liim about 
 the most important thing of all. Herbert, what about the 
 long-lost family ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; what about the family ?" they all cried in con- 
 cert. 
 
 At this (juestion — which was by no means new— Sir John 
 winced and changed color slightly. No one noticed the emo- 
 tion. He quickly recovered, and, glancing at his wife, laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "What about the family, Herbert?" he repeated. "You 
 were croing to restore us to our familv, remember."
 
 ARE WE COUSINS? 69 
 
 " I remember, but — " 
 
 *' It was resolved unanimously, Herbert," said Lucy, the el- 
 dest, *' that you should undertake the search." 
 
 *' Yes. But I have no clew. Without something to con- 
 nect us — " 
 
 " You have all the facts," said his father. " Fifty-two years 
 ago, when I was four years of age, we landed in New Zealand, 
 my father, my mother, and I. Where we came from, who our 
 people were, I have never learned. And there is not a scrap of 
 paper, not a letter, or a book, not even a baptism or a marriage 
 certificate, in my possession that will tell you anything more. 
 Nothing to show you the maiden name of my mother, or the 
 place where she was married." 
 
 " Quite so," said the son. " And I have long since given up 
 thinking about it." 
 
 " Grandfatlier must have been a gentleman, to begin with," 
 said the eldest girl. 
 
 '* Of course !" — from all the other girls. 
 
 ** A gentleman," said Sir John, "to end with, at any rate." 
 
 "And he never spoke of his own people. The inference is 
 that he had quarrelled with them." 
 
 " That might be so," said Sir John. 
 
 " It must be so," said the girl. " Oh ! we've talked it over 
 and over, till we seem to know exactly what happened." 
 
 "I have not forgotten," Herbert explained. " But I have not 
 been able to do anything. You see, it is pleasant when fellows 
 talk about their own people to remember that one's father is a 
 public man of position and respect. Nobody in such a case as 
 ours ever asks what the great-grandfather was. And when 
 you talk about New Zealand, nobody considers that all the peo- 
 ple there have gone out from the country within the last sixty 
 years. Still, one would like to have cousins at home. There 
 must be cousins somewhere. Why, there must be two branches 
 of cousins." 
 
 " We thought you were looking for them all the time." 
 
 "Not all the time. You sec, a man cannot give out to the 
 whole world that he is in search of cousins." 
 
 " That you were, in fact," said another sister, " the Rever- 
 end Japhet in search of a grand-uncle."
 
 70 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " A grand-uncle." The eldest girl again took up tlie theme, 
 standing upright, and emphasizing her points with her fore- 
 finger. " In search of a grand-uncle. He can't be the Lord 
 Burleigh, or the Earl of Burleigh, for their people are Cecils. 
 Could he, however, have been the Lord John Cecil, son of the 
 Marquis of Exeter, who changed his name to Burleigh when he 
 married the poor, but illustriously descended, family governess? 
 There's a chance, Herbert ! We must prosecute the inquiry, 
 now we are come home, seriously and all together. The search 
 for the long-lost family. When you are not at work, Herbert, 
 you shall help us. I mean to begin at the beginning — with the 
 dukes and marquises. We will next go on to the bisho[)S. 
 My great-grandfather the Archbishop of York would sound 
 nicely. My grandfather left home — the archiepiscopal palace — 
 in consequence of his father's anger at hearing that he liad 
 been to a theatre. If not the bishops, then the earls and the 
 viscounts and the barons, the baronets and the City knights. 
 After them the professionals. AVe shall say, perhaps, with 
 mock humility : ' We have always been middle-class people. 
 My great-grandfather. Sir John Burleigh, was Attorney-General 
 in the time of George II.' " 
 
 *' Very good," said Sir John. " But suppose you have to go 
 lower down?" 
 
 " In that case, it will be in order to satisfy our own, not the 
 public, curiosity, and we shall keep the melancholy secret to 
 ourselves and be quite satisfied " — the girl laid her hand upon 
 her father's shoulder — " with the dear old dad that we are so 
 proud of." 
 
 " Of course," said one of lier sisters, " if we find the cousin, 
 grandson of the grand-uncle, on the curb, so to speak, arrang- 
 ing his cheeses and his bacon in the shop-window, we shall nut 
 reveal the relationship, nor shall we fall into his arms and 
 marry his assistant in the white apron. And if he happens to 
 be in the gutter — which may be the case, for families in this 
 country, they say, do climb up and fall down in the most sur- 
 prising manner — we shall pass him by like a family of Levites, 
 and we shall say nothing at all about blood being thicker tlian 
 water — no, not even if they are cottage folk in smocks and 
 scrupulously clean and doggedly virtuous."
 
 ARE WE COUSINS? 71 
 
 " You are a most unprincipled set," said their father, laugh- 
 ing, " and I sincerely hope that you never will find your 
 =^ople." 
 
 -' A change of name. That is what seems to me," said the 
 eldest girl, " the most likely. But how to find the real name ? 
 Given the facts. Somewhere about the year 1841 there arrived 
 in New Zealand an immigrant with a wife and one child. His 
 name was So-and-so. He is believed to have changed his 
 name. What family in England had a son who, in 1841 or 
 thereabouts, had a row with his own people and took another 
 name and went out to New Zealand ? Did he do this openly 
 or secretly ? Did his wife's people know what he was doing 
 and where he was going? Did he break altogether with his 
 own people ? Then, can we find out a family whose son disap- 
 peared about that time, taking with him a young wife— some- 
 body's daughter — and an infant son ?" 
 
 " My dear," said her father, " it is a wild-goose chase. For 
 there is nothing to connect him with anybody. And as for 
 disappearing sons, why — you've all known them for yourselves 
 — among my shepherds — men who never communicated to their 
 own people anything at all about themselves. Better enjoy 
 London, children, and leave unknown cousins alone." 
 
 "What I think," said another daughter, who had imagina- 
 tion, and will, perhaps, become a novelist, " is that our grand- 
 father was another Adam, created especially for New Zealand, 
 and miraculously provided with an Eve, also specially created. 
 That explains everything." 
 
 And so they all laughed and changed the subject, going back 
 to the worship of the brother, which shows what an uncivilized, 
 colonial, half-finished, unadvanccd set of sisters they were. For 
 the girl who worships the brother will presently worship the 
 lover, and even, such is the depth of this girl's degradation, 
 the husband. 
 
 '- Later in the evening the young man returned again to the sub- 
 ject. "You know," he said, " that my work takes all my time. 
 I cannot go about with you as I should wish. But I will do 
 what I can. jSIeantime, is there not another solution possible 
 about these cousins of ours ^ Perhaps our grandfather pre- 
 served silence about his people because they were quite humble.
 
 72 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Our cousins m;iy Lc low down — very low down. I could wish 
 it were so, I wish I could find them in my own parish. It 
 might help me in my work if I could say to tlicm : * I am a 
 son of the gutter, like you. I am your cousin — one of your- 
 selves — my great-grandfather, a laboring man, perhaps even a 
 criminal.' " 
 
 " Oh !" cried Sir John, " you'd like that, would you ?" He 
 did not laugh, but spoke fiercely. 
 
 "Dear Herbert!" cried his sisters. "Let us, above all 
 things, believe, until the contrary is proved, that we come from 
 an honorable stock at least." 
 
 " I was thinking of my work," said the assistant priest. 
 " For the sake of my work, I would willingly be the grandson 
 of—" 
 
 " Thank you, Herbert," his father interrupted. " And now 
 we will have no more said about it. Our first evening in Eng- 
 land must not be disturbed by foolish speculation into remote 
 possibilities which would only humiliate us." 
 
 But the harmony of the evening was broken. A discordant 
 note had been struck. Presently the son went away, promis- 
 ing to return for breakfast at half-past nine, after early service. 
 Tlien the mother and the girls talked about him, and about the 
 nobility of his character and his deep sense of religion, and 
 thought humbly of themselves as walking — and actually feel- 
 ing quite comfortable — on levels so far below his. But Sir 
 John took no part in this discussion. He did not even listen. 
 Something had put him out. 
 
 The next morning was that on which a certain leading article, 
 which you have seen, came out in a certain morning paper. 
 
 Sir John appeared, clad in his usual cheerfulness — his face 
 serene, his brow unclouded, lie sat down to breakfast with a 
 colonial appetite ; he worked his way through the vivers with 
 his accustomed energy. When he had laid the foundation for 
 a day of activity, he took a fresh cup of tea, and half turning 
 his chair, so as to get the light, he opened the morning paper 
 and began to read. 
 
 He read on with the ordinary show of interest until he 
 lighted on the leading article, which was the third. Then he 
 started ; he changed color ; he laid down the paper and looked
 
 ARE WE COUSINS ? 73 
 
 about liim, seeing nothing. At tins point the girls became 
 aware that something had happened, and left off chattering. 
 He then began to read the article again, and read it right 
 through a second time. 
 
 " What is it, dear ?" asked his wife, who perceived those 
 signs of interest. 
 
 "An article in the paper," he said, "concerning a certain 
 person of my name — our name — one Burley, name spelled dif- 
 ferently — who has died enormously ricli without any heirs. So 
 rich that it seems incredible. They say that his estate is 
 worth about twelve millions sterline: — twelve millions ! With- 
 out heirs, so that the estate will be seized by the Crown. 
 Twelve millions ! Is it possible ? And we call that man rich 
 who can save a poor hundred thousand or so." 
 
 " And of our name V said his son. " Was he a gentleman ? 
 What was his profession ?" 
 
 " Among other things " — Sir John hesitated — " he was — he 
 was — a money-lender." 
 
 "Then," said his son, with decision, "I suppose he is no re- 
 lation of ours ?" 
 
 " Yet, yesterday, Herbert, you expressed yourself anxious to 
 be connected with the criminal classes," said his father. 
 
 " Well, I said so for the sake of my work. But to be the 
 nephew of a rich money-lender would not help me at all, unless 
 I could pour the whole of his misgotten gains into the lap of 
 the Church. Then, indeed, I would confess and acknowledge 
 the relationship." 
 
 " Twelve millions," said one of the girls. " It seems almost 
 enough to gild any trade. Why should not a man lend 
 money ?" 
 
 " It is the most ignoble of all callings. What was his name, 
 father — Burley ? Is it spelled our way ?" 
 
 Sir John handed his son the paper and buried his nose in 
 his teacup. Because, you sec, liis son's full name was Herbert 
 John Calvert Burleigh, which contained the name of the de- 
 ceased Dives. 
 
 The young clergyman observed this fact, and read the article 
 with flushed cheeks. 
 
 " Do you know, sir — " he began. 
 
 4
 
 74 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " My dear boy," said the ex-Premier, gravely, " we had a little 
 playful talk, which very nearly became a serious talk, over this 
 matter last night. I confess to grave misgivings about any at- 
 tempt at investigating the family history. That my father told 
 me nothing concerning the social position of his family is a 
 conclusive proof, it seems to me, that he had reasons for wish- 
 ing a complete severance with his own people. For this reason 
 1 have never attempted any inquiry into the matter ; nor do I 
 intend to attempt any. If you, however, choose to undertake 
 such an inquiry, you are, of course, free to do so. Here, then, 
 is a man who appears, according to his Christian names, which 
 are the same as yours and mine, to be some kind of connection. 
 His name is ours, with a little ditference in the spelling." 
 
 "Give me the paper, Bertie" — from the five daughters, 
 simultaneously. 
 
 " I think that, most likely, we are cousins of a sort to this 
 man. That fact, however, if we could prove it, would not nec- 
 essarily make us his heirs. Very well, then. He was not, ap- 
 parently, a man whose kinship could raise us in the eyes of the 
 world. Are we prepared, before we embark upon a serious 
 inquiry, to be labelled as the cousins of a man infamous for the 
 way in which he made his fortune, or are we prepared to be 
 advertised as the cousins, and perhaps unsuccessful claimants, 
 of such a man ? My father's name was Charles Calvert Bur- 
 leigh — perhaps he altered the surname from Burley — 1-e-y. I 
 do not know. My own name is John Calvert Burleigh. Your 
 name is Herbert John Calvert Burleigh. The Christian names 
 of the deceased were John Calvert." 
 
 " Such names cannot be mere coincidence," said his son. 
 
 "Perhaps not. I think certainly not. We must be of the 
 same family. Are we prepared to dig up old scandals — old quar- 
 rels — and to publish them for all the world to laugh at them ?" 
 
 " Xo, my dear," said Lady Burleigh, decidedly, " unless the 
 money is clearly yours. In that case, perhaps — an old scandal 
 is not generally a very important thing." 
 
 " "Why should there be scandals ?" asked the son. " I con- 
 fess the connection with a money-lender and a keeper of dan- 
 cing-saloons is not an ideal ; but if we could pour this money 
 into the cofEers of the Church — ^"
 
 ARE WE COUSINS ? 75 
 
 " You forget, my son, that it would first have to be poured 
 into my coffers." 
 
 " Well ; but suppose the widest publicity. There cannot 
 possibly be anything in our branch that we should be ashamed 
 to parade before all the world." 
 
 "Nothing? Humph! Well, I have known a good many 
 families, and I do not remember one in which there were not 
 some black sheep — some scandals best forgotten. I remember 
 sitting one night over the fire with an old fellow who gave me 
 the history of his family. It was a good family, old, with hon- 
 orable men in it, and fools in it, and criminals in it. My dear 
 Herbert, the whole of the Decalogue had been broken by vari- 
 ous members of that family. Very well, then. If by opening 
 up the old stories you could establish a claim upon this vast 
 property — I do not say — though I doubt — it is more than doubt 
 — I am sure — " Here Sir John grew obscure and hesitated. 
 " I mean, Herbert, that I think we had better let things alone." 
 
 Herbert made no answer. The girls were reading the article. 
 
 " My dear," said Lady Burleigli, " if it is a question of ob- 
 scure origin only, I think that would not matter." 
 
 "No ; not much. We are too strongly placed to dread any 
 discovery about obscure grandfathers. But there may be scan- 
 dals. Why did my father keep silence on the subject of his 
 own people ?" 
 
 " Father," said the girls, " it is such an enormous fortune. 
 Fancy ! If we were really the heirs to all that ! If you were 
 the heir — the only heir. Why, they would have to make you 
 a duke. It is enough to develop the whole possibilities of the 
 colony." 
 
 " Here is another thing, however," said the father, persist- 
 ent. " Suppose you found that a certain Charles Calvert Biirley 
 and his descendants were the heirs, liow would you connect 
 this man witli your grandfather? AVithout documentary proof 
 it would be impossible. To begin with, how to prove the 
 change of name ?" 
 
 "There are no proofs, as yet," said the son. "But proofs 
 may be found. The man was married. There must be the reg- 
 ister somewhere. There must be relations — cousins — some- 
 where in the world; there nmst be some one living who can re-
 
 76 BEYOND THE UIIEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 member that young married pair. For my own part, I care very 
 little about old scandals. Let us take steps, at least, to prove 
 the relationship if we can. I hope I am not greedy; if 1 had 
 all those millions in my own hands I should not wish to live 
 differently. But the Church — the Church wants so much." 
 
 " The colony wants it a great deal more than the Church," 
 said one of the Xew Zealand wardens. 
 
 " It is a very big estate," said Sir John — " a bigger property 
 than ever yet started a noble family. Take the other side — at 
 present we do very well ; we are rich after our humble way. 
 You, Bertie, are the son of a man who has, to a certain extent, 
 distinguished himself ; you are the grandson of a man who — " 
 here he stopped for a moment — "who, however he began, 
 ended in a good position. If we go into court with our claim 
 we may, I repeat, have to publish for the whole world all kinds 
 of things best forgotten — family scandals, perhaps — even — even 
 — disgraces — who knows? Children, it is for you to decide. 
 Shall we go on as we are, or will you rake up the past in the 
 Lope of succeeding to all this money ?" 
 
 The girls all looked at their brother. 
 
 *' I think," said ilerbert, " that we should prove the connec- 
 tion, if possible, for our own satisfaction, and then decide what 
 to do next." 
 
 "You are not afraid of — these family scandals, then?" 
 
 " One may discover them. One need not disclose them to 
 the world." 
 
 His father regarded him gravely. "As you will," lie said. 
 " I advise you rather to let sleeping things remain undisturbed. 
 But, as you will." 
 
 "I have no fear," replied the son. " Let usj, at least, liave 
 the choice, if it prove to be our lawful choice." 
 
 " Japhet !" cried the girls, with one consent. " Japhet is, at 
 last, in search of a grand-uncle with millions and millions and 
 millions. Oh, Japhet !" 
 
 Later on, the father and son were alone. 
 
 "You meant something, sir, when you liinted at family scan- 
 dals and disgraces. Can you tell me anything definite?" 
 
 " No, Ilerbert. If there are scandals — I don't say so — you 
 may find them out for yourself. My father, I repeat, never spoke
 
 ARE WE COUSINS? 77 
 
 about liis people, nor did I ever ask him. His name you know 
 — Charles Calvert Burleigh. He died twenty years ago, when 
 you were a child of five or six — you remember him, I dare say. 
 He was then seventy-three years of age. He was born in the 
 year 1800, and he went to New Zealand in the year 1841. 
 There are no books, no papers ; nothing whatever to help you 
 but these facts, and such other facts as you may discover for 
 yourself. If they are disagreeable facts, you need not, of 
 course, tell your mother or the girls."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 
 
 Youth, wlio formerly lived in a garret with lean-to walls and 
 a low ceiling, where the only furniture was a truckle-bed and a 
 crazy table, a three-legged chair, and a toasting-fork for the 
 toothsome bloater, now takes on lease an a?sthetically decorated 
 flat at the top where the garret used to be. Youth now fur- 
 nishes liis flat according to the latest lights. Youth, who for- 
 merly wasted his treasure of the golden years in vain regrets, 
 in miserable poverty, and in beating the air with angry hands, 
 an operation which never produced anything but a harvest of 
 wind, now occupies himself profitabl}', and rakes in an income 
 by a thousand different ways ; and he spends that income on 
 those objects which are naturally dear to his time of life. Youth 
 lias a very, very much better time than ever he had before, and 
 all because there are now so many different ways, to liim who 
 is clever, of making money. Formerly, IJohcmia meant the 
 dingy tavern and the cheap chop-house ; now, Bohemia means 
 the flat, the club, the stalls, the studio, the greenroom, tlie edi- 
 tor's room — with frequent champagne. The chop and the pew- 
 ter and the sanded floor have disappeared with the short pipe 
 of clay and the shabby great-coat. The young man of the New 
 Bohemia closely resembles the Gilded Youth. lie dresses so 
 like him that you cannot tell them apart; he dines at the same 
 places and as expensively ; he enjoys the same pleasures ; he is 
 seen at the same haunts ; he has the same friends. The only 
 difference is that the latter is living on his inheritance, and that 
 the former lives on his wits. If he spends every penny that 
 his wits bring him in, that is his affair, not ours. 
 
 Mr. Clarence Burghley, a young gentleman very well known 
 in certain circles, occupied a set of upper chambers with his
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 79 
 
 friend Mr. James Pinter, in a mansion between Piccadilly and 
 Oxford Street — one of those great barracks in red brick which 
 are transforming the West End. The situation is in the exact 
 centre or hub of the universe. Therefore, it suited Clarence 
 Burghley. For the profession of this young man demanded 
 a central position. His profession was the Making of Amuse- 
 ment, lie was not an amusing young man ; he was an Amuser. 
 Other people go about and throng together seeking to be amused; 
 he went about promising to amuse. He could play the piano 
 with a licht and dexterous touch — and siuff to it with a lio'ht 
 and flexible tenor. The songs he sang were light and bright — 
 little songs of society — songs about smart people — songs about 
 flirtation — songs of the ball-room, the race-course, the yacht — 
 songs of the surface ; they were so light and so actual that they 
 seemed to be improvised. You could not buy these songs, and 
 nobody else had them to sing. Then he could play the violin 
 and make it do tricks like a trained dog, and be could touch 
 the banjo with a master's hand. He gave, at private houses, 
 little entertainments, consisting of songs and burlesques, paro- 
 dies and talk. He also had a collection of original comediet- 
 tas, little dramas, and proverbs, unprinted, unpublished, and not 
 to be procured anywhere, with which he furnished the private 
 theatricals, he liimself being stage-manager and actor. Clarence 
 "was the son of an actor and the grandson of an actor, and there- 
 fore to the manner born. All that he did was dexterously done • 
 all that he sang or acted or played was light and frothy, without 
 reality, without emotion, without passion. He lived by these 
 performances, but he was not accepted as a professional. If he 
 went to a great house, either on a visit or for the evening, he 
 went as a guest ; he was treated as a guest, but he was paid as 
 a professional — a professional Amuser. It is a most difficult 
 profession — one that demands many and varied qualities, and 
 therefore one that should command the highest respect. 
 
 In appearance Clarence Burghley was slight and even deli- 
 cate ; nothing of the athlete in him; his limbs were not those 
 of a football-player; his face was smooth, except for a slight 
 mustache ; it was fine in features and in expression ; his black 
 eyes were keen, bright, and swift, under straight and strongly 
 marked eyebrows ; his black hair, parted at the side, rose in a
 
 80 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 natural arch wliich helped to q;\vc liiin a look of distinction. 
 In such a profession a look of distinction is invaluable. 
 
 For a youth in this profession it was natural that he should 
 wear, in his own rooms, a brown velvet coat, no waistcoat, a 
 crimson sash, and a white silk tie. It was also natural that the 
 rooms should be decorated and adorned up to the latest note 
 of {esthetics. In a word, this youno- juan looked exactly what 
 he was — a young man of Piccadilly ; the flower, or fruit, what^ 
 ever you please, of the London pavement; a youno; man born 
 in the town, brought up in the town, and unable to live out 
 of the town. 
 
 llis friend, Mr. James Pinker, who shared the chambers with 
 him, shared also, though the fact was not proclaimed abroad, 
 the profits and proceeds of the business. The division of work 
 was simple. Jaines, not Clarence, was the poet and dramatist. 
 He it was who wrote the songs and comediettas and the musi- 
 cal entertainments. Clarence sang and acted them. James ar- 
 ranged the engagements and accepted the invitations, modestly 
 signing himself " Private Secretary." A very promising part- 
 nership it was, and one that became more lucrative every 
 day. At ten guineas a night, if you can arrange for five nights 
 a week and nine months in the year, the returns mount up 
 to £2000 a year. And there are no expenses at all, except 
 cabs. Nothing was said in public about the partner. Not 
 that Clarence went about pretending to be the author of the 
 songs and things. Not at all. Nobody ever asked him who 
 was the author. People think that an entertainment grows 
 spontaneously out of the brain of the singer ; they regard the 
 author no more than they regard the service which provides the 
 dinner. 
 
 Mr. Pinker was not brought up to the profession of enter- 
 tainment poet; quite the opposite. lie was destined by his 
 parents, who did not belong to the upper circles, to advance the 
 family one step by becoming a solicitor. He was duly admitted. 
 I>iit he then found, what no one expected, that there was no 
 room for him anywhere. Not even as a clerk could he obtain a 
 living. It was the stimulus of necessity which caused him to 
 become a poet. In fact, he had always written verses for his 
 own amusement. His old school-fellow Clarence used to sing
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 81 
 
 them, also for amusement. At a certain crisis in their fortunes, 
 both being stone-broke, and with no prospect of any further 
 suppUes from any quarter, Jemmy Pinker hit upon the private- 
 party plan, and the evening entertainment of funny society 
 songs. For himself, he had never gone into society. He knew 
 nothing at all about smart people; he had no occasion for a 
 dress-coat; he preferred — not that he ever got the choice — a 
 steak and a pint of Bass in a tavern to the company of count- 
 esses ; he was quite satisfied with what his partner told him 
 about society and the simple wants of after-dinner people. 
 
 In appearance the poet was "homely" — a good old word 
 fast dying out ; his features, that is, were undistinguished ; his 
 hair was of a warm hue, approaching to red ; his figure was 
 short ; his very fingers were short and broad. He sat with his 
 short legs curled under his chair ; his gray eyes were sharp 
 and bright ; his face was habitually serious, as becomes one who 
 is always meditating responsible and money -getting work; he 
 seldom smiled ; he never lauirhed. 
 
 The profession of entertainment poet — writer of topical sono-s 
 — is not quite the highest branch of the poet's art. It is not, 
 however, within everybody's reach. There must be the genius 
 or natural aptitude for the work. It must be studied and prac- 
 tised. After a time, in the case of one to the manner born, it 
 becomes easy — the easiest thing in the Avorld ; that is, after the 
 time when the poet has not only cultivated his own powers, but 
 has gauged and grasped exactly the requirements of his audi- 
 ence. The jokes and quips and turns, for instance, need not be 
 too original ; people, especially after dinner, like their old and 
 expected friends; new work — unexpected work — makes them 
 uncomfortable ; they expect the usual situations, the usual end- 
 ing, the usual jokes; novelty interferes with digestion. This limi- 
 tation Mr. Pinker thoroughly appreciated. And it made his work 
 easy; in fact, no young man in London, working for his daily 
 bread, had a more easy life. He had no misgivings about the 
 dignity or value of his work ; he liked it. He made rhymes upon 
 everything, and noted them in a pocket-book; he thought in 
 rhyme, and he talked in rhyme sometimes, just to keep his liand 
 always in. It was a perfectly grave and serious business — that 
 of providing metrical means for mirth.
 
 82 BEVOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Courage, Clary," said tlic poet, finishing his breakfast. 
 "The season is ahnost over." 
 
 " Thank goodness ! — yes." 
 
 " Only two more engagements. To-night at the Baroness 
 Potosi's. To-morrow at Lady Newbegin's. The Baroness ex- 
 pected you to go up the back stairs, but I explained." 
 
 Clary was a little jumpy this morning. lie cursed tlie Baron- 
 ess. At the end of a fatiguing season, with champagne every 
 day, one is apt to be jumpy. 
 
 " What is it, old man ? Come, things couldn't look rosier. 
 We've had an excellent season, and you are booked for half 
 September and the whole of October and November — good 
 houses — pleasant liouses — all of them." , 
 
 " It's the fag of the work, I suppose. And sometimes I be- 
 gin to worry about what we shall do when they get tired of 
 me." 
 
 "Look here, Clary" — his partner got up and slowly filled 
 his pipe — "they never do get tired of anybody so long as he 
 can make 'em laugh. When he can't make 'em laugh any 
 longer, he may go and hide himself. You go on singing and 
 I'll go on making 'em laugh for you. Next year we'll make a 
 clear thousand apiece out of it — see if we don't." He lit his 
 pipe and sat down again, tucking liis feet under the chair. 
 "Make 'em laugh. Something in that idea, isn't there?" He 
 pulled out a pocket-book. "Mouth gaping, cheeks aglow, 
 Laughlit eyes — is ' laughlit' right? — in mirthful row, When fun 
 and farce begin. He that pleases — not you. Clary — he may try 
 Tears and groans to make 'em cry. Let me sing — you, that is. 
 Clary, if you please — to — " He bit the point of his pencil. 
 "Let me sing," he repeated gravely, "to make 'em grin." He 
 made a note of these beautiful and suggestive words, and 
 looked at them critically. 
 
 "As for you," grumbled the other, "it's always the same. 
 You are always satisfied." 
 
 "Generally. I have reason to be. I have a partner, by 
 whose help my verses are a small gold-mine. Quite satisfied. 
 Give me my pipe and my beer, and my Chloe — my Cliloe — there's 
 no good rhyme to Chloe — and I ask no more." 
 
 "As for me," said Clarence, whose temper was short this
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 83 
 
 morning, " I've got to do the work. I belong to the service. 
 I ought to wear woollen epaulettes and wliite-thread gloves." 
 
 " Rubbish ! People don't know, or if they do, it doesn't 
 matter. They think your father left you money." 
 
 Clarence laughed. " If they think that," he said, " they will 
 think anything. My father leave me any money ? My dear 
 James, you don't understand my father's ocean-like capacity for 
 absorbing all the money there is. He left me nothing but his 
 debts, which, of course, I did not pay. Why should I? On ac- 
 count of his good name ? The dear man had none." 
 
 " Ah ! No name ! The Nameless One ! — the Nameless One — " 
 But he shook his head. 
 
 "They carried on, he and the granddad, as if there was no 
 such thing as money at all, or as if they had millions. Wonder- 
 ful men both, but especially the granddad. He got whatever 
 he wanted; he wanted everything; he paid for nothing. How? 
 I don't know." 
 
 " Unspeakable are the gifts of the gods." 
 
 " Of course they led the Joyous Life all the time. Never 
 anything but Joyousness in the iiouse as long as I can remem- 
 ber. Joyousness, with troops of topers, girls, and merrymakers, 
 and men in possession looking on with a grin." 
 
 " I would I had known your sainted ancestors. Clary. We 
 want, in fact, more Joyousness — a great deal more Joyousness. 
 Let us start a Joyous Club. I am sure it would succeed with 
 troops, as you say, of topers, girls, and merrymakers. Couldn't 
 we have a Lament over past Joyousness?" He took out his 
 pocket-book, and improvised : 
 
 " Whore are tliey gone — the merry, merry men ? 
 Where are they gone — the merry, merry days ? 
 Why did they leave us, wlio were so merry then ? 
 
 Why did they take with them their merry, merry ways? 
 
 I'm afraid that's pitched just one note too high for our peo- 
 I)le, Clary. They don't like real sentiment. Yet it looks as if it 
 might be worked up, too. 'Merry, merry days' — even the 
 smart people ain't always young." 
 
 *' Why, I dream of miUions, just from habit, because they
 
 84 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 were such oxccllent actors that I really thought they did have 
 millions. Wouldn't it be glorious to have a million or two? If 
 you were offered vour choice of things, wouldn't vou choose a 
 million down in hard cash ?" 
 " Perhaps I would. 
 
 "Some Johnnies marcli in glory's ranks — 
 Some toy with Chioe's locks; 
 
 that's how Chioe's got to come in — 
 
 "I'd find my joy in City banks, 
 And, if I could, in stocks." 
 
 Again the note-book. " The millionaire, you see, could buy up 
 all the locks of all the Chloes and a fair slice of glory too. 
 Some Johnnies — it isn't very bad — march in glory's ranks, some 
 toy with Chioe's locks." 
 
 Clarence laughed. He sat down, took the morning paper, 
 imfolded it, then he went on talking. 
 
 "I wish you had known the granddad," he went on. "Good 
 old man ! He only died ten years ago, liaving being born about 
 the beginning of the century. lie acted and told stories and 
 made love to the very end. I think he always believed that he 
 was only thirty." He threw himself back in his chair and oj»cned 
 the paper. Then he jumped up and screamed aloud: "O Lord! 
 O Lord ! Here's a wonderful thing 1" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " What were we saying? Millions we talked about. Good 
 Lord !" He stared at his friend as one too much amazed for 
 speech. 
 
 " Well, but what is it ?" 
 
 " There's an estate said to be worth twelve millions and more 
 waiting for an heir to turn up." 
 
 " Docs it concern either of us?" 
 
 "I don't know. We were talking about millions," Clarence 
 said, breathlessly. " About millions ! You shall hear. Here 
 is the article. Read it !" 
 
 The poet read it through, taking five minutes. " Well, it 
 doesn't matter to us, does it ?" 
 
 " To you ? No — to me ? I don't know. Look here, Jemmy.
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 85 
 
 This is a most wonderful coincidence, if it is a coincidence. 
 The dead man's name was John Calvert Burley. My grand- 
 father's name was Henry Calvert Burghley, spelled with a 'gh '; 
 my father's name was Elliston John Calvert Burgliley ; and my 
 name is Clarence John Calvert Burghley. Is that coincidence?" 
 
 " But, Clary, my boy, your surname is different." 
 
 " My grandfather may very well have altered his name — put 
 in the 'gh' for pretty. It's quite the theatrical way, and what 
 one would expect. The proper spelling, I expect, was Burley, 
 without the ' gh ' ; the way this Dives — this master of millions 
 — spelled it. Well, now — if I am right, what relation was Dives 
 to my grandfather, to whose generation he belonged ?" 
 
 " What do you know about your own people outside your 
 grandfather ?" 
 
 " You see before you, my friend, a man who has no people 
 except the limited number of progenitors I have already men- 
 tioned." 
 
 "But you must know something. Have you no cousins?" 
 
 " I've got nobody. I don't even know who my mother was. 
 She died when I was quite young. I never once asked my 
 father about her, nor did he ever tell me anything about her. 
 I suppose she mast have had relations, but they never came 
 near me. And my grandfather must have had cousins, but I 
 never heard of them. I know nothing about anybody but these 
 two. Nothing separates relations more than the habit of bor- 
 rowing. If you carry on the Joyous Life, you must borrow. 
 Now, if you had known my father, James, you would under- 
 stand that he was not the kind of man to talk about the domes- 
 tic affections. The affections that are not domestic might — 
 and did — engage his serious attention and his continual conver- 
 sation, but not — no — not those of the liome kind." 
 
 " Well, there was your grandmother." 
 
 " I don't know anything about her. She is prehistoric. The 
 old man resembled his son in that respect that the home affec- 
 tions were insipid to him. They lacked flavor; he liked his 
 food spiced and seasoned and curried — deviled, in fact. We 
 never talked about such things as wives in that pagan taber- 
 nacle which we called home. The old man, I say, led the Joy- 
 ous Life, He was never serious ; I believe he dreamed jokes
 
 Hi} BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 and made love-songs in his sleep. ' Life to the end enjoyed, 
 here Roscius lies,' is written on his tombstone. Not original, 
 but it served. His life was one long, continual banquet, for 
 which somebody — I know not who — footed the bill. Well, the 
 fact is — I don't know anything." 
 
 "After all," said liis partner, reflectively, "a man cannot be 
 without any relations at all in the world. And here we have a 
 clew to the family. Clary, let us have a shy at those twelve 
 millions. If we get them, you can go out and make 'em cry, if 
 you like. ' 
 
 " What are we to do ? We can't ask a dead man anything." 
 
 ** No. But there are registers and wills and letters and docu- 
 ments of all kinds. Have you got your grandfather's will ? — your 
 father's will ?" 
 
 Clarence laughed. " You might as well ask me if I have liis 
 landed estates. Even your poetic brain, my partner, cannot re- 
 alize the existence of a butterfly. Make a will ? That is pro- 
 viding for the future from the past ! These two had no past 
 and had no future. They had nothing but the present. And 
 in the present they spent all they could get or borrow. There 
 was no will, bless you." 
 
 " Have you got no papers at all ?" 
 
 Clarence sprang to his feet. " There's a desk. It was the 
 old man's. Since he never opened it, there is probably some- 
 thing in it that other people might call useful. I once opened 
 it to see if there was any money in it. There wasn't. Only 
 }>a])ers. I will go and get it." 
 
 He brought back not only a small rosewood desk, but also a 
 bundle of papers tied up with string. " Here's the desk," he 
 said, " and here are some papers that I found after my father's 
 death, all piled in a drawer. I tied them uj), but I have never 
 looked at them." 
 
 " Now, then " — the poet-solicitor looked immensely impor- 
 tant — " what we've got to do is this. I know. I have not 
 served five years in a solicitor's chambers for nothing. We 
 must first prove that you are the lawful son of Elliston Jolin 
 Calvert Burghley ; then, that he was the lawful son of Henry 
 Calvert Burghley ; then, that he was something pretty close to 
 the late John Calvert Burley, After that ... I say, Clary,
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 87 
 
 if this should come off ! What a thing it will be for both 
 of us !" 
 
 " Don't, Jemmy, don't. I can't bear it. My throat swells. 
 I can't speak. Twelve millions !" lie did not apparently resent 
 the assumption of partnership in the inheritance as well as the 
 business. 
 
 "Go away now, Clary. It's lucky you have got a man of 
 business for your partner. Go and walk somewhere ; get out 
 among fields and daisies and skylarks and the little cockyolly 
 birds ; sit by the babble of the brook ; catch the fragrance of 
 the brier-rose ; Nature calls ; go listen to the voice of Nature." 
 
 " I hate the voice of Nature," said the young man of the 
 town. " The daisies and the skylarks would just now drive me 
 mad. I feel as if I shall go mad with the mere thought of the 
 thing. I don't want silence ; I want noise and action. I will 
 go and play billiards with the windows open, so as to get all the 
 noise there is. That will steady the nerves, if anything can. 
 And, I say, Jemmy, how long, do you think, before — " 
 
 "Come back to lunch at half-past one. Now go away." 
 
 He went away. He put on his boots and his hat. On his 
 way out he put his head in at the door. " Found anything yet ? 
 I say, twelve millions! Oh, if the old man could have had 
 that almighty pile ! Get it for me, and I'll show you how to 
 spend it !" 
 
 lie came back about one o'clock. 
 
 His partner looked up from his papers. His face was seri- 
 ous. " Clary," he said, " this is no laughing matter. Sit down. 
 Now, then, are we to continue partners? If so, you shall have 
 all my business energies as a solicitor. Mind, it's an awful big 
 thing. If I pull it off for you I shall be content with ten — a 
 siniple ten per cent. A million and a quarter ! It isn't much, 
 but with thrift I could make it do. Yes — oh yes — with thrift 
 and care and scraping I would make it do." 
 
 " I agree. Only get it for me." 
 
 They shook hands upon the bargain. 
 
 "I will put our agreement in black and white presently; 
 meantime, I have discovered one secret. Your grandfather, 
 Clary, was certainly a brother of the deceased Dives. I am
 
 88 nEvoxD THE dreams of avarice 
 
 quite sure lie was. So tliat you arc a grand nephew, and tlicre- 
 fore one of the heirs. Of course we don't know how many 
 other heirs there may be." 
 
 Clarence turned perfectly pale ; he staggered. He sat down, 
 and for a moment he heard his partner talking, but could not 
 understand what he was saying. He revived and listened. 
 
 "... will take jolly good care not to part with it until we 
 have established the case beyond any doubt. They will want a 
 case complete at every point. Don't wriggle about in your 
 chair like that, Clary. Sit quiet, man !" 
 
 " I can't. Things are too real. Go on — get on quicker, man. 
 One would think it was a ten-pound note — not twelve millions — 
 millions — millions ! Oh !" He threw himself back into his 
 chair, and leaned his head upon his hand and groaned. " Oh ! 
 I feel like a woman. I could cry. Millions ! Millions ! Oh ! 
 Do you think — do you think — we may — " 
 
 *' Pull yourself together, old man. Now listen. This is our 
 case, so far. Your father and grandfather had some sense. 
 Their marriage certificates are among the papers. J confess, 
 Clary, when you talked about the butterfly and the domestic 
 affections, I began to fear — but that's all right. These cer- 
 tificates are the first essentials, at any rate. Well, most of the 
 papers are notes quite unconnected with the home affections. 
 There are verses of a jocund and amatory kind — even I, the 
 modern Anacreon, couldn't write better lines — there are play- 
 bills, there are papers connected with this and that event. 
 Your grandfather was lessee of the Theatre Koyal, York, for 
 many years. His son was born there ; he came to London and 
 played here; his son grew up and went on the boards ; his son 
 married a lady of tlie company in which he played. All these 
 things are plain to make out. But who was Henry Calvert 
 Burghlcy, to begin with? Now here is a letter which gives us 
 a clew." 
 
 The solicitor-poet handed over a letter written on the old- 
 fashioned letter-paper, folded with a wafer on it. " Dear Harry," 
 it began: "We are all glad to hear that you have made a start. 
 You can't be more pinched for money than when you were in 
 Westminster, which may console you. Father said nothing 
 when you did not come home, except that there was one mouth
 
 YOUTH IN A GARRET 89 
 
 less. I shall run away too, as soon as I can. Jack sa3's that 
 if you want money he will buy out your chance of getting any- 
 thing out of father's will for a pound or two if you like. But 
 Jack says that father is only forty-five, and if he was eighty- 
 five he wouldn't leave you anything because you ran away. So 
 I remain your affectionate brother, Charles." 
 
 " You see, this is not conclusive proof, but it puts us on the 
 track. Your grandfather came out of Westminster; his father 
 was a miser. The intestate Burley's father was a miser living 
 in Westminster. We must prove that there was a brother 
 Henry and another brother Charles — Jack seems the eldest 
 brother, probably John Calvert Burley, and Charles is clearly 
 younger than Henry. I must say that the case looks promising. 
 We should have to prove the change of name, and — ^and — and 
 there may be other things to prove before we establish the con- 
 nection." 
 
 Clarence gazed stupidly on the letter. He gasped. 
 
 " Mind," said the poet, " I am quite s'ure, perfectly sure, in 
 my own mind, that you are the deceased's grandnephew. Bnt 
 we shall have to make the lawyers sure. And, Clary, my boy, 
 this material is not quite enongh so far." 
 
 " Oh !" Clarence murmured. "Oh ! It would be too much, 
 this wonderful stroke of hick ! too much ! too much ! If I were 
 to get it I would — I would turn respectable. And as for going 
 out to sing — old man !" He turned away. Ilis heart was full. 
 The Joyous Life, the only life he cared for, seemed within his 
 grasp — not like his grandfather's, impecunious, loaded with 
 debts, troubled with duns ; but free, with a capital of twelve 
 millions fully paid up. The poet looked at him curiously. And 
 he murmured, making a note of it on the spot : 
 
 ♦' Rich and respectable. Oli, what a change it is ! 
 Once a poor vagabond singing his verse ! 
 Solemn and smug lie is: look at him ! Strange it is: 
 Rich and respectable : guineas in purse." 
 
 But he was wrong. Clary's ideas of respectability went no 
 further than the respect which attaches to one who pays his 
 way — neither begs, nor borrows, nor earns liis way, but pays 
 it — along the Primrose Path.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 "AUNT LUCINDA" 
 
 " Aunt Lu-cin-da !" 
 
 The girl laid down the paper she was reading and squalled — 
 it is a rough and rude word, but it is the only word which ex- 
 presses the excitement and amazement shown in this cry. 
 
 " Aunt Lu-cin-da !" she repeated. 
 
 The elderly lady, who was engaged in some needle - work, 
 looked up quietly. 
 
 " Well, my dear ! Another dreadful murder?" 
 
 " Not nearer than Buffalo, and that only an Italian family. 
 But, Auntie, listen to this." She took up her paper. " No " — she 
 put it down again — "toll me first what was the full name of 
 grandfather — your father ?" 
 
 " Why do you wish me to tell you ? Surely you know already, 
 lie was named James Calvert Burley." 
 
 "Yes; I wanted to make quite sure. And father's full name 
 was John Calvert Burley. John C. Burley he wrote it. Yes — 
 yes. Oh ! it's the same name." She jumped up and clapped 
 lier hands. " Auntie, whcre'd they come from — our people — 
 your people ?" 
 
 " Well, my dear, you seem very much excited about some- 
 thing. They came from a place in London called Westminster. 
 I believe the Queen lives there. Your grandfather often told 
 me about the family house. It stood in a street called (Jollege 
 Street, looking over the gardens of Westminster Abbey." 
 
 " Oh ! It's the same — it's the same." She clapped her hands 
 again. " Oh, go on, Auntie ! What were they — by trade and 
 calling, 1 mean ?" 
 
 " I don't know that they were anything. Father always al- 
 lowed that there was considerable money in the family. Ue
 
 u 
 
 M 
 
 AUNT LUCINDA 91 
 
 got none, because he ran away and never went back to ask for 
 his share, nor learned anything at all about them." 
 
 " Oh ! He ran away. What did he do that for ?" 
 
 " They all ran away. He had four or five brothers, and they 
 all ran away because, you see, ray dear, their father was a miser, 
 and made the home too miserable to be borne." 
 
 " Oh ! There were brothers. But they couldn't have had 
 children, or there would be heirs." 
 
 "What are you talking about, dear? AVhat heirs? Your 
 great-grandfather was a most dreadful miser," Aunt Lucinda 
 continued. " Father used to tell how he would go out with a 
 basket and brintr it home filled with bones and crusts and broken 
 vegetables — everything he could pick up. The boys were half- 
 starved and went in rags — so they ran away. Your father was 
 lielped by his mother's people, who made him a lawyer, and then 
 — then — he — came over " — she hesitated a moment and changed 
 color — " and settled here, you know." 
 
 The girl nodded, and clapped her hands again. " Why," she 
 cried, " there can't be any doubt ! The miser only died the 
 other day — at least, I suppose it was the miser — and — Aunt 
 Lucy — Aunt Lucy " — she fell upon her aunt's neck, and laughed 
 and cried — " oh I our fortune is made. Oh ! we are the luckiest 
 people in the whole wide, wide world. Oh! you poor thing! 
 Never was any one so lucky. It isn't too late to enjoy yourself, 
 though father was so unlucky with the money. We must begin 
 to consider at once what is best to do. There is no time to lose. 
 Perhaps we can get a lawyer in London to do the thing ; but 
 English lawyers are dreadful, I believe. Perhaps we shall even 
 have to go over ourselves." 
 
 " My dear, I do not understand one single word that you are 
 saying." 
 
 " We could borrow some money, we shouldn't want much ; I 
 suppose they'll give up at once when they see the proofs. Oh! 
 Auntie — you shall be the richest woman in the wliole world ; 
 you shall have new frocks by the dozen — " 
 
 " Dear child ! AVhat is it ?" she repeated, with some trouble 
 gathering in her eyes. 
 
 " Listen, Auntie ! Only listen ! Oh ! listen. It takes my 
 breath away only to think of it. Listen ! listen ! listen ! Oh !
 
 92 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 it's the most wonderful tiling that ever happened to anybody. 
 All the good things — the lucky things — are coming to America. 
 This is the real land for fairy stories. All the fairies arc coin- 
 ing here. I am Cinderella — I ain Cap o' Rushes — I am Belle 
 lielle — Oyez ! oyez ! oyez !" 
 
 "Dear Ella" — tlie elder lady began to grow alarmed — "are 
 yon in your senses?" 
 
 " No, Anntie. I am out of them. r>ut listen !" She had 
 been jumping about and waving the paper in her hand. At last 
 she stood still and read : 
 
 "HEIRS WANTED! 
 
 AN IMMENSE FOKTUNE ! 
 
 TWELVE MILLIONS STERLING! 
 
 SIXTY MILLION DOLLARS ! 
 
 ALL DROPPING INTO QUEEN VICTORIA'S LAP ! 
 
 HEIRS WANTED NAME OF BCRLEY !" 
 
 "These arc only the head-lines, Auntie, just to wake you up. 
 There, sit up now. Open your mouth and shut your eyes and 
 see what I will send you. I am Titan ia, Queen of the Fairies. 
 I am the Lady Best of Good Luck. Listen ! listen ! listen I 
 
 "'People named Burley are invited to read the following 
 with attention. People whose mother's name was Burley may 
 alsi) iind it to their advantage to read it with attention. People 
 whose grandfathers and grandmothers were named Burley may 
 read it with singular advantage and profit. Till one fatal day 
 four or five weeks ago there lived in a little street called 
 Great College Street, AVestminster, an old man, by name John 
 Calvert Burley' — John Calvert Burley, Auntie. Tiiink of that! 
 — father's name ! — John Calvert Burley," she repeated. " ' lie 
 was so old that he had apparently outlived all his friends. At 
 all events for forty years, as his house-keeper bore witness, no 
 one had called at the house except his business manager. lie 
 was ninety-four years of age. Those few people who knew of 
 his existence knew also that he was very wealthy, lie was so 
 very wealthy that his affairs were managed for him at an office, 
 where he had formerly transacted business as a money-lender, 
 by a large staff of employes — lawyers, architects, builders, ac-
 
 "AUNT lucinda" 93 
 
 countants, and clerks. The old man, who died suddenly, has, it 
 appears, left no will. The estate, therefore, in default of heirs, 
 falls to the Crown, and it is the biggest windfall of the kind 
 that has ever happened. For the property left by this obscure 
 old man is now estimated to be worth more than sixty millions 
 of dollars. As yet no claimants have appeared, though it is ex- 
 tremely improbable that so great a fortune will not give birth 
 to endless claimants. It is most certain, moreover, that the 
 British Treasury will require the most rigid proof before admit- 
 ting any claim. Meantime we advise everybody named Burley 
 to investigate their line of descent. If the deceased left broth- 
 ers (which is not likely) or nephews and nieces, these will be 
 tbe heirs to the whole estate. If there are neither nephews nor 
 nieces the inheritance passes upward to the children, or their 
 descendants, of the deceased grandfather. This opens up a 
 wide vista of possible claims. For suppose the deceased's grand- 
 father was born, say, in 1740, and had six children — of whom 
 five are concerned in this inheritance. These five children, born, 
 say, between 1765 and 1775, may have had five children each; 
 these in their turn five each, and so on — until we arrive at a 
 grand total in the present year of grace of 3125, all with claims 
 to this estate. This gives to each the sum of £3520 or $17,- 
 000, a painful illustration of the reducing power of common 
 division.' 
 
 " There, Auntie, what do you say to that?" 
 
 This conversation took place in a small house — a wooden 
 house, painted a light, yellowish brown, with a green porch and 
 green jalousies, and at the side a small orchard. The house 
 stood in the main street of a little New England town which had 
 a special industry in chair-legs. It was quite a small house, 
 containing only one sitting-room, a veranda, a kitchen, and two 
 or three bedrooms. Of the two ladies who lived in this liouse 
 one, the elder, was a lady of a certain age, who had a little — a 
 very little money. The other, her niece, a girl of twenty-one or 
 two, was engaged as cashier in the most considerable factory of 
 chair-legs in the place. The appearance of the elder lady, formal 
 in her manner, precise in her dress, indicated the great respecta- 
 bility of the family. Nobody, in fact, could be more respect- 
 able.
 
 94 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Tewksbury, Mass., is a town in which the feminine element 
 largely predominates. The girls take all the places, berths, and 
 appointments, and do all the work at half the pay that should 
 be given to the men for the same work. Therefore the men — 
 the few men who arc born in this town — go away West, and 
 the women, thus achieving their independence, are happy. This 
 future of Tewksbury, Mass., is uncertain, but as the greater part 
 of a chair-leg can be made by women just as well as by men, it 
 is calculated that another fifty years will see the end of the town. 
 This will be a pity, because it is a very pretty place, and in tl)c 
 summer most umbrageous with shade-trees. Yet who would not 
 rather be a cashier in a chair-leg factory than a mere wife and a 
 meek mother, slaving for a husband and for children? Tewks- 
 bury stands for many other places — we ourselves, if we live long 
 enough, may witness the destruction of our own towns, when 
 women have fully resolved on their independence and have 
 driven the men out of the country. 
 
 In the town of Tewksbury, not only do women predominate, 
 but women rule. Theirs is the literary society ; theirs is the 
 circulating library ; they form the committee for the lecture 
 programme ; they get up the school and church feasts and 
 treats and social teas and summer picnics. It is a Ladies' Para- 
 dise, with as little as possible of the other sex, and, in fact, 
 there are very few husbands and no marriageable bachelors, 
 and the boys have to sit on the same benches as the girls, and 
 are not only taught to behave pretty, but to acknowledge the 
 superiority of women's intellect, being admonished thereon by 
 the result of every examination. 
 
 The Tewksbury Paradise is an Eden of culture with the dis- 
 turbing element left out. Also, needless to sa\', that it has its 
 commonplaces or maxims generally admitted — of which the one 
 about the insufficiency of money to satisfy the soul naturally 
 commends itself to a community of women living on a very few 
 dollars a week. Yet, you see how Philosophy may break down. 
 What power had this maxim over the soul of Ella Burley when 
 she read this intelligence and was tempted by the prospect of 
 these millions ? Alas I Poor Philosophy ! Whither wilt thou fly ? 
 
 " Auntie 1" cried the girl again. " Don't look like that ! Say 
 something ! Get up ! Get up !"
 
 " AUNT LUCINDA " 95 
 
 Miss Luciiida Burley took off ber spectacles and gazed into 
 space, 
 
 " Sure enough," she said, slowly. " Father came out of that 
 street — and I suppose the man just dead must have been his 
 brother. Sure enough ! One brother, I know — the eldest 
 brother — remained at home — ninety-four. Yes, he must have 
 been my uncle — ninety-four ! It's like a dream." 
 
 "Sure enough, then, that great fortune is ours — isn't it? 
 Unless the other brothers — but that isn't likely, or they would 
 have come forward. It is ours. Auntie — ours." 
 
 To the girl's amazement her aunt at this juncture turned per- 
 fectly white, and began to tremble and to shake. 
 
 " Oh, my dear !" she cried, " put it out of your head — we 
 mustn't claim it. We mustn't think of it. Oh ! it cannot be 
 ours. Don't so much as think of it." 
 
 " Not claim it? Not think of it ? But, Auntie, it is ours by 
 right. What is the matter, dear ?" For now Aunt Lucinda ap- 
 peared to be nigh unto fainting. " It is the sudden shock that 
 is too much for you. Dear Auntie, lie down — so. Oh ! and I 
 thought you were sitting so calm and quiet over it — and I was 
 so excited. Lie down — so — and let me talk. What was I say- 
 ing ? Oh! Yes, you are the niece and I am the grandniece 
 of the rich man's brother. There were other brothers, but 
 their descendants have not put in a claim. Now all that is 
 wanted will be to establish the relationship. Well ! here we 
 are. Grandfather settled here. He was a lawyer here. He 
 lived here and died here. People remember him well ; every- 
 body remembers James C. Burley. I remember him ; an old 
 man who walked with a stiff knee and a stick. lie died fifteen 
 years ago; he was about seventy-five when he died. Then 
 everybody remembers father — John C. Burley — who was only 
 forty-five when he died. We shall have nothing to do but just 
 to connect grandfather with the house in Westminster." 
 
 "Is that all, Ella?" The elder lady sat up. She was still 
 pale and agitated. " Is that really all that we shall have to do I 
 Shall we not have to go into court and swear all sorts of things ?" 
 
 " Why — of course — what more can there be ? If we can 
 prove that James C. Burley was the dead man's brother, and 
 that we arc his descendants, what more can they want ? Did
 
 90 BEYOND THK DREAMS OF AVAKICE 
 
 yon tliink you would have to stand up to be bullied by a brutal 
 British lawyer ? Or were yon afraid there would be heavy law 
 expenses, Auntie? AVas that what frightened you?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes. Oh ! that was what I meant. I was afraid. 
 It occurred to me — but since that is all — " 
 
 " Why, dear, what nonsense ! Of course that is all. It will 
 all be as plain as possible. We shall simply have to show that 
 grandfather was this dead man's brother." 
 
 Aunt Lucinda sat up and took the paper. But her eyes 
 swain — she could not read it ; she lay down again, murmuring : 
 " After ail these years — all these years — no — no !" 
 
 "After all these years. Auntie — yes — yes; after all these 
 years ! Oh ! To think that we shall be so rich — so rich — oh ! 
 so rich. Let ns sit down and make out what we will do when 
 we are so rich." 
 
 The girl was a slight and slender creature, bright eyed, rather 
 sharp of feature ; her hair nearly black, her black eyes deep 
 set ; she spoke and moved with animation. She was thoroughly 
 alert and alive ; she was a well-educated American girl who 
 knew her mind and had her opinions. On one table lay the 
 library books she was reading; in the bookcase were her own 
 books ; on the writing-table lay the sheets of an unfinished 
 paper on the " Parleyings of Browning," which she was writing 
 for the literary society. This was a flourishing literary society, 
 including all the ladies in the town — two hundred and fifty-five; 
 most of them wrote critical papers for the society ; the rest 
 wrote poems; one or two had written for New York magazines. 
 Fiction was, very properly, excluded from tiie work of the so- 
 ciety. It was, you see, a profoundly critical town. Many of the 
 ladies, including Ella Burley, believed that the verdict of their 
 society on the merits of an author made or marred that author. 
 
 Ella sat down beside the sofa on which her aunt lay, still 
 agitated, and began to talk. She enjoyed the pleasures of im- 
 agination for half an hour. Then she remembered that supper 
 had to be prepared, and she ran out into the kitchen which ad- 
 joined in order to make it ready. And at intervals she ran 
 back again to ;uld another detail. 
 
 But the elder lady sitting upon the sofa looked about the room 
 with troubled eyes. " She can find out nothing," she murmured.
 
 " AUNT LUCINDA " 97 
 
 " Oh ! I burned all the letters and papers. Oh ! nobody knows 
 except rae — nobody else in the whole wide world. If it were 
 discovered now — after I've hidden it away all these years ! After 
 all these years !" 
 
 " Auntie !" The girl ran in again. " I'm real sorry for Queen 
 Victoria. She little thinks that over here in the Land of Free- 
 dom there lives the heiress who is going to make her disgorge 
 those millions. Of course, she reckons they are hers already. 
 Fancy ! At Buckingham Palace — I see them quite plainly — 
 they are all sitting in a circle round the table, the Queen in the 
 middle and the Prince of Wales on her right hand, contriving 
 how to divide and to spend the money — and now they won't 
 have any of it. Oh ! what an awful blow for them it will be." 
 
 She disappeared again. 
 
 "When they sat down to supper neither could eat anything 
 for excitement. 
 
 " I have made up my mind, Auntie," she said, as if the elder 
 lady's mind was of no account whatever. " I mean to carry 
 this business through with a rush. I will give up my post in 
 the factory to-morrow. We must get some money — an advance — 
 a loan — a mortgage on this liouse will do — it won't cost much 
 — we will go second-class to Liverpool ; then I suppose a week 
 or two will be all we want to get the business settled. Why, 
 it's as plain as can be — we must get certificates or something 
 that we are the persons we claim to be, and you must get what- 
 ever proofs you have to connect grandfather with the — What 
 is it, dear?" For Aunt Lucinda was beginning to tremble again, 
 
 " Oh ! Are you quite sure — quite sure, dear — that there will 
 be nothing more wanted ? Only these certificates ? I've got 
 old letters up-stairs — letters from his mother to my fathei* — " 
 
 " Why, of course. What should be wanted more than what 
 we have ? (W't out every scrap of paper you can find, and, 
 Auntie, dear, don't look as if wo were going to bo hanged. 
 You shall be crowned, not hanged, my dear, with a coronet — a 
 countess's coronet. Oh ! I feel so happy — so happy !" 
 
 Three weeks later they were sitting in a London lodging — it 
 was in Westminster, so as to l)e on the spot, close to (Jrcat 
 College Street; in fact, it was in Smith S(piare, where stands 
 
 5
 
 98 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 tlic liiigc mass of stone called the Cluircli of St. Jolin the Evan- 
 gelist. And it was a cheap lodging of two rooms that they took. 
 
 " Now, Auntie " — it was the day of their arrival ; their boxes 
 were unpacked ; they had taken tea ; they had tried the chairs 
 and the sofa ; and they were preparing to settle down — " Jet 
 us bring out our papers. Oh, how I used to wake up at night 
 on board the liorrid ship, dreaming that we were in London 
 and that we had lost the things. Here they are." She opened 
 a brown leather hand-bag and took out a bundle of papers. 
 " Here are the certificates of baptism ; yours, father's, and mine. 
 They're all right. John Calvert Barley, son of James Calvert 
 Burley, lawyer, and Alice, liis wife. Yours, too, Lucinda Cal- 
 vert Burley ; and mine, Ella Calvert Burley. They're all right. 
 Next, here is the certificate to show that the late James Calvert 
 Burley, an Englishman by birth, lived in Tewksbury, Massachu- 
 setts, and practised as a solicitor until his death in 1875. Here 
 is the certificate of his death, with his age. That, of course, will 
 correspond with his birth certificate at Westminster — in this 
 great ugly church, 1 dare say. Here is my poor father's death 
 certificate. Also the certificate about his residence and prac- 
 tice. Then, here are the letters which you have kept — the 
 letters of his mother (my great-grandmother) — only five of 
 them, but two are enough. ' My dear James,' " — she took up 
 one of the letters ; it was folded in the old fashion, without an 
 envelope, and fastened with a wafer — " ' I am rejoyced to hear 
 that you are Well and Safe and that your Uncle Jackman has 
 been able to find you Employment. Your Father remains 
 Obstinately Sett against Forgiveness, and you must expect noth- 
 ing from him but llescntment, unless you quickly rctnrn, which 
 1 fear you will not do. Write to me often. You can bring 
 or send the Letters to save Postage. Push them under the 
 Door. Be Good, my son, and you will be Happy. Your 
 Loving Mother — Frances Burley.' The letter is dated," the 
 girl went on, "December 20th, 1825." 
 
 '' That was about five years before he crossed to America," 
 said Aunt Lucinda. " The other letter is very much like it — 
 written a year later." 
 
 " My grandmother died about the year 1878, 1 believe. Auntie, 
 the evidence is crushing."
 
 " AUNT LUCINDa" 
 
 99 
 
 " Are you quite sure — quite — that they can ask no other 
 questions ?" Aunt Lucinda aslced, anxiously. 
 
 " Why, of course not. What other questions can they ask ? 
 There may be other nieces and nephews. But the property 
 could be divided, I suppose. Come, Auntie, the way lies plain 
 and easy before us. We have nothing to do but to send in our 
 claims. We will find out the way somehow. We will not 
 have any lawyers to send in bills. A lawyer's daughter ought 
 to know better. We will just draw up our statement, make 
 copies of the letters and papers, and send them in — the copies, 
 of course. Why, Auntie, I wouldn't trust even Queen Victoria's 
 lawyers with the originals. There, we will put them all back 
 for to-night, and to-morrow — ah !" — she drew a long breath — 
 " we will spend in drawing up our case. I suppose it will be 
 examined -at once, and as there can be no doubt about it, we 
 shall have the property at the end of the week. Poor Queen ! 
 She's a good woman ; everybody says so. I'm sorry she will 
 suffer through us. But, of course, we can't help it. Perhaps a 
 little present — a silver teapot, say — would partly console her. 
 W^e'll find out how such a trifle, as a mark of respect from an 
 American girl, would be received. I don't mind the disap- 
 pointment of the princes a bit. And now^, my dear, you are 
 tired with the day's journey, though it's nothing — really — to 
 get across this little bit of an island. You ought to go to bed 
 and rest. Otherwise there will be a headache in the morning 
 and — mind — lie down with a joyful heart. There's no more 
 doubt, mind — no more doubt than there is about the Stars and 
 Stripes." 
 
 Aunt Lucinda obeyed. But she did not immediately go to 
 bed. She sat on the bed and trembled. Then she locked the 
 door, and, falling on her knees, she prayed with all the fervor 
 of a faithful Christian, while the tears ran down her cheeks. 
 "0 God!" she murmured, "grant that it may never be found 
 out or suspected. After all these years ! And no one knows 
 except myself. After all these years ! And he a deacon ! 
 And our folks respected in the town ! Oh ! keep the sin a se- 
 cret. Let it burn in my heart and shame me and torture me. 
 Kill me with it, and I will never murmur. Let mine be the suf- 
 fering and the secret shame. But kee{) it — oh ! keep it from
 
 100 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICE 
 
 the innocent girl. O Lord, if the fortune cannot come to us by 
 reason of that sin, let me alone know that it is the sin which 
 stands in the ■way." 
 
 In the other room tlie heiress sat at the open window watch- 
 ing the lights of the house and listening to the clocks. She 
 was not ignorant of the long, long history which the Palace Yard 
 and the buildings around it illustrate and commemorate, but her 
 thoughts were not with English history. She was thinking of 
 the house close by, where her great-grandfather, the miser, had 
 lived, from which her grandfather fled. She must contrive to 
 see that house somehow, as soon as the case was drawn up and 
 handed in, but not before. She would present herself as the 
 heiress — it would be her own house — as soon as the property 
 was handed over to her ; that is to say, in a week or so at the 
 outside.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 
 
 It was in -the evening, in the first glow of an early autumn 
 sunset, that Lucian brought his bride to her new home in Great 
 Colleofe Street. 
 
 He had accomplished, you see, that strange desire to live in 
 the house of his forefathers. He had obtained a lease from the 
 administrators of the property ; he had bought the whole of the 
 furniture and fittings, books, pictures — everything as it stood, 
 and he had cleaned, painted, decorated, and whitewashed the 
 house. It was his for seven years on the customary condi- 
 tions. 
 
 The street was peaceful as the cab rolled into it ; the house, 
 clothed with its Virginia-creeper, just putting on its September 
 splendors, looked truly and wonderfully beautiful ; the door, 
 opened by Margaret's two maids with smiling faces, showed a 
 light and cheerful hall. The stairs were carpeted, the walls 
 newly painted ; the echoes were gone. Margaret ran in with a 
 light heart. 
 
 " Oh ! how changed !" she cried. She opened the dining- 
 room door. The table, laid for dinner and decorated with flow- 
 ers, was in itself a welcome ; the dingy old walls had disap- 
 peared, and in their place were dainty panels of gray and green. 
 " The house looks young again ! Lucian, the past is gone and 
 forgotten. It is your house ; the old house, but transformed. 
 Lucian, I am glad we came here." 
 
 " It IS your home, my ISIargarct." He kissed her. " May it 
 ])rove a happy and a fortunate home." 
 
 Then they talked of their plans. The brass plate was on the 
 door, "Lucian Calvert, M.D.," as an invitation to enter and bo 
 healed. The book which tliis young physician was preparing
 
 102 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICE 
 
 was nearly ready ; his reputation would be made by that book. 
 Formerly a young man could not take his degree till he had 
 maintained, before all comers, a thesis ; in these days he takes 
 his degree first and advances his tliesis afterwards. Oh ! he 
 would get on ; he had confidence in himself. And not a word 
 was said about the ancestors up-stairs, or the millions waiting 
 for him at the Treasury. 
 
 Next day, breakfast over, her husband gone to the hospital, 
 which took his mornings, Margaret began a new exploration of 
 the house. First, she went into Lucian's study — the consulting- 
 room of the future — the back parlor where the old man spent 
 the last fourteen years of his long life. No sign of him was 
 left ; that is, no outward and visible sign in this room or in any 
 other room. Since his profession had been, as his son called 
 it, " Destruction and Ruin," I dare say there were evidences of 
 liis industry to be found outside the house — in poverty-stricken 
 ladies, sons gone shepherding, and broad lands that had changed 
 owners. However, here the signs and marks of him were all 
 swept and carried away ; the windows were bright and clean ; 
 the sun shone upon the panes through a frame or fringe of vine 
 leaves-, the old bookcase now contained her liusband's scientific 
 books — the old books, which were chiefly theological dialogues, 
 essays, and sermons, were gone — packed off to the twopenny 
 boxes of the second-hand booksellers ; the old table was covered 
 with her husband's papers and writings; the colored engravings 
 still hung in the panels, but their frames were newly gilt ; as 
 for the walls themselves, they were newly painted a pearl gray, 
 with a little warmer color for the dado and the cornice. Win- 
 dow-curtains were put up ; there were new photographs, new 
 knick-knacks on the mantel -shelf, and the portrait of Lucian's 
 father was placed in this room, apart from the ancestors whom 
 he had renounced. Could this be the dingy room of only six 
 weeks ago? That represented age, squalid, low-minded, with- 
 out dignity ; this meant youth and manhood, with noble aims 
 and lofty studies. 
 
 The voung wife had nothinc: to do in her husband's room. 
 She looked in simply because it was his room; it made her feel 
 closer to him only to stand in his room. She was perfectly hap- 
 py in that foolish satisfaction with the present which newly
 
 'MARGARET RAN IN WITH A MGHT HEART
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 103 
 
 married people ought to feel. There <are periods and seasons 
 when time ought to move so very, very slowly. During the first 
 three months of marriage, for instance, so as to prolong the hap- 
 piness of it ; during the last three years of an old man's life, so 
 as to prolong the time of reminiscence — or, perhaps, repent- 
 ance; when one is engaged upon a work of art, so as to prolong 
 the delight and the joy of the work. That time will not move 
 any slower to accommodate anybody is part of the curious lack 
 of sympathy between Nature and the individual. 
 
 Margaret, for her part, living in the present, had forgotten 
 those forebodings. How should forebodings linger in the mind 
 of a happy bride of twenty -one ? Besides, the house, so lovely 
 within and without, so quiet and peaceful — what had it to do 
 with the dingy, dirty, memory-stricken place that she had seen 
 six weeks ago ? 
 
 Yet she was to be reminded that very morning of these fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 She sighed — for very happiness. She smoothed the papers 
 and arranged the pens — just in order to touch something of her 
 liusband's. Then she looked out of the window into the little 
 garden with the mulberry-tree and the vine, and then, as if re- 
 luctantly, she left the room and softly shut the door. 
 
 Heavens! What a change that magician, the house -painter, 
 had effected ! Nothing could look brighter than the stairs, 
 broad, covered with a soft carpet, running up between walls 
 newly painted and hung with framed engravings, lit by a spa- 
 cious window, glorified by a broad mahogany balustrade. When 
 she lifted her fresh young voice and began to sing as she climbed 
 the stairs there was no echo. All the echoes had gone. Whv ? 
 Because, as Lucian suggested, they love the empty places of 
 the earth ? It is one of the many scientific questions which 
 cannot be answered. All the echoes had gone. Margaret 
 opened the door of the drawing-room. Similar changes had 
 transformed this room. The old furniture was there, but it 
 was supplemented by modern things, imported by Margaret her- 
 self. New tables, new chairs, new blinds and curtains, new car- 
 pets. The walls were painted in a soft, delicate shade. The 
 frames of the portraits were regilt. There were new books, and 
 a bookcase full of them ; and there were fresh flowers on the table.
 
 104 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Marojarot looked at the ancestors. She besran to examine the 
 pictures again. Once more she felt those curious eyes — deep set, 
 searching, under straight black eyebrows, like Lucian's, which 
 followed her about the room — and once more she remembered 
 their history, as related by Lucian's father in those pages which 
 she had read. Since she saw them last they had somehow — 
 but that was nonsense — changed their expression. How can 
 pictures change? Perhaps it was the new gilding of the frames; 
 perhaps it was the general brightening of the room. Whatever 
 the reason, the ancestors did certainly look more cheerful. The 
 original Calvert no longer brooded over past misdeeds and im- 
 pending punishment — he now meditated deeply some great, if 
 not noble, enterprise. The highwayman, his son, whose pict- 
 ure liad been brought down from the garret and restored to its 
 panel, had put aside the swagger which formerly distinguished 
 his portrait, and now appeared with something of the modesty of 
 a gallant soldier to whom death is no evil compared with dis- 
 honor. Even the miser looked as if he were satisfied with the 
 result of his last counting, and could reward himself for his 
 success Avith a few extra privations. 
 
 The ladies, for their part, appeared to smile upon her, A 
 strange fancy ; yet Margaret could not shake it ofT. They were 
 smiling. No doubt these changes were entirely due to the 
 cleaning of the pictures and the brightening of their frames. 
 But still, it was surprising. These ladies smiled upon her. 
 Why ? Because she was now one of the House ? You may live 
 under a false name, you may renounce your ancestors, but you 
 do belong to them ; there is only one set of ancestors possible 
 for a man ; one set of ancestors, one cast, or mould, or type of 
 face, with two or three hereditary tendencies for choice. There- 
 fore, when Margaret appeared in the drawing-room as the new 
 mistress of the house, and the wife of the heir, these ladies nat- 
 urally smiled a welcome. 
 
 A little of the former terror fell upon Margaret. Not much; 
 but some. She remembered their evil lives, their misdeeds, 
 and their misfortunes. A family speciallv marked out for 
 misfortune ; pursued by crime, dishonor, and sorrow. Lucian, 
 like his father, had renounced his forefathers. No harm would 
 happen to him, therefore. Yet Margaret trembled, only to think
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 105 
 
 of the long inheritance of sorrow. Her piano stood in one cor- 
 ner of the room. She sat down and began to play — idly at 
 first. Then the feeling came over her that the ancestors were 
 all listening. She lifted her head and looked round — all were 
 looking at her ; the women, she now thought, with compassion 
 rather than welcome — the men, with curiosity. She changed 
 the music — it became a grave and serious meditation ; it be- 
 came sacred music ; she played pieces of a mass she knew ; 
 finally, she played a hymn — one of the solemn hymns which 
 we never sing now — an eighteenth-century hymn — with a beau- 
 tiful melody — a hymn in which the soul feels her helplessness, 
 and cries out for help to the place whence only help can come. 
 All her soul went heavenward with the music. As she bent her 
 head over the keys she became dreamily conscious that the men 
 were listening unmoved, but curious, and that the women were 
 weeping in their frames. And the house was so silent — so si- 
 lent — and she was alone in it with her ghostly company. But 
 she was not afraid. Only she felt excited and restless. 
 
 She arose — pale, with set face and eyes dilated ; her limpid 
 eyes, which could so easily become dreamy. Then, as in a 
 dream, not knowing what she was doing, or why, she left the 
 room, closing the door after her, and climbed the stair, up — up 
 — up, until she reached the highest floor, and then she w^alkcd 
 into the nursery and sat upon the bed. 
 
 Why was she there ? She knew not, save that her head was 
 filled with the thoughts of the mothers and the children. Here, 
 in this nursery, generation after generation, the wives and moth- 
 ers had their brief time of happiness while the children were 
 yet little. This room was theirs ; it was sacred to them ; she 
 was one of them now ; she was the wife of the heir ; it was 
 right that she should make this room her own. 
 
 In all " communications," appearances, conversations, and 
 correspondence with the other world, it has been remarked, 
 over and over again, that we never learn anything which we did 
 not know before. Human knowledge has never been advanced 
 a single step. If any revelation is made as to the kind of ex- 
 istence led in the other world, it is exactly the kind of life led 
 at the present moment by ourselves in this generation. This 
 makes certain scofTcrs ask the use of interrogating the spirits, 
 
 5*
 
 100 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 or of expecting any help from them. In what followed, for 
 instance, Margaret heard and saw nothing but what she had 
 ah'eady imagined. The vision that came to her was ah-eady 
 in her own brain. In what had gone before, the threatening 
 faces of the portraits, she saw wliat was in her own brain. 
 Nothing supernatural in it at all ? Nothing at all. Quite a 
 natural phenomenon. 
 
 She sat on the old moth-eaten bed. Presently she closed her 
 eyes and fell back upon the mattress. How long did she lie 
 there unconscious ? 1 know not. As for what follows, it is ex- 
 actly what she told her husband that evening. One can only 
 write down what one is told. History is often mystery. We 
 see what is not there to be seen ; we hear voices where there is 
 silence; our ghosts are all created in the brain; which, again, 
 is the real reason why ghosts never tell anything that we did 
 not know before. 
 
 Margaret opened her eyes. It did not surprise her that she 
 was lying on the bed in the nursery. Nor was she in the least 
 surprised to see, standing round the bed, all the women of the 
 house ; the wives, the mothers, the daughters. She knew them 
 by their portraits. In fact, they stepped straight out of the 
 frames and came up-stairs, dressed in the things they wore in 
 the pictures, in order to greet the newly arrived wife of the 
 lieir. But their faces were all alike, pale and sad. Their 
 hands were clasped. And when they smiled their sadness only 
 seemed the stronger. 
 
 And another thing. Behind the mothers were all the chil- 
 dren, all the little children that ever played in this nursery — 
 twenty little children, every one three years of age, all running 
 about and tumbling down, and, without making the least noise, 
 going tlirough the forms of laughing and crying ; some played 
 tofcther and some played apart ; children of the last century and 
 children of this. And they were so lovely, all these children; 
 the gift of beauty was theirs fn>in generation to generation. 
 
 But Margaret turned from the children to their mothers, for 
 they spoke to her. At first they spoke all together, with the 
 same faint smile, and with the same sad, soft voice. 
 
 "Welcome," they cried, "welcome, daughter of the House! 
 Now art thou one of us ; one witli us."
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 107 
 
 " One of US, and one with us," they repeated, all with the same 
 sad smile ; " to suffer and to weep with us — with all who marry 
 into this House." 
 
 Then they spoke in turns, each telling the new - comer lier 
 story of sadness, 
 
 " I," said the first, who had on her head the Queen Anne 
 commode — " I married the man who committed the crime for 
 which you have all smce suffered in your turn. Would to God 
 I had died first ! How should I know that he had ruined his 
 master, and starved him to death in prison, and made his chil- 
 dren beggars ? I knew nothing till, in the agony of bereave- 
 ment, he confessed it all. My daughter, my lovely girl, died in 
 her very spring. My lovely boy was kidnapped and carried 
 away, I know not whither or to what hard fate; my eldest, as 
 brave and as beautiful as David's own son Absalom, was car- 
 ried to Tyburn Tree and hanged upon the shameful gallows. 
 Oh! my son — my son! Oh! my daughter! Oh! wretched 
 mother ! Thus began the expiation. Listen, thou newlv made 
 one of us !" 
 
 " As for me," spoke the second, " I lived to so great an age 
 that I thought I should never die ; and I had sorrow and shame 
 for my companions night and day. I had to look on helpless 
 while my husband squandered my fortune among wantons — till 
 love was turned to hate, and hate was changed to shame when 
 he was taken out to die. Thus have we women wept for the 
 wickedness of men." 
 
 "And I," said the third, "married one who lost his reason, 
 and raved for twelve long years. And so my life was ruined, 
 save that my children were left to me." 
 
 " Whose lot was worse than mine ?" said a fourth. " For my 
 husband became a miser. He was mad for saving money. I 
 had to pray and threaten before I could get money even 
 for my children ; as for clothes, I had to make them myself. 
 When the boys grew up they ran away and left the miser's 
 home ; all but one, who found means of his own to live and 
 clothe himself until his father died. My only daughter left 
 me. No one would stay in the House. Oh, wretched House ! 
 Oh, loveless House 1 Oh, House of evil fortune!" She wept 
 and wrung her hands.
 
 108 BKYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " AjkI I," said tlie last, "married the miser's son. Like liis 
 great-great-grandfather, he cared nothing liow he made money, 
 so that he could make it. Like his father, he could not bear to 
 spend it. I had children, six, but five of them died, and when 
 I lay a-dying, my son whispered that he could not endure to 
 live in the house without me, and that he could no loncrer en- 
 dure being called the money-lender's son, and so, I think, he, 
 too, ran away." 
 
 "One of us," said the first — "one of us! With all these 
 memories to fill thy mind and these our sorrows to share — 
 fair, new daughter of the House !" 
 
 " The money was gained with dishonor," said the last, " and 
 has grown with dishonor. Uow should this couple who inherit 
 the money escape the curse ? They cannot take one without 
 the other." 
 
 "Shame and dishonor! Shame and dishonor! These things 
 go witli the fortune that Calvert Burley founded and the miser 
 and the money-lender increased." 
 
 You will observe in the report of this vision, first of all, that 
 Margaret was alone in the house, save for the two maids in the 
 kitchen below ; next, that she knew the history attaching to 
 every portrait ; then, that the vision told her nothing new ; and, 
 lastly, that she had been from the first strangely moved by the 
 nursery and its associations. One would not willingly explain 
 away, or suppress, anything supernatural — things really and un- 
 doubtedly supernatural are, despite the researches of the Psy- 
 chical Society, only too rare. At the same time, we must re- 
 mark the predisposition of this young wife to such a vision. 
 It was a warm autumnal morning; her imagination was excited 
 by the sight of the portraits ; she sat on the bed ; she either 
 fainted or she fell asleep ; and she dreamed this vision of the 
 mothers. It ceased ; the unhappy mothers vanished. Margaret 
 sat up, looking around her, listening to the voices which died 
 away slowly in the chambers of her brain. 
 
 She was married to a scientific husband ; she was accustomed 
 to hear derision poured upon all spiritual pretensions and man- 
 ifestations and revelations. "It was a dream," she said — "a 
 dream caused by what I had been thinking about." Yet she 
 arose with a sense of consolation. "Shame and dishonor," said
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS 109 
 
 one of the women, *' go with Calvert Barley's money." There- 
 fore no harm would fall upon those who refused part or share 
 in that money. It was the belief of Lucian's father. No harm 
 would come to her or hers so long as they continued that great 
 refusal. "It is a dream," she said, wondering why she came to 
 the nursery, and remembering no more after she had played that 
 sacred music which prepared her soul for the dream of the 
 mothers. " A dream," she repeated. Yet — strange that one 
 should, in open daylight, walk in sleep. 
 
 She descended the stairs, feeling a little dizzy and still confused 
 about this dream. When she reached the first floor she stopped, 
 hesitated a moment, then turned the handle and went into the 
 drawing-room. Why, there was nothing at all in the pictures 
 out of the common ; poor paintings, for the most jiart ; stiff 
 in drawing, and conventional ; very probably good likenesses. 
 But as for that feeling of being watched by them, or of any in- 
 telligence in them, or of listening by them, or anything in the 
 least unusual — it was absurd. " I have been dream inof," said 
 Margaret. 
 
 She took a chair in one of the windows and sat down, taking 
 a book of verse to read. The poetry did not appeal to her 
 this morning ; she laid the book aside ; she closed her eyes 
 and dropped off to sleep. 
 
 At one o'clock she awoke ; she sat up with a start ; she looked 
 round, expecting the mothers to be surrounding her chair. 
 There was nothing; the mothers were on the wall, but they were 
 evidently thinking of themselves. " It was a dream," she said. 
 "But how clear and vivid ! And, now, I know them every one. 
 'One of us — one with us — to share our sorrows!' Oh, hapless 
 House ! There may be sorrows for me, and there will be ; but 
 not the shame and dishonor that go with all this money." 
 
 "Lucian," she said in the evening, "I must tell you what a 
 strange thing happened to nie this morning." 
 
 "You have something on your mind, dear. Tell me, if it 
 will relieve you." 
 
 "I will not tell you quite all. I must keep something back, 
 because even to you, dear, I feel as if I could not tell every- 
 thing — just yet."
 
 110 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "Tell me just what you please." 
 
 She was ashamed to tell him of the strange terror which 
 seized her in the drawing-room ; she was ashamed to tell him 
 of the hymn she played for strength against these airy terrors ; 
 she was ashamed to tell him that she could not remember how 
 she got up-stairs to the nursery. 
 
 " I went there," she said, " and I sat upon the bed, and be- 
 gan to think of the children and the poor mothers. And — I 
 don't know — perhaps it was rather a close morning, and the 
 window was shut. I am afraid I fainted, for I fell back, and 
 when I was recovered I was lying on the bed." 
 
 " Fainted ? My dear child !" 
 
 " And I had a most curious dream. Well, the dream was in 
 my head before I went off. I dreamed that round the bed 
 stood all the mothers of the House — those unhappy women 
 whose portraits are up-stairs, and they welcomed me as one of 
 themselves, and lamented their unhappy fate, and they said 
 that shame and dishonor go with the money that Calvert Burley 
 began to save.'* 
 
 " A strange dream, my dear," said her husband. " Truly a 
 strange dream." 
 
 " Oh, it was only a dream, Lucian," she concluded. " Oh, I 
 do not need to be told that. But it lias broucfht home to 
 me so vividly the sorrows of these poor women. Oh ! how 
 they suffered, one after the other ! If men only knew the 
 sufferings their vices bring upon women, I think half the 
 wickedness of the world would cease. One after the other 
 — yes — I know what you would say — their husbands sinned 
 and caused their sorrows. Yet your father thought so — 
 as 1 think. Dishonor and shame go with Calvert Burley's 
 money." 
 
 Lucian laughed, but with grave eyes. " My dear," lie said, 
 " it is strange for you to have visions. But you are too much 
 alone. We must get your sister to come here for a spell when 
 she returns home. It is a very quiet house, and you are not 
 accustomed to be so much alone. One easily gets nervous in 
 such a house. If I were you, dear, I would not spend too 
 much time in that nursery. Let me clear it all out and make it 
 a lumber-room."
 
 THE VISION OF THE MOTHERS HI 
 
 " No, no. It is my room, Lucian. I will not have it touched. 
 Besides, I haven't half explored the cupboard yet." 
 
 All that evening Lucian watched her furtively. She sat with 
 him in his study. And when she said it was time to go up- 
 stairs, he did not remain for a pipe by himself, but rose and 
 went up with her. For it was not Margaret's custom to grow 
 faint and to see visions.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 
 
 " I SUPPOSE wc are not forwarded any, Ella dear ?" Aunt 
 Lucinda looked up with a forced smile as her niece came m. 
 
 " Not a bit." Ella threw her hat upon the table and pulled 
 off lier jacket. The girl was changed already. The face, 
 which was so briijht and eaffer when first she resolved on 
 bringing over her claim in person, was now pale and set as 
 with endurance and resolution. It was a fii^htiiior face. You 
 may often see this face among the women of the good old 
 stock, which is said to be fast dying out in New England ; it 
 means the iron resolution which they inherit from the Puritan 
 Pilgrims. I should be rather afraid to confront such a face if 
 I had a weak cause or a wrong cause. This face meant per- 
 severance to the end. It also meant anxiety. 
 
 " We are not advanced a bit," she repeated. 
 
 '' Were they civil ?" 
 
 " Oh, they arc civil enough, now. Quite polite, in fact. I 
 don't think they will ask me any more to sit on the door- 
 step and wait. But it's no use being polite, as I told them, 
 if we don't get on. It's always will I wait? Will I have 
 patience? Will I consider that this is a very important busi- 
 ness? The lawyers have all the claims sent in as yet. All 
 must be considered. Well, these may be considered ; but 
 how many are from nephews and nieces ? Then they say 
 that there may be other nephews and nieces — why don't 
 tliey come forward, then ? Then they say that there was a 
 son. They must get proof that the son is dead, and further 
 proof that he left no children, or that these children are dead. 
 IIow long do they expect to keep me waiting? They don't 
 know. It is impossible to say. A great deal depends upon 
 tlic jiroof about the son. It may be a long time."
 
 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 113 
 
 " Oh, Ella, what do they call long ? Is it weeks or months ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Auntie ; I don't know " — she sat down wearily. 
 
 " My dear, the suspense is killing me." 
 
 '* Auntie, you look frightened always. Why docs the claim 
 frighten you ? Is it that the fortune is so huge ?" 
 
 "Don't ask me, dear. I try not to think about the money ; 
 but I must. The gracious Lord knows, Ella, that I do not 
 desire it. I desire only that the thing may be settled one 
 way or the other. I wish we were back in Tewksbury again, 
 and all was as it used to be — and I was arranging for the 
 reading of the Literary Society's papers." 
 
 " Things can't ever go back, Auntie. We've got, somehow, 
 to see this through." 
 
 "And how arc we to live, dear, until things are settled?" 
 
 " I don't know, Auntie. I'm thinking all day and all night. 
 I don't know what we are to do." She sat down and fuklcd 
 her hands. " Let us see — we say the same thing every day. . . . 
 Let us see again." She took her purse from her pocket and 
 poured out the contents. " We've spent all the money we 
 brought for our expenses here ; and we've spent most of the 
 money for our passage home. Auntie, we've got exactly three 
 pounds ten shillings and sixpence — about seventeen dollars. 
 Our rent is ten shillings a week ; say that we have four weeks' 
 rent in hand, that leaves us one pound two shillings and six- 
 pence — about five dollars and a half — for washing and for food. 
 Can we make it last for three weeks ? Three weeks more — and 
 then ? My dear Auntie, I don't believe that they mean to settle 
 this case in three weeks, or in three months — or, perhaps, in 
 three years." 
 
 " And after three weeks, dear ?" 
 
 " We must wait in patience if it's thirty years. For what- 
 ever happens, we shall not withdraw our claim. They may try 
 to drive us back to our own country ; but no — we will wait." 
 
 " But how to live, dear ?" 
 
 " I don't know yet. They must give in sooner or later, 
 Auntie ; it is a certainty." 
 
 " Suppose we were to go home again, dear, and wait there," 
 .said Aunt Lucinda, timidly. " I should like to sec the old 
 street again."
 
 114 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " We can't, my dear. We've got no money to take us back, 
 not even if we went as steerage passengers. We must stay here 
 somehow. Besides, if we went back, how should we ever pay 
 back the money you borrowed ? We should have to sell the old 
 house, and how long should I have to wait before I got another 
 situation ? There arc twenty girls in Tewksbury wanting places 
 to every place there is for them." 
 
 " But, my child, how are wc to live ?" 
 
 "1 don't know yet. We've got tlirce weeks to find out. 
 Well" — she jumped up — " I must find out something. Don't 
 be afraid, Auntie. There's the American Minister here ; I will 
 go and ask him to get me some work. Perhaps they want a 
 girl clerk at his place. Or, there's the American ConsuL I will 
 go there and ask for advice. We don't want to borrow money ; 
 we want a little work that will keep us going, in ever so poor a 
 way. Tljcy say it is so hard for a woman to get work in this 
 city. But we shall see. I will write to the Queen herself and 
 tell her our case. Perhaps she vi'ants a short-hand girl clerk ; 
 or a cashier; or a type-writer — who knows? I suppose she 
 wouldn't bear malice because we want to take tliis money ? They 
 say at the Treasury that she won't have it, in any case. I don't 
 know why they say so. The papers all declared that the estate 
 would go to the Crown. You shall see. Auntie ; I loill get some- 
 thing somehow." 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Aunt Luciiida, feebly, "you are very 
 brave, but you can't make people find you work or lend you 
 money. Oh ! my dear, you are young and clever, but I know 
 more than you. Money it is that makes people hard, and cruel, 
 and unjust. They will be hard and unjust to you here just as 
 much as at home. This dreadful money ! We were happier 
 when we wanted none. At Tewksbury we taught ourselves to 
 despise money. Remember that we put up a petition and a 
 thanksgiving every morning against the prevalent and sinful 
 greed of money." 
 
 " Yes, dear, we did. But you must remember that wc have 
 not sought this fortune nor asked for it. The gift came to us. 
 You are this dead man's niece; I am his grandniece; it is our 
 bounden duty to take wliat is given, and to show the world how 
 such a gift may be used aright. That is what it Is meant for.
 
 M 
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 H 
 
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 SI 
 
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 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 115 
 
 If we'd prayed for it night and day we should not have got it. 
 A millionaire is put upon a pillar, like a king, for the world to 
 watch. Everything that he does Is watched and recorded. In 
 a few weeks or months, you and I, simple as we are, will be the 
 two women in the world the most talked about — and it is laid 
 upon us to show the world how so great a gift should be admin- 
 istered." 
 
 " Well, dear, it will be a most awful responsibility — I dare not 
 think of it. The mere thought of millions makes my head dizzy." 
 
 " As for that, you must not let yourself think of the figures. 
 They are bewildering ; and you will gradually, without hurting 
 yourself at all, come to understand that whatever you want to 
 have, you can have. Don't be afraid, Auntie — you will want 
 and do nothing but what is good." 
 
 "I will try, my dear. Meantime — after the next three weeks 
 — how shall we live ?" 
 
 " I don't know — I am thinking and thinking — and, so far, 
 nothing has come of it. I'm not afraid, but I am a little 
 anxious. We are so much alone ; we know nobody ; if we go 
 to a lawyer we shall have to pay him. If we could go and con- 
 sult a minister ! There is the great stony church out there in 
 the square ; I have thought of going to see the pastor, but then 
 he's Episcopal, and we are Methodists. I wrote to Mr. Glad- 
 . stone — I didn't tell you. Auntie, because you might think it was 
 mixing ourselves up in politics, and an American girl over here 
 oughtn't to take a side. He answered very kindly — says he 
 can't help. Well — he's too busy, I suppose. As for his not 
 being able to help, I wonder if there's any single thing in the 
 world that old man can't make the people here believe and do." 
 
 "I don't know, dear; I am beginning to feel — " 
 
 " No, don't say that. Auntie dear," the girl interrupted, 
 quickly, "anything but that. It's only waiting for a little 
 while — a week or two — a year or two. Only patience for a 
 bit. These solicitors ! I asked for their names, meaning to go 
 and sit upon tlieir door-steps until they attend to me, as I 
 threatened to do at the Treasury." 
 
 " But, Ella, we must remember the other claimants. There 
 may be some with quite as good case, until they come to ours. 
 We must take our turn, after all."
 
 116 UEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "I'm SO restless about it; I can't sleep for thinking of it ; T 
 can't sit still. Yesterday, in church, I was obliged to get up 
 and go out, because my thoughts wouldn't let me sit still. 1 
 can't sit here in this room ; it is too small. I am choked. 
 Auntie, put on your bonnet, and, for goodness' sake, let us go 
 out and walk up and down." 
 
 Aunt Luciiida obeyed; she always obeyed. She belonged 
 to that class of women who are born to obey. She meekly 
 rose, and went to her room fur her bonnet. 
 
 The girl's face lost all courage when she was alone. She 
 waved her arms in a kind of agony. " Oh !" she cried. " Hun- 
 dreds of claimants ! Hundreds ! and more coming in every day ! 
 They will not decide until they have received and considered 
 all. And it may be years, they told me — long years of expec- 
 tation. Oh! What shall we do? What sliall we do ?" 
 
 Then her aunt returned with red eyes. The two liypocrites 
 smiled at each other and went down the stairs, and so into the 
 square, called after an unknown Smith — perhaps allegorically 
 as connecting the church, which covers three - fourths of the 
 space, with the work of men's hands. The whole of the square 
 was formerly the burial-ground of the church, so that these 
 ladies were unconsciously walking over the dust of their fore- 
 fathers — parishioners since the parish was first begun. 
 
 They walked nearly round the square, tbeir thoughts far 
 away. Then Ella turned into a street, for no reason, her aunt 
 following her; and in two or three minutes thcv found them- 
 selves in an unexpected Place — a continental Place — which 
 brought their thoughts back to Westminster. So long as you 
 walk along streets and houses that you expect, and see the 
 sights and hear the sounds to which you are accustomed, you 
 can think as well and let your thoughts go roaming as far as if 
 you were alone in the fields. \\ hen you see and hear the un- 
 expected you must leave off thinking. Ella looked round her, 
 awakened by the unexpected. For she stood suddenly in the 
 most quiet and peaceful spot of all London. Houses of the 
 early eighteenth conturv, with porches, and pillars, and fiat 
 facades, stand round this place, houses built for the comfort 
 that our forefathers placed so far above artistic show and 
 aesthetic display. Many generations of peace and home lent
 
 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 117 
 
 to this place the very atmosphere of seclusion. No one was 
 walking in it ; the houses and the street lay in sunshine — each 
 home a hermitage. Perhaps in the month of September the 
 people are away, but even in merry May there can never be the 
 noise of the street. 
 
 " There's a street in Albany," said Aunt Lucinda, " which 
 looks like this. Ah ! if only we were once more safe — " 
 
 "Don't, Auntie. Oh, we shall pull through, somehow. I've 
 got my watch still, and you've got your ring. We will go to a 
 money-lender and borrow. Auntie," struck with a sudden 
 thought, " your uncle, the rich man who died, he was a money- 
 lender; he lived somewhere here — I suppose the business is 
 still carried on. Let us go there. His successor might lend us 
 some money on the security of our claim — we will give him 
 any interest he wants. It is a chance — an inspiration, per- 
 haps." It was ; but not in the sense she meant. 
 
 " Where was the house?" 
 
 " It was a place called Great College Street, Westminster. 
 The number was 77, I think." 
 
 They asked a postman. The street was close by — first turn 
 to the right and straight on. They followed the direction, and 
 speedily stood in the street beside the old gray wall and before 
 the door numbered 77. 
 
 '* It can't be the house," said Aunt Lucinda. " A miser and 
 a money-lender couldn't live in such a lovely house ; and sec, 
 — ' Lucian Calvert, M.D.' on the plate. It is a doctor's house; 
 Ella, you mustn't." 
 
 *' I must. I am desperate. I suppose the house has been done 
 up fresh, painted and everything, since the old man died. It 
 doesn't look like a miser's house. l>ut I don't care, I will ask." 
 She rang the bell. The question she wanted to put was deli- 
 cate. Was Dr. Calvert the successor of the late Mr. Burlcv, in 
 the money-lending business? W'licii \\\o door was opened liy 
 the neat and well-dressed house-maid, the girl found herself un- 
 able to put that question. She had expected the jihysician him- 
 self. She hesitated, therefore, and stammered, and finally asked 
 if " Dr. Calvert was within." 
 
 He was not. If the ladies wished to consult him he would 
 be at home in the afternoon.
 
 118 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "Wc do not wish to consult him professionally," said the 
 claimant. " That is — " 
 
 " Mrs. Calvert is at home," the maid suggested. 
 
 "That will be very much better. Would Mrs. Calvert see 
 us ? No ; she docs not know our names." 
 
 Mrs. Calvert would see them. They were shown into the 
 dining-room, where they found a lady quite young, apparently 
 newly married. 
 
 " You do not know us at all," said Ella, stepping to the front. 
 " My aunt's name is Lucinda Burley, and I am Ella Burley, and 
 we are Americans, and claimants for the Burley estate." 
 
 " And you wish to sec the house where Mr. Burley lived and 
 died?" 
 
 " N — no — that is, we should like to see the house, but we 
 came on other business." 
 
 "You had bettor tell this lady the whole truth, my dear," 
 said Aunt Lucinda, with the sagacity of age. 
 
 " Then it is this way. My great-uncle — " 
 
 "You are tlie granddauglitcr of James Calvert Burley ?" 
 
 " You know about the family, then ? Your name is Calvert? 
 You are a cousin ?" 
 
 "We are not claimants," sail Margaret. "I know that 
 James Burley went to America. That is all." 
 
 " We thoujrht that our claim would be acknowledged in a 
 day or two. We have spent most of our money, and it occurred 
 to me that the money-lending business might be still carried on 
 somewhere — perhaps liere — but I see I was mistaken; and that, 
 if we could learn where the oflice is, we might try to Ixurow 
 money on the security of our claim." 
 
 "The money-lending was discontinued long before Mr. Bur- 
 ley died. My husband is a physician." 
 
 " Oh ! then that idea has fallen through. Well, Mrs. Calvert, 
 we are sorry to disturl) you, Mini very much obliged to you. I 
 hope you won't be olTcndid because we asked," 
 
 She got up to go. 
 
 "I am not offended at all; I am interested in your case. 
 Would you like to sec the house where your grandfather was 
 born?" 
 
 " If it will not trouble you too much," said Aunt Lucinda.
 
 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 119 
 
 " My father often spoke to me about this house and the old days. 
 His father was a dreadful miser." 
 
 " I perceive that you know something of the family history. 
 I suppose you have brought over proofs of your descent, and — 
 and — everything that will be required." 
 
 " Plenty of proof," said Ella, stoutly, " all the proofs that can 
 be asked for." 
 
 Margaret looked doubtful. For a moment she hesitated. Then 
 she rose, and without further question led the way. 
 
 "Come with me," she said, "and I will show you the house. 
 My husband is connected with the family. We are cousins, in 
 fact — distant cousins. We took it over with all the furniture, 
 only we have painted and decorated the place. James, through 
 whom you claim, was the youngest son. He was born in 1804." 
 
 " We do not know much about our relations — not even how 
 many brothers he had." 
 
 " Two brothers came between John, the man who died the 
 other day, and your grandfather. So far as I know, neither of 
 these two brothers, through heirs, has yet put in a claim. You 
 arc the first claimants who have called here. Come up-stairs, 
 and you shall see the family portraits." 
 
 She led them into the drawing-room, where the heads of this 
 remarkable family adorned the walls. 
 
 " Father came over to America in the year 1830, with mother," 
 Aunt Lucinda explained, her pale cheeks turning rosy red, no 
 doubt with excitement. " My brother was born in 1831, and I 
 was born in 1832. I am sixty-one years of age. This child was 
 born in 1873, and my brother died in 1880. Father and son 
 were lawyers. We've got the certificates of baptism and every- 
 thing, and they've gone into the Treasury." 
 
 "They will try to cheat us out of our rights, if they can," said 
 Ella, with determination. " But they've got an American girl to 
 deal with." 
 
 She looked round the room. " That's like father," slie said, 
 pointing to the original Calvert. " He could look just as deter- 
 mined as that — you remember. Auntie ?" 
 
 " Yes, my brother had that look sometimes, though lie was 
 unlucky in money." 
 
 " And you are like this lady ; who was this, Mrs. Calvert ?"
 
 120 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "That is Liicimla — wife of Jolin liurley, the celebrated miser. 
 She is your graiidinothor, Miss Burley. There is a strong like- 
 ness, but I hope you will be more happy than this poor creature," 
 
 They looked about them with curiosity. " Oh !" cried Ella. 
 "To think that we are gazing upon our own people! Don't 
 tell us, Mrs. Calvert, which is grandfather; Auntie, find him on 
 the wall. What lovely pictures ! what wigs and what head- 
 dresses ! I always thought that we belonged to a grand family." 
 
 " I will tell you directly something about the family grandeur. 
 Miss Burley, do you think you can find your father's portrait 
 auiouiT them ?" 
 
 The historian is naturally gratified at being able to state that 
 Aunt Lucinda behaved exactly like Joan of Arc in a somewhat 
 similar historical situation. She looked once round the room, 
 and placed her hand upon a picture. "This is my father," she 
 said, "though I remember him only as a middle-aged and elder- 
 ly man." 
 
 " You are quite riglit. That is James Calvert Burley. His 
 granddaughter is like him — and like all the Burlcys. Theirs is 
 a strong type, which repeats itself every generation ; and now, 
 if you will sit down, I will tell you something about your family 
 history." 
 
 They spent an hour and more in that portrait-gallery, listening 
 breathlessly to the story of the family grandeur. Margaret, with 
 intention, emphasized the misfortunes that followed them all, 
 from father to son. She said nothing about the curse which her 
 husband's father believed to cling to the possession of the fort- 
 une. She left them to make out for tliemsclvcs, if they chose, 
 a theory on the subject. They did not choose ; in fact, they 
 did not connect the misfortunes with the money, but with the 
 extraordinary wickedness of the men. They were like Lucian 
 in this respect. A family curse, you sec, is not a thing that can 
 be tnlcratcil umlor a democratic form of govornmcni. 
 
 They were impressed. For the first time they realized the 
 meaning of a family. It is a dreadful loss, which we of Ihn 
 English-speaking race inflict upon ourselves, that we do not 
 preserve the family liistory. Through the gutter, in the mire, 
 among criminals, in degradations even, the family history ought 
 to be followed and preserved. We should guard the records of
 
 A VISIT TO THE TREASURY 121 
 
 the past ; we should preserve the traditions. Ella, the Ameri- 
 can, who had never thought of the past in connection with her- 
 self, listened with rapt eyes while Margaret unfolded the history 
 of the eighteenth century in its relations to herself. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, at last, "it is terrible ! Yet — Auntie — don't 
 you feel taller for belonging to such a family ?" 
 
 "The extreme wickedness of man," sighed Aunt Lucinda, "in 
 the effete European states is awful to contemplate. In Tewksbury 
 there couldn't ever be such a record. The ladies wouldn't allow it." 
 
 " Come up-stairs," said Margaret. " I have still something 
 else to show you. This is the portrait-gallery of them all ; and 
 here you have heard the history of the men. Up-stairs you 
 shall see the rooms of the women — the unfortunate women — 
 your great-grandmothers, who had to endure the consequences 
 of the men's wickedness." She showed them the nursery, which 
 had been left just as she found it: the wooden cradle, the bed, 
 the cupboard, the infants' clothes, the dolls and toys. She gave 
 them each a doll from the family treasures. " Do these things," 
 she asked, " make you feel that you really do belong to the 
 House ? Here are the very dolls that the little girls of the fam- 
 ily played with. It must have been before the miser's time, be- 
 cause he would certainly never allow such a waste of money as 
 the purchasing of dolls." 
 
 They went down-stairs again. 
 
 " Oh," cried Ella, in the hall, " how can we thank you enough ?" 
 
 She held out her hand ; Margaret took it and held it. 
 
 "You have no friends in England," she said; "make me, if 
 you will, your friend. Let me call upon you. I have plenty of 
 time on my hands, and I may, perhaps, be able to advise and 
 help." The American girl hesitated. She was proud, and she 
 was going to become destitute. " I believe that I know all 
 about you," said Margaret. " You have betrayed yourself. You 
 seem to me to want advice." 
 
 " AYc certainly do." 
 
 " Then — if you think you can trust me — make me your friend." 
 
 " But you must know more about us," cried Ella, persuaded 
 into confidence. " We are desperately poor ; we live in (juite 
 cheap lodgings close by ; we have spent nearly all our money ; 
 we want all the advice wc can get." 
 
 G
 
 122 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " I will call upon you," said Margaret, with her grave smile. 
 
 " Oh ! you arc so kind — and you have got such a good face ! 
 But you mustn't think we are grand people." Ella was very 
 anxious on this point. "At home, Auntie has got the house we 
 live in for her own; and I've got — that is, I had — a situation 
 as cashier in a store, at five dollars a week. And so wc got 
 along somehow, and we were quite contented, until the papers 
 began to ring with this fortune wanting an heir — and we've given 
 up everything, of course, for this claim — and — and — now we 
 begin to want advice very badly." 
 
 " I understand," said Margaret, gravely ; " only, for Heaven's 
 sake, do not build upon your claim. Do not count upon it — 
 oh ! I implore you, do not ! Try to go on as if you had no 
 claim. There will be long delays; there may be dreadful dis- 
 appointments ; there may be terrible surprises." 
 
 Aunt Lucinda began to tremble and to shake. It was her 
 strange wa}^ from time to time. "Terrible surprises?" she re- 
 peated. " Oh ! wliat kind of surprises ? Who can tell what the 
 future may bring forth ?" 
 
 " It must be ours," said Ella, lightly ; " but it is kind of you 
 to warn us. We will not think about it more than wc can help. 
 And, oh ! I am so thankful and happy ! For we have made a 
 friend in this horrible, lieartless place. Come some — come to- 
 day — or to-morrow — come to tea with us. Auntie, dear, leave 
 off looking so frightened, or you'll drop your grandmother's 
 doll. I feel as if everything was fixed up now. Good-bye, Mrs. 
 Calvert." She hesitated a little, and then threw her arras round 
 her new friend and kissed her. " We are cousins, are wc not ? 
 And you are not a claimant, and we can be friends," 
 
 " Ought I to have told them, Lucian ? They do not know 
 the truth. They have no claim, and they don't know, chsarly, 
 the horrid truth, and they look as if they would sink into the 
 earth with shame if they did know." 
 
 " Don't tell them, dear. Do what you can for them, but don't 
 tell them ; there is no reason whatever for telling them. And 
 they never will know. Because, you see, before the Treasury 
 decide between the claimants, I must step forward and forbid 
 the banns of marriage between this estate of mine which I am 
 not to touch and any of my cousins."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 HUNDREDS OF CLAIMANTS 
 
 " Hundreds of claimants," said the people at the Treasury. 
 
 There were hundreds. New claims were sent in every day. 
 The name of Burley is not one of the most common, but a good 
 many people rejoice in it. Everybody who answered to that 
 name, or had a Burley among his ancestors, made haste to send 
 in his claim. One man wrote that his grandmother's name was 
 Burley, and invited the Treasury to send him the estates; an- 
 other wrote that from information received privately he knew 
 that, early in the century, his great-grandfather had married a 
 Burley — the Treasury could easily prove the fact ; a lady wrote 
 to say that she had married a Burley, now dead, and he had al- 
 ways assured her that he was of good family — the fortune could 
 be sent to her lodgings ; another lady sent up a certificate of 
 good character from the vicar of the parish, and explained that 
 her father's name was Burley — she would call for the money 
 on the following Monday, and would be glad of an advance for 
 her railway fare ; solicitors by the hundred wrote that they were 
 instructed bv their clients to forward their names as claimants 
 — the case would follow as soon as completed ; another wrote 
 from his establishment in the City Road, to say that his name, 
 which was Burley, proved his right to the estates, and "speedy 
 settlement of same " would oblige ; another, who had an imagi- 
 nation, sent up a carefully prepared work of fiction, containing 
 the history of his connection with the Westminster branch, hop- 
 ing that his allegations would be accepted ; another Burley, who 
 understood more about the necessities of the case, sent up an 
 historical essay on the family with a genealogy, which looked 
 very pretty. He hoped that the weak point — the connection — 
 would not be too closely investigated.
 
 124 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 And from every country of Europe, America, from India, from 
 China, from Australia, from every part of tlie known and liab- 
 itable world, letters, demands, claims, threats, entreaties, ques- 
 tions, began to pour in. For we never know — nor can we know, 
 until we die intestate, leaving large possessions — how many 
 cousins we have in the world. Cousins of every remove, but 
 mostly removed a good way, poured in. Next — for the law of 
 descent is but imperfectly understood, owing to the prejudice 
 which prevails, and the favoritism sliown in the making of wills 
 — the families and descendants of the families which intermar- 
 ried with Burleys began also to send in their names and their 
 descents. 
 
 The Burley millions became the stock subject for the para- 
 graphist; when all other material failed, he would always invent 
 something about them. " Sixty-tive more claimants sent in their 
 papers last Saturday ; the total number is now said to be nine 
 hundred and eighty-nine." Or, again, " It is reported on good 
 authority that a granddaughter of the deceased gentleman has 
 been discovered in a laundry not a hundred miles from Latimer 
 Road Station." Or: "A surprise awaits the literary world. A 
 well-known novelist is said to have discovered that he him- 
 self is the sole heir to the Burley estates." Or (a paragraph 
 which was repeated in several papers): "The son of a well- 
 known actor and grandson of another is completing the pa- 
 pers which are to establish his claim to the Burley estates." 
 In certain circles men showed this to each other, and asked if it 
 was really possible that Clary Burghley was the lucky beggar 
 pointed at in these lines. 
 
 And tlien, somehow, it became known to all the papers at once 
 that the familv of Burlcv beloncfcd, and had alwavs beloncfed, 
 since the creation of the parish in the year IVIO, to the Church 
 of St. John the Evangelist, in Smith Square, Westminster. 
 
 If you come to think of it, all the really interesting and re- 
 markable things that happen in the world are sure to become 
 known at the same moment over tlic whole world. By the re- 
 markalde things I mean, of course, the personal things. The 
 superiority of the American press, for instance, is proved by its 
 recognition of this fact and by the prominence it gives to the 
 personal items. How comes this simultaneous knowledge of
 
 HUNDREDS OF CLAIMANTS 125 
 
 all the interesting things ? No one knows. There are unseen 
 electric wires which connect everything and all the world ; it is 
 a mark of civilization to be connected with this electric ma- 
 chinery. The lower forms of man are outside it. The negro, 
 for instance, knows and cares nothing about the personal items ; 
 like the poet in the hymn, one step is enough for him — that, 
 namely, to the nearest melon-patch. 
 
 When all the world understood that the registers of the Bur- 
 ley family were preserved in the vestry of St. John the Evange- 
 list, they wrote for copies, they called for copies, they went to 
 that remarkable church — which they then saw for the first time 
 — and demanded copies. One of the evening papers, with more 
 enterprise than its brethren, actually procured copies, and made 
 a splendid coup by forming a genealogical table out of the reg- 
 isters of the Burley family, from one Calvert Burley, who was 
 the first person of that name on the books. 
 
 This document, which is not without interest to the reader of 
 this narrative, is reproduced on the following page. He will 
 understand that a parish register cannot fill up the history of 
 a family, though it may give with accuracy the three leading 
 dates of birth, marriage, and departure. This genealogy, there- 
 fore, does not contain the histories of those members who were 
 born in the parish but married and died outside it. 
 
 The papers pointed out that the John Calvert Burley born in 
 1836 was the first and sole heir; and, in the event of his death, 
 his sons and daughters. But where was he ? Where were 
 they? The whole world was ringing with his name, "John 
 Calvert Burley, born in 1836." Where was he? Nobody knew. 
 Now, if you come to think of it, it is a very remarkable circum- 
 stance for any man to disappear so completely. Did he die 
 young? Not, at least, in the parish. Therefore he grew up, 
 presumably. AVhere were his mother's relations ? Did they 
 know? One of them wrote to the papers: he said that he was 
 the younger brother of Emilia Weldon, who was married in 1835 
 to the recently deceased John Calvert Burley ; that his sister had 
 five or six children, all of whom, except the eldest, died in in- 
 fancy ; that she died in the year 1850; that there never had 
 been any cordial relations betw^ecn his family and his sister's 
 husband ; that after her death no pretence of friendship, or even
 
 126 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Calvert Burlev 
 b ; (1. 1758. 
 
 John Calvert Margaret George Calvert 
 b. 1720; (]. 1755. b. 1722; b. 1726 
 
 = Agnes Sacotell d. 1742. (kidnapped), 
 m. 1744; d. 1781. 
 
 John Calvert Jo.shua Calvert Agnes 
 b. 1745; d. 1800. b. 1747. b. 1748. 
 
 =Susau reliant 
 m. 1771; d. 1829. 
 
 I I III 
 
 John Calvert Henrv Calvert Charles Calvert Marv Margaret 
 b. 1772; d. 1824. b.'l776. b. 1778. b. 1778. b. 1782. 
 
 = Lueinda 
 m. 1796; d. 1820. 
 
 Jolin Calvert Henrv Culvert Charles Calvert James Calvert Luciiida 
 b.l798;d.l893. b. 1799. b. 1801. b. 1804. b. 1800. 
 
 :=EmiHaWeldon 
 m. 1835; d. 1850. 
 
 I I I I I I 
 
 John Calvert Isabella Einilv Jane Lucinda James Calvert 
 
 b. 1836. b. 1839; b. 1841 ; b. 1843; !>. 1845; b. 1846; 
 
 d. 1840. d. 1842. d. 1844. d. 1850. d. 1847. 
 
 acquaintance, was kept up ; and that he could not tell what had 
 become of the surviving son, whom he had last seen at his 
 mother's funeral in the said year 1851, the boy being then about 
 fifteen years of age. It was wonderful that a young man should 
 disappear so completely. Had he no friends ? His father was 
 a miserly and morose recluse — that'was evident. The boy, per- 
 haps, had gone away. But whither — and why ? Had he any 
 school-fellows who remembered him? Two men wrote to say 
 that they had been at school with him in the years 1844 to 1851, 
 or thereabouts ; that he was known to be the son of the notori- 
 ous mone3--lender ; that he was an ingenious boy, who made 
 and contrived things and rejoiced in mathematics ; that he left 
 school suddenly somewhere about the latter year; and that they 
 had never since met him or heard what became of him. Lastly,
 
 HUNDREDS OF CLAIMANTS 127 
 
 another old scliool-fellow wrote to say that he had met John Cal- 
 vert Barley, looking prosperous, in the year 1870, in Cheap- 
 side ; that he addressed him by name, shook hands with him, 
 and made an appointment to meet him again, which the lat- 
 ter never kept. All this was very curious and interesting, and 
 fired the imagination a great deal more than the Irish Question. 
 It was one of those subjects which invite the whole world to 
 write about it. The whole world rose to the occasion. The let- 
 ters sent to the papers were legion. For the moment there was 
 but one topic of discussion : Where was John Calvert Burley, 
 the younger, born in 1836, left school in 1852, and last seen in 
 1870? 
 
 " We have only to keep silence, Lucian," said Margaret. 
 
 "Until such time as they think sufficient to prove the death 
 of the heir has elapsed. Then, before they give the estates to 
 any claimant, I shall step in — " 
 
 " And then ?" asked his wife, anxiously. 
 
 " Then we shall see. Perhaps the occasion may not arise for 
 years." 
 
 It is an age of cfreat imasjination. Almost as many irnesses 
 were made as there were writers. Emigration, said one. Emi- 
 gration, an up-country station beyond the reach of papers ; but 
 there are no such stations left. Death in some obscure place; 
 but, with all this racket and inquiry, some one would recollect 
 that death. It must have been within the last twcntv-three 
 years. A lunatic asylum, under some adopted name; there was 
 a man in Melbourne some time ago who actually forgot his own 
 name and history. Might not John Burley be suffering some- 
 where from this strange disease ? A prison ; was he a crimi- 
 nal, undergoing a sentence? Or was he a criminal who had ac- 
 complished his term and was afraid to return ? Or, perhaps, 
 he might be in a monastery. But then, oh ! how joyfully would 
 the brethren seize upon the estates! Was he in one of the few 
 places where the papers do not arrive — in Patagonia, perhaps ? — 
 or in Stanley's mighty forest, among the Pygmies? 
 
 Then began the stories of miraculous disappearance. Every- 
 body remembered the disappearance of the Englishman in Ger- 
 many about the year 1812 as he stepped from one carriage to 
 another. And there was the disappearance of Grimaldi's broth-
 
 128 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 er between the last scene but one and the last scene of the pan 
 tomine. 
 
 Next: how long would the Treasury wait before they con- 
 sidered this last hoir to be dead ? And upon this point a journal 
 of common-sense spoke words of wisdom. "We offer this advice," 
 said the paper, " to all those who have sent in claims and have 
 come up to London in order to look after them on the spot. It 
 is that they leave their papers in the hands of the Treasury, and 
 go home again and betake themselves to their ordinary pursuits, 
 without thinking about their claims more than they can help. 
 The chances will probably prove a disturbing clement as long 
 as they live, for only to be able to think that one has a chance 
 of so great a property is a thing calculated to disturb the most 
 philosophic soul. Let them, however, go home, and take up 
 their daily task again with what calm and patience they may 
 find." 
 
 And from Pole to Pole, unto the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 was raised that cry, " "Where is John Burley, the younger, born 
 in the year 1836, last seen in the year 1870 V And to all their 
 calling, no answer. Silence — as deep as the silence of the 
 heavens ; as deep as the silence of the grave ! . Wonderful I Was 
 there no one — not one single living person who would remem- 
 ber anything at all about a man prosperous and flourishing, to 
 outward seeming, only twenty years ago ? Silence — as deep as 
 the silence of the heavens ; as deep as the silence of the grave !
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE MISSING LINK 
 
 "Have you seen this?" Clarence held up a paper — that 
 which published the pedigree as taken from the parish registers. 
 " Have you seen this ?" 
 
 It was about five in the afternoon when his partner, who had 
 been out all day, returned. 
 
 " I saw it before you got up this morning. I've been all day 
 engaged in verifving the thing." 
 
 " Well r 
 
 "It's all right; and now it's clear that your grandfather, 
 Clary, was the second son, Henry Calvert Burley. There ho is." 
 The poet's broad forefinger covered the name. " Second son. 
 You couldn't be closer, unless you were actually a grandson." 
 
 "Yes — yes — the second son. Why — there! — there! Man 
 alive ! What more do you want ?" 
 
 " Softly, Clarence. Let us sit down quietly and talk this thing 
 over. We have to prove our claim. You and I know very well 
 that there is no doubt possible. Everybody who reads our case 
 must feel that there is no doubt possible. Yet, you see, it isn't 
 proved." 
 
 " What on earth do you want more ?" 
 
 " We want to prove, not to assert, things. I'm a lawyer, now, 
 Clary, not a poet. Sit down, man — don't jump about so." 
 
 His eyes had that look of expectancy which belongs to an in- 
 ventor or to a claimant. The look speaks of a thought which 
 never leaves one, day or night — of hope deferred ; of doubt ; of 
 rage because of the stupidity or the malignity of people. 
 
 " For God's sake, finish this job soon," said Clarence. " I 
 don't think I can bear it much longer." 
 
 " Why, man, we've only just begun — I am afraid that it will 
 
 G*
 
 130 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 prove a waiting job, unless you can establish the death of the 
 son and his heirs. You cau't expect the Treasury to hand over 
 this enormous property to the first claimant, can you ?" 
 
 *' All I know is that the thing haunts me day and night." 
 
 ^' It does, my boy. Your eyes are black-edged and your fore- 
 head is wrinkled." 
 
 " Lucky it has been summer. But work will begin again 
 soon, and — I say — the thought of work makes me shudder — I 
 am heir to all that property, and I have to go out and be paid 
 for singing comic songs." 
 
 "Humph! You are paid pretty well. Come, now — but 
 about the inheritance — where's that son ?" 
 
 " He must be dead. After all the fuss made about liim, lie 
 would hear it at the South Pole. Oh ! he must be dead." 
 
 " Very likely — most likely." 
 
 " Dead — and without heirs, or they would have turned up 
 long since." 
 
 " Very likely — most likely ; only somebody must prove it, or 
 you will have to wait. When did he die ? AVhere did Ijc die ? 
 Has he left any heirs ? These are the questions, you see. So 
 we may just go back to our old work, and make new engage- 
 ments, and write new songs. It's a horrid nuisance. Clary, for 
 you are certainly the grandson of the next brother. But, so 
 far, we haven't got evidence enough to prove the connection. 
 And we may have to wait for years. If the son and his heirs 
 were out of the way I should begin " — he became a poet again — 
 
 "Begin to hear the rustling of the notes — 
 Oil ! crisp and soft and sweet upon the ear ! 
 No softer, sweeter music rolls and floats — 
 And none, my brother, rarer and more dear. 
 
 And I should begin to hear the footsteps," lie added, going 
 back to prose — " the footsteps of those who humbly bring pieces 
 of silver — I don't think there is any rhyme to silver. Mean- 
 time, old man, it is going to be a long job. Therefore," he laid 
 a friendly hand upon Clarence's shoulder, " don't think too 
 much about it. Go back to your old thoughts. Let us got to 
 real business. My new songs are nearly ready, and I've got a 
 capital little entertainment for you — "
 
 THE MISSING LINK 131 
 
 " I can't — " Tlie young man turned away impatiently. " I 
 am sick and ashamed of it," 
 
 "Nonsense. If it's all you've got to live upon — " 
 
 " I can't. It's all so small. What's a thousand a year, or 
 two thousand ? It's such a trifle compared with this immense 
 mountain of money. It's the comparison. See, I work as hard 
 as I can — five engagements a week, say, for half the year. What 
 is it compared with the income of that fortune — four hundred 
 thousand a year, a thousand pounds a day ? Think of it that 
 way." 
 
 " Well, Clary, I can't think of it that way. The figures are 
 too big — my limitations as regards money are narrow. They 
 allow me with difficulty to include a thousand a year. But, 
 Clary, you were not wont to do sums in long division to please 
 yourself. Doing sums isn't in your blood, I should say." 
 
 "No, it isn't," Clarence replied, slowly, "Show-folk don't, 
 as a rule, care for money. You see, it's easily made and easily 
 spent. They live from week to week. But, now — do you know 
 what it is to think and crave and yearn for drink?" 
 
 "Rumor, report — has reached me concerning a thirst insati- 
 able. What says the old sonof ? — ' We cannot drink an hour too 
 soon — nor drink a cup too much.' " 
 
 " Well, with that same craving I yearn for this money. It is 
 my great-grandfather, the Westminster miser, coming out again 
 in me. I dream of it ; I feel as if I shall have no rest or peace 
 until I have got it." 
 
 " No lieroics, Clary. You mean it ?" 
 
 "I mean it all; I am like that drunkard with the craving in 
 his throat. I want this inheritance ; all of it. Oh ! it is so 
 close to me, and yet I cannot lay my hand upon it." 
 
 "After all, what could you do with it, if you liad it? The 
 thing is far too big for any one man to handle." 
 
 "Too big?" Clarence turned upon him fiercely. "What 
 could I do with it? Your limitations are indeed narrow. Well, 
 you haven't thought of it so much as I have. What could I 
 not do with it? First of all, I would have my own theatre for 
 my friends. There we should act our own pieces with a free 
 hand as to subjects. We shouldn't have it open all the year, 
 but one may sink a good deal in a theatre properly conducted.
 
 133 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Then I should want my own newspaper, I know exactly what 
 I should want: no politics; no money markets; no beastly re- 
 views ; nothinjr hut Art and Literature and Music, and thinirs 
 artistic and aesthetic, and, again, a free hand as to subjects. 
 Then there must be a yacht. If one must go out of town some 
 time in the year, a cruise in a yacht is the best way. Of course, 
 there would be a town liouse, and open house ; no beastly char- 
 ity or philanthropy or stufE ; no pretending to care about any- 
 body else; pure selfishness; that's what I want, my friend. All 
 the people about me shall be hired to make our lives — my life — 
 run smoothly. I shall be an Eastern king, with art and culture 
 added. You shall see; I will show you, as soon as the busi- 
 ness is settled, how a rich man ouglit to live !" 
 
 " You'd get rather fat in the cheeks after a bit, wouldn't you ? 
 and a little puffy in the neck. Philanthropy is humbug, and 
 man's brotherhood is rot" — he dropped, as usual, into verse — 
 " and my only pal, my only friend, is ME. Rather a good tag, 
 the last line. Don't you think — " He stopped and made a 
 note. 
 
 " ^Ycll, Jemmy, there's my plan of life in tbe rough. I am 
 onlv afraid that it may prove too costly, even for my large fort- 
 une." 
 
 " Meantime, Clary, it will be better for you if you descend to 
 facts and consider how we stand." 
 
 " There is nothing new, is there ?" 
 
 " This : AVe are now in August. "Work begins in Septem- 
 ber, and you are not fit for work — and you've got to make 
 yourself fit, Clary — you've got to mend." The poet spoke like 
 the master rather than the partner. But there are some occa- 
 sions wlien mastery in speech is useful. 
 
 " AVell ?" 
 
 "As for the case, I tell you that it will be years, perhaps, be- 
 fore it is decided ; and if it were decided now, your case could 
 not be proved. Come out of your dreams, man. Shake your- 
 self ; face the facts," 
 
 Clarence shook himself, but he did not face the facts, 
 
 "Consider," his partner went on, "the attitude of the Treas- 
 ury. They say there is a man named Henry Calvert Burghley, 
 an actor. Where is the proof that this Henry Calvert Burghley
 
 THE MISSING LIXK 133 
 
 was originally Henry Calvert, the second son of Burlej the 
 miser ? Where is it ? That's what they say." 
 
 Clarence made no answer. 
 
 " We want proof that the boy who ran away became an actor. 
 We want to know when he changed his name ; in fact, we want 
 to recover the early history of an obscure country actor — and 
 we have as much hope of finding it as we have of any name 
 taken at random from a London cemetery." 
 
 " We have a letter." 
 
 "Yes; that is something. It is signed 'Your affectionate 
 brother, Charles.' And it comes from Westminster. Well, there 
 was a younger brother, Charles, as well as a second brother, Hen- 
 ry. But there is nothing to prove that the letter was written 
 by this younger brother to the elder brother. If we had other 
 letters to prove the handwriting — but we haven't. No, Clary, 
 our best chance is delay. Time may give us something. Let 
 us see," he went on, after a pause. " He ran away ; he had 
 very little money ; he joined a strolling company ; he began at 
 the very bottom of the ladder, and worked his way up. Men 
 very seldom talk of the first start. The lessee of the York 
 Theatre, the favorite London actor, wouldn't talk much about 
 the early days. It must be eighty years ago. How on earth 
 are we to trace the beginnings of a lad who ran away from 
 home eighty years ago? And he never talked about his people, 
 and you never inquired. I suppose you were satisfied with 
 having a grandfather. To be third in a succession of frock- 
 coats and top -hats is enough to make anybody a gentleman. 
 And, besides, when your grandfather had arrived at his pin- 
 nacle, he wouldn't be proud of the Burley brother — Burley 
 the Money-Lendor ; Burley the owner of the Dancing-Crib; 
 Burley of the Gambling-Hell; not a character likely to attract 
 the light comedian — the squanderer — the Fere Prodigue. We 
 can understand the situation, but it's unfortunate. What are 
 we to do ?" 
 
 Clarence shook his shoulders. 
 
 " Perhaps the Treasury have got papers that prove the con- 
 nection. Hang it! A single letter would do." 
 
 Clarence got up and leaned on the mantel-shelf, gazing into 
 the empty fireplace.
 
 134 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "I rcincnibcr," lie sakl, speaking slowly, "a little play that 
 my grandfather cribbed from the French. It was a comedy, in 
 which he played the principal i»art. That was easy, because it 
 was himself. In it he did everything, without the least refer- 
 ence to morality, that would help him to what he wanted. He 
 sold secrets, he forged signatures, ho opened private letters; and 
 all with such a delightful simplicity that nobody blamed him. I 
 have often wondered, if the chance came, whether one could 
 rise to that level V 
 
 '* Speaking as a lawyer. Clary, I should say that it was dan- 
 gerous. As a poet, I think the situation capable of treatment. 
 Have you got any portraits of your grandfather?" 
 
 *' In character?" 
 
 " In character. That might be something. If we could get 
 hold of an early portrait and could find some old friend — but 
 that is impossible, I fear — or if we could find any other de- 
 scendants, or if we could advertise for any one who might re- 
 member him as a young man — Wanted : a Methusaleh !" IIo 
 stopped. " Well, Clary, dear boy, that's where we are. It is 
 not encouraging, but one need not despair. Meanwhile, it may 
 be years before the claimants are even considered. We've got 
 to work and live. Get the Joyous Life out of your head. 
 Don't dream any more — for llie present, at least — about the 
 golden possibilities. Forget them — and set to work again. You 
 must." 
 
 " I can't forget them," groaned the Ilcir Expectant. 
 
 "Well, unless I am to starve — which alflicts me much more 
 than the certainty of seeing you starve as well — you will just 
 sit down, get rid of that hangdog face of yours, which would 
 damn the funniest song ever made, and ofct somethinir like sun- 
 shine in your face — and try this new song of mine : 
 
 " Wanted, a Methusaleh ! To tell us how they kept it up — 
 
 Our fathers in tlic by-pjoncs when they made tlie {guineas spin; 
 How they wasted time and drank it up, and aiiytliiuf; but slept it up — 
 And always ere the old love died a new love would begin."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE CLOUD 
 
 Does any one ever remember the first beginning of an evil 
 thing? Does any one remember tlie first observation of the darlc 
 spot whicli grows darker, broader, deeper, till it covers over and 
 hides the summer sky and darkens the summer sun ? 
 
 The young married pair of Great College Street were much 
 alone; they had few friends in London ; they led the most quiet 
 and regular life possible. In the morning the husband went to 
 the hospital ; in the afternoon he worked in his study, ready 
 for the patient who did not come. In the morning the young 
 wife looked after her home, walked in the park or about the 
 quiet courts of the Abbey; in the evening, after dinner, she sat 
 in the study while her husband carried on his work till half-past 
 ten or so, when he turned bis chair round, filled his pipe, and they 
 talked till midnight. 
 
 There was nothing to disturb the happiness of this honeymoon 
 prolonged, unless it was that strange dream of the mourning 
 mothers, which came back to Margaret continually — in the night, 
 in the daytime — a vision unbidden, that would suddenly float be- 
 fore her eyes — the company of sad-eyed, pale-faced, sorrow-strick- 
 en women, who held out hands and cried, "She is one with ns — 
 she is one of us!" It was a persistent dream — perhaps the very 
 strangeness of it caused Margaret to return to it ajxain and again. 
 How could she belong to these hapless ladies when they were sep- 
 arated by Lucian's change of name and his refusal to claim the 
 great inheritance ? The dream troubled her, but not much, though 
 it persistently remained vvith her. 
 
 How long was it ? — a week ? — a month ? — after they went into 
 their house that the anxiety began ? When was it that the young 
 wife, reading her husband's thoughts, saw in liis mind doubt and
 
 136 BEVOND TIIK DKEAMS OK AVARICE 
 
 (listiirbanco ; licard a temptation continually whispered; saw an 
 car ever readier to listen ? The discovery of the temptation — the 
 knowledge that he was listening — filled her soul with dismay. In 
 the afternoon, when he should have been at work, she heard him 
 pacing the narrow limits of his study. Like most young scientific 
 men, he wrote for medical papers and scientific magazines; he re- 
 viewed scientific hooks; he wrote papers on such of his subjects 
 as could be made popular in the weekly reviews; and he had a 
 book of his own on the stocks, a work by which he hoped to gain 
 a place as a specialist; an advanced book with all the recent med- 
 ical lights; a work psychological, biological, and everything else 
 that was new and true and uncomfortable. He read a great deal 
 in tiie medical journals of Germany, France, and Italy ; in short, 
 he was without any practice except that in his hospital. Lucian 
 Calvert led a very busy life, and, like most men who are fully oc- 
 cupied, he was a perfectly cheerful creature. The maiden expect- 
 ant of a lover should pray, above all things, that he may turn out 
 to be a man with an active brain, and belonoinor to an intellectual 
 profession, for of such is the kingdom of cheerfulness. Margaret 
 loved to see him absorbed in thought; she sat perfectly still so 
 long as he was working, contented to wait till he should turn his 
 chair, take his pipe, and say, "Now, Madge !" 
 
 But when Lucian was walking up and down the floor of his 
 study he was not working. lie was disturbed in his mind ; his 
 thoughts were diverted. By what? At dinner, at breakfast, when 
 they took their walks abroad, he would become distrait, silent, 
 thoughtful — he who had been able to convert even a stalled ox 
 into a feast of contentment and cheerfulness. Why? 
 
 In his study, after dinner, his wife saw that he sat with his eyes 
 gazing into space and his pen lying idle. What was he thinking of ? 
 
 Alas! She knew. Women who love are all thought-readers. 
 She saw, I say, that before his eyes there was floating continually 
 the temptation that she feared. Her heart grew sick within her — 
 more sick and sorry day by day — as she saw that the strength of 
 the temptation was daily growing. And the light died out in his 
 eyes and the ready smile left his lips, and Lucian, while he listened 
 to the voice of the Tempter, was transformed and became as black- 
 avised and as dour and as resolute of aspect as his ancestor, the first 
 great Calvert Burley.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE CLOUD 137 
 
 One night when lie turned bis chair and mechanically took his 
 pipe, she spoke. " Where have your thoughts been all this even- 
 ing, Lucian ? You have done no work, unless, perhaps, you were 
 devising some. Your gaze has been fixed." 
 
 "I have been up-stairs," he replied, with a little laugh. "I 
 have been among the grandfathers and the grandmothers." 
 
 "Is it good to live among them, Lucian? Does it make you 
 taller or stronger to live among these poor people? They crept 
 and crawled through life, did they not? But you — oh! Lucian 
 — you walk erect." 
 
 " I go among them sometimes — " he began. 
 
 "Sometimes? You were among them this afternoon, and at 
 dinner, and all the evening. And yesterday the same. I begin to 
 think, Lucian, that we made a dreadful mistake when we came to 
 this house." 
 
 " It is not exactly a house which preaches contentment to the 
 disinherited, is it ?" 
 
 " If wo cannot get contentment, dear Lucian, for Heaven's 
 sake let us go elsewhere and leave these memories behind. My 
 dear, what will our life become if we are not contented?" 
 
 "Do not fear, Marjorie" — he roused himself with an effort and 
 laughed — " I only pay occasional visits to the portraits. The fam- 
 ily, as you say, did mostly creep and crawl. They have had their 
 divagations; they have trodden the Primrose Way ; still, they are 
 our ancestors — and perhaps a little show of respect occasionally 
 — from time to time — not often, you know — may be considered 
 due to them. They are all the ancestors I am likely to get, you 
 know." 
 
 Margaret shrank back, chilled. She was afraid of saving 
 more. 
 
 Again — it was Sunday afternoon. They took their early din- 
 ner in cheerfulness — the disinheritance for the time forgotten — 
 and the}^ repaired — young husbands, even scientific husbands, fre- 
 quently accede to their wives' wisJies in small matters — to the 
 Abbey for afternoon service. During the sermon, which was not 
 perfectly audible in every part of the Cathedral, Lucian occupied 
 himself in turning over the pages of his wife's Bible. The world, 
 perhaps in prejudice, docs not generally look upon young physi- 
 cians as zealous students of the Bible, and Margaret observed Lu-
 
 138 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 ciaii's cui-iosity with some wonder. For licr own part, though she 
 did not hear one word of the sermon, it was quite enough to sit 
 in the old Cathedral, to look up into the lofty roof, to gaze upon 
 the marvellous window of the transept, and to breathe the air of 
 the venerable place, which is always full of consolation to those who 
 can open out their souls and receive its iuHuence. 
 
 After service they walked in the park close by: in the south 
 part of it, which is the less frequented. They walked in silence 
 for a while. Lucian was a man of long silences at all times. It 
 was by his face that he showed whither liis thoughts led him. 
 
 " About that hereditary theory," he began. " There is hered- 
 ity in disease; there is heredity in licalth. Drunkenness is some- 
 times inherited ; it is, perhaps, a nervous disease, like asthma and 
 the rest of the tribe. Any man can vitiate his blood, and can 
 transmit that vitiation to following generations. In this sense 
 there is constantly with all of us hereditary disease, because none 
 of us are perfectly strong and healthy." 
 
 "Go on, Lucian." 
 
 "Yes. But you say, Margaret, that a mental twist, such as 
 makes a man a miser or a money-lender, is the child of one men- 
 tal twist or the father of another." 
 
 "I think that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the chil- 
 dren for the third and fourth generation. And in your people, 
 Lucian, the sins of the fathers have been followed by the sins of 
 the sons, so that every generation has suffered for its predecessor 
 and brought more suffering upon its successor." 
 
 "That is your view. Yes, my father — very oddly, because he 
 was not a superstitious man — thought much the same thing." 
 
 " Why should not a man's sins be punished in his children as 
 well as his diseases?" 
 
 "I don't know why they should not. The other question is, 
 why they should?" 
 
 " Oh, Lucian ! Because — but you do not think as I do." 
 
 " Perhaps not. I will refer you, however, to an authority 
 which you respect. While you were pretending to listen — pret- 
 ty hypocrite ! — to what you could not hear, I occupied myself 
 profitably in looking up a rather important statement of the case 
 from another point of view. I had seen it quoted, and I knew 
 where to look. It is a passage in the works of the Prophet
 
 IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE CLOUD 139 
 
 Ezekiel, Says the Prophet — or words to this effect — ' There is 
 a common proverb that the fathers have eaten sour grapes and 
 the teeth of the children are in consequence set on edge. It is a 
 foolish proverb, because every man has got to live out his own 
 honor or his own dishonor.' Read the passage, ray child. It is 
 put so plainly that it is impossible to misunderstand it. Nay, 
 he is so much in earnest about it — Joshua Ben Jochanan, the 
 great money-lender, having recently died, and his children being 
 taunted with the proverb — that he returns to the subject again 
 and repeats his arguments. I am very glad I went to church 
 •with you this afternoon. Will you read tliis Prophet and discard 
 these superstitions?" 
 
 " He meant something else, I suppose. But, Lucian, how 
 can you say that the children do not suffer for their father's 
 sins?" 
 
 " Physically they often do." 
 
 "But if a man disgraces himself and loses caste or falls into 
 poverty, his children sink into a lower place; they cannot get up 
 again out of their poverty or their shame; they are kept down 
 for life; their children have got to begin all over again. Oh ! It 
 is so clear that it cannot be doubted or denied." 
 
 "In social matters, and in the middle class, I dare say. Most 
 middle-class people hang on to their social position, such as it 
 may be, with their own hands and with no help from cousins. 
 When they fall their fall is complete. In the case of people 
 well connected, with some generations of affluence behind them, 
 and with cousins all over the country, when a njan comes to grief 
 it may be grievous for his children, but it does not necessarily 
 mean a lower level. Why, the simple annals of the aristocracy 
 are full of the most tremendous croppers taken by the fathers, 
 and the sons are never a whit the worse." 
 
 Margaret shook her head. 
 
 " In the case of my people, now, their misfortunes were always 
 due to their own folly or their crimes." 
 
 " Lucian, dear, do not talk any more about it. Those who in- 
 herited that dreadful estate endured things that went with it. I 
 have studied the faces of the mothers, and I read upon them all 
 the martyrdom they suffered." 
 
 " You are a superstitious woman, Madge," said her husband.
 
 140 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 He returned to tlic subject the next evenino^. 
 
 "About your view, dear — about tlie forefatliers — you know?" 
 
 "Oh! don't think about them so much." 
 
 "There is something to be said in favor of it, so far as tlie 
 mental twist can be gathered. Take the first of them — Grand- 
 father Calvert tlie First, tlie original Burley — what do we know 
 about him? A tradition mentioned in my father's memorandum 
 that he acquired money by dishonest practices. Perhaps he did. 
 At tlie same time, remember that we know nothing certain 
 about him. There is no proof. For all we know, he may have 
 been the most upright man in the woi'ld. Then there is that un- 
 lucky Shepherd who was suspended ; he paid for his own diver- 
 sions; when he had paid, nothing more was owing. His son 
 went mad. So did a good many other poor wretches. Religious 
 mad, he went. So did Cowper, the poet. But Cowper, so far 
 as I know, never laid the blame on his fjrandfathcr. A tendency 
 to some unsoundness of mind — some inability to recognize the 
 true proportions of things — may be observed, perhaps, in all of 
 them. There was, for example, the miser. It isn't absolutely 
 disgraceful to be a miser — most people who save money have to 
 be miserly — but it denotes their inability to understand the rela- 
 tive proportions of things. I can discern no signs of your fa- 
 mous curse in the cheese-paring life of Great-Grandfather Miser, 
 but I do discern an unbalanced mind. Then comes his son, the 
 money-lender and money-grubber. He did not grub for money 
 in quite a noble way — so much must be confessed. But he was 
 not a criminal, nor was he disgraced — " 
 
 " Not disgraced ? Oh, Lucian !" 
 
 "Not disgraced by the world. And he lived to a great age, 
 amassing money all the time. It is an unbalanced mind which 
 puts money in the front. As for other things, we might parade 
 them all, except one, as quite a respectable set of ancestors, and 
 manifestly blessed by Providence, which made them rich on ac- 
 count of their many virtues." 
 
 "Those were singular blessings indeed, wliich fell upon your 
 grandfather's brothers." 
 
 " Who, remember, hail none of the inheritance, my dear." • 
 
 Thus he talked, returning to the subject perpetually, as a moth 
 flies round a candle until it falls at last into the flame.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE CLOUD 141 
 
 TMs was the cloud that Margaret watched as it spread around 
 the horizon, and grew day by day deeper and broader and black- 
 er, till it covered all the summer sky and blotted out the sum- 
 mer sun.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 THE BOX OF ACCOUNT-BOOKS 
 
 One morning Margaret sat again in the nnrsery at tlie top of 
 the house. The visitation of the mothers was not repeated. 
 She sat on the bed and remembered the faintness, and then, when 
 she opened licr eyes, the company of sorrowful women gathered 
 round her bed. She recalled tliis coinpany often. The recol- 
 lection of their faces came to her at odd times, by day and by 
 night ; but in this room they came no more. She liad received, 
 as in a vision, their welcome and their pity once for all. 
 
 Sometimes she saw, in fancy, the same look of welcome and 
 pity in tiie sorrowful eyes of the portraits. Was there really any 
 look at all of sorrow in those faces ? Had the limner caught the 
 characteristic look, the habitual expression, which the daily life 
 casts upon a face? Had he been inspired to foretell, by the ex- 
 pression of the eyes, the sadness of the future ? I know not. 
 They were stiff and conventional paintings, of little merit; a me- 
 chanical likeness was all that the artist desired to produce — he 
 wanted people to say — they still say it at every Royal Academy 
 — "How like I How exactly like it is!" Whether, therefore, 
 the unknown painters who executed these works of art, between 
 the years 1720 and 1830 or thereabouts, had put into the faces 
 all that Margaret saw, I know not. 
 
 The morning was fine ; the sun streamed through the windows, 
 now clean, upon the floor, now swept. No other change had 
 been made in the room ; the cradle and the chest of drawers, the 
 ciiairs and the bedstead, were all as they had been handed over. 
 When the burden of her anxiety became almost more than she 
 could bear, Margaret came up here in the morning, to find conso- 
 lation in the room of the little children. " While they played 
 here," she thought, "there was a time of hope and happiness.
 
 THE BOX OF ACCOUNT-BOOKS 143 
 
 When they left the nursery and went forth into the world, then 
 began again the punishment of the father's sin." For, you see, 
 despite that chapter in the book of the Prophet Ezekiel, this su- 
 perstitious person could never shake off the conviction that, from 
 father to son, he who possessed the wealth first gotten by Calvert 
 Burley received with it something that poisoned his whole life. 
 And now she saw her husband daily assailed with the temptation 
 that bade him take his own, and enjoy whatsoever his soul de- 
 sired. 
 
 A morbid habit — to sit here among the rags and tatters of the 
 past. Better, perhaps, had she put on her hat and sallied forth 
 into the streets and the crossways. In Westminster, however, 
 there are no streets to walk in. There are squalid old streets and 
 ugly new streets. The absence of streets for walking is more 
 than made up by the solitudes and places for meditation which 
 abound in this old city. For instance, there are Dean's Yard, the 
 Cloisters, the Abbey itself; there is the quiet and secluded Close, 
 or Place, or Retreat, called Cowley Street; there is the south side 
 of St. James's Park ; there are, however, no streets. There is no 
 Bond Street, no Uogent Street, no Chcapside, no Thames Street. 
 Abingdon Street, formerly Dirty Lane, presents few attractions ; 
 nor does Victoria Street. Better, perhaps, to meditate in the 
 Cloisters than to sit on the old bed among the baby-clothes and 
 broken toys. 
 
 Again, some young wives make work for themselves; they 
 love housewifery; they enjoy directing and arranging and man- 
 aging ; they embroider and sew, and make things lovely for the 
 house ; they pay many calls ; they read and study diligently ; 
 they write novels ; they go out and look at the shops ; they prac- 
 tise music ; they lie down and bask by the fire. Margaret, in 
 ordinary times, did all these things ; she was possessed of many 
 accomplishments. Now, so great was the fear that possessed her, 
 she could do nothing; slie was fain to climb up to this old dis- 
 mantled nursery, with the remnants and remains and relics of the 
 past about her, and to think of the mothers and the children. 
 
 We cannot get rid of our forefathers ; she understood so 
 much. We cannot shake them off even if we would ; it is im- 
 possible to sever the past; the chain cannot be cat. The fore- 
 fathers still live ; they still try to make us act as they themselves
 
 144 DEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 would liavc acted; they work upon us by the temper and the dis- 
 position, the inclinations and the lin)itations, the quick or the 
 sluggish brain, the courage or the cowardice, the quick siglit or 
 the short sight, which we have inherited from them. These are 
 the forces of tlie past acting in the present. Thus arc all the 
 ages one long, unbroken chain. ^Vhithcr would Lucian's an- 
 cestors lead him ? 
 
 She opened the drawers where lay the children's clothes. Sho 
 took them out and unfolded them. Heavens! How beautiful 
 they were, with their delicate embroideries and the patient, skil- 
 ful, fine work ! For whom were they made ? For the baby des- 
 tined for Tyburn tree? For the baby destined for madness? For 
 the baby who was to be the Westminster miser? For the baby 
 who was to become the money-lender ? Sweet children — inno- 
 cent children once — all of them. And now these baby-clothes 
 belonged to her — to her — and this nursery was liers. She laid 
 back the things with a deep sigh, llcr eyes fell upon the half- 
 opened door of the cupboard, and she remembered that she had 
 never examined the contents of the cupboard completely. In 
 front there stood a box with half a lid, filled with the broken 
 dolls and toys which she liad seen on her first visit. In other 
 houses this rubbish would have been swept away long ago. In 
 this liouse nothing was ever destroyed or given away or swept 
 awav. To a miser even a child's doll with a broken leg means 
 the equivalent of something in money. 
 
 She opened the door and looked in. The cupboard was a big 
 place formed by the sloping roof and a party-wall ; such a place 
 as, in many houses, is set apart for a box-room. Behind the 
 door were hanging three or four women's dresses of cheap ma- 
 terial, but moth-eaten. Margaret took them down. There was 
 no use in keeping them. Behind the box of dolls there was a 
 Jieavy box, which she dragged out with some difficulty ; it was 
 not locked, and it contained boys' school-books. There was 
 another box of school-books; there was a box containing clothes 
 of some kinds; there was a bundle of clothes tied np. There 
 were other bundles and boxes ; lastly, when Margaret thought she 
 had turned out the whole contents of the cupboard as a railway 
 porter clears out a luggage-van, she saw by the dim light at the 
 lower end of the cupboard a smaller box covered with a lid. It
 
 THE BOX OF ACCOUNT-BOOKS 145 
 
 was quite light to lift ; she took it out, placed it on the bed, and 
 lifted the lid, which was not locked. Within the box was a heap 
 of old papers, with a few parchment-covered books, which were 
 household account-books. All the papers in the house had been 
 collected and taken over by the Solicitor of the Treasury, but 
 this cupboard had either been overlooked or had been imperfectly 
 searched. Probably it had been overlooked altogether, because 
 the dust lay thick on everything. Moreover, as the school-books 
 showed, and these account-books presently proved, the cupboard 
 bad not been touched for more than seventy years. The miser, 
 who could not bring himself to destroy anything, put away these 
 things when his children had run away from home and when his 
 wife was dead. Then he left the garret and the cupboard and 
 shut the door — and so it had remained shut for seventy years and 
 more, until Lucian opened the door and Margaret entered. 
 
 She sat down on the bed and began to examine the contents of 
 tlic box with a languid curiosity. 
 
 She first took up a household account-book, dated 1817. It 
 contained a kind of occasional diary — not day to day, but as 
 things happened — together with the current expenditure. These 
 details are dry reading, except to one who tries to revive the by- 
 gone life; to him there is not an entry of any kind which is not 
 full of suggestion and meaning. This young house-keeper was at 
 first struck with the extraordinary cheapness of living when the 
 expenditure is ruled by a miser. In the marginal notes, record- 
 ing events of the day, the boys gave trouble. They spoke re- 
 belliously of their father. John, the eldest, was employed in 
 keeping his father's books. Apparently he was in his father's 
 eonfidctice, for he was asked to plead for the others. Henry, es- 
 pecially, was a cause of anxiety. lie spoke mutinous words as 
 regards the food ; he called it fit for pigs ; he wanted money 
 to spend as other young men could do ; he wanted new and bet- 
 ter clothes, such as other young men are allowed to wear; he 
 wanted to be put into some profession ; he wanted to enter the 
 army; he was always wanting something that would cost money; 
 his father always refused ; the mother interceded, and was re- 
 pulsed ; John was asked to do what he could, and said he could 
 do nothin'jf, because what Ilcnry wanted would cost m<>nt'y. 
 Then came the significant words : " Henry ran away from home 
 
 7
 
 146 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 in the niglit. God help the boy ! His father only said tlicre 
 was one month the less." Tlic house went on meanwhile; 
 whether she was bereft of her children or not, the wife must keep 
 the house going, and the expenses grew daily less and less, or the 
 miser grew more miserly. There were notes about the other 
 boys. "James must have new school-books. He cannot get the 
 money from liis father ; nor can I ; nor can John. He says he 
 shall do as Henry did." " Lucinda crying over her old frock." 
 " Charles refused, to-day, even the outward forms of respect to 
 his father — a sad scene !'' " Letter from Harry. He has be- 
 come an actor. I cannot approve it ; but his father drove him 
 away." 
 
 The entries showed a household managed by farthings. They 
 revealed the unliappiness of the family; the hard father, growing 
 narrower and harder; the brothers kept without pocket-money, 
 dressed shabbily, debarred even the common and innocent pleas- 
 ures of their age ; the daughter grown out of her shabby frock ; 
 the mother striving to mitigate the unhappy lot of her children; 
 and the eldest brother keeping his father's books, learning how 
 rich he was, resolving to become the owner and disposer of so 
 much wealth, and learning from his father those lessons of piti- 
 less hardness which he was afterwards to practise with such emi- 
 nent success on his own account. As Margaret read in the book, 
 she realized it all ; the past returned. In the quiet house she 
 could hear the crying of the girl over her frock, and the voice of 
 the mother trying to soothe and to console, and the growling of 
 the miser over his pence like the growling of a tiger over her 
 bone. 
 
 She .shut up the book with a sigh. She belonged to these [)eo- 
 ple ; they were her people; whither her husband should go she 
 must go; where he should lodge she must lodge; his people 
 must be her people. And, as Lucian continually repeated, a man 
 may call himself whatever he pleases, but his ancestors remain to 
 him ; ho cannot shake them olT ; he belongs to them, and they to 
 him. Wherefore we do well to envy those of honorable descent; 
 and for this reason we should go cautiously lest we pollute the 
 fountain of Heaven, and make the water which our children must 
 drink a spring of shame. All these things, and more, crowded 
 into Margaret's mind. And because it was the nursery, the room
 
 THE BOX OF ACCOUNT-BOOKS 147 
 
 of the dead motlicrs, if she suffered lier mind to wander, she licard 
 wliispers in the air — murmuring, singing-, admonishing: "You 
 belong to us, you and yours; you cannot separate yourself, or 
 your children that may come, from us. Your children will be 
 ours. You pretet)d not to belong to us; yet you think about 
 us day and night; you are one of us and one with us."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 CALVERT BURLEy's ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 
 
 Margaret carried her box of lionscliold books down -stairs, 
 and resumed her study of a houseliold carried on under the eye 
 of a miser a hundred years ago; but Lucian refused to be interest- 
 ed, lie said that the figures had a hungry and starveling look, 
 and that he was not desirous of learning more details about his 
 great-grandfather, Margaret, however, read and pondered over 
 those books until she realized not only the pinched and starved 
 existence of the mother bereft of her children, one after tlie other, 
 but also the daily life of the eighteenth century, which stretched 
 without change into a third part of the nineteenth, until rail- 
 ways and steamboats altered the whole of the habitable globe. 
 Can we understand a time so close to us, yet so far away ? Con- 
 sider. Everything was done at home ; everything was made at 
 home. There is an enormous difference, to begin with. The bread, 
 the beer, the jam, the wine, the biscuits, the cakes, the preserving, 
 the strong waters — all were made at home ; the washing, the mend- 
 ing, and repairing were done at home. A housewife, then, was 
 mistress of a learned profession ; she followed one of the fine arts. 
 
 What is the chief difference, however, between our daily life 
 and that of our grandfathers? There are small differences in 
 manners, deportment, social forms, dress, eating, and drinking. 
 There is a difference in the standard of living, which is now 
 greatly raised. There is a difference in our knowledge of the 
 world, there are differences due to our habit of reading. We 
 liave grown so much richer, and the things that make for com- 
 fort have become so mucli cheaper, that this is natural. "We are 
 now all growing poorer, but the higher standard of comfort as 
 yet remains. There arc differences in our religion; there are 
 differences in our morals; there are differences in our ideas on
 
 CALVERT BURLEY's ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 149 
 
 things of state. Bat these things do not constitute the principal 
 difference. That, I think, lies in the altered value of all posses- 
 sions. 
 
 This was Margaret's discovery from the account -books and 
 the marginal notes. We of this degenerate age make noth- 
 ing; therefore we value nothing. We have no possessions; the 
 things that we want we buy ; they are machine - made things, 
 mostly. Who cares for a machine-made watch ? When we had 
 to make what we wanted to have, or to buy it, with money labori- 
 ously accumulated, of the man who made it with his own hands — 
 a watch, a chain, a table, a fender — then we valued it and treated 
 it tenderly, and handed it down to our successors, and called it a 
 possession. I once read in a novel — I was compelled to read it 
 because I had to write it — of a girl named Francesca, who had a 
 magic knob given her by a fairy godmother. This she pressed 
 whenever she wanted anything — and, lo ! a miracle ! — what she 
 wanted was instantly brought. 
 
 All of us possess a magic knob of sorts ; but its powers vary 
 to an incredible extent. A pauper lady, for instance, may press 
 her knob as hard as she likes ; it commands nothing but the daily 
 allowance and the annual shawl. Others, on the other hand, arc 
 amazingly powerful. And I hope that every young lady who 
 reads these lines owns a magic knob, the pressure of which will 
 bring her a new evening dress, new gloves, new shoes, or anything 
 that she wants. The magic knob applied to the whole of the 
 middle class, to which most of us belong, the class beloved and 
 admired by Matthew Arnold — can command a glass of beer, a 
 pot of jam, a loaf of bread, and many other useful articles. These 
 things come to us ready-made, turned out to order by unseen 
 work-people. We take them, pay for them, and give no heed to 
 them. When they wear out we buy more. Now, in the eigh- 
 teenth century all these things were made at home ; there was a 
 certain uncertainty as to the result. Would the beer be good ? 
 Last brew was sour, if you remember. Would the jam last 
 through the winter? Last year's developed mildew, if you re- 
 member. Would the socks, the shirt, the collar, fit? If the 
 result was satisfactory, there was pride. In any case, the thing 
 which cost time, exercised judgment, showed skill, was valuable 
 and valued. This dignified housewifery. The modern matron
 
 150 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 need know notliinfr, need keep nothing, need lay down notliinfr; 
 she wants neither wine-cellar, nor beer-cellar, nor larder, nor still- 
 room, nor stores. She buys as she wants, and replaces as she 
 uses. It saves trouble, which is a gain ; but there are losses, 
 
 Iler predecessor, Margaret learned, provided beforeliand. If 
 anything was omitted, the household had to go without. Tiic 
 amount of knowledge expected of the ancient housewife was co- 
 lossal. One can only compare it witli the knowledge at present 
 expected of the oilman and his assistant. She was expected to 
 know how to make cakes, puddings, biscuits, and to understand 
 carving; not the miserable hacking of the present day, but scien- 
 tific carving, which had its language. She must know pickling 
 and conserving, in an age when they pickled everything, even 
 nasturtium leaves. She must know how to distil scents and 
 strong waters. She could make wine and brew beer. She could 
 make waslics for the complexion. She must know all the secrets 
 of the laundry, the larder, the poultry -yard, the dairy, tlie kitch- 
 en-garden, the orcliard, the hot-houses; the making and repairing 
 of dresses — childish and feminine; she liad to understand music, 
 dancing, embroidery, genealogies, education, alms-giving, medi- 
 cine, domestic surgery, and nursing. Finally, the housewife of 
 the past was expected to take, or to pretend, an intelligent inter- 
 est in her husband's occupations. Truly, the housewife of a hun- 
 dred years ago was a most wonderful product of the age. 
 
 Margaret laid down the books with a profound respect and 
 pity for the writer who knew so much, worked so hard, and was 
 so wretcliedly mated. The diurnal broke off abruptly on a cer- 
 tain day. It was then carried on by another liand, a younger 
 hand, for a sliort time. Then that too broke off. The reason 
 of the change, Margaret guessed, was tlie illness and death of the 
 mother. The second hand must be that of the daughter, Lu- 
 cinda. And she, like her brothers, liad run away. AVhat had 
 become of Lucinda? Lucian's father knew nothing about ber. 
 What, again, was the end of tliat brother who became an actor? 
 What had become of Charles, the third son of this remarkable 
 family, who incurred the displeasure of the law ? Of James she 
 liad, we know, been recently reminded, liut of the other three 
 no word had yet been received. Had all three perished without 
 leaving children or a single trace of tliL'ir memory ?
 
 CALVERT BURLEY S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 151 
 
 There were other papers in the box. You would expect, 
 perhaps, in sucli a house, a bag of guineas, or the directions 
 where to find a secret hoard. You remember bow the raiser of 
 old hid away bis gold in odd corners. But the Westminster 
 miser was a modern miser. Hoarded gold, to him, meant invest- 
 ments. The old miser gloated over his chests full of red gold, 
 chests of wood with iron clamps; he used to lift the lid and run 
 bis fingers lovingly through the coins. The modern miser pulls 
 out the book in which are recorded his investments ; and he gloats 
 over the columns. Margaret found no secret hoard of gold, nor 
 any allusion to hidden gold. What she did find, however, was 
 sufficiently interesting, as you shall learn. 
 
 There were, to begin with, certain letters, written to the raiser's 
 wife ; some from her own mother, stiff and formal, exhorting her 
 what to do in time of trouble ; some from a friend who wrote to 
 her from the country on religious topics — it was a time when 
 religious conversation was an art greatly practised and carefully 
 studied. This friend gave her advice of a most beautiful kind as 
 regards patience under trial ; some of the letters were from her 
 brotlier; these letters also turned upon the necessity of resigna- 
 tion in trial and trouble. All proved that the poor woman lived 
 in constant trial and trouble. All were the work of people to 
 whom letter-writing was not a thing of daily use ; they were writ- 
 ten on paper of the same size, filled up carefully, so as to show a 
 genuine desire of communicating as much news as the limits of the 
 paper allowed, and of spending as long a time as possible over the 
 composition of the letter. The correspondence was not, in fact, 
 remarkable, except as an evidence of the stylo and fashion of the 
 letter-writer at that period — the style stilted and formal ; the 
 fashion ceremonious. There was one letter, however, which in- 
 terested her. It was from the second son, Henry, the one who 
 began the running away. 
 
 " Dear and Hon'd Mother [it ran], — I write to inform you 
 that I have been receiv'd in a Company of Strolling Players. 
 Wo play in a Barn to-night — my Part, Mercutio, and some 
 others. The Work is Hard and the Pay is Uncertain. I hope, 
 however, to Advance both in one and the other. No Efforts of 
 mine shall be wanting for Success, which, as has been written,
 
 152 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 if I cannot Achieve, I will at Least Deserve. On the play-bill 
 I am described as Mr. Ilcnry Biirs:fhlcy. I have not presum'd 
 to drag my Father's Name — and My Own — upon the Stage with 
 a Strolling Company. I do not Regret the Step I liave taken, 
 except that I would not give my Mother Pain, The miserly 
 Habits of my Father made it Impossible for a lad of Spirit to re- 
 main in the House any Longer. I hope that your tedious Cough 
 is better, and that you can now mount the Stairs without Dis- 
 tress, and that you will continue in good Ilealtli and Spirits, and 
 that when I see you next I may receive your Approbation of 
 my Conduct. 
 
 "I remain, dear and Hon'd Mother, 
 
 "Your most dutiful and affectionate Son, 
 
 " Henry." 
 
 This was the only communication from any of her children. 
 
 The rest of the papers seemed to be recipes of all kinds, cliiefly 
 for puddings and highly seasoned sauces whicli this housewife 
 would never be allowed to use, as being expensive. There were 
 also written charms against warts, against quinsy, against fits — 
 pity tliat most of the old charms have perished hopelessly. 
 Against how many mischiefs could not a housewife formerly 
 protect her house, her children, and herself ? And there were 
 notes on the treatment of children's disorders, and especially as 
 to chilblains, colds, earaches, feverish cliills, and the like. 
 
 At the l)ottom of the box, however, slie found a small packet 
 of papers folded up and tied with a silk ribbon. Outside was 
 a note written in a handwriting difficult at first to read ; for not 
 only was it small, but the letters were pointed instead of being 
 round, and the " e's " were like " o's " with a loop at the top. 
 It ran thus : 
 
 "The enclosed was writ by my grandfather, Calvert Burley, in 
 the year of grace 175G, being twelve months after the melan- 
 clioly event which deprived him of a son and me of a fatlier, in 
 the most lamentable manner possible. I found it among his 
 papers on the 9th day of March, in the present year of our Lord, 
 1768. The wrath of the Lord is as a consuming fire, from 
 which nothing can escape ; it wastes not, nor is it spent until its 
 work of woe is completed to the last letter. On account of the
 
 CALVERT BURLEV'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 153 
 
 transgressions of ray grandfatlier follow all these woes. Therefore 
 my father suffered a shameful death : for this cause my father's 
 sister was cut off in the flower of her beauty, and my father's 
 brother was kidnapped or destroyed. What is reserved for me ? 
 I am in the Lord's hands. Let the Lord deal with me for that 
 transgression as He will upon this earth. The things that hap- 
 pen to us here soon pass away and are forgotten ; but let me 
 save ray soul alive, according to the promise made unto the 
 Prophet Ezekiel. J. C. B. 
 
 " Nota Bene. — My grandfather died impenitent. lie said that 
 he had sinned, as all flesh must sin, but not more than other men. 
 He also, with his latest breath, solemnly thanked the Lord for the 
 gifts which had made him rich — God is not mocked. 
 
 " J. C. B." 
 
 Having made out this cheerful preface, Margaret, with some 
 curiosity, opened the packet and read. The handwriting was 
 large and bold, and as assured as the words which followed. 
 Handwriting is supposed, by some, to be a test of character; this, 
 in some unexplained way, it seems to be — perhaps because the 
 way in which a man speaks, stands, walks, writes, looks, or does 
 anything at all, betrays his character to those who can read the 
 lanfTuaire of gesture and look. If the theory is true, then Calvert 
 Burley was a man with a huge, an enormous, belief in himself. 
 Such a man — he is more common than one would think — 'can do 
 nothing wrong. If his actions appear to others always dictated 
 by self-interest, to him they are never without the excuse of the 
 highest and holiest of motives. The meanest thing that a man 
 can do is described by him as the holy act of a Christian. The 
 greatest crime he explains by the noblest and most conscientious 
 scruples. 
 
 The document was written on coarse white paper, and the ink 
 was brown. It ran thus : 
 
 " I have been assured by some Meddlers and Busybodies that 
 God's Wrath has been Poured out upon me on account of cer- 
 tain former Passages in my Life. I have endured Reproach on 
 this Account, by men pretending to be Godly, and also from my 
 
 Deceased Wife, whose tender Spirit was unable to endure the 
 7*
 
 154 BEYOND THE DliKAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Disasters which have affected us. In them she saw Manifest the 
 Kevenrfc taken by the Ahiiio-hty on account of my past Life. I 
 say not that these repeated shocks were not Ordered by a Wise 
 Providence for Purposes which I cannot Understand, but as my 
 Life has always been beyond Reproach, I cannot regard them as. 
 Expressions of God's Wrath. Therefore my Design is to hiy 
 bare, for the Instruction of all who may come after Me, the Facts 
 of the Case on which wy Departed Wife and others have igno- 
 rantly pronounced a Judgement. Bnt let me Rehearse these so- 
 called Judgements; and, next, let me also set against them the 
 Manifest Mercies and Blessings which have been Poured upon 
 my unworthy Head. And first as for the Judgements. It is true 
 that I who had once three Fair Children, have now none. First 
 my younger Boy, a child of Twelve, went out to School — the 
 said School lying no more than two Streets distance — and never 
 reached that School, and was never seen again by us. He was 
 therefore tempted away and either Kidnapped or Murdered. 
 This was, I own, a Dreadful Blow. But it was shown, I am 
 quite certain, that this affliction was not a Special Judgement, 
 nor did it indicate the Special Displeasure of the Lord, over 
 and above that which falls upon the general sinner, because at 
 the same time I bought of the widow I'luiner that land in Mary- 
 lebone (for a song) which is now covered with houses. 
 
 " Next, there was my Daughter, a blooming Girl of Seven- 
 teen, whose Charms were designed (I thought) for the happi- 
 ness of some young man of Quality (as I ventured to hope), 
 who would be tempted not only by the beauty of her Person, 
 but also by the Portion which I was ready to bestow upon her. 
 Thus I lioped to raise my family, which was of humble Origin, 
 Alas! She caught Small-Pox and died in a fortnight. With 
 her these Hopes were Buried. At the same time (which for- 
 bids the suspicion or Fear of a Judgement) by a lucky Stroke 
 I acquired (a Special Blessing) the first of those Navy Con- 
 tracts by which my Fortune has been more than doubled. 
 
 "Lastly, my Elder Son, who had from Childhood given 
 Trouble, for he would never apply his Mind to Study, nor 
 would he learn under me how to get the better of Weak or 
 Credulous Persons so as to transfer their Money to his own 
 Pockets, but would continually Sing, make idle Music, Feast,
 
 CALVEIIT DURLEY S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 155 
 
 Paint, and Spend. After a course of profligacy in wliich I did 
 my best to "Warn and Dissuade liiin, he madly went out to rob a 
 noble Lord, and being Captured and Laid by the Heels, was 
 presently Hanged — a Disgraceful Event, and one that Dashed 
 all our rising Cheerfulness. At the same time a Signal Favor 
 was bestowed upon me by the Lord in the fact that a violent 
 tempest blowing over the Channel, on the very day when that 
 unhappy Boy suffered, wrecked a large number of Ships be- 
 longing to the Port of London, while two of my richest Bot- 
 toms found Shelter in the Scilly Roads. Thus was I singled 
 out for marks of Approbation at the time of my greatest Afflic- 
 tion. 
 
 "Of these three events, the first and second were accidents 
 which clearly belong to the changes and chances of this mortal 
 life — In the midst of life we are in death. We know not, even 
 for the youngest and strongest, what may happen. As for the 
 third Event, the parents of this unhappy Young Man may re- 
 proach themselves with a too lenient and easy Up-Bringing. So 
 far I Bow the Head and acknowledge ray fault. But the whole 
 course of that young Man seemed like a Resolve in mad ILaste to 
 reach the Gallows. And I have sliown that each so-called Judo-c- 
 ment was accompanied by a blessing much more manifest — and, 
 I make Bold to Declare, much more Deserved. 
 
 " Why should the hand of the Lord be heavier upon me than 
 upon any other sinner? 
 
 " I have said, above, that it was wliispcred, nay, spoken aloud, 
 on 'Change that this or that Misfortune has happened to mc as a 
 Punishment for my Treatment or Conduct towards my late Mas- 
 ter, Mr. Scudamore. 
 
 " I was a poor lad, son of a mere Fellowship Porter, my moth- 
 er's brothers being Watermen, and my own fate, apparently, to 
 be of no better station in the world than they. But, being no- 
 ticed by Mr. Scudamore, then a gentleman of reputation, and hav- 
 ing a good Business in the City and supposed to be worth Thirty 
 Thousand Pounds at least, I was by him taken into his office, 
 where I was first a boy at his call, to run Arrants and to carry 
 messages. I then became a clerk in his counting-house. By the 
 time 1. had reached five-and-twenty I was entirely in his confi- 
 dence, and managed all his business of every kind, and he, being
 
 156 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 an easy man, and pleased to bo saved trouble, and growinf^ fonder 
 of the coffee-house than 'Change, suffered nie to go on unques- 
 tioned, and to do what I pleased and what I thought best in bis 
 interests. This was so well known that Merchants treated mc 
 with the same Openness as if I was my Master — a lucky circum- 
 stance for me, inasmuch as it taught me much concerning trade, 
 and made acquaintances for me who afterwards became useful. 
 
 " I can boast truthfully that during the time that I thus man- 
 aged my Master's business it prospered and increased. Naturally 
 I became discontented — wlio would not? — seeing that I did all 
 the work and my Master reaped the whole Harvest. Many fac- 
 tors and clerks and servants do not consider this hardship, and 
 continue to work zealously to the end of their lives, being pinched 
 and living hardly, so that their Masters may increase and grow 
 fat. I was not so disposed. As soon as 1 had gained one step 
 I desired to take another. I would still be rising — I desired ar- 
 dently to become a Master. 
 
 "The opportunity came in the Way I shall relate. At this 
 time there broke out the Madness known as the South-Sea Bub- 
 ble. Now I have ever possessed to a Singular Degree the Power 
 of Discerning the Future as regards the liise and Fall of Stocks 
 and Shares. And at the outset of this Affair I clearly perceived 
 that there would surely follow a Vast Increase in the Price of 
 this and other Stocks ; and I longed to be Trading in them — at 
 first I thought in a small way in order to better my liumble fort- 
 une. But in order to begin one must have either Money or Cred- 
 it. Of these had I Neither. Therefore, I perceived that in order 
 to attain my Object 1 must Secretly make Use of some of the 
 Money belonging to my Master, as it passed through my Hands. 
 Tiiis was difficult, because he had a Running Credit with a Gold- 
 buiith of Lombard Street. However, I devised a Plan which was 
 Ingenious and Honest. I would but borrow the sum of <£400 
 to begin with. Therefore I persuaded (very Easily) my Master 
 to consent to purchase South-Sea Stock. He agreed to buy at 
 130 about £12,000 worth of Stock — i.e., about £9230 in shares. 
 As at this moment it was advancing rapidly, I bought £10,000 
 one day, of which £400 worth, or £390 of stock, I bought in my 
 own name. By this means I was enabled to obtain a small sum 
 for myself, and to secure for him the stock which he desired to
 
 CALVKRT BURLEy's ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER 157 
 
 buy. In the end, as you shall see, I faithfully repaid that ad- 
 vance of £400, 
 
 " How, then, did we stand ? I had three Shares at £130 each 
 — my Master held 92 shares. On my Advice he sold them out 
 at 200. He therefore made a Profit of £70 a Share, or £6440 
 in all. Ought not this man to have been Satisfied with me, his 
 faithful Steward? At the same time I sold mine at the same 
 profit, and replaced the loan, and was £210 in pocket. Then, as 
 I Pointed out, which was quite true, the Stock was still going up 
 — he agreed to Buy in again. This time he would Buy about 
 £18,000 worth, the Stock then standing at 250. I did the same 
 thing as before. That is, I bought six Shares for myself and 60 
 for him. A week later, the Shares having gone up to 500, I Sold 
 all out, and he made a Profit of cent, per cent. As for me, I did 
 very well. For I Replaced my Second Loan of £1500, and 
 found myself the Possessor of £1710 — far more than ever I 
 Thought to own. This was all in the Early Spring, But as 
 the year advanced, the Stock went Leaping up, I Played the 
 same Game always, Borrowing and always Repaying, and Grow- 
 ing, for one of such Small Origin, every week Richer and Richer. 
 
 " Then came the Time when I perceived very clearly that the 
 Price must Fall, and that Suddenly and Deeply ; now by this 
 my Master was Maddened, like many others, with the business, 
 and looked for Nothing Less than to see the Shares rise to 
 Thousands, Their highest Price was 990. My Master was eager 
 to buy more. Next day they Fell. He was persuaded — not by 
 me — to Hold on. They Fell lower and lower. They Fell from 
 990 to 150. And my Master, who had Bought in from 600 (or 
 thereabouts) to 990, Lost his All. I, for my part, who had been 
 Buying in and Selling out (so as to replace the various loans), 
 and always making my profit on each Transaction, Finally Sold 
 out at 990. The last shares my Master Bought were mine, but 
 he knew it not till afterwards. And the end (to me) was a Mod- 
 est Fortune or competence, a Capital Stock for embarkation in 
 Trade of about £22,500. This is the history of the whole busi- 
 ness. My Master went mad, like the rest of the Natives. I kept 
 my AVits about me. He continued in liis madness. I sold out. 
 Remember that each Loan as I made it was paid back the next 
 day, or a few days after, by the Differences which I had the
 
 158 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAUICE 
 
 Power (under rrovidcnce) to foretell. "Who can Blame mc? 
 "Was not tlie good success — tlie wonderful success — of my Vent- 
 ure a mark of Special Blessing? But this my dear Wife could 
 never understand. 
 
 "Having Lost his All, my Master was ruined. It has been 
 Objected that I should have Corae to his Assistance. But in the 
 City of London Gratitude is never suffered to interfere with 
 Business. I Plainly Told him that I must look after Myself. 
 When, shortly after this, he went into the Fleet, his wife andchil- 
 dien asked my Help. I gave it. On many occasions I have giv- 
 en them sums of money — a half-crown here and another there. 
 I am not to Blame if the Woman went mad and the Man died of 
 rage at his III Fortune (Foolishly Cursing Me, as if I was the Cause 
 of his Sufferings), nor can I be Blamed if his Children (through 
 their leather's Folly) Became I know not What— Thieves and the 
 Companions of Thieves. 
 
 "This is the Plain History of the F]vcnts which, according to 
 my Detractors, have Brought upon me the Judgements of the 
 Lord. 
 
 "On the other Hand, have not His Blessings been abundantly 
 Showered upon me? Have I not llisen from a plain Poor Boy 
 to be a great City Merchant, an Adventurer in Foreign l*orts, 
 one whose Word is powerful on 'Change, the Owner at this mo- 
 ment, wlicn I am past Sixty Years of Age, of a Hundred Thou- 
 sand Pounds and More? Are not these things Plain Mercies? 
 Would they have been bestowed upon One who, as lias been 
 Falsely alleged, rose by robbing his Master and drove him to 
 Bankruptcy, and Suffered him to Die in the Fleet? 
 
 "Calvert Burlev."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 LTJCIAN OX THE DOCUMENT 
 
 Margaret made haste to place tliis document in Lucian's 
 liands. lie read it with great interest; he read it twice. He 
 then folded it and returned it to his wife. 
 
 " Well, Lncian, what do you say ?" 
 
 lie made answer slowly : 
 
 "Calvert Bnrley's Commentary on Himself possesses sevcnil 
 points of interest. It is the revelation of an eighteenth-century 
 soul. First we have the poor boy — clever, sharp, and resolved 
 to get on if he could — to climb out of the servitude and obscu- 
 rity of his people. I fancy there was very little climbing in 
 those days. Where the child was born, there he grew up, and 
 there he remained. Well, this boy had the good - luck to get 
 into favor with a master who was clearly a man of weak nature; 
 for he gave this sharp lad, gradually, the niaiiagemcnt of all liis 
 affairs. The lad looked about him, watching the markets and 
 the stocks. I suppose that he grew extremely keen to foresee 
 the probable rise and fall. Some men have a kind of pro- 
 phetic instinct in such things. At last came the opportunity. 
 In order to seize it, he had to be a villain — about this I don't 
 imagine there was much difficulty. The finer shades of honor 
 were not likely to be regarded by such a young man as this. 
 The rest followed naturally. He ruined his master, and enriched 
 himself — he tells us how. Nothing is to be gained by helping 
 the fallen, and ho, therefore, allowed his master to die in jail. 
 A very complete villain !" 
 
 "A horrible villain f 
 
 " Wait a little. Having become rich, he must become respect- 
 able. He marries a wife from the ranks of the City madams; 
 in order to become respectable, he goes to churcli. No — that is
 
 160 DEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 wrong — he bad always been to cburcb ; it used to be part of the 
 City discipline — honest lads or villains, all wont to churcli. 
 Formerly, however, he sat in the least eligible seats. Now he 
 occupies a pew under the pulpit, and his boy carries his prayer- 
 book after him up the aisle, llis wife talks the language of re- 
 ligion, such as it was — the religion of the Queen Anne time." 
 
 " \Yas it unlike our own ?" 
 
 "I think so. Calvert shows us liimself that it was a time 
 when blessings and the approval of the Lord meant success in 
 trade, and when afflictions were regarded as indicating the dis- 
 pleasure of the Lord. Very good. Jle prospered exceedingly. 
 Being already rich, he could afford to be honest. Yet, we see, 
 there were murmurs about the beginnings. Presently the trou- 
 bles fell upon him, one after the other. Then the murmurs be- 
 came whispers, and the whispers voices of accusation, which he 
 heard. And in the end, to set his conscience at rest by a kind 
 of balance-sheet familiar to the commercial soul, he wrote this 
 narrative. Of course, it stands to reason, if Heaven's displeasure 
 is shown in some calamity. Heaven's approval is marked by long- 
 continued success. Thus, his eldest son becomes a profligate ; 
 marries an heiress ; spends her money ; goes on the road ; is 
 hanged. Very sad, indeed. But, on the other hand, during 
 that young man's career how many cargoes safely landed ! How 
 many glorious successes on 'Change ! Then his daughter dies of 
 small-pox. What for? Why ask, since on that same day his 
 ship alone, of all the fleet, rode out the storm? His younger 
 boy is kidnapped. Horrible! In punishment for what crime? 
 What, indeed, when another large slice was added on that same 
 day to his great fortune? Therefore, as the years ran on, he 
 grows more satisfied with himself. For some unknown sins, per- 
 haps of his wife, perhaps of the last generation of Fellowship 
 porters, these things have been allotted to him. But for himself 
 it is one unbroken career of Heaven's approval and manifest 
 blessing. There, Margaret, is my reading of this history." 
 
 He sat down. " There are people, I believe, even now, who 
 think in the same way. A dangerous way — to look for guid- 
 ance from without instead of within. ^^'eII, I said that I 
 should like to hear Calvert Burlcy's account of himself, and I 
 have had my desire. My dear, it used to be considered unlucky
 
 LUCIAN ON THE DOCUMENT 161 
 
 to speak ill of ancestors. But tliis Calvert Barley really was a 
 detestable person." 
 
 "And the misfortunes fell — if not on ])im, for he could not 
 feel thera — on his children and on his grandchildren." 
 
 " They did. Very great misfortunes, too. Tyburn Tree and 
 madness — a miser and a money-lender. Everybody got what he 
 deserved — sometimes what he desired." 
 
 Margaret shook her head. 
 
 " Once more. Remember what the Prophet Ezekiel says : 
 ' The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father.^ You will 
 listen to tliat authority, I believe, my child." 
 
 *' Well, Lucian, if tlie son, or the grandson, takes over and en- 
 joys the harvest of iniquity, he becomes a sharer in the guilt." 
 
 "The harvest, the stored-up granaries, the resnlt of iniquities 
 — you see, Madge, that you beg the whole question. Take this 
 Bnrley estate. How much of it is the harvest of iniquity ?" 
 
 " All of it." 
 
 "Nay. The Westminster miser saved ; he did not commit any 
 iniquities, lie saved, and he left nearly half a million. That 
 alone at com[)Ound interest would mount up to many millions. 
 How much of the rest is due to the dancing-cribs, to the gam- 
 bling-hell, to the money-lending? Perhaps the old man lost 
 money on all three. If the grandson, my dear, were to take over 
 that estate, he would take it free from any liability on account of 
 old injuries." 
 
 Margaret looked up. She would have answered; but on Lu- 
 cian's face there lay that look of masterful resolution which made 
 the portrait of Calvert Burley so remarkable. Lucian, at times, 
 was strangely like the builder and founder of the House — the son 
 of the Fellowship porter.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 LUCINDA AVERY 
 
 " An old woman ?" Margaret looked up from her work. 
 " What old woman? And wliat does she want?" 
 
 " She won't say her business," replied the maid. " Says she 
 wants to see the lady of the house. She's an old woman out of 
 a workhouse." 
 
 Margaret went out. She found an old woman in workhouse 
 costume standing on the door-mat. Slie was a thin, frail-lookinf^ 
 old woman; she had been tall, but now walked with stooping 
 shoulders, Iler face was pinched and pale ; not a face made 
 coarse with drink and vice ; a face made for pride, but spoiled 
 by humility. She courtesied humbly when the lady of the bouse 
 appeared. And she stood with her arms folded under her shawl, 
 as one who waits to be ordered. She looked meek, even beyond the 
 assumed meekness of the most accomplished pretender in a whole 
 workhouse, and yet she was picturesque, with a great mass of iron- 
 gray hair that liad once been black, and eyes that were still black. 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" Margaret asked her. 
 
 " I've read something in a paper," said the old woman, " A 
 lady in the House had it and lent it to me." She unfolded her 
 arms and produced from somewhere a newspaper. " I read it a 
 week ago, and thought — if I was to call — " 
 
 " Let me read the paragraph," said Margaret. 
 
 It was one of the thousand paragraphs on the Burley estate, 
 and it ran as follows : 
 
 " The liouse wliere the great Burley property was amassed is 
 situated in Great College Street, It is now No. 77. Tt is re- 
 ported to have been built by the same Calvert Burley who heads 
 the genealogy compiled and published by us the other day. It
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 163 
 
 is now occupied by a pliysician wliose surname, by a curious co- 
 incidence, is tlie same as the Cliristian name of its builder. Dr. 
 Lucian Calvert took the house with the furniture as it stood. 
 Among the things preserved are the portraits of nearly all those 
 persons who are mentioned in the genealogy. It was a common 
 practice in the last century to adorn the house with the portraits 
 of all the members of the family — a custom which photography 
 has been largely instrumental in abolishing. Thus, even the chil- 
 dren of the celebrated miser were painted as soon as they arrived 
 at man's estate. The total disappearance, or extinction, of so 
 large a family with so many branches is one of the most remark- 
 able facts in family history ever known. Up to the present mo- 
 ment, we learn that only two among the many hundreds of claim- 
 ants profess to belong to the miser. One is an American lady 
 who calls herself the granddaughter of the miser's youngest son, 
 and the other is an English claimant who announces himself as 
 the grandson of the second son. These claims have either not 
 been so far established or are as yet only just sent in. Surely, one 
 would think, there should be little difficulty in establishing and 
 proving one's own grandfather. Even if a nephew or grandnephew 
 should ultimately turn up, the fact that so vast an estate should 
 remain so long without an undoubted heir will remain as a most 
 remarkable fact." 
 
 " Well ?" Margaret gave back the paper. " You did not come 
 here, I am sure, just to show me that paper." 
 
 " No, ma'am, I did not. I came here hoping that perhaps you 
 wouldn't mind showing me those pictures." She spoke with the 
 greatest humility, but her manner of speech was better than one 
 generally associates with a workhouse dress. 
 
 "Yes; but will you tell me why you want to see them?" 
 
 *' It's because some of them may be mother's brothers." Mar- 
 garet showed some natural sur[)rise. " It's quite true, lady. My 
 name is Avery — Lucinda Avery — and my mother's name before 
 she married was Lucinda Burley. And she was born in this 
 liouse. It's quite trne, lady," she repeated. " Mother was born 
 in this very house. I know she was." 
 
 " Yon sav that von are the dan2;htcr of Lucinda Burlev. Can 
 you prove what you say ?"
 
 164 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Oh yes, lady, I've got proofs." 
 
 " This is very strange. But come in." Margaret sliut the 
 street door. " Now sit down and tell mo more about it." 
 
 The old woman sat down on one of the hall chairs. " What 
 am I to tell you ?" she asked, simply. " Mother's name was Lu- 
 cinda Burley." 
 
 " Yes ; there was a Lucinda Burley. Can yon tell me some- 
 thing more ?" 
 
 " Mother ran away from lier home — this was the house. She's 
 often and often talked to me about the house — this was the 
 house. She ran away from home because she was unhappy. Ilcr 
 father was a dreadful miser, and wanted them to be as miserly as 
 himself. They could hardly get enough to eat. She had broth- 
 ers, and they ran away, too, one by one, all but the eldest — this 
 was the house. So, when her mother died, she ran away too, and 
 married father." 
 
 " Yes. What was your father?" 
 
 " Father was a gentleman." The old woman held up licr hcAd 
 with tlic least possible approach to the gesture called bridling. 
 Not every resident, if you please, in her college could boast of a 
 gentleman for a father. " lie was a gentleman," she repeated. 
 
 " Yes. A good many men are gentlemen, nowadays. What 
 was his business?" 
 
 "He hadn't got any. He was called Captain Avery. And he 
 was once in the army. Mother always called him the Captain. 
 He was a very handsome man. Mother loved him, though he 
 threw away his money — and he wasn't a good man." 
 
 " He was Captain Avery," Margaret repeated. " And he 
 threw away his money. And then?" 
 
 " When he had no more left, they took him to prison. It was 
 the Fleet Prison — I remember it very well, and father in it. He 
 died in the prison." 
 
 " Oh ! And this was the way that you became poor?" 
 
 " Yes. Mother was poor. Don't you believe me, lady ?" 
 She looked up with some an.\iety. " Indeed, it is the truth, and 
 nothing else." 
 
 " Whv should it not be the truth ? I am not disbelieving 
 you." 
 
 " I've got the proofs, lady." Tiie old woman produced from
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 1G5 
 
 unseen recesses a little parcel wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. 
 "This is a picture of mother, made when she first married; 
 when she was young — poor mother!" — her voice faltered. "I 
 never remember her like this — not so young and beautiful." 
 
 Margaret took the drawing, which showed just the face and 
 head. "Yes," she said, "I know the face. They all have it; 
 you have the face." 
 
 It was a charming little picture, representing a beautiful girl, 
 with something of a Spanish air, dark -eyed, dark -haired. And 
 the poor faded daughter bore still some resemblance to the beau- 
 tiful young mother. 
 
 " You all have the same face," Margaret repeated. 
 
 "I never saw her so." The old woman wrapped it up again 
 in her handkerchief and put it back. "But I like to look at it 
 sometimes; just to think of her as I never saw her. She looks 
 happy in her picture — I never saw her happy. The picture was 
 done by a friend of father's. He died in the Fleet, too. I re- 
 member him very well, because he had a bottle-nose — mother 
 said it was rum. But a lovely painter, mother said, and good 
 company, and sang a good song." 
 
 " It is certainly the portrait of Lucinda Burley," said Margaret. 
 "I will show you the pictures, if you please to come up -stairs 
 with me." 
 
 The old woman's breath was bad ; she mounted the stairs with 
 difficultv; when she reached the drawing-room she was fain to 
 sit down and gasp. Margaret sat her down before the fire, and 
 waited. She looked timid and humble; with the timidity and 
 the humility that come of life-long obedience to the man with 
 the bag; of never exercising any power or authority at all. Fur 
 example, a woman who had been a mother could not have that 
 air. But she was not common or rough, there was even a cer- 
 tain refinement in her face ; she looked like a gentlewoman out of 
 practice. Jler black eyes were fine still, but they were sad. Her 
 face, her manner, her carriage, her voice — all together spok« or 
 shadow, sadness, and privation. 
 
 Margaret took off her bonnet and shawl — was she not a 
 cousm ? "You shall have some tea,'' she said, " before you say 
 another word." She went down-stairs and brought up the tea 
 with her own hands.
 
 100 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Now," she went (Jii, " if you arc recovered, \vc will talk again. 
 You sluill look round the room presently. First, think that part 
 of your mother's girlhooil must have been spent in this room. 
 Some of the things are new , the rest were here in her time. 1 
 know all the family history, and I can tell you about all the 
 portraits. That over the mantel-shelf is the original Burlcy, 
 the founder of the family. Your mother was born about the 
 vcar 1802, AVhen did she die?" 
 
 " She died ten years ago. The parish gave her out-door relief. 
 She was bedridden for three years." 
 
 " The parish ! the j/arish ! Good heavens ! And her brother ten 
 times a millionaire! What a man ! Had your father no friends 
 to feel any sense of shame?" 
 
 " I think he had cousins. But they wouldn't help, and 
 mother wouldn't ask them any more. Mother was too proud. 
 She would rather work her lingers to the bone than go begging. 
 She said she was a Burley." The old woman looked up to the 
 lion-hearted founder of the family for approval. 
 
 " She was proud of being a Burley," Margaret repeated, not 
 scornfully, but with a kind of wonder. 
 
 " When father died she wrote to lier brother, and he wouldn't 
 help her. But she kept his letter." 
 
 She produced again the parcel, wrapped in a handkerchief, 
 and extracted a paper, which Margaret took. It was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " SisTEK, — I am in receipt of your communication. I will 
 nut see you if you call. I will give you nothing. Yuu have 
 made your bed, and you may lie upon it. You deserted your 
 own family and disgraced yourself when you ran away with 
 your lover. [" But I've got her marriage lines," interrupted 
 tlie daughter. | You had better apply to your brothers whc 
 also ran away. \ uur father is dead, and has left me his prop- 
 erty — such as it is. f" Such as it is !" Margaret repeated. 
 "What a man I"J Go your own way and lit iiic go mine. 
 
 " Your brother, John. 
 
 »> 
 
 " A cruel letter ! A hard and cruel letter !" Margaret gave 
 it back. "The letter of a hard and cruel ?nan. But his pro- 
 fession was Destruction .■md Kuin."
 
 "'you all have the same face'
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 167 
 
 " Mother tried to see him, but he Avouldn't let her come in. 
 Mother kept the letter. She said that she looked to see him 
 cut off suddenly for his hardness. But he wasn't." 
 
 " No," said Margaret ; " a worse thing happened to him. 
 To be cut off suddenly would have meant reward, not punish- 
 ment, lie lived. lie grew harder every day, till he did not 
 know what mercy meant. A worse thing than death is to grow 
 harder and more merciless and more insensible every day — and 
 to live for ninety years. Go on, you poor thing." 
 
 It must not be supposed that the old woman went on quite 
 in the connected form which follows. She was weak in the 
 construction of sentences. What she said was extracted by 
 questions and suggestions; if we were to put them all in, the 
 length of this chapter would extend to a volume. She answered 
 timidly, and only warmed, so to speak, when she began to speak 
 of the house and what she knew about it. 
 
 " So mother took in needle-work." The whole tragedy of a 
 lifetime in those words — she took in needle-work. 
 
 " When I was old enough I began to help her. We sat and 
 sewed all day long." 
 
 "Where were her brothers?" Margaret knew very well, but 
 she put the question. 
 
 " One of them did something and was transported for life. 
 But he came back, secret, and saw mother. Then he Avcnt out 
 to New Zealand," 
 
 " Oh ! And the others ?" 
 
 " One went to America, and one was an actor. Mother was 
 so poor when she found out the actor brother that she was 
 ashamed to go and see him. Mother was proud of her family, 
 but there were dreadful misfortunes in it. Even when we were 
 at our worst mother used to say she was glad she ran away 
 from the misfortunes." 
 
 "There were misfortunes enough for her, I think," said Mar- 
 garet. " ]]ut it is strange, however. Always the same feeling — 
 ths same dread of misfortune." 
 
 "Yes, she was proud to be a Burley ; but they were all un- 
 fortunate," 
 
 " And you, did you ever marry?" 
 
 " Marry ?" The old woman langhcd a poor little shadow of
 
 1C8 BEYOND TIIK DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 a langli. " Marry ? Do men look for wives in a two-pair back? 
 Young men don't keep company with a girl too poor to buy a 
 brush for hw hair or a skirt to hide her rags. Ah! no, lady; 
 I had no time to thiidc about keeping company and marriage. 
 AVhat I had to think about all my life long was how to get rid 
 of the hunger. Always that — and nothing more — unless it was 
 to keep a bit of fire in the grate." 
 
 " Poor creatures !" 
 
 " It's over now, and thank God for it !" The poor old woman 
 put on a little show of dignity and self-respect as if already in 
 the presence of her best friend — Death. " I'm in the House 
 for the rest of my time — till the Lord calls me. Yes, yes, it's 
 been a lonsc time cominir but tlic end has come. Sometimes 
 I wake at night and fancy the hunger is on me again, and me 
 so tired and my arm so heavy and the stuff so thick. It's a 
 blessed thing when we do get old and past our work." 
 
 " A blessed thing, truly — I never thought of it before. And 
 you were once a pretty girl." 
 
 " Pretty ?" The old woman really blushed — a pale and pink 
 suffusion it was. " No one ever called me pretty that I re- 
 member ; we had no time for such talk. "Why," she said, " we 
 old women talk — we must talk, you know, now we've got no 
 work to do. The others talk about the old days when men 
 came courting, and they went out together in the evenings and 
 were married. It's all strange to me. I had nothing but work 
 —all the time." 
 
 "Yes." Margaret was looking at her tliouglitfully. Had 
 one ever before lieard of a woman who never had any i)lea3- 
 ure at all for the whole of a long life? "And so at last you 
 gave up work and went into the House?" 
 
 "Yes. Some of them grumble all the time — I don't. It 
 was the happiest day of my life when my forefinger got 
 cramped and bent — look at it — and I found that I couldn't 
 sew any longer. Then they took me in, and I've had a good 
 dinner and a good tea every day since I went in." 
 
 "You didn't work on Sundays; what did you do tlien ?" 
 
 "On Sunday morning we went to church. Mother never 
 would give up going to church. She said she always liad gone 
 and alwavs would go. After church wc lav down and went to
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 169 
 
 sleep. In the evenings we sat in the dark, and mother talked 
 about her family and this house. Oh ! I know all the rooms 
 in it." She looked round the room. " Tliis is the drawing- 
 room. Down-stairs there's the front parlor and the back parlor. 
 They used to live in the back parlor. There is a garden at the 
 back, with a grape-vine and a mulberry-tree. Up-stairs, over 
 this room, was mother's bedroom. At the top of the house was 
 the nursery, where the children used to play. And there was 
 another room which was kept locked, and the children believed 
 there was a ghost in it, and if the door was opened the ghost 
 would come out and walk about the house." 
 
 '* Yes, it is quite clear that you know the house. Now get 
 up and look at the pictures on the wall, and find your mother's 
 portrait if you can." 
 
 It was not difficult. " Here's mother." The old woman 
 stood before the portrait of a girl in her early bloom, beautiful 
 — dressed in silk — dark, black-eyed, proud, who looked down 
 upon her pauper daughter with a kind of condescension. There 
 was more pride in the old portrait than in the miniature. 
 
 " It's my mother — young — oh ! how lovely ! Oh ! I nevci 
 saw her like this. Oh ! with a gold chain and a silk dress — . 
 and she gave it all up to run away to marry, and work on starva- 
 tion wages for the rest of her life — oh, my poor mother ! — and 
 said she was happier so." 
 
 She burst into tears. The old weep so seldom that it touches 
 one to sec them. Age dries up the fountain or sacred source 
 of tears. Or perhaps it is that the old have known so many 
 sorrows and survived them all that they think little of another 
 and a new sorrow. As the negro said of his iniprisonmenls, 
 they did not count in the record of his life. The old know 
 that there are not really many things to weep about ; they have 
 learned one of life's many lessons — that thinsrs do not matter 
 much if one has patience. Death ? It will happen to tliem- 
 selves very soon. It is the cessation of pain. One would wel- 
 come death if we were only certain that the rest and the ces- 
 sation of pain would be consciously enjoyed. Bereavement? 
 Soon or late, we arc bereaved of all we love unless they are first 
 bereaved of us. Poverty ? It is the average lot. Injustice ? 
 Wrong? It is the universal lot of mankind to suffer injustice
 
 170 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 or wrong. The world is full uf wrong. Dependence? Most of 
 us arc slaves, and must jump when the man with the bag cracks 
 his whip. But this old woman wept as if she Avere young again. 
 She wept, you see, for her mother's sake. 
 
 " Oh !" sh(^ cried. " And I never knew what she meant when 
 slie told mc about the old house, and her mother, and her broth- 
 ers, and all. She was thin and starved all the time I knew her 
 and worked beside her. I didn't understand. And now I know. 
 She was once like this. She lived here, in this beautiful house ; 
 she was dressed like that. Oh ! the dreadful life to her— the 
 dreadful place to live in — I never knew it till now !" 
 
 " Poor creature !" said Margaret, her own eyes charged with 
 
 tears. 
 
 " She used to lament of a Sunday night that she could do 
 nothing for me. We had no books to read. You see, she used 
 to teacii mc a little — oh ! nothing to speak of. All I craved for, 
 ever in my life, was new boots and a new frock, and something 
 more to eat. I never saw anything like this before. Mother 
 lived here — mother was like this !" she kept on repeating. 
 
 "A sad story — a miserable story," said Margaret. "We 
 must see now what can be done. You ought not to remain 
 Avhere you are. Have you heard anything about the — the 
 estate ?" 
 
 "There's an old gentleman in the House who was a lawyer 
 once — I believe he got into trouble. lie says there's a lot 
 of money waiting for somebody. He says I ought to send in 
 my claim, lint 1 don't know." 
 
 "Shall I advise you?" 
 
 "The man told me not to show the papers to anybody. He 
 said that if anybody saw them he would go and pretend to be 
 ine — I don't know what he said." 
 
 " Hardly that. AVell, I will tell you how the case stands. 
 Try to follow and to understand." She explained the situation. 
 The old woman listened, but with little understanding. Then 
 Margaret explained it again. It was no use speaking to the old 
 woman of millions, or of hundreds; she thought of money as 
 shillinfi^s; she could no more realize a hundred pounds than 
 she could realize the distance of the earth from the nearest 
 fixed star. " Well, there is this money," she concluded, " which
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 171 
 
 will be given to the proper persons when they appear. If the 
 dead man's grandson does not appear, it will be given to the 
 nearest in succession, and you are "certainly one of them." 
 
 " When will it be given ?" 
 
 ♦* I cannot tell you. The people who order such things may 
 think it necessary to wait for a certain number of years. If 
 you send in your claim, you must find a lawyer to draw it up 
 for you and to take the business in haad. That will cost you a 
 great deal of money." 
 
 " I have got no money." 
 
 " No ? Some one must do it for you. Perhaps my husband 
 would help you. And then you must sit down and wait — for 
 ten years, perhaps." 
 
 " I am over sixty-five now, I don't think it will be any good 
 to wait." 
 
 " Not much, I am sure. Still, who knows what may happen ? 
 You may be the nearest to the succession — after that grandson. 
 At any rate, you may make your existence known. You are a 
 cousin wlien the other cousins turn up. And perhaps your 
 cousins will take off this dress of yours and give you one of a — 
 another color. It is not seemly, you know, to have cousins 
 in the workhouse." 
 
 The old woman shook lier head. 
 
 " No," she said, " I think I will stay where I am. I have 
 never been so comfortable before. I don't want the money. I 
 am contented and thankful. I don't mind being a pauper. Why 
 should I ? I live better than ever I did in my life before ; I am 
 warmer, and I sleep softer. And there's no more needle-work 
 to do. It isn't a shame to me ; and if it is a shame to my 
 cousins, I can't help it." 
 
 " It is certainly no shame to you." 
 
 "You see, lady," said this model of a contented old pauper — 
 poor and not ashamed — "if I were to ask for the money, they 
 might turn me out of the House!" She shuddered. "They 
 might say that if I am going to get money of mv own, I had 
 better go away and make room for those that had none." She 
 pursed her lips and shook her head. "That would be the worst 
 misfortune of all. Besides, if I got the money I miglit spend 
 it like father spent his, in riotous living and bad companions."
 
 172 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Mnrgaret smiled. " And then I should get into prison for debt 
 like they sent him. I'd rather be a pauper than a prisoner. 
 And now, lady, thanking you for being so kind — " 
 
 She took up her shawl. But Margaret laid it over her shoul- 
 ders with her own hands. And then, before she tied on the 
 bonnet — poor old Luciuda had never experienced such attentions 
 before — this astonishing young lady actually kissed her on the 
 forehead ; kissed a pauper ! kissed a broken-down old needle- 
 woman ! Such a thing was unknown to her experience. In the 
 House, to be sure, the chaplain always shakes hands with the 
 old ladies, but he does not kiss them ; the matron wouldn't allow 
 it; the guardians would not approve of it. Therefore the old 
 lady gasped again and fell into a shake, which brought on a 
 cough, and made her sit down to recover. She had not been 
 kissed for more years than she could remember. And no one 
 but her mother had ever kissed lier before. Iler virginal brow 
 knew nothing but the kiss maternal. 
 
 *' We are cousins," whispered Margaret, with the kiss. But 
 Lucinda did not understand. The chaplain certainly said that 
 the inmates of the House were his sisters. Cousins or sisters — 
 it meant, probably, the same thing. 
 
 This long life of privation, the undeserved misfortunes of 
 this woman's mother — were they because her name was Burley, 
 and because her ancestor was Calvert Burley, the man of many 
 sins? Sorrow and disaster fell upon every generation. Yet 
 Lucian would have it that — 
 
 " Come again," said Margaret — " come and talk to mc again 
 about your mother and yourself." 
 
 Margaret told her husband of this unexpected visitor. 
 
 " Ought we to let her stay in that place, Lucian ? Ilcniembcr, 
 she is our cousin." 
 
 " And the money-lender is iny grandfather. We must ac- 
 knowledge all or none. If we take this woman out of the work- 
 house, it must be because she is my cousin." 
 
 Margaret made no reply. His words and his looks showed 
 wliat was in his mind. 
 
 " All — all — pursued by the same ill-fortune," she said, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 " Ill-fortnnc caused by their own follies. The woman married
 
 LUCINDA AVERY 173 
 
 a spendthrift and fell into poverty. What had Calvert Burley 
 to do with that ? And now, Madge, my Marjorie " — he stooped 
 and kissed her forehead — " remember, if I cannot take this in- 
 heritance, nobody else shall. That, at any rate, is certain." 
 
 " I care nothing who has it, Lucian, so long as we do not 
 have it : so lonir as I am never asked to take a crust of bread 
 bought with the vile money of that — that — worm " — she could 
 think of no worse name at the moment, though she felt it to be 
 inadequate — " who condemned his own sister to a life of starva- 
 tion."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 
 
 " Pater !" The five girls — they were gathered together about 
 the teacups, their heads together, their tongues talking with ani- 
 mation extraordinary — all jumped up and clapped their hands, 
 and cried out simultaneously, or with one consent, when Sir John 
 opened the door and quietly came in to take his afternoon tea. 
 " Pater ! Come and listen ! We have had an adventure ! We 
 have made a discovery ! We have found the long-lost family ! 
 We are heiresses ! You are an heir ! Herbert is an heir ! We 
 are going to get the most enormous inheritance ever known ! 
 We are going to have the Burley estates !" 
 
 Sir John stopped short and shivered as one who has received 
 a sudden and unexpected shock. " What have you found out ? 
 Don't all cry out at once," he said, with roughness unknown to 
 this flock of fair daughters. " Well, what is the wonderful thing 
 you have found out ? Let one speak for the rest." 
 
 " You speak, Lucy." They chose the eldest. "Tell him ev- 
 erything, just as it happened." 
 
 He began drumming the arm of his chair with his fingers. 
 Ue was evidently ill at case. He looked frightened. 
 
 •' Don't be anxious, dear pater," said this eldest. •* Nothing 
 very dreadful lias happened. What could happen to make you 
 look like that? Only — but you shall hear, and then we shall see 
 what you will say." • 
 
 "Go on." Uis face was averted and his voice was husky. 
 " Tell me what you have discovered, and where and how you 
 found it." 
 
 " First, then, we saw in the paper that tlie liouse whore this 
 rich man — this Mr. P.urley — used to live still contained some of 
 the portraits of the family."
 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 175 
 
 " Well ? How did that concern us ?" he asked, roughly. What 
 could be the matter with the pater ? 
 
 "You shall hear. If we knew for certain that our grand- 
 father came from some other family, the Bnrley portraits would 
 not concern us. But as we don't know — do we ?" 
 
 " We don't know — we certainly do not know, and we shall 
 never know," he said, dogmatically. " It is now impossible to 
 find out." 
 
 " You shall hear. Meantime, as it is naturally an interesting 
 question with us — " 
 
 " The name is spelled quite differently," Sir John objected, in 
 initio. 
 
 " But pronounced the same. And the Christian name is your 
 own, pater dear, and Herbert's as well, which certainly means 
 something. As for the spelling, there may have been some rea- 
 son for changing it. There may, perhaps, have been a return 
 to an older way — just as the Seymours became again St. Maurs 
 — and our Burleigh is certainly a prettier name than his Bur- 
 
 ley." 
 
 "Go on, then. Let us hear your tine discovery." Sir John 
 stretched out his feet and leaned back in his chair. But his lips 
 twitched ; for some reason or other he was ill at ease. 
 
 " Well, we thought we would go to the house and ask permis- 
 sion to see the portraits. AVe thought it would be at least inter- 
 esting, if the people in the house would let us in. We could but 
 try. They could but say no. So we went — all five of us — we 
 went together." 
 
 " Well — well. You went together. You asked permission to 
 see the portraits." 
 
 " First we had to find out the house. It is close to Westmin- 
 ster Abbey. To think that while we were visiting the Abbey we 
 were close to grandfather's old house !" 
 
 " Don't jump at conclusions." 
 
 " Oh ! There can be no doubt — not the least doubt." 
 
 " Not the least doubt," echoed all the girls together, in 
 chorus. 
 
 "Only wait a little; and it is close to the Houses of Parlia- 
 ment. It is a most lovely old house in a quiet street. Oh ! so 
 old — so old — and quiet and homelike, one would like to live in
 
 176 BEYOND THE DIIEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 such a street all one's life. The liouscs arc only on one side ; 
 on the other is a gray stone wall — the garden wall of the Ab- 
 bey ; a wall as old as the Abbey itself, Edward the Confessor 
 built it, I expect. The front of the house is covered all over 
 with a magniticcnt creeper, the leaves crimson and purple and 
 golden — it is like a glorilied house. There is a red-tiled roof, 
 there is a raised door and steps and old-fashioned iron railings 
 — that's the house where lie was born — the dear old granddad. 
 But, of course, you'll go to look at it yourself, and at once ?" 
 
 " We shall see." 
 
 " The street is called Great College Street. There is a brass 
 plate on the door, with the name of the doctor who lives and 
 practises there." 
 
 " Shall we get on a little faster ?" Sir John asked, impatiently. 
 What was the matter with him? 
 
 " Oh ! my dear pater, it is all so interesting. Have patience 
 for a few moments." 
 
 " Such a beautiful story !" cried the other sisters, in chorus. 
 " Oh ! do have patience. Let us hear the story told properly." 
 
 Sir John spread his hands. It is a gesture which means any- 
 thing. Gestures are like interjections. 
 
 " Well," the eldest daughter continued, " I must tell you the 
 whole story — it's a most wonderful adventure. AVc rang the 
 bell — it was rather formidable calling at a strange house, and we 
 were a large party — but in such a cause we dared greatly. Five 
 female Japhets in search of a grandfather. W^e mounted the 
 steps and we rang the bell." 
 
 " You rang the bell," Sir John repeated, with an effort at pa- 
 tience. 
 
 "And we sent in mamma's card with our names — the Misses 
 Burleigh — in the corner." 
 
 •' And they let you in ?" 
 
 " Yes — we were received in the dining-room by the lady of 
 the house. Her name is Calvert — " 
 
 "Calvert? Calvert?" 
 
 " Yes. I suppose her husband is connected somehow with the 
 people who used to live here — our people — but she did not say 
 so. The name on the brass plate is Lucian Calvert, M.D. One 
 can hardly ask a strange person on the first day of meeting
 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 177 
 
 about her husband's family ; but I suppose — oh yes, you will see 
 — they must be connected in some way with the Burleys." 
 
 " I am listening, my dear," said her father. "We shall get to 
 the point, I suppose, presently," 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Calvert received us. She is quite young, only 
 a girl still — not married many months, I should say. Such a 
 pretty girl, too — tall and fair-haired and blue-eyed. But her 
 eyes wandered while she talked. She looks melancholy. Per- 
 haps they are poor, but everything in the house was very 
 nice." 
 
 " Oh, very nice !" cried the chorus of damsels. 
 
 " I was speaker. So I showed her the extract from the paper, 
 and said that we ventured — and so forth. And she smiled grave- 
 ly, and was gracious, and asked me if we were claimants. I told 
 her that we were New-Zealanders, and certainly not claimants so 
 far, because we were doubtful whether we really belonged to any 
 branch of the Burley family, which must have changed its name 
 in the hands of our ancestors. So she smiled again, and said 
 that she would be very pleased to show us the family portraits. 
 So she took us up-stairs. Pater ! We can't make such a house 
 in New Zealand if vic tried ever so much. It's all wainscoted 
 from roof to cellar. You never saw such a lovely house — the 
 room is not big, you know, but big enough. ' I suppose,' said 
 Mrs. Calvert, when she saw us looking about curiously, ' that peo- 
 ple in the Colonies may easily drop out of recollection of their 
 people at home. I will treat you as if you were cousins of the 
 late Mr. Burley, and you shall see the house and whatever there 
 is of interest in it.' " 
 
 " That was pleasant. And you saw the portraits ?" 
 
 "Yes, we saw the portraits. And here comes the really inter- 
 esting part of the story, as you shall learn. She took us up- 
 stairs, I said, and so into the drawing-room where these portraits 
 are hanging. It is such a pretty old room, newly painted — low, 
 with three vvindows, and the light falling through the creeper- 
 curtain outside. There is an old-fashioned fireplace — with a fen- 
 der to correspond." 
 
 " And you saw the portraits ?" asked Sir John, a second 
 time. 
 
 " Dear pater, you are too impatient. Yes, wc saw tlie por- 
 
 8*
 
 178 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAUICE 
 
 traits. There are about twenty of them ; they begin with the 
 full wig of Queen Anne's time, and go right down to the curled 
 short locks of — well — George's IV.'s time, I suppose ; or per- 
 liaps — Dot, you're the youngest — you are the latest from 
 school — who reigned about the year 1818?" 
 
 " George II.," said Dot. 
 
 "Well, it doesn't matter; there they are, and the Avomen in 
 every kind of head-dress from the high commodes to the curls 
 of — you ignorant Dot, it wasn't George II. The pictures take 
 us back nearly two hundred years. Many a noble lord cannot 
 boast of respectability for two hundred years." 
 
 " To end in money-lending and dancing-cribs." 
 
 " There are the sons and daughters and the wives of the 
 House. Well, all the men are dark, though some of the moth- 
 ers are fair. All with dark hair and dark eyes." 
 
 " And the eyes follow you all round the room," said Polly, or 
 perhaps Nelly. 
 
 " Yes ; they all follow you wherever you go. It's ghostly." 
 
 "Go on with the facts, Lucy," said her father. " We'll deal 
 with the ghosts afterwards." 
 
 " On every frame is written the name of the portrait, with the 
 date of his birth and death." 
 
 " What did the names tell you ?" 
 
 " Pater dear, do you remember grandfather before his head 
 became white ? Would you recognize him if you saw a portrait 
 of him at the age of sixteen or so, a lad only ?" 
 
 "I think it is unlikely. He was born, I know, in 1801 ; I was 
 born in 1837. When I begin to remember him well, so as to 
 recall his features, he was already a good way on towards fifty. 
 Between the man of tifty and the lad of sixteen there must be a 
 great difference. I remember him altogether and always as a 
 gray-headed man, which he was, I believe, for more than thirty 
 years." 
 
 " Well, there he is on the walls. I am certain — we are all 
 certain — that he is there. Yuu can go and see for yourself. 
 There is the grandfather." 
 
 " We are all certain," cried the chorus. " We are all quite 
 sure ; there can't be a doubt about it." 
 
 "By what marks do you recognize your grandfather ? How
 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 179 
 
 can you tell that the portrait of a boy of sixteen is that of your 
 grandfather ?" 
 
 " Because Herbert is exactly like him. That was what called 
 our attention first to the picture." 
 
 " Exactly — exactly — exactly like him," echoed the chorus. 
 " Dot first saw it. She jumped up and clapped her hands and 
 cried ' Herbert !' And we all ran and looked. It is Herbert. 
 When you come to look into the face you see there are differ- 
 ences in expression. As grandfather — I must call him grand- 
 father — was not in Holy Orders, there is wanting the spiritual 
 look in Herbert's face. One cannot expect that ; but, for the 
 rest, the same forehead, the same nose, the same mouth, the 
 same shape of head — everything." 
 
 "Everything like Herbert's," echoed the chorus. 
 " Let us examine the argument. Here is the portrait of a 
 young man or a boy who closely resembled your brother Her- 
 bert. Therefore he is your grandfather." 
 
 "Wait a minute; we haven't half done," said Lucy. 
 "Not half done, not half done," from the chorus. 
 " Courts of law, or heralds and genealogists, want stronger 
 evidence than a mere resemblance, my dear children. But I own 
 that the story is interesting. Is there more?" 
 
 " A great deal more. On the frames are written the names, 
 as I told you. The name on this frame is — Charles — Calvert — 
 Burley — spelt their way — born in the year — 1801 ! What do 
 you say to that V 
 
 " Oh ! You found that name on the wall !" Sir John sat up 
 quickly, and he became like unto himself — a Premier in the 
 House, meeting new facts and facing unexpected arguments. 
 " That name, too — and that date. It is curious — very curious. 
 As yet, however, we have not got beyond the region of coinci- 
 dence. For, my children, the papers have been publishing an 
 imperfect genealogy of the family, and I find, first, that they 
 are all called Calvert ; and secondly, that there was a Charles Cal- 
 vert Burley, whose birth was of the same date as my father's. 1 
 would not show you the thing, because we have already had 
 our thoughts disturbed enough. And the name proved nothing." 
 " But the likeness — oh ! pater, you must go yourself and see 
 it. The likeness is most wonderful !"
 
 180 DEYOND THE DUKAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " I will go, certainly. I must go, after all you have told me." 
 
 " Well, and there is another portrait also, which is exactly 
 like Ucrbcrt, though in a dilfcrcnt way. It is of a man wlio was 
 born in 1745 " — she was speaking, tliongh she knew not the his- 
 tory, of the man who went mad. " The features are not so 
 strikingly the same as in the other portrait, but there is Her- 
 bert's look — his straight, upriglit wrinkle — his very eyes^ 
 bright and impatient, with that queer expression which he has 
 when he wants to be a martyr, or when he gets excited over 
 somebody's opinions. My dearest pater, you will never, never, 
 never get me to believe that these resemblances are within 
 what you call the region of coincidence." 
 
 " Never !" cried the chorus. " Never — never — never !" 
 
 " Do you want more likenesses ? "Well, then," Lucy went on, 
 *' I told you of one of the ladies, my great-grandmother, I be- 
 lieve, which they say is like me." 
 
 "Not so much like Lucy as that other portrait is like Her- 
 bert." 
 
 " And if you want still more, pater, there is the fact that your 
 eyes arc their eyes — the eyes of all the men — the same eyes. 
 Look in the glass." He got up and obeyed. " The same eyes, 
 as you will see when you go and look at them." 
 
 Sir John sat down, with a sigh. There was nothing to say. 
 
 " This lady — this Mrs. Calvert — acknowledged that these re- 
 semblances — what you call coincidence — were most wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 " I suppose she knows nothing about — how docs she come to 
 have the portraits ?" 
 
 " They bought all the furniture of the house when they took 
 it. But she does know about the family — she seemed to know 
 a good deal." 
 
 " What did she tell you ?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 " Oh ! That this one was the man who had just died, and 
 that this other was his father, a celebrated miser — only I never 
 heard of him — and this and that. I asked if she knew why 
 Charles went to New Zealand." 
 
 " Well ?" Sir John interrupted, sharply. 
 
 " She said, ' No ; he went — ' And then she stopped short." 
 
 Sir John groaned, lie actually groaned as one in deep dis-
 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 181 
 
 tress. " Oh !" he said, " She knows — she knows — she knows 
 the family history. Did she — did she— tell you anything 
 else ?" 
 
 " She took us up-stairs to a room at the top of the house — in 
 the roof. She said, ' You are all girls, and so I will show you 
 the nursery where the mothers played with their children for 
 generation after generation.' There it was, just as it has always 
 been. Mrs. Culvert will not have anything touched ; the old- 
 fashioned cradle with carved sides and a carved wooden head to 
 it; the babies' things in the drawers — the things worn by grand- 
 father, I dare say, and the dolls and toys that the children played 
 with, all a hundred years old. Then, while we looked at them 
 and wondered, she sat on the bed and folded her hands, and she 
 said, talking like a woman in a dream : ' In this room I always 
 feel the presence of the dead wives and mothers. They seem to 
 be telling me things. You belong to the House, somehow. Of 
 that there can be no doubt whatever. I could wish you a bet- 
 ter fortune, for it is an unhappy House. Disaster follows those 
 who belono- to it.' So we asked her what kind of misfortunes. 
 But she shook her head. ' There will be no disaster for you, 
 she said, ' so long as you do not seek to inherit the fortune. 
 Best to forget it. Be content with knowing that you arc Bur- 
 leys — somehow.' She said no more, and we came down-stairs 
 rather saddened. What kind of misfortune ? None ever fell 
 upon grandfather; or upon you, dear pater." 
 
 " I have been singularly successful so far," Sir John replied. 
 " There is still time, however, for trouble." 
 
 " I wonder who she is, and how she knows about the family. 
 Some kind of cousin, I suppose ?" 
 
 Sir John made no reply for a while. He sat with his head 
 upon his hand, gazing into the empty fireplace. " Full of disas- 
 ter — and of — what did she say? — of crime? Children, do we 
 want to be connected with a family whose history is tilled with 
 disaster and with crime ?" 
 
 " No ; certainly not. But it is interesting ; and, pater dear, 
 won't you take steps ?" 
 
 " What steps ? What to do ?" 
 
 " To prove that we belong to this family — perhaps, if you arc 
 not afraid of disaster, to take this estate."
 
 182 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Sir John rose and walked about tlie room. " Steps !" he re- 
 peated. "Steps! Wliat steps? AVliat for ? To give you an 
 inheritance of shame ? Crime and shame go together — go to- 
 gether — unless crime remains undiscovered. That is the only 
 chance for crime. AYliat steps ? We might easily, perhaps, 
 find out what became of this Charles. Perhaps he went abroad 
 — went to America or somewhere. That, liowever, is not tlie 
 same thing as to iind out about our Charles — your grandfather. 
 In the year 1842 he sailed for New Zealand from the Port of 
 London. There our line begins. Your know nothinir at all 
 before that date. Connect your grandfather, if you can, with 
 this or some other family over liere. Not a scrap of paper re- 
 mains ; not a shred of tradition or anvthinfr. Coincidences, 
 likenesses, mean notliing. Suppose you tind all about this 
 Charles, say, up to tliat very date — up to the year 1842 ; sup- 
 pose the history of him stops short there ; suppose that the 
 liistory of our Charles begins at the point where the other his- 
 tory ends — what is the use of all your investigations if you 
 cannot, after all, connect the two ? Likenesses won't do." 
 
 The girls were silent. " Oh ! but," said the youngest, " he is 
 exactly like Herbert," as if that settled the matter. 
 
 "And — we are sure and certain — sure and certain," cried the 
 chorus. 
 
 " Very good," Sir John continued. " You have also to ac- 
 count for the fact that the name is changed. Why should our 
 Charles change his name ? Was he asliamed — out in New Zea- 
 land, where there were as yet not a hundred settlers, and no 
 public opinion to consider at all about such things — of his 
 name and his parentage ? Why, his father, supposing that 
 he belonged — of which we have no proof — to this family, 
 was at least a gentleman, even if he was a miser. Gentle- 
 men don't want to change their names. They arc proud of 
 them." 
 
 " Yes — but — all the same — there is the likeness. Go and see 
 the portraits, pater dear. You can't get over the likeness. 
 Oh ! it is too striking — it is too remarkable." 
 
 " Another thing. This genealogy, of which I have spoken, 
 this imperfect genealogy, gives the names of a dozen and more 
 younger sons of whom nothing is stated. I suppose some of
 
 THE AUSTRALIANS 183 
 
 them married and had children. I suppose that hereditary re- 
 semblance may go through the younger sons as well as the 
 elder. It is not the exclusive privilege of the elder son to be 
 like his grandfather. Considering all that you have told me — 
 the Christian name — these resemblances — I am strongly of 
 opinion that we do belong to this family ; but, considering 
 other reasons, I am of opinion that we may search — yes, we 
 had better search among some of the earlier, younger sons. If 
 we establish such a connection, you will have what you have 
 been wanting so long, an English family without too close a 
 connection with the money-lender and the miser, and the disas- 
 ter and the crime." 
 
 The words, as we read tliem, have a show of authority. The 
 speaker, who was a tall and, as we liave said before, a portly 
 person, stood up while he spoke, which should have lent more 
 authority to his words. But there was something lacking. 
 What was it ? A little hesitation ; a doubtful ring, as if he were 
 making excuses. When he had finished, he turned abruptly 
 and walked out of the room, but not in his customary manner. 
 It was like a retreat. 
 
 The girls looked after him with astonishment, 
 
 '* W^hat ails the pater?" asked one. 
 
 " I feel," said another, softly, " as if he had been boxing my 
 ears — all our ears — all round. Did one ever sec him like 
 that before?" 
 
 "It seems," said a third, "as if he was by no means anx- 
 ious to establish the connection. Well, we don't actually want 
 money. But it would be nice to have millions, wouldn't it? 
 And I don't believe the world would much care how they were 
 made, after all. Money-lending — " 
 
 " And gambling-places — " 
 
 " And dancing-places. Everything disreputable ; though why 
 a man should not own a place where people dance I do not 
 know. It is not wicked to dance, I believe. If it is, we arc the 
 chief of sinners." 
 
 " 1 believe," said the eldest, " that it was formerly considered 
 wicked for the working people and lower orders to dance. Well, 
 you see the pater is a K.C.M.G., and perhaps lie would rather 
 have no uncle at all than an uncle who made his money disrcp-
 
 184 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 utably. rorliaps it isn't nice, when a man has arrived at hon- 
 ors like tliesc, to have to own an uncle who was — well — what 
 they say this man was." 
 
 "All the same," said the youngest, " the two men in the two 
 pictures are exactly like Herbert."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 THE FIRST PATIENT 
 
 Sir John fled from the house. He could not remain in it. 
 He fled because of the terror and the shame and the sickness 
 that filled his soul. He was like one who hears from a phy- 
 sician the news that he has an incurable disease which will fill 
 his future with a perpetual pain, and will lay upon him a bur- 
 den impossible to be sliaken off. Such a one must needs get 
 up and walk al)out ; he must be alone. For he had no doul)t — 
 none whatever — that the girls had really discovered their English 
 relations ; and he had no doubt — none whatever — he divined 
 the fact — he felt it — that this woman, this Mrs. Calvert, knew 
 the whole of the family history, including a certain lamentable 
 and terrible episode in the life of his father, Charles Calvert 
 Burley. The name, the date, the resemblance — all these things 
 together proved too strong a chain of evidence. 
 
 As for himself, he knew no more than his daughters to what 
 family his father belonged. It was a question he had never put. 
 But he knew certain things, and he remembered certain things ; 
 and he had learned little by little to understand that concerning 
 these things there must be silence. He remembered, for in- 
 stance, a midnight embarkation in some far country ; he re- 
 membered a long vovage on board a small sailing-vessel, in 
 which his father, mother, and himself were the only passengers; 
 he remembered crowded streets, and then another vessel, and 
 another vovage. And he knew — how ? He could not answer 
 that question. He knew — he had gathered — there had been 
 hints from his mother about silence — that the place of the mid- 
 night embarkation was Sydney; that his father, if not his 
 mother as well — a dreadful possibility which he never dared to 
 put into words — was a convict escaping from transportation ;
 
 186 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 th;it they were landed in London ; and that after as brief a 
 delay as possible they re-embarked for New Zealand, a colony 
 then so thinly populated that no one would look for the 
 escaped convict, even if any search at all was made, or any 
 notice taken of his escape, in a place so far from British law. 
 lie knew also why his father kept on the fringe or edge of the 
 English settlement and avoided the haunts of men. Even after 
 years have turned the black hair white, one may be recognized. 
 But no one ever recognized in the peaceful, successful, and re- 
 tiring settler, Mr. Burleigh, tlie ex-convict, Charles Burley, trans- 
 ported for life, in commutation of the capital offence, to the 
 penal settlement of New South Wales. 
 
 This shameful story, then, was a secret known, first, to his 
 mother and to himself ; when his mother died, to himself alone. 
 No one suspected it. The old man died in silence, believing 
 that his son knew nothing, and the son had this secret all to 
 himself. 
 
 A secret, he said to himself whenever he thought of it — in 
 these later days scMom — which would never be discovered; it 
 could not ; there was not a possibility of discovery. The crew 
 of the brig which brought them home knew nothing ; they were 
 all long since dispersed or dead. No one could by any pos- 
 sibility connect the prosperous settler with the forger. The 
 crime itself might be remembered. You may read it in the 
 "Annual Register" for 1825; but the criminal — he disap- 
 peared forever when he went on board that brig. The settler's 
 purpose, in which he succeeded, was to escape, to begin again, 
 unsuspected, and without the stigma of his crime. He had one 
 son only to inherit that stigma, and he succeeded so far that 
 no one except that son knew or suspected the truth. 
 
 As for the boy, the possession of the secret made him re- 
 served, like his father. But it was his own secret to himself. 
 He married without the smallest dread of discovery ; as his 
 children grew up around him, he began to forget his secret; 
 when they speculated about their English origin he listened 
 and lauirhed. There was not the slightest fear of discovery. 
 It was impossible ; and now, after all these years, the thing he 
 li.-id quite ceased to fear was upon him. In his own heart, 
 despite his words of doubt, there was no doubt. The girls had
 
 THE FIRST PATIENT 187 
 
 found tlieir grandfather ; one step more and they would learn 
 that their grandfather was a forger who had been sentenced to 
 be hanged, and a convict who had been transported for life. 
 What had the woman said — " Disaster — misfortune — crime ?" 
 What could she mean but the crime of Charles Calvert Burley, 
 born in the year 1801, whose face was like his grandson's? 
 And he had brought his wife and daughters all the way to Eng- 
 land in order that they might hear this shameful story. 
 
 There was no man in the whole world more miserable than 
 Sir John Burleigh when he fled from his house, and walked 
 quickly away with hanging head and rounded shoulders. Sir 
 John I3urleigh, K.C.M.G., who usually faced the world with a 
 frank smile and confident carriage, as behooves one wlio lias 
 done nothing to be ashamed of, walked along with the outward 
 siofns of one who had been kicked into the street. 
 
 No connection could be proved ; no — that was certain — no, 
 but the suspicion would remain ; a suspicion amounting to a 
 certainty. 
 
 Of course his footsteps took him straight to Westminster ; 
 in the midst of these very painful meditations he was dragged 
 by the silent spirit within him, which makes us do such won- 
 derful things, to Great College Street itself, lie was startled 
 out of his terrors by finding himself actually opposite the very 
 door of the house. He knew it by the great curtain of gor- 
 geous leaves and the name on the brass plate — " Luciau Calvert, 
 M.D." 
 
 He hesitated a moment. Then he mounted the steps and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 He asked for Dr. Calvert. He was shown into the consult- 
 ino--room. The time was a little after six, when the September 
 sun is close upon setting, and the light in a small back room, 
 lookinsr south throun^h a frame of vine leaves, drops into twi- 
 light, and in the twilight men see ghosts, Thorcforo, Sir John 
 reeled and gasped and became faint, and would have fallen but 
 for the doctor, who caught him. " Why," cried Lucian, gently, 
 " what is this ?" 
 
 The gliost that Sir John had seen was the ghost of his own 
 father. This ghost rose from his chair when he entered the 
 room, and looked at him inquiringly. All the men of tiic Bur-
 
 188 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 ley family had this strong common resemblance, and in this 
 young man the common resemblance was stronger than in any 
 other son of the Ilouse. But Sir John knew not that Dr. Cal- 
 vert was his cousin. 
 
 The doctor put his patient in an arm-chair and stood over 
 him. Sir John began to recover. His nerves had already re- 
 ceived a great shock by the discovery of the day, and the 
 aspect of this young man with the black hair, the regular feat- 
 ures, the square chin, the black eyes deeply set, recalled to him 
 in this unexpected manner his own father in the very house 
 where he was born. Picture to yourself, dear reader, a visit 
 from your own father as he was at five-and-twenty ! Think 
 how it might be to meet once more yourself as you were at five- 
 and-twenty ! What becomes of a man's old self ? Last year's 
 leaves are dust and garden mould, but where is last year's 
 man ? AVhat had the girls told him ? That the men of the 
 family were all alike ; and here was one, presumably some kind 
 of cousin, who was what his father had been before his hair 
 turned gray. 
 
 " Will you take a glass of water ?" asked the doctor, " or a 
 glass of wine ?" 
 
 "A sudden giddiness," Sir John replied; "I am better al- 
 ready." 
 
 " Was it on account of the giddiness that you called ?" He 
 looked at the card. " You are Sir John Burleigh, of New 
 Zealand ? We have heard of you, Sir John," 
 
 " I heard — somebody told nic — that a physician was living — 
 in this house — and I thought — -I thought — I would call and 
 state my symptoms." 
 
 Lucian inclined his head gravely. What was the matter 
 with this gentleman that he should faint on entering the room, 
 that he should hesitate in his talk, and look so anxious and 
 troubled ? 
 
 He went on to describe his symptoms. There are a great 
 many diseases in the bag, but hitherto this fortunate colonial 
 liad enjoyed none of them. He had no experiences, therefore; 
 and as he was a very poor actor, he mixed up imaginary symp- 
 toms in a way which carried no conviction at all with them. 
 It is rare, indeed, to find a man who suffers from insomnia,
 
 THE FIRST PATIENT 189 
 
 nervous apprehensions, neuralgia, giddiness, want of appetite, 
 asthma, indigestion, headache, heaviness in the limbs, and other 
 incidental maladies all at the same time. Lucian listened, won- 
 dering whether the man was deranged for the moment. 
 
 At last he stopped. " I think I have told you all, doctor." 
 
 " In fact," said the physician, " you have fallen into a 
 hypochondriac condition. You hardly look it. I should say 
 that your normal condition was one of great mental and physi- 
 cal strength. You look as if you were suffering under some 
 shock. Your parents, now, were they hypochondriac ? No ? 
 Well, I will write you a prescription, and you will call again in 
 a day or so." 
 
 Sir John received the prescription with a little verbal admo- 
 nition, meekly. He also deposited two guineas with the meek- 
 ness of the unaccustomed patient. 
 
 "I hear. Dr. Calvert," he said, timidly, "that you have in 
 this house certain portraits of the Burley family, the people 
 about whom there is now so much fuss and talk. I believe 
 that I belong to — ahem! — a very distant branch of the family. 
 We spell our name differently. Certainly we are not claimants; 
 my daughters have already been privileged to see them. May 
 1 venture to ask your permission — " 
 
 Lucian laughed. He understood the sham symptoms ; but 
 why did the man faint? And why was he so nervous and 
 agitated ? 
 
 " My dear sir," he said, " why didn't you say at the outset 
 that you wanted to sec the portraits ? I will show them to you 
 with the greatest pleasure. I think, however, that my wife is 
 in the drawing-room. You will iind her a better showman 
 than I—" 
 
 In fact, it irritated him to talk about his ancestors. Mar- 
 garet could relate their histories if she chose. But he could 
 not. They were his ancestors, you sec. 
 
 There was just enough light left for seeing the pictures. The 
 faces showed in shadow, which suited their expression better 
 than a stronger light. 
 
 Sir John looked round him. The Burley face stared at him 
 from every panel. 
 
 A young lady rose and greeted him. "Sir John Burleigh?"
 
 190 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 she said. " I am not surprised to see you. Your dauglitors 
 have told you, probably, that they called here this morning. I 
 suppose you have learned that they discovered a very striking 
 resemblance to their brother and to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, they told mc — they told me — " he began to look about 
 the room curiously, " Frankly, I know nothing at all about my 
 own people — of what rank or station they were. For some 
 reason or other my father never told rae, and I never inquired. 
 1 have been an active man, building up my own fortune, and 
 endeavoring the best for my country, and I never felt any cu- 
 riosity on the subject. One need not be ashamed, Mrs. Calvert, 
 of being the architect of one's own fortunes." 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 "With my children it is different. They begin with the 
 work done for them. Naturally they would like, if they could, 
 to be connected with some good English stock." 
 
 " The portrait," said Margaret, quietly, " whicli most attracted 
 your daughters was this — Charles Calvert Burley, born lyoi." 
 
 "Good God! It is my father!" 
 
 The words escaped him. He gave away his secret at once in 
 this foolish fashion, and then, the blackness of despair falling 
 upon him, he sat down in a chair and gazed helplessly at Margaret. 
 
 "Is it your father? Did you not know, then, that you be- 
 longed to this family ?" 
 
 " No. I did not know. It is my father's portrait." 
 
 "Sir John, do you know the history of your father?" Sir 
 John made no reply. " Your daughters do not. Tliey have 
 no suspicion. But you — do you know the story ?" 
 
 In such a case silence is confession. Never did a man look 
 more guilty than this man. 
 
 " You do know it, then," said Margaret. 
 
 He groaned. 
 
 " In that case I need not recall it." 
 
 "There is no other person in the world — not my wife, not 
 my girls, not my son — who knows or suspects this thing, ex- 
 cept myself — and you — and anybody else whom you may tell." 
 
 " I tell these things to no one. Why should I ? My hus- 
 band, I believe, may know. That is, lie may have heard it; 
 but he does not talk about the misfortunes of this familv."
 
 THE FIRST PATIEKT 191 
 
 " Your husband, he is one of them ; he is exactly like myself 
 as I was thirty years ago. lie is exactly like my father. Who 
 is he ?" 
 
 Margaret evaded the question, 
 
 "The men arc all alike, Sir John. Well, I shall not tell your 
 daughters, nor shall I tell any one. My knowledge of Charles 
 Burley does not extend beyond his — his — exile. He went out 
 to Australia, and there he disappeared." 
 
 *' It is everything to me — my position in the world ; my 
 children's pride and self-respect ; my wife's faith in me — every- 
 thing — everything." 
 
 " If they persist in hunting up the past," Margaret went on, 
 "they may, perhaps, somehow — one does not know — come 
 across this story. Because, to begin with, it is all printed in 
 the ' Annual Register,' where I read it." 
 
 " They are so certain about it ; they are so excited about it ; 
 they are so sure to come again. Promise that — you will not tell 
 them — I implore you. If I could buy your silence — if you are 
 poor — I vt'ill give you £10,000 on the day when I put my girls 
 on board again in happy ignorance." His offer of a bribe did 
 not offend Margaret, because his terrible distress filled her with 
 pity. 
 
 "Indeed you must not buy my silence — I give it to you. 
 Only remember, this is an open secret. They will discover it 
 if they examine or cause other people to examine the case. 
 After all, there is no absolute certainty in a resemblance or a 
 date. I suppose that without your help they could not con- 
 nect your father with this portrait?" 
 
 " I cannot deny the family. I sup[)Ose that we are Burleys — 
 wc arc exactly like those people ; I do not think I could possi- 
 bly repudiate the family." 
 
 " Find another ancestor, then." 
 
 " Eh ?" Sir Jolin looked np quickly. 
 
 "Find another ancestor. Here they are — all the younger 
 sons; a family likeness may descend through younger as avcU 
 as elder sons. If I were you, Sir John, I would choose another 
 ancestor for them out of this collection." 
 
 A counsel of deception — and offered to the man of the great- 
 est integrity in the whole of New Zealand ; the man whose
 
 192 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 whole career liad been alisolutcly lioncst, trutliful, and above- 
 board, and lie adopted it instantly and without hesitation. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he replied, hastily. *' It is the only thino^ open 
 to me. Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Calvert. AVill you kindly 
 suggest — or recommend me — some one ?" 
 
 Margaret smiled. " How would tliis young man do? lie is 
 Joshua Calvert Burley, born in 1747. Ilis father was hanged 
 for highway robbery." 
 
 " I don't care whether they find out that or not. Hanging, a 
 Imndrcd and fifty years ago, doesn't matter. Besides, one 
 would say it was for killing a nobleman in a duel, or for trai- 
 torous correspondence with the I'retcnder. Joshua, born in 
 1747. What did he do?" 
 
 " I believe he died quite young, in childhood. But I am not 
 certain, and no one will ever take the trouble to hunt up the 
 matter." 
 
 "I shall remember. Joshua Calvert Burley, born in 1747. 
 He changed his name to Burleigh, I suppose, and became " — 
 Sir John looked guiltily cunning — "what do you think, now, 
 that he would become ?" 
 
 "An eminent — sugar-baker?" Margaret suggested, gravely. 
 The two conspirators were too serious to think of smiling over 
 their deceptions. 
 
 " Why not ? Sugar-baker — made his fortune — baked sugar 
 at — Bristol, perhaps. My father, Charles, was born — a younger 
 son — in 1801; lost his money when he was forty years of 
 age, and went out to New Zealand. How shall 1 prove all 
 these lies ?" 
 
 " That, Sir John, I leave to your advisers. 1 have always un- 
 derstood that genealogists will prove anything." 
 
 " It must be done ; there is no other way out of it. Heav- 
 ens ! I am going to embark on a whole sea of falsehoods ; but 
 all I ask of you is silence. You have never seen me before, 
 l)Ut your husband is my cousin — I don't know how — and you 
 look as if you could be true as steel — true, if you give a promise 
 even to a stranger — and a cousin whom you have never seen 
 before." 
 
 " I have promised. It is all T can do." 
 
 " I'romisc again," he rcjieatcd. " Promise to forget what I
 
 TUK FIRST PATIENT 193 
 
 said at first sight of this picture, and tell no one the story of 
 Charles Burley's crime." 
 
 " Would it not be better, even now, to tell them ? You are 
 not to blame. And — and — I had forgotten that — you stand 
 very near to the succession — there is this enormous fortune 
 waiting. If you send in your claim — " 
 
 "What! Sir John Burleigh, K.C.M.G., to claim a fortune by 
 confessing that he is the son of a convicted criminal, and that 
 he knew it all his life? Not all the wealth of all the Indies 
 would induce me to send in that claim !" 
 
 "But your children — they will force your hand." 
 
 " Not if I give them another grandfather. My dear young 
 lady, hitherto, believe me, I have been an honest man. At the 
 present crisis there is not a trick, or a falsehood, or an invention, 
 which I would not practise in order to keep my girls from this 
 discovery." He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. 
 
 It was true. Not a trick or a falsehood from which he 
 would shrink in order to save his girls from this shame. 
 
 " I am very sorry for you. Sir John. I am very sorry in- 
 deed. I will keep your secret, believe me. That such a thing 
 should be rediscovered after all these years in such a strange 
 manner is most wonderful. But if the knowledge of it is lim- 
 ited by you and me, no harm can be done." 
 
 IIo groaned again. 
 
 " I tliink that the plan I have suggested will be the best. Go 
 to some genealogist and have your family tree made out with 
 this Joshua Calvert Burley." 
 
 " I will— I will." 
 
 "Sir John, you belong to a very unhappy family. Come 
 here again, and I will show you how disaster and unhappiness 
 have pursued them from father to son. They prosper only 
 when they separate themselves from the parent stock. You 
 have prospered — you are a great man — you are a rich man, I 
 believe ; but the moment you return to your own people you 
 are struck with misfortune, in the shape of this threatened dis- 
 covery. Good-night, Sir John. Come to see mc when you 
 have got your genealogy complete ; and don't be anxious about 
 things, because, you see, unless you own this Charles for your 
 father, no one can possibly charge you with being his son."
 
 1U4 BEYOND Tllli UliEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Sir John went home a little lightened. If only this youn<^ 
 lady would keep her promise ! lie wonld get out of London as 
 soon as possible ; he would take his girls home again to New- 
 Zealand six months earlier than he had intended ; and he would 
 nail that other ancestor to his pedigree. 
 
 " My dears," he said at dinner, " I have been to see those 
 pictures." 
 
 " Well r 
 
 " The resemblance is, as you say, very striking. But I ob- 
 served that the resemblance was through all the men's faces, 
 though the expression varies. For instance, there is an earlier 
 one still more like Herbert, and Mrs. Calvert declares that I am 
 myself like every one of them. Well, as you say, the resem- 
 blance is too strong to be mere coincidence." 
 
 " There!" They all clapped their hands. " He has given in." 
 
 " I have certainly given in. We belong, I am convinced, to 
 that family. But as regards that portrait of Charles Calvert 
 Burley, whose name is the same, and whose age would now bo 
 the same as my father's — there I do not give in, although the 
 resemblance of Herbert to that portrait is so striking." 
 
 " Well, but who else — " 
 
 "That we shall see. Perhaps I have a clew — " he ended, 
 mysteriously. " Perhaps the clew may be followed up. Per- 
 haps in a little while there may be something definite discov- 
 ered. Only, my dear girls, give up thinking of the great inher- 
 itance. For if my clew proves correct, you will have between 
 yourselves and the estate all the sons and daughters of the 
 miser and all their sons and daughters — and you will inherit no 
 more of the Burley estates than the Queen herself !"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 HERBERT AND THE PORTRAITS 
 
 The girls came again — the very next day — to see the por- 
 traits. This time they brought with them their brother, the 
 Reverend Uerbert, and begged permission to show him — in one 
 of the old pictures hanging on the wall — himself. 
 
 " I knew you would come again soon," said Margaret, wel- 
 coming them with her sweet, serious smile. 
 
 "Oh! but only think! If you had been brought up in 
 ignorance of your own people ! And then if you suddenly 
 found out who they were, you would naturally feel curious and 
 interested. And this is the only place where we can hear any- 
 thing about them." 
 
 " I shall always be pleased to show you the portraits." 
 
 *' Here, Herbert " — they led him to the portrait of Charles 
 Burley, born 1801 — "this is the picture we pounced upon for 
 grandfather's, because it is so exactly like you. Is it not, Mrs. 
 Calvert? Look at him — Charles Calvert — the same Christian 
 name, and born the same year. It must be he."^^ 
 
 " It is like him, certainly," said Margaret. " But perhaps this 
 earlier one resembles him still more." 
 
 She pointed to the portrait of the madman. Herbert re- 
 sembled him still more closely than the other. For in his eyes 
 tliis morning there lay a strange light of expectancy. They 
 looked upwards, as if waiting for a fuller faith. It is the light 
 of religious exaltation ; only one who can believe greatly has 
 such eyes. A man with that look becomes a prophet, the 
 founder of a new creed, a maniac, or a martyr. A monastery 
 should be f nil of such eyes ; I believe it is not, as a rule. But 
 I am told there are nuns in plenty who have these eyes. 1 ou 
 may also iind them, here and there, in the Salvation Army.
 
 19G BEYOND THE DREAMS OB" AVARICE 
 
 ilcrbert looked at both pictures, one after the other. " What 
 was this man?" lie asked, pointing^ to the later portrait. 
 
 " Ilis name was Charles Calvert Burley " — Margaret evaded' 
 the real question. 
 
 " What was he ? and what became of the man ?" Herbert af- 
 fected the brusque and direct manner of the young clerics who 
 go so far in self-mortification as to pretend not to like the 
 society and the talk of young ladies. I'crhaps this manner is 
 designed to show that maceration still continues; perhaps it is 
 a measure of self-protection ; perhaps it is designed to assert 
 the authority of the director. 
 
 Margaret colored and looked a little annoyed. These blue- 
 eyed, fair girls, who seem so meek to outward view, can show 
 annoyance, and can answer back at times. 
 
 " I do not know," she replied, shortly. If the question re- 
 ferred to the completiun of that exile's life, she did not know 
 — she could only guess. If it referred to the earlier part of 
 his life, it was — Give her the benefit of the doubt. Schoolmen 
 would allow the answer, considering the question. 
 
 " We seem to resemble all the men's faces," said Herbert, 
 looking about him. 
 
 " See, Herbert; there is the pater, too — and there — and 
 there — and there — you are both in all the portraits." 
 
 "It is impossible not to be convinced that this must be our 
 family," he stated, dogmatically. 
 
 The girls clapped their hands. " He gives in, too. And 
 the pater has given in. AVe are sure — we are quite sure. It 
 must — it must — it must be our family." 
 
 " Things are strangely and wonderfully ordered," said the 
 clergyman. " We come to England on a visit — that is, you do. 
 We have no clew to our own people. We arrive just at the 
 moment wlien publicity throws a strong and sudden light upon 
 an obscure family ; we hear of these portraits ; we come here 
 to see them, and we recover our ancestors. Perhaps, in addi- 
 tion, we shall step into a colossal fortune. If that is ordered, as 
 well as this discovery of the family, it will be a great thing; a 
 great thing to pour all these treasures — ill-gotten as they were — • 
 into the lap of the Church." 
 
 " You forget, Herbert," said the sisters, " that they will be
 
 HERBERT AND THE PORTRAITS 197 
 
 poured into the pater's lap, and when it comes to pouring out 
 again, the colony will certainly come before the Church." 
 
 " And," said Margaret, " allow me to point out that a resem- 
 blance does not constitute proof. You would have to establish 
 your connection with this Charles, and it may prove difficult." 
 
 " Since I cannot give the estates to the Church," said Her- 
 bert, coldly, " any one may have them that likes." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Burleigh, are you satisfied with these newly 
 found ancestors ?" 
 
 "No," he replied, with candor, "I am not. I should have 
 liked either the higher or the lower class — even the lowest. 
 These people are of the middle class — the snug, respectable, 
 grovelling middle class ; incapable of aims or desires save to 
 be rich and comfortable ; incapable of sacrifice, or generosity, 
 or things spiritual — the outcome, the prop, and the pride of 
 Protestantism. Except that man " — he pointed to the mad- 
 man — " they all grovel." 
 
 " My dear Herbert," cried his sisters, " what do you know 
 about them? All this from a portrait?" 
 
 " What I hoped to find, if not a noble family, was one 
 steeped in crime — black with crime ; my grandfather a criminal 
 — all of us under the curse of the forefathers — ourselves await- 
 ing the doom, yet rising spiritually above it, making our very 
 punishments steps unto higher things !" His voice rose shrill 
 and high ; his eyes flashed ; it was a curious outburst of fanat- 
 icism. 
 
 " Herbert !" cried the girls all together. 
 
 "So that I could go about among our poor sinners, who 
 commit a new sin every time they speak or act, and say to 
 them : ' Brothers, I am one with yon. We have the same fore- 
 fathers — criminals, drunkards, profligates. We are all alike, 
 up to the neck in sin and the consequences of sin.' " 
 
 "How would that knowledge help your sinful brothers?" 
 asked Margaret. 
 
 "It would make them feel me near them — one with them. 
 They would understand me. With sympathy much may be 
 done. AVith sympathy and confession, all may be done." 
 
 "It would be better for them, I should think, that they 
 should feel that you were far above them."
 
 198 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 lie sliook his head. " The Franciscans were the most suc- 
 cessful of any prcaelicrs or teachers among the people. They 
 lived amonof them — on their fare — in their cottages." 
 
 *' Did they desire that their fathers should be criminals ?" 
 asked Margaret, whom the manner of this young clergyman of- 
 fended. " Had they no respect, pray, for the Fifth Command- 
 ment ?" 
 
 The Rev. Herbert turned his bright eyes upon her, but an- 
 swered not. Young as he was, he would not allow a woman to 
 enter into argument with him — a deacon. Then he waved his 
 hand contemptuously at the pictures. " Middle-class respect- 
 ability," he replied ; " I would rather have no ancestors at all 
 than such snug middle-class respectability." 
 
 " If you want wickedness," said Margaret, " perhaps I can find 
 you enough among your people here — if they are your people 
 — to satisfy even you. There is this man, for instance " — she 
 pointy to the deceased money-lender — " to be sure, he is not 
 your grandfather. He lived for ninety and odd years. He 
 ruined multitudes by his gaming-tables. He ruined other mul- 
 titudes by keeping houses for profligate and abandoned per- 
 sons. And he ruined other multitudes again by usury and ex- 
 orbitant interest. He is, apparently, a cousin of yours. What 
 more do you want? Go among the people of your parish, sir, 
 and tell them that you can now sit down with them proudly 
 because you are closely related to a man whose profession, like 
 their own, was Destruction and Ruin." 
 
 Margaret liad never before spoken with such plainness. The 
 young man winced — plain speech disconcerted him. But he 
 recovered. 
 
 " What my people understand is not the unpunished wicked- 
 ness of a rich man, but the fall and the conviction and the 
 punishment of one of themselves. Give me a convict for my 
 grandfather !" 
 
 Margaret turned away. Strange ! What maddened the fa- 
 ther only to think of, the son ardently desired. 
 
 *' I don't think Herbert quite means what he says," the 
 eldest sister explained, while the others behind her mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " On the contrary, I mean all that I say. I should like, for
 
 HEKBERT AND THE PORTRAITS 199 
 
 the sake of the Church, to be sprung from the meanest and 
 lowest and basest — " 
 
 " At all events, Herbert, you would not like your sisters 
 also to belong to the meanest and the lowest and the basest ? 
 Oh no, you cannot !" 
 
 " You cannot, Herbert !" murmured the chorus. " Oh, you 
 cannot!" 
 
 " Perhaps," Margaret added, •' when you learn more of the 
 history of these portraits, you may be satisfied." 
 
 '* You know their history ?" 
 
 "I know some of it. Since it is not likely that you will get 
 exactly what you want, why do you not commit a crime of your 
 own and go to prison for it? Then you will be really on the 
 same level as those poor creatures, and you will spare the mem- 
 ory of your ancestors, and inflict on your sisters only the shame 
 of their brother." 
 
 " You do not understand," said Herbert, coldly. 
 
 ** Well, Herbert," said his sister, " look around you ; choose 
 your ancestor among them all." 
 
 " He is here." The young clergyman pointed to the madman. 
 " This is the ancestor that I want. His eyes have a look of ex- 
 pectancy and of faith. I should say that he had been spiritual- 
 ly blessed, according to the light of his time — which was not 
 our time, but the darkest age of black Protestantism. I have 
 nothing more to say. Madam " — he bowed with more polite- 
 ness than one might have expected — " I thank you for showing 
 me these pictures, which I verily believe are those of our people. 
 As for what you said — you do not understand me at all. For 
 the sake of the Church we must resign all — even the honor of our 
 name, even our pride in being the children of good men." He 
 went away without taking leave of his sisters. 
 
 " He is not often like that," said Lucy. "But sometimes he 
 is in the skies and sometimes in the depths. He has got a 
 craze that he ought to be like the wretched creatures among 
 whom he works — if not a criminal himself, at least connected 
 with criminals. It is not the first time that he has flamed up in 
 this way." 
 
 Then they sat and talked about these dead and gone people 
 whose history was so sad. Margaret told them something, but
 
 200 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 not all — tlic tilings that saddened hut did not shame. She told 
 about the miser, and how his children ran away from home one 
 after the other; and about the money-lender, his successor, who 
 suffered his sister to live in the most abject poverty. She hid 
 from them the story of the forger who was sent to Australia, 
 and that of the man who went mad from religious terrors, and 
 that of the man who was hanged. Siie tuld them enough. The 
 possession of an English family, they discovered, would not nec- 
 essarily make them more joyful. 
 
 " Yet we have a family !" cried Luc)'. " Even to have a fam- 
 ily like this, laden with troubles, is surely better than none." 
 
 When they went down-stairs they found, standing at the door 
 just opened for her, a tall, thin old woman, dressed in a blue 
 frock and a check shawl. 
 
 " Stop a moment," said Margaret. " You \vant to know your 
 own people ? Let me introduce you to your cousin, Lucinda 
 Avery, daughter of Lucinda Burley, who was the sister of the 
 rich man recently deceased. Lucinda Avery is now in Maryle- 
 bone workhouse — a pauper. We are going to take her out soon 
 — in a few days. Meantime she is, I believe, your cousin. My 
 dear" — she addressed the old woman — " these young ladies are 
 the daughters of Sir John Burleigh, from New Zealand, and they 
 believe themselves to be the 2;rauddauf>hters of one Charles Bur- 
 ley-" 
 
 " Son of Charles ? He was my mother's brother — her brother. 
 Oh ! now I remember — " But she hesitated, looking in won- 
 der at these girls so beautiful and so richly dressed. 
 
 " We are not certain that he was our grandfather," said one 
 of the girls. 
 
 The old woman shook her head. " There was never any other 
 Charles in the family," she said. "Oh ! I know — I know my 
 own. Mother told me all she could. I don't forffet — no — no: 
 about mother's family I can talk." 
 
 Lucy took her hand. "You poor thing!" slie said. " Mv 
 name is Lucinda, too. I don't think a cousin of ours ought 
 to be in the workhouse. I will speak to my father about 
 you." 
 
 The old woman looked at her wonderingly. " Sir John !" she- 
 repeated. " Sir John ! Oh ! It's wonderful."
 
 HERBERT AND THE PORTRAITS 201 
 
 " Mrs. Calvert will tell ns how we can lielp you," Lucy con- 
 tinued. " You will let us help you ?" 
 
 " Sir John ! Sir John !" the old woman repeated, staring. 
 
 The girls nodded and ran down the steps. The old woman 
 looked after them. 
 
 " And their grandfather — my uncle — he was a common con- 
 vict," she murmured. " From New Zealand 1 And their father 
 is Sir John — Sir John. Mother said she couldn't never get over 
 the disofrace of her brother beingr a common convict. And look 
 at them now ! And their grandfather was a common convict !" 
 
 She pursed her thin lips and shook her head, and went in- 
 doors to talk with Margaret. 
 9*
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHO AM I? 
 
 " Come," said Margaret, talcing the old woman's hand. '* I 
 think my husband is in his study. Let mc take you to have a 
 little talk with him." 
 
 But Lucinda Avery continued gazing after the girls as they 
 walked down Collene Street. 
 
 " They're the daughters of Sir John," she repeated. " Sir — 
 John — Oh ! and their grandfather was Charles, who was a com- 
 mon convict, and came back and went out to New Zealand. I 
 saw him before he went." 
 
 " Ilush ! Do not speak of that. They know nothing about 
 it. And remember — those who know most speak least, Lucinda." 
 
 " Mother told me all about it long afterwards. Oh ! and I 
 am the cousin of those young ladies — and them dressed so love- 
 ly ! And such lovely manners! They want to call at the House 
 to see me. They'd be taken to the matron. Such sweet young 
 ladies! and their grandfather was a — " 
 
 " Lucinda," said Margaret, sharply, " keep silence about what 
 you know. It is quite enough to think that you and I know." 
 
 Tlic possession of this knowledge made the old lady smile 
 and bend her head sideways, and even amble a litth; — but one 
 may be mistaken. The pride of sharing such a possession with 
 the " lady of the house " fell upon her and gave her great com- 
 fort. How elevating and sustaining a thing is personal pride — 
 the pride of some personal distinction, if it is only a glass eye ! 
 Never before had this old woman had any possession of her own 
 at all, except the sticks and duds of her miserable room. 
 
 Margaret looked into the study. *' If we do not disturb you, 
 Lucian, here is our cousin Lucinda Avery, of whom I spoke. 
 Come, Lucinda."
 
 WHO AM I? 203 
 
 Lucian rose and welcomed the pauper cousin, who received 
 his liand with a courtesy humiliating for a cousin to witness. 
 
 " Our cousin remains in the union, dear, only until I have 
 concluded the arrangements for getting her comfortably cared 
 for outside. You are not going back to your old quarters, 
 Lucinda ; you shall have your own room, and pleasant people 
 to cocker you up and keep you warm." 
 
 The prospect did not seem very attractive to the old lady. 
 She pulled her shawl more tightly round her, and said, with 
 meaning, that the union was kept nice and warm, and she'd 
 never had such good meals. 
 
 " But not so warm as the nest we shall find for you. Lucian, 
 our cousin has not been in a position to acquire much book- 
 learning; but she knows the whole history of this House, down 
 to the miser and his five children." 
 
 " Mother told me," she repeated. " On Sunday nights she 
 nsed to talk to me about them, sitting by the light of the street- 
 lamp. Other nights we worked, and mother talked to herself 
 with her lips all the time. I know a great deal. You are a 
 Burley, too," she added, staring at Lucian. " They are all alike, 
 the Burleys. A reg'lar Burley, you are, just exactly like the 
 pictures up-stairs." 
 
 " Didn't you read the name on the door-plate ?" asked Marga- 
 ret. " Lucian Calvert." 
 
 " I read print — almost any kinds of print," Lucinda replied. 
 " But not door-plates. Lucian Calvert Burley, then. They are 
 all Calvert Burleys. Every one." 
 
 " Oh !" said Lucian. " Then, pray, who am I ?" 
 
 She turned her head sideways. Every gesture that this poor 
 woman used seemed not to fit her ; tall, thin, dark, with strong- 
 ly marked and clear-cut features, she should have been full of 
 dignity and authority — a Queen of Tragedy. Instead of which 
 there was no part in the humblest comedy that she could fill. 
 She was timid ; she had never before met such people as these, 
 who neither bullied her nor wanted to sweat her ; but she had 
 a secret shared with " the lady of the house." And she knew 
 all about the Burleys. The mixture of pride and timidity pro- 
 duced remarkable phenomena in her carriage. She turned her 
 liead on one side ; she smiled ; she advanced one foot, and
 
 204 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 withdrew it; she took licr liands from iindcr her apron and 
 folded them openly in front, which meant self-assertion. 
 
 " I've seen all the pictures up-stairs," she said — "every one of 
 them. And my mother's among them — with a gold cliain. And 
 the men are all alike. That's what mother used to say. ' See 
 one,' she said, 'and you've seen all.'" 
 
 And now the old lady, who had been answering in monosyl- 
 lables, began to be as garrulous as an old crow, proud to show 
 her knowledge. 
 
 " Well 3" 
 
 " You can't be the grandson of Charles, who was — I humbly 
 beg pardon " (to Margaret) ; " those who know most speak least. 
 He went abroad, and his young ladies are at home, and I've 
 seen them. Nor you can't be the grandson of James, who ran 
 away with his master's wife to America and never came back 
 again. P'r'aps you're the son of Ilcnery " (she said " Ilenery ") ; 
 " he was an actor, and so was his son. Once, a long time ago, 
 mother and me went to see a play in a theatre where they both 
 acted. We sat in the front row of the gallery, and saw beauti- 
 ful. Oh, it was lovely ! Mother's own brother and her neph- 
 ew acting — dressed up line — on the stage. It was grand ! She 
 inquired about thein — oli ! she knew about all her relations. 
 There was only one child, and he was a boy named Clarence. 
 Mother liked to find out everything. Then there was Uncle 
 John — him that died the other day. He married, and he had 
 six children. Five of them died young. Served him right, said 
 mother, for his hard heart. Then there was one son left. When 
 his mother died, the boy ran away. Mother found out so much. 
 Oh ! she used to come round here — it wasn't verv far — and ask 
 the postman, and the pot-boys, and the bakers' boys. She never 
 wrote to her brother any more, nor wanted to see him, but she 
 wanted to find out everything that happened in the family." 
 
 " And what became of that son ?" 
 
 " I don't know — mother didn't know. Unt as for you — why, 
 you are his son, for sure." 
 
 "Oh! you think—" 
 
 " You are his son, for sure and certain. You are a Burlcy, 
 and you're exactly like the picture of Uncle J(jhn, up-stairs. 
 Yes ; you are his son. You can't be anybody else."
 
 WHO AM I? 205 
 
 Marcraret said nothinof. Lucian ijazed at the old woman with 
 surprise. 
 
 " She has said it," he replied. " This convinces me, if I want- 
 ed any convincing, that all old women, and especially all illit- 
 erate old women" (he murmured these words), "are witches. 
 They read thoughts ; they know the past ; they forestall the 
 future. Go, witch ! My wife will give you tea. And don't 
 think that there are no places outside the union where you can 
 find a warm corner." 
 
 " You are his grandson," she repeated. Then she produced 
 from under her shawl a long, lean, and bony forefinger, attached 
 to her poor old hand. It was the forefinger which had been 
 cramped and bent from overwork, and to shake it in its cramped 
 shape in a man's face was something like shaking the nightmare 
 of a door-key. But she did shake it, and she became on the 
 spot a witch, a sorceress, and a prophetess. " Take care, you ! 
 Take care ! From father to son, from man to man — mother al- 
 ways said so — nothing but sin and misery, sin and misery — all 
 the men, from father to son. Your father ran away from it. 
 Take care, you ! Run away from it ! Leave this house 1 Iiun 
 away ! Did he escape — your father — did he escape?" 
 
 •'Yes; as you say, he escaped," said Lncian, impatiently. 
 
 "That dear old thing," he said, later in the evening, "your 
 interesting pauper, Margaret, carries on the family superstition, 
 I observe. Strange that my father himself — Well, never mind. 
 Here is a letter signed Clarence Burghley — B-u-r-g-h-1-c-y, an- 
 other variant of the name. Clarence John Calvert Burghley 
 says that he is a grandson of the second son — the one who 
 ran away and went on the stage. I dare say ; I don't mind if 
 he is twenty grandsons — and that he is about to forward to the 
 Treasury papers, etc., etc., etc., and may he see tlie family por- 
 traits ? Certainly, if you like to show them. Did the second 
 son murder anybody, or forge anything? llow did he distin- 
 guish himself?" 
 
 " He became, as the pauper cousin has just told us, a popular 
 actor. That is all I know about him." 
 
 "Not much of the family curse upon him, anyhow. I don't 
 think that was fair upon the others. Well, this Johnnie is 
 going to be a claimant, and the Australian, I suppose, will have
 
 206 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 a look in, and tlie little American wants justice done, too. Jus- 
 tice shall be done." 
 
 "You like the little American girl, Lucian? Yes, I thought 
 you did. She is proud and she is poor and she is independent, 
 and if we don't help her she will starve — she and her tearful 
 aunt." 
 
 " Well, my dear, why shouldn't she starve ? That is the 
 question." 
 
 " No, she must not. I want to help her, Lucian." 
 
 " Get her to go back to her own people. That is the best 
 way to help her." 
 
 " Let me ask them to stay here for a little. It won't cost us 
 much, Lucian — and to them it may mean everything — and you 
 like her talk." 
 
 " Have your own way, my dear ; you always do. Ask all the 
 cousins — New-Zealanders and all." 
 
 Then Lucian relapsed into his usual silent broodino-. 
 
 "It is too ridiculous !" he said at last. "Here am I, a man 
 of science, actually debarred from taking my own by supersti- 
 tious folly worthy of the ignorant old pauper who believes 
 in it!" 
 
 Margaret looked up, reproachfully. 
 
 " My father wanted me to make a promise. You wanted nie 
 to make a promise." 
 
 " You did make a promise, Lucian. Is it only the supersti- 
 tion ? Is there not something to be said for the infamy attach- 
 ing to the money ?" 
 
 " The world cares very little how the money has been made. 
 The world would not ask, my dear. There would be no infamy 
 at all. Very great fortunes cast out reproach ; just as success- 
 ful revolutions are no longer rebellions. Everybody would 
 know the past — old history ! old history ! — and no one would 
 care twopence about it. Put the infamy theory out of your 
 mind." 
 
 " I cannot. It would be always in my mind but for the 
 thought that we have separated ourselves from them." 
 
 " Marjorie, be reasonable. Now listen, without thinking of 
 infamy and misfortune and family curses. Do you suppose 
 that I am thinking of this estate as a means of living with more
 
 WHO AM I? 207 
 
 magnificence ? Do I want to cat and drink more ? Do I want 
 to buy you diamonds ? You know that I cannot desire these 
 things." 
 
 " No, Lucian, you cannot." 
 
 " Suppose that I saw a way to advance science — my science — 
 the science of life — the most important of all the sciences, by 
 using the vast funds which this estate would give me ? Sup- 
 pose that I had formulated a project — such a project as had 
 never before been possible for the world — and that I could bring 
 it into existence if I had this great fortune ?" 
 
 "Your dream, Lucian, would turn to Dead Sea fruit." 
 
 " Again this bogie ! Always this bogie ! My dear, I am 
 talking of things scientific, not of old wives' fables. I am 
 dreaming: of a world-wide service, Madge — wife !" — he laid 
 his hands upon her shoulders and kissed her brow — " release 
 me from that promise — set me free. Let me give this great 
 thing to humanity." 
 
 "Release you?" She sprang to her feet and roughly pushed 
 away his hands. " Release you, Lucian ? Yes, if you first re- 
 lease me from my marriage vows; if you will promise that I 
 shall never, never, never join that band of weeping mothers ! If 
 you will send me away, I will release you ; and not till then !"
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 
 
 The partncrsliip began its autumn term badly. So badly that 
 failure, bankruptcy, separation, looked imminent. Tlie relations 
 between poet and singer were more than strained ; tliey were fast 
 becoming impossible ; accusations and recriminations were of 
 daily occurrence. No more easy dropping into rhyme ; no more 
 brotherly discussions of tags and points of business. Anxiety 
 gnawed the vitals of the poet, wlio, in return, gnawed his finger- 
 nails, unless he was gnawing the mouth-piece of his brier-root. 
 Clarence sat in blackness and in gloom. Was this the light- 
 hearted butterfly, the Cigale, the sweet singer and mirtli-com- 
 
 peJler ? 
 
 For the visits to the September country-houses — usually so 
 popular and so profitable — had proved a frost. There is nobody 
 so easy to amuse as the man tired witli the day's shooting. Yet 
 Clarence failed to amuse him. lie took down with him a port- 
 folio full of new songs and little entertainments. Nobody laughed 
 when he sang them. The shadow of a forced smile, a look of 
 pity and contempt, or a sustained yawn was all the recognition 
 lie could get. And he seemed to overhear the people whisper- 
 ing: "Is tliis the most amusing man in London? Is this the 
 fellow they made such a fuss about — this little cad?" You see 
 that if a man invited to make us laugh fails to make us lau^h. 
 lie becomes at once a little cad ; that is understood. If he does 
 amuse, he is a little god. " Why, he is as solemn as an undertaker." 
 Just so; he was as solemn as an undertaker. lie sat at dinner 
 with the face of one sent down to conduct a funeral ; he made 
 no little jokes; lie told no little stories; and when he took liis 
 place at the piano and arranged the mesmeric smile, it was like 
 the croquc-morC s face suddenly lit up by a jet of gas. From
 
 A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 209 
 
 every house the unfortunate mime came away with tlie convic- 
 tion that he had failed, and that this would be his last visit. 
 
 " I knew how it would be," he said, naturally laying the blame 
 on his partner. " I knew when I took the infernal things with 
 me that the intolerable vulgarity would damn them." 
 
 " Vulgarity," the poet repeated. " Look here. Clary, I don't 
 mind your calling the things vulgar. They were meant to be. 
 For that class of people you can't be too vulgar. I'm not in the 
 circles myself, but I know what everybody knows — that they like 
 vulgarity. The vulgarity of the stage is meant for the stalls. If 
 anything, they were not vulgar enough. But a poet who respects 
 himself must draw the line somewhere." 
 
 " Why did they go as flat as ditch-water, then ?" 
 
 " Because of the singer, Clarence, my bo}'. Because they were 
 badly sung." 
 
 *' They were not badly sung." 
 
 "Tliev were. The sonos are as good as anytliino: I ever did. 
 Went as flat as ditch-water, did they ? Well, I should thinii they 
 would, considering. Flat as ditch-water! Why? Because — " 
 here he interposed some of those words which relieve the feelings 
 and heigliten the picturesque effect of the truth. " Because you're 
 losing everything — everything — your art — your memory — your 
 imagination — hang it, your very face is changed ! I wish to 
 Heaven you had never heard of this cursed estate, of which 
 you'll never touch a single penny — you can't — with a case so in- 
 complete. Your very nature is changed. You, with the happy- 
 go-lucky laugh; you, with the light touch; you, with the twin- 
 kling eye ; you, with the musical voice ; you, Clary Burghley that 
 was — good heavens! you look as if you couldn't laugh if you 
 tried. You hang your head; you scowl; your eyes have gone 
 in and your forehead has come out. It bulges. I say it bulges. 
 To think that I should live to see your forehead bulge! You've 
 gone back to your great-grandfather, the Westminster miser." 
 
 " I can't help it. It's the thought of the thing that's with me 
 always — " 
 
 "Don't tell me. As if I didn't know ! Now, look here, Clar\'. 
 Let us understand each other. Ours has been a very successful 
 business, so far, hasn't it ? I invent the pieces and write the 
 songs. All you've got to do is to sing them. You've sung
 
 210 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 them very well np till now, and I don't think I could find a better 
 interpreter anywhere. All the same, clearly I can't afford to go 
 on unless business is attended to." 
 
 " What do you want me to do, then ?" 
 
 "Do? I want you to be yourself aj^ain. That isn't much to 
 ask, is it? Look here, ray boy. The tiling presses. It'll get 
 about like wildfire that you can't make 'em laugh any longer. 
 Then you're a ruined Johnnie, because if you can't do that, you 
 see, you can't do anything." 
 
 "What do you want, then?" Clarence repeated, sullenly. 
 
 " I shall find it difficult to replace yon, Clary, but there are lots 
 of other fellows who could do the thing. I've been talking 
 it over with one — a man who's been on at the Oxford. He 
 isn't a gentleman, and he'd have to go up the back stairs; so it 
 wouldn't be quite the same thing. Still, one cannot sit down 
 and starve. What you will do, my dear boy, with your face as 
 glum as an undertaker's, I don't know." 
 
 "It's my claim that I think of all the time. If we could only 
 connect my grandfather with the family. Because the missing 
 son is dead long ago ; he must be." 
 
 The poet groaned. " That's all you think about. I talk of 
 the business, and you reply with this claim of yours." 
 
 Clarence looked all that his partner had described him — hag- 
 gard, anxious, hollow-ehceked. The fever of the claimant was 
 upon him. His face was full of anxiety. It was easy to see that, 
 as his partner said, he had lost his art— at least, for a time. The 
 ready laugh, the light of the eye, the quick smile, the easy car- 
 riage — all had vanished. You could not believe that this young 
 man had ever been able to compel laughter. 
 
 "Must we dissolve partnership. Clary?" 
 
 " I can think of nothing but the claim. You must do what 
 you like. Until this suspense is over, I can think of nothing 
 else." 
 
 " Look here. Clary. At the best, the very best, it will prove a 
 waiting business. They'll give the missing son or his heirs ten 
 years' law before they consider the claimants— and when they do, 
 i tell you plainly, your case is not established. Give over the 
 dreams, therefore, and attend to business. Even if you suc- 
 ceed at last, you've got to keep yourself for ten years to come—
 
 A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 211 
 
 perhaps for life. Attend to business, I say. Begin at once. Sit 
 down at the piano and try to sing- as you used to do." 
 
 " Stop a minute," Clarence replied, in the depths of gloom. 
 " I've got something to show you first. It's about that connec- 
 tion. Suppose I had found another document" — he pulled out 
 a pocket-book and opened it — "an important document — nothing 
 less than a letter to my grandfather from his elder brother." 
 
 " Letter to your grandfather from his elder brother ? Why, 
 how came I to miss that among the papers? Why, such a letter 
 might complete the chain," 
 
 " So I thought. And, in fact, here is the letter. It was not 
 among the letters that I showed yon. I only found it yesterday." 
 He spoke with hesitation, and he drew from his pocket a piece of 
 paper a little browned by age. It was the size of a royal octavo 
 page. It was written in ink, now pale, but was still legible. 
 
 The poet opened it — looked up sharply and curiously — and then 
 read the contents aloud : 
 
 "Dear Harry, — Yours of the 15th to hand. I can do noth- 
 ing for you with father. He is mad with you for running away 
 and for going on the stage. Says that you've disgraced the 
 family. He grows more miserly every day. I hope that your 
 prospects will improve before long. They don't seem at present 
 very rosy. I quite approve of your changing your name. The 
 pronunciation, I take it, remains the same, in spite of the two let- 
 ters stuck in the middle. My mother sends her love. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " John Clarence Burley. 
 
 "Great College Stueet, .Westminster, 
 June 20th, 1818." 
 
 When the partner had read this valuable letter he held the 
 paper up to the light; he examined the writing; he looked at 
 the edges. 
 
 " Most convincing," he said. " This letter establishes the con- 
 nection beyond the shadow of a doubt. And this being so. 
 Clary, you may rest at ease, and can give your mind to business." 
 
 He threw the letter on the floor carelessly and walked over to 
 the piano, which he opened. Then he sat down, ran his fingers
 
 212 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 over llic Iceys, and struck into an air — one of liis own light, unsnb- 
 stantial tunes. "Now, then, Clary," he said, "you are the heir 
 all right. I congratulate you. Give up thinking about it for ten 
 years. This is the song t])at ought to have fetched 'em and 
 didn't. Come along and give it with your old spirit. Think of 
 your granddad. 
 
 "Wanted, a Methusaleh ! To tell us how they kept it up — 
 
 Our fathers in the by-gones, when they made the guineas run ; 
 How tliey wasted time and drank it up, and evcrytliiiig but slept it up — 
 And always had a new love on before the old was done. 
 
 "Wanted, a Methusaleh! Old man, let's have a crack again; 
 
 Tlie port and punch, the song and laugh, the good old nights revive 
 again. 
 The gallop witli (he runaway to Gretna Green and back again, 
 The Mollys and the Dollys and the Kittys make alive again ! 
 
 Come, Clary, your liveliest manner. It wants a laugliing face all 
 throuQ;!)." 
 
 Clary paid no attention. Then his partner shut the piano with 
 a bang and a swear-word. 
 
 "You think, then," Clarence went on, as if there had been no 
 break in the conversation, "that the letter establishes the connec- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, my dear boy. I congratulate you. The con- 
 nection is established, and, I repeat, now that your mind is at 
 rest, you can go back to your work. In ten years' time, or there- 
 abouts, we will consider the letter again." 
 
 "The letter is— is— all right, you think?" 
 
 "Oh! Quite — quite," James replied, airily. " We need not 
 consider the thing seriously for ten years to come — otherwise — " 
 
 "Well? Otherwise?" 
 
 "Otherwise there would be one or two points requiring expla- 
 nation. For instance, letters seventy years ago were written on 
 letter-paper — square — size; a quarter-sheet of foolscap. Take 
 a half-sheet of foolscap: there is your letter-paper of that period. 
 This is written on a blank page cut or torn out of an old book. 
 One edge, I remark, is freshly cut. Letters used always to be 
 folded in one way — not this way. There was always a postmark 
 of some kind on a letter which had travelled through the post."
 
 A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 213 
 
 Clarence groaned. 
 
 " Moreover, tbe Treasury must have heaps of documents in 
 John Burlcy's handwritinf;. I wonder whether the handwriting 
 corresponds." 
 
 Clarence made no reply. 
 
 "It looks to me like a modern hand; not unlike your own, 
 Clary. Then I observe certain locutions which were not com- 
 monly used seventy years ago ; they didn't, for instance, say 
 ' mad ' with a man, but angry with a man ; and the modern poet- 
 ical use of the adjective ' rosy ' was then, I believe, unknown in 
 common parlance. Further, in June, 1822, your great -grand- 
 mother, who sends her love, had been dead, according to the 
 register of St. John the Evangelist, for nearly two years. These 
 are points which in ten years' time may not appear of any impor- 
 tance." 
 
 He laid the letter on the table. " Shall we get to business, my 
 partner?" he asked. 
 
 "I told you " — Clarence picked up the letter and looked at it 
 gloomily — " that I should go mad or something. I haven't even 
 wits enough left to forge a letter creditably." 
 
 "That seems rather a good thing, doesn't it?" 
 
 Clarence laughed. " What would my grandfather say ? All 
 ho cared for was that the business — whatever it was — should 
 be well done. Life was all stage business with him. Business 
 of forging letters? Good business, sometimes. Pleases people. 
 But must be well done. To think that I should expect a clumsy, 
 self-evident, ignorant piece of work like this to deceive anybody!" 
 He threw the thing into the tire. "Look here, I told you about 
 the old man's comedy, didn't I ? Everything was justified by the 
 cause. So he opened letters, told barefaced lies, acknowledged 
 them blandly when they were found out; borrowed money under 
 false pretences, forged a deed, and all to save from dishonor the 
 son of a dead friend. He would quite approve — I know he would 
 — of my writing such a letter. I would write it, too, I would, 
 if I knew the handwriting, in order to complete that claim. And 
 I should never feel ashamed, or sorry, or repentant if I got the 
 estates by it. I should not feel ashamed if I were found out." 
 
 "The moralist sighs," said the poet, "the friend sympathizes, 
 the beak condcnms."
 
 214 BEYOND TlIK DREAMS OK AVARICE 
 
 " If I can't prove my case one way I will another. I am the 
 ri_o;htful heir to millions! Millions! Millions!" He screamed 
 the words and threw up his arms. It was like the screech of an 
 liysterical girl. " Millions! And all that is wanted is a little let- 
 ter connecting my grandfather with his own people. That is all. 
 You may talk about honor as much as you like. I want my 
 rights! I want my rights! I will havt; my rights!" 
 
 His voice broke, his hands shook, his face was drawn and con- 
 vulsed. The other sprang to his feet, and caught hira as he 
 reeled. 
 
 " Sit down, old man," he said ; " sit down and be quiet. Good 
 lieavens! This cursed claim will kill you, if you do not take 
 care." 
 
 Clarence lay back — white — with closed eyes. Presently he 
 opened them and sat up. "Don't mind me, Jemmy," he said. 
 " I get carried away sometimes. Last night, in the middle of the 
 night, I woke up and went mad over this business, and I think I 
 had some kind of a fit. I found myself lying on the floor." 
 
 "This magnificent good-luck, Clary, this extraordinary wind- 
 fall, seems likely to bring with it, in its train, a wonderful collec- 
 tion of blessings. Already it has robbed you of your powers; 
 robbed you of your face ; robbed you of your laugh, and robbed 
 you of your voice. Good Lord! ^Vhat a windfall ! It has filled 
 your mind with anxiety and gloom, made you commit a forgery, 
 makes you regret only that it was a clumsy forgery, and tempts 
 you to commit another and a more careful one! It throws you 
 into fits at night and makes you hysterical by day ! Clarence 
 Biirghley, there must be a devil in this fortune of yours. 'The 
 Devil in a Fortune' might make a sort of recitative thing with a 
 rattling air running through it. The Devil in a Fortune. Eh?" 
 Uc took up the note-book. 
 
 "I tell of a mountain of gold — 
 A monstrous, incrL-dible hill ; 
 With a devil to guard it and hold, 
 A devil of wonderful will. 
 
 "And every sinner that dared 
 To carry a nugget away 
 With whackery, tliwackery clawing of claws, 
 Pawing of paws —
 
 A SHAKY PARTNERSHIP 215 
 
 I believe, Clary, we can make something of it when you get bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " It is the wretched uncertainty," said Clarence, brooking the 
 question of the devil. 
 
 "And all for nothing. Because you'll never get it — never, T 
 am convinced. You will never get it — never — never. Now, 
 Clary, I am going to see that other fellow, the man from the 
 music-hall. But I would rather keep you, and I'll give you time. 
 As for existing engagements, you won't keep them. You are in- 
 disposed — you have got influenza. I'll give you time — never 
 fear — to pull yourself together." 
 
 " Why should I not succeed ?" 
 
 " Lots of reasons. The malignity of fortune or fate — that's 
 one thing. Fate dangles this wonderful prize before your eyes — 
 puts it just, not quite, within your reach. History is full of ma- 
 lignity — witness Napoleon and Moscow." 
 
 "Talk sense, man." 
 
 " Very well. Other reasons. Because you can't prove that 
 you belong to the people at all. To you and to me there is no 
 doubt. But you can't prove it to the lawyers. Therefore you will 
 'never get it." 
 
 "Any more reasons?" 
 
 "Lots. The missing son or his heir will turn up and take 
 everything." 
 
 "No. That is impossible, after all this time." 
 
 "They'll find a will." 
 
 "They have searched everywhere, and there is no will." 
 
 " There are more reasons — but I refrain. The long and the short 
 of it is that they will give the son ten years at least before they 
 consider the claims. And when they do, you will have no chance." 
 
 Clarence groaned. 
 
 "The question, therefore, between us is, shall the partnership 
 be dissolved ?" 
 
 Clarence groaned again. 
 
 "You can't get it out of your mind. Then put it in the back- 
 ground. Don't brood over it ; something may turn up. The 
 Treasury people, even, may find letters that will actually prove 
 your claims. Take a cheerful view of the thing — and meantime 
 go back to your work."
 
 21G BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " I don't feel as if I could ever sinir another song, Jemmy. Do 
 without mc. Get another partner." 
 
 The poet used a strong — a very strong expression — and slapped 
 liis partner cheerily on the sliouldcr. 
 
 " Not just yet, Clary. T can understand now how a man may 
 be possessed by the devil. You are possessed by some devil or 
 other. You are possessed by this Fortune devil, and it's only the 
 devil that you'll ever get and not the fortune. "I'll wait a bit, 
 dear demoniac."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 THE GENEALOGIST 
 
 Sir John went about for some days with an air of great re- 
 serve. Questioned about the clew, he smiled with importance 
 and demanded patience. "But, of course," said the girls, 
 separately and in a choir, "we understand. We are going to 
 establish our connection with this mysterious, misrepresented, 
 misfortunate, misled, misspelt family." Calamities many had 
 fallen upon the family — yet it was an interesting family, and 
 distinguished in a way. There are not many families which 
 can boast of a fortune made, not lost, out of the South Sea 
 Bubble ; nor are there many who can show a real gentleman 
 highwayman. And a real miser — one of the good old candle- 
 end, cheese-paring sort — is an ornament to every family; he 
 may, and has, occurred quite high up on the social ladder. 
 
 The girls looked on ; they chattered among themselves and 
 watched the paternal countenance. It was grave, it was pre- 
 occupied, but it was cheerful. They comforted themselves, 
 the clew was being followed ; the clew would end in a key, 
 the key would open a box, or a door, or a cupboard ; and then 
 the fair maid Truth would be found most beautifully dressed 
 within. They called at the ancestral house ; they tilled the 
 house with the laughter and the chatter of girlish voices. 
 
 In point of fact, Sir John Burleigh, genealogy in hand, and 
 those ascertained facts connected with the Bristol sugar-baker, 
 had called in the assistance of an experienced and obliging 
 person who made it his business to ennoble the world, or at 
 least to enlarge the too narrow limits of gentility — for a con- 
 sideration. Provided with a clew, this benevolent person was 
 getting on as rapidly as could be desired. 
 
 The artist in pedigrees, an old man now, presented the ap- 
 
 10
 
 218 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 pcarancc and simulated the manners of a duke, or an earl at 
 least. He was a handsome man still, who knew the value of 
 good appearance and good dress ; he was what is called a " clean " 
 old man. Many old men who take a tub every day cannot 
 acliicve the appearance conveyed by this adjective. Ills face 
 was shaven, except for a heavy white mustache ; be was tall ; 
 his large hands, as white as his snowy linen, were covered with 
 signet-rings, lie sat in a room massively furnished ; one wall 
 was filled with a bookcase containing those county liistories and 
 genealogies which are so costly and such good reading, contain- 
 ing as they do the simple annals of the great. There are all the 
 Visitations which have been published ; with books of all sorts 
 on descents, ascents, heraldry, the nobles, and the gentles. 
 Over the mantel hung his own pedigree, a very beautiful thing, 
 one branch connecting with royalty in the person of Edward I. 
 For one should always practise what one preaches. Also, one 
 should live up to one's profession. And to be always in the 
 midst of noble ancestors and to find none for yourself would 
 be a clear proof of professional incapacity. 
 
 The Professor of Family Ascents — who would not climb? — 
 received Sir John with encouraging attention. 
 
 "You want to connect yourself. Sir John," he said, "with 
 an English family ? A natural ambition, especially when one 
 has risen to the proud distinction of Knight Commander of the 
 Order of St. Michael and St. George." He rolled out the title 
 as if the mere sound of it was an enjoyment. " Now, Sir 
 John, place me in full possession of all the facts — all the facts, 
 if you please — and the papers — all the papers. Then I will do 
 my best to assist you." 
 
 Sir John related the history as he wished the world to pos- 
 sess it. There was nothing false in his statement — only a snp- 
 pressio vcri. Well, you quite understand how he put it. We 
 need not dwell upon the little suppression. 
 
 " I liave noted your facts, sir. Father, named Charles Cal- 
 vert Burleigh, born 1801, married somewhere about the year 
 1834 to a lady whose Christian name was Marian Welford. 
 Emigrated to New Zealand in the year 1842, being one of the 
 earliest settlers. Succeeded with his farm and acquired prop- 
 erty. Died in 1873, and never told you — "
 
 THE GENEALOGIST 219 
 
 " I never questioned liim." 
 
 '* Never told you who he was, and your mother observed the 
 same silence. Any more facts?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Perhaps he had quarrelled with his people. Well, Sir John, 
 we need not speculate as to causes. We are here connected 
 with the facts. Where are the papers ?" 
 
 " There are none ; not even my mother's marriage certificate. 
 But we claim nothing, so it does not matter." 
 
 " Oh !" The genealogist placed his chin in his left hand and 
 fell into meditation. 
 
 " There is, however, a presumption, based on what may be 
 a coincidence." 
 
 " My dear sir," the professional discoverer lifted his head, 
 " in our work we want all the presumption we can get" — he did 
 not mean a double use of the word — "and all the coincidences 
 we can find. Coincidence is the guiding-star of genealogy." 
 
 " This coincidence is nothing less than an extraordinary re- 
 semblance between ourselves — my son, my daughters, and my- 
 self — with a certain group of family pictures." 
 
 " Yes. Of course you are aware, Sir John, that such a resem- 
 blance may throw the door open to a fine field of scandal. The 
 first Duke of — But you understand." 
 
 ** I think that we need not fear that kind of scandal." 
 
 " Is it a noble family ?" 
 
 <' Very much the contrary." 
 
 " In that case, I should say, do not let us trouble ourselves 
 about the resemblance, unless there are other reasons." 
 
 "This family is named Burley ; their great wealth has brought 
 them very much before the public of late." 
 
 "You mean the great Burley fortune? My dear sir, if you 
 can connect yourself with that family — your name is spelled dif- 
 ferently — but" — he shook his head — "it is one thing to connect 
 a colonial or an American family with an English House — even 
 a noble House — and quite another to prove things as lawyers re- 
 quire proof. Quite another thing, sir, I assure you. Quite an- 
 other thing. And without papers, letters, or any kind of evi- 
 dence, almost impossible." 
 
 " I think that you do not quite understand."
 
 220 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " What I mean, Sir John, is this. You come to me without 
 any papers and two or three facts. If you say, connect me with 
 this or that noble House, I am not hampered by any nasty facts. 
 It is a mere question wliere to hitch you on — and matter of the 
 expense you care to undertake. To make a man cousin to a 
 coronet naturally costs more than to make him cousin to a bar- 
 onet ; and this ac^ain naturally costs more than a connection with 
 mere tradespeople." 
 
 " Naturally. If it is only a question of inventing a geneal- 
 ogy—" 
 
 " My dear sir, we do not invent ; we connect — we connect. It 
 is always perfectly easy to connect any family with gentlefolk of 
 sorts, and almost any real gentlefolk with nobility of some kind. 
 If you like, I dare say I could connect you with royalty. Mere 
 time, mere search, in order to find where to hitch on ; that is 
 all. But of course it is a great advantage to start practically 
 unhampered, as you do. Now, you don't know your father's fam- 
 ily. And you have no traditions about it. He never told you. 
 What must we therefore conclude ? That be was ashamed of his 
 family or ashamed of himself." 
 
 Sir John changed color. " I do not agree," he said ; " other 
 reasons might be found." 
 
 " Illegitimacy, perhaps. Humble origin. Early escapades. 
 One or other must be the cause." 
 
 Sir John said nothinsf. 
 
 " If we investigate with the sole desire to ascertain the truth 
 we must expect humiliation. That is all. Let us go on. You 
 wish to be connected with the Burley family — quite a middle- 
 class bourgeois family — and you do not desire to claim their 
 monstrous estate. As you have no papers, you would have no 
 chance. If I were you I would soar liigher, much higher ; we 
 might connect you with the Cecils or the Howards in some way 
 — an illegitimate way would be the easiest ; but as you will. Let 
 us return to the Burley family. For my own purposes, I have been 
 hunting for the sons of the famous Westminster miser — broth- 
 ers of the money-lender. I cannot find any trace of them — " 
 
 "You must go further back to find my ancestor." 
 
 " Very well ; you stick to your plebeian lot ? Very well ; I will 
 investigate for you. Well, now, about the spindle line. On your
 
 THE GENEALOGIST 221 
 
 father's side you will be plain Burley ; but you had a mother. On 
 her side, now, what can we do for you ? On your grandmother's 
 side — what? On your great-grandmothers? See what a vista 
 opens before you ! Why, only to go back so far as the accession 
 of Queen Elizabeth, you had then 4096 living ancestors ; to go 
 back to Edward III., you had 131,072 ancestors. Do you think 
 I cannot find you a noble family or two among so many ? You 
 want ancestors ? Let me find you some that you can be proud 
 of. Why, you are founding a family. You will become a bar- 
 onet. If you like, you may become a peer. How will it be in 
 years to come to read : ' This branch of a noble House, which 
 traces its ancestry back to — shall we say Cardinal Pole? in 
 the female line, was first distinguished by Sir John Burleigh, 
 K.C.M.Gr., the well-known statesman of Nev/ Zealand'? What 
 do you think of that. Sir John ?" 
 
 Even a statesman is not above the softening influence of 
 flattery. Sir John heard. Sir John smiled. 
 
 " You see ; but if my hands arc tied — " 
 
 " I do not wish to tie your hands. Connect me with any 
 noble House you like. But you must first connect me with 
 these Burley people. Mind, I say again, I won't lay claim to 
 the estate. I have the Burley genealogy with me. Here it is. 
 I must belong to them. My girls, in fact, have seen the por- 
 traits, and there can be no doubt possible." 
 
 He took the pedigree and examined it. " And with which of 
 these branches would you wish to be connected ? Not too close 
 to the money-lender, or you may have to be a claimant whether 
 you like it or not; and then the absence of papers may clash 
 with my work. An undistinguished lot — not one armiger ; I 
 should sav, no coat of iirms." 
 
 " I have mine. The College of Heralds found mine when I 
 was knighted." 
 
 " You can give me that ; it may be of use." 
 
 " I am morally certain " — Sir John winced a little at the 
 utterance of this tremendous fib — " morally certain," lie re- 
 peated, " that wc come from this Joshua Calvert Burley, born in 
 1778." 
 
 "Morally! morally! — we don't recognize morals in geneal- 
 ogies, Sir John. But still, what is known about him ?"
 
 222 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " He is said to li.ivc become a siifrar-baker at Bristol." 
 
 " Sup^ar-hakcr ? Oh ! Sir John, why not a distinguished officer 
 in tlic Austrian service ?" 
 
 "Sugar-baker at Bristol," Sir John repeated, firmly. "lie 
 altered the spelling of his name to Burleigh — 1-c-i-g-h." 
 
 " Oh ! No documents, I suppose ?" 
 
 "None. My father, Charles Calvert Burlcy, born in 1801, 
 succeeded to his father's business, was unfortunate, lost his 
 money ; and in 1843, when I was six or seven years of age, went 
 to New Zealand." 
 
 "Ah! Well, Sir John, you must leave it with me. Very 
 unpromising materials — very unpromising indeed. Still, I will 
 do my best. About the terms, now ?" 
 
 The terms, when imparted and grasped, carried with them 
 a wide extension of knowledge. If it takes time to build uj) 
 a family, it costs money to buy one ready -built. To whioh 
 nobody ought to object. 
 
 "Very well, Sir John," the genealogist concluded, "your 
 instructions shall be followed out. Look in whenever you like, 
 and find out how we are getting on. We shall certainly hitch 
 you on to some good family somehow or other. It's unfort- 
 unate about these pictures and their likeness to you — because, 
 you see, when a man has all the noble Houses in the country to 
 choose from, there's no reason whatever — unless it's the money 
 — why you should even begin with a middle-class lot like this. 
 And your features, Sir John, if you will allow me to say so, 
 possess a cut so aristocratic. A thousand pities! You remind 
 me of the portraits of his royal highness the late Duke of Sus- 
 sex. How should you like a royal grandfather?" 
 
 " I belong, you see, to the Calvert Burleys," Sir John replied. 
 
 " Good — good ! After all, is there anything so admirable as 
 family pride, even if it leads to a milk-walk? Leave it to me, 
 and call again, say in a week." 
 
 And thus, you see, the clew, once found, was followed up. 
 Great, indeed, are the resources of science, especially the sci- 
 ence of genealogy. After a surprisingly short interval, consid- 
 ering the extent of the necessary researches. Sir John was en- 
 abled to exhibit to his delighted family a genealogy complete 
 in every branch. It appeared that his opinion was quite right,
 
 THE GENEALOGIST 
 
 283 
 
 as the new genealogy conclusively proved. This branch of the 
 family was descended from Joshua Calvert Burley, born 1V78, 
 who was Sir John's grandfather and the brother of the West- 
 minster miser. The pedigree was most beautifully written on 
 parchment, and illustrated with shields properly colored. Its ap- 
 pearance alone carried conviction to every candid mind. Leav- 
 ing out the intermediate stages and the unnecessary names, the 
 document ran as follows : 
 
 Albciic De Vere, 
 E. of Oxford 
 
 Lord Clifford 
 
 John of Gaunt, 
 D. of Lancaster 
 
 Calvert Burley 
 
 I 
 Jolin Calvert Burley 
 
 I 
 John Calvert Burley 
 
 John Calvert Burley Joshua Calvert Burley 
 
 m. Penelope Maiden 
 
 Ilenry Maiden, J.P. 
 Penelope Maiden 
 Charles IL 
 
 Gen. Sir T. H.Welford, 
 K.C.B. 
 
 Charles Calvert Burley | 
 
 (b. 1801 ; d. 1873) m. Marian Wclford Marion Welford 
 I 
 John Calvert Burleigh, K.C.M.G. 
 (b 1837) ni, Agneta Clithe 
 
 I 
 Herbert John Calvert (b. 1867) 
 
 This, it must be acknowledged, was a genealogy worth pay- 
 ing for. 
 
 " It works out. Sir John," said the man of science, " better 
 than we expected. Of course, when we do find a family con- 
 nection of any pretensions, the rest is easy, because it has been 
 done over and over again." 
 
 " This document, I suppose," said Sir John, tlioughtfully, 
 " will do very well for family purposes, but for a court of law — " 
 
 " As I warned you, a court of law requires papers. You would 
 cling to the plebeian side, and there you are, you see. Don't 
 blame me. Look at their vulgar names, spoiling the beautiful 
 shields and titles above them ! Sugar -baker! And he marries 
 the descendant of kings !"
 
 224 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " Did you, in the course of your investigations, find out any- 
 tbing about my connections on this side V 
 
 " I found out a good deal — oh, yes, yes, a good deal !" He 
 looked hard at his client, who seemed entirely absorbed in his 
 pedigree. 
 
 "About this Josliua, now ?" 
 
 "Well, you told me about him, didn't you? "Well, as you 
 said — just as you said — he was born, as your genealogy states, 
 in tlic year 1778, and he was baptized, as the books show, in 
 the Church of St. John the Evangelist, Westminster. He was 
 educated at Westminster School, and he became eventually, as 
 you told me, a sugar-baker — a sugar-baker" (he yawned slight- 
 ly, such was his contempt of trade), " in the city of Bristol. 
 Here he married Penelope Maiden, daughter of Henry Mai- 
 den, J.P., a man also engaged in trade. Through the Maidens 
 in the female line you descend from the Earls of Derby on one 
 hand and the Barons Clifford on the other. His son, your fa- 
 ther, married Marian — " 
 
 "Yes — " Sir John looked as if he wanted no discussion 
 about his mother. 
 
 " Marian, daughter of General Sir Thomas Welford, K.C.B., 
 through whom you are descended — not, of course, legitimately 
 — from Charles II. in one line, and from John of Gaunt, legit- 
 imately, in another. Really, sir, for the son of an early New 
 Zealand settler, who knows nothing of his own people at all, I 
 think you have come out of this arduous and dangerous — very 
 dangerous — investigation admirably. Your connection with 
 trade is — ahem! — unavoidable, but we have minimized it; 
 whereas, two descents from royalty and three earls and barons 
 in your genealogy make it, on one side, more than respectable." 
 
 "I think I oufjlit to be much oblio-ed to vou" — Sir John 
 rolled up the parchment and put it into its lovely morocco 
 case — " very much obliged to you, sir. My children will be 
 pleased; and my grandchildren, if I ever have any, will be placed 
 on pedestals. I don't think I could have come to a cleverer man." 
 
 " You are quite right, Sir John," the other replied, with pro- 
 fessional modesty ; " it would be impossible." 
 
 " Or to a man who more readily understood exactly what I 
 wanted."
 
 THE GENEALOGIST 325 
 
 "Exactly, Sir John." 
 
 So they parted. Sir John has never told any one how much 
 this important document cost him ; but he has been heard to 
 express his astonishment that the profession of genealogist re- 
 mains in the hands of so few, seeing that its possibilities are so 
 great. In these days of doubt as to a choice of profession, it 
 seems odd, he sometimes says, that there is not a run upon it. 
 
 " Now, I wonder," said the man of science, when his client 
 left him, " how much he reallv knows. He carries it off very 
 well, if he does, for his father was a convict — it's all in the 
 'Annual Register' — a convict transported for life — most likely 
 married another convict. Escaped. No one knew what became 
 of him. Went to New Zealand. Well, I sha'n't tell. I won- 
 der if he really believes all the truck ?" 
 
 "I wonder," said Sir John, "whether the fellow really ex- 
 pects me to believe his lying rubbish ? Sugar-baker — bankrupt 
 — Baron Clifford — John of Gaunt. But, thank God ! he does 
 not know, and can never learn, the truth." 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, he announced that he had a dis- 
 covery to reveal. 
 
 " Is it about the family ?" they all asked. 
 
 " It is. In point of fact, children, you will be glad to hear that 
 I have cleared up the difficulties, which, I confess, at first sight 
 seemed insuperable. But they have vanished, and I am now 
 going to lay before you " — he produced a leather case and 
 pulled off the top — " the complete and veritable history of your 
 family, so far as it has yet been traced." 
 
 "Oh! And that portrait — the later one — is that grand- 
 father?" 
 
 " You shall hear. Meantime, I must tell you that, like your- 
 selves, I was convinced that these resemblances meant a great 
 deal moro than coincidence. It seemed to me, as to you, im- 
 possible that we should all be so much like these people with- 
 out some cousinship." Sir John spoke in his ministerial manner, 
 which was, of course, that of one whose words carry weight. 
 
 "Certainly not," they chimed. "Oh, impossible!" 
 
 " So I considered. And it seemed to me that the best thing 
 I could do was to put the matter into the hands of an expert — 
 a professed genealogist, you know — one of those whose busi- 
 
 10*
 
 226 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 ness it is to hunt up ancestors and to prove claims. This I 
 did. I said: ' I am tlic son of So-and-so, -who was born in 1801, 
 and went to New Zealand in 1842, wlien I was about six years of 
 age. I do not know where my fatlicr came from, or to what 
 condition or rank his people belonged. I can only tell you 
 that there is a group of family portraits in a certain house at 
 "Westminster which bear a most remarkable likeness, first to each 
 other, so that they are all unmistakable, and secondly to me 
 and my children — so remarkable as to make it absolutely cer- 
 tain that we must be related to them. Their name is the same 
 as ours, spelled with a very slight difference.' Those were all 
 the facts that I could give him, and after a little talk over them 
 I left him to his work, lie has now, after careful invcstiiration, 
 furnished me with exactly the information I desired. And 
 here is the genealogy." 
 
 lie spread it out and began to point out the wonderful acquisi- 
 tions, and the great increase of family pride caused by this re- 
 search. 
 
 " Your great-grandfather," he said, " is, you observe, not 
 the owner of the first face so like Herbert's, but the son of the 
 man who, some of us thought, was even more like Herbert ; 
 his name was Joshua Calvert Burley. He was educated at 
 Westminster School; on leaving school he was placed in some 
 mercantile office, perhaps as an apprentice. This matters noth- 
 ing. You must be prepared for a somewhat humble connec- 
 tion on your grandfather's side. He became a partner or pro- 
 prietor of a sugar-baking firm." 
 
 Their faces all lengthened. 
 
 " Susrar-bakine: ! Oh ! lie was a baker." 
 
 " Sugar-baking is not exactly bread-baking. He was a sugar- 
 baker. And why not? It is possible — or was possible — to 
 become enormously rich by sugar-baking. AVell, for some 
 reason not apparent, probably because he thought it looked 
 better, my grandfather changed the spelling of his name." 
 
 "It was done, then, at Bristol ?" asked Lady Burleigh. "I 
 have been thinking, since this business of the portraits, that 
 jour father, my dear, may have got into some scrape — debt — 
 or something, and so thought it wiser to change his name." 
 
 " A scrape there was, but, according to my table, it was my
 
 THE GENEALOGIST 227 
 
 grandfather who changed his name. Well, my father" — lie 
 hesitated a Uttle, because it is really embarrassing at fifty-eight 
 to start a new father — " was made a partner in the concern." 
 
 " The concern !" echoed the girls. " Have we discovered the 
 long-lost great-grandfather only to learn that he was a sugar- 
 baker and had a concern ? What romance can we get out of a 
 concern, however great?" 
 
 " And then something happened. The business fell into dif- 
 ficulties ; your grandfather lost most of his fortune and emi- 
 grated. And that, my children, is all I have to say. The rest 
 vou can learn for yourselves from this document." 
 
 " Oh !" — the girls bent over the genealogy, their heads all to- 
 gether. *' It might have been worse," said Lucy. " Herbert 
 might have had the criminal ancestor that he wants so badly. 
 Poor Herbert ! He wants either a criminal or an aristocrat, and 
 he will have to put up with a sugar-baker — a bankrupt sugar- 
 baker." 
 
 " A sugar-baker !" Sir John repeated, with emphasis. 
 " I suppose, my dear," said his wife, " that all this is quite 
 clearly proved." 
 
 " He has consulted the only authorities, where there are no 
 better — the parish registers. I think we need never trouble to 
 go over the ground again. Certainly 1 am convinced that it 
 would be foolish and needless to do so." 
 " And as to the great estate ?" 
 
 "There we must abandon all hopes. You will see that we 
 are only the heirs failing the intermediate heirs — all the sons of 
 the miser Burley first, and the money-lender Burley second. 
 You will not be millionaires, my dears. You will go back to 
 New Zealand, and you will live in comfort and plenty, thank 
 God — and that is all." 
 
 But then the girls found out the magnificent connections on 
 the spindle side, and pounced upon them. Heavens ! A Gen- 
 eral and a K.C.B. ! Splendid ! And look — higher up — a long 
 way higher up — Oh! Grandeurs! Heights! Soarings! Sky-scrap- 
 ing! Baron Clillord— Lord— Lord Clitford ! That fine old title ! 
 And here the De Veres — De Veres — Earls of Oxford ! Oh ! 
 actually the De Veres ! That great and noble family ! History 
 is therefore full of the ancestors of these happy Burleys. And
 
 228 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 look! More grandeur! Iloynlty — Charles II. ! I>iit he had no 
 children. Go on. Things taccnda, yet not without more pride. 
 And oh ! oh ! oh ! Look ! Look — everybody ! John of Gaunt! 
 Time-honored Lancaster! Old John of Gaunt! Good heavens! 
 Here they stopped and gazed mutely at one another. " If John 
 of Gaunt," they said, calmly reasoning out the thing, " then his 
 father, and his great-grandfather, and so we get to William the 
 Conqueror and King Alfred. Oh ! King Alfred our ancestor ! 
 Father, is it possible ? Is it really, really true ?" 
 
 "There is the science of the genealogist, ray girls. "What 
 else can I say ?" 
 
 Nothing to be said — science is indisputable. So, when the 
 girls had extolled their good-fortune and cried upon tlie heavens, 
 in their amazement and their happiness they fell upon the pater- 
 nal neck, and embraced with fervor the simple K.C.M.G. wlio 
 united in his own person so many royal and princely and noble 
 lines. 
 
 " But," they agreed, *' these things must not be talked about. 
 They are best kept to ourselves. At home people might be en- 
 vious of John of Gaunt — time - honored Lancaster. Isn't lie 
 buried in the Abbey? Let us go and hang a humid wreath 
 upon his marble brow. Oh ! And Charles II. Well, but there 
 is John of Gaunt — John of Gaunt — John of Gaunt !" 
 
 " And the sugar-baker," said Sir John.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A physician's advice 
 
 " Another cousin, apparently." Lucian tossed a card into 
 Margaret's lap. She read it. " Mr. Clarence Calvert Buro-h- 
 ley." ^ 
 
 " It looks as if he belongs to the family. Go and see him, 
 Lucian. Perhaps, like the colonial, he will begin by having a 
 pain somewhere." 
 
 Lucian was wrong. Ilis visitor made no pretence of any 
 pains, though he looked miserable enough for all the pains of 
 purgatory. He went straight to the point. " I have seen in 
 the papers," he said, "a statement that you have in your pos- 
 session certain portraits belonging to the Barley family — my 
 family — and I come here in the hope that you will allow me to 
 see them." 
 
 Lucian looked at this new cousin curiously. lie bore the 
 stamp or mark theatrical. To begin with, he wore a fur-lined 
 coat — Lucian held that fine raiment belongs to the other sex. 
 His face was smooth-shaven, his speech was of a studied clear- 
 ness, as if he was speaking words of a part — words written for 
 him — not his own words. And his gestures were slightly ex- 
 aggerated. He took off his hat as if the action itself formed 
 part of his visit. These things slightly irritated Lucian. He 
 thought the manner of the man was affected. It was not. The 
 theatrical manner was natural to Clarence. Besides, at this 
 moment lie was horribly anxious and therefore perfectly natural. 
 His anxiety was shown in the twitching of his nerves and the 
 restlessness of liis eyes. 
 
 " Your family ?" Lucian repeated. " Why, your name, Mr. 
 Burghley, is spelled differently." 
 
 " That is true. My grandfather, who was an actor, altered
 
 230 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 the spelling of his name when he went on the boards. Perhaps 
 he thought the n;unc looked better so." 
 
 Liieiaii looked at him again. Tlie persistent Burley type 
 was in his face, clearly marked and unmistakable, though the 
 strength and the resolution liad gone out of it. 
 
 " I don't know," he said, ungraciously, " that I am called upon 
 to show these pictures to every stranger who wants to see thetn, 
 on the ground that he belongs to the Burley family. There is 
 a good deal of curiosity just now about this family. A great 
 many people would like to be connected with them." 
 
 "There is no doubt about my connection, at all events. But 
 if you cannot let me see them, I am sorry I disturbed you." 
 
 " Perhaps you would let me know the nature of your rela- 
 tionship." 
 
 '* I am a grandnephew of the deceased John Calvert Burley. 
 My grandfather was his brother, and the second son of the so- 
 called ^Yestminster miser." 
 
 " The second son. You are, then, the nearest in succession 
 after the direct line." 
 
 " I am the nearest." 
 
 "You forget the missing son and his possible heir." 
 
 "They must be dead. Otherwise they would have turned 
 up long ago. From your name, Dr. Calvert, may one gatlier 
 that you are connected in some way with us? Are you, too, a 
 claimant, perhaps ?" 
 
 "Not a claimant — so far. ^YelI, sir, if you can establish 
 your connection to the satisfaction of the Treasury solicitors, and 
 if the missing son does not turn up — nor any of his heirs — you 
 will become, when they have made up their minds that the son 
 is dead — say, in ten years or so — a very rich man indeed, per- 
 haps the richest man in the country. I am told that the prop- 
 ei'ty, originally estimated at twelve millions or so, has been found 
 to be actually worth a million or so more." 
 
 "Very possibly," Clarence replied, carelessly. " ^Yhen one 
 gets into figures such as these, what matters an additional mill- 
 ion or so ?" 
 
 " What, indeed ? Well, Mr. Burghley, since you are so near 
 the direct line, I shall not object to show you the portraits of 
 some of your ancestors."
 
 A physician's advice 231 
 
 Clarence looked about the room. It now presented the ap- 
 pearance of a student's room ; the table littered with books and 
 papers ; the bookcase filled with books. 
 
 " It was in this house," he said, " that the old man lived." 
 
 " He was born here, he lived here, and he died here. Your 
 grandfather was born here, was brought up here, and ran away 
 from here." 
 
 " Oh ! Yes — and this would be his breakfast-room ?" 
 
 " It was the old man's living-room ; for forty years he never 
 used any room in the house except this and his bedroom." 
 
 " And the portraits ? May I ask how you obtained the por- 
 traits ?" 
 
 " We took the house as it was, buying the furniture at a 
 valuation, after the Treasury people had taken away the papers." 
 
 " Were there any — any — personal relics — or remains — of the 
 old man ?" 
 
 " I believe there was a pipe which he used to smoke. But 
 that has disappeared." 
 
 " 1 meant, rather, things that would show us what the old man 
 was like — note-books, account-books, letters, diaries in his hand- 
 writing — you know what I mean." 
 
 " You should ask the Treasury to show you these things. But 
 I doubt if they will meet your views," Lucian replied, dryly. 
 What did this man want with personal remains and relics in the 
 handwriting of the deceased ? " If you want to see the portraits, 
 however, you can come with me." 
 
 Clarence followed him into the drawing-room. He saw all the 
 portraits hanging on the wall, but he regarded them carelessly. 
 lie was thinking, in fact, of that scrap of writing. 
 
 " There are your ancestors," said Lucian. 
 
 " Humph ! They are all exactly alike — till you come to look 
 closer — wonderfully alike they all arc !" 
 
 *' Can you spot your grandfather?" 
 
 Clarence walked round the room slowly. Presently he stopped 
 before the picture representing a dark Spanish-looking young 
 man of eighteen or so. 
 
 '* This is my grandfather," he said. " When I first remember 
 him he was an old man with white hair. I should not have 
 known him here, but we have a sketch of him in character as
 
 232 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Mcrcutio, Avliicli is exactly like this picture. The eyes arc the 
 same, and the face. Oh, there cannot be the least doubt ! I 
 will swear to my grandfather." 
 
 " The fact should help your case, Mr. Burghley, because it is 
 the portrait of the second son, Henry. You are welcome to have 
 this portrait copied if you like, or used in any other way. That 
 is to say, unless your case is already complete." 
 
 " Complete ?" Clarence replied, with courage. " In every de- 
 tail. In every link." 
 
 " Well. Then this resemblance illustrates your case. There 
 is anotlier point, Mr. Burghley. You arc, yourself, unmistak- 
 ably like your grandfather. You are thinner in the face, and 
 you have not so much color. Otherwise you are exactly like 
 him." 
 
 " I wonder if such a resemblance would be taken as evi- 
 dence?" 
 
 " I don't think it would, except that it shows you to belong 
 somehow to the family. But you are like other members of the 
 family — especially you are like this ancestor." lie pointed to 
 the unfortunate prodigal. 
 
 " A good-looking fellow," said Clarence, examining the pict- 
 ure. " A dare-devil, rakish sort ; would probably be called a Mo- 
 hock in his day. Do you think I am like him ? Who was he?" 
 
 "This man, unfortunately, came to the worst kind of grief; 
 did a little highway robbery, and was hanged for it." 
 
 " Hanged ? Really ! My ancestor was hanged !" Clarence 
 laughed. " This is an unexpected lionor. Well, it was a 
 long time ago ; and people have forgotten it, I suppose. Oh ! 
 You think I am like him." 
 
 " Very much indeed. I mention it as another illustration of 
 your case." 
 
 " The best thing I could do to prove my case might be to get 
 hanged as well. Then there would be no doubt. I wonder if 
 they would accept this likeness as well as the other as evi- 
 dence ?" 
 
 " I'crhaps; but your claim, you say, is complete at every point 
 already." 
 
 " Quite complete. The only thing is, how long shall I have to 
 wait?"
 
 A physician's advice 233 
 
 " This man — the one who was hanged — was heir to a very 
 large estate, llis father was a very rich man — as wealth was 
 then reckoned. But he could not wait, unfortunately for him." 
 
 " My case is so strong that I could, if I chose, raise any 
 amount of money upon it," Clarence replied, with the appear- 
 ance of confidence. " So you see, Dr. Calvert, there is no im- 
 mediate necessity for m.e to be hanged." 
 
 Lucian laughed. The resemblance of this new cousin to the 
 unlucky profligate was really wonderful. " I think I can tell 
 you," he said, " most of your family history. Your grandfather, 
 the second son, ran away, and, after adventures unknown, ob- 
 tained a footing in some country company. His father never 
 forgave any of his sons for running away, and in the end left 
 the whole of his money to his eldest son. Your grandfather 
 changed his name, and never held any communication whatever 
 with his brother or with any other members of his family. Even 
 when he came to London theatres he never made any attempt at 
 reconciliation." 
 
 " I know all this. But how do you know it?" 
 
 " Circumstances have placed me in possession of a good deal 
 of the family liistory." 
 
 " Dr. Calvert, I spoke just now of personal relics and remains. 
 If you have any autograph letter of the late John Barley, I 
 should greatly prize it, should you wish to part with it. Of 
 course I don't know what you have. But there must have been 
 something. The Treasury might not want papers of no inter- 
 est — an autograph letter — anything — in the handwriting of a 
 man so enormously wealthy, and my great -uncle. You can 
 easily understand that I should greatly value anything of his — 
 any little relic. It is a thing of sentiment, of course — but you 
 will understand." 
 
 He spoke fast ; his eyes became shifty ; there was a false ring 
 in his voice. He conveyed the impression — or the suspicion — 
 that he did not really care twopence about his great-uncle ; but 
 that he wanted^ for some purpose of his own, a specimen of his 
 handwriting. Lucian — perhaps in consequence of these suspi- 
 cions — thus knowledge confers power — power to lead on to dis- 
 appointment — resolved to give him what he wanted. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, " I understand you. Perhaps I do not.
 
 234 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Well, I have certain papers and letters belonging to the late Mr. 
 Bnrlcy — they were left in the house when the important papers 
 were removed — because they -were worthless. Among them is 
 one at least which concerns your grandfather. You said that 
 your case was complete. If it were not, this letter might assist 
 you." 
 
 " My case is complete, of course ; but yet — every case will 
 bear strengthening. If you would let me see this letter." 
 
 "It is a letter which is written by the young man after he 
 ran away — to his mother — speaking of the com])any which he 
 had joined and of his change of name." 
 
 " Oh !" Clarence started into a natural eagerness. " It is the 
 very thing I wanted. If you would let me sec — copy — photo- 
 graph — this letter." 
 
 " I will get it for you." He went in searcli of it. You have 
 seen the letter already. It was one of those found by Margaret. 
 " Here it is. You can make any use of it that you please. 
 Your lawyers may copy it. I will lend it, or — it is useless to 
 me — I will give it to you." 
 
 Clarence read it with a joy almost too great to bear. It was 
 the one thing wanted to make his claim complete. He sat 
 down, a little overcome. The Joyous Life was within his grasp 
 at last — no doubt now. The connection was established. 
 Then a most curious tiling. For the physician, forgetting him- 
 self, began to warn this stranger seriously and solemnly against 
 the very things he was himself daily, and all day long and all 
 night long, practising, and this is what he said : 
 
 " Mr. Clarence Burghley " — Clarence heard Lucian's voice as 
 in a dream — " I perceive by your manner and your behavior," 
 the physician spoke with authority, " that you are greatly — 
 dangerously excited by your anxiety about this claim of yours. 
 This kind of anxiety is absorbing." Could he be speaking from 
 personal experience ? " It sometimes fills the mind to the ex- 
 clusion of any form of woi'k. I don't know what you do or 
 hov/ you live; but I can see in your eyes that you live in a 
 perpetual fever of anxious thought; you build up schemes of 
 what you will do when you come into your fortune ; and your 
 castles of Spain are always destroyed as fast as they are built 
 by your terror that your case is not sufficiently strong. If I
 
 A physician's advice 235 
 
 were to take your temperature at tins moment, I should cer- 
 tainly find it much too high. I perceive, further, other symp- 
 toms — the trembling of your hands, the nervous twitching of 
 your face, the black rings round your eyes ; that you have no 
 appetite, but that you can drink, and that you pass sleepless 
 and restless nights. Is all this true?" 
 
 " You arc a physician. I suppose you can read symptoms." 
 
 " Sometimes we can read symptoms — when they leap to the 
 eyes. Now, sir, I have a little prophecy and a little advice. 
 Will you allow me to ofEer both for your consideration ?" 
 
 " Since you are so good as to give me this letter, I will listen 
 gratefully to both." 
 
 " My advice is to send in your claim, and then to think no 
 more about it — no more at all about it. To go on with your 
 daily business as if there was no such thing as a claim or a fort- 
 une." 
 
 " Dr. Calvert," Clarence repeated, " I am indebted to you for 
 the use of this letter and for a sight of the portraits, but I 
 cannot promise to follow your advice in return." 
 
 " That is my advice. My prophecy is this : If you neglect 
 it and any other warnings ; if you go on letting your mind 
 dwell on what may happen when you come into your inheri- 
 tance, hope deferred will make your heart sick unto death or — 
 worse — unto madness. The simple delays of the law may bring 
 this trouble upon you. Unless the missing son turns up or is 
 proved to be dead, they will wait for ten years at least. "What 
 will you do during the long years of expectancy and anxiety ? 
 Will you follow your ordinary work? With what heart, when 
 this chance awaits you ? You have seen a letter which, I am 
 sure, greatly strengthens your case. Yet do not build too much 
 upon it. And I tell you plainly, Mr. Burghley, that you will 
 never succeed in your claim." 
 
 " Why not ? Who is before inc ?" 
 
 " Accident — chance — the unexpected — are before you. There 
 is, I believe, a superstition about this fortune. It is said that 
 it brings disaster upon all who arc concerned with it. Wo 
 need not believe foolish superstitions, but it may very well be 
 that the contemplation of or the longing after vast wcaKh may 
 unhinge a man's mind. Be careful, Mr. Burghley. Too much
 
 236 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 tliinldng of millions cannot be wholesome." Strange ! This 
 man, so wise for otlicrs, was at that very moment passing 
 through the same experience himself. " Take care, I say, Mr. 
 Burghley. Take care." 
 
 He opened the door. Clarence walked down the stairs and 
 out of the house without replying. The warnings affected him 
 but little, lie had strengthened his case with the portrait and 
 the letter. His claim was now completely made out. lie went 
 home with dancing steps; he threw himself into a chair and 
 dreamed away the afternoon in visions of the Joyous Life when 
 those millions should be his. And when his partner caitie home 
 Clarence welcomed him with a shout and a laugh, brandishino- 
 the letter that established his parentage beyond the possibility 
 of doubt.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 THE MIRACLE 
 
 *' I CAME here yesterday, Margaret," said Ella, " and I am here 
 to-day. I can't keep away from you, because you are the only 
 person that I know in this country ; we used to laugh and call 
 it Little England. But it's Great England, Broad Britain, Big 
 England, Thirsty, Sandy, Desert England, when you're all alone 
 in it — with no — " She checked herself. 
 
 " Well, dear, you arc always welcome." 
 
 " I can't sit still, or rest, or settle to work, or anythinor, I'm 
 so miserable. I feel like jumping off Westminster Bridge." 
 
 " Sit still here, then, and rest." 
 
 "No; I must walk about or I shall go mad." The girl's 
 checks were flushed, her eyes were too bright, her hands were 
 hot. " Come out and walk with me. I want to feel the cool 
 air." 
 
 Margaret led her into the large quiet square called Dean's Yard. 
 " This is where I sometimes walk," she said, " when I wish to 
 be quiet. But there are places here quieter than this. I will 
 take you to the most hushed, still, and peaceful spot in the 
 whole of London." 
 
 Under an archway, across an open court, through a broad 
 arched corridor, she led the girl into a little square court, sur- 
 rounded by a stone cloister; in the midst was a square of grass, 
 with a fountain which ought to have been playing but was not ; 
 tablets on the walls commemorated dead men's names and lives. 
 These tablets were all that remained of their memory. There 
 were ancient doors and ancient windows of ancient, crumblinfr, 
 worn stone, and above the corridor were houses which looked as 
 if they Avere built at the time great Oliver ruled the realm. 
 
 *' This is the old Lifirmary Cloister," said Margaret. " It is
 
 238 BEYOND THE DREAMS OJ)' AVARICE 
 
 the quietest place in the world. You hear nothini^ in these 
 cloisters of the outside world — nothing but the striking of the 
 great clock; you see nothing but the Victoria Tower. There is 
 never any foot-fall here ; the people who occupy the houses are 
 in a conspiracy of silence. I come here often when I am 
 troubled. Ella, dear, you are not the only woman in trouble ; 
 we are all troubled in these days. But the trouble will pass — 
 oh ! I think — I feel — that for all of us it will pass." Her eyes 
 filled with tears. "Only to linger among the gray old stones 
 soothes and comforts one." 
 
 The stones did not at first bring comfort to Ella — perhaps 
 because she was too full of her trouble to notice them. She 
 threw up her arms. She gasped. " Margaret !" she cried, " I 
 am going mad. I am gone mad, I tliink, witli the disap- 
 pointment and the misery of it. Don't speak. Let me tell you 
 first. I don't dare to tell Auntie. But she knows, poor thing. 
 Ever since I becfan to think about the inheritance I have 
 thought of nothing else — morning, noon, and night I have im- 
 ao-ined and dreamed and built up castles about this dreadful 
 money and myself. My very dreams are yellow witb gold. I 
 pictured myself the very greatest woman in all America — 
 greater than the Vanderbilts, greater than the Astors — my 
 name on everybody's lips, in every paper. Oh ! the dreadful 
 vainglory of it! And I was to be — oh! yes, nothing but that, 
 if you please — yes, the best, the most generous, the most char- 
 itable of women ! Oh ! of course. The pride and vanity and 
 self-seeking of it! That has been my dream, day and night — 
 day and night. And now it is quite certain that it can never be 
 anything but a dream." 
 
 " AVhat has happened, dear?" 
 
 " Everything, I believe. You know that Auntie was always 
 against it from the beginning. She's a prophetess, for sure 
 and certain. She was for sending in her name and mine, and 
 nothing more. But nothing would do for me but to come 
 over here and claim the estate. I was so ignorant that I 
 thought we only had to send in our names for the whole of 
 the money to be handed over to us across a bank counter — 
 sixty million dollars ! I tliouglit that we should be able to go 
 liome in a fortnight or so with a whole ship-load of dollars —
 
 THE MIRACLE 239 
 
 millions and millions and millions of dollars — all in bags — 
 and leave the Queen and the whole of the royal family in 
 tears." She laughed through her own tears. 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " They say that the Treasury must have proofs that the 
 missing son is dead — or that he has left no heirs. Why, the 
 world has been ringing with his name. If he was in the utter- 
 most parts of the earth he must have heard that cry. AVithout 
 proof, they say, they will probably wait for years. They tell 
 me that when your General, Hicks Pasha, was killed in Egypt, 
 they waited ten years for proof, because his body was never re- 
 covered, and not a soul returned from the battle to say that he 
 had fallen. Ten years ! When I heard that, my heart was as 
 heavy as lead, for I saw that we might jnst as well go home again." 
 
 " Indeed, I think so." 
 
 "But that isn't all. Oh ! I must go mad over it. I thought 
 our claim was so clear and simple. Grandfather was Mr. 
 Barley's brother. There's no doubt of that — and they say 
 now that T must produce the proofs of his marriage. As if 
 there could be any doubt of it ! Why, I remember both of 
 them. Proofs ? It's an insult to speak of such a thing." 
 
 "But indeed, Ella, there are wicked people in the world. 
 I fear they will insist upon the production of the proofs." 
 
 " I say it's an insult to suspect. Oh ! it's impossible !" 
 
 " Yes, dear ; but lawyers always want proofs of everything. 
 It is not meant as an insult. And remember, we all — we all 
 suffer from the — the follies of men — their follies and their 
 wickedness. Lawyers will not take it for granted that there 
 ever is a completely good man upon this earth." 
 
 " lie wasn't married at Tcwksbury. Grandmother — I recol- 
 lect the dear old thing, lovely white hair she had — was an 
 Englishwoman. She used to talk about her own people. They 
 lived in a place called Bloomsbury, and they were lawyers?. 
 Ilcr first husband was a lawyer, but a great deal older than her- 
 self, and he died, and then she came out to America with 
 grandfather. I was only a little girl, and I never asked her 
 name, else I might find out her people. And how in the name 
 of wonder arc we to find where a man was married sixty 
 years ago and more ?"
 
 240 UKYONU THE DREAMS OF AVAIIICE 
 
 " It is not so difficult. There were only so many churclics in 
 London sixty years ago — perhaps not more than a hundred and 
 fifty. The registers are preserved. An advertisement would 
 procure you the proof — if it exists." 
 
 "An advertisement !" Ella laughed scornfully. " IIow are we 
 to pay for the advertisement ?" 
 
 Margaret took her hand. 
 
 " I have seen that coming, too, Ella. We are cousins, you 
 know. Only I was afraid to speak. You are so independent 
 and so proud." 
 
 " My pride is gone, then. Pride can't outlast want. And 
 there's nothing left— nothing— nothing." She buried her head 
 in her hands and burst into sobs that echoed strangely round the 
 quiet cloister. 
 
 " My dear "—Margaret soothed her — " my dear, tell me all." 
 
 " We first spent the money we brought over with us, think- 
 ing it would be enough, and that we should only want it for a 
 week or two. It is all gone — all but the rent, that must be paid 
 to-morrow, and then there will be nothing left — nothing at all. 
 Margaret, we are nearly starved. You would not believe on how 
 little we have lived for the last three weeks." 
 
 " My dear, patience for a few moments ; only while you tell 
 mc." 
 
 " We have spent everything. We have pawned our watches 
 — our dresses — everything that we could i)art with. We have 
 nothing but what we stand in. And more trouble. Auntie had 
 a little money — not much. It brought her $200 a year. I 
 had none, because father wasn't lucky. Auntie's money was 
 put with a trustee, and he has just run away, bankrupt, and we 
 lioar that he has lost or stolen it all. Then we had our house 
 — only a little yellow cottage with a slip of garden — but it 
 was our own. We mortgaged it to get the money for coming 
 over. And now we arc told that the mortgage is tlie full value. 
 Oh ! it's roguery, it's treachery and roguery. So we're quite 
 ruined, Margaret, and to-morrow we go out into the streets and 
 w — w — walk about till we d — d — d — d — die." 
 
 " My dear child, this is most dreadful. Why did you 
 not tell me of all this before ? I only knew that you were 
 pinched."
 
 THE MIRACLE 241 
 
 " Oh ! you are a stranger ; you are an Englishwoman. They 
 used to teach us that Englishwomen were cold and proud. How 
 
 could I r 
 
 " Well, you have told me now, and so — we are your cousins, 
 you know — something must be done at once, and — and — " She 
 stopped short, for the trouble in the girl's face was terrible. 
 
 " I left Auntie praying." She burst into hysterical laughter. 
 " She is always praying. She gets up in the night and prays. 
 She asks a miracle. Poor thing ! As if miracles come for the 
 asking. There are none left. In these days, without money or 
 work, we starve. If I talk about searching the registers, she 
 shakes and trembles and begs me to give it up and go home 
 again. To-day finishes everything. This evening we shall eat 
 up the last scrap of bread and drink the last cup of tea. To- 
 morrow we shall go out into the streets. And Auntie says we 
 ought to go home ! Is it better to starve in the streets of London 
 among strangers or in the streets of Tewksbury among friends ?" 
 
 " My dear, you shall not starve. It is all arranged. Only I 
 did not know that the necessity was so close at hand." 
 
 She took Ella's hand. Without thinking whither thev were 
 going, Margaret led the way into the great cloister and through 
 the little postern into the Abbey itself. 
 
 Afternoon service was just beginning. They took a seat in a 
 retired corner, and then, while the silver voices rose and fell and 
 rang and echoed from pillar to pillar and along the lofty roof, 
 and the organ rolled, and the voice of the reader was like a sin- 
 gle flute seeking to be heard through all this great building, the 
 American girl wept and sobbed without restraint. It was a time 
 for the opening of the floodgates. 
 
 When the service was over, Ella dried her tears. " Oh !" she 
 said, "this place is full of consolation. I am better now. It's 
 a lovely place. If I were to get that great fortune, I would buy 
 it and take it over to Tewksbury, choristers and all. Thank 
 you for bringing me. I almost believe that Aunt Lucinda will 
 get her miracle, and I will not go mad." 
 
 " Well, then, dear, if you will promise not to go mad till I re- 
 turn, I'll take you home and leave you there while I go to fetch 
 your aunt. And then we will have tea and talk — and you must 
 
 be prepared for devclo[)nienls." 
 11
 
 243 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Aunt Lucinda was indeed in a pitiable condition. Half- 
 starved, penniless, with the prospect before her of destitution, 
 in dire terror lest a certain family secret should be discovered, 
 she sat beside the black fireplace on that cold, autumnal after- 
 noon with clasped hands and eyes that were blind with help- 
 less tears. 
 
 "Aunt Lucinda," said Margaret, bursting in, "I have come 
 to carry you away." 
 
 " Carry me away ?" 
 
 " You are to come and stay with us, you and Ella. My hus- 
 band is your cousin, you know. We invite you — Ella and you 
 — to make our house your home for a while; till we have looked 
 round and found some way out of the trouble. Oh ! I know all 
 about it; you need not t-^Il me anything. Now let me pack up 
 your things for you. Where are your boxes? I will do it all 
 for you." She bustled about into the other room and back; 
 she crammed the " things " — they were few indeed — into the 
 two boxes; she talked cheerfully all the time; she gave the 
 poor lady no time for thought or for protest. When all was 
 done — it took ten minutes or so ; no more — she brought out 
 Aunt Lucinda's hat and jacket and rang the bell for a cab. 
 
 Then Aunt Lucinda's face began to twitch ominously. 
 
 " Come, the cab will be down below," said Margaret. " Let 
 me help you with the things." 
 
 " Stay with you ?" asked Aunt Lucinda. " Wo are strangers 
 in a strange land, and you take us in ! Oh ! Ella said I prayed 
 for a miracle ; and there are no more miracles, she said — and lo ! 
 it is a miracle. Oh ! The Lord fulfils the desire of them that 
 fear Ilim. He hears their cry and saves them." 
 
 She stood for a moment with bowed head and clasped bands. 
 Then she meekly followed this woman of Samaria.
 
 o 
 o 
 
 O 
 
 n 
 >■ 
 
 ■XI 
 
 -1 
 o 
 q 
 
 1»-
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 " CONFESS YE YOUR SINS " 
 
 When two troubles assail the soul it is not together — trou° 
 bles very rarely fight in company — but separately. The stronger 
 and the fiercer trouble overpowers the soul, enters, and takes 
 possession. Then the lesser trouble goes away. He does not 
 go far ; he lurks in ambush till the present occupier withdraws. 
 Then he sees his chance, and rushes once more to assault t'ae 
 citadel of man's soul. One might write a new allegory showing 
 that fortress continually besieged by one trouble after the oth- 
 er — never at rest, never at peace. The biggest trouble of all, 
 as the world has always been ready to confess, is the want of 
 money. Not the want of plentiful money, but the want of 
 needful money. As has happened to many, one sees the ap- 
 proach of the hour when there will be no more, not a penny 
 more ; no more food, no more lodging, no more resources, no 
 friends, no work ; then, indeed, this is a trouble so stupen- 
 dous that the soul surrenders at once, and there is no room 
 for any other trouble, hardly even for the pains of gout. 
 
 When this trouble was driven away for a time. Aunt Lucin- 
 da's soul was left open to the other and the lesser trouble — 
 that, namely, connected with the claim, to which Ella now re- 
 turned, but with somewhat mitigated persistency. 
 
 " As soon as we have found out how to make a little money, 
 Auntie, we will advertise for your grandfather's certificate of 
 marriage. I have thought it all out. Father was born in 1827 
 — they arrived in Tewksbury in 1826 — therefore they must 
 have been married before they left London. Therefore the 
 register will be easily found, and then our claim will rest on 
 sure foundations !" 
 
 '* Oh, my dear !" cried Aunt Lucinda, eagerly, " let us think
 
 244 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 no more about the claim. This fortune brings disaster upon 
 everybody — even upon those who tliiiik about it and liope to get 
 it, as well as those who have it. Margaret has shown and 
 proved it to me. Think what misfortunes it has brought upon 
 us ! Do not let us think of it any more. There will be fresh 
 sorrow if we do." 
 
 " I don't desire it any more, Auntie, for the vainglory of it. 
 1 don't want to be the richest woman in the world. But 1 
 should like — I should like — well — not to feel that we have 
 come on a wild-aroose chase. I should like our friends in 
 Tewksbury to hear that we were really what we believed our- 
 selves to be ; and as soon as we have any money I will adver- 
 tise." 
 
 This was the trouble that now vexed the poor lady's soul. 
 To be sure, she knew that there could be no certificate in any 
 church. But it is ill work to stir muddy waters. Things done 
 may be remembered — may be banded down. The wife who 
 left her husband in 1825, or thereabouts, and went off with 
 young James Bnrley, had belongings, and the husband had be- 
 longings. The memory of the thing might survive. There- 
 fore Aunt Lucinda trembled. She sat in terror all day long. 
 She showed terror in her face — in her eyes — in her attitude. 
 
 " Ask her," said Lucian, " what is the matter with her. She 
 is torn by some secret anxiety. She looks as if it might drive 
 her mad. Ask her, Marjorie. I suppose you can't hint that 
 an Egyptian mummy at the feast would be quite as cheerful as 
 a face in affright. It will be a kindness to me if vou bring her 
 to a more resigned frame. There ought not to be spectres at 
 the dinner-table." 
 
 Margaret obeyed. 
 
 " I can't tell you, my dear," the poor lady replied — " I can't 
 tell any one. It is a thing that I know and nobody else knows. 
 And I live in terror day and night for fear of her finding it out," 
 
 " If nobody knows it but you — " 
 
 "Oh! But long ago, when it happened, many people knew. 
 And some may remember, or they may liavc been told. Oh, 
 if she were to find out!" 
 
 " I suppose it is a secret which affects — the — honor of some 
 one whom you both know."
 
 "CONFESS YE YOUR SINS " 245 
 
 The poor lady nodded her head violently. 
 
 " My dear Aunt Lucinda, give your anxious mind a rest. A 
 thing so old must surely be forgotten long since. All you 
 have to do is to hold your tongue. Come, if we all think 
 what might happen, where would be the cheerfulness of the 
 world ?" 
 
 " If she would only give up this dreadful claim I should be 
 happy. But she won't. And she is walking right straight 
 into the place where she will find the horrible, hateful, shame- 
 ful secret." 
 
 " She can do no more than she can do. Everything is clear- 
 ly proved except her grandfather's marriage." Aunt Lucinda 
 clasped her hands and rocked "to and fro, and her face turned 
 red and white. Margaret pretended not to observe these signs. 
 " The place and date of that marriage she has yet to ascertain. 
 Perhaps she never will. Then she will never be able to estab- 
 lish her claim. I will tell you a secret which should console 
 you. Ella will never, under any circumstances, get any portion 
 of this estate." 
 
 "Oh, thank GodT She lifted her clasped hands. "There 
 has been nothing but terror and misery since we thought of it." 
 
 "Ruin and Destruction !" said Margaret, the superstitious. 
 " Ruin and destruction for all who make or meddle with this 
 horrible estate." 
 
 " Will she give up looking for that certificate of marriage ?" 
 
 " I think I can promise you that before many days she will 
 definitely abandon all hope of the inheritance." This she said, 
 thinking that Lucian would establish his own right, at least, 
 whatever else he might do. " Tell me. Aunt Lucinda, do you 
 want to be enormously rich ?" 
 
 " No, I never did. I was quite happy at home when we were 
 poor. We are nearly all of us women at Tewksbury, and we've 
 got everything that the heart can desire — books, and a beauti- 
 ful literary society, and courses of lectures, and churches, and 
 meetings of every kind ; nearly all of us are poor, and nobody 
 minds. We aim at the Cultivated Life, my dear, and the 
 Spiritual Life, and, oh! if you could hear Ella read her papers 
 on Browning ! I've got some here — would you like to read 
 one ?"
 
 246 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "Very nincli," Margaret replied, politely, but with little 
 warmth, not feeling greatly tempted by the writing of an Ameri- 
 can girl who, she could not forget, was only — even English 
 people say — only a clerk or cashier in a store. In this country 
 we do not expect literature of the higher kind from such a girl. 
 " Meantime, rest quite easy. What you fear cannot happen. 
 It is impossible, since you alone know it. And as for this 
 certificate of marriage, it might be found if one were to institute 
 a search in all the parish registers — by offering a reward for its 
 recovery. But you have no money, and, in a few days — how 
 long, I do not know — the necessity of finding it will be past 
 and gone." 
 
 "I am so thankful — oh ! so thankful. I have prayed, night 
 and morning, that this danjrer might be averted. Oh ! Margaret, 
 you don't know — you can't guess — what it is I fear — what 
 would be the conse<juences — to Ella — the blight upon her life — 
 the ruin of her pride — the shame and disgrace of it — " 
 
 " Hush, dear — don't tell me any more, unless it would relieve 
 your soul." 
 
 "I will tell you, then, because I must. You arc the first 
 person to whom I have told it. I've known it for twelve long 
 years — my brother never knew it, nor suspected it. And Ella 
 doesn't know nor suspect. And when I learned it, for a time 
 the sun went out of the sky — and I lost my faith in God — for 
 I lost my faith in my mother — in my mother. Think of that! 
 I have got back my faith, but my old happiness — that is gone — 
 and oh! let me spare my child — my Ella — the shame that I 
 have to suffer daily !" She clasped her hands and bowed her 
 head and her lips moved. 
 
 " My mother was a pious woman," she continued ; *' one of 
 those who go to chapel every Sabbath, and read the Bible at 
 home. When father died, she read her Bible more and more. 
 But she was not a cheerful Christian ; her faith did not give 
 her courage ; her spirits were always sad and low. Sometimes 
 she sat weeping for hours together. I thought it was because 
 she'd lost father. But she never said anything to me until, 
 twelve years ago, she fell ill. Oh ! she spoke — and her words 
 were like the scourge of an offended God." 
 
 Margaret took her hand. "Be comforted," she murmured.
 
 " CONFESS YE YOUR. SINS " 247 
 
 " If she told you of some great sin, it was a sign of repentance. 
 Think of what a mother must suffer when she has to confess 
 her sins to her own daughter. Think of her shame and of her 
 repentance !" 
 
 " Yes — yes ; I do — I do. It is my only comfort — to think 
 of her repentance. She whispered — oh! I remember every 
 word — she whispered : ' Lucinda, my dear, St. Paul says, " Con- 
 fess your sins to one another." There is no one here to whom 
 I can confess my sins, except to you — no one, because ray son 
 must never know, nor his child. You must be scape-goat, to 
 bear this secret. Women have to bear everything. You shall 
 hear my secret !' And so she told me all." 
 
 " She told you all," Margaret repeated. 
 
 "The dreadful truth. Nobody would ever find it out; yet 
 she could not die with that secret in her mind untold. I have 
 thought of it, over and over again. Was it necessary to tell 
 me ? Why was I singled out for the secret ? She told me, 
 however — " She stopped again — she could not bring herself 
 to repeat it. Yet, like her mother, she could not bear upon 
 her soul any longer the weight of that secret. At last she 
 strcnafthened herself. " She told me that she — she had never 
 been my father's wife — she was the wife of another man — she 
 had left him for my father — they came out together to America ; 
 and when they settled in a quiet, respectable town it would 
 have been ruin to confess. So they lived and died in sin. 
 That is what she had to tell me. That was the dreadful bur- 
 den on her soul." 
 
 " A dreadful burden, surely. Yet, to tell her own daughter ! 
 Oh, think of the repentance and the pain !" 
 
 " She did not die. But she lost her speech, and lived so for 
 three years more. And all the time her eyes followed me 
 about, and they said ' Keep the secret — keep the secret. Don't 
 let my son know, nor the child.' And every now and then I 
 used to whisper that the secret was safe. But oh ! the suffer- 
 in"-! — to go among the people, to sit in church with them, to 
 work with them, and feel that if they knew the truth they 
 would shrink from me as from a leper !" 
 
 "But no one did know. And if you do not tell any one, 
 vour secret is safe with me. How should Ella ever find it out?"
 
 248 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Mar£rarct did not tell lier tliat close at Aunt Lucinda's elbow in 
 the iirc-proof safe was the wjiolc of the family history, carefully 
 drawn out by her husband's father, in which the circumstances 
 of their flight were fully narrated. 
 
 "And then — Ella read in the papers about this inheritance — 
 and she knew a good deal about the Burlcys, for father liked 
 talking over the old days, and it seemed to her, naturallv, that 
 she was one of the heirs, and so nothing would do but she must 
 come over here to claim lier ' rights,' as she called them ; and 
 then — think — then — oh ! what was I to do ? For slie has no 
 rights— I knew enougli of law for that. I am illegitimate ; so 
 was Ella's father. Therefore Ella has no rights. Tlien, if she 
 was to succeed I should be a wicked and deceiving woman, hid- 
 ing the truth, and all the rest of my life, daily an"d hourly all 
 
 day and all night — so long as the consequences of the sin should 
 endure, a breaker of the eighth commandment. I have turned 
 that over in my mind. No one knows who hasn't thought it 
 out — the consequences of sin. Think ! Ella might, through 
 me, get possession of all this money wrongfully ; through me, 
 generation after generation might bo wronged ; long after I was 
 dead would arise the accusers against me." 
 
 " Do not fear, Ella will not inherit. If you liad only told 
 yourself that without that certificate of marriage the thino- was 
 impossible, you would liave been quite tranquil." 
 
 " Oh, I might have told her so much and prevented this jour- 
 ney to England. But to tell her the whole dreadful truth ! I 
 could not ! No ; I could not !" 
 
 " No — you must never tell her." 
 
 "And then in the researches and the opening up of old 
 stories, who knows what might be discovered ? 1 have never 
 been so wretched except in the first week after my mother's 
 revelation." She sighed heavily. " It mattered nothing if we 
 were put off and made to wait — I cared nothing at all about 
 spending all our money. I wouldn't mind lying down to die 
 and have done with it — only a Christian woman must wait to be 
 called. If only Ella should never find it out — never find it 
 out !" 
 
 This was the burden of her song — that Ella should never find 
 it out. But she had relieved lier soul. And straightway she
 
 " CONFESS YE YOUR SINS " 249 
 
 began to mend; lier pale checks put on a little color; her lips 
 assumed the semblance of a smile ; and her eyes lost the terror. 
 " Thank Heaven !" said Lucian, " you have laid the ghost, Mar- 
 garet — you are a witch." 
 11*
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 " IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT !" 
 
 " Impossible to be found out !" 
 
 Is there anytliing impossible to be found out ? Is there any 
 man so old as to feel assured that the thinsf that he did sixtv, 
 seventy years ago will not be found out before he dies ? Is 
 tlitTc any man who can be certain that tlie history of his grand- 
 father will never be revealed to the world ? Why, an old letter, 
 an old note-book, an old picture, a certificate of marriage — any- 
 thing may be discovered. Or the thing is certainly known to 
 some one else, and will by some one else be discovered and 
 whispered abroad. Sometimes the thing is not found out till 
 after death, which is merciful. 
 
 The other day they found a letter addressed by the captain- 
 governor of a fortress to his Egyptian Majesty three thousand 
 years ago ! Shall they not, therefore, much more be likely to 
 find letters written by you, most respectable Senex — love-letters 
 — written to one Amaryllis, my Lady Light o' Love — only fifty 
 years ago ? " I have always taught my younger clients," said 
 one of those practical moralists — the true father-confessors of 
 the age, the family solicitor — " always to act in the full belief 
 that the thing you are doing will certainly come to light." An 
 excellent rule. Young readers will please to make a note 
 of it. 
 
 " Impossible to be found out," said Sir John. 
 
 " Impossible to be found out," said Margaret, who knew it 
 all the time. 
 
 You shall see. 
 
 After the romantic recovery of their long-lost ancestors, the 
 Burleigh girls were naturally anxious to visit again and again 
 the gallery of family portraits, and to keep Margaret informed
 
 "impossible to be found out!" 251 
 
 concerning their great good-luck and the uplifting of the Bur- 
 leigh s. 
 
 " It is true," said the girls, " that John of Gaunt and Charles 
 II. and the noble lords our ancestors are all on the spindle 
 side ; but there they are. One day we may pride ourselves on 
 the Red Rose of Lancaster, and another on the Stuart tartan, and 
 another on the ancient barons. It's much prettier to say ' on 
 the spindle side' than 'in the female line.' We are going to 
 take the genealogy out to New Zealand, but it won't do to flour- 
 ish it there. The New-Zealanders would turn up their noses at 
 'such a magnificent display of ancestors. They would refuse to 
 believe in them. For them we shall keep the other side — the 
 spear side — fancy the pater with a spear !^ — the respectable 
 family of the Burlevs. It will be quite a distinction for us to 
 be connected even indirectly with this mountain of gold — all the 
 world has heard of the Burley millions — and nobody will be 
 envious or jealous because granddad was only a bankrupt sugar- 
 baker, and our cousin, the rich — very rich — incalculably rich — 
 man, was only a money-lender. Perhaps you will let us copy 
 one or two of the portraits just to show them in New Zealand." 
 
 Now, one dav when thev called Mars^aret was out; but she 
 was expected home shortly, and they went in. 
 
 Sitting in the hall they found, also waiting for Margaret, the 
 old woman, their cousin, Lucinda Avery, whom they had met 
 on the occasion of their second visit. She was then in the 
 workhouse dress, but this had now been changed for the ordi- 
 nary civilian garb. Lucinda was no longer an " inmate " of 
 the workhouse. Why do we reserve the word " inmate " for the 
 workhouse and the lunatic asylum? She had been taken out 
 by Margaret and intrusted to the care of certain respectable 
 persons, who were instructed to keep her well fed, well warmed, 
 and well dressed. To be warm within and without; to feel the 
 physical case which belongs to abundant food ; to have nothing 
 to do — it was all this poor old soul asked of life — rest and 
 warmth. It is, if you come to think of it, all that working 
 people of every kind ask of life. When one is dead — 
 " Rcquiescat in pace !" says the priest. " Let him rest from 
 his labors." *' He sleeps," say the people. " He is called 
 to his eternal rest." As if to do no more work would be the
 
 252 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICE 
 
 greatest conceivable happiness. But the man of science says, 
 "Let nic work forever. To rest would weary me in a week. 
 Let me be called to my eternal work." 
 
 The needle-woman sat humbly on the hardest chair, her hands 
 folded in lier lap, her spare form bent, quite patient, ready to 
 wait as long as any one pleased to make her wait. 
 
 " Why," cried the girls ; " it's our cousin — Lucinda Avery I" 
 
 The old woman stood up meekly and courtesied. "Sir John's 
 daughters," she said. " Sir John's beautiful young daughters. 
 Yes, young ladies. Sir John is my cousin," 
 
 " And you are — you are — in the — " 
 
 " I was in the House. Mv finoers bent and ofot stiff, and I 
 could work no longer. So I was glad to go in. But Mrs. Cal- 
 vert took me out. She said that she'd found a cousin, and she 
 wasn't going to leave her in the workhouse. I'm quite as com- 
 fortable where she has put me." 
 
 " Oh ! But we are your cousins, too. Why should not we 
 help ? And where are you now ?" 
 
 " I've got lodgings," she replied, " with respectable people. 
 Mrs. Calvert pays for them." 
 
 " But you are our cousin, as well. Won't you come up-stairs 
 with us and talk about yourself ? We are waiting for Mrs. Cal- 
 vert." 
 
 The old woman followed submissively. She obeyed any one 
 who ordered her, as behooves one who knows nothing of the 
 outer world but that it is strong and masterful, and must be 
 obeyed. She followed, sheep-like. 
 
 In the di-awing-room, at the writing-table, sat a girl who 
 looked up from her work and rose. 
 
 " Our name is Burleigh," said the eldest. " We know Mrs. 
 Calvert, and we have come to look at the family portraits again. 
 They are the portraits of our ancestors." 
 
 " Why," said the girl, smiling, " I am named Burley, too. 
 And they are my ancestors as well." 
 
 " Good gracious ! and this old lady's mother was a Burley ! 
 Then we are all cousins together. But as for us, we cannot 
 claim the big fortune, because we are descended from an elder 
 branch. Perhaps you can put in a claim." 
 
 " I came over from the States with my Aunt Lucinda, to
 
 "IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT !" 253 
 
 claim our share, if we could get it. But there are delays. They 
 want more proofs than we can find. And they say they must 
 wait for proof of the death of the man who should be the heir. 
 So we must go back again — or find something to do here — and 
 wait till it pleases them to be satisfied that he is dead. And 
 that will be — I know not when." 
 
 She looked clever, this bright - eyed, sharp - faced American 
 girl, and capable of self-assertion should the necessity arise. 
 
 " Let us shake hands and be friends," said the New-Zealand- 
 ers, through the eldest, " since we are not rivals. And let us all 
 hope that you will get the fortune all to yourself." 
 
 Then they looked round the room and talked about the pict- 
 ures, and found likenesses and common ancestors, and lamented 
 such of the family disasters as they knew, and wondered about 
 this person, and sighed over that, and agreed that the American 
 cousin was partly like her great-grandmother — only prettier — 
 but more like her great-great-grandfather. And it was all very 
 pleasant. And they pressed the American cousin to bring the 
 cousinship closer together, and to call upon her New Zealand 
 kin at South Kensington. And it was all delightful, until the 
 earthquake came. 
 
 It happened in this way. The old woman, whom they had 
 placed in the most comfortable chair beside the fire — for it was 
 a chill November day — sat placid and patient, her hands in her 
 lap, her form bent, just as if she were still waiting in the hall. 
 She did not know pictures; she did not like walking about 
 when she could sit, and she did not understand the chatter of 
 girls among themselves. 
 
 "And now," cried one of the New-Zealanders, "let us hear, 
 you poor old thing, all about yourself." 
 
 They sat and stood and grouped themselves about the old 
 lady. Ella rang for tea, and they asked her questions, and made 
 her talk. 
 
 She told what the old novels used to call her simple and af- 
 fecting narrative ; that is to say, she answered questions. 
 
 " Oh I" they cried. " What a life ! What a dreadful story ! 
 What a cruel wretch the eldest brother must have been. How 
 happy to have done with such a life ! What do you do now? 
 Do you read much ?"
 
 254 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 She shook lier head. " No," slic said. " I don't care about 
 reading. "Wc never liad any books, and I never did read, except 
 on Sunday at church. I'd sooner stitch than read. But I like 
 to have nothing to do. It's liaving Sunday evening all the 
 week and all day long." 
 
 " What did you do on Sunday evenings?" 
 
 " We used to sit together, mother and me, in the dark, with 
 the street-lamp outside, and she told me about her family. 
 Every Sunday evening she talked about them. So, you see, it's 
 this way. Because it's all Sunday evening with me now. I 
 think about nothing but mother's family all the time." 
 
 They gazed upon this wonderful old lady with amazement. 
 Was there anywhere else in the world an old woman who never 
 read, except in her prayer-book ; know nothing — absolutely noth- 
 ing ; and had no food for her mind, except the recollections of 
 lier mother concerning her family. Ancestral worship can go 
 no further. To spend the evening of one's days in remember- 
 ing the history of an undistinguished — or perhaps an undesira- 
 bly notorious — raiddle-class family. 
 
 " Tell us," said one of the girls, inspired of the devil — " tell 
 us something about them." 
 
 It was half-past six ; outside twilight had fallen ; the firelight 
 fell upon the faces of the girls gathered round the fire, and 
 warmed up the thin cheek of the old woman with a rosy flush. 
 
 " Mostly I think about my mother's brother. But there was 
 her father ; she used to talk about him a good deal. He was a 
 dreadful miser." 
 
 Ilerc followed a chapter on the miser, containing many illus- 
 trations of the miser's miserly misery. 
 
 " The elder brother was John — my uncle John — who has left, 
 they tell me, such a lot of money. He was dreadful fond of 
 money, too, but he wasn't such a miser. He didn't stay at 
 liome and grub for money ; he went out into the town and 
 made more money." 
 
 Then followed the history of the money-lender so far as she 
 knew. We have heard it already. 
 
 " And then came the next brother," suggested another of 
 them, also inspired by the devil. 
 
 " The second son was Henry. He became an actor after he
 
 "IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUt!'' 255 
 
 ran away. Mother lost sight of him, and never knew what he 
 did nor how he got on. When he was a boy he used to make 
 them all laugh by mimicking everything, especially his father. 
 But he ran away, and his younger brother ran away ; and when 
 mother was left alone with her father and her eldest brother, 
 she had to run away, too. And so she did, and married Cap- 
 tain Avery, my father." 
 
 Here followed the history of that unhappy marriage, with its 
 sequel in the Fleet. 
 
 " Then there was the third son. He was named Charles." 
 
 " That's the one who is exactly like Herbert — our only 
 brother," one of the sisters explained. " He is so like that we 
 all thought he must be our grandfather. But he wasn't." 
 
 "Charles was a wild young man; I don't know what he did 
 for his living. But he committed a forgery — " 
 
 " Oh !" They all drew breath together. " A forgery !" 
 
 " Yes. He wrote somebody else's name on a paper and got 
 money for it. They caught him and tried him, and he was 
 sentenced to death ; but they let him off, and he was transported 
 for life. They sent him to Australia." 
 
 " Where he died, I suppose ? Well, it's a long time ago now. 
 We need not feel very much shame over him." 
 
 " No ; he didn't die in Australia. He escaped somehow, 
 after a good many years, and came home. He would have been 
 hanired if he had been caught. He found out mother — I re- 
 member him ; it was when we were living in the Rules of the 
 Fleet; and he came to see her, and brought his wife — lier name 
 was Marion, I remember — and their little boy — I remember the 
 little boy — and he changed his name — spelled it different, but 
 it sounded the same, and went away in a ship to New Zealand. 
 And there, mother heard, he got on and got rich, and no one 
 ever knew out there who he was nor what he'd done, nor where 
 he came from. He told mother what he was going to do. His 
 son was never to know, else he'd be ashamed. Got rich and 
 prospered, mother heard. And it was never found out what 
 he'd done," she concluded. She had forgotten that she was 
 speaking to Charles's grandchildren. She was just repeating 
 what lier mother had told her. 
 
 There was dead silence. As five tall lilies for want of water
 
 256 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 hang their sweet lieads and droop declining, so these five maid- 
 ens drooped and bowed their lieads in shameful silence. For 
 the story could not be mistaken : the man who had forged 
 that paper ; the man who had been transported for life, and 
 escaped ; the man wlio had changed his name, " but it sounded 
 the same ;" the man who had a wife — " her name was Marion " — 
 and a son ; the man who prospered and grew rich — " and no 
 one ever knew what he was nor what he'd done" — this man must 
 be none other than their grandfather, and the beautiful geneal- 
 ogy was a long lie from beginning to end. 
 
 There was dead silence. Presently one of the girls sobbed 
 and choked. The others choked as well — repressing sobs. 
 
 The old woman went on. 
 
 " Then there was the youngest brother, James." 
 
 The American girl, who was filled with pity for lier cousins — 
 because she, too, read the story and saw their shame unspeak- 
 able — shivered. "Would there be anything terrible for herself? 
 
 "James was always thought a very steady young man — not 
 like Charles or Henry — and not a money-grubber, like his eldest 
 brother — mother said she was never so astonished in her life. 
 He had an aunt who helped him — and he became a lawyer — and 
 he was going to be a partner with his master, who was an old 
 man, with a very young wife — and then — it's shameful to say it 
 before young ladies — but the truth is — he ran away with liis 
 master's wife — and he took her out to America, and pretended 
 she was his wife." 
 
 Then the sixth head bowed down. 
 
 And there was silence for a space. 
 
 Then the old woman got up. " I must be going," she said, 
 cheerfully, after doing all this mischief. " Good-night, young 
 ladies. 1 should like to tell you more some day. The family 
 has had dreadful misfortunes. There was the one who was 
 hanged, and the one who went mad. Oh ! There's a deal to 
 think about in the Burley family. I'll come and tell you all the 
 
 troubles over again. 
 
 When she was gone they remained in silence. Presently the 
 eldest of the Xew Zealand branch rose and touched her sister's 
 shoulder, and they all rose and went out, leaving Ella alone in 
 the room. And she sat there in the firelight. For the worst
 
 " IMPOSSIBLE TO BE FOUND OUT !" 257 
 
 thing that could possibly hap2')en, in her mind, was this thing: 
 the worst crime that can be committed by any man, according 
 to her Puritanic views, had been committed by her grandfather 
 and her grandmother — she remembered them both — the grave 
 and reverend grandfather, the wisest man in the town, the friend 
 and adviser of all — and her grandmother, white-haired, reverend, 
 dignitied, pious, severe. Oh ! was it true ? Could it be true ? 
 
 Margaret came home about seven. Ella had gone to her own 
 room. She had a headache ; she would be better alone. 
 
 The others went home by the underground railway. They 
 had a carriage to themselves, and they all wept and cried with- 
 out reserve. When they reached home they gathered together 
 in Lucy's room. 
 
 " Mind !" said the eldest. " Not a word — not a look — not a 
 syllable — above all things, the dear old pater must never know 
 — never — never — never ! Oh ! it would ruin his life — " She 
 broke down and sobbed. "And mother must never know — it 
 would kill her. The shame of it — the disgrace of it — " 
 
 " Not a word ! Not a look ! Not a syllable !" they all echoed. 
 
 " Cathie " — Cathie was the youngest — " if you feel you can't 
 sit down to dinner without crying, stay here and say you've got 
 a sore throat or something. After dinner somebody must play 
 — I'll get out the cribbage-board, and play with him. We'll go 
 to bed early. We can't trust ourselves to talk. Mind ! Again — 
 no talking about it — even among ourselves. Never a word for 
 the rest of our lives. If we marry, never a word to our hus- 
 bands. And as for that wretched, lying, miserable genealogy, 
 with its John of Gaunt and its Joshua Calvert Burley — and its 
 sugar-baker and its Charles II. — let the pater believe in it still. 
 And we'll pretend — and let us forget. Oh ! let us try to for- 
 get — if we never speak ahout it ! If we go home soon- — away 
 from this unfortunate family — we shall be able to forget." 
 
 " We will forget," they cried. " We will try, at least, to for- 
 get. But—" 
 
 There was one thing more to be done. 
 
 Lucy, the eldest, did it. She went to the Church of St. John 
 the Evangelist; she found the parish-clerk, and she examined 
 the register. Joshua Calvert Burley. He was baptized on July 
 1st in the year 1*778. So far the genealogy was right.
 
 258 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " There's a-many come here now," said the parish-clerk, " to 
 search the Burlcy nauics. AH trying to get a slice off the big 
 cake, I reckon. As for the name Joshua, he occurs again." 
 
 So be did. Two years later, on October 3, 1780, little Joshua 
 Calvert Burlcy breathed his last. It was hardly likely that in his 
 short life of two years he could have found time to start a new 
 branch of the Burley family tree — and therefore the portrait be- 
 longed to somebody else — and how about the sugar-baker ? And 
 how about John of Gaunt, and Charles II., and the Earl of Ox- 
 ford, and the Baron Clifford ?
 
 CHAPTER XXXir 
 
 THE S?IAME OF IT ! 
 
 If you come to tliink of it, almost the most deadly blow 
 you can strike at a girl is one which forbids the honor and re- 
 spect due to those she loves — those nearest and dearest to her. 
 Ella remembered the ancient lady, her grandmother, as au- 
 sterely religious, constantly reading the Bible, always serious. 
 Could the story be possible? Was it an invention of the old 
 woman's ? 
 
 That old lady, her grandmother, in the white widow's cap 
 and black dress, who sat beside the stove, knitting in her hands 
 for occupation, the Bible on her knees, her lips moving, but 
 seldom speaking all day long — was she the wife of another man? 
 To think of this terrible secret locked up in her heart all to her- 
 self ! Oh ! why was it suffered to be made known after all 
 these years ? 
 
 This dreadful story seemed for the moment to make self- 
 respect henceforth impossible. We recover from some things. 
 Not from such a thing as this, which can never be shaken off. 
 It has to be accepted, like a humpback. To be sure, it can be 
 hidden away, which the humpback cannot. Very many people, 
 I believe, have got some such secret hump on their backs ; the 
 skeleton hangs in unsuspected cupboards ; the young men and 
 the maidens of a family grow up with the knowledge of what is 
 behind the door. Learned in this way, and gradually, the story 
 becomes a secret burden, borne without much pain. Bat to have 
 a skeleton suddenly presented to you, cupboard and all ; door 
 wide open — door never seen before; cupboard invisible till 
 then ; skeleton never even heard of, a new and unexpected skel- 
 eton — this may be very terrible. One has to bear it as one can. 
 No use whatever in crying over it. The thing must be endured,
 
 260 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 and one must go about as if there were nothing wrong at all — no 
 pain anywhere. 
 
 No one would have suspected that this American girl had 
 been robbed of so much. She became more silent, perhaps, 
 and rather pale ; but she made no other sign. 
 
 She kept it up for a week ; then she broke down. 
 It was in the evening, after ten o'clock. Aunt Lucinda had 
 gone to bed. The lamps were lowered ; the firelight fell on the 
 portraits. Margaret sat improvising soft, sad music— letting her 
 fingers ramble over the keys in harmony with the sadness of her 
 thoughts. Ella sat in a low chair by the fireside. Lucian was 
 down-stairs in his study. Presently Margaret closed the piano 
 with a deep sigh and came to the fireside, gazing silently and 
 sadly into the red coal, 
 
 Ella took her hand and kissed it. " Margaret, you are unhap- 
 py ; you sigh, and your face is always sad. Are we all to be 
 unliap])y ?" 
 
 " You, at least, need not, Ella. Yet you are. Why ? Not be- 
 cause of your horrid claim ? If that is the cause, I can tell you 
 something that will set your mind at rest. I have seen trouble 
 in your face for a week and more." 
 
 Then it was that Ella broke down, and, in her weakness, con- 
 fessed the whole, 
 
 "Margaret — that cousin — that old woman of the workhouse 
 — Lucinda Avery — " 
 " Well ?" 
 
 "Does she know all the family history? Is what she says 
 about our people true V 
 
 " I believe that her mother taught her nothing else." 
 "We were in the drawing-room, the New Zealand girls 
 and T, and she was there ; and we asked her about our people, 
 and she told us. Margaret, for God's sake, do not let Auntie 
 know ! It would kill her — the shame of the thing would kill 
 her." 
 
 " What did she say, dear? That is, if it would not pain you 
 too much to tell me — " 
 
 " It pains me more to keep the thing a secret. She said — she 
 told the New Zealand girls — who have got a genealogy a mile 
 long — that their grandfather was a convict transported to Aus-
 
 H 
 O 
 O 
 
 ta 
 PI 
 
 O 
 
 C 
 
 "t3 
 
 /- I --s 

 
 THE SHAME OF IT ! 361 
 
 tralia and escaped, and — is that true, Margaret? You who know 
 everything, is that true ?" 
 
 " Unhappily, Ella, it is true." 
 
 "And that my grandfather — my grandfather — ran away with 
 his master's wife — who was my grandmother — my grandmother, 
 Margaret. Since they never married in Tewksbury, they never 
 married at all. Is that true, Margaret?" 
 
 "Give me both hands, Ella — botli." Margaret took her 
 • hands, held them — kissed her forehead. " My poor cliild — it is 
 true—" 
 
 " And you knew all along ? Oh ! how is it you know every- 
 thing ? And you never told me !" 
 
 " I knew that secret. Do you blame me for not telling you ? 
 I hoped that you would never find it out." 
 
 "And now I have found it out — as for my claim — that is 
 gone — and a good thing too. Oh ! Margaret — dear Margaret — - 
 don't tell Auntie — don't let her ever know." 
 
 "There is no necessity for telling her. You had better not 
 talk with her about your grandparents at all. And now, Ella, 
 my dear, don't think about this matter any more." 
 
 "Margaret" — Ella sat up in her chair — "what did you tell 
 me — you, who know all about us? That disaster followed with 
 that fortune — even on the mere endeavor after it. It has fallen 
 upon me. I came over in search of it — I thought of nothing 
 else. And now the punislimcnt has fallen upon me. My father 
 wfts the son of sin and shame." 
 
 " If you had stayed at home you would have escaped this 
 evil. Yes, dear; it is true. Disaster falls surely and certainly 
 upon all who touch that accursed pile of gold. God forbid that 
 the smallest piece of it should come to you or yours — or to me 
 and mine. It means shame and misery. To us women it 
 means that we must bear the burden of the men's iniquities. 
 To us it means the knowledge that our innocent cliildren are 
 only born that they may endure the inheritance of those sins." 
 Margaret spoke with an earnestness that sank deep into her 
 companion's heart. 
 
 " Ella, dear, I have seen them in a vision — in broad day- 
 light — all the wives and daughters that you see upon these 
 walls, and more. I have seen them, and I tremble lest their
 
 2G2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 lot may bo mine, Thanlc God, dear, daily, that you have es- 
 caped with nothing worse than the knowledge of a guilty pair." 
 
 "You, Margaret? — you, too, concerned about this inherit- 
 ance? Then you must be — or your husband must be — one of 
 us. Oh ! when I first thought that we must give it up — be- 
 cause we could not find the marriage certificate — it seemed a 
 most dreadful blow ; now I don't mind it. I have come to see 
 that both of us, Auntie and I, are most unfit for the Inirden of 
 great wealth. If that was all — but I have got this awful secret 
 to endure. I have lost my reverence for that dear old lady, so 
 full of dignity — the memory of whom has always been a per- 
 petual admonition of the Christian life. She is gone. What 
 am I to put in her place — a shameful adulteress? I cannot, 
 Margaret — I can;iot." 
 
 "A repentant woman. The past forgotten and forgiven. The 
 Christian woman that you remember. All that is left of her — 
 pure and most womanly. It seems as if the most difficult les- 
 son we can ever learn is that of the purifying fire of repent- 
 ance. Let the old memory survive, Ella. So you will bear 
 your burden better." 
 
 " I am glad that I told you. I feel happier again. To-mor- 
 row I will tell Aunt Lucinda that we will give up the claim al- 
 together. I feci lighter only to tliink of giving up the claim. 
 That's enough about me. Now, Margaret — you who have done 
 so much for me — can I not do something for you ?" 
 
 " No; you can do nothing for me. There is but one person 
 who can do anything for me. I am in a ship, and he is steer- 
 ing — and I see the rocks ahead, and he sees nothing but smooth 
 water; and in a day or two, a week or two — I know not when — 
 the ship will be on the rocks, and wo shall be wrecked. That 
 is the reason why I am unhappy, dear." 
 
 " It has something to do with this awful estate, Margaret. 
 In America if we have religion we mean it. I shall pray for 
 you. Aunt Lucinda says that we prayed for a miracle, and the 
 Lord sent — you. If I pray, what will the Lord send ? Some- 
 thing." 
 
 In the night, or in the small hours of the morning, Ella woke 
 with a start, for she heard a voice. You know how a voice — 
 which is no voice — does sometimes ring through the brain,
 
 THE SHAME OF IT ! 263 
 
 crying, echoing, loud enough for all the world to hear. This 
 was a voice that explained everytliing. Many things have been 
 explained by such a voice ; the school-boy in the night receives 
 the solution of his problem from this voice ; the hesitation as 
 to this or that line of action is finally ended by this voice — it 
 is not, you see, a voice that begins a new thing, or reveals a 
 new truth. There are no revelations in dreams. But somehow 
 in sleep, or at waking, the mind carries on the thoughts of the 
 evening, and the voice brings a solution. This voice cried, 
 " Lucian is none other than the grandson ; it is he who may 
 take the whole if he wisbes. He has promised not to take it; 
 but he is tempted more and more — and Margaret looks on, and 
 waits, and dreads." 
 
 She received this message. Then she turned her head on the 
 pillow and went to sleep again, for reflection would come better 
 in the morning than in the dead of night. In the morning she 
 perceived what a wonderful discovery she had made ; and now 
 she understood why Lucian was like his great-grandfather, Cal- 
 vert Burley — the resolute, the masterful, and the unscrupulous. 
 Resolution was his — and mastery ; was the third gift also his al- 
 ready, or would he assume it with the inheritance of Ruin and 
 Destruction ?
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE STORY OF A DREAM 
 
 In this unexpected way the American girl discovered the 
 secret of the House. Strange that no one else should have 
 found it out. ^Vhy, his face, his eyes, his hair — all betrayed 
 him. And what was he thinking about always, this strong 
 man who sat so silent, his face exactly like that of the first 
 Calvert, resolute and masterful? What but of the immense 
 fortune that awaited him if he only chose to put out his hand 
 and take it? A great and terrible temptation. For such a 
 man as this would not desire wealth for its own sake — not for 
 the life of pleasure, but for some worthier objects. She thought 
 of her own castles when first she dreamed of getting it all for 
 herself. As her dreams were, so would his be, but wiser — 
 perhaps more generous. x\n American girl is not too ready to 
 admit the superiority of a man. Ella watched him at breakfast 
 and at dinner. She saw that the temptation was always in his '' 
 mind. She saw his face growing more resolute, and she know 
 that the end was very near. 
 
 It is venturesome to interfere between husband and wife. 
 Ella ventured. 
 
 *' Lucian " (she attempted the thing in his study), " I've got 
 something to say. Are you too busy ? So — then — what is the 
 matter with Marijaret ?" 
 
 " With Margaret ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she is nervous — she is anxious about something." 
 
 "I think that Margaret is <iuitc well. But I will talk to 
 her." 
 
 "Think she is well? Why, Lucian, what is the good of 
 being a physician and a husband, and a lover, too, not to see 
 that she is ill, without being told ?"
 
 TIIK STORY OF A DREAM 265 
 
 " I Avill talk to her," he replied. How could he explain that 
 between them stood a fiornre which to one showed like Dame 
 Fortune in her best, her most smiling mood, and to the other 
 looked like Siva the Destroyer? How should he guess that 
 this girl saw the figure as plainly as either he or Margaret? 
 
 " You've got to talk to her, then, and to look after her, and let 
 her have whatever she wants. You've got to think more about 
 her, and less about your science and your profession, Lucian. 
 If you were a lower kind of man, I should say you've got to 
 think less about yourself." 
 
 " I will talk to Margaret as seriously as ever you can desire, 
 Ella. She has looked nervous lately, I will see to it at once. 
 I've had a good deal to think of." 
 
 " Lucian " (Ella took his arm-chair and sat down in it), " I 
 often wonder why you are always thinking — thinking — think- 
 ing. Have you got some mighty discovery on your mind? Are 
 you going to invent a bacillus that will inoculate the whole 
 world into perfect health ? That is the kind of bacillus we 
 want — a ravenous bacillus that will eat up all the other bacilli, 
 like Moses's serpent, and then spread itself out comfortably and 
 expire. Is that what makes you so silent — I suppose I must 
 not say moody ?" 
 
 "Am I silent, Ella? There is something, perhaps, on my 
 mind. You know one has to think of many things, and I — 
 well — perhaps I have reason to think more than usual." 
 
 "I hope it will be successful thinking, and — oh! Doctor — 
 Doctor Lucian — I hope it will be something that will make 
 Margaret happy again. Cure her — cure her — cure her first, 
 physician — before you cure the rest of the world." 
 
 Even the thought of Margaret was powerless against the 
 temptation. His face hardened. He made no reply. Ella 
 left him. She had fired her shot. I'erliaps it would be nse- 
 less. Perhaps it might recall him to a sense of what he was 
 throwing away. For the shipwreck that Margaret foresaw 
 would be the wreck of her married life — love, happiness, ev- 
 erything. She would never, Ella understood, join her husband 
 in any part or share of this estate. "The ship," said YAV.x, "is 
 very near the rocks." 
 
 At dinner the same day she made another attempt to combat 
 
 12
 
 266 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 the temptation. It was a silent dinner, but Ella forced the 
 talk. 
 
 " Lucian," she said. lie looked up abstractedly. " I want 
 to tell you something. You have not spoken for at least ten 
 minutes, which shows that you are now in a good mood for 
 listening. Now, attention !" she rapped the table with the 
 handle of a knife. 
 
 "Well, Ella?" 
 
 " I want to talk to you — and Margaret — about our claim, and 
 all about it." 
 
 " Yes, we shall be very much interested." 
 
 " You know the Grand Triumphal March of the American 
 Claimants, and the huge lump of solid happiness we've got out 
 of our march, don't you ?" 
 
 " I suppose we know something." 
 
 " Very well. We have withdrawn our claim. Auntie has 
 tied up all the papers, and it has come to an end." 
 
 " Perhaps it was wise, considering the difficulties in your 
 way." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but consider — all the way from Tewksbury here, 
 and all the time we have been here, I have had the most gor- 
 geous dream that ever came to any girl — a dream of Boundless 
 Wealth. I have been, like Tennyson, building for my soul a 
 I'alace of Art. I have been dispensing with both hands un- 
 heard-of blessings — and now it is all over." 
 
 " You feel, I dare say, a little lonely." 
 
 "Just a little," she interrupted. " Lucian, do you know what 
 it is like ?" She spoke simply, without the least suspicion of 
 double meaning in her voice or in her eyes, "Did you ever 
 have — you — a Dream of Untold Gold ?" 
 
 Margaret started and bowed her head. Lucian started and 
 dropped his fork. Why, at that very moment he was longing 
 to wander away in such a dream — a vision in which he stood 
 forth as the greatest benefactor that science ever knew. He 
 dropped his fork — a thing no one ever does except at moments 
 of sudden shock. In the last century, when a man was startled 
 his mouth opened and his jaws stuck. That was the recognized 
 and highly poetical manner of receiving the unexpected. In 
 these days a man drops what at other times he never drops
 
 THE STORV OF A DREAM 267 
 
 at all — his fork, Lis umbrella, his pon. The ancestral manner is 
 the more striking. Lucian dropped his fork ; he changed color ; 
 he looked up quickly and suspiciously. The girl's face ex- 
 pressed perfect, unsuspecting ignorance and innocence. 
 
 " I don't mean, you know, the ordinary wealth that makes a rich 
 man such as we call rich — a man with a million or two — just 
 independent of work — having to think before he spends ten 
 thousand dollars — I mean Boundless Wealth — such wealth as 
 I once hoped to inherit. The wealth that I came over in order 
 to get — and haven't got." 
 
 Lucian picked up the fork and fenced, not with it, but with 
 the question. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " that we all have some such dream, at 
 odd times. It does no harm to dream of things possible only 
 for one man in a dozen centuries." 
 
 " Mine was a lovely dream. AYDiild you like me to tell you 
 about it? I know you won't laugh, Margaret, over the foolish- 
 ness of ray dream." 
 
 " Nobody will laugh, Ella." 
 
 " Then I'll tell you all about it. It began as soon as I was able 
 to understand what it meant to be the heir of the Bnrley prop- 
 erty. Yon can't rise to it all at once, especially if you are an 
 American girl working in a store at five dollars a week. You 
 understand ten dollars perhaps, or even twenty, but it wants 
 great imagination for such a girl to get beyond that. I suppose 
 it was a fortnio-lit or three weeks before I even beo-an to under- 
 stand. I used to set down the figures, all in a row, and look at 
 them till they got lengthened out — you know what eyes will 
 do with things if you look long enough and let them have their 
 own way. Thev stretched out — so" — she followed an imaffi- 
 nary line with her hand — "to miles and miles and miles of mill- 
 ions, till I used to think I was going off my head. The figures 
 got the better of me for a time. If ever I shut my eyes, I saw 
 a long procession of them — round naughts without units — rolling 
 wheels one after the other, never ending. Well, I got the bet- 
 ter of them at last, and then the dream began.* I had first to 
 conquer the figures, you see, and make them feel that I was go- 
 ing to rule them. Did you over feel that way, Lucian?" 
 
 '• Not altogether."
 
 268 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " So the dream began ; and 1 was tlie Queen of all the Treas- 
 ure, and was doing with it — oh ! the most inconceivable amount 
 of good to the whole world. I just scattered blessings. I was 
 the most benevolent fairy that you ever saw. That was how it 
 began — just with blessings in the abstract — vague, you know — 
 shadowy blessings. I think I enjoyed that phase of the dream 
 best. Then it changed. Have you felt that way, Lucian ?" 
 
 " Not altogether. l>ut go on." 
 
 "Then I becran to settle down — we were on board the steam- 
 cr by this time, and the weather was awful, and as for poor 
 Auntie — but I was too busy with my dream to notice things. 
 I began to settle down, I say. I asked myself definitely what I 
 was going to do. You see, I had made up my mind that I was 
 going to get the whole estate — I had no manner of doubt about 
 that. Well, where was I to live? Not in effete Europe, not in 
 a corrupt European capital — that was the way I used to think 
 six weeks ago. It must be in America — the Land of the Free. 
 So I chose Boston, and 1 thouo-ht I would have one of the 
 houses looking over the Common. And as for Tewksbury — 
 which I then discovered, for the first time, to be quite a little 
 place, I couldn't live there — that wasn't at all a fit place for the 
 queen of all that treasure — but I would do something for it — 
 AVhat?" 
 
 She paused for any one to make a suggestion. No answer. 
 
 "I thought I would buikl a great and splendid college." 
 
 Lucian started, and looked at the speaker with swift sus- 
 picion. No — innocence itself was in ])er eyes. Indeed, though 
 I believe that her first question was artful and designing, and 
 based upon her discovery, the rest was pure coincidence. 
 
 " A college — yes — a college for girls only, where they should 
 learn everything that men learn — they do that already, almost. 
 In my college they should do it (]uite. There are some things 
 still left for men — mechanical engineering, ship-building, ma- 
 chines and engines, electricity — everything, everything, I would 
 have taught in my college besides the usual history and lan- 
 guages and art and science." 
 
 Lucian nodded his head. " You would make them also 
 navvies, ploughboys, hodmen, sawyers, carters, draymen?" 
 
 " Why not ? There is no reason why they should not learn.
 
 THE STORY OF A DREAM 269 
 
 Anyhow, I tell you I was just going to make the finest college 
 Id the world, and to plant it down at Tewksbury, and to leave 
 them to work it out. Can any one say that I was unmindful 
 of my native town ? Wasn't that a noble dream ?" 
 
 "Very noble indeed," said Lucian, with a little restraint. 
 
 "I was afraid you wouldn't think so. Because, here in Eng- 
 land you won't acknowledge — what an American understands 
 quite well — that women are fast becoming the leaders of the 
 world." 
 
 " No. I think we have hardly — " 
 
 "Not yet. But you will. The men will go on working; 
 they will have to do the work that the women leave them. 
 They will make things — all the men in Tewksbury make chair- 
 legs, for instance — they will plough and reap ; and they will do 
 the buying and the selling — they will do the money-making. 
 That is essentially a branch for the coarser wit of men. Of 
 course it will not be considered in the future a noble branch of 
 work." 
 
 "This is all part of your dream ?" 
 
 " Of course. My college was intended to advance the su- 
 premacy of women. Oh ! I know what you are thinking : no 
 woman yet the equal of the greatest men. Why, you have 
 never given us the opportunity, and you can't deny that even 
 with our limited chances the average woman is far better than 
 the average man. Woman is essentially the administrator. 
 Why, it's the hardest thing in the world to get a man who can 
 administrate ; he must be a soldier or a teacher. But you may 
 find a woman who is a good administrator in every other 
 house." 
 
 "Your woman of the future — will slic also fight?" 
 
 " Why not? The old fighting — the club and knife and fist — 
 is gone. You fight from a distance. Your rifies are too heavy ; 
 but when you substitute electricity for powder, you will have a 
 li<rht weapon that we can carry as well as you. And as for en- 
 durance in a campaign, the average woman will endure far bet- 
 ter than the average man." 
 
 " I understand," said Lucian, coldly. 
 
 "Yes, and the most beautiful point about it was that I did 
 not want the fortune for my own use. I wanted it — all of it —
 
 270 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAltlCE 
 
 for tlie advancement of the world. Oh, it was grand ! There 
 was I — just I by myself — on a pinnacle, a spectacle for all the 
 world, five feet three in my boots — Ella Burley by name — native 
 of Tewksbury, Massachusetts — a girl clerk in a store — who 
 knew nothing outside my books — standing behind the great 
 round world and rolling it uphill all by myself." 
 
 " Why not," asked Lucian, "if you have the money? That 
 is the power." 
 
 " Ah ! But, you sec, that is a mistake. It is not the money 
 that rolls the world — it is the man. I don't know whether my 
 college would have taught the girls any better than any other 
 college. But I do see now that it wouldn't have quickened or 
 diverted the current one bit unless it was connected with a 
 strong, person — a man, if you like. Well, it's all over now," 
 she laughed. "All over, and I am so glad — so glad ; and so is 
 Auntie." 
 
 "Since you are pleased, Ella — " said Lucian, feebly. 
 
 " Well, at first I was disappointed. It seemed a thousand 
 pities to give up such a dream. Presently I remembered some- 
 thing in Browning. I can't quote the lines. He shows how 
 everybody, who desires anything strongly, especially if he de- 
 sires good things, feels like the Greek mathematician — that, if he 
 only had a stand-point for his lever, he could move the world. 
 But he can't — and he's got to be content to stand where he is 
 placed, and to move if he can his own little bit of the world. 
 So we must be content with our little bit. As for all that stuff 
 about women leading — it was the kind of rubbish we talked — 
 some of us; and my college, which was to teach them every- 
 thing, what was it all but empty vanity and conceit?" 
 
 Margaret at this point looked at her husband. He lifted his 
 eyes and met hers. 
 
 After a little pause he spoke. But he made no reply to the 
 last little speech about the empty vanity. 
 
 '•We are all of us moving the world," he said, "if we are 
 working at science. I see no other way of moving or advancing 
 the world. If your college had been founded, it might have 
 .been an excellent college, and a real centre for scientific dis- 
 covery ; on the other hand, it might have failed. There is no 
 reason that I can sec why women should not advance science.
 
 THE STORY OF A DREAM 271 
 
 They have not done so as yet ; but, then, very few have at- 
 tempted in that direction. As for women leading the world, 
 either in any high line or as administrators — there, fair dreamer 
 of dreams, I venture to differ." 
 
 " Very well. But what would you do, Lucian," she asked, 
 still with a look of open innocence, "if you — but of course you 
 are too sensible — could entertain such a dream ?" 
 
 " If I ever entertained such a dream as you say, it would be 
 to advance science in some way." 
 
 " Just like me, then. But you would advance science only V 
 
 "Yes; because I see no hope for the advancement of the 
 world except by science." 
 
 " I have always been taught," she replied, softly, " that 
 there was a larger hope. However, what do you mean to do 
 for the world, especially by your science f 
 
 "The possibilities of science are such that we can no more un- 
 derstand them than we can limit them. At the present we are 
 still on the threshold. Future ages will ridicule us when they 
 read that we thought only of prolonging life, destroying dis- 
 ease, alleviating pain, arresting decay. It will seem to them 
 child's play when we proposed to lessen labor by the half 
 — by three-quarters; to multiply food products indefinitely, to 
 destroy poverty, to raise the standard, to lift up the poor to 
 the level of the rich, and to make the world a garden for men 
 and women as long as they like to live in it. Of life, in the long- 
 run, there would be, I take it, satiety in the end." 
 
 " A world with nothing to do but to enjoy itself! Why, 
 Lucian, your people would have to alter a good deal first. Only 
 to think of pleasure ! What a world it would be ! Why, if 
 you come to think of it, your science would produce a universal 
 pigsty. Fancy taking all this trouble to produce a world with 
 nothing to do but to enjoy itself ! You are a very clever man, 
 Lucian, but I do hope you will not get your college. If you 
 do, I shall go and live on a desert island." 
 
 Ella laughed, but Marecaret did not. She looked at her hus- 
 band, who replied, gravely: "You do not understand, Ella. 
 These things will not arrive all at once. The world will be pre- 
 pared by gradual achievements. And in such a world the pig- 
 sty will not be permitted."
 
 272 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 " People don't want much preparation for less work and 
 more pay. But it's a curious thing, Lucian, isn't it, that your 
 dream — a scientific man's dream — should be no better than 
 mine ? You are a biologist, a physician, and I know not what, 
 and I am only a girl clerk from Tewksbury, Massachusetts, 
 and we dream the same dreain. And both the dreams are fool- 
 ishness ! Only think ! Both foolishness."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 
 
 After this little discussion of the impossible dream there was 
 silence for a space, three out of the four feeling guilty. Then 
 Margaret rose. Lucian remained behind, shaken out of the even 
 tenor of the dream, which now held him day and niglit. In the 
 drawing-room the three ladies sat without the exchange of many 
 words. As for the coincidence, what could be more natural 
 than that Ella should speak of her dream ? Everybody knew 
 she had entertained such a dream, and had been living in it, and 
 clinging to it, until it became impossible in the way that you 
 have seen. But something was going to happen. Everybody 
 knows the feeling that something is going to happen. The two 
 women were expectant. 
 
 Something was going to happen. Anybody may say so much 
 at any time. Something is always going to happen; something 
 happens every day ; but not something that may change the 
 whole current of a life, may poison its stream, may turn sweet 
 water into bitter ; something that may choke the spring of hap- 
 piness ; that kind of something we do not expect, else were life 
 intolerable. 
 
 Presently the clock struck ten. Margaret rose. " Good- 
 night, dear," she said. " I must go down to Lucian, I think. 
 We have to talk together to-night. Good-night, Ella; your eyes 
 follow me about. You are like your grandfather's portrait. 
 My dear, I know not what may liappen. Perhaps to-night all 
 my future — " She checked herself ; she had said already more 
 than she should have said. 
 
 She went down the stairs with trembling steps and beating 
 
 heart. She stood before the study door for a moment hesitating. 
 
 Then she opened it and stood in the doorway. 
 13*
 
 274 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "Come in, Margaret," said her husband — "come in. You so 
 seldom show up here since the American cousins came. Come 
 in and shut the door. Let us be alone." 
 
 "What are you doing, Lucian ?" lie lield before him a 
 sheet of paper covered with figures and calcuhitions. " Is it 
 still the dream of unbounded wealth ?" 
 
 " Always that dream, my dear," he replied, with forced cheer- 
 fulness. " It never leaves me. I confess that for the time I 
 can think of nothing else. That is not surprising when you 
 consider the importance of it." 
 
 " And your dream, after all, is exactly the same as that of a 
 girl, ignorant of the world, from an obscure village in the State 
 of Massachusetts." Margaret had never before in all her life 
 attempted to be sarcastic. 
 
 "Her dream!" — he laughed scornfully — "her dream com- 
 pared with mine? My dear Margaret, you have not attempted 
 even to grasp the greatness of my scheme. Every day it grows 
 upon me — it throws out new branches in all directions, it brings 
 forth unexpected fruit, it is going to be the most noble college 
 of philosophy that the world has ever seen. Don't talk to me 
 of that thing she called a college." 
 
 "Yet it is the same. And, like that girl, you want none of 
 the fortune for yourself." 
 
 "None. I would not stir an inch, Margaret, believe me, to 
 get this money for myself. So far, I respect my father's wish 
 and my promise to you." 
 
 "But, Lucian, remember what that girl said. Though vou 
 say you want nothing for yourself, you see yourself everywhere 
 — it is your own glory that you desire for yourself — glory as 
 lasting as the monument you would raise." 
 
 lie interrupted her impatiently. "You invent motives — what 
 business has the world with motives? We want deeds; we need 
 not ask the motives." 
 
 " In my husband I look for noble motives. Well, say that you 
 desire to do some great thing for science. My dear, consider; 
 you are young, you have begun well ; go on in your line and do 
 this great thing. It will be far greater for you if you do it — 
 you yourself — than if you build a palace and hire laborers to do 
 it for you."
 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 275 
 
 " I have seen Nicliolson," Liician replied, evasively. " lie tried 
 to dissuade me from my purpose ; but finding that to be impos- 
 sible, he undertook the case, and has taken my papers to the 
 Treasury to-day — all the papers in the case. He has, in fact, 
 already put in my claim. And of course there can be no doubt 
 and no delay. Well, Margaret, the thing is done." 
 
 Margaret dropped into a chair. " Oli," she moaned, " he has 
 done it, after all !" 
 
 " It was necessary, if only that the unfortunate claimants who 
 are hanging on and hoping on raiglit be put out of their pain. 
 I told you at the outset, Margaret, that if I could not have this 
 fortune nobody else should." 
 
 "You liave sent in the papers, you have put in your claim ; 
 and after your promise to me — a promise as binding as your 
 marriage vows." 
 
 " Can you not see, Margaret, that a woman's superstitious 
 whim cannot stand against interests so gigantic as these ? I 
 warned you. It has been evident to you what was coming. Be- 
 sides, the claim is not for me — it is for the thing I am going to 
 do." 
 
 She said nothing, but she clasped her hands and swung lier- 
 self backward and forward as one who is in grievous pain. 
 
 Lucian went on justifying his own action to himself. " As 
 for my father's wishes — I promised him that I would consider 
 them, and I have considered them fully. Having regard to his 
 natural dislike to the methods by which his father made the 
 money, and his own school-boy humiliations in being reminded 
 of the money-lending and the other notorious things, I can quite 
 understand his wish to be separated from the past altogether; 
 taking all these things into account, I can quite understand why 
 he should attribute the various well-deserved shanics and disas- 
 ters of his family — which were clearly due to their own mis- 
 deeds — to the crooked ways of those who built up the fortune 
 of the House, and to the third and fourth generation theory. But 
 as a person not given over to superstition, and not in the least 
 afraid of being taunted with things now pretty well forgotten, 
 I am indisposed to accept his views, and I am disposed to take 
 what is ready to be placed in my hands. You understand me, 
 Margaret ?"
 
 276 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OK AVARICE 
 
 " It is impossible to misunderstand you." 
 
 " Then—" 
 
 " You have not waited for my consent. You promised you 
 would do nothing without my consent, and you have not even 
 taken the trouble to ask a release of that promise !" 
 
 " The promise was nothino;. It was made without understand- 
 ing the facts of the case. But I do want your approval and your 
 agreement with me. I do want your acknowledgment, my dear 
 Margaret, that I am acting wisely and rightly." 
 
 " You have condemned your wife to life-long misery. Oh, 
 Lucian, if any misery of my own — only my own — would make 
 you happier — but — " 
 
 "Misery! Child! I don't want your misery. Margaret, Mar- 
 jorie — mine." He caught lier hand, but she drew it back. " I 
 want your happiness. See — consider — we are poor. Between 
 us we have no more than four hundred a year. There may be 
 other claims on us as time goes on. 1 may never get any prac- 
 tice at all — most likely I never shall — I am not of the kind out 
 of which successful physicians are made. And I don't want 
 practice. I want to work all my life — research — work in a 
 laboratory. That is my dream for myself. For you, ease 
 and material well-being and no anxiety. That is all I want. 
 But oh ! the superstitious madness and folly of it ! That 
 you — you — should feel such mcdijcval, antiquated, ridiculous 
 scruples." 
 
 "It is not superstition. What but misery lias followed all 
 the members of the family from generation to generation? Lu- 
 cian, shake off the temptation. It is not yet too late. You to 
 inherit this dreadful pile of gold, heaped up and gathered by 
 pandering to the worst vices that can degrade and disgrace man! 
 It was made by the ruin of gamblers ; by the profits of infamous 
 dens, where wretched men and lost women held their orgies ! bv 
 lending money to profligate young men. Oh, Lucian, how can 
 you, an honorable man in an honorable profession, the son of 
 an lionorable man — how can you, I ask, think for one moment 
 of claiming this vast monument of shame ?" 
 
 " I have considered all these things," he replied, coldly; "and 
 I have told you that the use to which I design this wealth will 
 be better, far better, than the abandonment of it."
 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 277 
 
 "Yon will actually acknowledge yourself to be this man's 
 grandson ?" 
 
 Lucian laughed, but not with merriment. " I care nothing at 
 all about the character or the history of my grandfather. lie 
 lived his life — a grovelling kind of life it was — and I live mine. 
 As for the people he wronged — they are dead and their wrongs 
 arc buried with them. Good heavens ! if we were to remem- 
 ber all the wrongs committed a hundred years ago ! And as for 
 the opinion of the world, 1 own to you, Margaret, first, that I 
 care nothing at all about it ; and, secondly, that the world cares 
 nothing at all about me. The world is not greatly curious about 
 any man's grandfather. Very often the world's grandfather, 
 like mine, was of the reptile order. There must be crocodiles 
 and alligators, I suppose. As soon as the facts are announced, 
 and the world hears that the case is decided, and that the great 
 Burlev estates have been" handed over to the legal heir, there 
 will be a day or two of talk ; the illustrated papers will have my 
 portrait, with a brief account of my education and work; inter- 
 viewers will flock here; there will be a speculative paper in the 
 Spectator on the emotions natural to the sudden possession of 
 great wealth ; a good many stories will be raked up about Bur- 
 ley's Hell and Burley's Dancing-Cribs, and the old orgies, and 
 the rest of it. "What then ? Silence will follow about the past ; 
 everybody will know the worst that there is to know ; expec- 
 tancy and conjecture will begin about the future. What is the 
 rich man — the very rich man — the richest man in all the world 
 — going to do with his wealth ? And the first thing, of course, 
 will be to make him a peer. This country could not go on un- 
 less the richest man in the country was made a peer. ITow 
 should you like to be a countess ?" 
 
 " Oil, Lucian ! You can even jest about it 1" 
 
 " Not at all. And then I shall found my college of science. 
 That will be the serious work of my life. Come " — he changed 
 his tone and spoke sharply, even roughly — "you have heard 
 my dream. Let us fence with the thing no longer. It is not a 
 dream — it is a settled purpose. I see before mc a plain duty; an 
 opportunity such as has never before been offered to any living 
 man. If I threw away such a chance, it would be a blasphemy 
 against science which could never be forgiven, neither in this
 
 278 BEYOND TFIE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 world nor in tlic world to come. There are otlicr ricli men in 
 the world, but their wealtli lies in lands, houses, shares, and in- 
 vestments. If they attempted to realize their property they 
 would lose two-thirds of it. I shall be the only rich man in the 
 world who can lay his liand upon all these millions and millions 
 of money and say, ' This is mine, to spend, to invest, to use as 
 I please.' And you would prevent me from taking this magnifi- 
 cent, this unrivalled chance by a superstitious terror, or by some 
 foolish objection as to the way in which the money was made." 
 
 Margaret sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. 
 It was no use to say anything. 
 
 " We cannot undo the past, my dear. Let us be reasonable. 
 The money was not stolen; if it were it could be restored. The 
 fortune was first begun, as my ancestor lias artlessly informed 
 us, by robbing the till ; it was afterwards increased by tlie sav- 
 ings of a miser; and it was multiplied twenty-fold by trading 
 on the vices of the town. What can be done with it better than 
 to devote it all to science ?" 
 
 " No," said Margaret, " we must not toucli the accursed tiling. 
 Why did your father leave it ?" 
 
 " Again remember that I want nothing for myself except to 
 be the founder of this great college. Margaret, have you no 
 feeling for science ? You are the wife of a man of science — do 
 you not understand something of what might be done by such a 
 college ? Think, Science is the only thing in all the world 
 that is real and tangible and certain. It is the only hope of the 
 world." 
 
 " No. It is not the sole hope of the world." 
 
 " Yes ; the only hope. You heard at dinner something of 
 this. My college shall be the chief home of science, the chief 
 servant of humanity, the teacher of that highest morality under 
 which every man shall feel that he best protects himself by pro- 
 tecting all other men. That is my case, Margaret." 
 
 She sighed. She rose. 
 
 "Then you agree with me, Margaret? You arc in consent 
 with me ? You release me from that promise ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Then, Margaret, once for all, I release myself." 
 
 She looked him full in the face. Ills eyes were hard, dogged,
 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 279 
 
 unrelenting — the determined eyes of his ancestor, Calvert Bur- 
 ley. 
 
 " The accursed thing is working in your soul already, Lucian. 
 It has brought wretchedness, somehow or other, to all who hope 
 to get possession of it — to Sir John ; to his daughters ; to Ella ; 
 to Lucinda ; to that poor butterfly, the singer ; to you. As for 
 me, I am one of the wives ; I can sit and wait and weep with 
 them. Your mind is quite made up ; 1 sec it is ; I read it in 
 your eyes." 
 
 " It is quite made up, Margaret. There is no more to say, 
 except — just at present, I fear, a useless thing to say — be rea- 
 sonable, and trust in your husband's reason," 
 
 " I must go, then. I must think — I must find out, if I can, 
 what is best to be done." 
 
 Margaret turned away sadly and climbed the stairs. 
 
 The house was silent ; the lights were out. As Margaret 
 went up to her room the air was filled with whispers — they 
 were women's voices — for her alone to hear. They said, "You 
 are one of us; soon you shiiU be one with us; one with us — 
 one with us ; you and — " 
 
 An hour later Lucian came up, stepping softly lest he should 
 awaken his wife. He turned up the shaded gas-jet a little, and 
 — where was Margaret ? The tumbled pillow, the blanket thrown 
 back, showed that she had been there. Where was she now? 
 He looked round the room. He turned up the light higher. 
 She was not there. Then he thought of the drawing-room, lie 
 opened the door. The curtains were drawn, the room was in 
 black darkness ; he lit a candle. The portraits all stared at hira 
 curiously, but no one was there. He returned to the bedroom ; 
 he thought she might be in Ella's room. He stepped softly up- 
 stairs ; he would be able to see the light under the door, if 
 there were any light burning in the room. He would heir their 
 voices if they were talking. No, there was no gleam of light; 
 there was no talking. 
 
 Then, while he stood on tlie stair in doubt, he heard Marga- 
 ret's voice — she was talking quite softly, but as to her voice 
 there could be no doubt, and the voice came to him from one of 
 the garrets above. 
 
 Lucian was by no means a superstitious man, as we have
 
 280 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 seen. He regarded not omens, luclcy or unlucky days, warn- 
 ings or cncouragonients ; he would have spent a night alone in a 
 haunted house with unshaken nerves and the firmest resolution 
 not to hear nor to sec anything ; he had an unhounded con- 
 tempt for all the ghosts of Borderland. These ghosts know the 
 scientific attitude ; they recognize the folly of showing them- 
 selves to a man who refuses to see them ; therefore, when the 
 man of science steps in the ghost steps out. They only show 
 themselves to the fearful. No argument, therefore, against the 
 existence of ghosts can be founded on the fact that the scien- 
 tific man never sees any. lie never will! And now you know 
 the reason. 
 
 Lucian was, then, the least credulous of men. But to hear 
 your wife's voice in the dead of night, talking to non-existent 
 persons in an empty garret, is a shock to the most profoundly 
 scientific of men. Archimedes himself, Bacon, Darwin, Hux- 
 ley, would be shaken by such a singular experience. Lucian 
 felt his heart beat and his pulse quicken as he ran up the top- 
 most stair. What did it mean ? 
 
 The door of the front garret was wide open ; a flood of moon- 
 light fell through the windows, partly on the floor and partly 
 on the dismantled bed and partly on Margaret herself, sitting 
 on the mattress. A strange, weird picture she made, bathed in 
 the moonlight, clad in a white dressing-gown, her bare feet on 
 the floor, her long fair hair hanging over her shoulders, her eyes 
 wide open, her hands moving in harmony with her words, her 
 head carried as one who is eagerly listening and eagerly talk- 
 ing; her whole attitude that of one who takes part in a conver- 
 sation on some subject of importance and interest. She was, in 
 fact, in the midst of the wives and mothers ; she was in her 
 dream. Was this, then, a nightly practice with her, to steal 
 away, and thus, sleep-walking, enact the dream? Lucian under- 
 stood, lie knew of this vision or this dream. To look on filled 
 him with admiration of the case ; it was a psychological study ; 
 the persistence of the dream was curious; in order to destroy 
 it, his wife would probably require a change of thought and 
 place and talk ; this business of the succession once settled, he 
 would take her away himself. As for any change in his own 
 purpose, that was, of course, absurd.
 
 > 
 
 ffl 
 
 2 
 5 
 

 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 281 
 
 He waited at the door — he knew she would not see him ; he 
 watched and hstencd. 
 
 " Yes — yes," she cried. ' *' Oh ! all you prophesied has come 
 to pass. Even the desire for the inheritance — nothing but that 
 — has brought shame and disappointment upon all, and now the 
 time has come for me to feel what you have felt and to suffer 
 what you have suffered — " 
 
 She paused and listened as if to one who stood at her right. 
 Even Lucian could not avoid the wish that he also could see this 
 company. 
 
 " The time has come at last. The temptation was too great. 
 The desire has become a madness. He too will become openly 
 your grandson and your great-grandson. He is exactly like your 
 husband, madam, the Calvert Burley who brought upon us all 
 this misery and the beginning of this wealth — perhaps he will 
 end like him, in stony hardness of heart — and he is like your 
 husband." She turned to another person. Lucian almost 
 thought he saw that other person, with such reality did she turn 
 from one to the other. But no — nothing was there but the 
 moonliglit, falling on his sleeping and dreaming wife. " He is 
 like your husband, too, like the miser who drove all your chil- 
 dren from the house, one after the other, so that some starved 
 and some committed wicked things. Perhaps Lucian will in 
 time become a miser. I think that already he begins to love 
 money. He dreams all day about the money ; he cannot think 
 of his work — he will do no more scientific work. His gold will 
 presently weigh him down and crush him." 
 
 She was silent for a few moments, but she turned her face 
 from one to the other as if she listened to what each in turn 
 was saying. 
 
 "You bring me no comfort. You give me no advice. It 
 doesn't help me to hear from each of you, one after the other, 
 the sadness of your lives. What am I to do? Oh ! tell me, 
 what am I to do ?" 
 
 Again there was silence. Lucian shivered, for — against his 
 reason — he imagined he heard voices in rcjily. 
 
 "No — no — no!" Margaret clasped her hands. "I will do 
 anything for him — anything in the world except one thing. If 
 it were for myself only, he should have my company in all the
 
 233 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 misery wliich lie will bring upon himself. But mine alone. He 
 shall not bring misery upon — " Here she was silent, while 
 the others interrupted her, speaking apparently all together. 
 
 " It had been better," Margaret went on, " if you had left 
 vour husbands before your children were born. And that is 
 the sum of what you say. You all think so. Better — better 
 for you — better for the world had you left your husbands be- 
 fore your babies were born." 
 
 She paused. Was it the murnnir of assent that Lucian 
 heard ? 
 
 Then she rose and looked around. "It is very good of 
 you," she said. "We will cry together often in the time to 
 come. Only a day or two more and I shall be one with you — 
 to share in all your sufferings, and to feel all that you have 
 felt. Good-night— good-night. Oh, sad-faced mothers, good- 
 night !" 
 
 The tears rolled from her cheeks, her voice broke, and then 
 — a strange action when one of the two who embrace is im- 
 palpable and invisible — she raised her arms and made as if 
 she threw them round the neck of one person after another and 
 as if she kissed the cheek of one after the other. Then she 
 looked round her— she was alone— her visitors were gone. 
 She pulled open the chest of drawers and took out some of 
 the things that lay there, things Lucian knew appertaining to 
 infants. She unfolded them and held them up one by one in 
 the moonlight. Then she carefully folded and laid them back 
 again. 
 
 And then, still with eyes that looked straight before her and 
 saw nothing, she walked past Lucian, and slowly, without touch- 
 ing the stair-rail, went down-stairs, her husband following her. 
 Sl^e did not hear his step ; she walked on quite unconscious. 
 She stopped at her bedroom door, hesitated a moment, and then 
 went in and lay down upon the bed. 
 
 Lucian bent over her. She was fast asleep. Her eyes were 
 closed. She was peacefully sleeping. 
 
 He lay awake watching her. She slept on, her breathing 
 calm, undisturbed by any more dreams — exhausted. In the 
 morning she would be recovered, she would be reasonable. 
 Of course she would see the thing, as she always had before,
 
 ANOTHER DREAM OF DEAD MOTHERS 283 
 
 with his eyes — from his point of view. She had always been 
 that "kind of wife who submits to everything which would 
 make her husband happy. Presently he too fell asleep. 
 
 When he awoke in the morning she was gone. Not into the 
 garret this time, but in a quite prosaic manner gone — down to 
 breakfast.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 FAREWELL ! 
 
 Lucian's heart was softened. Remembering that acted dream 
 — that strange drama of one visible performer with a whole 
 compan}', invisible and inaudible — his heart became very soft. 
 All the irritation caused by his wife's contumacy vanished in 
 thinking of that sleep-walking. Clearly, lie must take or send 
 her away — to Freshwater, say, or Hastings, for a change. She 
 had been dwelling too much on tliis foolish superstition ; as 
 soon as she understood the foolish unreason of the thing she 
 would shake oil her fears. Superstition, however, as this phy- 
 sician very well knew, is a hard tiling to kill. Nothing but 
 the most resolute defiance of the bogie is effective. There 
 liave been found men strong enough to beat down and destroy 
 with hammers Odin, Dago, Kaloo, and the most venerable old 
 idols ; are there found men or women strong enough in these 
 days to break looking-glasses, begin new work on a Friday, sit 
 down thirteen to a table, or cease to believe that money gotten 
 in certain ways must carry a curse with it? 
 
 Lucian considered these tliinrrs with liimself wliile he dressed. 
 
 He became charitable, even; there was, after all, something 
 to be said for the superstition, especially by those who did not 
 clearly perceive that all the disasters which fell upon the House 
 were caused by wrong-doing. Certainly there were many hor- 
 rid things in the family record ; they liad been presented to 
 Margaret en bloc and suddenly ; and, with them, his father's 
 prejudices as regards the hereditary curse ; and, really, if you 
 come to think of it, the like of these disasters had seldom, if 
 ever, been recorded in any middle-class family. In this middle 
 way one is generally supposed to be tolerably safe. Down be- 
 low, an appearance at the Criminal Court, with a pew in the
 
 FAREWELL ! 285 
 
 very front — a stall in the front row — is common. Up above 
 there are family histories, including losses at the gaming-tables, 
 plunging on the turf, duels over ladies of the ballet, revelations 
 in the Divorce Courts, and other scandals. Either up above or 
 down below, such a family history as that of the Burleys, one 
 supposes, might be equalled or surpassed. Not in the middle 
 class, where there still lingers, we have been taught to believe, 
 some regard for character. 
 
 Lucian's softening of heart did not include the least weaken- 
 ing of purpose ; he was going to carry out that purpose — with 
 or without his wife's consent. ]5ut of course she would con- 
 sent. He never remembered any occasion, great or small, on 
 which his wish was not her law. Naturally he supposed that 
 his wish would under all circumstances always remain her law. 
 Therefore he dressed and went down-stairs in a perfectly cheer- 
 ful frame of mind. He was late ; he had overslept himself ; the 
 breakfast of the others was finished *, Margaret was alone wait- 
 inof for him. 
 
 Either by accident or design a chair stood before the fire, 
 and between herself and her husband. Lucian did not observe 
 that she was pale, except for a red spot on her cheek, and that 
 she was trembling with some hidden excitement. He was only 
 thinking of himself and his own magnanimity. 
 
 He stepped in, holding out both hands. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "I am shamefully late. You ought to 
 have wakened me." 
 
 " Will you take your breakfast, or will you talk with me 
 first ? I liave a little to say ; it will not take long." 
 
 "Talk away, dear" — he lifted the lid of the hot-water dish 
 and observed that there were kidneys — " go on talking, dear. 
 I will take breakfast the while." He sat down, cut bread, 
 poured out tea, and took a kidney. " How did you sleep, my 
 dear ?" 
 
 " As usual. I always sleep well." 
 
 " A dreamless, peaceful sleep ?" 
 
 "I have one dream always. That is, hitherto I have had one 
 dr'eam. That will be changed now." 
 
 " \Yhat is the dream, dear?" 
 
 " It doesn't matter. Nothing matters any more."
 
 386 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Something — a little break — in her voice struck him. He 
 looked up, sprang to his feet, and tried to take her hand. She 
 drew it away, lie stooped to kiss her — she repelled him 
 rouglily. 
 
 " jVo" she said, with decision, " that is ended." 
 
 " What is ended ?" 
 
 She turned upon him a face so resolute, so stern and hard, 
 so utterly changed from the fair face of smiles and love and 
 submission to which he was accustomed, that he was amazed. 
 He did not recognize his wife. For a while he could not speak. 
 Then his masterfulness returned. 
 
 He laughed. " What has got into your head now, Margaret ? 
 I don't know you this morning." 
 
 " You forget what I told you last night. Yet I thought I 
 made my meaning plain." 
 
 " You talked considerable nonsense last night, and I had to 
 let you understand — more plainly than was pleasant — that a 
 woman's superstition must not stand in the way of the world's 
 interests." 
 
 " I told you that T would face any miseries that you might 
 bring upon our heads if I were sharing them with you alone. 
 But—" 
 
 " Well?" for here she stopped. 
 
 " I will not bring these miseries upon another. My child 
 shall not inherit the curse of those millions." 
 
 " What?" he cried. " Your child ? Your child, Margaret?" 
 
 "Did you not understand? Well, what your father did 
 when he was grown up, I shall do before that child is born. I 
 shall go away. The child shall never know its own people." 
 
 " Margaret, you do not mean this. Your child ? your child ?" 
 
 " I mean it most solemnly and seriously. You have chosen 
 your part — you have sent in your claim. It must be granted. 
 I go away before it is granted, because I will not, for one single 
 hour, be a sharer in this wicked wealth." 
 
 "You will leave me, Margaret? But this — this — ycur 
 child ?" 
 
 "I am going away this morning, immediately. I have toid 
 your cousins, Lucinda and Ella. They will go with me." 
 
 " You will leave me ?" lie hardly understood the meaning
 
 FAREWELL ! 387 
 
 of the words. And this was the girl who had seemed to have 
 no life or joy except in doing things that would bring pleasure 
 to him. 
 
 " It is too late, I suppose," Margaret went on, coldly, " to say 
 anything more. You may, however, still keep me if you will 
 agree to transfer your rights in this estate to the Treasury — or 
 anybody — so that you can never — you or yours — have the least 
 claim upon it, or upon any part of it." 
 
 *' Never." His face became as the nether millstone. " AVhat 
 is mine I will take." 
 
 "Then, Lucian, I go." 
 
 " Stop — stop a moment. Your own people — your mother and 
 sister — what will you tell them ?" 
 
 "The truth. If they disapprove, which is very possible, I 
 shall go ray own way." 
 
 " But tell me again. Your child — your child — my child — " 
 
 " I will never consent to join that wretched company of wives 
 and mothers who are waiting for me up-stairs." 
 
 "Superstition ! Come, Margaret, I will take you out of this 
 house. It is too strange a place, too ghostly for a young wife 
 with few friends. We did wrong in coming here. Come — you 
 will forget, in new and brighter places, this company of wretched 
 wives and mothers — the people who come to you in your 
 dreams. And, my dear — you have told me — you will have 
 new hopes." 
 
 "Therefore I must leave you, or my hopes will turn to ter- 
 rors. Oh 1 Lucian, when you first heard of this shameful fam- 
 ily you shrank with horror at the thought of claiming what 
 you now call your own. Little by little you accustomed your- 
 self to thinking of it till the thing became possible. Then it 
 became attractive. Then it overpowered you. You have been 
 tempted, and you have fallen. Yes — fallen. You are not the 
 man I loved — your mind has gone down to a lower level — you 
 no longer think of your profession and your own work; you 
 think of the great power you are going to wield, and the great 
 man you are going to be, by means of the vast fortune you 
 iiave inherited — a fortune made out of men's vices by the 
 coldest and most heartless villain that ever existed. This 
 loathsome mass of ill-gotten gold will bring ruin and destruction
 
 288 BEVONU THE UKEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 upon your head, upon mine, and upon tlie child unhorn unless 
 I escape and lice — anywhere — anywhere away from this place. 
 It is like being in a doomed city before the tlames of Heaven 
 descend upon it and destroy the city and the people in it. 
 That is all I have to say, Lucian." 
 
 Without more words she left him alone. 
 
 lie did not follow her. He stood still, thinking. Presently 
 — the rebellion of a wife so submissive was inexplicable — his 
 obstinacy returned. 
 
 " Wonderful is the power of superstition," he murmured. 
 "She will come back. I will give her a day or two. Then she 
 will come back, and I will make more concessions. Poor 
 Margaret! As if I were going to give way to a woman's super- 
 stitious fad? Great heavens! To give up millions because 
 the old man was a money-lender ! Why shouldn't he be a 
 money-lender? She will come back, and" — he laughed — "if 
 she is right we must make suitable provision for the heir." 
 
 He sat down and took breakfast, his interest in the meal in 
 no way diminished by the recent conversation. 
 
 After breakfast he should have gone to the hospital, but he 
 did not. He went into his study, and sat down before some 
 calculations as to the endowment of his students in the various 
 branches of his college of science — a college which seemed 
 about to cover half a county in extent. But what cannot be done 
 with twelve millions of money ? This morning, however, the 
 figures seemed to run about of their own accord ; they wouldn't 
 stand still to be added up. And lie kept listening. There 
 were feet overhead, and the bumping of boxes. Margaret was 
 packing up ; she meant it, then. 
 
 Then the young husband, still the lover, experienced a pain 
 such as he liad never before thought possible. For he was 
 drawn two ways, by two ropes — two forces — two invisible 
 arms. One arm pulled him towards the door, wliile a voice in- 
 side his brain — it was the voice of his father — cried aloud: 
 " Fool ! Madman ! Go to your wife and stop her. Give her 
 what she asks. Stop her before a worse thing happens to you." 
 And the other arm held him in his chair, while another voice 
 inside him whispered: "Don't give up the money. Think of 
 the power ! Think of the position ! Millions upon millions !
 
 FAREWELL ! 289 
 
 The richest man — the greatest man — the most beneficent man 
 in the whole country !" 
 
 The latter force prevailed. Lucian sat still. 
 
 Presently there was a knock at the door. It was Ella, dressed 
 to go out. She had been crying, for her eyes were red. 
 
 " Cousin Lucian," she said, " I've come to say good-bye." 
 
 " If you must go, Ella. I suppose that jMargaret has told 
 you-" 
 
 "Yes — she has told us — Fm vurry sorry" — she was so 
 moved that she forgot the London fashion which she had re- 
 cently acquired, and called it " vurry " — " I'm vurry sorry in- 
 deed — I can't tell you how sorry I ara." 
 
 "Indeed, Ella, you cannot be so sorry as I am — not only to 
 lose you,' but also — - If you could bring Margaret to reason." 
 
 She shook her head. " Margaret is always reasonable — and 
 you are wrong — oh, so wrong !" SIic sat down and began in her 
 frank and direct way : " You are horribly wrong, Lucian. Don't 
 tell me you want the money for your scientific college. So did I. 
 But it was all rubbish. I wanted it for vainglory. The Lord 
 wouldn't let me have it. He wouldn't let a simple girl like me, 
 ignorant of tlie ways of the world, get the chance of doing 
 mischief with that money. And what a relief it is to me, now, 
 to think that I have done with this dreadful great fortune — 
 and forever ! Don't call me a hypocrite, Lucian. I do really 
 feel that it would be too much for my strength — I should have 
 been a lost soul. And it will be too much for you. Don't de- 
 lude yourself; already I see a change in you. The weight of 
 it will drag you down. Already you think all day long about 
 your money instead of your work. But there ! It's no use 
 talking. If you won't listen to Margaret, you won't listen to 
 me, and you wouldn't listen to the angel Gabriel." 
 
 He remained silent. 
 
 " Then good-bye. Aunt Lucinda is crying outside. When 
 we get a lodging I will let you know, in case of repentance. 
 It's always possible. The man must be far gone indeed when 
 a door isn't left open for him to escape. Good-bye, then." 
 
 He took her hand coldly ; the tears rose to her eyes ; she 
 ran out of the room, and he heard her sobbing as she banged 
 the door — not with temper, but with grief. 
 
 13
 
 290 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 When the wheels of the cab turned the corner of Great Col- 
 lege Street, Lucian rose, put on his hat, and went forth to his 
 morning's work at the hospital. 
 
 "What's the matter with Dr. Calvert?" asked Nurse Agatha 
 of Sister Anne. 
 
 "What has been the matter with him for ever so long?" re- 
 plied Sister Anne to Nurse Agatha. 
 
 " It's since his marriage," said Nurse Agatha, who was young 
 and good-looking, and took an interest in holy wedlock. "Yet 
 they say his wife is charming." 
 
 Sister Anne tossed her head. " They say ! What do they 
 know ? lie is always distrait, whatever the cause. As for the 
 patients, he doesn't seem to care any more what becomes of 
 them." 
 
 " Can any one tell me what has happened to Calvert ?" It 
 was the editor of the Scalpel who spoke, and it was at the club 
 that he said it. " I ran against him just now — he was passing 
 without noticing me ; I stopped him and asked about a paper 
 he promised me. He seemed to have forgotten me and the 
 paper and everything. Very odd. Must have had some kind 
 of blow." 
 
 " Never the same man since his marriage," said another ; " yet 
 they say — " 
 
 " Hang what they say ! We want our man back again." 
 
 This morning, especially, Lucian acknowledged to himself that 
 he could bring his attention to bear upon nothing. To be on 
 the point of stepping straight out of poverty, or, at least, slender 
 means, into the possession of millions — many millions — that 
 alone is enough to exclude from the strongest mind any other 
 subject whatever. When one adds that the man had seen his 
 wife — the wife of two months — deliberately leave him, it is 
 clear that there was material for profound meditation. 
 
 He left the hospital as quickly as he could, conscious that 
 the nurses were looking at him and wondering about him. He 
 went into the street, where he met his editor, and entirely for- 
 got who the man was and what had been promised to him.
 
 FAREWELL ! 291 
 
 Then he made his way to St, James's Park, and paced up and 
 down tliat lonely southern walk. Here, at any rate, he could 
 think. 
 
 For a scientific man his case was lamentable. To one who 
 resolutely believed nothing except what he saw, felt, and could 
 experiment upon, the case was almost insulting. For those two 
 voices within him — actually two voices, two non-existent voices 
 within the brain of a physician and a Fellow of the Royal So- 
 ciety — were continually crying out ; the one that called him, 
 over and over again, " Fool ! madman ! dolt !" the other that bade 
 him rejoice over the great wealth that he had acquired, bidding 
 him gloat over it, count it, plunge his hands into the mountain 
 of gold, bathe in it, admire the yellow glow of it, consider the 
 power of it, climb to the top of it, and stand there a monu- 
 ment for the world to envy — the great, the good, the illustrions, 
 the fortunate, the dispenser of good, a modern savior of the 
 world. " Now am I a god !" said the rich man of old — poor 
 wretch ! A king, he was too. " Now I am like Zeus the 
 Cloud-Compeller," Zeus heard and did compel the clouds, and, 
 lo ! the lightning fell upon that man who was so like a god, and 
 he lay prone, dead — all his divine likeness gone out of him, and 
 his wealth piled up in mockery around his dead body. "Fool ! 
 madman ! dolt !" cried continually the other voice. Both voices 
 together, each trying to outbawl the other. 
 
 Then- a doubt seized him, a doubt as to the papers. Were 
 they, after all, complete ? Was there no flaw in them ? 
 
 He hurried as hard as he could walk to Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! All was complete — Mr. Nicholson reassured 
 him. The Treasury would certainly make as little delay as 
 possible ; he might reckon upon possession in a very short 
 time. He would then be able to sit down, ascertain exactly 
 what he possessed, and frame for himself his future course. 
 
 " Frame his future course." These were the lawyer's words. 
 " Frame his future course." W^hy, he now remembered that 
 he had not laid down any future course for himself — none at 
 all. He was going to found his college. And then ? Work in 
 it all his life ? Perhaps. But, then, there would be all this 
 money. He would want a house to correspond with his in- 
 come ; there would be the management of the estates with
 
 292 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 SO vast a property ; and there would I>o the interests of the 
 cliild — the child — the child — oh ! there would be an immense 
 amount of things to be looked after. Perhaps he would not be 
 able to do any more research work. 
 
 He left Lincoln's Inn Fields and walked home. 
 
 Strange ! The echoes had returned to the house — the echoes 
 which he found when he visited it with Margaret; the echoes 
 which rang from side to side up the staircase. They came 
 back when Margaret left. Once more the house was empty. 
 For a while there had been love in it — youth and love ; youth and 
 love and laughter and the music of woman's voice. Now it was 
 empty again ; it was as empty as when the old, old man sat alone 
 all day long with never a whisper to break the silence, and the 
 echoes rinsfinsr like funeral bells if one set foot within the hall 
 or upon the stairs. 
 
 There was not a sound in the house ; the two servants be- 
 low went about their work as quiet as mice. The door at the 
 top of the kitchen stairs was closed, and their voices could not 
 be heard above. 
 
 Lucian shivered involuntarily. Margaret, he thought, would 
 come back. She could not live without him. Meantime the 
 house Avas horribly empty. 
 
 lie hung up his hat and went into his study. He remem- 
 bered his meeting with the editor; there was that paper he 
 had promised. He found the pamphlet — a light and poetical 
 brochure in German on the bacillus of some obscure disease — 
 indolence, I think — and began to read where he had left off, pen 
 in hand. 
 
 After half an hour he found that what he read with his eyes 
 was producing no effect of any kind upon his brain — a disease 
 requiring another bacillus. He pushed his paper from him as a 
 rustic pushes his plate from him when he has finished dinner. 
 Then his pen began of its own accord to draw figures — dazzling 
 figures connected with the great inheritance. Thus: £12,000,- 
 000 for principal — what a glorious array of captive naughts ! 
 How many years of saving and success went for each oblong 
 naught — each golden ellipse ! At only 3 per cent., £360,000 a 
 year was the income from this capital sum. 
 
 Or, £30,000 a month — something like a monthly check !
 
 FAREWELL ! 293 
 
 Or, £1000 a day — counting Sundays. 
 
 Or, £40 an hour — sleeping or waiving. 
 
 Or, 15s. a minute — every time the second-hand goes round. 
 
 Suppose he were just to leave it invested, as his grandfather 
 had done, and to live on a small fraction of it — just to see 
 what would happen. Well, to begin with, it would double in 
 twenty-three years, and double again in twenty-three years more. 
 He would then have £44,000,000 sterling ; he would then be a 
 little over seventy. Think of it! Forty-four millions ! 
 
 He went on calculating, estimating, pleasing himself — it was 
 a new sense — with the mere imagination (figures are the most 
 imaginative things possible (of these great possessions. By 
 the time he had learned to understand a little the peculiarities 
 and the enjoyments of his grandfather, the money-lender, and 
 his great-grandfather, the miser, he no longer regarded them 
 with shame and disgust. As Margaret told him, he was changed 
 indeed. 
 
 When he turned to the consideration of his college, he per- 
 ceived for the first time that the sums he had originally pro- 
 posed for it were much too big. It would only defeat his own 
 purpose — he now understood — to make it so rich. Besides, 
 there were other things which had to be done. He must not 
 surrender all his power. Little by little ; one endowment at a 
 time. With an income of £360,000 a year one can do an enor- 
 mous quantity of good. With such an income one is a demigod 
 for power of benevolent endowments. Perhaps without touch- 
 ing the principal at all he might carry out all his designs. Two 
 years' income — or three, at least — would be an ample endow- 
 ment for a college. He might endow it with a million sterling, 
 which means an income of £30,000 ; many colleges of Oxford 
 and Carabridffe are not endowed with so much. 
 
 And so on. For the first thought of the very rich man is 
 how he can make himself still richer. With moderate wealth — 
 say, the possession of £100,000 — what our ancestors feelingly 
 called a ^;>/M??i — with a plum in our pocket — a ripe, sweet, fra- 
 grant, delicately colored plum, an Orleans plum, or an cixg plum, 
 with its dewy bloom upon it— the average man is satisfied. He 
 can sit down to enjoyment; he can give checks in charity, and 
 so feel good all over; he can belong, in imagination, to Samaria
 
 294 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 aiicl die comfortably, relying on certain texts. When the plum 
 is a million, or two millions, or ten millions, one wants to make 
 it more. It was quite natural that the last Burley but three 
 should become a miser, and equally natural that the last but 
 two should become a money-lender. They were so rich that 
 they wanted more. And if you ask why tliis is so, you are 
 referred to the German philosopher, who diagnoses the diseases 
 peculiar to wealth. 
 
 Lucian had dinner served in his study. He reflected with 
 the customary satisfaction of the rich man on this subject, that 
 his household expenses would now become very modest; he 
 thought that he might comfortably live on two hundred a year — 
 so long as Margaret stayed away — but that would not be long; 
 he would then have £300,000, less £200 a year, for his income. 
 With this he could carry out the most precious designs — one 
 year's income, perhaps, would do — and save the rest. Heaven ! 
 How the money would go rolling up ! 
 
 He spent the evening in the same manner — over his figures. 
 At midnight he went up-stairs. 
 
 Even the room awakened no memory of Margaret. Only 
 twelve hours or so since she went away, yet he had already for- 
 gotten her. A young wife on the one side, twelve millions on 
 the other. Of course he had forgotten her. His brain was 
 full of the millions. If he had remembered her, it was with 
 a little feelinof of disgust. She would cost so much. 
 
 One of the voices was silent. The other dropped with a mur- 
 mur of encouragement and congratulation : " Oh, you are so 
 rich ! You are so powerful ! You are so generous ! And you 
 will grow richer — richer — richer ! More powerful — more gen- 
 erous !" 
 
 Dives sank into slumber, careless that the house was empty. 
 So, you see, the work of the fortune was done. Love was 
 driven out, and the loveless man felt not his loss. AVhat more 
 dreadful curse could have fallen upon him?
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 THE LAST REMONSTRANCE 
 
 TriE next day Lucian sent out letters inviting all the cousins 
 to meet at his house in Great College Street, on business con- 
 nected with the estate. He proposed at this meeting, though 
 he did not state his intention in the letters of invitation, to 
 make an announcement of his own position, and to inform them 
 of the fact that he had been recognized as the sole heir by the 
 Treasury. 
 
 The first to arrive was Ella. She, however, instead of going 
 up-stairs to the drawing-room, ventured into the study, where 
 she found Lucian at his table. Before him were papers covered 
 with figures. 
 
 " You are going to proclaim yourself, I suppose," she said. 
 " I thought to plead with you for the sake of your wife; but I 
 won't. Your face is harder than ever. Well, we say in Amer- 
 ica, which is a very religious country, that the Lord sometimes 
 breaks up hearts of stone. Perhaps He will break up yours." 
 
 Lucian laughed scornfully. The girl placed the tips of her 
 fingers on the table and leaned over him. " You laugh," she said. 
 " You will not always laugh. Oh, Lucian !" — she drew her slender 
 figure to its full height, which was not much ; but her dark eyes 
 — the Burlcy eyes — flashed, and she looked tall, as every wom- 
 an does who is deeply moved. " Cousin Lucian," she burst out, 
 " I look at you and I wonder. I think of you and 1 wonder. You 
 are a young man, your life before you." What graybcard coun- 
 sellor could be wiser than this girl ? " All before you," she re- 
 peated. " You've got a larger brain and a clearer eye than most ; 
 you might have become a man known even to us — even across 
 the Atlantic — known to us ; you have got enough money to live 
 upon ; you have got a truly lovely wife, whom you treat with
 
 296 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 your Englisli arrogant condescension — American women won't 
 be treated that way ; and you tlirow it all away — everything — 
 name and fame, gifts and talents — the calling to which the 
 Lord called you — and your sweet and loving wife — you ex- 
 change these tilings — Oh, good gracious! What could the 
 Loril give you more precious ? AVhat is there, out of heaven 
 itself, more precious? Nothing — nothing — nothing! You have 
 bartered everything away for a senseless, useless, mischievous 
 pile of papers that they value at millions of dollars. Your life 
 is done — finished ; your course is run, because, masterful as you 
 are. Cousin Lucian, without sympathy you can do nothing, and 
 except from your wife you will get no sympathy. A common 
 man, a small - brained man, might do such a thing; but you — 
 you — you — a man of science — " 
 
 " It is because I am a man of science — " Lucian began. 
 
 " It isn't. Don't deceive yourself. It is because you have 
 wickedly received into your mind and nursed and cherished a 
 devil of greed and lust for gold. You pretend that you want 
 the money for science — to make the world move faster. You 
 can't ; no man can make the world go faster. When the world 
 is ready the man is sent — not before. You are sent into the 
 world to be an officer in the army — a corporal or a lieutenant 
 at most; and you want to make yourself commander-in-chief." 
 
 " I think I hear the people going up-stairs," said Lucian, 
 feebly. 
 
 " Let them go up-stairs ! I mean to say what I came to say. 
 You will fail, Lucian. Your fine college may get built — I don't 
 think it will, because you will grow more and more avaricious 
 as the time goes on. But it may ; and then — then the real work 
 will go on, being done by the outsiders who've got no money. 
 Get your men, and pay them for research ; the more you pay 
 them the less they will work. But I have thought this out. It 
 is necessity which makes men work. Nothing great lias ever 
 come from a rich man — nothing, and nothing ever will. Your 
 college is no better than mine, Lucian — no better than vanity 
 and self-conceit." 
 
 "Thank you, Ella." 
 
 " Poor Lucian ! We all thought so much of you ; and now, 
 unless that break-up comes quick, you are a ruined man. Dives
 
 THE LAST REMONSTRANCE 297 
 
 can't work — he can't. You can't make a man more useless than 
 by making him rich. Oh ! when will the churches recognize 
 this? Well" — she sighed, paused, and sat down, and then got 
 up again — " I have nearly done — I have nearly said what was 
 put into ray head to say. You have been tempted ; you have 
 fallen ; you are blinded, so that you cannot see the sin and the 
 shame of it. You are deaf, so that you cannot hear the warn- 
 ings of it; and you are stupid, so that you cannot understand 
 how much happier is the life you are throwing away than the 
 life you desire. It is the way of all temptation," added this 
 woman of vast experience. "Those who fall are blinded and 
 deafened and stupefied, so that they only see one side of it — 
 the side which attracts, and not all the other sides which 
 threaten." 
 
 " Have you nearly finished ?" 
 
 " How shall a rich man enter into the kingdom of heaven ?" 
 she asked. " Oh ! I mean what ought to be your kingdom and 
 my kingdom — not the kingdom with silver spoons and a car- 
 riage in it. He cannot, Lucian. You have thrown away the 
 kingdom of heaven. Oh ! what a thing — what a thing to throw 
 away ! Margaret thrown away with it ! Oh, what a thing to 
 throw away ! Even the kingdom of heaven itself !" 
 
 13*
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 
 
 The cousins were already assembled when Ella entered the 
 drawing-room. The New Zealand branch, consisting of Sir John, 
 the llcv. Herbert, and the five girls, were all gathered together 
 at one of the windows. Lady Burleigh was not present. She 
 was one of those philosophers who would rather begin a brand- 
 new family than be connected with the finest old family possi- 
 ble, if the connection had to be established by wading back 
 through generations of mud in the gutter. Therefore, she 
 put the famous genealogy in a drawer, being persuaded, in her 
 own mind, that poverty, and nothing else, had drawn her father- 
 in-law, as it had drawn her own father, to New Zealand as an 
 early settler. And she cared nothing about the Burlcys, and 
 felt no manner of interest in the illustrious progenitors, and 
 took no pride even in John of Gaunt. Therefore, she refused 
 to attend at this family gathering. Their branch was repre- 
 sented, in consequence, by seven instead of eight, and out of 
 seven six came full of anxiety, and even terror. For the House 
 of Barley was like an ancient museum, full of secrets, any of 
 which might be revealed at any moment. However, they 
 came prepared— the father for the sake of the daughters, and 
 the daughters for the sake of the father— to rally round the 
 genealogy, and to stand firm by the sugar - baker if anything 
 should be said concerning Charles the convict. 
 
 Sitting by the fireside was the old woman, Lucinda Avery. 
 But it was afternoon, and the chair was comfortable, and she 
 had fallen fast asleep. " Hush— sh !" whispered the girls. 
 " Do not wake her up. Let the poor thing rest." 
 
 They ran to shake hands with Ella. But their smiles were 
 anxious. " She is asleep," they whispered.
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 299 
 
 " Goodness keep her asleep !" was the prayer that Ella 
 breathed. 
 
 Clarence, with his friend and legal adviser, stood at another 
 window. The completed claim had been sent in. There could 
 be no dispute upon the facts. What did this gathering mean ? 
 The assembled company, he surmised, were cousins — claimants, 
 like himself. But they were not descendants of the second son. 
 " It means compromise," his partner whispered. " I don't 
 know why or how ; but that's what I think it means. We'll 
 wait a bit. Clary, and listen." 
 
 They all waited in silent expectancy for two or three min- 
 utes, when Lucian entered the room, accompanied by an elderly 
 gentleman bearing papers. 
 
 " That's Mr. Nicholson," whispered the poet, surprised. 
 " Firm of Nicholson, Revett & Finch, Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 Most respectable firm. I knew them when I was in my articles. 
 They mean compromise ; I'm certain of it. We will hear what 
 they propose ; don't let us accept too readily. I wonder who 
 Dr. Calvert is — I wish I knew." 
 
 Mr. Nicholson drew a chair to the table. The audience all 
 sat down. Lucian stood beside his lawyer. 
 
 " I have invited you here this afternoon," he began, " be- 
 cause you are all interested, as actual or possible claimants to 
 the Burley estates, in the announcement I have to make. A 
 step has been taken by the person most concerned in the mat- 
 ter which will, I fear, cause grievous disappointment to some 
 present. But it is better that you should learn the truth in 
 this way than from the papers, which will certainly publish 
 the fact as soon as it gets abroad." 
 
 " I don't like the look of this," the partner whispered. 
 "It's a bad beginning." He rose and addressed the House. 
 " Before we go any further," he said, " I should like to ask, as 
 Mr. Clarence Burghley's legal adviser — Mr. Nicholson may per- 
 haps remember me when I was articled to his neighbors" — Mr. 
 Nicholson bowed. "I should like to ask, if I may — it is a 
 very simple question — by what authority Dr. Calvert calls to- 
 gether the representatives of the Burley family, what locus 
 standi he has in the business, and what right he has to inter- 
 fere at all."
 
 SOO BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 "It is a perfectly legitimate question," Mr. Nicholson re- 
 plied. "You air have a right to be satisfied on this point. 
 Now, if you will let us go on our own way, I can promise that 
 the question shall be answered in two or three minutes. Will 
 you, please, meanwhile accept my assurance that Dr. Calvert has 
 the best rig-ht possible to call you together ?" 
 
 " I don't like it," the partner whispered — " I don't like it at 
 all." 
 
 Sir John got up, looking responsible and dignified. 
 
 " On that assurance," he said, " I think we may safely pro- 
 ceed. But as far as I am concerned, we are licre — although 
 invited by Dr. Calvert — on what may be considered false pre- 
 tences, because we cannot claim the estates, or any portion of 
 them, unless the whole of the branch represented by the man 
 commonly called the Westminster miser, with his descendants, 
 is extinct ; and I believe that some present are his grandchil- 
 dren. My connection with the family goes back to a brother 
 of the Westminster miser." 
 
 The girls breathed hard and looked round at the old woman 
 in the chair. Thank Heaven ! she was still asleep, her head 
 comfortably settled down upon her chest. 
 
 " I understood. Sir John, when you saw me — " Lucian began. 
 
 " Yes ; that is true. It then seemed likely — even almost 
 certain — from a remarkable coincidence of names and dates, 
 and the resemblance of my children and myself to the portraits 
 in that room, that my father was Charles Calvert Burley, third 
 son of the W^estminster miser. It has now been ascertained, 
 however, without a doubt, that we are descended from his 
 uncle, one Joshua Calvert Burley. Ilis son, also called Charles, 
 was born in the same year as the other Charles, who appears — 
 ahem ! — to have borne an indifferent character ; most of you 
 know, I dare say, the principal incident in his deplorable career. 
 In losing him as a parent, however, we lose our claim to this 
 estate. So that if the announcement we are about to hear refers 
 to the succession, we are only interested as far-off cousins. 
 That is to say, we are not claimants." 
 
 " I think," said Clarence, " that we ought to be told at once 
 what ray legal adviser asked — who and what is Dr. Calvert. If 
 anybody has a right to take the lead in matters concerning the
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 301 
 
 Burley family, it is myself, the grandson of the second son, 
 Henry." 
 
 " You shall know, sir," said Mr. Nicholson. " Have patience 
 for two minutes. The announcement that will be made will 
 satisfy you in every particular." 
 
 Sir John sat wiping his forehead, unable to repress his 
 anxiety. The girls observed with satisfaction that the old lady 
 was still asleep. They whispered to each other and then to 
 their father, who nodded his head and got up again. 
 
 *' I think," he said, " that as this announcement clearly con- 
 cerns the succession, we had better withdraw. To stay longer 
 would be to invade the confidences of a — a — a closer family 
 circle." 
 
 " No, Sir John," said Lucian, " please do not go. Nothing 
 is going to be said that will affect you at all — nothing. Your 
 name will not be mentioned, I assure you, or the names of any 
 one connected with you." Did he mean anything? Did he 
 know — this terrible and mysterious physician, who seemed to 
 know the whole history of the family ? " Pray, Sir John, oblige 
 me by waiting this out." 
 
 Sir John sat down. The girls looked round again to see if 
 the old lady was still asleep. 
 
 Lucian continued. 
 
 " The heirs of the Burley estates would be, first, the descend- 
 ants of John Burley's brothers and sisters. There were four 
 brothers and one sister. I will show you who these descend- 
 ants are, beginning with the youngest, James — " 
 
 " My grandfather," said Ella, as calmly as if she had the 
 marriage certificate in her pocket, but witli a red spot on either 
 cheek. The Burleigh girls lowered their eyes, a sign of sym- 
 pathy as well as of knowledge. 
 
 "Yes, your grandfather. James became an attorney. He 
 emigrated to America, and settled in a town called Tewks- 
 bury." 
 
 "Mass.," said Ella. 
 
 " In Massachusetts. There he married — " 
 
 " No," Ella interrupted, " he did not marry in America." 
 
 " Then he married here. He had two children — namely, a 
 son — whose only child. Miss Ella Burley, is here with us — and a
 
 303 BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 dangliter, Lucinda, uninarried, who is now in England. The 
 ladies came over to claim the estates." 
 
 " We are no longer claimants," Ella explained. " We have 
 not been able to find the register of my grandfather's marriage, 
 and without that we have no case, it appears." 
 
 " You will find in a few moments that it would not help you." 
 
 " Clary, I don't like it," whispered the partner. " It looks 
 worse and worse. He's too cool and methodical by lialf. 
 There's something up his sleeve." 
 
 " The next son, Charles, came to grief. I believe you all know 
 what became of him. lie has left no descendants — at least, 
 none are claimants. We then come to the daughter, Lucinda, 
 who, like her brothers, ran away from home. She married a 
 certain Frederick Avery, at one time captain in an infantry 
 regiment. The man appears to have been a prodigal, or else he 
 was unfortunate. He fell into debt, and ended his days in the 
 Fleet prison, leaving his wife absolutely destitute. Iler history 
 is sad and extremely discreditable to the memory of the late 
 John Burley. The man of millions refused to give his sister a 
 farthing, or to render her any assistance. The unfortunate 
 woman sank lower and lower until, with her daughter, she 
 made a wretched livelihood bv doitia; the roucrhest and most 
 poorly paid kinds of needle-work. We found this lady's only 
 daughter, now herself an old woman, in the Marylebone Work- 
 house. Her case is quite clearly established by the letters and 
 papers which she has preserved. So far, therefore, this poor 
 old pauper, ignorant and humble, is the only claimant to all 
 these millions. Lucinda Avery, your cousin, is sitting with us. 
 She seems to be asleep, and does not know even that we are 
 talking of her." 
 
 A shiver and a rapid drawing of the breath from the five New 
 Zealand girls followed this speech, because Lucinda at that 
 moment lifted her head, straightened her back, opened her eyes, 
 and looked round. Then she made as if she would rise and her 
 lips parted, and the girls caught each other by the hand and 
 blanched with terror. 
 
 But Lucian motioned her to sit down, and the old woman 
 obeyed ; and she closed her eyes again, and to all appearance 
 went to sleep.
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 303 
 
 Liician continued his story. 
 
 " The next branch," he continued, " is that of Henry, the 
 second son. His grandson, Mr, Clarence Burghley, is here to- 
 day. The connection, I understand, has been fully made out." 
 
 " Point by point — fully established," said the partner. 
 
 " I do not dispute the connection. I am perfectly willing to 
 acknowledge that our cousin is the undoubted grandson of 
 'Henry Calvert Burghley." 
 
 " Our cousin ?" aslvcd Clarence. " Your cousin V 
 
 Mr. Nicholson raised his hand as one who prays for patience. 
 
 " I don't like it — I don't like the look of things at all," mur- 
 mured the poet. 
 
 Then Lucian went on. 
 
 " This connection established, there remains, therefore, only 
 Mr. Clarence Burghley and that poor old lady asleep in the 
 chair." 
 
 " Don't wake her," murmured all the girls. 
 
 " I will not. Let her sleep and rest. She has had very little 
 rest in her hard-worked life. Out of all the claims which might 
 have been made, there are only two which can be considered. 
 But there is the eldest branch, the son of John Burley the 
 money-lender ; and since the announcement about to be made 
 to you is the real purpose for which you have been called to- 
 gether, I will ask Mr. Nicholson, senior partner in the house of 
 Nicholson, Rcvett & Finch, to make that announcement for 
 me." 
 
 He sat down, and Mr. Nicholson rose. " Last May, five days 
 before Mr. John Burley died, there died at the age of fifty-five 
 my life-long friend, ray old school-fellow, John Calvert, as he 
 was known to the world, civil engineer. I had in my possession 
 all his papers. I had been in his confidence ever since the day 
 when — we were boys at the time — he refused to remain with 
 his father any longer and ran away from home. He had noth- 
 ing but a watch and chain that his mother had given him with 
 a little hoard of a few pounds, which she placed in his hands 
 on her death-bed. I had, 1 say, all the papers. Those which 
 were necessary for our purposes I have placed in the hands of 
 the Treasury. For John Calvert's real name was John Calvert 
 Burley, and this gentleman " — he laid his hand upon Lucian's
 
 304 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 slioulder — " is the only son. Tlicrefore, lie is the sole heir to 
 the whole of the Barley estates !" 
 
 Ella groaned aloud, thinking of Margaret. Up to the last 
 moment she hoped that he would not do it. lie had done it — 
 he had sent away his wife. 
 
 Sir John laughed pleasantly. "I congratulate Dr. Calvert, or 
 Dr. Barley — whichever you may prefer to be called." 
 
 " We must all rejoice," said Ilcrbert, "that the right man has 
 been found. Speaking for myself, I confess that 1 have had 
 dreams — for the sake of the Church. But it is ordered other- 
 wise." 
 
 "Take it quiet, Clary," whispered the partner — "take it 
 quiet." 
 
 " Sir," cried Clarence, with flaming cheek, " this must be 
 proved. I shall dispute every point of the assertion. It shall 
 be proved in a court of law." 
 
 "The Treasury," Mr. Nicholson said, quietly, " have admitted 
 the proofs. The rest is only a matter of necessary delay. Not 
 only is Dr. Calvert the heir, but he is the acknowledged heir. 
 Of course, it is open to any one to bring an action, if he is so 
 minded and so advised." 
 
 "How is it, I should like to know, that you have only just 
 found out the fact ?" 
 
 " Dr. Calvert has known the fact since the death of his father. 
 The reasons why he did not immediately come forward arc 
 doubtless satisfactory to himself." 
 
 "That, my cousins," Lucian concluded, "is all that I have to 
 say. I am myself the sole heir. Still, if any of you think that 
 you are in any way entitled to any part of the estate, you will 
 advance your claim in the proper way. Sir John, may I ask 
 you if you think yourself — " 
 
 " No, no, certainly not. We descend from the higher branch." 
 
 Again the girls looked at the woman who slumbered. No 
 sleep was ever more opportune or more gratefully received. 
 
 " Very well, then. Your daughters, Sir John ?" 
 
 They all shook their heads. 
 
 " Cousin Ella, I look to you." 
 
 " Lucian, I would not touch a farthing, even if I had my 
 grandfather's marriage certificate in my hand."
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 305 
 
 " Then, Mr. Clarence Burgliley, wliat do you think ?" 
 
 " Let me speak for him ;" the partner rose, and spoke with 
 some dignity. " My friend and client," he said, " is naturally 
 much astonished — not only at this unexpected news, but at the 
 treatment he has received. You remember, Dr. Calvert, that he 
 called upon you ; that he explained who he was and why he 
 came. You received him, showed him these portraits, and gave 
 him a letter which is very valuable in completing our chain of 
 evidence. You did not tell him, as you should have done, that 
 you were yourself the grandson and heir. You allowed him to 
 go away, his brain fired with the thought that this vast inherit- 
 ance would be his. Can any one wonder that the anxiety has 
 prevented liim from doing anything at all ? He has lost not 
 only months of work, but has suffered detriment — great injury 
 — to his professional reputation as an actor and entertainer. 
 Cruel suspense, anxious nights, laborious research — for months 
 — and all caused by your silence. Dr. Calvert. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, I submit, in the presence of Mr. Nicholson — a gen- 
 tleman of the highest standing — that compensation, substan- 
 tial compensation, is due to Mr. Clarence Burghley." 
 
 " Of course I ought to be compensated," Clarence broke in, 
 savagely. " For four long months I have been unable to think 
 of anything else. Who kept me in suspense ? You. My 
 mind has been unsettled — through you. I have been unable to 
 do any work — through you. I say that compensation is due." 
 
 " You may leave your case in Mr. Nicholson's hands," said 
 Lucian, coldly. He looked round the room. " My cousins," 
 he said, "let us part, if we can, amicably. There are the por- 
 traits of your ancestors. If you wish, I will present to each the 
 portrait of his grandfather. Sir John, behind you is a portrait 
 of — of — it is said to be — your great-grandfather Joshua." But 
 he knew very well that Joshua had died at the age of two, and 
 that this was some other cousin. " Will you accept him and 
 take him away ?" 
 
 "Oh," cried the girls, " that will be delightful!" They 
 clapped their hands with simulated joy — but gently, so as not to 
 awaken the family historiographer. But their eyes rested on 
 the portrait of Charles the convict, Charles of Australia, Charles 
 the early settler, the handsome Charles — go like their brother
 
 300 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Herbert, and botli so like the religious maniac, their great-great- 
 grandfather. 
 
 Lucian took the picture from its nail and gave it to Sir John, 
 who placed it beside his chair. 
 
 "I hear," Lucian addressed Herbert, "that you have pro- 
 fessed a desire to be descended from a criminal." Tlie crirls 
 dropped their heads and blushed. " It is a strange taste in 
 ancestors — " 
 
 "I would be as one of the lowest and meanest of my people," 
 said Herbert, hotly. 
 
 " Quite so. But your sisters, I believe, have no such am- 
 bition. However, I can gratify you even in this respect. Here," 
 he pointed to the man who was transported beyond sea, " is 
 your grandfather's first cousin, who was a forger and a convict. 
 He is, therefore, your first cousin twice removed. You can 
 boast about this noble connection among your people. The 
 more they can drag you down to their own level the bet- 
 ter they will be pleased, no doubt. If you are not satisfied, I 
 can give you another criminal — the family is, happily, rich 
 in malefactors. The man whose portrait is here was actu- 
 ally hanged at Tyburn Tree. You are connected with quite a 
 group of criminals. It ought to make you proud and hap- 
 
 py-" 
 
 At the moment Herbert found nothing by way of repartee 
 or proper rejoinder. An hour or two afterwards — a thing which 
 often happens — he remembered what, as a faithful assistant 
 priest, he ought to have said. 
 
 Then Lucian turned to Ella. 
 
 " Would you like the portrait of your grandfather, Ella?" 
 
 "No, Cousin Lucian. Aunt Lucinda has a miniature of him. 
 I am quite satisfied with his American face. You may keep 
 this." 
 
 He turned to Clarence. " And you," he asked ; " would you 
 like to take this portrait of your grandfather ?" 
 
 " No," said Clarence, sullenly ; " I only wanted to use the 
 portrait for the sake of the connection. It's a vile daul>, and 
 I've got his picture in character. Keep it — if you like. It's no 
 worse as a painting than all the rest. Keep it. The thing is 
 only fit to decorate a room like this."
 
 A CONSEIL DE FAMILLE 307 
 
 He left tlie room without dignity or any attempt to conceal 
 the crushing nature of the disappointment. He was bent under 
 it — his head hung down ; he was pitiable to look upon. 
 
 His partner stayed behind to speak with Mr. Nicholson. 
 
 "When we have thought a little about this business," he said, 
 " perhaps you will make an appointment. We ought to ask for 
 a very substantial sum. I assure you that Clarence has been 
 absolutely unable to do anything on account of his anxiety, and 
 this blow is one from which he may never recover. Think of 
 the awful blow of losing this vast fortune." 
 
 "Well," said Sir John, "since we expect nothing, we are not 
 disappointed. Herbert, are you going my way ?" 
 
 " We are going to stay a few minutes," said the girls. They 
 stayed to talk with Ella. 
 
 Lucian went down-stairs with Mr. Nicholson, The family 
 council was concluded. 
 
 " Cousin," said Lucy, the eldest — " cousin in misfortune, are 
 you going back to America ?" 
 
 " No, we cannot, because we have no money for our pas- 
 sage, and nothing to live upon when we get there. Margaret is 
 trying to get me something to do in England," 
 
 " Come out to New Zealand with us. AVe are going back 
 very soon now — the sooner the better. We are the richer for 
 our visit home by — that history which you have heard; you 
 are the richer by your history. Come out with us. We will 
 find you something — a lover, perhaps, if you want one — or a 
 place, perhaps — you look clever — " 
 
 " I will go out to you, cousins, if I cannot find anything 
 here. But I shall stay with Margaret if I can. Poor Margaret ! 
 Oh ! There is a curse upon this horrible, hateful, dreadful in- 
 heritance. Ruin and destruction that old man brought with 
 him to whomsoever he approached — " 
 
 At this moment the old woman in the easy-chair opened her 
 eyes. She looked carefully round the room and then stood up, 
 meekly folding her hands, 
 
 "The gentlemen are gone," she said — "Sir John and my 
 uncle Henry's grandson and the others ; only us left by our- 
 selves. Mrs. Calvert says that those talk least who know most. 
 Deary me! I knew everything all the time. But no — I
 
 308 HEVOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 wouldn't speak. I pretended to be asleep. Oh ! I could have 
 told everybody — " 
 
 " We arc very much obliged to you for keeping asleep." 
 
 " Oh ! I know ray duty," she replied, " I'm a Burley, too, 
 by mother's side. Do you think I would say a word to bring 
 down the Burley pride or spoil a joyful day when all the Bur- 
 leys meet together? AVith us women left behind, it doesn't 
 matter what we say." 
 
 u Not — so much — not quite — so much," replied Lucy, the 
 eldest. 
 
 " Daughters of Sir John Burleigh," she said. " Grand- 
 dauo-hters of Charles — my mother's brother — who was unfortu- 
 nate and was transported to Australia and escaped, and came 
 back again and went out to New Zealand. And granddaughter 
 of James, too — my mother's youngest brother — who ran away 
 with his master's wife. Oh ! yes. It's beautiful to sec you, 
 and to be asked to sit down with you, and to remember all 
 about you. I wish my mother had lived to see you — such fine 
 young ladies. And 1 hope, 1 do, that you will find good hus- 
 bands — that you'll be more fortunate than your grandfathers. 
 They were too high-spirited, mother always said. We have 
 been an unfortunate family, she used to say, but never any- 
 thing mean about us. Always high-minded. And always 
 money in the family." 
 
 Ella heaved a profound sigh. " Now that one hears it for 
 the second time," she said, addressing her cousins, " it doesn't 
 hurt quite so much, does it ? Perhaps it is not quite so 
 dreadful as at first." 
 
 " It hurts enough to make us feel it all our lives," said 
 Lucy, the eldest. " But, there — it matters nothing so long as 
 the pater doesn't know it. Oh ! my dears, so long as that 
 dear old man never finds it out or suspects it, what docs it 
 matter if we suffer under this knowledge? We will go home 
 and carry with us the humbugging genealogy, and talk about it 
 as if we believed it, and even pride ourselves and stick out our 
 chins on account of that grand old fraud, John of Gaunt — 
 time-honored Lancaster."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAID 
 
 " It is announced in another column that the missing heir to 
 the Burley estates has at last been found. In other words, he 
 has thought proper, after a silence not yet explained, to corae 
 forward and to disclose himself. The facts of the case, if we 
 may assume them to be established, possess a certain amount of 
 romance not commonly met with. As regards the late Calvert 
 Burley, the world already knows his history. The son of a man 
 afflicted with the disease — if it is nothing less — of the miserly 
 disposition, he saw his brothers and sisters ily one after the other 
 from their wretched home and disappear. Search has been 
 made after these brothers and sisters. There are descendants 
 of some living in various parts of the world, but it would appear 
 that, by some accident or other — a missing link in the evidence, 
 a marriage not established, the absence of documentary proof 
 connecting the possible claimant with the deceased — none of 
 those descendants have yet been able to make good their claim. 
 It is said that an old woman was found in a workhouse who was 
 the daughter of John Burley's sister. And it appeared likely, 
 in the continued absence of the son or grandchildren, that the 
 estate would devolve upon a higher branch still, that represented 
 by the generation of the Westminster miser. Had this hap- 
 pened, we believe that a well-known colonial statesman, a 
 K. C. M. G,, would have carried oflE the millions. As for the 
 other claimants, who are numbered by the tliousand, they have 
 not, and never had, the least chance of inheriting anything. In 
 any case, their dreams are now rudely dispelled, for the grand- 
 son has turned up and he will take all. 
 
 " This grandson appears to be a young man worthy of the 
 great fortune which awaits him. He has hitherto been known
 
 310 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 as Lucian Calvert. He is a pliysician attached to the Children's 
 Hospital, Buckingham Palace Road. He has also, by his bio- 
 logical researches, arrived already at the distinction of Fellow of 
 the Royal Society. He has always been brought up under the 
 name of Calvert and in ignorance of his real name and family. 
 John Calvert, the son of the money - lender, being a sensitive 
 youth, and unable to stand the reflections passed upon his fa- 
 ther's various trades of gamester, proprietor of night- houses, 
 and money-lender; and being also reminded continually of his 
 relationship to the Westminster miser, whose memory still lin- 
 gered in the locality, was disgusted with the pursuit of wealth 
 in these directions, and resolved to leave his home, abandon his 
 name, and to work his own way in the world without any assist- 
 ance whatever. This project was actually carried into effect, 
 one knows not how, by the son of the richest man in the coun- 
 try. He became an engineer : in the Forties and Fifties it was 
 a profession which gave work to a great many and wealth to 
 more than a few. John Calvert found work, but not fortune. 
 It is said by those who remember him, but did not know his 
 real name and history, that he always seemed to have a horror 
 of saving or making money ; a natural reaction, had his friends 
 known it, from the money-making atmosphere in which he had 
 been brought up. He died four months ago, a few days before 
 his father. On his death-bed he first communicated to liis only 
 son the truth about his parentage. It is also said that he begged 
 his son to take no steps whatever to make himself known to his 
 an-ed irrandfather, who knew nothing of his existence, nor to 
 make any endeavor to secure any part of the estates for him- 
 self. The young man obeyed these wishes. But when the 
 grandfather died, the day after it was found that he had actual- 
 ly died intestate. The Treasury, as we all know, stepped in ; 
 the whole of the papers were seized, and an advertisement 
 called upon the heirs to come forward. 
 
 "The grandson, at this intelligence, was placed in a strange 
 position. First of all, the thing which no one could have ex- 
 pected actually happened. The man who above all men, one 
 would think, would have been careful of his succession, actual- 
 ly forgot, or purposely neglected, to make his will. Therefore, 
 in the most unexpected manner, this young man found himself
 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAID 311 
 
 sole heir. On the other hand, there was no doubt that his fa- 
 ther, who loathed the thought of money which had been a curse 
 and a shame to his childhood, would have wished him not to 
 claim his right, but to go on carving out his own way as brill- 
 iantly as he had begun, without the help of money. It is, in- 
 deed, the chief glory of our modern men of science that they 
 do not use their knowledge, as they might, as a means of mak- 
 ing money. But it is one thing to use science for the sake of 
 makinc: a fortune, and another thing to inherit a fortune already 
 made. Dr. Lucian Calvert, F. R. S., may very well think that 
 he can go on with the pursuit of knowledge whether he is rich 
 or poor. Again, in the nostrils of John Calvert, civil engineer, 
 this fortune stank. He remembered hearing of the miser creep- 
 ing out after dark in his ragged old gabardine, picked up on the 
 foreshore of the Thames, carrying a basket in which he put the 
 odds and ends which he picked up — crusts, bones, bottles, bits 
 of coal, nails, bits of wood — everything. That was how the 
 family fortune was increased. He remembered hearing of the 
 gambling -hell in St. James's Street, in which his father sat all 
 night long, raking in the money, lending more money to the 
 gamblers, and raking that in as well ; the dancing- cribs which 
 his father kept, making large moneys out of the vice and profli- 
 gacy of the town; and the office in Cork Street where the mon- 
 ey-lender sat, exacting his cent for cent with a relentless pur- 
 pose to which Shylock never reached. To him the fortune 
 stank. Time purifies even such a fortune as this. By the second 
 generation the curses of the gamblers, the loud laughter of the 
 miserable women in the dancing-places, the groans of the ruined 
 borrowers, are silent and buried in the grave with the short-lived 
 profligates on whom this human shark preyed. They are silent 
 and forgotten. The years have flowed like a fresh stream over 
 the pile of golden guineas ; they are sweetened and cleaned. 
 No one will scoff at the way in which that pile was accumu- 
 lated ; no one, indeed, ever inquires too closely into the history 
 of inherited wealth : in general terms we know. Therefore we 
 cannot wonder if Dr. Lucian Calvert, after due consideration 
 to his father's views and the separation of prejudice from equi- 
 ty, has come to the conclusion that his duty, as well as his 
 right, requires him to take his own."
 
 313 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 That was the view taken, more or less, by all the papers. Of 
 course, the amount involved being so enormous, there was an 
 article on the subject by every paper in every city in the world. 
 The London letter-writers had a topic such as seldom indeed 
 occurs. The interviewers stood ten deep outside the door of 
 No. 77, Great College Street. The evening papers produced 
 long articles " From One Who Knows Ilim ;" " From a Fellow- 
 student," "From a School-fellow." No need to say who was 
 meant; there was only one man for the moment in the whole 
 world. Kings and presidents were neglected ; revolutions were 
 unheeded ; the British empire was enlarged by a cantle of the 
 earth as big as France ; and no one cared. The only person 
 thought of, spoken of, was Lucian Calvert, M.D., F.R.S., more 
 rightly named Lucian Calvert Burley. 
 
 " VVe now understand," said Nurse Agatha to Sister Anne, 
 " what has been the matter with the doctor. No wonder he 
 was absent and absorbed. We thought him moody, and he 
 was only wondering whether he should take his own or not." 
 
 " And now he has got it," Nurse Anne replied, " I shall ask 
 him to endow the Nurses' Pension Fund." 
 
 " Everybody will ask him to give to everything. He will 
 have to keep a stafE of clerks with nothing to do except to say 
 no." 
 
 Everybody did begin to ask. Wonderful it was to see the 
 postman reeling and staggering to the door with letters. The 
 secretaries of all the hospitals began ; the clergymen of all the 
 churches and chapels; the charities and charitable societies ; 
 the philanthropic associations; the societies for befriending 
 people of all kinds ; and, above all, the people in distress — 
 widows, wives, and daughters; men out of work; men too old 
 to work ; men struck down by some disease or other ; children 
 bereft of parents — one would think that every other person in 
 this island of Great Britain, to say nothing of the adjacent 
 islands of Ireland, Man, Scilly, and Liudisfarne, was a destitute 
 pauper reduced to beg for succor. Whether Lucian opened 
 any of these letters I know not. Later on, Margaret found 
 most of them in the dining-room. They lay piled on the table, 
 and they ran over ; they were thrown under the table, and they 
 ran over and outside ; they were turned out of the bag into the
 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAID 313 
 
 corners, and they ran over ; tliey were piled in the drawers and 
 the sideboard and the sofa, and they ran over. If it were not 
 for the fear of exaggerating, one would say, calmly, that they 
 lay heaped up as high as the pictures on the wall. 
 
 Some of these letters were threatening. Unless a certain 
 sum was sent to a certain address a dreadful revenge would 
 be taken. Dynamite would be employed ; six-shooters would 
 be exhibited ; the immense fortune should not be enjoyed for 
 long ; the writer was a desperate man. Some were sarcastic. 
 Would the owner of millions consider that a miserable hun- 
 dred would put the writer beyond the reach of want ? AVould 
 the very rich man condescend to listen to a tale of distress 
 which could be relieved by a sum so small as to be absolutely 
 unfelt ? Some were religious. The owner of millions must 
 consider himself a trustee. He held his property in trust; 
 not to be lavished unworthily ; not to be saved up. Now here 
 was a case in which real good — good of such a kind as to 
 soften things for his soul hereafter — was in his power. The en- 
 closed papers would show. There were the letters of the pro- 
 fessional beggar — the professional whine to be detected at once. 
 There were the letters of inventors who only wanted a little 
 capital to make a great success with their improved traction- 
 engine ; and the projectors who wanted nothing but a few hun- 
 dreds to make their scheme the joy and wonder of the whole 
 earth. And, lastly, there were the letters, familiar to every one, 
 from all who were needy and oppressed ; from the widow and 
 the wife and the daughter ; all madly passionate, praying, and 
 imploring, so that a heart of stone would melt at reading their 
 terrible tales. What becomes of all these cases of sufferinjx 
 and woe? If all the rich men in all the world answered these 
 letters with five-pound notes, when these were spent the tale 
 of distress would be renewed. " Let mc tide over the misery 
 of to-day," cries the widow ; " my children want clothes and 
 food." And what of to-morrow, madam? What, indeed? But 
 of to-morrow we hear nothing. 
 
 As Lucian had as yet received no money, it was useless to 
 
 open or to answer these letters. Therefore, as we have seen, he 
 
 threw them all into the dining-room — which in those days of 
 
 solitude he did not use — and left them there. 
 11
 
 314 BEYOND THE UKEAMS OK AVARICE 
 
 These days of solitude — lie was quite alone — he felt a kind 
 of fierce exultation in being alone. It was fitting, somehow, 
 that the richest man in the world should be alone. Margaret 
 would return presently, wlien the superstition left her, and she 
 found that the lightning had not struck the inlicritor of the 
 Burley estates. Alone, he would meditate on his schemes. 
 Alone, he would best bear the great shock of receiving all this 
 wealth. 
 
 It was the Spectator which first asked in public, what every- 
 body was asking in private, "What will he do with it?" 
 
 " Here is a young man," said this article, " who is suddenly 
 lifted from the apparently modest income of a young physician 
 and man of science, the scholar and student who has never had 
 any thought or expectancy whatever of 'enjoying,' as it is 
 called, a large fortune, or even an income large enough to admit 
 of the generous life — the life which enables a man to have 
 whatever he wants for his own pursuits : in the case of a scien- 
 tific student, a laboratory and instruments, assistance and lei- 
 sure for research. This young man, whose record is so consid- 
 erable, suddenly finds himself in the possession of an income, the 
 greater part of which, though there are whole streets of houses, is 
 said to be safely invested in consols. It is also said, though these 
 figures appear to be quite uncertain, that the income from all 
 sources is nothing short of a quarter of a million. If, therefore, 
 this modern Dives should resolve upon leaving his principal in- 
 tact, lie lias every year, to play with, a quarter of a million. 
 What will he do with it ? He is said to be a young man of 
 simple habits. He will certainly neither eat nor drink more 
 than he has been accustomed to eat and drink. Perhaps in the 
 course of time he may arrive at a more carefully critical taste; 
 he may want his claret finer and his food more artistic. This, 
 however, will not make a serious inroad upon his income. If 
 he marries and has a family, they may, and probably will, de- 
 mand a certain style in living ; he may accept a title. He may 
 purchase a country-soat. His expenses might rise gradually to 
 £30,000 a year. That will still leave him £220,000 a year. 
 What will he do with it? 
 
 " He might save it. This would be ignoble treatment. We 
 will not consider the possibility of a man with a dozen millions
 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAID 315 
 
 desiring to add more. If, however, he were to save £200,000 
 a year, in five -and -twenty years he would be worth about 
 £8,000,000 more, and then ? No ; we will not consider the 
 possibility of saving. He must do something. What will he 
 do? lie might ^u'e, freely, all his life. There are many tilings 
 which want donors and donations continually. In this way he 
 would help to maintain a great many institutions of an admi- 
 rable kind. There are hospitals, for instance ; Avith so much 
 money he might maintain, single-handed, half a dozen hospitals. 
 But are there not too many already ? Are not the hospitals 
 used by persons who have no right to demand or to accept their 
 charities ? There are certain benevolent societies of which the 
 Charity Organization Society has sometimes spoken harshly. 
 It might widen the powers of these associations, and so enable 
 them to pauperize the people much more effectually. In fnct, . 
 the first danger that faces the rich man is that the more money 
 he gives the more he weakens the self-reliance of the people. 
 Therefore we believe that this young man will not give money 
 for the relief of poverty. lie will leave people, on the whole, 
 to learn those wholesome lessons that suffering alone seems able 
 to teach. Yet, since we are human and the sight of suffering 
 that seems unmerited — as that of children — is always distress- 
 ing, this rich man will, one thinks, give money to a judicious 
 almoner. What else can he do ? Formerly he might reclaim 
 swamps and moors for agriculture. But who wants more land 
 ■when so many thousands of acres are lying uncultivated? Or 
 he might found scholarships and fellowships. There are 
 enough of both; every young man who deserves assistance can 
 get a scholarship. Or he might build almshouses; that is, it is 
 true, the least mischievous form of preventing thrift. In these 
 days he may create and endow technical schools and polytech- 
 nics. These are very excellent things, but our county councils 
 will very shortly take over these colleges, or create others to be 
 supported by the rates, or — better still — by all the people, for 
 the people. Better to have national schools for arts and crafts 
 than to depend on the possible foundations of rich men. Then, 
 what will he do with it? 
 
 "He might present an iron-clad every two years; he might 
 undertake the support of two regiments of the line ; he might
 
 316 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 acquire an ugly street and make it a street beautiful — say 
 Drury Lane ; but a great nation docs not want gifts from private 
 persons. He might give his attention to the breed of horses 
 or of cattle ; to the improvement of machinery ; to the ad- 
 vancement of inventions ; but in all these things the ground 
 is already occupied by those to whom these things are a pro- 
 fession or a trade. Again, therefore, what will he do with it? 
 
 " The more one thinks of it the more one finds that the difii- 
 culties increase. What shall the rich man do with his money ? 
 He might conduct a newspaper or a magazine or a review, 
 as he thinks such things should be conducted, and without 
 reference to popular opinion or to pecuniary success. But then 
 one of two things would happen. Either his paper would be 
 deadly dull, in which case it would neither liave a circulation 
 nor be looked on as an example, or it would become popular 
 (and so make him richer), and beget a host of imitators. And 
 suppose, after all, that his idea of a newspaper was wrong. 
 Nothing more mischievous than a newspaper conducted on 
 mistaken principles. To sum up, we fear that we can find no 
 work for the rich man to do. When he has spent all he wants 
 to spend, when he has given as much to distressful folk as ho 
 thinks safe and prudent, then will remain an immense sum 
 every year, which this man will have to save if he does not 
 wish to do mischief. There seems no help for him. His 
 children will be cursed from the outset with immense fortunes 
 and with no stimulus to work, and every temptation to luxury 
 and vice. For them we entertain the pity and the curiosity 
 that we reserve for those born with the silver spoon. Having 
 expressed our opinion as to what cannot be done, we repeat the 
 question, 'What will he do with it?' " 
 
 " Yes," said Lucian, " but they have not thought of my great 
 college of science." 
 
 This amusement lasted for a fortnight. The popular imagina- 
 tion was touched. It is not every day that a man of no family, 
 so far as he had ever discovered, finds himself the heir and 
 the immediate possessor of millions. In the old lotteries a man 
 fancied a number, saved, or sometimes stole, the money with 
 which to buy a whole ticket — and — won the great prize ; when 
 the prize was declared the papers, then in an elementary stage
 
 WHAT THE PRESS SAID 317 
 
 of existence, always had a brief paragraph calling attention to 
 the sudden accession of wealth, and there the matter ended ; 
 but deep in the popular breast lay the hope — the thought — 
 the prayer, even — that a similar fortune might attend them 
 — even now, wlicn there are no lotteries to speak of, when the 
 ordinary man has no rich cousins, when the old Nabob exists 
 nho longer. He used to come home with a liver like a bit of 
 coral, with lacs upon lacs of rupees, just at the nick of time, 
 in the hour when our need was the sorest. He exists no 
 longer, and the sudden, the unexpected, the nick-of-time fortune 
 comes no more. What we cannot get for ourselves, we cannot 
 get at all. What we have not saved, we cannot use at a time of 
 tightness. What we have not sown, we cannot reap. It is 
 hard to lose the element of chance ; there was always hope 
 for the sanguine. Now hope, which chiefly means the looking 
 out for luck, has fled to heaven, and the world is face to face 
 with reality and fate and the consequences of extravagance. 
 Better so, says the moralist. Perhaps, but still — Suppose, dear 
 friend, some one were to present you, suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly, with a hundred thousand pounds. How would you 
 feel about it ? He Avould be robbing some one else, says the 
 moralist again. Perhaps, but still — And this man, this Lucian 
 Calvert, this thrice-lucky young man, who deserved no better 
 than his neighbors, and expected no more, was standing up 
 there, for all eyes to see, on his pyramid of twelve millions, or 
 fifty millions, to demonstrate to the world that there may be 
 still some kind of treasure - trove, some unexpected turn of 
 Fortune's wheel. 
 
 For a whole fortnight, as everybody will remember, Lucian 
 Calvert was the subject of talk, the subject of the journals 
 over the whole habitable world. Nothing so romantic as the 
 sudden elevation to riches and power of a young man known 
 only to his little circle. 
 
 A fortnight ; a short fortnight. Did the darlinof of fortune 
 read what was said of him? He must have read something. 
 But, for the most part, he stayed at home perfecting the plans 
 for his college of science. 
 
 For a fortnifjht. And then —
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 
 
 Then it was as if the broad earth trembled and all the foun- 
 dations were swept ; as if the stars fell from the heavens ; as if 
 the moon were darkened and the planets became invisible. 
 
 A certain newspaper got the intelligence before any of its 
 rivals. How ? No one ever knew ; but as a writer at tenpence 
 an hour happened to be in a certain room in a certain govern- 
 ment office at the moment of a certain discovery, it was not diffi- 
 cult to conjecture. The secrets of the Treasury cannot be safe- 
 ly guarded at tenpence an hour. When a secret comes into 
 the possession of tenpence an hour it finds its way to a news- 
 paper office and becomes the property of the whole world. This 
 newspaper, four-and-twenty hours in advance of all its rivals, 
 naturally spread itself over the fact and made the most of it, 
 with the news in leaded type, and the front page and longest 
 leading article wholly devoted to the subject. The following is 
 the paragraph : 
 
 " A dramatic discovery, reported in our columns, has just 
 been made concerning the now famous Burlcy estates. It is a 
 discovery which changes at a stroke the whole situation. A 
 will has been found, dated thirty or forty years ago, by which 
 the testator, John Calvert Burley, leaves his whole estate, real 
 and personal, in trust, to the Council of the Royal Society for 
 the foundation and endowment of a college of science. It is 
 not to be a teaching college, but a college of research. The 
 endowments of the professors, the nature and extent of the 
 buildings, and all other details are left to the Royal Society. 
 Such, briefly, is the will, which does not recognize the son at all, 
 and was drawn up and signed before the grandson was born. 
 If the will proves genuine, which there seems no reason to 
 doubt, the grandson is absolutely disinherited."
 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIKE 319 
 
 And the following is a portion of the leading article, which, 
 of course, was written on the same subject : 
 
 " The Burley estates have produced another surprise, and 
 that of the most unexpected kind. The will of John Calvert 
 Burley, deceased, has been discovered. The fortunate young 
 gentleman, Mr. Lucian Calvert, M.D., F.R.S., whom all the world 
 has been congrratulating for the last fortnio-ht, whose name has 
 been on everybody's lips, has to lay down everything — to be 
 sure he had actually received nothing — and to retire upon his 
 old profession. As he had the strength of will to wait for 
 four months before sending in his claim, it is hoped tliat he 
 will have the philosophy to resign, with nothing more than a 
 natural sigh, the power and authority which belong to such 
 great riches. We commend him to the reflection that the abil- 
 ities which have made him, at so early an age, an F.R.S., will 
 continue to advance him in the honorable path he has laid down 
 for himself. lie wants no fortune to follow in the footsteps of 
 the great men before him. As regards the will, it appears that 
 when the Treasury seized upon the estate they found a vast 
 quantity of papers, some in the house or office where Mr. Bur- 
 ley's managers, secretaries, solicitors, and clerks carried on his 
 business of looking after the estate ; some lying in Mr. Burley's 
 private residence. These papers were, it was thought, all care- 
 fully examined and indexed. There was found, however, yes- 
 terday, a tin box which had been overlooked. Among the 
 papers in this box was the will of John Calvert Burley. It was 
 in duplicate with the original draft in the solicitor's own hand- 
 writing. The solicitor has been dead for twenty years. His 
 son, however, who succeeded him, remembers that at his father's 
 death Mr. Burley ordered such of his papers as had been in his 
 bands to be sent to him. Me remembers this box very well; 
 and he is ready to swear to his father's writing and to the sig- 
 nature of the witnesses, who were two of his father's clerks. 
 Under these circumstances, there can be little doubt that we 
 have here the will of this rich man. 
 
 " It is a curious document, especially when we consider the 
 manner of man who drew it up, and the kind of life he led. 
 He leaves nothing whatever to his son ; of his grandson, of 
 course, he knows nothing. And he leaves the whole of his
 
 320 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 estate, now producing an income variously estimated between a 
 quarter and a lialf of a million, for tlic foundation of a vast col- 
 lege of science, with endowments for research in every branch. 
 Did miser ever before grub and heap up money, did money- 
 lender ever before accumulate thousands, for the purpose of 
 advancing a branch of knowledge of which he himself knew 
 nothing and cared nothing? As a psychological problem, the 
 question how this man, who raked in the mud all his life, ever 
 came to think of science, will remain forever unanswered." 
 
 This intelligence was the iirst thing that met Lucian's eyes 
 when he opened his paper at breakfast. 
 
 Soon after eleven his solicitor, Mr. Nicholson, arrived. lie 
 found Lucian still at his untouched breakfast ; the newspaper 
 lay on the hearth-rug. Lucian sat upright, his hands on the 
 arms of his chair, looking straight before him. 
 
 " Lucian !" The old lawyer shook him roughly by the shoul- 
 der. " Wake up, man ! What? You have read the news? So 
 have L More than that, I have been to the Treasury people — " 
 
 Lucian turned with haggard face. " Is it true ?" he asked, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " Quite true," the lawyer replied, shortly, as if it mattered 
 nothing. "True beyond any doubt, I should say. Well, then? 
 We are once more just as we were. Eh ? We have enjoyed 
 an immense fortune, in imagination, eh ? Something to remem- 
 ber. Once you had millions, eh? Rather stunned for the mo- 
 ment, ch ? You'll soon get over that — put a bold face on it — 
 make 'cm laugh if you begin to cry, eh ? Let 'em see that you 
 don't care much — laugh at it — go to your club — make calls with 
 your wife, eh?" 
 
 " Is it — all— quite true?" 
 
 "Oh yes. It is very simple. Your father left his home 
 forty years ago. Your grandfather disinherited him. That is 
 simple. When the lawyer died, he had his papers sent to his 
 own office, where he employed salaried solicitors to carry on the 
 work. The papers accumulated, and this box seems to have 
 been overlooked in the search. Somebody ought to be sacked." 
 
 " In the search," Lucian repeated, not attaching the least 
 meaning to the words.
 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 321 
 
 " Very Avell, then. That explains how the papers got there. 
 Of course, it does not explain how the Treasury people over- 
 looked them. I think there is no manner of doubt possible. 
 Perhaps the Treasury would get something done for you." 
 
 He stopped. His words made no impression. The look on 
 Lucian's face alarmed him. "Is your wife at home?" he asked 
 with changed voice. " I should like to see her." 
 
 " Margaret has left me. She left me because I claimed my 
 own." 
 
 " Is it possible ? Good heavens, Lucian ! You have lost your 
 wife and your vast inheritance as well. AVhat was it your 
 father said — that ruin and destruction would follow those who 
 held any portion of that money ? Lucian, don't sit staring. 
 Pull yourself together, man !" 
 
 But he made no impression, and presently withdrew. 
 
 A black rage held Lucian's soul. It was chiefly directed 
 against his grandfather. How unscientific a man can become 
 on occasion is shown by this example. For he actually saw, as 
 clearly as any one can see anything, that old man tempting him, 
 uririno- him to advance his claim : fillincf his mind with the 
 splendors of possession, suggesting the great college — allow- 
 ing him to be proclaimed the Prince of the Golden Ash-heaps 
 — the Head — the young Lord; and then, with a malignant 
 laugh, producing his old will, becoming himself the founder of 
 the great college, and tumbling his grandson into dust-holes and 
 ash-heaps which are not golden. 
 
 His face was dark ; the room was dark, though outside it was 
 high noon; his soul within him was like unto the soul of Job 
 when, after seven days and seven nights, he lifted up his voice 
 and cursed his day, even the day of his birth : " Let the day 
 wlierein I was born — let that day be darkness; let not the 
 light shine upon it; let darkness and the shadow of death stain 
 it. Let a cloud dwell upon it. Let the blackness of the day 
 terrify it." 
 
 The ruin and destruction of which his father spoke had 
 fallen upon him. Whether it was the curse of the House, in 
 winch his father believed, in terror of which his wife had left 
 him — whether this superstition was real or not, ruin and de- 
 struction had fallen upon him by the hand of his grandfather. 
 
 14*
 
 322 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 Misery and disaster were the work of that old man's hands, 
 even out of the grave — misery and disaster on everybody. So 
 much lie now saw plainly. 
 
 On his innocent wife, driven from her home and from her 
 husband. On those unfortunate New-Zealanders, who came in 
 search of an honorable ancestry and discovered an escaped con- 
 vict. On that unfortunate American girl, who dreamed of 
 boundless wealth and discovered the shameful secret of her 
 father's birth. On the child of Piccadilly, who substantiated 
 his case and already held out his hand to clutch the estate, 
 when another stepped in to take it. And on himself, set up 
 on high, to be dragged down again in the face of the assem- 
 bled multitude. All the telescopes in the world were pointed 
 at this unhappy young man as he sat bent down by this mighty 
 blow — and behind the telescopes he could see the grin univer- 
 sal. Who would be laughed at by the whole world ? lie was 
 Job, without even the pious admonitions of the three candid 
 friends. He was Job in darkness, as Blake drew him. His 
 spirit looked out upon the world, but could see nothing except 
 universal contempt, shame, and derision. He got up at last, 
 fired with a sudden thought. Murder, revenge, retribution were 
 in his eyes. First, he took from his study-table a dagger-shaped 
 l^nife — you vfiW never find a man of science very far from a 
 knife — and with this in his hand he swiftly mounted the 
 stairs. He might have been going up-stairs in order to put his 
 dagger into that part of the frame where he could most com- 
 fortably and most painlessly stop the machinery. But Lucian 
 was not so minded. A fuller, deeper, more satisfying revenge 
 was in his mind. 
 
 He opened the drawing-room and looked round the walls — it 
 was the look of one who counts his victims before the slaugh- 
 ter. He felt the edge of the knife with his finger. It was sharp 
 enoufrh. Then — how many times before this had he gone round 
 the room and looked at the portraits of his ancestors ? — he be- 
 gan again, as if he had never seen any of them before. " Cal- 
 vert," he said, numbering them off on his fingers, " the rogue 
 who robbed his master and laid the foundation — the master- 
 builder ; roguery and robbery make good foundations — honesty 
 is but sand. Calvert's son — John the highway - robber and
 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 323 
 
 spendthrift and liangman's job. John Calvert tlie third — the 
 religious maniac — poor wretch ! John the miser — the creature 
 who picked up bones and crusts, and drove out his children. 
 John the money-lender — the owner of the dancing-cribs and 
 gaming-hells ; the man who disinherited his son and made me 
 dream of the great college ! 
 
 "Why," he murmured, "I am like them all. I have their 
 face — there is but one face for all. It is my face. I have all 
 their vices somewhere inside me. These I have inherited. I 
 came back to them with these views — and yet they won't have 
 me !" 
 
 The faces of the men scowled at him. Because this disaster 
 had fallen upon him ? But they had had plenty of disasters 
 among themselves. The women looked at him coldly and care- 
 lessly, as if wondering for a brief moment who this poor wretch 
 might be, and what he was doing among them all. Both men 
 and women rejected him ; if silent looks mean anything, then 
 they would have none of him. Where, at this juncture, one 
 asks with bewilderment, was divine philosophy? Where cold 
 reason ? For this man of science, this physician, learned and 
 sapient, this student of the mysteries and phenomena of life, 
 became for the moment like a superstitious girl. The curse of 
 the House had descended upon him. He owned it in his soul ; 
 he felt it. His father had done rightly to escape by flight ; 
 he had returned, and this was his reward. Shame and disgrace 
 of some kind or other must needs fall upon all who belonged to 
 the House, and especially upon those who possessed, or desired 
 to possess, the fortune acquired in dishonor, maintained in dis- 
 honor, and increased in dishonor. 
 
 As every one knows, in moments of great emotion the brain 
 sometimes refuses the control of the master; it works indepen- 
 dently ; it goes off roaming in long-forgotten places. Thus, Lu- 
 cian's brain, at this crisis, spontaneously presented him with a 
 page of a printed book spread out before his eyes so that he 
 could read it, Not a book in which he often cared to read, or 
 a book which ho regarded as necessary to be read ; not a book 
 of science; a book into which, as a rule, he never even looked. 
 The page presented from this book, however, was one which he 
 had himself found in Westminster Abbey for the speedier con-
 
 324 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 fusion of Margaret's superstitions. And now he saw it clearly 
 spread out before him — on the wall — like the inscription which 
 affrighted the king of Babylon. It was, in fact, none other than 
 the page entitled " The Unjust I'arable of the Sour Grapes." 
 
 He read the whole page through — that is to say, he remem- 
 bered the whole page, which is the same thing ; indeed, he 
 thouo:ht he was readinof it. 
 
 The last admonition, in the long chain of explanation and as- 
 surance, is not, it must be acknowledged, conveyed in words 
 such as those now used by scientific men, nor does it take the 
 form most likely to appeal to the scientific mind. Yet be- 
 cause he was able to detach the central thought of the passage 
 from the words in which it was clothed, the admonitions fell 
 upon his darkened spirit like a ray of sunlight. 
 
 " Cast away from you all your transgressions. Make you a 
 new heart and a new spirit. For why will you die, O House of 
 Israel ?" 
 
 Like a blaze of sunshine and light that printed page with its 
 burning Avords fell upon his soul. Margaret once said that no 
 one could help her. " Not even the Prophet Ezekiel." But 
 the prophet did bring help. No curse at all, said the prophet. 
 Every man stands or falls by himself. Why had this disaster 
 fallen upon him ? Because his grandfather was a money-lend- 
 er? Not at all. The thing fell upon him quite naturally. 
 The will was certain to be found, some time or other. Had he 
 not deserted his own work, the work for which he was intend- 
 ed and equipped, on which he was already fully engaged, in 
 order to change it for the administration of a vast and un- 
 wieldy mass of wealth for which he was in no way fitted, this 
 thing would not have fallen upon him. 
 
 " Cast away from you — " 
 
 Was ever man of science so convinced before ? He ac- 
 knowledged no authority in the prophetic office ; but he recog- 
 nized the lucidity of the statement, the justice of the argu- 
 ment. " Transgressions " — why not use the word ? A very 
 good word it is. He had transgressed ; he had stepped beyond 
 his limits; he had bartered science for gold. Therefore — 
 quite naturally — he had suffered. He had returned, in spirit, 
 to the ancestors. Therefore —
 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 335 
 
 " At least," he said, " there will be no more returning to. my 
 own people. They may bo anybody's people henceforth. No 
 Biirley will I be. Calvert was I born — Calvert will I remain. 
 My house shall no longer be decorated with the twopenny 
 daubs of their portraits." He raised his knife. He cut the 
 cord by which his original ancestor was hanging to the wain- 
 scot. He took down the picture, and then — it was like an act 
 of cruel and deliberate revenge ; it was an act which made 
 every face on the wall turn pale and every lip tremble ; speech 
 they had none — he cut and hacked the canvas face out of the 
 frame, and threw frame and picture on either side. " Down 
 with you!" he cried, vindictively. " Down with you all 1 Out 
 you go !" 
 
 He was something like that hero who, in the ecstasy of his 
 rage, fell upon the cattle, thinking them to be princes. Lucian, 
 in his great wrath, destroyed the portraits, intending to con- 
 sign to oblivion the whole folk whose memory they preserved. 
 " Not one shall remain," he said. Then he carried the frames 
 and the canvases down-stairs into the back garden and piled 
 them up. But there was more that should be added to the 
 pile. He climbed up to the garret — Margaret's room — the old 
 nursery. He brought out the boxes of broken toys and trump- 
 ery ; he kicked open the door of the highwayman's room, and 
 seized his musical instruments and his easel and paints. He 
 carried all these things into the back garden with his own 
 hands. 
 
 Then he called his servants and informed them that they 
 must clear out the whole of the two garrets ; and that they 
 might have the contents of the drawers, all the dresses and 
 things left by the runaways, on condition that everything 
 should be cleared out of the house in an hour. " Sell the 
 things !" he cried. " Burn the things ! Give away the things ! 
 Let me never find any of them here after an hour. Leave 
 none of the old trumpery behind." 
 
 He was as eager to destroy everything old as if he had been a 
 bishop over a city church. 
 
 Then he made in the garden a small but complete funeral 
 pyre. The frames of the pictures formed the foundation ; 
 the wooden cradle and the toys lay on the frames ; the pict-
 
 326 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 ures themselves Avere piled on the cradle, and above all lay 
 certain bundles of papers. Among them were Mr, Calvert 
 Barley's Apology ; the letters and household books found in 
 the cupboard ; the genealogy of the House, and the drawings, 
 plans, and calculations concerning the great college of science, 
 on which he himself had worked for the last month with so 
 much zeal and patience and determination. Everything com- 
 pleted, he applied a light. After all, it was only a little bonfire; 
 but you must never measure the importance of a bonfire by 
 its dimensions. Otherwise the Fifth of November bonfire on 
 Hampstead Heath, which is a magnificent blaze, might be con- 
 sidered more important than this little bonfire behind a house 
 in Great College Street, Westminster. For Lucian's bonfire was 
 the cremation of a whole family. Nobody will ever talk about 
 them again ; nobody will ever learn their history ; the record 
 of them is lost; only the great fortune will survive, for good or 
 evil. No one will ever speak of him any more. Certainly not 
 the New -Zealander, who cannot think of the family without 
 burning blushes; certainly not the American girl, for the like 
 reason ; nor the disappointed man about town ; nor the poor 
 old pauper, because her memory now fails her and she sits si- 
 lent by the fireside ; nor Margaret, to whom they have brought 
 so much sorrow ; nor Lucian himself, who owes them nothino- 
 but this humiliation and disappointment. They will all be for- 
 gotten ; they are cremated ; they and their acts and their 
 power — if they had any. 
 
 A good deal more was burned in that bonfire. Our ancestors 
 used to make bonfires at the corners of the streets in order to 
 clear the air. This bonfire cleared the air. When Lucian fired 
 it, he thought he was only destroying, once for all, everything 
 that could in future remind him of his own people, from whom 
 his father ran away — to whom he had returned, with conse- 
 quences such as these. In that bonfire, though he knew it not, 
 were destroyed the temptations that wellnigh wrecked his life, 
 the unholy craving for the high place that seems to mean power 
 and promises authority, and pretends to command respect. And 
 in this bonfire were cremated the seven devils of the House of 
 Burley — Devil Drive All, Devil Sweat All, Devil Scrape All, 
 Devil Grasp All, Devil Hard Heart, Devil Loveless, Devil Ruth-
 
 EARTHQUAKES AND SHOWERS OF FIRE 337 
 
 less. These devils had been with the family so long that they 
 supposed they were going to stay ; they looked already upon 
 Lucian as their natural host and home. And, finding no ad- 
 mission at this supreme moment, they too fell shrieking into 
 this astonishing bonfire. 
 
 The thirsty flames ran and rushed hissing and crackling — 
 what in the world is so eager, so thirsty, as the flame ? — in and 
 out among the frames ; they caught the wooden cradle, they 
 licked up the toys in a moment; they made but one long s[)ire 
 pointing heavenward, quick to vanish, of the papers and docu- 
 ments. There was no wind in the little back garden, and the 
 flames mounted straight and steady — a pretty sight. The bon- 
 fire lasted in all no more than ten minutes or a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 It was interesting, though certainly not unexpected, to ob- 
 serve how, when the flames reached the canvases, when they 
 were at their highest and brightest, there became apparent in 
 the very heart of the fire, floating in the midst of the flames, 
 the face and head of Calvert Burley himself, founder of this 
 most distinguished House, separated from the picture, and 
 hovering like a wingless cherub. Only for a moment. The 
 eyes, which were turned upon Lucian, were full of reproach. 
 His own descendant had done this. Other descendants had ex- 
 perienced the luck of the House in one or other misfortunes; 
 none, until this man came, had visited the family disasters 
 upon his ancestors. Now — now — now — he was losing forever 
 the light of day ; now — now — now — he was sinking for- 
 ever into an eternity of oblivion. Only for a moment. The 
 face sank back into the flames ; there was a roaring and a hiss- 
 ing, and the portraits were all burned up. Farewell forever to 
 the men of sin and the women of sorrow ! 
 
 Afterwards, when Science resumed her sway, Lucian remem- 
 bered that this reproachful face — this detaching of the head 
 from the canvas — must have been a mere trick of the imagina- 
 tion. But he recognized the fact that on this eventful morning 
 his brain had not been wholly under control, and that the 
 things which he saw and remembered and did were not things 
 in any sense scientific. 
 
 The cremation of the portraits, by itself, was by no means a
 
 328 BBYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 scientific act. For how can a picture do any harm ? And how 
 can the destruction of a picture do any good ? 
 
 The flames fell lower, their fiercer thirst assuaged. Lucian 
 kicked into the embers outlying bits, and they rose again. 
 Finally they died out, and there was left of this bonfire and 
 all that it contained nothing but a heap of red ashes rapidly 
 turning gray. Lucian stood watching it. Then he stamped 
 his heel into the ashes, and sent them flying in all direc- 
 tions. 
 
 The day was over. In the twilight lay here and there about 
 the narrow garden the red embers rapidly turning black. In 
 a few moments nothing at all remained of that most lovely bon- 
 fire. Then Lucian left the garden.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 THE NOBLER WAY 
 
 " That is done with," said Lucian, looking down upon the 
 white ashes. " I have now to go back to the old life." 
 
 He returned to his study. It had grown suddenly small — 
 absurdly small. You see that when a man in imagination dis- 
 penses blessings from an inexhaustible pile, everything about him 
 swells and expands ; his house enlarges and becomes a palace. 
 You cannot become Providence in person and live in a little back 
 room of a house in Great College Street. AVhen you cease to 
 play that part, of course, your palace becomes once more a room 
 fourteen feet by twelve. 
 
 Lucian looked around and shuddered — but not with super- 
 stitious fear. His wrath was over ; the madness which ended 
 in the massacre of the forefathers had quite left him. " The 
 old life," he murmured. And that little shivering fit was caused 
 by the sudden fear that perhaps he had spoiled himself for the 
 old life by this long dream of boundless wealth. Instead of 
 standing magnificently outside the world, driving, urging, per- 
 suading, pulling, pushing, shoving mankind to that higher level 
 which mankind shows so little willingness to achieve, he was 
 going to become once more a member of that company which 
 works in the twilight, clearing away the tangled underwood and 
 jungle, and draining the pestilential marshes which surround the 
 circle of human knowledge. 
 
 He sat down in his wooden chair and took up his long-neg- 
 lected papers. There were the books for review ; there were the 
 notes he had made ; there were the pages of the unfinished pa- 
 per written to explain and popularize the latest learned German's 
 latest theory about the meaning of life. He turned over the 
 leaves. Strange to sav, he felt no disgust whatever. The old
 
 330 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAUICE 
 
 interest came back to him ; he was eager to be at work upon it 
 once more. There was a note lying unopened. It was from the 
 liospital. He opened it, expecting a renewal of the disgust which 
 had recently filled his mind concerning the daily drudgery of 
 hospital work. Quite the contrary. The note interested him 
 strangely. He must go over to the hospital as soon as pos- 
 sible. Splendid work, that of hospitals, for a physician. 
 
 He looked up from the table. Before him on the wall liung 
 his father's portrait. Every day, every time he entered the 
 study, he saw this portrait. For the first time he saw in it the 
 Burley face — the strong type which came out in every one of 
 the sons — the resolute face, the steady eyes, the firm-set lips : 
 the face of Calvert the robber, of Calvert the murderer, of Cal- 
 vert the maniac, of Calvert the miser, of Calveil the money- 
 grubber; the face of every one, but transformed. There are two 
 ways in which any one of the gifts which the gods give to man 
 may be used. These had. chosen one way — the mean, the low, 
 the sordid, the profligate, the selfish way. And it was stamped 
 upon their faces. His father, the first of the race, had chosen 
 the other — the nobler way — and it was so stamped upon liis 
 face. " Remember," that face spoke to him, " that I loved la- 
 bor and hated money getting. Remember that I worked not for 
 my own profit. Remember that I hated crooked ways. Remem- 
 ber that I warned vou four months a^o ajjainst touchitifr this 
 accursed pile." 
 
 Then this strong man — this masterful man — this obstinate 
 man — bowed liis head, and for very shame liis heart became 
 as the heart of a little child. 
 
 This shame will never leave him. For whatever a man does 
 or says or thinks in the course of his earthly pilgrimage shall 
 stick to liim whether he is alive or dead, shall never leave him 
 — never. It will be his companion forever; it will be like his 
 shadow. Heavens ! what companions do some of us hourly 
 create ! 
 
 The masterful man was ashamed. This was a sign, if you 
 think of it, that the dream of boundless wealth was gone. 
 Only the memory of it remained, and with the memory the 
 shame. 
 
 They brought him a letter. It was from Sir John Burleigh.
 
 THE NOBLER WAY 331 
 
 "My dear Cousin," he said, kindly, "we are deeply grieved 
 to bear of this discovery, and of its consequences to yourself. 
 You will, I am sure, bear it witb the fortitude that belcnors to 
 your profession. Should you think of leaving England, let ine 
 remind you that you have cousins in New Zealand, who will al- 
 ways welcome you and your wife. My daughters desire to con- 
 vey to her their truest sympathy with her, and their most sin- 
 cere thanks for all the kindness she has shown them. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that my son Herbert, of whom we hoped 
 so much, has informed us that he is to be very shortly received 
 into the Roman Catholic Church, and that he intends to with- 
 draw wholly from the world and to retire to a monastery — the 
 strictest that he can find. It is curious that the member of our 
 family whom he most resembles (his great-grandfather) was 
 also a fanatic, or even a maniac, in religion. 
 
 " Public business calls me back to New Zealand. We return 
 with an English connection and a family which, at all events, 
 has given rise to a great deal of talk. I hope that further dis- 
 cussion into our family history will never again arise. As for 
 us, we have got along, and we shall continue to get along, with- 
 out any knowledge of that family or any help from them. It is 
 agreed with my girls that we are to put the genealogy in a 
 drawer. We shall be quite content with dating our history from 
 the day when my father brought me with him to the shores of 
 New Zealand. 
 
 "Again, I hope and trust that the loss of this great estate 
 will be treated as a thing of no real importance, since the loss 
 of it ought not in any way to injure your scientific career. 
 
 " I remain, my dear cousin, 
 
 " Yours very faithfully, 
 
 " John Burleigh." 
 
 " Strange !" said Lucian ; " the man who wanted to be the 
 grandson of a criminal — and whu was, of all liis family, the 
 only one who did not know it — has fallen into religious mania, 
 like his great-grandfather. He is to be a monk of the strictest 
 rule. Heavens I what a race we are !" 
 
 WJiile he was reading this note a second time, a card was 
 brought in — "Mr. James Pinker."
 
 332 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 The visitor followed the card. " Dr. Calvert," he said, " or 
 Dr. Burley — whichever you wish to be called — " 
 
 " My name is Calvert." 
 
 " Very well. I saw the dreadful news in the evening paper. 
 It came out — perhaps you saw it — " 
 
 *' I saw it this niornino:." 
 
 " I tried to keep the paper from Clary — your cousin, Clarence 
 Burghley — but he snatched it and read it, and then — then — " 
 
 " What happened then ?" 
 
 " I've had the most awful night with him. I shall never for- 
 get it — never. ' Now,' he said, ' there's an end of everything. 
 There will be no compensation for me. And I've lost my voice 
 and my ear and my powers.' So he sat and gasped with a 
 white face. And I certainly did feel low, too — because, you see, 
 we'd been arguing it out — about the compensation ; we were 
 undecided whether to make it a million or a million and a half 
 — and to tell the truth. Dr. Calvert, neither of us liad tried to 
 do anything for the last fortnight except to pile up the case for 
 compensation." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Pinker?" 
 
 " Presently he got up, saying nothing, and went into his bed- 
 room. I waited and listened, but I heard nothing. So I got 
 frightened and went in after him. He was sitting with his col- 
 lar off and his neck unbuttoned, with a razor in his hand. I 
 made for him and got him to drop the beastly thing. ' I 
 couldn't do it. Jemmy,' he said. ' It hurts too much.' Clary 
 never did like things that hurt. ' And the horrid mess it would 
 make.' Clary can't bear messes. ' But I must kill myself,' he 
 said. ' I can't live any longer — I can't starve — I must die.' So 
 I draffofed him back and made him sit down. But he wouldn't 
 listen. I fell asleep about two in the morning, and I was 
 awakened by a noise. He had got a rope round his neck and 
 was hauling at it. Lord! what a night it was! I got him 
 down, and he owned that it hurt horribly, and I dragged him 
 into the sitting-room again, and made him drink a glass of 
 brandy. Then he began to crv." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 "He dropped off asleep in his chair at last, and slept till nine 
 o'clock this morning, and then he woke up, and then — it's the
 
 THE NOBLER WAY 333 
 
 most wonderful tiling possible — he actually got up and laughed. 
 'Jemmy,' he said, 'since there's no more chance of anything, 
 let us go back to the old work.' So he sat down to the piano 
 and rattled off one of the songs — a new song, ' Wanted, a Me- 
 thusaleh ! To tell us how they kept it up ' — with all his spirit 
 and fun come back to him. I declare 1 could have cried to see 
 Clary himself again. I believe I did cry." Certainly tears 
 stood in his honest eyes. 
 
 "He has come back to his right mind ; I am glad. So have 
 I, Mr. Pinker. We have all been off our heads over this damned 
 money." 
 
 " I came round. Dr. Calvert, just to ask if you were going to 
 set aside the will? I believe you could, if you chose. Then 
 the compensation question will begin all over again." 
 
 "Good heavens, man! Do you want to drive us all mad 
 once more ? Set the will aside ? I would not move a little fin- 
 ger to set the will aside." 
 
 " Thank goodness ! Then I can go back to Clary. I shall 
 make a song about it. You won't mind, I hope. It '11 be sung 
 in the highest circles only. It '11 be rather vulgar, because we 
 move in nothing outside the very smartest circles — that is, 
 Clary does. My sphere is down below, in the grill-room." 
 
 So Jemmy Pinker went away. 
 
 Lucian set himself again to his work. But now his thoughts 
 turned to ^largaret, and he lay back in his chair thinking what 
 he should do, and whether he should go to her, or first write to 
 her, or wait for her. But another visitor came to him — this 
 time Ella, who had spoken her mind with so much freedom; 
 Ella, who had rebuked his counsels and derided his schemes 
 and exposed his selfishness. Now she came laughing and run- 
 nina: and holdinc: out both her hands. 
 
 " Cousin Lucian," she cried, " I congratulate you ! Let me 
 look at you. Oh, what a change !" She became suddenly se- 
 rious. "You have lost the gloom of your selfish dream — the 
 gloom that you thought was firmness, and was only horrible 
 persistence in evil-doing; it has gone. Tell me, Lucian — 
 tell mc that you are not regretting the loss of the dreadful 
 thing." 
 
 "Just at the present moment I do uot. But, Ella, I can't an-
 
 384 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 
 
 swer for what I shall think about it to-morrow. Just go on say- 
 ing that it is a dreadful thing." 
 
 "Horrible, hateful, shameful, sinful, polluted — " 
 
 " Thank you, Ella. Adjectives, hke alcohol, sometimes 
 strengthen a patient." 
 
 " Isn't it romantic ? Tliere you were, only yesterday, on the 
 top of a great — great — gallows — yes, gallows — and you thought 
 it was a pinnacle — all of gold, with the sun shining on your 
 face and making it as yellow as the gold, and your chin stuck 
 out — so — and the devil beside you, and the people down below 
 crying out, like boys, to begin the scramble. And now here 
 you are, just on a level with the rest of us, and the gallows is 
 surmounted by the crown of Great Isritain and Ireland !" 
 
 " It's highly romantic," said the hero of this romance with 
 a little grimace. " Please put in that all the world is laughing 
 at me." 
 
 " No — they don't laugh ; they only wonder how you feel." 
 
 *' 1 have been in the clouds, Ella, and it is rather difficult, you 
 see, to begin the simple life again." 
 
 " The simple life, he calls it." No one could be more con- 
 temptuous than this young person, so straight and direct of 
 speech. "The simple life ! What is the man talking about? 
 Why, the simjile life is the life with no work to do — simple and 
 contemptible. That is what you were desiring — you — you — you 
 miserable sinner ! It is the complex life that you have returned 
 to, filled with every good thing that can keep your brain at work. 
 Simple life, he calls it ! This it is to have been rich — only for a 
 week or two." 
 
 " Yes," Lucian replied, meekly. " I shall get right again, pres- 
 ently, perhaps." 
 
 " Of course," Ella continued, critically. " I am different from 
 the rest of the world. I've been through it all myself. We un- 
 derstand each other, don't we ? First of all " — she took Lucian's 
 seat and leaned back with her elbows on the arms, speaking as 
 a professor — " first of all was the dream of unbounded posses- 
 sions. It seemed splendid — it was like standing on a great plain 
 — say in the midst of the prairie — and thinking that in whatever 
 direction you walked all the land was your own. Next, that it 
 would be so grand — so grand to turn the broad plain into a fair
 
 THE NOBLER WAY 335 
 
 garden filled with happy people. You had that dream, didn't 
 you ?" 
 
 " Something like it." 
 
 " Of course you did. So did I. You were going to bave a 
 grand college. So was I — Oh ! Ave've been through exactly 
 the same experience. Then — oh ! first of all it was to be every- 
 thing for the world and nothing for ourselves — pure altruism — 
 wasn't it ? Then — by degrees — one began to feel — eh ? I am 
 sure you felt it, Lucian, because I saw it in your eyes. It seemed 
 as if parting with everything would deprive one of power — one 
 wanted to keep the power, all the power — so we began to think 
 we would part with no more than the income and keep the prin- 
 cipal. Did you feel like that, Lucian ?" 
 
 " Child, you shall be taken away and burned for a witch. 
 You are just too late," ho said, glancing out of the window, " un- 
 fortunately, a quarter of an hour too late for my bonfire. Oth- 
 erwise, you could have sat in the cradle." 
 
 " And then — then — oh, Lucian, let us lay our heads together 
 and blush for shame — you began — I began — to think how the 
 power would be increased tenfold if the money was increased 
 tenfold. And you made calculations — I have seen you — show- 
 ing how the millions could be doubled and quadrupled long 
 before you would be an old man. And so there was creeping 
 over you, faster and faster, the very spirit of your grandfather 
 the money-lender, and that of his father the miser. Lucian, 
 is this true ?" 
 
 " It is true, Ella." 
 
 " Nobody knows except me, and I only know because I have 
 gone through it my«elf. Lucian ! What I am going to say is 
 not the language you talk — but — you understand it — I said 
 the Lord would break you up. Well, the Lord has broken 
 you up. Your madness is driven out of you. You ought — 
 but you won't — to go down on your knees and thank the 
 Lord." 
 
 " Ella," he laughed, " I have taken a very serious step. I 
 have burned the portraits, frames and all." 
 
 " Burned the portraits ? Why ?" 
 
 " I want every record, everything connected with the family 
 history, to be destroyed. I have burned all the papers that were
 
 336 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAKICE 
 
 in my hands. Who knows now, besides ourselves, the history 
 of tliese people ?" 
 
 Ella shivered. " Oh ! You have really burned the history — 
 my history ? And no one else will ever know." 
 
 " I have done more. I went up-stairs and brought down all 
 the toys and dolls and children's thinc^s that haunted Margaret. 
 They are burned too. I would have l)urned the clothes in the 
 bedrooms, but there wasn't time. So I gave everything to the 
 servants on condition of the things leaving the house within an 
 hour. I don't believe there is a scrap of anything except some 
 of the furniture that can remind us of the people called Burley 
 who once lived in this house. I believe their name was Burlev. 
 Some one told me so. There was some talk about money. 
 My own name, you know, is Calvert." 
 
 "My name is Burley," said Ella, thoughtful!}', " and I rather 
 think that I am in some distant way connected with a family 
 which once lived in this house. But I don't want to hear any- 
 thing more about them. I have understood that they were a dis- 
 reputable set. One of them actually ran away with his master's 
 young wife ! Oh! a dreadful family. But high-spirited, that poor 
 old pauper said. Well, Lucian, I am glad that all the things 
 are burned ; and now, I hope, everything is to go on as usual." 
 
 " ^m-ything?" 
 
 "Everything. Without explanations, because we all under- 
 stand each other. Margaret will have no more visions of 
 mournful mothers and weeping wives and doleful daughters, 
 and you will have no more dead ancestors calling and tempting 
 and suggesting. Oh ! it is so ridiculous that dead people 
 should be allowed to go on as they have been going on in this 
 house. Such things haven't happened with our people since 
 they burned the witches." 
 
 " Everything as it was ? Everything, Ella ? You are charged 
 to tell me that ?" 
 
 " Everything. Aunt Lucinda and I are coming back to stay 
 with you for a bit, if you will have us. I've found work. I'm 
 going to lecture in a ladies' college on English and American 
 literature, and afterwards in halls and places on American in- 
 stitutions. I believe that I am going to found another great 
 Burley fortune, in which case — "
 
 THE NOBLER WAY 337 
 
 " Well, my cousin ?" 
 
 " You will join the great fortune that you will have made 
 with mine ; and then — then — we will — what shall we do ? For 
 yours will be new stores of science ; and mine — what will be 
 mine ? I know not ; but this I know, that a true woman must 
 needs become a rich woman, and the truer a woman is to her- 
 self and her womanhood the richer she becomes." 
 
 "Yes, Ella," he said, with meekness. 
 
 "Oh!" — she gave him her hand — "Brother Commander-in- 
 Chief ! The Only Substitute for Providence ! Brother Dreamer ! 
 Brother Archangel ! Brother Miser ! we have sinned and suf- 
 fered. Now you shall go to work again with a new heart." 
 
 She looked at the clock on the mantel-shelf. " Margaret," 
 she said, changing her voice and dropping into actualities, 
 " told me she would have tea ready by half-past five, and that 
 she would ring the bell when it was ready. There is the bell. 
 Let us go up-stairs, Lucian." 
 
 THK END
 
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