Part 3

There is an old church, rebuilt since English Edward destroyed it, a noble specimen of Norman architecture, and there they keep recorded on marble the names of the knights who sailed on that famous expedition from the port hard by. The church has its legend, too, of a wondrous effigy of our Lord found by the fishermen who launched their nets in these waters. It bore the print of nails in the hands and feet; but the cross to which it had been fastened was awanting. The village folks gave it reverent sanctuary, and devout hands busied themselves in fashioning a crucifix; but no crucifix—let the workman be ever so skilful—could be made to fit the carven Christ. This one was too short, that too long. Clearly the miracle had been but half wrought; the cross must be sought where the image had already been found. In faith, the fishermen cast their nets again and again into the deep. At last, after long patience on their part, the sea gave up what it had previously denied. The long-lost cross was found; and with the figure nailed to it once more, the sacred symbol was borne to its resting-place. A great feast-day that, for Dives; but only the memory of it lingers. The treasure has vanished, and nothing save a curious picture representing the miracle remains to witness to the event. It hangs in the transept, and there are many who linger to look at it. The outside of this grand building pleased us well; it stands secure and free, with open spaces about it, green woods behind, and the blue sky of France above. A stone’s-throw off there is the market, which is nothing but a wide and deep overhanging roof, supported on pillars of carved wood. Here the sturdy peasants of this white-cotton-night-cap country sell the cheeses that smell so evilly and taste so well.

But the chief interest of Dives centres itself in the Hôtellerie de Guillaume le Conquérant. Heart could not desire a quainter, more out-of-the-world spot in which to pass a summer day. One may take a hundred or two of years from the reputed date—they boast that Duke William was housed here, and they show you the chain by which the _Mora_ was fastened to the shore!—and yet leave the place ancient enough. The famous reception-rooms may have been, and have been, redecorated and renewed after an old pattern; but they contain treasures that can boast a very respectable past. Such black carved oak is seldom to be seen; and there are tattered hangings, brasses, bits of china enough to fill a virtuoso’s heart with envy; a wonderful medley of all tastes and periods.

Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis XIV. chair with gilded arms and seat of faded, silken brocade, from which the most brilliant correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters that are models yet of what letters ought to be. Madame de Sévigné came here once and again on her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she came with ‘an immense retinue,’ that must have taxed the resources of the modest inn, smaller then than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de Chaulnes is of the company. Madame de Carmen makes the third in the trio. The ladies travel ‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and that large following behind them. Madame de Chaulnes, who is all activity, is up with the dawn. ‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I found it easier to accommodate myself to her ways than to try and mend them.’ They make quite a royal progress, halting here and there. At Chaulnes the good duchess is taken ill, seized with sore throat. The kindest lady in the world nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At Paris she would have been bled; but here she was only rubbed for some time with our famous balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will you believe, my dearest, that in one night this precious balsam completely cured her?’ While the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in the noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I call this rehearsing for Les Rochers,’ she writes gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one nightingale to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’

Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the land, and they set off, a gay trio, and one of them at least with eyes for every quick-passing beauty as they drive through green Normandy. From Caen she writes: ‘We were three days upon the road from Rouen to this place. We met with no adventures; but fine weather and spring in all its charm accompanied us. We ate the best things in the world, went to bed early, and did not suffer any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at Dives, where we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and elsewhere tells how she sat at her chamber window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is beautiful.’ Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the most beautiful country in the world. I did not know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too young. Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw here before is left alive—that is sad!’ This is the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is growing old, and her spring will not return. It is the last journey she is making to the well-loved country home.

Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint hostelry, it is this gracious and beautiful lady who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. At Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already dipping towards the sea, and all the bathers—a fantastic crowd set against the red light—are hurrying homewards across the sands.

ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?

After the recent speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in which he showed that our gold coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we shall have to answer the above question in the affirmative. Our coins _are_ wearing away, and although not at any very alarming rate, yet at a perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, half-crown, florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which has been out of the Mint any length of time, weighs less now than it did when brand new. Indeed, in some old coins this is quite evident upon a casual inspection, for the image may be worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription may be illegible. Now, the difference in value between this old coin and the same coin when turned out new may be very trifling; but when we consider that there are probably millions in circulation which have similarly suffered depreciation to a greater or less extent, and that this loss will at some time or other have to be made good, this question of the wear of our coins becomes of sufficient importance for a Chancellor of the Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here only offer a few observations on the mechanical aspects of the subject.

The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the bank to pay wages with—the workman putting his small share into his pocket after the lot has been shot on to a desk and his money has been duly apportioned to him—the shopman banging it on his counter to see whether it is sound when it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all participators in a gigantic system of unintentional ‘sweating.’ Under this usage—quite inseparable, by the way, from the functions the coinage has to subserve—it would appear that in the United Kingdom alone there is something like seven hundred and ten thousand pounds-worth of gold-dust floating about, widely distributed, and in microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust which has been abraded from the gold coins now in circulation. There are similarly thousands of pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver coinage worn off in the same way.

It has been estimated from exact data that a hundred-year-old sovereign has lost weight equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in other words, that such a sovereign is only of the intrinsic value of nineteen shillings and fourpence. There has been a hundred years of wear for eightpence—as cheap, one would think, as one could possibly get so much use out of a coin for; but as we shall now see, we have, comparatively speaking, to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for a hundred years of use of a half-sovereign we pay a small fraction under eightpence; in other words, the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much weight as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has therefore cost the nation nearly twice as much for its use, two half-sovereigns costing us nearly one shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr Childers’s statement that at the present time, taking old and new coins, there are in the United Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in circulation; and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. Of the forty million half-sovereigns in circulation, some twenty-two millions are of the intrinsic value of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings each. Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to issue, instead of half-sovereigns, ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only nine shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making up for the loss by waste of the gold coins now in circulation.

Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign wastes so much faster than the sovereign, we can only come to the conclusion that, being of half the value, it is a more convenient coin than the sovereign, and consequently has a much busier life. This applies with greater force still to coins like the half-crown, shilling, and sixpence, which are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we find upon examination, what one would naturally expect, that the silver coinage is even more costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation of the half-crown, reckoned in terms of itself, is more than double that of the half-sovereign; that is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of a century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, the half-crown will waste more than two-fifteenths of its value. The depreciation of shilling-pieces is not far off three times as much as that of half-crowns; and sixpences waste faster than shillings, though by no means twice so fast. There is thus an immense waste of our silver coinage taking place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case of sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a hundred years old would be only threepence, a century of use having worn away half the silver.

It is evident from these facts that the relative amounts of wear of coins are _not_ so much owing to the nature of the metal they are made of as to the activity of the life they have to lead. The less the value of the coin, the greater is the use to which it is put; and consequently, the greater is the depreciation in its value from wear in a given time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is used least, and depreciates the least—a circumstance quite in accordance with the fitness of things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international coin, largely used in exchange operations, known to the whole commercial world,’ and that any heavy depreciation of it would lead to much embarrassment.

SILAS MONK.

A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.

Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore, her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover.

The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’

‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’

‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’

The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I tell you I saw at the office last night?’

‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’

The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do, if he is lost?’

Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see through a stone wall.’

‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’

The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best; and then hurried away with all possible despatch.

The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers, who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd. Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’ some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark.

Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior partner. Here he left him.

Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner, was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want me, Mr Armytage?’

The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I want you.’

Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table, and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.

Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas been there?’

‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’

‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’

When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last, sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.

The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.

‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving Silas, go straight home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’

‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the staircase.’

Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.

‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise.

‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did, because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’

‘Well?’

‘I found out what kept him at the office.’

The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us all about it.’

Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts; then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage, is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold. I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the man out, and then returned to my place.’

The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held up the pen to enforce silence.

‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us, from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’

The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.

‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’ While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice exclaimed: ‘Go on!’

Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.

As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his hat and stick, went out.

When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug, turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’

All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands, followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never been born.

* * * * *

While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:

‘_Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station._’

Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’

The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an active and important part in the search for Silas Monk!

The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard, at the open doorway.

‘What name?’

‘Tiltcroft.’

The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room.

‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’

Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick. ‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’ He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes, until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle. This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet, revealing steep wooden steps.

‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.

As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars.

Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’ said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick. ‘Keep close.’

This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they reached the deck, the rays again vanished.

‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective.

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’

‘Then lead the way.’

Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship.

‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.

‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’

‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’

The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be encountered upon a long voyage.

‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective.

‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.