Part 2

‘I thought it better that the man himself should do that.... But you had something to say about yourself.’

‘It concerns you more than me,’ said Mr Hadleigh, resuming his low meditative tone. ‘I have been altering my will.’

There are few generous-minded men who like to hear anything about even a friend’s will, and much less about that of a parent who in all probability has a good many years still to live. Philip was extremely sensitive on the subject, and therefore found it difficult to say anything at all when his father paused.

‘I would rather you did not speak about it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘There is and there can be no necessity to do so. You have many years before you yet, and in any case I shall be content with whatever arrangement you make.’

‘Many years before me still,’ continued Mr Hadleigh musingly, repeating his son’s words. ‘True; I believe I have; it is possible even that I might marry again, and begin a new life altogether with prospects of happiness, since it would be guided by the experience of the past. Most people have a longing at some time or other that they might begin all over again; and why should not a man of, say middle age, take a fresh start, and realise in the new life the happiness he has missed—by his own folly or that of others—in the old one?’

Philip did not understand, and so remained silent.

Was there ever a grown-up son or daughter who felt quite pleased with the idea of a parent’s second marriage? When the marriage cannot be prevented, the sensible ones assume a graciousness, if they do not feel it, and go on their way with varying degrees of comfort in being on friendly terms with their parent; the foolish ones sulk, suffer, cause annoyance, and derive no benefit from their ill-humour. Philip was surprised and a little amused at the suggestion of his father marrying again. The idea had never occurred to him before; and now, when it was presented, the memory of his mother stirred in him what he owned at once was an unreasonable feeling of disapproval. To his youthful mind, a man nearly fifty was old; he had not yet reached the period at which the number of years required to make a man old begins to extend up to, and even beyond the threescore and ten. When he came to think of it, however, he could recollect numerous instances of men much older than his father marrying for the second, third, or fourth time.

‘Yes, it is possible to make a fresh start,’ Mr Hadleigh went on, still musing; ‘and one may learn to forget the past. Did you ever consider, Philip, what a tyrant memory is?’

‘I cannot say that I have, sir.’

‘No; you are too young—by-and-by you will understand.... But this is not what I wanted to speak about.’

He rested a little more on his son’s arm, as if he were in that way desirous of giving him a kindly pressure, whilst he recalled his thoughts to the immediate subject he wished to explain.

‘It is about the will. I have made a new one. I suppose you are aware that although my fortune is considerable whilst it remains in the hands of one person, it dwindles down to a moderate portion when divided amongst four or five?’

‘Clearly.’

‘Then suppose you and I reverse our positions for a time. You have five children, three of them being girls. You wish to leave each of them as well provided for as possible. One of the sons becomes by peculiar circumstances the possessor of a fortune almost equal to your own. Tell me how you would divide your property?’

Philip reflected for a few moments, and then with a bright look, which showed that he had taken in the whole problem, replied:

‘The thing is quite simple. I should leave the son who had been so lucky only a trifle of some sort, in token of good-will; and I should divide the whole of the property amongst the other four. That would be the right thing to do; would it not?’

The father halted, grasped his hand, and looked at him with a smile. This was such an unusual sign of emotion, that Philip was for an instant taken aback.

‘That is almost precisely what I have done,’ said Mr Hadleigh calmly; ‘and your answer is what I expected. Still, it pleases me to learn from your own lips that you are satisfied.’

‘Not only satisfied, but delighted that you should have had so much confidence in me as to know I should be.’

‘A few words more and I shall release you.—Oh, I know that you are eager to be off, and where you wish to be off to. Right, right—seek the sweets of life, the bitters come.... You are separating yourself from me. That is natural, and follows as a matter of course. I would have liked it better if the circumstances had been different. Enough of that. Your rooms at the house will be always ready for you, and come when you may, you will be welcome to me. Now, go: be happy.’

He pointed towards the Forest in the direction of Willowmere. He looked older than usual: in his movement and attitude there was an unconscious solemnity, as if he were giving his favourite son a blessing while sending him forth into the world.

Philip bowed. He saw that his father was strangely agitated, and so turned away without speaking.

What was in the man’s mind, as he watched the stalwart figure rapidly disappear into the shadows of the Forest? Hitherto, he had been walking and standing erect, although his head was bent a little, as usual. Now his whole form appeared to collapse, as if its strength had been suddenly withdrawn, and he dwindled, as it were, in height and breadth.

The shadows deepened upon him as he stood there; stars began to appear; a branch of an elm-tree close by began to creak monotonously—betokening the gathering strength of the wind, although at present it seemed light; and still he remained in that dejected attitude, gazing vacantly in the direction taken by Philip, long after Philip had disappeared.

He roused from his trance, looked round him, then clasping hands at his back, walked dreamily after his son.

QUEER LODGERS.

Scientific research, especially when directed to the more obscure and remote conditions of animal life, has often a twofold interest. In itself, and in the marvellous structural adaptations revealed by the microscope, the pursuit has its own special attraction; while, in addition, the information thus obtained may be so practically utilised as to minister to the preservation of health, and to the improved rearing and cultivation of animals and plants. An inquiry, conducted three years ago, by Professor A. P. Thomas, at the instance of the Royal Agricultural Society of England, is noticeable in both these respects. The inquiry extended over a period of more than two years, and the object in view throughout was the discovery of the origin and possible prevention of a well-known and destructive disease affecting sheep and other grazing animals, both in this country and abroad; and during the course of the inquiry, which was a painstaking and exhaustive one, facts of no small interest, from the view-point of natural history alone, have been elicited.

By this disease—Liver-fluke, Fluke Disease, Liver-rot, as it is variously termed—it has been estimated that as many as one million sheep perished annually, in this country alone, from the effects of the malady—a loss which was doubled, if not sometimes trebled, by the advent of a wet season such as 1879, and which does not include the large percentage of animals annually dying in America, Australia, and elsewhere from the same cause. It was known that the disease was due to the presence of a parasitic flat worm in greater or lesser numbers, together with its eggs, in the entrails of infected sheep, and also that flocks grazing habitually in low and marshy pasture-grounds were generally more liable than others to be attacked; but it was not known precisely in what manner the disease was incurred.

It was not until 1882 that careful experiment finally succeeded in tracing throughout the wonderful life-career of the liver-fluke, and shedding light upon the possibility of the prevention of the scourge. Into this latter question of prevention, we do not enter at present. Those who are interested, practically or otherwise, in this branch of the subject may consult for full particulars the scientific journals in which the results of this inquiry first appeared. (See _Journal of Royal Agricultural Society_, No. 28; also _Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science_ for January 1883. For the history of the disease, see _The Rot in Sheep_, by Professor Simonds; London: John Murray, 1880.) Even from a dietetic point of view, it is for the public good that the disease should be extirpated, as it is well known that unwholesome dropsical meat, from the bodies of fluke-infested sheep, is frequently pushed on the market. Nor is this parasite exclusively confined to the lower animals. It has been communicated to human beings, doubtless from the consumption of infected meat producing cysts in the liver, &c.

But it is the initial results of Professor Thomas’s experiments, those which trace the progress of the fluke from the embryo to the adult stage, with which we have to do at present.

Starting from the previously observed but obscure relationship said to exist between the larval forms of certain snails or slugs and the liver-fluke, as found in the carcases of sheep and other infected back-boned animals, it was discovered, after much careful examination, that a certain connection _did_ exist between them, with this remarkable circumstance in addition—that the minute cysts, or bags, which contain the embryo fluke, and which are to be found adhering to grass stalks in some sheep-pastures, emanated, indeed, from the body of one particular description of snail, but that this embryo parasite was undoubtedly derived—several generations previously, and in quite another form—from the sheep itself!

The _original_ embryo—not that which clings to grass stalks, but the embryo three or four generations before, born of the adult fluke’s egg—is hatched after the egg drops from the sheep’s body, in marshy ground, ditches, or ponds. It then attaches itself to the snail, produces in the snail’s body two, and sometimes three generations of successors, all totally dissimilar from the original fluke. The last generation alone quits the snail, and, assuming the ‘cyst’ form, waits to be swallowed by the grazing animal, in order to become a full-grown fluke. The fluke’s progeny again go through the transformation changes of their predecessors.

Once more, in order to render the process clear. Taking the adult fluke—laying its eggs principally in the bile-ducts of the sheep, which it never leaves—as the original parent, its children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, inhabiting the snail, are all totally different in appearance from their original progenitor—most of the generations differing also from each other. It is only the fourth, though sometimes the third generation, which, changing its form to a migratory one, is enabled thereby to leave the snail, and ultimately to assume the cyst form, adapted to produce in time the veritable fluke once more. Naturalists term this process, one not unknown in other forms of life, ‘alternation of generation,’ or metagenesis.

The appearance of the full-grown fluke (_Fasciola hepatica_) is well known to sheep-farmers and others. It is of an oval or leaf-like shape, not unlike a small flounder or fluke (hence the name of the worm), pale brown in colour, and ranging in size from an inch to an inch and a third in length—though occasionally much smaller, even the twenty-fourth of an inch—and in breadth about half its own length. A projecting portion is seen at the head, with a mouth placed in the centre of a small sucker at the tip, by which the fluke attaches itself. Over two hundred flukes have been found in the liver of a single sheep. Each one is estimated to produce some hundreds of thousands of eggs. Each of the eggs contains one embryo, which when full grown is nearly the length of the egg—the spare egg-space up to that time being filled with the food-stuff to support it till hatched. As long as the egg continues in the body of the sheep, it remains inert. It is only when dropped—as they are from time to time in great numbers by the animal—and alighting upon wet ground, or on water in ditches or drains, that, under favourable conditions of heat, &c., the embryo at length comes forth. The time which elapses before the egg is hatched is extremely variable.

Viewed through a microscope, the egg, which is only the two-hundredth of an inch in diameter, may be seen to contain the embryo, which is unlike its parent in every way, and will never show any trace of family likeness to it. It is in the shape of a sugar-loaf, with a slight projecting point at the broader end, and two rudimentary eyes near the same. When hatched on damp ground or in water, it swims freely about with the broader end forward, like a boat propelled stern foremost. The whole of its body, except the projecting horn, which is drawn in when swimming, is covered with long waving hairs, or _cilia_, which, being moved backwards and forwards, serve as oars, or paddles, to propel it through the water.

Swimming with a restless revolving motion through the water, the embryo begins to search for suitable quarters—in other words, to find a snail wherein to quarter itself. It is not easily satisfied, although snails, generally speaking, are plentiful enough. Indeed, it has been definitely ascertained that of all the known descriptions of snails there are only _two_ which the embryo ever attacks. Of these two species, only one is apparently suitable as a dwelling, those who enter the other perishing shortly after admittance. The only suitable snail is a very insignificant fresh-water one, _Limnæus truncatulus_, with a brown spiral shell. It is only from a quarter to a half inch in size, and seems to have no popular name. It is to be found very widely distributed through the world. Said to breed in mud of ditches and drains, it is so far amphibious as to wander far from water. It can also remain dry for a lengthened period; and even when apparently quite shrivelled up for lack of moisture, revives with a shower of rain.

The embryo knows this snail from all others; placed in a basin of water, with many other species of snails, it at once singles this one out, to serve as an intermediate host. Into the soft portion of the snail’s body, the embryo accordingly begins to make its way. Pressing the boring horn or tool of its head against the yielding flesh of the snail, the embryo advances with a rotary motion like a screw-driver, aided by the constant movement of the _cilia_. The borer, as it pierces the snail, grows longer and longer, and finally operating as a wedge, a rent is eventually made sufficiently large to admit the unbidden guest bodily to the lodgings it will never quit. It settles at once in or near the lung of the snail, there to feed on the juices of the animal. The paddle-like cilia, now useless, are thrown off; the eyes become indistinct; it subsides into a mere bag of germs, as it changes to a rounder form, and becomes in other words a _sporocyst_, or bladder of germs—for this animal, unlike its egg-laying parent, produces its young alive within itself.

This, then, is the first stage—the embryo, from the fluke’s egg, migrates to, and becomes a sporocyst in the snail’s body.

The germs inside the sporocyst in time come to maturity, commencing the existence of the _second_ generation, which are called _rediæ_. These germs number from six to ten in each sporocyst; they grow daily more elongated in form, and one by one, leave the parent by breaking through the body-walls, the rent which is thus made closing up behind them. These _rediæ_ thus born, never leave the snail. They are, however, different from the sporocyst, being about the twentieth of an inch, in adult size, sack-like in shape, furnished with a mouth, and also with an intestine. Two protuberances behind serve the animal for legs; for, unlike the sporocyst, the _redia_ does not remain in one part of its house, but travels backwards and forwards, preying chiefly on the liver of the snail, and generally doing a great deal of damage. Finally, indeed, these parasites destroy their host altogether.

In the bodies of the _rediæ_—so called after Redi, the anatomist—the third generation again is formed in germ fashion. The nature of this third generation varies. _Rediæ_ may in turn produce _rediæ_ like themselves, tenants of the snail for life; or they may produce another form, totally dissimilar, one which is fitted for quitting the snail and entering on another mode of existence. This change, however, takes place either in the first generation produced by the _rediæ_, or, at latest, in the second, more frequently in the latter. At first, this new form appears like the young of the sporocyst. But when either in the children or the grandchildren of the first _rediæ_, this stage is reached, the animal undergoes a remarkable change, to fit it for new surroundings. It is to be an emigrant, and dons for that purpose a tail twice as long as itself. It is then termed a _cercaria_, and is shaped like a tadpole.

To recapitulate, then. A _cercaria_ may thus be the young of the _rediæ_, either of the first or second generation; and the _rediæ_ again sprang from the sporocyst, which is the after-formation of the fluke’s embryo. These _cercariæ_ or tadpole-shaped animals are flat and oval in the body, about the ninetieth of an inch in length, and tail more than twice as long. They escape from the parent _rediæ_ by a natural orifice, crawl out of the snail, and enter on a new life. Its existence as a _cercaria_ in this style will much depend on the locality of the snail for the time being. If it should find itself in water when quitting the snail, the _cercaria_ attaches itself when swimming to the stalks of aquatic plants; or if in confinement, to the walls of the aquarium. If the snail is in a field or on the edge of a ditch or pool, the _cercaria_ on leaving proceeds to fix itself to the stalks or lower leaves of grass near the roots. In every case the result is the same. Gathering itself up into a round ball on coming to rest, a gummy substance exudes from the body, forming a round white envelope; the tail, being violently agitated, falls off, and the round body left, hardening externally with exposure, the cyst or bladder—measuring about the hundredth of an inch across—is complete. Every cyst contains a young fluke, ready to be matured _only when swallowed by some grazing animal, such as a sheep_. Till that happens, the fluke within remains inert; and if not swallowed thus within a few weeks, the inmate of the cyst finally perishes. Of this remarkable family, however, a sufficient number outlive the changes and risks of their life-history to render the disease caused by the survivors a serious scourge.

It is to be hoped that the further results of careful inquiry into the habits of these parasites will have the effect of reducing the evil to a minimum.

CHEWTON-ABBOT.

BY HUGH CONWAY.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

The Abbots of Chewton-Abbot, Gloucestershire, were county people, and, moreover, had always occupied that coveted position. They dreaded not the researches of the officious antiquary who pokes about in pedigrees, and finds that, three or four generations ago, the founders of certain families acquired their wealth by trade. They at least were independent of money-earning. The fact that Chewton began to be known as Chewton-Abbot so far back as the fifteenth century, showed they were no upstarts. Indeed, if not of the very first rank—that rank from which knights of the shire are chosen—the Abbots, from the antiquity of their family, and from the centuries that family had owned the same estates, were entitled to dispute the question of precedence with all save a few very great magnates. They were undoubtedly people of importance. The reigning Abbot, it need scarcely be said, was always a county magistrate, and at some period of his life certain to serve as sheriff. But for generations the family had occupied exactly the same position, and exercised exactly the same amount of influence in the land. The Abbots seemed neither to rise nor fall. If they added nothing to their estates, they alienated nothing. If they gave no great statesmen, warriors, or geniuses to the world, they produced, sparingly, highly respectable members of society, who lived upon the family acres and spent their revenues in a becoming manner.

The estates were unentailed; but as, so far, no Abbot had incurred his father’s displeasure, the line of descent from father to eldest son had been unbroken, and appeared likely to continue so. True, it was whispered, years ago, that the custom was nearly changed, when Mr William Abbot, the present owner of the estate, was leading a life in London very different from the respectable traditions of the family. But the reports were not authenticated; and as, soon after his father’s death, he married a member of an equally old, equally respectable, and equally proud family, all such ill-natured gossip died a natural death; and at the time this tale opens, William Abbot was leading the same quiet life his ancestors had led before him.

It was one of the cherished Abbot traditions that the family was not prolific. So long as the race was kept from disappearing, they were contented. In this respect the present head of the family showed himself a true Abbot. He had but one son, a young man who had just taken a fair degree at Oxford, and who was now staying at Chewton Hall, before departing on a round of polite travel, which, according to old-world precedent, his parents considered necessary to crown the educational edifice.

Mr and Mrs Abbot were in the breakfast-room at Chewton Hall. Mr Abbot was alone at the table, lazily discussing his breakfast. His wife and son, who were early risers, had taken that meal nearly an hour before. The young man being away on some outdoor pursuit, the husband and wife had the room to themselves. Mr Abbot had just poured out his second cup of tea, and, according to his usual custom, commenced breaking the seals of the letters which lay beside his plate. His wife drew near to him.

‘I am afraid that infatuated boy has in some way entangled himself with the young woman I told you of,’ she said.

‘What young woman?’ asked Mr Abbot, laying down his letters.

‘I told you last week he was always riding into Bristol—so often, that I felt sure there was some attraction there.’

‘You did, I remember. But I took little notice of it. Boys will be boys, you know.’

‘Yes; but it is time we interfered. I found him this morning kissing a photograph and holding a lock of hair in his hand. I taxed him with his folly.’

‘My dear Helena,’ said Mr Abbot, with a shade of contempt in his voice, ‘will you forgive my saying, that in matters of this kind it is best to leave young men alone, and not to see more than can be helped. Leave the boy alone—that is my advice.’

‘You don’t quite understand me,’ replied Mrs Abbot. ‘He wants to marry her.’

‘Wants to do what!’ cried her husband, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation.

‘He told me this morning he had asked her to be his wife. She would, he knew, consent, if we would welcome her as a daughter.’

‘How kind! How considerate!’ said Mr Abbot scornfully. ‘Who may she be, and where did Frank meet her?’

‘He saved her from some incivility at the railway station, and so made her acquaintance. Who she is, he scarcely seems to know, except that her name is Millicent Keene, and that she lives with an aunt somewhere in Clifton. Frank gave me the address, and begged me to call—assuring me that I should take her to my heart the moment I saw her.’