The Lost Heir

"But you cannot help accepting it, dear Miss Purcell; here are the deeds in your name. The house will be rather large for you at present, but in a few years, indeed in two or three years, Netta could begin to take a few pupils. As soon as she is ready to do so I shall, of course, mention it among my friends, and be able to send a few children, whose parents would be ready to pay well to have them taught this wonderful method of brightening their lives, which is at present quite unknown in England."

So it was arranged; but a few months after her return to England Mrs. Covington, who had never altogether recovered from the shock of her husband's death, died after a short illness, and Hilda became an inmate of her uncle's house. Since that time three years had elapsed, and Hilda was now eighteen, and Netta was over for a two months' visit.

The scene in the grounds of Lady Moulton's charming villa at Richmond, a fortnight after the conversation between that lady and Hilda, was a gay one. Everyone in society had been invited and there were but few refusals; the weather was lovely, and all agreed that even at Ascot the costumes were not brighter or more varied.

Although the fête was especially on behalf of a charity, no admission fees were charged to guests, but everyone understood that it would be his duty to lay out money at the various picturesque tents scattered about under the trees. In these were all the most popular entertainers of the day. In one pavilion John Parry gave a short entertainment every half-hour. In a larger one Mario, Grisi, Jenny Lind, and Alboni gave short concerts, and high as were the prices of admission, there was never a seat vacant. Conjurers had a tent, electro-biologists – then the latest rage from the United States – held their séances, and at some distance from the others Richardson's booth was in full swing. The Grenadiers' band and a string band played alternately.

Not the least attraction to many was the gypsy tent erected at the edge of a thick shrubbery, for it soon became rumored that the old gypsy woman there was no ordinary impostor, but really possessed of extraordinary powers of palmistry. Everything had been done to add to the air of mystery pervading the place. Externally it was but a long, narrow marquee. On entering, the inquirer was shown by an attendant to a seat in an apartment carpeted in red, with black hangings and black cloth lining the roof. From this hung a lamp, all other light being excluded. As each visitor came out from the inner apartment the next in order was shown in, and the heavy curtains shut off all sound of what was passing. Here sat an apparently aged gypsy on an old stump of a tree. A fire burned on the ground and a pot was suspended by a tripod over it; a hood above this carried the smoke out of the tent. The curtains here were red; the roof, as in the other compartment, black, but sprinkled with gold and silver stars. A stool was placed for the visitor close enough to the gypsy for the latter to examine her hand by the light of two torches, which were fastened to a rough sapling stuck in the ground.

Hilda possessed every advantage for making the most of the situation. Owing to her intimacy with Lady Moulton, and her experience for a year in the best London society, she knew all its gossip, while she had gathered much more than others knew from the conversations both of the dancers and the lookers-on.

The first to enter was a young man who had been laughingly challenged by the lady he was walking with to go in and have his fortune told.

"Be seated, my son," the old woman said; "give me your hand and a piece of money."

With a smile he handed her half a sovereign. She crossed his palm with it and then proceeded attentively to examine the lines.

"A fair beginning," she said, "and then troubles and difficulties. Here I see that, some three years back, there is the mark of blood; you won distinction in war. Then there is a cross-mark which would show a change. Some good fortune befell you. Then the lines darken. Things go from bad to worse as they proceed. You took to a vice – cards or horse-racing. Here are evil associates, but there is a white line that runs through them. There is a girl somewhere, with fair hair and blue eyes, who loves you, and whom you love, and whose happiness is imperiled by this vice and these associates. Beyond, there is another cross-line and signs of a conflict. What happens after will depend upon yourself. Either the white line and the true love will prove too powerful for the bad influences or these will end in ruin and – ah! sudden and violent death. Your future, therefore, depends upon yourself, and it is for you to say which influence must triumph. That is all."

Without a word he went out.

"You look pale, Mr. Desmond," the lady said when he rejoined her. "What has she told you?"

"I would rather not tell you, Mrs. Markham," he said seriously. "I thought it was going to be a joke, but it is very far from being one. Either the woman is a witch or she knew all about me personally, which is barely within the limits of possibility. At any rate she has given me something to think of."

"I will try myself," the lady said; "it is very interesting."

"I should advise you not to," he said earnestly.

"Nonsense!" she laughed; "I have no superstitions. I will go in and hear what she has to say." And leaving him, she entered the tent.

The gypsy examined her hand in silence. "I would rather not tell you what I see," she said as she dropped the hand. "Oh, ridiculous!" the lady exclaimed. "I have crossed your palm with gold, and I expect to get my money's worth," and she held out her hand again.

The gypsy again examined it.

"You stand at the crossing of the ways. There are two men – one dark, quiet, and earnest, who loves you. You love him, but not as he loves you; but your line of life runs smoothly until the other line, that of a brown man, becomes mixed up in it. He loves you too, with a hot, passionate love that would soon fade. You had a letter from him a day or two back. Last night, as he passed you in a dance, he whispered, 'I have not had an answer,' and the next time he passed you, you replied, 'You must give me another day or two.' Upon the answer you give the future of your life will depend. Here is a broad, fair line, and here is a short, jagged one, telling of terrible troubles and misery. It is for you to decide which course is to be yours."

As she released her hold of the hand it dropped nerveless. The gypsy poured out a glass of water from a jug by her side, but her visitor waved it aside, and with a great effort rose to her feet, her face as pale as death.

"My God!" she murmured to herself, "this woman is really a witch."

"They do not burn witches now," the gypsy said; "I only read what I see on the palm. You cannot deny that what I have said is true. Stay a moment and drink a glass of wine; you need it before you go out."

She took a bottle of wine from behind her seat, emptied the water on to the earth, half filled a tumbler, and held it out. The frightened woman felt that indeed she needed it before going out into the gay scene, and tossed it off.

"Thank you!" she said. "Whoever you are, I thank you. You have read my fate truly, and have helped me to decide it."

Desmond was waiting for her when she came out, but she passed him with a gesture.

"You are right!" she said. "She is a witch indeed!"

Few other stories told were as tragic, but in nearly every case the visitors retired puzzled at the knowledge the gypsy possessed of their life and surroundings, and it soon became rumored that the old woman's powers were something extraordinary, and the little ante-room was kept filled with visitors waiting their turn for an audience. No one noticed the long and frequent absences of Hilda Covington from the grounds. The tent had been placed with its back hiding a small path through the shrubbery. Through a peep-hole arranged in the curtain she was able to see who was waiting, and each time before leaving said a few words as to their lives which enabled Netta to support the character fairly. When the last guest had departed and she joined Lady Moulton, she handed over a bag containing nearly a hundred pounds.

"I have deducted five pounds for the gypsy," she said, "and eight pounds for the hire of the tent and its fittings."

"That is at least five times as much as I expected, Hilda. I have heard all sorts of marvelous stories of the power of your old woman. Several people told me that she seemed to know all about them, and told them things that they believed were only known to themselves. But how did she get so much money?"

Hilda laughed. "I hear that they began with half-sovereigns, but as soon as they heard of her real powers, they did not venture to present her with anything less than a sovereign, and in a good many cases they gave more – no doubt to propitiate her into giving them good fortunes. You see, each visitor only had two or three minutes' interview, so that she got through from twenty to thirty an hour; and as it lasted four hours she did exceedingly well."

"But who is the gypsy, and where did you find her?"

"The gypsy has gone, and is doubtless by this time in some caravan or gypsy tent. I do not think that you will ever find her again."

"I should have suspected that you played the gypsy yourself, Hilda, were it not that I saw you half a dozen times."

"I have no skill in palmistry," the girl laughed, "and certainly have not been in two places at once. I did my duty and heard Jenny Lind sing and Parry play, though I own that I did not patronize Richardson's booth."

"Well, it is extraordinary that this old woman should know the history of such a number of people as went into her tent, few of whom she could ever have heard of even by name, to say nothing of knowing them by sight."

Several ladies called within the next few days, specially to inquire from Lady Moulton about the gypsy.

"Everyone is talking about her," one said. "Certainly she told me several things about the past that it was hardly possible that a woman in her position could know. I have often heard that gypsies pick up information from servants, or in the country from village gossip; but at least a hundred people visited this woman's tent, and from what I hear everyone was as astonished as I was myself at her knowledge of their family matters. It is said that in some cases she went farther than this, and told them things about the present known only to themselves and two or three intimate friends. Some of them seemed to have been quite seriously affected. I saw Mrs. Markham just after she had left the tent, and she was as white as a sheet, and I know she drove away a few minutes afterwards."

To all inquiries Lady Moulton simply replied:

"I know no more about the gypsy than you do. Miss Covington took the entire management of the gypsy tent off my hands, saw to the tent being erected, and engaged the gypsy. Where she picked her up I have no idea, but I fancy that she must have got her from their encampment on Ham Common. She turned the matter off when I asked her point-blank, and I imagine that she must have given the old crone a promise not to let it be known who she was. They are curious people, the gypsies, and for aught I know may have an objection to any of the tribe going to a gathering like ours to tell fortunes."

Some appeals were made to Hilda personally; but Lady Moulton had told her the answer she had given, and taking her cue from it she was able to so shape her replies that her questioners left her convinced that she had really, while carrying out Lady Moulton's instructions, lighted on a gypsy possessing some of the secrets of the almost forgotten science of palmistry.

CHAPTER V.

A GAMBLING DEN

In a corner of one of the winding courts that lie behind Fleet Street stood a dingy-looking house, the lamp over the door bearing the words, "Billiards and Pool." During the daytime no one would be seen to enter save between the hours of twelve and two, when perhaps a dozen young fellows, after eating a frugal lunch, would resort there to pass their hour out of office in smoking and a game of billiards. Of an evening, however, there were lights in every window, and the click of balls could be heard from the ground floor and that above it. In each of these there were two tables, and the play continued uninterruptedly from seven until eleven or half-past.

The lights on the second floor, however, often burned until two or three o'clock in the morning, and it was here that the proprietor reaped by far the larger proportion of his profits. While the billiard-room windows generally stood open, those of the large room on the second floor were never raised, and when the lights below were extinguished, heavy curtains were dropped across the windows to keep both the light and the sounds within from being seen or heard in the court below. Here was a large roulette table, while along the sides of the room were smaller tables for those who preferred other games. Here almost every evening some thirty or forty men assembled. Of these, perhaps a third were clerks or shop assistants, the remainder foreigners of almost every nationality. Betting lists were exposed at one end of the room. Underneath these a bookmaker had a small table, and carried on his trade.

In 1851 there were a score of such places in the neighborhood of the Strand and Fleet Street, but few did a larger business than this. It was generally understood that Wilkinson, the proprietor, had been a soldier; but the belief originated rather from his upright carriage and a certain soldierly walk than from anything he had himself said, and he was not the sort of man whom even the most regular of the frequenters of his establishment cared to question. He was a tall man, some five-and-forty years of age, taciturn in speech, but firm in manner while business was going on. He kept admirable order in the place. He was generally to be found in the room on the second floor, but when a whistle blew, and one of the markers whispered up a speaking-tube that there was a dispute going on between the players or lookers-on, he was at once upon the spot.

"Now, gentlemen," he would say, interposing between them, "you know the rules of this establishment; the marker's decision on all points connected with the game is final, and must be accepted by both parties. I will have no quarrels or disputes here, and anyone making a row goes straight out into the street, and never comes in here again."

In the vast majority of cases this settled the matter; but when the men were flushed with liquor, and inclined to continue the dispute, they were seized by the collar by Wilkinson's strong arm and were summarily ejected from the house. In the inner room he preserved order as strictly, but had much more difficulty in doing so among the foreign element. Here quarrels were not uncommon, and knives occasionally drawn; but Wilkinson was a powerful man and a good boxer, and a flush hit from the shoulder always settled the business.

But though stern in the management of his establishment, Wilkinson was popular among its frequenters. He was acquainted with most of their callings and business. Indeed, none were admitted to the upper room unless well introduced by habitués, or until he had made private inquiries concerning them. Thus he knew among the foreigners whom he could trust, and how far, when, after a run of ill luck, they came to him and asked him for a loan, he could venture to go.

With the English portion of his customers he was still more liberal. He knew that he should not be a loser from transactions with them; they must repay him, for were it known to their employers that they were in the habit of gambling, it would mean instant dismissal. There were among them several lawyers' clerks, some of whom were, in comparison with their means, deeply in debt to him. One or other of those he would often invite up to his private room on the floor above, where a bottle of good wine would be on the table, a box of excellent cigars beside it, and here they would chat more or less comfortably until the roulette room opened.

Mr. Wilkinson made no pretense that these meetings were simply for the purpose of drinking his wine and smoking his cigars. "I am a straightforward man," he would say, "and business is business. I oblige you, and I expect you to oblige me. I have always had a fancy that there is money to be made in connection with lawyers' businesses. There are missing heirs to be hunted up; there are provisos in deeds, of whose existence some one or other would give a good deal to know. Now, I am sure that you are not in a position to pay me the amount I have lent you, and for which I hold your I. O. U.'s. I have no idea of pressing you for the money, and shall be content to let it run on so long as you will let me know what is being done at your office. The arrangement is that you will tell me anything that you think can be used to advantage, and if money is made out of any information you may give me, I will engage to pay you a third of what it brings in. Now, I call that a fair bargain. What do you say?"