A Nineteenth-Century Miracle: a novel

Front matter

MR. LOUIS ZANGWILL'S WORKS Third Edition, I vol., crown 8vo. , 6s. A DRAMA IN DUTCH. The Speaker.—1 From first to last this striking and powerful story maintains a high level of excellence. It is a story teeming with humour and pathos, instinct with the irony of human fate, and quick to apprehend the subtle twists and inconsistencies of human character. Above all, it is deliciously original . . . and told with great spirit, humour, and dramatic vigour.' Third Edition, I vol., crown 8vo., 6s. THE WORLD AND A MAN, Academy. — ' A masterful novelist.' Daily Chronicle. — 'A remarkable novel. ... In all modern fiction there is no novel which contains a more able and finished analysis of character. . . . It is a serious contribution to literature.' Weekly Sun. — ' Great qualities have gone to the making of it — a vigorous and penetrating mind, wide sympathies, clear-seeing eyes, and a gift of expression at once lucid and forcible.

With these qualities, Mr. Louis Zangwill is bound to travel far.* In illuminated cover, crown 8vo., is. THE BEAUTIFUL MISS BROOKE. Illustrated by W. H. Margetson. In i vol., crown 8vo., 6s. THE MUSE OF THE REAL {Ready Sept. 1897. A NOVEL BY <Z Z' [LOUIS ZANGWILL] AUTHOR OF ""X ' THE BEAUTIFUL MISS BROOKE,' ' THE WORLD AND A MAN,' etc. LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS Copyright, rSQf, by Louis Zangwill^ in the United States of America. I A NINETEENTH-CENTURY MIRACLE

Chapter I

It was past nine o'clock on a Wednesday evening in November when, with a great sense of relief, John Clinton stepped out of the train into the clamour and swirl of Victoria Station. He had travelled direct from the South of France, and, save for the forced break of a few hours at Paris, he had been cooped up since early morn on the previous day. Moreover, from motives of economy he had chosen the longer cross-Channel passage ; and the boat, encountering heavy seas, had in addition arrived an hour and a half behind time. Clinton, scarcely recovered from his recent illness, was far from being in robust condition, and even at the best of times made but a poor sailor. To-day he had been in a deplorable plight, and, what made matters worse, had been drenched to the skin by unexpected spray a very few minutes after the boat had started.

The train, too, timed for an earlier hour, had had to pick its way towards London as best it could, and Clinton's very impatience at the frequent stoppages in forlorn fields exhausted him the more. Fortunately, he had not needed to bring with him more than a light hand-bag, for the business that recalled him from his convalescent holiday, barely a week after he had left London, would detain him in town but a couple of days. Which fact he dwelt on with satisfaction, for the fog — it had, indeed, been much thicker during the day — and the suspicion of rain, and the greasy slime underfoot, and the medley of carts, omnibuses, and hansoms, and the ghostly street-lamps, and the hurry, bustle, and uproar, made the Metropolis as depressing as it possibly could be. He coughed a little as he emerged into the street, and instinctively put up his hand to arrange his wrap closer round his throat.

His appearance, as he stood still a moment for the purpose, was pleasantly picturesque — that of the artist whose exterior proclaims his calling. A long cloak made him look taller than his height, and a sombrero crowned the long, ruddy-brown locks that fell over his neck almost like a girl's. His eyes were brown, his features pleasant and regular, his complexion fair ; and the Vandyke beard was well suited to the whole face. At first he had no thought save of getting home and retiring to bed immediately, for he felt weak and feverish ; but, as he walked the few yards necessary to reach the omnibus that passed within a minute of his studio, he was reminded by the front of a restaurant that it might be prudent to try and eat a little soup or beef-tea before going any further. This he did, and was so far revived that, in the omnibus, he was able to turn his thoughts for a while to the more cheerful subject of the morrow's business.

It was a question of selling three pictures, or even four. The sale of at least one — he had exhibited it at the last year's Academy — was a certainty, and he was the more pleased because the beautiful girl in it, enchanting the pretty group of big-eyed and open-mouthed children with some wondrous tale of adventure, was his own intended wife, whom he had thus painted. He saw her now, with her fair face, and blue eyes, and golden hair, tall and of splendid build — the true English type of girl in its perfection. She was just the sister one would expect Gerald to have ; Gerald the handsome, athlete and scholar, philosopher and talker, as well as hard-working doctor — in which last capacity he earned the i — bread which his other attributes, being purely decorative, could not bring. Ethelyn Manly had, indeed, been an inspiration to the artist, though marriage still seemed a long way off.

For John Clinton was far from a rich man, and would have to depend almost entirely on his profession. His small, inalienable income did but little more than pay the rent and taxes of the vast, barn-like studio, of which the attached bedroom enabled him to make a comfortable bachelor's home. But though he had earned a certain meed of fame before he had ventured to speak to Ethelyn of his love, little money had as yet accompanied it. He had done badly this last twelvemonth — much worse than he had been induced to hope by the sale of the couple of odd landscapes and the two or three portraits of the previous year at moderate prices, the orders for which, moreover, had come so consecutively as to constitute a little spurt. Of commissions he had been favoured with but a single one during the whole of the present year — and that for a portrait, in the price of which he had been mercilessly beaten down after hard haggling, to the sordidness and in justice of which he had submitted for Ethelyn's sake ; though his spirit, wounded by this undis guised chaffering about the art he loved, would have liked to assert itself hotly, and indulge in the luxury of declining such close-fisted patronage.

Otherwise, beyond a small landscape which had brought him fifty pounds, he had sold nothing else, and, though this last transaction had been with a dealer, he strongly suspected the picture had been bought by somebody through the instrumentality of dear Gerald. For, despite that he had worked on sturdily, his anxiety about the future so preyed on his mind that he broke down at last, and Gerald — who naturally attended on him, gratis, of course — advised him to pass the worst part of the winter on the shores of the Mediterranean. John Clinton had hesitated on account of the cost, but, soon after, this same little picture, which Gerald had been particularly admiring, was applied for, the proceeds materially helping towards the expenses of the trip. And Gerald and Ethelyn saw ' him off as soon as he was strong enough to go.

The few days of sea-air and the hot sea-water baths Gerald had so strongly recommended had benefited him distinctly, and he was already be ginning to exhibit symptoms of returning optimism, when these symptoms were greatly reinforced by the arrival of a letter from one of the largest dealers, which had been re-directed, with his other correspondence, by the post-office. The fact that it was necessary for him to make an immediate journey to town did not disconcert him. What better tonic than the joy of selling and of castle-building again? In the rush of enthusiasm and the momentary consciousness of vitality, the fatigue of the journey became an insignificant consideration. And even now that the terrible day was over and the rumbling, lumber ing omnibus had ended by making his headache worse, he told himself that a rub down with a wet sponge and a vigorous use of his big, rough bath towel, followed by a long night's sound sleep, would put him right again.

His studio was approached through a long gravelled alley that lay between two houses in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood. One wall of it was in line with the alley, and here was a small back entrance for models, etc., but to get to the main door one had to turn to the right through a gate into an oblong space with a long neglected garden-bed on either hand, and walk the entire length of the building. It was half past ten when Clinton unlocked the door and stepped into the vestibule, glad enough to escape from the unpleasantness of the night ; for, though the fog seemed to be melting away, a little rain had begun to drizzle, and the air was getting colder. It was a curious sensation, however, to have reached home again, when only a week ago he had gone off with the idea that he should not be seeing London again till perhaps the end of February.

He had got so depressed by his bad fortune that the possibility of selling anything in the meanwhile had not occurred to him. If it had, he would have dismissed it as a mad dream. But, since the opportunity had come, he dared not risk losing it, and so had set out for London immediately on receipt of the letter. He had not wired to inform Gerald and Ethelyn of his coming, having decided to wait and see the result, when he would break in upon them with the — as he hoped — pleasant tidings. Now, as he stood still for an instant within his own door and realized that, after all, this dullness he was breathing in was not so very much of an improvement on the rawness outside, he felt sorry he had not sent them a word of message. Shattered and fatigued as he was, the warm greeting of loving lips and the cosy comfort prepared by eager hands appealed somewhat tanta lizingly to his imagination, and he became more acutely aware of the damp, clinging garments in which he had now been for eight hours, and of the feverish heat of his body.

A wistful longing, as a vision of blazing fires and familiar faces and sympathetic voices rose before him, made him play with the thought of even yet going on to the Manlys — the house was in Hampstead, a couple of miles up the Finchley Road, and a hansom would take him there in a quarter of an hour. A warm bath, too, would be delicious. But somehow he felt he had not the physical force to set foot outside again, and the sound of the patter of the increasing rain, accompanied by a gust of sudden wind, decided him. There was gas in the vestibule, but he did not trouble to light it, taking instead the candle that always stood ready in a broad-bottomed stick on the little oak table, and that he used ordinarily for looking into odd corners where the light of his lamp did not reach. For he generally read when ever he stayed at home in the evenings, and for this purpose he used a large bronze table-lamp.

As he could only work by daylight, he had had no other artificial light fitted in the studio itself, though there was gas in the bedroom and in the bathroom adjoining. He threw open the door and stepped into the darkness of the vast workshop, holding aloft his candle, so as to get to his bedroom without col liding with anything. But the cold desolation gave him pause, and he stopped almost involun tarily on the threshold. At that moment a second gust came tearing along, roaring and whistling. A current of air, entering by he knew not what chinks, caught his puny flame, which flowed backwards before it, the melted wax running down in fantastic lines. The feeble rays lighted up but a small space, and the great bulk of the studio was full of gray shadow. Mist, too, that had crept in during the past days of fog, and that had not yet found its way out, hovered in the air, nebulous and shape less, like some spirit of chaos, slowly moving its half-luminous masses in and out where the dark ness lay thickest.

At the extreme end, facing him, John rather divined than saw the heavy hanging that divided a narrower space from the great body of the studio, forming a model's retiring-room, from which the back-door opened out on to the gravelled alley. He had only a formless impression of the whole scene : of easels and chairs and shabby couches, and half-finished sketches, and piles of canvases, and lumber, and plaster statuettes, and picturesque properties, and odd bric-a-brac — all the stock equipment and disorderly encumberment of an artist's workshop ; all gray, dim, hidden, confused. For a moment the beat of the rain alone dis turbed the silence. Then, shivering from the cold, he was seized with a fit of coughing that filled the building with echoes and warned him he must bestir himself. A few steps to his right brought him to his bed room, which lay just behind the vestibule.

He lighted the gas here and in the bathroom, threw off his sodden clothes, heated a little water in the geyser, with which he rapidly sponged himself, put a dry suit ready for the morning, and, extin guishing the lights again, tumbled heavily into bed. He was restless at first, and the massive dizziness of sea-sickness was still on him ; but a more or less troubled slumber came to him at last. Meanwhile the wind grew higher and higher, and in its intervals the rain could be heard falling in floods. Even as he slept, Clinton was con scious of the storm that raged in accompaniment to unpleasantly weird dreams. He knew not how long he had lain thus, when the whole building rattled in the storm that shrieked round it. There was a long wrenching tear, a tremendous crash, a shattering and ring of falling and breaking glass.

With beating heart and temples, Clinton leapt from his bed, and, opening the door of the room, was met by an icy draught, whilst the sound of rain pouring into the studio could not be mistaken. Whipped up by the necessity of the moment, he quickly slipped on some clothes, thrust his feet into slippers, lighted his candle, and attempted to advance with it. But it was immediately extinguished. Never in the whole of the three years that John Clinton had lived in this studio had he had such a strange sense of oppression from it. He was by no means afraid of the dark, but all the same he felt utterly unnerved. He had a mis giving that it was no mere natural cause that had shattered his roof. The very silence and solitude that followed the appalling crash seemed to hang over him like a pall. The whole place seemed to be pervaded with an eerie quality ; he seemed to feel the presence of an icy, mysterious something — he knew not what.

Bestirring himself again, he managed to light the lamp, in which, happily, the oil was not ex hausted. With this he advanced towards the model's room, where, apparently, the mischief had been done, and, drawing aside the curtain, let his light shine full within. But he stepped back with an exclamation that was almost a cry. For there on the ground, amid a frightful mass of debris, he saw a man lying on his back with his knees slightly raised, whilst his head, turned sideways towards the door, and away from the studio, lay motionless on his left upper arm ; and his right arm was extended, the hand pressing the ground, palm downwards and fingers spread out, as though he had tried to break the fall. The whole top-light had come down, and the remains of the supporting framework hung splintered and broken.

The rain had already flooded the room, and the wind, entering through the gap, stirred and scattered wider the loose fragments of glass. With a great effort Clinton kept his presence of mind. That the intruder was some unfortunate housebreaker he had no doubt, for in a flash he connected the incident with the fact that the studio was supposed to be shut up and its owner away. Nevertheless, his first impulse was to do what he could for the man, who he conceived must be grievously hurt by such a fall, which would have been severe enough even without the glass. Placing the lamp on the nearest chair, he entered the room, caught hold of the unlucky fellow's arm, and pulled him into the studio, almost stumbling himself as he trampled on crack ling glass and kicked away the debris. In the light he could see the man's face was cut and bleeding, and a stream of water dripped from him. In terror he placed his hand over the heart, though the horrible face and eyes had already told their tale. Then John Clinton swooned away.

Chapter II

The next morning's papers had but the following paragraph, sent them at the last moment by a news agency. It was headed, ' Fatal Accident to a Burglar,' and ran thus : ' Shortly after two o'clock this morning, as Police-constable Williamson was on his beat in the Wellington Road, he was accosted by a gentleman in a condition of great excitement, who proved to be Mr. John Clinton, a well-known artist residing at The Studio, Acacia Road, St. John's Wood. It appears Mr. Clinton was awakened from his slumbers by a great crash, and, on investigation, found that a burglar, in seeking entry from above, had fallen through the top-light, which, being an old and flimsy structure, had got completely wrecked and wrenched from its framework. Mr. Clinton extricated the intruder from the debris, severely cutting himself in the process ; but, on attempting to revive the unfortunate man, he discovered life was extinct.

The shock was so great that Mr. Clinton fainted. On recovering consciousness, he hastened to in form the police. Mr. Clinton, who has only recently recovered from an illness, was in a state of extreme exhaustion, and had to be treated by the divisional surgeon, Dr. Mackay, who was called in to examine the body before its removal to the mortuary. The heavy rainfall has flooded the studio, and caused considerable damage. It appears that Mr. Clinton, who had left a week ago for a three months' holiday in the South of France, was unexpectedly recalled to town, and only arrived home late last evening. The fact of his absence must have got known, and to this may doubtless be attributed the unfortunate attempt, which has ended so disastrously for the would-be housebreaker.' This, however, was sufficient to attract a larger crowd, and, there being a temporary lull in the weather, long before noon Acacia Road and its approaches were thronged with people eager to inspect the scene of the fatal mishap.

But, though the body had already been removed, policemen were on guard at the opening of the gravelled alley, for it was feared that the entry of the crowd into so narrow a passage might be attended with serious consequences. ■5 Despite the efforts of the police to disperse them, the throngs increased each moment, and both Avenue and Wellington roads were seriously obstructed. The officers might shout ' Pass along, please ! Pass along, please !' till their voices had grown hollow and raucous ; the con stituents of the crowd craftily contrived to outwit them by continually circulating among them selves. About mid-day a curious expectant wave swept through the massed and moving groups. The shouts of newsboys were suddenly heard crying the first issue of the evening papers : 'The St. John's Wood burglar!

Latest par ticulars!' and ' Death of a burglar in St. John's Wood ! Full details !' were shouted in all directions. Through the Top-light Bungling Burglar Bashes read the bill of a notoriously alliterative news sheet that plastered the roadway ; but A Strange Nocturnal Visitant : Was he a Burglar ? was the poster that drew the most business. There was a clinking of coins in the air, a flutter ing of papers that caught the eye like so many hundreds of flags. But soon a new shout was heard amid the hubbub, drawing the attention by the very fact of its ignoring the sensation of the moment, which for a time it was successful in ousting : 1 Great storm in the Channel ! Well-known City merchant washed off the Ostend boat !' But even this was not fated to be long exempt from competition. A special edition of a local print came along with the rival announcement : Great Storm.

Well-known Resident of Finchley Road lost in the Channel. Dr. Gerald Manly, driving with his partner, Dr. Whiting, along Wellington Road, was one of the first to patronize this latest sheet, though he bought at the same time copies of the half-dozen others that were being offered for sale. The first ones he looked at merely repeated the morning papers, with just the addition that Mr. John Clinton was being taken care of at the house of his friend, Dr. Gerald Manly, whither he had that morning been conveyed, and that, though very exhausted and feverish, he was progressing as favourably as could be expected. The paragraph which proved most interesting, however, read thus : ' The Strange Nocturnal Visitant : Was he a Burglar ? ' Not very many people would envy Mr. John Clinton, of The Studio, Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, his gruesome experience of last night.

Not only had he the terrible shock of finding the would-be nocturnal intruder had killed himself in his fall through a top-light — a shock the effects of which may prove somewhat grave in the already weak state of Mr. Clinton's health — but, in his attempt to assist the man, whom he supposed to be merely injured, both his hands and feet, which latter were only protected by thin slippers, were badly cut. ' From the further details that have come to hand this morning, it seems that the case now presents some very unexpected and rather mysterious aspects. At first it seemed reasonable enough to assume that the man had got wind of Mr. Clinton's supposed absence from town, and had taken the opportunity of trying to break into the premises ; but when one remembers the fearful storm of wind and rain that raged at the time, and how dark the night was, one is inclined to think that only a lunatic rather than a burglar would have been found walking under such con ditions on a slippery studio-roof, the greater part of which, he must have known, consisted of glass, and on which a false step would be fatal.

That he was so walking is beyond question, and the mishap that befell him was therefore almost inevitable. ' Which brings us to our own belief that the man was a lunatic and not a burglar. The further details that have since been ascertained strengthen our position. For the storm was so great that in every part of London roofing and chimney-pots were destroyed and blown about, many windows were wrecked, and several hoardings and walls were thrown down. In the immediate neighbourhood of the studio, as everywhere else, con siderable havoc was wrought, and amid the mess and wreckage in the studio were found the broken pieces of tiles and of a chimney-pot that had been blown down from the adjoining house. These might, of course, have fallen into the big gap left by the top-light ; or, as we prefer to believe, the same gust of wind that swept them down must have caused the unfortunate victim to slip and miss his footing, and, the framework of the top-light being old and rotten, the whole crashed down in one mass.

The tiling of the studio itself has suffered severely, and we cannot imagine any sane man, unless compelled, would have exposed himself to the danger of such a wild night. ■ But what really confirms us in our view is the fact that the clothes in which the body was dressed, though soaked through and through, seem to be those of a gentleman. The shirt-studs and links are of gold, and a valuable gold watch and a gold pencil-case were discovered in the pockets. A hard felt hat has been found lying about the floor, but trampled on and sodden out of shape. There were no papers in the pockets, nor has anything been found likely to give any clue to the identity of the deceased, unless the monogram " A," on linen and handkerchiefs, which were of fine quality, can be considered such. But we make no doubt that the deceased will eventually be proved to be the victim of mental aberration, in all probability some harmless lunatic who had eluded the vigilance of his friends. ' The description of the deceased issued by the police is as follows : ' Height, five feet five inches ; short black hair, very thin on top ; short pointed beard and bushy black moustache ; complexion dark ; eyes deep set and hazel-coloured ; high forehead and square chin ; wearing long black vicuna overcoat, plain black frock-suit, and tanned gloves ; apparent age, 49.

The publicity given to the whole matter is likely to make his family and friends come forward very soon now — nay, the identity of the deceased may even by now have been established beyond the shadow of a doubt.' 2 — ' Poor old Clinton !' murmured Gerald to Dr. Whiting, ' what a bad time he must have had ! I'm glad I've forbidden him to be seen by any interviewers.' Meanwhile, Dr. Whiting had taken up the local paper and had been reading the following account of the Channel mishap : ' A cablegram from Ostend was received at Dover early this morning, announcing that, on the arrival of the mail-boat, after a tempestuous passage, one of the passengers was found to be missing, his effects being discovered on board, to wit, a handbag, dressing-case, rug, umbrella, and walking cane ; and a small trunk labelled " Robert Ashfield " among the passengers' luggage.

It appears that one of the men found the smaller articles pitching about on deck, and removed them to a place of safety. There can be little doubt that their unfortunate owner was carried over board by a great sea that struck the vessel about one o'clock — barely an hour after it had been able to make a fair start. It has now been ascertained beyond question that the missing gentleman is Mr. Robert Ashfield, of Leadenhall Street and Colombo Hall, Finchley Road, N.W., the owner of considerable tea-plantations in Ceylon, a man of great wealth, and widely known in the City, where the news of his terrible fate has caused considerable consternation. ' It appears that Mr. Ashfield had to cross on business, the clerk whom he usually entrusted with the commission being seriously ill at home. Mr. Ashfield had made the journey himself occa sionally, and decided to do so again.

It was expected at the office he would not be back for three days. He left business at half-past eight, after a long and busy day, and went on to Cannon Street Station, where his wife was to meet him with the luggage, for he had decided to take her with him, thinking she would like the trip. At the station she was alarmed by the increasing denseness of the fog, and begged him not to go. He suggested they should proceed as far as Dover, where, if they found it inadvisable to make the crossing, they might stay for the night, hoping for fairer weather next day. ' At Dover there was no fog, nor did the weather at first seem extraordinarily rough, and after a short discussion it was agreed that Mr. Ashfield — who was a good sailor, having made the voyage several times to and from Ceylon — should go on alone.

Mrs. Ashfield went on board with her husband just for a moment, but came off feeling rather uneasy and apprehensive about the weather, as the wind began to blow more strongly. At the Lord Warden Hotel she was so upset and hysterical that a maid had to sit up with her. The news of the calamity arrived about half-past six this morning. Everybody in the hotel was talking of it by breakfast-time, and, of course, it could not be concealed from Mrs. Ashfield. The poor lady is completely prostrated, and is the object of much sympathy.' 'It's a very sad thing, isn't it?' commented Dr. Whiting, after he had made Gerald read the report. ' Poor Mrs. Ashfield must be terribly cut up. She has only been married to him four years, and such a bright little woman, too !' ' She is indeed !' exclaimed Gerald, ' much more brains than he !' They made pleasing pendants to each other, these two doctors: Gerald, thirty-three and in the full pride of manhood ; his partner, seventy, stately and white-haired.