University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.,
Which details singular events, including a fresh
Mystery, and introduces the Right Honorable
the Earl of Landys.

About two months after Zara and
her father had left the town, Tom
Brown, who had been over to the shop
for copy, told me that a package addressed
to me had arrived by the car
rier from London. For I must mention
that our printing-house was a back
building, in the rear of a piece of
ground on which the book-shop and
dwelling-house was built, and faced on
a ten foot alley behind. I asked Tom
what the package was like, and why
he did not bring it with him.

“It is thin,” answered he, “and
looks like a big atlas, wrapped up in
brown paper. I'd have brought it in,
Brosy, my boy, and charged you a pint
of beer for carrying it, only they
wouldn't let me. The Governor,” meaning
thereby his master, “said you were
to come in the shop shortly, as he
wanted to see you. He is in a terrible
state of excitement, I can tell you,
about the skeleton they picked up this
morning, and has got the traps they
dug out with it.”

“I'll go as soon as I fill my stick,”
said I. “What skeleton, and where
did they find it?”

“You know Sharp's old rookery, in
the Ram's Horn?”

The Ram's Horn was the cant name
given to a crooked lane in the outskirts
of the town, inhabited by the poorest
class of people.

“Yes,” I replied, “it tumbled down
during the last storm.”

“Exactly; very much tumbled; went
all to crash. Sharp sold it a little
while since to Bingham, who also
bought the three next to it, and is about
to build his new brew-house there.
They've been clearing out ruins and
digging foundations all last week.
This morning, right in the center of
what used to be the cellar of Sharp's
house, they came across a skeleton, in
some rotten clothes. Old Dr. Craig
says that the bones belonged to a woman.
The gold sleeve-buttons of the

chemise were there, and a gold pin,
with a sky-blue stone in it, and some
queer-shaped letters on the back; the
woman's name, I suppose.”

“What was the name?”

“Queer—very—V. M. Taw. Mrs.
Taw must have been made away with,
and buried there; at least that is
everybody's say-so. They found a dagger
there, the rummiest kind of a knife,
with a blade as crooked as a dog's
hind-leg, and a carved wooden handle,
partly rotten. The Governor heard of
it, and he bought all the things. I
think he means to keep 'em in the shop
to draw custom. Old Sharp tried to
get them for the Museum, but the Governor
was too quick for him. He is
in a terrible pother about something.”

“Who? Sharp?”

“No; our old man. He and the
mistress are holding a grand confabulation.
I heard 'em mention your
name as I went in.”

I finished my task, washed my hands,
put off my apron, and went to the
house. Mary Guttenberg, a girl of
fourteen, just turning into womanhood,
was sewing in the back part of the
shop. Her father and mother were inside
of the counter. Before them were
various articles, including the things
Tom had spoken of. As I came forward,
Mrs. Guttenberg pointed to the
larger package. I undid the fastenings,
and, after removing the wrapper,
and two stout bits of binder's bands,
placed on either side to preserve it from
injury, I found a portrait, one-fourth
size, of Zara Espinel. From the P. B.
in the left-hand corner, I knew it to be
the work of Paul Bagby. As I opened
it I discovered a letter, addressed to
me. When I had admired the portrait
sufficiently, I opened the letter. It was
from Paul, dated at London, and these
were the contents:

The rest of the letter was filled with
gossip. I put it down and turned to
view the picture again, which Mary
Guttenburg, who had laid down her
work for the purpose, now held in her
hand.

“How pretty she is!” exclaimed
Mary, and her father and mother echoed
her comment. The likeness was wonderfully
correct. The artist had caught
the expression of tenderness peculiar to
her face, the liquidity of her dark eyes,
and all the poetry of her clouds of dark
hair. He had brought to his task the
whole force of his genius, and every
resource of his art.

“What a sweet face!” continued
Mary.

“Beautiful, indeed!” said a voice behind
us.

We turned, and to our astonishment
stood the Earl of Landy's, who bowed
slightly and apologetically. But the
bend of his body was entirely wasted
on a part of the by-standers. Mr. John
Guttenberg was filled with all that
servile deference to a peer which marks
the true English tradesman. Had the
Right Honorable John, Earl of Landys,
ex-member of the Privy Council, condescended
to have thrown a flip-flap
then and there—an outrageous impossibility
to suggest, I admit—my worthy
patron would have thought it in nowise
incompatible with the dignity of the
peerage. He would have gone into
ecstacies at the agility of the nobleman,
and would have avowed at once
that no one below the rank of a mar.
ques could have thrown such a flip-flap
as that. He felt honored by the ill-bred
peeping of the peer.

All the Guttenburgs bowed profoundly;
and the head of the family,
with a smiling face and a rubbing of
the palms of the hands together—a
trick of his when desiring to be very
courteous—inquired in what way he
could have the honor of serving his
lordship.

“I called, Mr. Guttenburg,” said the
Earl, “to say I would like to have the
last new novel, if it be in.”

I said to myself—

“That is not true, my lord. You
would have it sent you by the carrier
from London; or, had you wanted it
from us, would have despatched a servant
to obtain it. You have some
other motive for this extraordinary
visit.”

However, though I thought all this
I said nothing aloud, of course, but
merely stood there in a respectful attitude
waiting to hear more.

Mr. Guttenburg took down the book
from the shelf, and did it up carefully
in white paper, offering to send it by
me, but the Earl said he would take
it himself, and threw down the subscription-money.

“Can I have the honor to serve your
lordship in any other way?” inquired
the zealous bookseller. “Will your
lordship condescend to accept a copy
of this week's Chronicle? You will
find your lordship's recent arrival at
Landys Castle respectfully noticed under
the proper head. Will your lordship
deign to be seated?”

But his lordship preferred to stand.

“Is that picture for sale?” he asked.

“Of course, your lordship. That is,
it belongs to my adopted son there,
Ambrose, (pay your respects to his
lordship, sir,) and no doubt he would
be glad to dispose of it if your lordship
wished.” And the bookseller contorted

his brows and looked at me as
much as to say—“ “Why don't you offer
it to him at once?”

But I was determined not to part with
the picture at all and said—

“It is a gift from a friend, and therefore
your lordship will see, cannot be
sold.”

“It is a very fine picture. What
artist?”

“Mr. Paul Bagby my lord.”

“Ah, yes! I see his mark. I might
have known his style. I would like to
have a copy.”

“This is a copy, my lord. He retains
the original.”

“Is it a fancy sketch or from life?”

“From life, my lord.”

“Indeed! a very beautiful child then.
I am much struck with the face and
will write to Mr. Bagby on the subject.
By the by, Mr. Guttenberg, what
is this story about a skeleton having
been found in the town? They tell me
that you have some curious relics.”

“Yes, your lordship,” replied the
printer; “and Mrs. Guttenberg and
myself—let me have the honor of presenting
Mrs. Guttenberg to your lordship's
notice—were discussing the matter
just before your lordship entered
the shop. It is very singular taken in
connection with the other circumstances;
very singular indeed, your lordship.”

“Is there a story, then?”

“Yes, your lordship. Pray be seated,
my lord. I am pained to see your
lordship standing. Mary, my dear, you
may resume your former seat back
there.”

Mary retreated to the rear of the shop,
with a vexed expression on her countenance;
but she endeavored to listen
as well as the distance would permit.

“You see, your lordship, that my
wife and I are of the opinion that the
skeleton is connected with the history
of this boy. If your lordship will deign
to listen, you shall judge for yourself.
Don't go, Ambrose,” continued he as I
made a motion to leave, “I intend to
give his lordship your real history
which you have never heard yourself.”

He then detailed the circumstances
I have before given to the readers of
the events of the night in which I came
into his charge, and displayed the jewelry
and articles received with me,
dwelling on the fact that the pin or
brooch recently found matched the
bracelet before had, and bore an inscription
similar to that on the inside
of the ring. I took up the pin as he
spoke, and saw, deeply engraven on
the back:

V.MTW

“And was the package the woman
gave you ever found?” inquired Lord
Landys, when the printer had finished
his narration.

“Never, your lordship?”

“Your adopted son does you credit,”
said the Earl. “I hear that he is a
young man of correct deportment and
very studious, as well as proficient in
two or three languages. If he desire
it, he can have the use of my library
occasionally. I will speak to Mr. Osborn,
my steward, to that effect on my
return to the castle.”

I bowed my acknowledgment of the
favor, and Mr. Guttenberg rubbed his
hands and bobbed his head with great
assiduity.

“And this portrait, you say Mr.—
Mr.—”

“Fecit, my lord.” suggested Mrs.
Guttenberg.

“Ah, yes! thank you. This portrait,
you say, Mr. Fecit, is from life.
Did I hear you mention the name of
the party?”

“Her name is Zara, my lord. She is
the daughter of a Spaniard who was in
this town some few months back, and
who met with an accident which delayed
him for several weeks.”

“Ah, yes! I remember. You rescued
the child, I believe. I think I
read some account of it either in, or
copied from the Chronicle. I believe
also,” and here the nobleman fixed his
eyes full on mine, “that this same
Spaniard did me the honor to inquire
concerning me.”

How did he know that? I had never
mentioned it to any one. I felt a
a little embarrassed, having no idea
how far the queries might be pushed;
but I answered:

“He did make some inquires concerning
matters of interest in the
neighborhood, among the rest about
your lordship's place and asked questions
about your lordship's family; but
those were such as strangers are apt
to put.”

“May I ask who he was and what
he was?”

“Senor Jose Espinel, my lord, I do
not know his profession, if he had any;
that is not beyond doubt.”

“You conjecture then?”

“Another does. It has been suggested
to me that he was a monk or
something of that sort.”

“Was the child his daughter?”

“I cannot say, my lord.”

“Will you do me the favor to describe
the man?”

“I complied as accurately as I was
able, for though I felt the querist was
endeavoring to get from me all the in
formation he could, there was no reason
why I should withhold what he
wanted, and I was anxious to discover
the cause of his manifest interest, and
thought that full replies might lead to
a probable conjecture on my part. The
Earl mused a moment and then said:

“Did you notice anything peculiar
in his person or manner?”

This was said carelessly, but at the
lattea part of the sentence his voice, as
I thought trembled a little. I watched
him, therefore, curiously as I replied:

“Nothing, my lord, in his manner,
more than the profusion of gesture
common to most foreigners; and nothing
on his person except a blood-mark
on his right wrist shaped like a cross.”

The Earl turned pale and shivered
as though he were cold. He dropped
the subject, and turning toward the
counter took up the rusted and crooked
dagger.

“I recognize this kind of weapon,”
said he. “This is a krees, a dagger
used by the Malays. I passed three
months on the island of Sumatra, with
my late cousin, years since, and became
well acquainted with their language
and costume. Indeed, one reason
why I have proffered Mr. Fecit
here the use of my library is that I
learn that he is fond of the study of
languages. Having some pretensions
to be a linguist, myself, I sympathise
with his pursuit.”

“May I presume, said my patron
to ask your lordship a question?”

“Do so.”

“The tall dark man of whom I told
you, spoke to the lady in a strange
lenguage. I remember one one word
which seemed to have a powerful effect.
It was, near as I can make out the
sound, diyum!”

“The word, I think, is Malay. It
sounds very near the word for silence
in that language.”

“Pray, my lord,” said I, “is this inscription
in the Malay character?” and
I pointed to the letters on the brooch.

“No; these seem to be the rude attempts
of some foreigner to form English
characters.”

After some general conversation,
Captain Berkely and another officer
came in the shop, and his lordship, after
nodding to them, turned to leave
the shop, accompanied to the door by
the obsequious printer.

“Well, old fellah,” said Berkely, when
the printer returned, “what was Lord
Toplofty doing here, eh?”

“His lordship has been paying his
subscription to the library, captain.
Bless me, if his lordship hasn't left the
novel. His lordship has only gone a
few steps. Run after him, Ambrose,
and hand it to him, with my respectful
compliments.”