Mr. William Vernon was a venerable, benevolent-looking man of seventy years of age. His hair was white, his figure slightly stooped, his manner gentle, kindly, plausible. Until the crash came, everyone believed he was the most prosperous man in the city of Dublin. He had three fine private houses-one in Dublin, a seaside residence at Bray, and a castle in Monaghan. His income was believed to be somewhere between twenty and forty thousand a year, and it was believed that he lived well within it. His savings were said to be enormous, and the general conviction was that he could retire in splendour on his money, invested at home and abroad. Now all was confusion and dismay among those connected with him in business. So great was the excitement, two policemen had to be told off to guard the door of the bank. Men and women, too, who were depositors or shareholders, refused to believe the news, and came down to the bank to see with their own eyes confirmation of the report. There, sure enough, were the massive oak, iron-studded doors closed in their faces, never again to be opened. As the hours rolled on, the depth and breadth of the calamity increased steadily. People who were supposed to have had nothing whatever to do with the bank divulged, in the excitement of the moment, the secret that they were shareholders or depositors. The credit of the whole city was shaken. Who could be safe when the great house of Vernon and Son had collapsed? Before nightfall three other large houses had suspended payment. They had gone down into the vortex. Then it began to be realised that not only had the shareholders lost all their money invested in shares, but that every man who, as principal or trustee, held even one of these shares, was liable to the last shilling he had in the world. It had over and over again been suggested by outside shareholders that the business should be formed into a limited company. William Vernon always shook his head at this, and said that if you limit the responsibility you limit the enterprise, and so reduce the profits. They were paying twelve per cent. on capital-did they want to cut down the earnings to eight? He assured them it would cripple the whole concern seriously, and he, for one, would retire from any responsibility if such a course were urged upon him. It had been suggested to him, in advocacy of this scheme, that limiting the company would enormously diminish the risk of the shareholders in case disaster should overtake the bank. He had replied to this with a shrug of his shoulders, a smile of half pity, half amusement, and said: "If you have any fear, why not sell out? If you have any confidence in my word of honour, you need have no occasion for fear." Mr. William Vernon had the reputation of unblemished honour. He was, moreover, an exceedingly pious man, belonging to one of the most rigid forms of dissent. No one questioned his word; no one sold out; and now all were ruined. Mr. Vernon had married late in life. Mrs. Vernon was twenty-five years his junior. His elder daughter, Ruth, was now fifteen years of age; his younger, Miriam, twelve. He had but these two children. Mrs. Vernon was a large, florid, comely woman, who, twenty years ago, when she was married, had been considered a beauty. She was now no longer beautiful. She was a well-favoured matron of forty-five, with an exaggerated notion of the importance of her husband, her children, and herself. He was courteous, insinuating, with a dash of infallibility. She was dignified, not to say haughty, with a great notion of the high position she occupied in the social world. She was not harsh or cantankerous with servants, but she never for one moment allowed them to think they were anything but servants-that is to say, beings of an immeasurably inferior order. During the time Miss Creagh had been in Mrs. Vernon's house as resident governess to her two daughters, the mistress had shown the governess respect in the form of conscious condescension. She had never for a moment allowed anyone to slight Nellie, and even she herself had never slighted her. But, then, she never was by any means genial or cordial, or anything but rigidly polite; and rigid politeness is the perfection of rudeness. Nellie had not, however, been unhappy in that house. She had conceived a great respect for Mr. Vernon, and had grown to love the two children. Ruth was her favourite. The elder girl was flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, fair and pink, with a tendency to sentimental poetry and enthusiasm, and with a most excellent heart. Miriam, on the other hand, was a brunette, brown-haired, brown-eyed, vivacious, invincibly loquacious, with a thorough contempt for everything that was not material to comfort, and with a heart which beat so fast for its own excitements, that it rarely had time to concern itself with anything else. Mr. Vernon had that summer postponed their going to their house at Bray a month beyond the usual time. The crash had not come upon him unexpectedly. He and a few others knew for some time that it could not be avoided, but it might be put off. He was loath to leave Dublin; and as his family never went to Bray without him, he thought it better they should not go now, as if they did it might cause talk. Bray is but half-an-hour or so from Dublin; but he did not like to sleep so far away from the bank, for now important telegrams were coming at all hours of the day and night, and the delay of an hour might hasten the disaster. The immediate cause of the ruin was the failure of a trader in Belfast, who owed the bank considerable sums of money, and had been encouraged by Mr. Vernon to play a risky business on the chance of making large profits. In fact, the relation between the Belfast and Dublin houses would not bear the light of day, and the large profits which, it was said, enabled the Belfast house to pay a fancy price for money, had all been taken out of the capital lent by the bank. The Belfast house had, some years ago, an extraordinary stroke of luck. It legitimately doubled its income in a year. It depended almost wholly on its export trade. It sent most of its goods to India and the Colonies. During the good year it could not manufacture as quickly as it could sell. Then it borrowed in order to increase its manufacturing powers. It built and set up new machinery. It exported more than it had orders for and stored abroad. This went on for some years, the output being in excess of the demands of the prosperous year, the sales less than before the prosperous year. The result of this could be seen-bankruptcy. Nothing else was talked of in Dublin all that day, all that night, in the clubs, in the hotels, between the acts at the theatre, in the private houses, in the tramcars, in the streets. No class seemed to be unaffected by the gigantic catastrophe. Widows and orphans were ruined, trustees rendered penniless. Commercial fabrics which had cost generations to build up, were now tottering to the fall. All this dreadful day Mr. Vernon sat in his study, a large back room on the first floor of his Fitzwilliam Square house. He now fully realised his own position. He had directly ruined hundreds, and indirectly, through them, thousands. For years the bank had practically been in a bankrupt state. For years the fact had been kept secret by means of false balance-sheets. For years the pious, bland William Vernon had been the author of a gigantic fraud. What was coming now to him? An indictment? Imprisonment? Were a common prison and common prison diet coming to him in his seventieth year? All this time that he had been issuing false balance-sheets he had lived in splendour. He had kept his three houses, his horses, his domestic servants, his gardeners, his grooms, his coachmen. He had given dinners which were the talk, the admiration, the envy of Dublin. His wines were the finest. He had a French cook; he had footmen of the shapeliest forms and politest manners. Was he about to have, instead of his three stately houses-the city jail? Instead of his dining-room-a prison cell? Instead of his courteous footman-a gruff turnkey? Instead of cliquot-gruel? Instead of respect, honour, reverence-contumely, scorn, and curses? The present was bad enough. The future looked much worse. He did not allow himself to waste any of his energies in grieving for those who had lost through him. He said to himself: "They speculated and lost. They only lost money. I have lost all the money I once had, all the reputation, and now in my old age it is not unlikely I may lose my liberty. I have done the best I could. Had I reduced my establishment, suspicion would have been aroused at once, and the blow would have come much sooner. If I had earlier exposed the position of the bank, ruin would have come then just as now. If after the first loss in Belfast I sanctioned wild, mad speculation, it was in the desperate hope of recovering what had already been sunken. What I did, I did for the best. O'Donnell will, of course, be the heaviest sufferer, but he has had his twelve per cent. for many years. I dare say he will not be able to save a penny out of his whole fortune. Neither shall I out of mine." Just as he came to the end of these self-justification reflections, these comfortable sophisms, Mrs. Vernon entered the room, dressed for going out. "Going out, Jane?" he cried all in astonishment. "Yes," she said. "The house is so dull, I thought I'd take the brougham and call upon the Lawlors." "Take the

brougham

," he cried, "and call upon the Lawlors! Don't you know the Lawlors are shareholders in the bank, and that they, too, are ruined?" "But," said Mrs. Vernon, drawing herself up, "the Lawlors were old friends of mine. I knew them before you did. We were children together. They will be glad to see me, although you have been unfortunate in business." "Glad to see you! Woman, they would thrust you out of doors with curses. When people are ruined they do not pay much heed to friendship, nor are they over nice in the way they express their anger. As to the brougham," he said, "I have been stupid not to tell you, but I cannot think of everything. We could never with decency use the brougham, or anything of the sort, again." He threw himself back in his chair and laughed harshly for a few seconds. "I see nothing to laugh at in this disgrace and worry," said his wife, who thought herself the most injured person of all. "I am sure I am very sorry for you, William, when I consider the respectable position, the eminent position you held. I am sure you cannot say I was extravagant, or that I brought up the children extravagantly. You told me yesterday that my five thousand pounds are secured by the marriage settlement. Why should I lose my old friends any more than the money my father gave me when we were married?" "Because," he said, laughing harshly again, "you married what the world will agree to call a fraudulent scoundrel. When I laughed a moment ago at the thought of the brougham, the idea which occurred to me was-it is rather painful. Shall I tell you?" "Yes, you had better tell me, I suppose.

Everything

is painful now." "Well," he said, "I thought that the next member of the family likely to drive would be myself, and the next vehicle in which I was likely to drive would be a Black Maria." "Black Maria, William," she said. "I do not understand you." "Black Maria, my dear," he explained, "is slang for a prison van. What is the matter, Jane? You seem weak. Help, outside there, Mrs. Vernon has fainted." The door opened. A footman entered. "If you please, sir, the brougham is at the door." The old man started and looked up, became suddenly pallid. "What did you say, James?" "I said, sir, that the brougham was at the door." "Ha! ha! ha! As I live, James, I thought you said the Black Maria. Fetch Mrs. Vernon's maid instantly. The mistress has fainted."

CHAPTER XII

When, on the night after the failure of Vernon and Son, Lionel Crawford heard from Dora Harrington the name of Dominique Lavirotte, and repeated it after her, he was filled with amazement. "This is the most extraordinary thing," he said, "that ever happened to me in all my life. Dominique Lavirotte," he repeated for the second time. "I am amazed!" "Do you know him?" the girl asked. "Well! Why, he owns the place I am taking you to. It isn't much of a place. It is only the tower of an old church. They are always talking of buying it from him and taking it down. But you see it isn't big enough to give room for building a warehouse or store on the ground it occupies, and it is impossible to take in any other building with it. But come, sweetheart," he said; "when did you eat last?" "I-I had some breakfast." "But breakfast is a long way since. You are young, and must be hungry. Here is the door of the tower." He took out a large key, and having turned the lock, thrust the door into the darkness. "Now," he said, leading her in, "be very careful; there is a hole here. Stand where you are until I find the lantern and matches." He groped about, and in a few seconds had lighted the candle in the lantern. Then he took the young girl by the hand, and said: "This way." By the light of the lantern she could see that they were walking on two planks, which together were not more than eighteen inches wide. Beyond the planks was a hole, the depth of which she could not guess. "Don't be afraid," he said. "Keep close to the wall and you are all right." The girl shuddered. She, who a few minutes ago was on her way to the river, now shrank from the notion of death. Had she not met someone who knew her lover, someone who knew Dominique, her darling Dominique? This was to get a new lease of life, a new interest in worldly things, a fresh-filled cup from the fountain of hope. She clung closely to the wall, and followed the old man through the gloom. They reached a corner, and here found a ladder. "Up this ladder," he said; adding, "What shall I call you? What is your name?" "Dora," she said. "Dora Harrington." "Then, Dora, my dear child," he said, "keep close to the wall on this ladder, too, for there is no hand-rail, as you see." They mounted the ladder. It ran along two sides of the tower. Then they found themselves on the first loft. The head of the ladder was unprotected by any rail. Two other lofts they reached in a similar manner, she clinging closely to the wall. "This is my sitting-room," he said, with a laugh. "It is not very wide or long, but it is lofty, airy, and, although there is not much furniture, and the little I have is the worse of the wear, it will have a great interest for you, for it belongs to him, Mr. Lavirotte. Sit down here, now, on this couch. The spring is not so good as it once was. You will have a cup of tea and some nice bread-and-butter. That little table over there is my kitchen. See," he said, "we do not take long to light the fire, and we shall have boiling water in a few minutes. Boiling water," he said, "and the prospect of a nice cup of tea is better for you, sweetheart, than the cold Thames. The prospect of-of-ugh! Let us forget that unpleasant folly of ours." He had kindled the lamp in a small oil-stove, and set the kettle on the stove. "And now," he said, "while the water is boiling you shall tell me as much as you please about yourself." She was very tired, and for the present the mere rest was food and drink to her. It was pleasant to sit there, half-tranced with fatigue, to sit upon this couch which belonged to him, in the presence of someone who knew him, and with the prospect of succour from a friendly hand. The furniture in the loft was not, indeed, handsome. It never had been. When Lavirotte lived in London he had furnished a couple of rooms, and upon leaving them found that he could get little or nothing for the furniture. So he carted it away to St. Prisca's Tower in Porter Street, and there it was when, at the request of Lionel Crawford, he let the tower to him. In the loft where Dora Harrington now found herself there were three ordinary chairs, one arm-chair, a couch, and two tables, besides the "kitchen." The walls were rough, unplastered brick. The roof of the loft was unceiled. Under the table was a small piece of carpet. "My own room," said the old man, "is above this, and this shall be yours for to-night, and as long as you wish after, until you get a better one, or until he comes for you." "How can I thank you for your kindness? May I ask your name?" "Lionel Crawford," said the old man. "I live in the room above this, because my business requires me to be near the roof by night." "Your business requires you," she said, "to be near the roof by night." By this time he had made the tea, and she had drunk a little, and begun to be refreshed. "Can it be you are an astronomer?" "No, no," he said. "I am no astronomer, and yet all the matters of weather interest me greatly. The rain to-night may be worth a fortune to me." "You are a farmer, perhaps," she said. "Or no, that cannot be; but you own land?" "Not a rood. Although I say I am much interested in the weather, I am neither interested in growing anything, nor in meteorology beyond the winds and the rains. By day I get as far away from the sun as I can, as close to the rich centre of the earth as I may. By night I aspire, I seek the highest point I can reach, and there I worship the clouds and the winds that they may befriend me." The old man was now sitting in the easy-chair, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on vacancy. He had a weird, possessed expression. He seemed to be looking at things far off, and yet clearly within the power of his vision. He seemed like one in a dream, and yet his words were as consequential and coherent as the reasoning in Euclid. His might have been the head of an alchemist, or of some other man who dwelt with unascertained potentialities, with mystic symbols and orders and rites, with things transcending the ken of vulgar flesh, with subtleties of matter known to few, rare drugs, rich spices, the virtues of gems, the portents of earth and air, the mystic language of the stars, the music of the spheres. "And when it is winter," asked the girl, "you wish, I suppose, for sunshine and calms?" "No," he said. "Never. Always for rain and wind; wind and rain. Wind in the daytime, and rain by night, winter and summer; all the year round." "And may I ask you," said the girl, timidly, "what you are?" "When I met you this evening," he said, in the same tone as he had employed since he became abstracted, "I was Giant Despair." "And now," she said, "what are you?" "The rain and you have come," he said. "I am now the humble Disciple of Hope." "And, sir, may I ask, have you no friends, no relatives?" "None that I know of," he said. "All my children are, I think, dead. My wife is dead. My best friends are the dead." "But surely, sir," she said, "there is among the living someone in whom you take an interest?" "No; no one. I am a client of the dead. If any good ever comes to me in life it will be out of the buried past. I doubt if good will ever come. I am too old and spent. I was too old and spent when I began my labours here. For years I had my great secret hidden in my breast. I nursed it, I fed it, I dreamed over it. For years I lived in this neighbourhood hoping some day or other to gain admission to this tower. I could not find out who owned it. It pays no rates or taxes. It is not registered in any name that I could ever find out. I had begun to think I should never get any nearer the goal, when one day as I was without the walls I saw a young man come up, thrust a key into the lock of the great door, and try in vain to move the rusty bolt. I watched him with consuming eagerness-" "This was some time ago?" "Years, two or three years. I drew up to the young man and said: 'I fear, sir, it is a tougher job than you bargained for.' I offered to get him a lo