Part I. – Continued.
THE LAST CALL

CHAPTER XX

When Dora Harrington released herself from old Crawford's arms, he led her to a chair, and said: "I have no longer the shadow of a doubt that you are the daughter of my Dora. It was, indeed, a lucky chance which made me in my despair last night turn my steps towards the river. And now," he added, "the next thing is to get some nice comfortable place for you. This old rookery would never suit. Let us go and try if we cannot find a suitable, homely place, somewhere outside the City." "I told you, sir," said the girl timidly, "that when yesterday I found out all my money was lost in the bank, I had not a shilling to send a message to him." "To Lavirotte?" "Yes, sir." The old man took out a leather bag and handed it to her, saying: "This will be enough for the present. When it is all gone let me know." "But, sir," said the girl, holding the bag in her hand without opening it, "I do not want all this. A shilling will be sufficient for the present, if you will only let me go to the nearest telegraph office." "Nonsense, child," he said. "You cannot be without money in London. There is more where that came from. If you wish to go immediately to the telegraph office, you may as well start now. I will meet you in an hour at Ludgate Circus." The young girl descended the ladders through the gloom of the tower, and opening the deep sunken door, emerged into the broad morning sunlight. She went to the telegraph office and wrote out the following message:

"Cannot say how sorry you are not well. Could not telegraph yesterday. Would go over, but have no money."

When she had written out this message, she untied the string of the bag and poured the contents into her hand. She had expected to find a few shillings. She started with surprise. "Gold! All gold!" She counted. "Twelve pounds!" Then for a moment she stood in thought, tore up the telegram she had written, and walked quickly back to the tower. Here a difficulty presented itself. How was she to summon the old man from the top or from the pit? If he was above, the feeble sound of her hand beating against that door would never be heard, even at night. But now in the day, owing to the roar of traffic around, she could not make herself heard if he was in the pit beneath. What was she to do? This was the only door. Under the circumstances she did not care to ask the aid of any passer-by, lest it might anger the old man. Notwithstanding her conviction that the effort would be fruitless, she did knock at the massive door with her hand. There came no response. For a quarter of an hour she stood and knocked unavailingly. Then she turned to go, and hastened to Ludgate Circus. She had taken no heed of time, and when she got to the Circus she was horrified to find herself twenty minutes behind the time appointed. She glanced hastily round, but could not see the old man. Then she carefully examined with her eye each of the four sections that make up the Circus. She found no one she knew. The hurrying crowd and throng of vehicles 'confused her senses and her mind. The old man had not indicated to her the section in which he would meet her, and to her eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the ceaseless turmoil of traffic in the City, it seemed almost impossible to find anyone in that place. She waited half-an-hour vainly. Then she began to despair. Whither should she turn? That tower in Porter Street now seemed as inaccessible to her as the centre of the Great Pyramid. This dereliction of to-day was harder to bear than that of yesterday; for since her desperate resolve the previous night she had found a friend-nay, more, a close relative-who was also the friend of the man she loved, and who was willing and able to help her. Had she not with her the proof of this willingness and this ability? Then, as she betook herself once more in the direction of St. Prisca's Tower, she remembered he had said the money he gave her that morning would do for the present. She was therefore, of course, at liberty to employ the money as she chose. It was hers to use, for a grandfather had of course a perfect right to give his grand-daughter money, and the granddaughter had a perfect right to accept it. Once more she found herself in the doorway of the tower. She stood a while looking up and down the busy way, when all at once, to her great joy, she saw the old man approaching. "My dear child, where have you been? I have been greatly frightened about you." She then explained to him what had occurred-how she had not noticed the time slipping by, and how, when she found herself in Ludgate Circus, she was twenty minutes too late. "Well, there's no harm done so far," said Crawford. "You sent your telegram, and now we shall go and look for a lodging." "No," she said, "I did not send it. I wrote it out and then tore it up. Did you know, sir, that all the money in this bag is gold?" "Yes," he said, "I keep my change loose always. Did you expect to find notes?" "Oh no, sir; but I thought as you were good enough to give this money you might perhaps allow me to do with it what I would most like. That is the reason I tore up my telegram." "Certainly," he said. "You may do with it exactly what you please." "Well then," said the girl, "will you consent to my going to Ireland this evening?" The old man started for a moment. "I suppose you mean," he said, "to Glengowra, to see Lavirotte." She coloured, and said: "Yes. If you do not object. He is ill, you know." "It is a long way for a young girl to go alone; too long I fear." "I am used to travelling," pleaded the girl, "I do not mind travelling in the least. I have travelled a great deal alone." "Give me a little time to think," said the old man. "I cannot decide at the moment. This is no place to stand any longer. Let us sit down somewhere. Come with me." Crawford led the way to a quiet room, where he ordered some light refreshment, and where they could speak without effort or restraint. They talked the matter over a little. At last he made up his mind. "I have resolved," he said, "that you should not go alone so long a journey." The girl looked disappointed; her eyes filled with tears. "Oh!" she cried, "I wish you would give me leave." "Nevertheless," said the old man, not heeding the interruption, "you shall go to Ireland this evening. I will go with you." They were alone. She took his dark, wrinkled hand in hers and kissed it, and cried, "Thank you, grandfather," and burst into tears. It was the first time the old man had been called grandfather, and the name seemed to re-awaken in his breast echoes of his old tenderness. He placed his other hand on her head, and drew her head down on his shoulder, saying softly: "Weep, if it is good for your heart, my child. These are healing tears. You are, as far as I know, the one human being saved to me out of the shipwreck of my life. I will go with you to-night. He will recover speedily, you may be sure, and I will afterwards do all I can for you and him." Then the detail of their journey was arranged. She was to get what things she required in lieu of those left with her landlady. He had some preparations to make too. That evening they both set out for Dublin on their way to Glengowra.

CHAPTER XXI

The gold and silver plate and the jewels of the great Lord Tuscar were the wonder and admiration of Europe. Sovereigns envied him for their possession. They had not been the result of one generation. The Tuscars had for a couple of centuries been generals, admirals, statesmen, lawyers. They had, in fact, occupied every favourable position for earning high rewards and for wholesale plundering. They had plundered with a will. And now, in addition to fine estates in three English counties and a large slice out of "settled" Ulster, and one of the finest houses in London, Lord Tuscar had the largest collection of plate and jewels owned by any nobleman in the three kingdoms. No one had ever attempted even to estimate the value of his treasures. His house was situated close to the river, at no great distance from St. Prisca's Church. Those were times of troubles and dangers. Great houses had been ruined and great houses made in an incredibly short space of time. Men who had been at the zenith of power and riches yesterday were penniless exiles to-day, and the men who had subsisted upon the charity of foreign courts and foreign nobles a week ago, were now environed with all the circumstance and pomp of power and all the splendour of wealth. Now, one of the most remarkable things in connection with the great Tuscar treasure was, that for some years no one had seen more of it than the meaner exigencies of a great house required. Some said the great lord had pawned it. At this most people laughed; for was it not known that, gorgeous as was the state and luxury with which he surrounded himself, his income exceeded his expenses? Others said that although the time was over when monarchs playfully adopted the treasures of their nobles, the great earl had misgivings, and although one of the most favoured courtiers of the Merry Monarch, he had a morbid dread that his Majesty might unjustly covet those precious stores. Then there was an idea that as the Tuscars had been enthusiastic Royalists, and as the present earl was notoriously timid, he had, in dread of a second Commonwealth, sent his plate and gems over seas. However the matter stood, there could be no doubt that the treasure was not now at Tuscar House; and, moreover, it was alleged that only his lordship and one confidential person could tell the whereabouts of the hoard. It was towards the end of summer, and night. Most of London had retired to rest. A strong wind was blowing from the east. The city was ill-lighted where it was lighted at all, and the streets dangerous after dark; so that most people who were honest and had anything to lose kept indoors. It was not a fashionable part of the city, but it was not unprosperous. As the night went on the wind increased, until about ten o'clock. Then it blew fiercely. All at once in front of the shop of one, Farryner, baker to the King, was raised a cry: "Fire!" That was the beginning of it. In an incredibly short time, aided by the wind, Farryner's house was burned out; but, before it was finally reduced to ashes, most of Pudding Lane was in flames. Many of the houses were of wood, and offered no protest whatever against the development of the conflagration. An hour from the outbreak of the flames it was known Farryner was burned out. Two hours later it was known that London was in flames. Now it could be seen that this was no incidental fire, to be dismissed finally at the end of the nine-days' wonder. This was a fire that would be remembered for years. Three hours after midnight it was obvious that, if the wind continued in its present quarter for any great length of time, the fire would become a matter which history could never ignore. By this time a large portion of the population in the neighbourhood afflicted were afoot. Now the fire leaped from street to street, as though with the agility of trained experience. Now, when new material came in its way, it shot upward in spires of flame. Later, these spires, bending under the pressure of the wind, made radiant viaducts for the fire across the darkened streets. And when they had done their deadly work, and the buildings opposite crackled and glowed, these huge beams of molten gold contracted as the source upon which they had fed failed them, and finally they made one wild, aspiring rush upwards when the roof fell, and the four walls of each house formed the crater of an iridescent volcano, which belched forth one huge mass of co-mingled smoke, and flame, and sparks, and flakes, and wands of fire. About this time the vast house owned by the great Lord Tuscar was threatened, touched, and fired. He, his suite and retinue, escaped by the river; and in a brief time, before the daylight yet broadened in the east, already red with the flames, Tuscar House was beyond hope. Now terror had fully seized the people. No efforts were made to save the buildings. Those who could escape with their lives, and a few of the most portable of their worldly goods, were considered lucky. Men and women might be seen hurrying through the streets frantically, moving west, carrying such of their possessions as could be borne a great distance. For now they had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to set a limit to the flames, and that the whole of London in a westerly direction might succumb. There had been a long, hot, dry season, and the houses burned bravely. They seemed but to need a touch from the fiery wind flying by to kindle them. Despair reigned supreme. Men and women went shrieking through the streets. The roar of the conflagration shook the air. The crash of falling houses made the solid ground tremble. People would not leave their homes until the flames had touched the walls, until the last ray of hope was obscured. Then such as were not encumbered with children or goods flew through the streets, shrieking like demented beings. One of those most alarmed by the magnitude of the calamity and the terrors of that night was the great Earl of Tuscar. When he entered his barge to row up the river his feet trembled, and he could scarcely keep himself upright. He was elderly, and had been in failing health for some time. Before they arrived at the stairs at Westminster he complained of feeling faint; and when at last the barge ran alongside, they had to carry the great Earl out, for he was dead. As the attendants were bearing the body of the great Earl from his barge, a solitary man stood on the leads of the tower belonging to St. Prisca's Church, watching the progress of the flames. Evidently he was very anxious, for his head and eyes moved continually from right to left. As each spot, which, a moment before had been black, sprang into flame, he shifted his feet restlessly like one feeling he ought to be gone, and yet daring to hope there was no need for flight. "If anything is to be saved," he said, "there is no time to lose." Again he ran his eye over the increasing area of the fire. "The walls of the tower may stand," he thought. "They are much thicker than is common. But the church itself must go if the wind does not abate. The Earl has already left, of course. The fire did not spare his stout walls, nor respect his greatness. He and I alone know where his treasure is hid. He will, of course, take measures to secure it after the fire. It could be nowhere safer than it is at present. No one suspects it is in the vault. People who saw the chests come believed they contained only the rescued archives of an abbey destroyed by Cromwell. But let me see. Supposing anything should have happened to him; supposing he was overtaken by the flames; suppose, from some cause or other, he should not be able to communicate the secret to anyone, how then could this treasure be discovered? How could it be so arranged that the secret might fall into no other hands than those entitled to know it, for may not I too perish in this terrible disaster?" He turned around, and leaving the embrasure in which he had stood, descended quickly to the room below. Here a light was burning, and it could be seen that he who had watched the fire from the roof was a clergyman. "How is it to be done?" he thought, and pondered some seconds. At last he lifted a small box, and, going to some bookshelves, took out a few volumes. In two of these volumes he wrote something. "It will not do," he thought, "to make this matter so plain that anyone may understand it. If the Earl is alive, by noon he will surely take some steps with regard to his treasure. If he is not alive, and I too have perished, it will be necessary some record should be left behind." He placed a copy of Chaucer, in which he had written something, in the bottom of the box, then a few indifferent books, and then "Mentor on Hawking," in which he had written something also; then a few more indifferent books, and finally a piece of paper bearing these words:

"Search diligently if you would know what John Henry Plantagenet James, eighth earl, knew, if he be dead." On the outside of the box he fastened a piece of parchment on which he wrote: "A box of books. Take this at once to the Earl of Tuscar, who will reward the bearer." Then he locked the box, and, putting it on his shoulder, descended the ladders of St. Prisca's Tower. As he did so he said to himself: "I have not been too soon. The air here is already hot. I can smell the fire close by." As he was about half-way down, a sudden light in one of the openings attracted his attention. He started, and cried: "The flames have already struck the church." Ere he reached the next loft it was but too plain the tower was already in flames. "My retreat cut off!" he exclaimed in despair. He looked down into the next loft. The floor and the foot of the ladder were alight, and exit was impossible. If there was any hope for him it must be upon the roof. He hastened thither. During the time he had been occupied with the books and writing, and in descending and ascending, the fire had made rapid, terrible progress. It had touched the Church of St. Prisca, and the smoke was already coming up the opening in the roof. It was quite plain now to the man on the leads that he was doomed. There were people in the streets below, but they were as helpless as he. "I must die," he said. "Nothing can save me. There is but one chance for my preserving the secret." He approached an embrasure on the western side, and dropped the box into the street below. The box shot downward and was shattered into atoms. Some paltry pilferer, a few minutes later, snatched up the books and put them into his bag. The label on the box and the manuscript-slip inside were never seen afterwards. The books were carried to Kensington, whither a good deal of the salvage of the fire was brought; and the clergyman, who had tried to save the Earl's secret, fell a victim to the Great Fire of London on the 3rd of September, 1666.