We stood back from the crucible. For several minutes nothing happened, so that finally I was tempted to look through my fingers, at which point there was a blinding flash and a strong smell of cinnamon, and, as the Count had predicted, I was blinded by a green spot in front of my eyes for several minutes. But when my sight was recovered and I inspected the crucible once more, I saw to my astonishment that the whole mass had been converted into what looked to be the finest gold.
“I should not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes,” said I.
“That much is certain,” said Newton.
The Count poured the molten gold into an ingot, and, it having cooled sufficiently, he set the ingot in water and then polished it up for our inspection.
Newton placed the small ingot in the pan of a balance to determine the weight, and smiled. He handed me the ingot, and while I stared in wonder at the miracle I had seen, he inspected the crucible from which it had been poured.
“My doubts are removed,” he said firmly. “Sir, you are a rascal. I thought it proper to remove my doubts about your demonstration by marking the lip of the crucible I gave you. That mark having now disappeared—”
“It was the heat of the fire that consumed it, surely,” protested Doctor Love.
“The mark was most indelible, being a fine groove I chiselled in the stone of my own crucible this very afternoon. I am certain that this crucible containing the gold was substituted for the one I marked and which contained the lead. As soon as the Count advised us to cover our eyes, I was suspicious. He waited just long enough before curiosity overtook us and we peeped to see what had happened. At that moment he threw some phosphorus into the crucible, which blinded us long enough for him to make the substitution. I smelt the fault, however, for phosphorus is most offensive to the nostrils; but it can be rendered less offensive by first dissolving it in oil of cinnamon.”
“Sir,” said the Count, gesturing most innocently with his hands. “You are very much mistaken.”
“Am I?” said Newton and, catching hold of the Count’s wrist, quickly inspected his fingers’ ends, which were most painfully blistered, before the Count snatched away his hand with what looked like a mighty show of guilt. “My late friend Mister Boyle once had occasion to demonstrate phosphorus to me. I seem to recall that his own hands were similarly blistered from handling phosphorus with his bare hands. But I will freely admit I am mistaken if a search of this laboratory finds no evidence of fraud.”
The Count, who was still all innocence, silently invited Newton’s scrutiny. My master hardly hesitated and, advancing swiftly across the laboratory, lifted up the lid of the close-stool in the corner to reveal the second crucible containing the melted lead and bearing Newton’s mark.
“How ever did you know that it was there?” I asked, amazed.
“Before beginning his demonstration, the Count asked me to move away from its proximity, for fear that I should perhaps hear him open it. Moreover, this commodious Ajax is made not of wood, but entirely of metal, which struck me as curious, until now.”
“But what about these two mountebanks?” I asked. “How are we to proceed against them?”
“Sadly, no crime has been committed here,” said Newton. “However, you two gentlemen would be well advised not to repeat your fraudulent demonstrations in London. For then I should be under compunction to denounce you to all men of learning.”
The Count smiled thinly and narrowed his eyes so that I began to perceive how he was less of a bombast and more of a desperado than I had earlier supposed.
“And you, sir, would do well to stay out of my way,” he said quietly. “For if you called me a liar in front of other gentlemen of quality, I should not have very much hesitation in challenging you, Doctor.”
Doctor Love was no less threatening than his rascally Italian friend. “In Italy,” he said, “the Count is a most notorious swordsman and has killed three men in affairs of honour.”
“Come, Ellis,” said Newton. “I think we must be leaving now. We have seen all that we needed to see.” And with that we left, for which I was very glad, since the atmosphere in that laboratory had grown doubly hazardous.
“What a pair of charlatans,” muttered Newton, when we were outside again. “That they should have thought they could trick me.”
I told my master that I did not think the Count looked like a man lightly to be thwarted. “You must be more cautious, Doctor,” I said. “I think we were lucky to get out of there without a fight.”
“This world is full of rogues,” said Newton. “Forget him. He’ll not trouble us again.”
Taking pity on my still empty stomach, Newton invited me to his house, in Jermyn Street, which was but a walk away from Soho. And I have mentioned this matter only because it was on this night that I met Miss Barton, which was as near to a genuine transmutation as I ever beheld, for after I met her, my feelings were become gold and it seemed to me that, by comparison, all fondnesses I had felt for other girls were as dullas lead.
“My niece, Miss Barton, who has come to live with me, will welcome the company,” he explained while we walked down from Soho toward Piccadilly. “She is the daughter of my half sister, Hannah, who was married to a Northamptonshire cleric, the Reverend Robert Barton. But he died, some three years ago, and left little money for his three children; I have taken upon myself the cost of their upbringing. I have told her I am a dull stick, but she wishes to see London; and besides, Northampton, the nearest town to where she lives, is a dull place, much destroyed by the fire of 1675, and the society there not fit for a girl of Catherine’s intelligence. Or loveliness. I am told by Lord Montagu, who has met her, that she is a great beauty. But I will also value your opinion, Ellis, for I believe you to know more about women than almost anything else.”
“Why, sir, have you never met her yourself?”
“Of course I have. But I confess I understand little of that quality in a body and its mechanical action upon another human mind and its senses.”
“A man might think you were describing not a girl but a problem of geometry, sir,” I said, laughing. “I don’t think beauty is to be apprehended as a matter of mathematics.”
“That,” said Newton, reaching his front door, “is only your opinion.”
The young woman to whom I was now introduced was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and it was hard to perceive in her any great similarity to her uncle, which was perhaps not so surprising given that her mother was only Newton’s half sister. She was pretty, of that there could be no dissent; but in truth, during the first few minutes of our acquaintance, I considered her not altogether so great a beauty as milord Montagu had opined. And it to ok me several marvellous minutes to understand how it was that beauty rests on more than just a pretty face; there was also the matter of her very obvious intelligence to be take into account. For her excellent mind—most other ladies I had met were much more obviously shy and retiring than Newton’s precocious niece—caused Miss Barton’s lovely features to be much animated with thought, and being added to her prettiness, the effect of each was doubled, so that her great beauty was my inevitable impression. So great a beauty that by and by I found I was very pleased with her and soon found myself too much minding her. By her conversation she was clever and witty beyond her bigness and age and exceedingly well bred as to her deportment, having been a scholar at the local school in Brigstock these nine or ten year.
After we had eaten supper, she said, “My uncle tells me that, prior to entering his service, you were training to become a lawyer, Mister Ellis.”
“Yes, that was my expectation, Miss Barton.”
“But that you fought a duel which obliged you to leave off your studies.”
“Yes, that is true, I did, although I am near ashamed to mention it to you, Miss Barton.”
“Nonsense,” she railed. “I never met anyone who fought a duel. You are my first duellist, Mister Ellis. But I confess I have met dozens of lawyers. Northamptonshire is quite riddled with them. Is that the sword with which you fought?”
I looked down at the hilt of my sword. “Yes, it is.”
“I should like to see it. If I asked you nicely, would you show it to me?”
I looked at her uncle.
“I have no objection,” he said.
No sooner had he spoken thus, than I had drawn my sword and, kneeling before her, presented it to Miss Barton upon the sleeve of my coat. “Have a care, miss, it’s very sharp.”
“I did not think you looked like the kind of man to carry a blunt sword, Mister Ellis.” She took hold of the hilt, raised my sword, and fenced the air for a moment or two. “And did you kill him?”
