The long, long hours and days that he had spent in the Sternhold Hall chronicling the proceedings of the council, and which he had at the time so heartily hated soon proved of the utmost value. He could at once understand what was wanted, and perceive the value of the smallest link of evidence. Here was one link obviously wanting—the deed. Without that deed the descent of Violet from Arthur Sibbold was comparatively of small account. It was possible that even then she might be a co-heiress; but without that deed—which specially included female heiresses—she would not be able to claim the entire estate. Yet even then, as the direct descendant of the elder brother, her claim would be extremely valuable, and far more likely to succeed than the very distant chance of the American Sibbolds or Baskettes, all of whom laboured under the disadvantage that their forefathers had sold their birthright for a mess of pottage. Another and far more serious difficulty which occurred to him as he thought over the matter, far into the night, was the absence of proof of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It was clear from the little book whose notes had opened his eyes, that the register of the church at Bury Wick, World’s End, had been searched, and no record found. His memorandum of the advertisement of change of name described Arthur Sibbold as of Middlesex; the marriage therefore might have taken place in London. Probably Sibbold had met the Miss Waldron he had afterwards married in town. Where then was he to find the register of marriage? Middlesex was a wide definition. How many churches were there in Middlesex? What a Herculean labour to search through them all!
He was too much excited to sleep. Despite of all these drawbacks—the disappearance of the deed, and the absence of the marriage certificate—there was no reasonable doubt that Violet was the heiress of the Stirmingham estates. The difficulties that were in the way appeared to him as nothing; he would force his way through them. She should have her rights—and then! He would search every church in London till he did find the register of Arthur Sibbold’s marriage. It must be in existence somewhere. If it was in existence he would find it. Towards two o’clock in the morning he fell asleep, and, as a result, did not wake till ten next day. Hurrying to his daily task, he was met with frowns and curses for neglect, and venturing to remonstrate, was discharged upon the spot.
Here seemed an end at once to all his golden dreams. He walked back into the City, and passing along Fleet Street, was stopped for a moment by a crowd of people staring into the window of a print and bookshop, and talking excitedly. A momentary curiosity led him to press through the crowd, till he could obtain a view of the window. There he saw—wonder of wonders—one of his own sketches, an illustration from his book, greatly enlarged, and printed in colours. It was this that had attracted the crowd. The humour and yet the pathos of the picture—the touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin—had gone straight to their hearts. On every side he heard the question, “Whose is it?”—“Who drew it?”—“What’s the artist’s name?” Then the title of the book was repeated, and “Who’s it by?”—“Who wrote it?”—“I’ll get a copy! Third Edition already—it must be good.”
Gratified, wonder-stricken, proud, and yet bewildered, Aymer at last got into the shop and made inquiries. Then he learnt that the publisher had stolen a march upon him. They had never sent him the proofs; they had in fact thought very little of the book, till one day it happened (it happened again) a famous artist came into the office, and chanced to turn over a leaf of the MS., which was lying where Aymer had left it, on the publisher’s wide desk. This man had a worldwide reputation, and feared no competitor; he could therefore do justice to others. He was greatly struck with the sketches.
“This man will make his fortune,” he said. “Why on earth do you let the book lie here mouldering?”
The publisher said nothing, but next day the manuscript was put in hand, hurried out, and well advertised. The first and second edition sold out in a week, and Aymer heard nothing of it till accident led him into the crowd round the shop window in Fleet Street.
It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher’s with a glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition.
Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible—the booksellers had not paid yet—the expense had been enormous—advertising, etc., there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser—the
