of Rangoon. ‘But,’ he said, ‘the Habeas Corpus Act has no clause about cats, and in Scottish law, which is good enough for me, there is no property in cats. You can’t, legally, steal them.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Merton.
‘I took the opinion of an eminent sheriff substitute.’
‘What is that?’
‘Oh, a fearfully swagger legal official: you have nothing like it.’
‘Rum country, Scotland,’ said Merton.
‘Rum country, England,’ said Logan, indignantly. ‘You have no property in corpses.’
Merton was silenced.
Neither could foresee how momentous, to each of them, the question of property in corpses was to prove. O pectora cæca!
* * * * *
Miss Blowser is now Mrs. Potter. She married her aged wooer, and Rangoon still wins prizes at the Crystal Palace.
V. THE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICE SCREEN
It is not to be supposed that all the enterprises of the Company of Disentanglers were fortunate. Nobody can command success, though, on the other hand, a number of persons, civil and military, are able to keep her at a distance with surprising uniformity. There was one class of business which Merton soon learned to renounce in despair, just as some sorts of maladies defy our medical science.
‘It is curious, and not very creditable to our chemists,’ Merton said, ‘that love philtres were once as common as seidlitz powders, while now we have lost that secret. The wrong persons might drink love philtres, as in the case of Tristram and Iseult. Or an unskilled rural practitioner might send out the wrong drug, as in the instance of Lucretius, who went mad in consequence.’
‘Perhaps,’ remarked Logan, ‘the chemist was voting at the Comitia, and it was his boy who made a mistake about the mixture.’
‘Very probably, but as a rule, the love philtres worked. Now, with all our boasted progress, the secret is totally lost. Nothing but a love philtre would be of any use in some cases. There is Lord Methusalem, eighty if he is a day.’
‘Methusalem has been unco “wastefu’ in wives”!’ said Logan.
‘His family have been consulting me—the women in tears. He will marry his grandchildren’s German governess, and there is nothing to be done. In such cases nothing is ever to be done. You can easily distract an aged man’s volatile affections, and attach them to a new charmer. But she is just as ineligible as the first; marry he will, always a young woman. Now if a respectable virgin or widow of, say, fifty, could hand him a love philtre, and gain his heart, appearances would, more or less, be saved. But, short of philtres, there is nothing to be done. We turn away a great deal of business of that sort.’
The Society of Disentanglers, then, reluctantly abandoned dealings in this class of affairs.
In another distressing business, Merton, as a patriot, was obliged to abandon an attractive enterprise. The Marquis of Seakail was serving his country as a volunteer, and had been mentioned in despatches. But, to the misery of his family, he had entangled himself, before his departure, with a young lady who taught in a high school for girls. Her character was unimpeachable, her person graceful; still, as her father was a butcher, the duke and duchess were reluctant to assent to the union. They consulted Merton, and assured him that they would not flinch from expense. A great idea flashed across Merton’s mind. He might send out a stalwart band of Disentanglers, who, disguised as the enemy, might capture Seakail, and carry him off prisoner to some retreat where the fairest of his female staff (of course with a suitable chaperon), would await him in the character of a daughter of the hostile race. The result would probably be to detach Seakail’s heart from his love in England. But on reflection, Merton felt that the scheme was unworthy of a patriot.
Other painful cases occurred. One lady, a mother, of resolute character, consulted Merton on the case of her son. He was betrothed to an excitable girl, a neighbour in the country, who wrote long literary letters about Mr. George Meredith’s novels, and (when abroad) was a perfect Baedeker, or Murray, or Mr. Augustus Hare: instructing through correspondence. So the matron complained, but this was not the worst of it. There was an unhappy family history, of a kind infinitely more common in fiction than in real life. To be explicit, even according to the ideas of the most abject barbarians, the young people, unwittingly, were too near akin for matrimony.
‘There is nothing for it but to tell both of them the truth,’ said Merton. ‘This is not a case in which we can be concerned.’
The resolute matron did not take his counsel. The man was told, not the girl, who died in painful circumstances, still writing. Her letters were later given to the world, though obviously not intended for publication, and only calculated to waken unavailing grief among the sentimental, and to make the judicious tired. There was, however, a case in which Merton may be said to have succeeded by a happy accident. Two visitors, ladies, were ushered into his consulting room; they were announced as Miss Baddeley and Miss Crofton.
Miss Baddeley was attired in black, wore a thick veil, and trembled a good deal. Miss Crofton, whose dress was a combination of untoward but decisive hues, and whose hat was enormous and flamboyant, appeared to be the other young lady’s confidante, and conducted the business of the interview.
‘My dear friend, Miss Baddeley,’ she began, when Miss Baddeley took her hand, and held it, as if for protection and sympathy. ‘My dear friend,’ repeated Miss Crofton, ‘has asked me to accompany her, and state her case. She is too highly strung to speak for herself.’
Miss Baddeley wrung Miss Crofton’s hand, and visibly quivered.
Merton assumed an air of sympathy. ‘The situation is grave?’ he asked.
‘My friend,’ said Miss Crofton, thoroughly enjoying herself, ‘is the victim of passionate and unavailing remorse, are you not, Julia?’ Julia nodded.
‘Deeply as I sympathise,’ said Merton, ‘it appears to me that I am scarcely the person to consult. A mother now—’
‘Julia has none.’
‘Or a father or sister?’
‘But for me, Julia is alone in the world.’
‘Then,’ said Merton, ‘there are many periodicals especially intended for ladies. There is The Woman of the World, The Girl’s Guardian Angel, Fashion and Passion, and so on. The Editors, in their columns, reply to questions in cases of conscience. I have myself read the replies to Correspondents, and would especially recommend those published in a serial conducted by Miss Annie Swan.’
Miss Crofton shook her head.
‘Miss Baddeley’s social position is not that of the people who are answered in periodicals.’
‘Then why does she not consult some discreet and learned person, her spiritual director? Remorse (entirely due, no doubt, to a conscience too delicately sensitive)
