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D ATA A N A LY S I S F R O M S C R AT C H W I T H P Y T H O N
Step By Step Guide

Peters Morgan
 How to contact us
If you find any damage, editing issues or any other issues in this book contain
please immediately notify our customer service by email at:
[email protected]

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Thank you so much for buying this book.
 Preface
“Humanity is on the verge of digital slavery at the hands of AI and biometric technologies. One way to
prevent that is to develop inbuilt modules of deep feelings of love and compassion in the learning
algorithms.”
― Amit Ray, Compassionate Artificial Superintelligence AI 5.0 - AI with Blockchain, BMI, Drone, IOT,
and Biometric Technologies
If you are looking for a complete guide to the Python language and its library
that will help you to become an effective data analyst, this book is for you.
This book contains the Python programming you need for Data Analysis.
Why the AI Sciences Books are different?
The AI Sciences Books explore every aspect of Artificial Intelligence and Data
Science using computer Science programming language such as Python and R.
Our books may be the best one for beginners; it's a step-by-step guide for any
person who wants to start learning Artificial Intelligence and Data Science from
scratch. It will help you in preparing a solid foundation and learn any other high-
level courses will be easy to you.
Step By Step Guide and Visual Illustrations and Examples

The Book give complete instructions for manipulating, processing, cleaning,

modeling and crunching datasets in Python. This is a hands-on guide with
practical case studies of data analysis problems effectively. You will learn
pandas, NumPy, IPython, and Jupiter in the Process.
Who Should Read This?

This book is a practical introduction to data science tools in Python. It is ideal

for analyst’s beginners to Python and for Python programmers new to data
science and computer science. Instead of tough math formulas, this book
contains several graphs and images.
© Copyright 2016 by AI Sciences LLC
All rights reserved.
First Printing, 2016
Edited by Davies Company
Ebook Converted and Cover by Pixels Studio Publised by AI Sciences LLC

ISBN-13: 978-1721942817
ISBN-10: 1721942815

The contents of this book may not be reproduced, duplicated or transmitted without the direct written
permission of the author.

Under no circumstances will any legal responsibility or blame be held against the publisher for any
reparation, damages, or monetary loss due to the information herein, either directly or indirectly.
Legal Notice:

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By reading this document, the reader agrees that under no circumstances is the author responsible for any
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document, including, but not limited to, errors, omissions, or inaccuracies.

From AI Sciences Publisher

 To my wife Melania
and my children Tanner and Daniel
without whom this book would have
been completed.
 Author Biography
Peters Morgan is a long-time user and developer of the Python. He is one of the
core developers of some data science libraries in Python. Currently, Peter works
as Machine Learning Scientist at Google.
 Table of Contents
Preface
Why the AI Sciences Books are different?
Step By Step Guide and Visual Illustrations and Examples
Who Should Read This?

From AI Sciences Publisher

Author Biography
Table of Contents
Introduction
2. Why Choose Python for Data Science & Machine Learning
Python vs R
Widespread Use of Python in Data Analysis
Clarity
3. Prerequisites & Reminders
Python & Programming Knowledge
Installation & Setup
Is Mathematical Expertise Necessary?
4. Python Quick Review
Tips for Faster Learning
5. Overview & Objectives
Data Analysis vs Data Science vs Machine Learning
Possibilities
Limitations of Data Analysis & Machine Learning
Accuracy & Performance
6. A Quick Example
Iris Dataset
Potential & Implications
7. Getting & Processing Data
CSV Files
Feature Selection
Online Data Sources
Internal Data Source
Other documents randomly have
different content
earnestly. 'Has he told you?'
'I assure you that he has told me nothing—and——'
'That is in reality what I came about. Because, my dear, there must
be a little plain speaking.'
'Oh! but let me speak—I——'
'When I have said what I came to say'—Lady Frances motioned with
her hand gently but with authority—'then you shall have your turn.
Men are so foolish that they tell their sweethearts everything. The
chief reason why they fall in love, I believe, is a burning desire to
have somebody to whom they can tell everything. I know a man
who drove his wife mad by constantly telling her all his difficulties.
He was always swimming in difficulties. Well, Alec is bound to tell
you before long, even if he has not told you yet, which I can hardly
believe. Now, my dear child, it matters very little to him if all the
world knew the truth. All the world, to be sure, credits him with
those stories, though he has been very careful not to claim them. He
knows better. I say to such a clever man as Alec a few stories, more
or less, matter nothing. But it matters a great deal to me'—what was
this person talking about?—'because, you see, if it were to come out
that I had been putting together old family scandals and forgotten
stories, and sending them to the papers—there would be—there
would be—Heaven knows what there would be! Yes, my dear—you
can tell Alec that you know—I am the person who has written those
stories. I wrote them, every one. They are all family stories—every
good old family has got thousands of stories, and I have been
collecting them—some of my own people, some of my husband's,
and some of other people—and writing them down, changing
names, and scenes, and dates, so that they should not be identified
except by the few who knew them.'
Armorel made no further attempt to stem the tide of communication.
'I have come to make you understand clearly, young lady, that it is
not his secret alone, but mine. You would do him a little harm,
perhaps—I don't know—by letting it out, but you would do me an
infinity of harm. I write them down, you see, and I take them to
Alec, and he alters them—puts the style right—or says he does—
though I never see any difference in them when they come out in
the paper. And everybody who knows the story asks how in the
name of wonder he got it.'
'Oh! But I do assure you that I know nothing at all of this.'
'Don't you? Well, never mind. Now you do know. And you know also
that you can't talk about it, because it is his secret as well as mine.
Why, you don't suppose that the man really does all he says he
does, do you? Nobody could. It isn't in nature. Everybody who
knows anything at all agrees that there must be a ghost—perhaps
more than one. I'm the story ghost. I dare say there's a picture
ghost, and a poetry ghost. He's a wonderful clever man, no doubt—
it's the cleverest thing in the world to make other people work for
you; but don't imagine, pray, that he can write stories of society.
Bourgeois stories—about the middle class—his own class—perhaps;
but not stories about Us. My stories belong to quite another level.
Well, my dear, that is off my mind. Remember that this secret would
do a great deal of harm to him as well as to me if it were to get
about.'
'Oh! You are altogether—wholly—wrong——'
'My dear, I really do not care if I am wrong. You will not, however,
damage his reputation by letting out his secrets? A wife can help her
husband in a thousand ways, and especially in keeping up the little
deceptions. Thousands of wives, I am told, pass their whole lives in
the pretence that they and their husbands are gentlefolk. Alec has
been received into a few good houses; and though it is, of course,
more difficult to get a woman in than a man, I will really do what I
can for you. With a good face, good eyes, a good figure, and a little
addition of style, you ought to get on very well by degrees. Or you
might take the town by storm, and become a professional beauty.'
'Thank you—but——'
'And there's another thing. As an old friend of Alec's, I feel that I can
give advice to you. Let me advise you earnestly, my dear, to make all
the haste you can to get rid of your companion. I know all about it.
She was sent to your lawyer's by Alec himself. Why? Well, it is an old
story, and I suppose he wanted to place her comfortably—or he had
some other reason. He's always been a crafty man. You can see that
in his eyes.'
'Oh! But I cannot listen to this!' cried Armorel.
'Nonsense, my dear. You do not expect your husband to be an angel,
I suppose. Only silly middle-class girls who read novels do that. It
will do you no harm to know that the man is no better than his
neighbours. And I am sure he is no worse. I am speaking, in fact, for
your own good. My dear child, Alec ran after the woman years ago.
She was rich then, and used to go about. Certain houses do not
mind who enter within their gates. They lived in Palace Gardens, and
Monsieur le Papa was rich—oh! rich à millions—and the daughter
was sugar-sweet and as innocent as an angel—fluffy hair, all tangled
and rebellious—you know the kind—and large blue, wondering eyes,
generally lowered until the time came for lifting them in the faces of
young men. It was deadly, my dear. I believe she might have
married anybody she pleased. There was the young Earl of
Silchester—he wanted her. What a fool she was not to take him! No;
she was spoony on Alec Feilding——'
'Oh! I must not!' cried Armorel again.
'My dear, I'm telling you. Her papa went smash—poor thing!—a
grand, awful, impossible smash; other people's money mixed up in
it. A dozen workhouses were filled with the victims, I believe. That
kind of smash out of which it is impossible to pull yourself anyhow.
Killed himself, therefore. Went out of the world without invitation by
means of a coarse, vulgar, common piece of two-penny rope, tied
round his great fat neck. I remember him. What did the girl do? Ran
away from society: went on the stage as one of a travelling
company. Why, I saw her myself three years ago at Leamington. I
knew her instantly. "Aha!" I said, "there's Miss Fluffy, with the
appealing, wondering eyes. Poor thing! Here is a come down in the
world!" Now I find her here—your companion—a widow—widow of
one Jerome Elstree deceased—artist, I am told. I never heard of the
gentleman, and I confess I have my doubts as to his existence at
all.'
Armorel ceased to offer any further opposition to the stream.
'The innocent, appealing blue eyes: the childish face: oh! I
remember. My dear, I hope you will not have any reason to be
jealous of Mrs. Elstree. But take care. There were other girls, too,
now I come to think about it. There was his cousin, Philippa
Rosevean. Everybody knows that he went as far with her as a man
can go, short of an actual engagement. Canon Langley, of St. Paul's,
wants to marry her. She's an admirable person for an ecclesiastical
dignitary's wife—beautiful, cold, and dignified. But, as yet, she has
not accepted him. They say he will be a bishop. And they say she
loves her cousin Alec still. Women are generally dreadful fools about
men. But I don't know. I don't think, if I were you, I should be
jealous of Philippa. There's another little girl, too, I have seen
coming out of his studio. But she's only a model, or something. If
you begin to be jealous about the models, there will be no end.
Then, there are hundreds of girls about town—especially those who
can draw and paint a little, or write a silly little song—who think they
are greatly endowed with genius, and would give their heads to get
your chance. You are a lucky girl, Miss Armorel Rosevean; but I
would advise you, in order to make the most of your good fortune,
to change your companion quickly. Persuade her to try the climate of
Australia. Else, there may be family jars.'
Here she stopped. She had said what was in her mind. Whether she
came to say this out of the goodness of her heart; or whether she
intended to make a little mischief between the girl and her lover; or
whether she supposed Armorel to be a young lady who accepts a
lover with no illusions as to imaginary perfections, so that a new
weakness discovered here and there would not lower him in her
opinion, I cannot say. Lady Frances was generally considered a
good-natured kind of person, and certainly she had no illusions
about perfection in any man.
'May I speak now?' asked Armorel.
'Certainly, my dear. It was very good of you to hear me patiently.
And I've said all I wanted to. Keep my secret, and get rid of your
companion, and I'll take you in hand.'
'Thank you. But you would not suffer me to explain that you are
entirely mistaken. I am not engaged to Mr. Feilding at all.'
'But he told me that you were.'
'Yes; but he also tells the world, or allows the world to believe, that
he writes your stories. I am not engaged to Mr. Feilding, Lady
Frances, and, what is more, I never shall be engaged to that man—
never!'
'Have you quarrelled already?'
'We have not quarrelled, because before people quarrel they must
be on terms of some intimacy. We have never been more than
acquaintances.'
'Well—but—child—he has been seen with you constantly. At
theatres, at concerts, in the park, in galleries—everywhere, he has
been walking with you as if he had the right.'
'I could not help that. Besides, I never thought——'
'Never thought? Why, where were you brought up? Never thought?
Good gracious! what do young ladies go into society for?'
'I am not a young lady of society, I am afraid.'
'Well—but—what was your companion about, to allow—— Oh!'—
Lady Frances nodded her head—'oh! now I understand. Now one
can understand why he got her placed here. Now one understands
her business. My dear, you have been placed in a very dangerous
position—most dangerous. Your guardians or lawyers are very much
to blame. And you really never suspected anything?'
'How should I suspect? I was always told that Mr. Feilding was not
the man to begin that kind of thing.'
'Were you? Your companion told you that, I suppose?'
'Oh! I suppose so. There seems a horrid network of deception all
about me, Lady Frances.' Armorel rose, and her visitor followed her
example. 'You have put a secret into my hands. I shall respect it.
Henceforth, I desire but one more interview with this man. Oh! he is
all lies—through and through. There is no part of him that is true.'
'Nonsense, my dear; you take things too seriously. We all have our
little reservations, and some deceptions are necessary. When you
get to my age you will understand. Why won't you marry the man?
He is young: his manners are pretty good: he is a man of the world:
he is really clever: he is quite sure to get on, particularly if his wife
help him. He means to get on. He is the kind of man to get on. You
see he is clever enough to take the credit of other people's work: to
make others work for you is the first rule in the art of getting on.
Oh! he will do. I shall live to see him made a baronet, and in the
next generation his son will marry money, and go up into the Lords.
That is the way. My dear, you had better take him. You will never get
a more promising offer. You seem to me rather an unworldly kind of
girl. You should really take advice of those who know the world.'
'I could never—never—marry Mr. Feilding.
'Wealth, position, society, rank, consideration—these are the only
things in life worth having, and you are going to throw them away!
My dear, is there actually nothing between you at all? Was it all a
fib?'
'Actually nothing at all, except that he offered himself to me this very
morning, and he received an answer which was, I hope, plain
enough.'
'Ah! now I see.' Lady Frances laughed. 'Now I understand, my dear,
the vanity of the man! The creature, when he told me that fib,
thought it was the truth because he had made up his mind to ask
you, and, of course, he concluded that no one could say "No" to
him. Now I understand. You need not fall into a rage about it, my
dear. It was only his vanity. Poor dear Alec! Well, he'll get another
pretty girl, I dare say; but, my dear, I doubt whether—— Rising men
are scarce, you know. Good-bye, child! Keep that little secret, and
don't bear malice. The vanity—the vanity of the men! Wonderful!
wonderful!'

'And now,' cried Armorel, alone—'now there is nothing left.

Everything has been torn from him. He can do nothing—nothing.
The cleverest man—the very cleverest man in all London!'
 CHAPTER XIX
WHAT NEXT?

Roland had moved into his new studio before Armorel became, as
she had promised, his model in the new picture. She began to go
there nearly every morning, accompanied by Effie, and faithfully sat
for two or three hours while the painting went on. It was the picture
which he had begun under the old conditions, her own figure being
substituted for that of the girl which the artist originally designed.
The studio was one of a nest of such offices crowded together under
a great roof and lying on many floors. The others were, I dare say,
prettily furnished and decorated with the customary furniture of a
studio, with pictures, sketches, screens, and pretty things of all
kinds. This studio was nothing but a great gaunt room, with a big
window, and no furniture in it except an easel, a table, and two or
three chairs. There was simply nothing else. Under the pressure of
want and failure the unfortunate artist had long ago parted with all
the pretty things with which he had begun his career, and the
present was no time to replace them.
'I have got the studio,' he said, 'for the remainder of a lease, pretty
cheap. Unfortunately, I cannot furnish it yet. Wait until the tide
turns. I am full of hope. Then this arid wall and this great staring
Sahara of a floor shall blossom with all manner of lovely things—
armour and weapons, bits of carving and tapestry, drawings. You
shall see how jolly it will be.'
Next to the studio there were two rooms. In one of these, his
bedroom, he had placed the barest necessaries; the other was
empty and unfurnished, so that he had no place to sit in during the
evening but his gaunt and ghostly studio. However, the tide had
turned in one respect. He was now full of hope.
There is no better time for conversation than when one is sitting for
a portrait or standing for a model. The subject has to remain
motionless. This would be irksome if silence were imposed as well as
inaction. Happily, the painter finds that his sitter only exhibits a
natural expression when he or she is talking and thinking about
something else. And, which is certainly a Providential arrangement,
the painter alone among mortals, if we except the cobbler, can talk
and work at the same time. I do not mean that he can talk about
the Differential Calculus, or about the relations of Capital and
Labour, or about a hot corner in politics: but he can talk of things
light, pleasant, and on the surface.
'I feel myself back in Scilly,' said Armorel. 'Whenever I come here
and think of what you are painting, I am in the boat, watching the
race of the tide through the channel. The puffins are swarming on
Camber Rock, and swimming in the smooth water outside: there is
the head of a seal, black above the water, shining in the sunlight—
how he flounders in the current! The sea-gulls are flying and crying
overhead: the shags stand in rows upon the farthest rocks: the sea-
breeze blows upon my cheek. I suppose I have changed so much
that when I go back I shall have lost the old feeling. But it was joy
enough in those days only to sit in the boat and watch it all. Do you
remember, Roland?'
'I remember very well. You are not changed a bit, Armorel: you have
only grown larger and——' 'More beautiful,' he would have added,
but refrained. 'You will find that the old joy will return again—la joie
de vivre—only to breathe and feel and look around. But it will be
then ten times as joyous. If you loved Scilly when you were a child
and had seen nothing else, how much more will you love the place
now that you have travelled and seen strange lands and other coasts
and the islands of the Mediterranean!'
'I fear that I shall find the place small: the house will have shrunk—
children's houses always shrink. I hope that Holy Farm will not have
become mean.'
'Mean? with the verbena-trees, the fuchsias, the tall pampas-grass,
and the palms! Mean? with the old ship's lanthorn and the gilded
figure-head? Mean, Armorel? with the old orchard behind and the
twisted trees with their fringe of grey moss? You talk rank
blasphemy! Something dreadful will happen to you.'
'Perhaps it will be I myself, then, that will have grown mean enough
to think the old house mean. But Samson is a very little place, isn't
it? One cannot make out Samson to be a big place. I could no longer
live there always. We will go there for three or four months every
year; just for refreshment of the soul, and then return here among
men and women or travel abroad together, Effie. We could be happy
for a time there: we could sail and row about the rocks in calm
weather: and in stormy weather we should watch the waves
breaking over the headlands, and in the evening I would play "The
Chirping of the Lark."'
'I am ready to go to-morrow, if you will take me with you,' said Effie.
Then they were silent again. Roland walked backwards and
forwards, brush and palette in hand, looking at his model and at his
canvas. Effie stood beside the picture, watching it grow. To one who
cannot paint, the growth of a portrait on the canvas is a kind of
magic. The bare outline and shape of head and face, the colour of
the eyes, the curve of the neck, the lines of the lips—anyone might
draw these. But to transfer to the canvas the very soul that lies
beneath the features—that, if you please, is different. Oh! How does
the painter catch the soul of the man and show it in his face? One
must be oneself an artist of some kind even to appreciate the
greatness of the portrait painter.
'When this picture is finished,' said Armorel, 'there will be nothing to
keep me in London; and we will go then.'
'At the very beginning of the season?'
'The season is nothing to me. My companion, Mrs. Elstree, who was
to have launched me so beautifully into the very best society, turns
out not to have any friends; so that there is no society for me, after
all. Perhaps it is as well.'
'Will Mrs. Elstree go to Scilly with you?' asked Roland.
'No,' said Armorel, with decision. 'On Samson, at least, one needs no
companion.'
Again they relapsed into silence for a space. Conversation in the
studio is fitful.
'I have a thing to talk over with you two,' she said. 'First, I thought it
would be best to talk about it to you singly; but now I think that you
should both hear the whole story, and so we can all three take
counsel as to what is best.'
'Your head a little more—so.' Roland indicated the movement with
his forefinger. 'That will do. Now pray go on, Armorel.'
'Once there was a man,' she began, as if she was telling a story to
children—and, indeed, there is no better way ever found out of
beginning a story—'a man who was, in no sense at all, and could
never become, try as much as he could, an artist. He was, in fact,
entirely devoid of the artistic faculty: he had no ear for music or for
poetry, no eye for beauty of form or for colour, no hand for drawing,
no brain to conceive: he was quite a prosaic person. Whether he
was clever in things that do not require the artistic faculty, I do not
know. I should hardly think he could be clever in anything. Perhaps
he might be good at buying cheap and selling dear.'
'Won't you take five minutes' rest?' asked the painter; hardly
listening at all to the beginning, which, as you see, promised very
little in the way of amusement. There are, however, many ways by
which the story-teller gets a grip of his hearer, and a dull beginning
is not always the least effective. He put down his palette. 'You must
be tired,' he said. 'Come and tell me what you think.' He looked
thoughtfully at his picture. Armorel's poor little beginning of a story
was slighted.
'You are satisfied, so far?' she asked.
'I will tell you when it is finished. Is the water quite right?'
'We are in shoal, close behind us are the broad Black Rock Ledges.
The water might be even more transparent still. It is the dark water
racing through the narrow ravine that I think of most. It will be a
great picture, Roland. Now I will take my place again.' She did so.
'And, with your permission, I will go on with my story: you heard the
beginning, Roland?'
'Oh! Yes! Unfortunate man with no eyes and no ears,' he replied,
unsuspecting. 'Worse than a one-eyed Calender.'
'This preposterous person, then, with neither eye, nor ear, nor hand,
nor understanding, had the absurd ambition to succeed. This you
will hardly believe. But he did. And, what is more, he had no
patience, but wanted to succeed all at once. I am told that lots of
young men, nowadays, are consumed with that yearning to succeed
all at once. It seems such a pity, when they should be happily
dancing and singing and playing at the time when they were not
working. I think they would succeed so very much better afterwards.
Well, this person very soon found that in the law—did I say he was a
barrister?—he had no chance of success except after long years.
Then he looked round the fields of art and literature. Mind, he could
neither write nor practise any art. What was he to do? Every day the
ambition to seem great filled his soul more and more, and every day
the thing appeared to him more hopeless: because, you see, he had
no imagination, and therefore could not send his soul to sleep with
illusions. I wonder he did not go mad. Perhaps he did, for he
resolved to pretend. First, he thought he would pretend to be a
painter'—here Roland, who had been listening languidly, started, and
became attentive. 'He could neither paint nor draw, remember. He
began, I think, by learning the language of Art. He frequented
studios, heard the talk and read the books. It must have been weary
work for him. But, of course, he was no nearer his object than
before; and then a great chance came to him. He found a young
artist full of promise—a real artist—one filled with the whole spirit of
Art: but he was starving. He was actually penniless, and he had no
friends who could help him, because he was an Australian by birth.
This young man was not only penniless, but in despair. He was ready
to do anything. I suppose, when one is actually starving and sees no
prospect of success or any hope, ambition dies away and even self-
respect may seem a foolish thing.' Roland listened now, his picture
forgotten. What was Armorel intending? 'It must be a most dreadful
kind of temptation. There can be nothing like it in the world. That is
why we pray for our daily bread. Oh! a terrible temptation. I never
understood before how great and terrible a temptation it is. Then
the man without eye, or hand, or brain saw a chance for himself. He
would profit by his brother's weakness. He proposed to buy the work
of this painter and to call it his own.'
'Armorel, must you tell this story?'
'Patience, Roland. In his despair the artist gave way. He consented.
For three years and more he received the wages of—of sin. But his
food was like ashes in his mouth, and his front was stamped—yes,
stamped—by the curse of those who sin against their own soul.'
'Armorel——' But she went on, ruthless.
'The pictures were very good: they were exhibited, praised, and
sold. And the man grew quickly in reputation. But he wasn't
satisfied. He thought that as it was so easy to be a painter, it would
be equally easy to become a poet. All the Arts are allied: many
painters have been also poets. He had never written a single line of
poetry. I do not know that he had ever read any. He found a girl
who was struggling, working, and hoping.' Effie started and turned
roseate red. 'He took her poems—bought them—and, on the
pretence of having improved them and so made them his own, he
published them in his own name. They were pretty, bright verses,
and presently people began to look for them and to like them. So he
got a double reputation. But the poor girl remained unknown. At first
she was so pleased at seeing her verses in print—it looked so much
like success—that she hardly minded seeing his name at the end.
But presently he brought out a little volume of them with his name
on the title-page, and then a second volume—also with his name
——'
'The scoundrel!' cried Roland. 'He cribbed his poetry too?'
Effie bowed her face, ashamed.
'And then the girl grew unhappy. For she perceived that she was in a
bondage from which there was no escape except by sacrificing the
money which he gave her, and that was necessary for her brother's
sake. So she became very unhappy.'
'Very unhappy,' echoed Effie. Both painter and poet stood confused
and ashamed.
'Then this clever man—the cleverest man in London—began to go
about in society a good deal, because he was so great a genius.
There he met a lady who was full of stories.'
'Oh!' said Roland. 'Is there nothing in him at all?'
'Nothing at all. There is really nothing at all. This man persuaded the
lady to write down these stories, which were all based on old family
scandals and episodes unknown or forgotten by the world. They
form a most charming series of stories. I believe they are written in
a most sparkling style—full of wit and life. Well, he did not put his
name to them, but he allowed the whole world to believe that they
were his own.'
'Good Heavens!' cried Roland.
'And still he was not satisfied. He found a young dramatist who had
written a most charming play. He tried to persuade the poor lad that
his play was worthless, and he offered to take it himself, alter it—but
there needed no alteration—and convert it into a play that could be
acted. He would give fifty pounds for the play, but it was to be his
own.'
'Yes,' said Effie, savagely. 'He made that offer, but he will not get the
play.'
'You have heard, now, what manner of man he was. Very well. I tell
you two the story because I want to consult you. The other day I
arranged a little play of my own. That is, I invited people to hear the
reciting of that drama: I invited the pretender himself among the
rest, but he did not know or guess what the play was going to be.
And at the same time I invited the painter and the poet. The former
brought his unfinished picture—the latter brought her latest poem,
which the pretender was going that very week to bring out in his
own name. I had set it to music, and I sang it. I meant that he
should learn in this way, without being told, that everything was
discovered. I watched his face during the recital of the play, and I
saw the dismay of the discovery creeping gradually over him as he
realised that he had lost his painter, his poet, and his dramatist.
There remained nothing more but to discover the author of the
stories—and that, too, I have found out. And I think he will lose his
story-teller as well. He will be deprived of all his borrowed plumes.
At one blow he saw himself ruined.'
Neither of the two made answer for a space. Then spoke Roland:
'Dux femina facti! A woman hath done this.'
'He is ruined unless he can find others to take your places. The
question I want you to consider is—What shall be done next?
Roland, it is your name and fame that he has stolen—your pictures
that he has called his own. Effie, they are your poems that he has
published under his name. What will you do? Will you demand your
own again? Think.'
'He must exhibit no more pictures of mine,' said Roland. 'He has one
in his studio that he has already sold. That one must not go to any
gallery. That is all I have to say.'
'He cannot publish any more poems of mine,' said Effie, 'because he
hasn't got any, and I shall give him no more.'
'What about the past?'
'Are we so proud of the past and of the part we have played in it'—
asked Roland—'that we should desire its story published to all the
world?'
Effie shook her head, approvingly.
'As for me,' he continued, 'I wish never to hear of it again. It makes
me sick and ashamed even to think of it. Let it be forgotten. I was
an unknown artist—I had few friends—I had exhibited one picture
only—so that my work was unknown—I had painted for him six or
seven pictures which are mostly bought by an American. As for the
resemblance of style, that may make a few men talk for a season.
Then it will be forgotten. I shall remain—he will have disappeared. I
am content to take my chance with future work, even if at first I
may appear to be a mere copyist of Mr. Alec Feilding.'
'And you, Effie?'
'I agree with Mr. Lee,' she replied briefly. 'Let the past alone. I shall
write more verses, and, perhaps, better verses.'
'Then I will go to him and tell him that he need fear nothing. We
shall hold our tongues. But he is not to exhibit the picture that is in
his studio. I will tell him that.'
'You will not actually go to him yourself, Armorel—alone—after what
has passed?' asked Effie.
'Why not? He can do me no harm. He knows that he has been found
out, and he is tormented by the fear of what we shall do next. I
bring him relief. His reputation is secured—that is to say, it will be
the reputation of a man who stopped at thirty, in the fulness of his
first promise and his best powers, and did no more work.'
'Oh!' cried Effie. 'I thought he was so clever! I thought that his
desire to be thought a poet was only a little infirmity of temper,
which would pass. And, after all, to think that——' Here the poet
looked at the painter, and the painter looked at the poet—but neither
spoke the thought: 'How could you—you, with your pencil: how
could you—you, with your pen—consent to the iniquity of so great a
fraud?'
 CHAPTER XX
A RECOVERY AND A FLIGHT

Amid all these excitements Armorel became aware that something—

something of a painful and disagreeable character, was going on
with her companion. They were at this time very little together. Mrs.
Elstree took her breakfast in bed; at luncheon she was, just now,
nearly always out; at dinner she sat silent, pale, and anxious; in the
evening she lay back in her chair as if she was asleep. One night
Armorel heard her weeping and sobbing in her room. She knocked
at the door with intent to offer her help if she was ill. 'No, no,' cried
Mrs. Elstree; 'you need not come in. I have nothing but a headache.'
This thing as well disquieted her. She remembered what Lady
Frances had suggested—it is always the suggestion rather than the
bare fact which sticks and pricks like a thorn, and will not come out
or suffer itself to be removed. Armorel thought nothing of the
allegation concerning the stage—why should not a girl go upon the
stage if she wished? The suggestion which pricked was that Mrs.
Elstree had been sent to her by the man whom she now knew to be
fraudulent through and through, in order to carry out some
underhand and secret design. There is nothing more horrid than the
suspicion that the people about one are treacherous. It reduces one
to the condition of primitive man, for whom every grassy glade
concealed a snake and every bush a wild beast. She tried to shake
off the suspicion, yet a hundred things confirmed it. Her constant
praise of this child of genius, his persistence in meeting them
wherever they went, the attempt to make her find money for his
schemes. The girl, thus irritated, began to have uneasy dreams; she
was as one caught in the meshes; she was lured into a garden
whence there was no escape; she was hunted by a cunning and
relentless creature; she was in a prison, and could not get out.
Always in her dreams Zoe stood on one side of her, crying, 'Oh, the
great and glorious creature!—oh, the cleverness of the man!—oh,
the wonder and the marvel of him!' And on the other side stood
Lady Frances, saying, 'Why don't you take him? He is a liar, it is true,
but he is no worse than his neighbours—all men are liars! You can't
get a man made on purpose for you. What is your business in life at
all but to find a husband? Why are girls in Society at all except to
catch husbands? And they are scarce, I assure you. Why don't you
take the man? You will never again have such a chance—a rising
man—a man who can make other people work for him—a clever
man. Besides, you are as good as engaged to him: you have made
people talk: you have been seen with him everywhere. If you are
not engaged to him you ought to be.'
It was about a week after the reading of the play when this
condition of suspicion and unquiet was brought to an end in a very
unexpected manner.
Mr. Jagenal called at the rooms in the morning about ten o'clock.
Mrs. Elstree was taking breakfast in bed, as usual. Armorel was
alone, painting.
'My dear young lady,' said her kindly adviser, 'I would not have
disturbed you at this early hour but for a very important matter. You
are well and happy, I trust? No, you are not well and happy. You
look pale.'
'I have been a little worried lately,' Armorel replied. 'But never mind
now.'
'Are you quite alone here? Your companion, Mrs. Elstree?'
'She has not yet left her room. We are quite alone.'
'Very well, then.' The lawyer sat down and began nursing his right
knee. 'Very well. You remember, I dare say, making a certain
communication to me touching a collection of precious stones in
your possession? You made that communication to me five years
ago, when first you came from Scilly. You returned to it again when
you arrived at your twenty-first birthday, and I handed over to your
own keeping all your portable property.'
'Of course I remember perfectly well.'
'Then does your purpose still hold?'
'It is still, and always, my duty to hand over those rubies to their
rightful owner—the heir of Robert Fletcher, as soon as he can be
found.'
'It is also my duty to warn you again, as I have done already, that
there is no reason at all why you should do so. You are the sole
heiress of your great-great-grandmother's estate. She died worth a
great sum of money in gold, besides treasures in plate, works of art,
lace, and jewels cut and uncut. The rambling story of an aged
woman cannot be received as evidence on the strength of which you
should hand over valuable property to persons unknown, who do not
even claim it, and know nothing about it.'
'I must hand over those rubies,' Armorel repeated, 'to the person to
whom they belong.'
'It is a very valuable property. If the estimate which was made for
me was correct—I see no reason to doubt it—those jewels could be
sold, separately, or in small parcels, for nearly thirty-five thousand
pounds—a fortune larger than all the rest of your property put
together—thirty-five thousand pounds!'
'That has nothing to do with the question, has it? I have got to
restore those jewels, you see, to their rightful owner, as soon as he
can be discovered.'
'Well—but—consider again. What have you got to go upon? The
story about Robert Fletcher may or may not be true. No one can tell
after this lapse of time. The things were found by you lying in the
old sea-chest with other things—all your own. Who was this Robert
Fletcher? Where are his heirs? If they claim the property, and can
prove their claim, give it up at once. If not, keep your own. The
jewels are undoubtedly your own as much as the lace and the silks
and the silver cups, which were all, I take it, recovered from wrecks.'
'Do you disbelieve my great-great-grandmother's story, then?'
'I have neither to believe nor to disbelieve. I say it isn't evidence.
Your report of what she said, being then in her dotage, amounts to
just nothing, considered as evidence.'
'I am perfectly certain that the story is true. The leathern thong by
which the case hung round the man's neck has been cut by a knife,
just as granny described it in her story. And there is the writing in
the case itself. Nothing will persuade me that the story is anything
but true in every particular.'
'It may be true. I cannot say. At the same time, the property is your
own, and you would be perfectly justified in keeping it.'
'Mr. Jagenal'—Armorel turned upon him sharply—'you have found out
Robert Fletcher's heir! I am certain you have. That is the reason why
you are here this morning.'
Mr. Jagenal laid upon the table a pocket-book full of papers.
'I will tell you what I have discovered. That is why I came here.
There has been, unfortunately, a good deal of trouble in discovering
this Robert Fletcher and in identifying one of the Robert Fletchers we
did discover with your man. We discovered, in fact, ten Robert
Fletchers before we came to the man who may reasonably be
supposed—— But you shall see.'
He opened the pocket-book, and found a paper of memoranda from
which he read his narrative:—
'There was one Robert Fletcher, the eleventh whom we unearthed.
This man promised nothing at first. He became a broker in the City
in the year 1810. In the same year he married a cousin, daughter of
another broker, with whom he entered into partnership. He did so
well that when he died, in the year 1846, then aged sixty-nine, his
will was proved under 80,000l. He left three daughters, among
whom the estate was divided, in equal shares. The eldest of the
daughters, Eleanor, remained unmarried, and died two years ago, at
the age of seventy-seven, leaving the whole of her fortune—greatly
increased by accumulations—to hospitals and charities. I believe she
was, in early life, alienated from her family, on account of some real
or fancied slight. However, she died: and her papers came into the
hands of my friends Denham, Mansfield, Westbury, and Co., of New
Square, Lincoln's Inn, solicitors. Her second sister, Frances, born in
the year 1813, married in 1834, had one son, Francis Alexander, who
was born in 1835, and married in 1857. Both Frances and her son
are now dead; but one son remained, Frederick Alexander, born in
the year 1859. The third daughter, Catharine, born in the year 1815,
married in 1835, and emigrated to Australia with her husband, a
man named Temple. I have no knowledge of this branch of the
family.'
'Then,' said Armorel, 'I suppose the eldest son or grandson of the
second sister must have the rubies?'
'You are really in a mighty hurry to get rid of your property. The next
question—it should have come earlier—is—How do I connect this
Robert Fletcher with your Robert Fletcher? How do we know that
Robert Fletcher the broker was Robert Fletcher the shipwrecked
passenger? Well; Eleanor, the eldest, left a bundle of family papers
and letters behind her. Among them is a packet endorsed "From my
son Robert in India." Those letters, signed "Robert Fletcher," are
partly dated from Burmah, whither the writer had gone on business.
He gives his observations on the manners and customs of the
country, then little known or visited. He says that he is doing very
well, indeed: so well, he says presently, that, thanks to a gift made
to him by the King, he is able to think about returning home with the
means of staying at home and doing no more work for the end of his
natural days.'
'Of course, he had those jewels.'
'Then he writes from Calcutta. He has returned in safety from
Burmah and the King, whose capricious temper had made him
tremble for his life. He is putting his affairs in order: he has brought
his property from Burmah in a portable form which he can best
realise in London: lastly, he is going to sail in a few weeks. This is in
the year 1808. According to your story it was somewhere about that
date that the wreck took place on the Scilly Isles, and he was
washed ashore, saved——'
'And robbed,' said Armorel.
'As we have no evidence of the fact,' answered the man of law, 'I
prefer to say that the real story ends with the last of the letters. It
remained, however, to compare the handwriting of the letters with
that of the fragment of writing in your leather case. I took the liberty
to have a photograph made of that fragment while it was in my
possession, and I now ask you to compare the handwriting.' He
drew out of his pocket-book a letter—one of the good old kind, on
large paper, brown with age, and unprovided with any envelope—
and the photograph of which he was speaking. 'There,' he said,
'judge for yourself.'
'Why!' cried Armorel. 'The writing corresponds exactly!'
'It certainly does, letter for letter. Well; the conclusion of the whole
matter is that I believe the story of the old lady to be correct in the
main. On the other hand, there is nothing in the papers to show the
existence in the family of any recollection of so great a loss. One
would imagine that a man who had dropped—or thought he had
dropped—a bag, full of rubies, worth thirty-five thousand pounds,
into the sea would have told his children about it, and bemoaned the
loss all his life. Perhaps, however, he was so philosophic as to grieve
no more after what was hopelessly gone. He was still in the years of
hope when the misfortune befell him. Possibly his children knew in
general terms that the shipwreck had caused a destruction of
property. Again, a man of the City, with the instincts of the City,
would not like it to be known that he had returned to his native
country a pauper, while it would help him in his business to be
considered somewhat of a Nabob. Of this I cannot speak from any
knowledge I have, or from any discovery that I have made.'
'Oh!' cried Armorel, 'I cannot tell you what a weight has been lifted
from me. I have never ceased to long for the restoration of those
jewels ever since I found them in the sea-chest.'
'There is—as I said—only one descendant of the second sister—a
man—a man still young. You will give me your instructions in writing.
I am to hand over to this young man—this fortunate young man—
already trebly fortunate in another sense—this precious packet of
jewels. It is still, I suppose, in the bank?'
'It is where you placed it for me when I came of age.'
'Very well. I have brought you an order for its delivery to me. Will
you sign it?'
Armorel heaved a great sigh. 'With what relief!' she said. 'Have you
got it here?'
Mr. Jagenal gave her the order on the bank for the delivery of sealed
packet, numbered III., to himself. She signed it.
'To think,' she said, 'that by a simple stroke of the pen I can remove
the curse of those ill-gotten rubies! It is like getting rid of all your
sins at once. It is like Christian dropping his bundle.'
'I hope the rubies will not carry on this supposed curse of yours.'
'Oh!' cried Armorel, with a profound sigh, 'I feel as if the poor old
lady was present listening. Since I could understand anything, I have
understood that the possession of those rubies brought disaster
upon my people. From generation to generation they have been
drowned one after the other—my father—my grandfather—my great-
grandfather—my mother—my brothers—all—all drowned. Can you
wonder if I rejoice that the things will threaten me no longer?'
'This is sheer superstition.'
'Oh! yes: I know, and yet I cannot choose but to believe it, I have
heard the story so often, and always with the same ending. Now,
they are gone.'
'Not quite gone. Nearly. As good as gone, however. Dismiss this
superstitious dread from your mind, my dear young lady.'
'The rubies are gone. There will be no more of us swallowed up in
the cruel sea.'
'No more of you,' repeated Mr. Jagenal, with the incredulous smile of
one who has never had in his family a ghost, or a legend, or a curse,
or a doom, or a banshee, or anything at all distinguished. 'And now
you will be happy. You don't ask me the name of the fortunate
young man.'
'No; I do not want to know anything more about the horrid things.'
'What am I to say to him?'
'Tell him the truth.'
'I shall tell him that you discovered the rubies in an old sea-chest
with other property accumulated during a great many years: that a
scrap of paper with writing on it gave a clue to the owner: and that,
by means of other investigation, he has been discovered: that it was
next to impossible for your great-grandfather, Captain Rosevean, to
have purchased these jewels: and that the presumption is that he
recovered them from the wreck, and laid them in the chest, saying
nothing, and that the chest was never opened until your succession
to the property. That, my dear young lady, is all the story that I have
to tell. And now I will go away, with congratulations to Donna
Quixote in getting rid of thirty-five thousand pounds.'
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